viii
Harry paces around the room, his eyes lost in distant memories of mountain storms. He wonders when does life ever get easier, peaceful. Perhaps life is inherently chaotic. It would explain a lot, and give a reason to most. Hermione and Ron are quietly talking about everything and anything, sitting on a greenish couch that looks too comfy for now. Two other couches eyeball him, forming a square angle with the other one. He exhales, only to let go of so much air, that his lungs are near their limits. He grabs a chalk stick, and begins to write on the blackboard. Avery follows Malfoy at night, near the kitchens. Why would Malfoy go to the kitchen at midnight? Who is Avery Colbert I?
He turns around as the Room of Requirement door opens loudly. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini enter, a sour look plastered on their face. Hermione welcomes them, leading them to the couch closest to the door.
“Thought it got destroyed last year, with the friendfyre,” Pansy remarks quietly.
Hermione shrugs, “Hogwarts is a sentient being, it could have decided to do a bit of renovation.”
Silence fills the room, a veil of false security looming around. As if speaking further would make everything real. Pansy bites her nail, she never does, it turns her hand ugly. Her hard work on pretty colours painted on them melts away, worry acid on her chest. Blaise passes a hand through his hair, and he never looks as concerned. He is not one to put his emotions on display, yet the prospect of his friend, all alone at night, barely conscious, walking back to their dorm under another madman’s wand… Perhaps he isn’t strong enough to live through all of this again. Ron fidgets in his sit, it is definitely bizarre. To see the Slytherins openly worried, to see them affected by things. And perhaps it makes them a bit more humane to him. And perhaps he understands as much. He worries for Harry like a madman himself. Every time he could not find him in his bed, every time he turned late for a class, every time he got lost in the castle; he spiraled, thinking maybe it was the end, and maybe his friend was lying dead already in an isolated corridor, and maybe he could have done something, and how useless!
Harry walks back to the only other couch free. He lets himself fall on it without a word. “Where is he right now?” He asks, eyes stuck on Parkinson.
“Safe. In Lovegood’s company,” she says, a curious spark hidden behind past tears.
“Luna?” Ron repeats, face twisted in sheer confusion.
“They’re cousins,” Hermione adds, mindlessly playing with the ginger’s fingers. Ignoring Weasley’s grand awakening, she wonders whether to ask of this. It seems evident. “Does… he know? What we’re doing?” She does anyway.
Neither responds for a moment, before Blaise sighs, his face blank again of anything. “No. He’s quite the short-temper, innit? It would have been difficult to convince him of… this.” He takes a breath, and perhaps this is when Hermione realizes how serious the conversation will turn out to be. Zabini never needs to catch his breath. “Draco—,” Another pause. “is certain to be hallucinating. He recognized the prick as dead, and never—,” He pauses. “brought up the subject again.”
“We would prefer for him not to be aware of such,” Pansy hesitates to continue. Then, she sighs, nails dipping into her thighs. She figures; that if she was to solve mysteries, she would take with the best mysteries-solvers out there. “He’s not in a state which allows him to worry about this issue. Please, refrain from speaking to him about such.”
Maybe this is when Ron realizes how serious the conversion actually is. Never in his life did he ever imagine Slytherins pleading to him.
“What do you know about this Avery bloke?” Harry responds. His own leg shakes on the floor. Hermione and he exchange a few glances, and Harry knows he does a poor job of hiding the fact he doesn’t consider the blond as a fated nemesis anymore. But he doesn’t care much. It shouldn’t matter, if said previous nemesis dropped dead the next morning. He longs for moons and mountains in a metaphorical-lyrical-bullshit kind of sense, not in an actually-want-Malfoy-to-be-a-star kind of sense.
Pansy runs her ugly hand through her hair, “Not much. From what I’ve gathered in the past days, he underwent a complete change of character,” she pauses a bit, falling deeper into the couch, abandoning her straight posture and high nose. “Went from a loquacious womanizer to a silent recluse. Similar to possibly everyone in Slytherin, I suppose.” She finishes, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Draco spoke of him a bit,” Blaise continues. “He and his father were both Death Eaters, complete ones,” he emphasizes, eyes locked on Potter across him. “The father was supposedly convicted in Azkaban. The son…” He pauses. “He—“ Zabini’s face suddenly erases any trace of emotion, it blurs before every stare fixed at him. “Killed himself, before the Wizengamot were able to sentence him to anything.” He doesn’t want to think about how much the Averys resemble the Malfoys. He finds that he doesn’t need to; the three Gryffindors look at them with wide eyes, the words upon their parted lips.
Pansy shakes her head. “You said Avery, whoever that is, follows Draco at night. You don’t have any more details, do you?” She turns to Harry.
“No, not really,” he shrugs. “The git followed Malfoy to the kitchens, but disappeared all of a sudden. Don’t have any more details.”
“The kitchens?” She repeats, voice low and barely articulating the words. Both Slytherin share a long wild look. “The kitchens,” she repeats. “The kitchens. The kitchens.” She nods slowly, “The kitchen. I think I’m going to throw up.”
The Room of Requirement never disappoints for a bucket appears at her side, and the girl immediately releases her lunch in it. She shakes for a time, before Blaise’s casting of a few cleaning spells. Himself shaking as a leaf, he caresses the girl’s shoulders for a moment.
"I suppose you will not answer as to why Draco needs potions at night? That would be the only reason as to why he goes to the kitchens at night." Hermione tries, tone unsure.
Pansy chuckles madly, Blaise shakes his head blankly. "I fear this is not our story to tell." He takes a breath, "concerning, still. He has special derogations from our dear Headmistress for—" Another breath. "Certain potions not to be messed with."
Hermione nods. "Then, when coming back from the kitchens, if he takes those potions under the elves' surveillance... I suppose he is at his most vulnerable on his way back to the dorm." She completes, voice going white. And Pansy whimpers a bit. Ron at least has the decency to look as concerned as his girlfriend. Harry, on the other hand, refuses to look at anything other than the parquet. His leg shakes over the floor, and soon enough, his hands end up in tremors over his hair.
“It’s someone else, then?” Ron interrupts, not able to hold the morbid atmosphere in the room. “Someone took his appearance?”
“Sure, but how?” Hermione sighs, her face buried in her hands. Her brain might explode this time around, she should go to the library as this meeting’s end. She could probably convince Pansy to accompany with her, Ron would be a distraction she couldn’t afford this time around. “Polyjuice is out of the question, given if Avery —the son, is truly dead.”
Harry raises his head, “It’s not even the question of his appearance.” He stands up, and walks to the blackboard. “Don’t ask any questions regarding how, but we are sure this Avery goes by this name,” he points to the name written in white chalk; Avery Colbert I.
“What?” Pansy’s face goes white again, and Harry never thought a skin could be that transparent. “No, no. I—“ She stands up abruptly, and almost runs to where Harry stands. “He— Are you ” She cries, hands shaking his shoulders. “Are you certain?”
Blaise catches Pansy before she falls to the ground, her body shaking as tears begin to soak Zabini’s uniform. He buries his hand into the girl’s hair, murmuring French words Harry doesn’t understand in her ears. When Blaise raises his head towards Harry again, his voice is frail. “That’s—“ he pauses. “The father’s name. Not the son, not cousins, not relative even. The father. There is absolutely no way you heard wrong?”
“No,” Hermione answers behind them. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Blaise nods, returning him and Pansy to the couches.
“He was—“ Zabini pauses, fingers scratching his neck. “Is, I suppose. The bloody bastard.” He exhales, “Spoken of as a legend. One of the Dark Lord’s closest advisors. Went to school with him, actually. As close as Draco’s father, perhaps even more.” Averys didn’t disappoint the Lord as the Malfoys ever did. He doesn’t add.
“We should go to McGonagall,” Ron finally states. “A convicted Death Eater roaming in Hogwarts is not only a threat to Malfoy, but to every other student.”
Harry nods. He returns to the couch, and picks up his bag full of books Hermione bugged him to read.
“Wait—“ Pansy suddenly interrupts, a shaking hand on Harry’s shoulders. “Wait, no. I don’t—“ She pauses, eyebrows furrows as she shakes her head. “No. We shan’t visit our headmistress.”
“What? Parkinson have you gone mental?” Harry cuts.
She turns around in a furry. “No, no. Here, we are able to watch him. We can survey him. What if the bloody pillock goes directly to Narcissa if he realizes to be compromised?” Draco would never recover, she doesn’t add.
“The Ministry would protect him, she’s been cleared out, hasn’t she?” Ron interviews, a look shared with Hermione at his side.
Hermione opens her mouth, but the words just don’t seem to come out. She shakes slowly her head, biting her nails until her entire hand feels like falling off.
“Under house arrest for the year, quite a light sentence due to Saint Potter over there, as Draco says.” Pansy bites. “She always orders him to share her thanks to you, for this.” She raises her head at Harry’s, a defiant look in her eyes. “Thank you. And we absolutely not put Narcissa in danger.”
“You literally said under house arrest, Potter!” Harry imitates in a far too posh-y accent. “Crawling with aurors then. She would be safer than Malfoy there.”
Blaise sighs, his head resting in his hands. “No. Draco is safer than his mum. There’s been a growing number of attacks towards… well.” He pauses. “Slytherin parents. No matter what aurors were posted at the entrance.”
“Ah, my pops told me some stories like that.” Rons perks up. “The Notts, yeah?”
Pansy nods, fiery eyes still defiant. Blaise turns his head in Ronald’s direction, trying to at least respect a few rules regarding politeness. “Bloody massacre it was. Bloody lucky he is. None murdered. All injured, but—“ He pauses. “All alive.”
“That’s awful,” Hermione says, her voice slow and gentle. Pansy thinks her tone resembles lakes and honey. What a witch that girl is. “Are both your families safe? ‘Believed there would be some prejudice as the war ended. But, reality is always much more cruel than logical predictions.”
“France,” Blaise smiles. “They migrated as soon as it ended. The Malfoys couldn’t.” He sighs in his hands, a futile effort to control his breathing. “The trials,” he only says. “I reckon it best if we do not act yet. Foolish, yet Draco would positively murder us if only he knew. Endangering his mum for him, he would—“ Zabini doesn’t finish his sentence, his voice disappears into the room.
Harry sits back down, a heavy weight on his chest. “It’s bollock. She can defend herself, she’s a bloody Black.”
Hermione smiles gently to him. “She’s forbidden of magic use until her house arrest is over, innit?” As the two Slytherins nods, she mutters a few thoughts, before speaking aloud. “We could warn her, send her a letter, find a place for her to hide. And alert the headmistress.”
“Where?” Pansy only asks.
Harry shots a glance at Hermione, eyebrows high and furrowed. Ron shakes his head, his fingers drumming inconsistent rhythms over the girl’s knee. “No, mate. They won’t agree if she’s alone there.” He says because he knows Harry thought of Grimmauld Place. “I could ask my mum.” She needs the attention anyway, without Fred, he doesn’t add.
Not a sound other than Ron’s words echo in the room. The two Slytherins fall silent. Silent enough it actually actively worries him. A Slytherin, quiet? Unusual. Two Slytherins, quiet? Weird. Bizarre. Up to no good. They look a bit stupid, sitting there, staring at him with wide eyes, a haircut completely messed up, and so vulnerable. And Ron wants to laugh a bit. He doesn’t. Because Harry shows the same wild face, and he doesn’t like to make fun of Harry. Not aloud, anyways.
“Why would you—?” Blaise starts, not needing any pause for this time Ron took his breath away in a quite literal sense.
“That’s great, love!” Hermione interjects, barely containing whatever her face is exhibiting. Laughter? Surprise? She would never know. “Well then, same time tomorrow, is that right? We’ll see what Ron’s mum says.” She claps her hand, a smile way too grand for the subject of said reunion.
“Sure,” they only respond.
“How’s he?” Harry finally asks, his fingers dancing all around his legs.
Pansy stares at him for a bit, she crosses her legs and taps her fingers against her kneecaps. As she bites the inside of her mouth, she closes her eyes. “Listen, darling, if you were meant to be sickly nice, you would have been sorted in Hufflepuff. You,” she points her —now broken, finger at him. “are a twat, that cannot read social cues to save himself.” Harry opens his mouth to retort, but swallows heavily as Hermione and Ron nods. “If one runs away at the sight of stupid strawberry muffins, what is the deduction, most people, conduct?”
“That he’s an absolute fool, a wally craven, a poltroon,” Harry chuckles. “As your most people most certainly mean the posh-est people I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t like you,” Pansy remarks. “I wish Hermione would be the one in the little spotlight out of the three of you.”
“Thanks, Pans’,” Hermione laughs, Ron rolling his eyes at her side.
“No, Potter,” She smiles as she very much imitates Draco. Now, she understands why Draco likes it so much. “I’ll do you the simplified version then. Don’t send him bloody strawberry muffins at breakfast. It’s weird, truly utterly weird.”
Ron doesn’t laugh at Harry. Not to his face. He is certainly laughing now, but internally. And that’s what matters, isn’t it? For Harry Potter is once again painted of burgundy all over. Ron doesn’t laugh at Harry for blushing like an eleven-years-old. Not to his face. “What? I, no. Why would I do that?”
“I don’t even see the point in lying about it, Potter.” Pansy laughs, and even Blaise can not hide his smile this time around. “Very cute Hufflepuff attention all right? Yet—“
“He always eats strawberry muffins for breakfast, what’s wrong with me sending a bit over?” He puffs, knowing well enough he couldn’t lie, not to Parkinson’s face and not be found out. “I don’t see the harm? He’s been eating them like, religiously every year.”
“The muffins are from his mum, Potter. Don’t send them to him. It’s worse afterward.” Blaise completes, a gentle smile on his face.
Harry doesn’t answer. He nods quietly, a little Oh battling his way out of his throat. It explained a lot. It explains a lot.
Ron winces a bit when Hermione squeezes his hand hard. “He’s getting worse. The charms are not… effective lately,” she starts. “Is it his dad only? Is there anything we could do? Aside from the whole—”
“Death-Eater-out-of-Azkaban-trying-to-murder-him-or-his-mom?” Harry completes, faint hues of crimson lingering under his cheeks.
“Yes, that.”
Pansy remains quiet. Blaise's smirk turns into a grimace as he speaks, “Yes. No. Perhaps. He lost the melodramatic. It was quite useful, nothing like a five-hour-long dramatic play to understand your friend’s mind, innit?” He chuckles a bit. "We have our own Draco's reader at hand; Luna Lovegood. It's all good, pun unintended."