Chapter 4
The rumour mill was buzzing with theories about Snape’s sudden disappearance but most people didn’t seem too concerned and instead welcomed Slughorn as the new Potions Master and Head of Slytherin. Harry, while glad that he didn’t have to deal with Snape anymore, still wasn’t sure if he liked Slughorn or not.
Nevertheless, the first week went by without incident, the only exception being that Harry suddenly became top of his Potion class, much to Hermione’s annoyance, Malfoy seemed to be doing his best to avoid Harry, much to Harry’s annoyance, and a note from Dumbledore that asked him to come to his office on Saturday night, much to Remus’ and Sirius’ annoyance.
“What d’you reckon he wants?” Ron asked after dinner while they were sitting in the Common Room.
Harry shrugged. “No idea.” He was hoping, of course, to get some answers. From what Snape had said, Dumbledore was planning on being killed and have Harry die – not the best plan, if anyone had asked Harry.
“Maybe he’ll teach you some really advanced magic,” his best friend said, sounding excited and slightly awestruck.
“Hmm,” Harry hummed, “Maybe.” He wasn’t at all convinced that that was the reason. Dumbledore didn’t seem the type to teach someone advanced spells, and more like the sort to deal with information and secrets – not for the first time, Harry wondered if Dumbledore hadn’t been secretly a Slytherin.
“Well, I better go to his office,” Harry said, standing up from the armchair.
“We’ll wait up for you,” Hermione said, “We want to hear all about it afterwards.”
Harry made his way through the Castle and towards the gargoyles guarding Dumbledore’s office.
“Acid Pops.”
The gargoyles slid aside, revealing the winding staircase and Harry took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
“Come in.”
“Sir,” Harry greeted the Headmaster politely, noting that his hand still looked as dead as it had at the Feast.
“Good evening, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted him, “I hope you had an enjoyable first week.”
“I did, sir.”
“Please, take a seat.” Dumbledore waited until Harry had sat down opposite from him. “I’m sure you’re curious as to why I asked you to come.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry answered, meeting and holding Dumbledore’s gaze while keeping his mind blank and all the doors closed.
The Headmaster smiled, but Harry noticed that his eyes remained serious. “I have decided it is time to finally share the information I have gathered throughout the past fifteen years with you. I must admit, I have not been fully honest with you.” Harry clenched his jaw slightly but remained silent. Waiting. He remained silent as Dumbledore revealed the entire Prophecy to him, as he explained that it could have been either him or Neville, that Voldemort had chosen him, the Half-blood – all things Harry had already known even though he was not going to say it – “Now,” Dumbledore, continued, “I want you to accompany me into the past to help me determine the future.” His blackened hand gestured towards the Pensieve in the corner. “About seventy years ago a Ministry employee by the name of Bob Ogden went to a village called Little Hangleton to investigate on magic performed in front of a Muggle, we are going to watch his memory of what happened.”
Harry had half a mind to protest, not entirely sure how comfortable he was with watching some bloke’s memory, but decided against it.
This could be useful, he thought, and entered the Pensieve.
“Hang on!” Ron said. It was already late into the night but the three Gryffindors were still sitting by the dying embers in the Common Room. “You-Know-Who’s mother?!” He looked deeply disturbed, as if the thought of someone like Voldemort having something as normal as a mother was beyond his comprehension.
“Yes.”
“And…how exactly will this help you defeat him?”
Harry had been wondering about that as well, but no matter how long or hard he thought about it, he couldn’t think of an answer.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione asked and was met by two blank stares, “The more you know about your enemy, the more you will learn about his weaknesses.”
I’m his weakness, Harry thought bitterly. When he had told his two friends about Snape, he had strategically left out the part where Dumbledore apparently expected him to die at the end of all this.
“Still,” Ron grumbled while suppressing a yawn, “His mother?!”
“We should go to bed,” said Harry. He wasn’t sure why but he was anxious to get another look at the Map and see what Malfoy was up to.
“You’re right, it’s late,” Hermione agreed, standing up from the armchair she had been sitting on, “And I want to go to the library first thing in the morning.” She sauntered off towards her Dorm while Harry and Ron exchanged exasperated looks.
“Come on.”
Both boys made their way to their own beds and after a muttered “good night” Harry drew the curtains closed.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
Harry frowned. He had expected Malfoy to be in bed, it was late after all, but instead he was in the Slytherin Common Room together with Parkinson and Zabini.
I wonder what he’s up to…
There was no way, of course, to find out. Even though he’d been to the Slytherin Common Room back in second year, he couldn’t hope to do that again, no matter how much he wanted to know what the three were talking about.
“Mischief managed.”
Putting the Map under his pillow, Harry laid back and closed his eyes, still thinking of Malfoy.
He was walking along a cool, dark corridor, determined to reach his destination. A black door, previously closed, swung opened as soon as he reached it, leading him to a circular room with more doors. He opened the first. He had to hurry.
A cathedral-sized room full of shelves filled with glass spheres, his heart pounding in his chest as he walked past the rows.
Ninety-five.
Ninety-six.
Ninety-seven.
There, a shape on the floor at the very end, whithering like a wounded animal.
A voice coming from his own mouth, “Take it for me.” A white, long-fingered hand holding a wand. “Crucio!”
The shape on the floor, a man, screamed, and he, Harry, laughed, lifting the curse.
“Lord Voldemort is waiting.”
The man on the floor pushed himself up on trembling arms and lifted his face –
“Sirius!”
Harry awoke with a strangled cry, his godfather’s name still on his lips, cold sweat running down forehead.
Wait – Sirius was home. Sirius was safe.
Still panting, Harry cast a quick Tempus.
5 a.m.
He wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep tonight. With a sigh, Harry drew back the curtains of his bed, relieved that no one else was woken up by his nightmare, the only sound filling the room were the soft, rhythmical snores of Ron and Neville. Carefully, Harry got dressed.
This happened sometimes. The nightmares. It wasn’t Voldemort anymore, not since he had come back and Sirius and Remus had spent the entire summer after fourth year teaching him Occlumency. It was the memories. The Dementors. The graveyard. The vision of Sirius in the Hall of Prophecies.
Shivering slightly, Harry pulled his sweater tighter around his body as he passed the fireplace, the embers long since gone cold, and outside, down the stairs.
He wasn’t sure, exactly, where his feet were taking him as he walked through the empty, quiet halls of Hogwarts, all the portraits fast asleep, but he wasn’t surprised when he found himself at the foot of the stairs leading up to the owlery
Hedwig looked at him with big, dark eyes when he entered, letting out a soft hoot.
“Hello, girl.”
“What are you doing here?”
Harry swept around. There, on one of the window sills, sat Draco Malfoy, his hair falling loosely into his face and his own owl perching on his shoulder.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry answered truthfully, stepping further into the room and towards the sill next to Malfoy’s, “You?” The Slytherin stayed quiet, silvery-pale eyes fixed on emerald green, his lips pressed together, and one eyebrow arched upwards. “I keep having the same nightmare,” Harry found himself explaining, desperate to fill the silence, “I keep dreaming that Voldemort has Sirius, that he’s torturing him down in the Department of Mysteries, that he’s going to kill him.”
Malfoy’s face was blank again, giving nothing away when he asked in a low voice, “What happened? In the Ministry?”
Harry sighed. People kept asking him, of course they did, some even went as far as saying that he’d been there. He hadn’t. “I had the same dream,” he told Malfoy now, “Fell asleep during the History of Magic exam. I thought it was real. I was ready to fly to London right then but Hermione stopped me, said I should check first if Sirius is really in danger and if he is, she’d help me get there, so I did. Sirius was home, sitting on the couch, watching bloody Coronation Street.” Harry let out a dry chuckle, remembering the panic followed by the overwhelming relief, and the emptiness afterwards. “Sirius contacted the Order. Voldemort obviously wanted me to go to the Department of Mysteries so they send Tonks in, disguised as me. The others were waiting outside. When the Death Eaters showed up they went in. They fought. Then Voldemort showed up. Dumbledore managed to get Fudge and a few Aurors there just in time before he fled. They arrested everyone who didn’t leave fast enough.” When he glanced at Malfoy he saw the blond nodding almost absent-mindedly. “Malfoy, I’m –”
“Don’t.” The Slytherin’s voice was sharp, as were his eyes when they met Harrys’. “I told you before – He made his choice. And you need to stop taking responsibility for things that are not yours to be responsible for.” He let out a shaky breath, raising a hand to pet his owl. “It’s not your job to save everyone.”
I’m sorry, Harry wanted to say, except Malfoy was right, wasn’t he? For once, just this time, this wasn’t his fault – or is it?
If he hadn’t fallen asleep –
If he hadn’t alerted the Order –
If he had just gone himself –
If. If. If.
“Do you miss them?” Harry asked. He wasn’t sure why, but it mattered.
“I do not make a habit out of concerning myself with such sentimental feelings,” Malfoy said, the words sounding hollow and meaningless as if he was quoting someone else, then, as if in afterthought, he added, “My mother. She has always been kind to me.”
Kind. What a strange word to choose when talking about one’s family, Harry found. The Dursleys had never been kind to him but they had also never been his family. Not really. And Sirius and Remus? They were many things – affectionate, caring, protective, loving – but kind? It wasn’t the first word that would have come to mind, even though they were. It just hadn’t occurred to Harry as something exceptionally strange.
“I’m sure she’s alright.”
A shadow of his trademark smirk played around Malfoys’ lips. “Your optimism is touching,” he said, “Even if it attests your naivety.”
Harry, too, smiled, faintly and weakly but he could feel it. “Will you ever stop insulting me?”
“Will you ever give me a reason to?”
Harry’s smile grew, as did the warmth that was spreading in his chest, a fragile and soft thing, that was getting bigger and stronger. He didn’t reply anything, there was no need, instead he leaned back against the cool stone and looked out of the window, watching as the sun slowly rose over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. It was a companionable silence, comfortable, and over much sooner than Harry would have liked.
“I’m going to get breakfast,” Malfoy announced, gently, like he didn’t want to startle Harry. The Gryffindor expected him to simply leave, but he didn’t, instead Malfoy slid down from the windowsill and waited.
“Good idea.”
It was a strange feeling, walking through the Castle side by side with Malfoy. They didn’t see anyone on their way to the Great Hall and maybe it was better that way, because when they pushed open the doors, Harry could see Zabini already sitting at the Slytherin table, his eyes immediately narrowing in suspicion when he spotted Harry and Malfoy together.
“See you later, Potter,” Malfoy said, walking off to join his friend.
“Yeah,” Harry muttered to himself, “See you later.”
Being Captain of the Quidditch team, keeping up with all his schoolwork and trying his best to avoid Slughorn’s shindigs was enough to keep Harry busy to the point of outright stressed. All the teachers seemed to be demanding non-verbal spellcasting these days and Harry was glad that he had more or less mastered that particular skill already thanks to his two guardians, but that didn’t make the workload any less or the essays any easier, and Harry was more than relieved when the first Hogsmeade weekend finally rolled around.
“I’ll meet you and Sirius in the Three Broomsticks; he has news,” Remus had said after the last Defence lesson, looking a bit paler than usual with the full-moon just around the corner.
“Harry.” His godfather pulled him into a crushing hug as soon as he spotted him outside the pub.
“Sirius.”
“You okay, cub?”
“Yeah.” Harry stepped back to look at Sirius. There was a deep crease on his forehead, the one he always got when he was worried about something. “Remus said you have news.”
“I do.” Sirius nodded. “Let’s get inside. He should be here soon.”
The Three Broomsticks was always packed on Hogsmeade weekends, all the students coming here for some Butterbeer and a chat, but somehow, they still managed to find a table in a quiet corner while waiting for Remus.
“How are things?” Sirius asked, “Remus told me you’ve developed a sudden knack for Potions?”
For the split of a second, Harry froze, not daring to look at Sirius, then – “Yeah,” he said quickly, “Guess it’s just easier…without Snape breathing down my neck.”
Sirius let out a barking laugh, “Ha! Yeah, it would be.”
He wasn’t sure why he was so reluctant to tell Sirius about the Half-Blood Prince but he could practically see Hermione’s stern look whenever he mentioned the book, her anger and disgust at his cheating as she called it, and he remembered Ginny’s face when she heard about it.
It’s just a book, Harry thought stubbornly. Besides, that Levicorpus spell had been fun, hadn’t it?
“What kind of news do you have?” Harry asked, trying to divert Sirius’ attention away from Harry’s Potion’s skills.
“Let’s wait for Remus,” his godfather answered, suddenly seeming grim, “I don’t really want to tell it twice.”
Bad news, then. Harry had hoped that, maybe, Sirius had found something helpful, something useful, something that would shed some light on the various questions he had.
They didn’t have to wait for long until Remus came through the door and right for their table, greeting his partner with a peck on the lips and Harry with a tired but bright smile.
“You found something,” the Professor prompted Sirius as soon as he’d sat down, casting various privacy spells against prying eyes and ears.
“I did,” Sirius answered, “I – We –” Harry noticed how Sirius’ hands were trembling, and his breath began to quicken.
“What’s wrong, Padfoot?”
“Merlin, Moony.” The brunet’s attention was now solely on Remus. “We were so wrong.”
Both Harry and Remus frowned.
What does that mean? Harry wanted to ask but before he got the chance, Sirius had already continued.
“I went through the old Black library, nothing, then I went through the rooms. Y’know how we always said we’d clean them out? Well, good thing we didn’t, I’d have probably just burned them before.”
“Burned what?”
“Books.” Some part of Harry, the one that wore Hermione’s face and always did his best to be his voice of reason, was appalled at the idea of burning books. “I went into Reg’s old room and I found them. Three very old books on very dark magic, darker than even my parents would have been comfortable with, and…I think he found something. Before he died, he found something. There were notes. He was researching something, and he figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“How Voldemort survived.”
Sirius’ words were followed by stunned silence. Around them, the witches and wizards in the Three Broomsticks kept drinking and talking and laughing, completely oblivious to what was happening right in front of their eyes.
“What – what did he do, Sirius?” Remus asked.
Sirius took a deep breath. “Horcruxes.”
“What’s that?”
Darkness fell over Sirius face as he answered, “Foul magic.”
“You split off a part of your soul,” Remus began to explain, “And store it somewhere else, so when you die, that part of you lives on.”
Harry blinked. Split your soul? “How do you –”
“You don’t wanna know,” Sirius cut him off, his voice gruff, “Let’s just say committing murder is the nicest part of it.”
“Committing – you have to kill someone?”
“Taking someone’s life, it…it damages your soul. Fractures it, in a way. Under the right circumstances and with the right ritual you’d be able to split it off.”
Harry gulped, taking in what Remus had just told him, remembering Firenze’s words from first year.
A half-life. A cursed life.
How anyone could choose that, Harry didn’t understand, didn’t think he’d want to understand.
“What – what does it look like? A Horcrux?” he asked his godfather who was staring at something in the distance only he could see, at Remus who was pale, paler than he probably should be.
“Anything,” the professor answered.
“A diary?” Harry answered, feeling the echo of pages between his fingers, thick, blood-like ink staining his skin, a handsome face of a forever-sixteen-year-old boy. The question must have snapped Sirius out of his musings because now he was staring at Harry with an almost crazed look in his eyes.
“What do you know?”
“In second year, there was a diary that belonged to Tom Riddle when he was still in school. Lucius Malfoy had it, gave it Ginny. Riddle possessed her and used her to attack people with the Basilisk. I destroyed it.”
“How?”
“A tooth of the Basilisk.”
“But then…” Sirius muttered, “Then it should be over. Then he can die.”
“Unless,” Remus said contemplatively, “He created more than one.”
“More than one? That’s insane!”
“Yes, because Voldemort is otherwise the pinnacle of sanity.”
Sirius made a face as if to say ‘point taken’ but otherwise stayed quiet.
“What exactly did Regulus find, Sirius?” Remus urged his partner, a comforting hand on Sirius’ arm, squeezing lightly.
Sirius shook his head. “That’s it,” he croaked out, “There were the books, all the parts about Horcruxes highlighted, there were notes where he was working it out, and – and –”
“And what?”
“Kreacher.”
Harry frowned. Kreacher?
“Kreacher?” Remus asked, sounding as confused as Harry felt, “What about him?”
“That little bugger bloody loved Reg,” Sirius answered, “I’ll bet my left nutsack that he knows something.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Remus remarked drily, “I’m rather fond of it.”
“Eww.”
“Sorry, Harry,” the Werewolf said, not sounding sorry at all. Somewhere in the back, a clock chimed three, catching Remus attention and he sighed. “I need to get back. I promised Minerva I’d take over her detentions so she could have something out of the day as well.”
“Alright,” said Sirius, “I’ll see what else I can find, and I’ll have a chat with Kreature.” He turned towards Harry, smiling tiredly. “What about you, Prongslet?”
“I’m meeting Ron and Hermione.”
“Have fun, then, kiddo.” Sirius pulled him into a crushing hug. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah. Be careful.”
“Me? Always.”
Harry did meet up with his friends, but they didn’t stay in Hogsmeade for much longer, instead making their way back to the Castle while Harry recounted what Sirius had told him.
“That is atrocious!” was Hermione’s only reaction which Harry could only support.
Apparently, so did Ron. “Yeah, well –” his words were muffled through the chocolate in his mouth, “—wha’ d’you eshpect?”
Hermione shot him a deathly glare but otherwise didn’t grace her friend with an answer, directing her focus back to Harry. “Did you tell them about the book?”
Harry let out a long-suffering groan.
“You didn’t, did you?”
“It’s just a book, Hermione.”
Next to him, Ron swallowed. “Give him a break,” he said, “That spell this morning was bloody brilliant.”
“It was reckless and potentially dangerous,” Hermione countered, “Anything could have happened.”
Harry closed his eyes, tuning out Hermione’s lecture on wand safety and the devastating consequences of using unknown spells. He really did wish she leave him be. Just this once.
They were in the Common Room, sitting by the fire, the icy wind howling outside, rattling at the windows. At least they were inside.
Behind them, the portrait of the Fat Lady burst open. “Have you heard?”
Harry, Ron and Hermione snapped around to look at a panting Neville who looked like he’d run up all seven flights of stairs.
“Heard what?” Harry asked at the same time as Hermione said, “What happened?”
“Filch.” Still breathing heavily, his face bright red, Neville walked over to them and dropped down onto a nearby chair. “He’s in the hospital wing.”
“What? Why?” Ron asked.
“Ginny just told me. Apparently, she heard it form Lavender who heard from Demelza who’d said the Patil twins told her that Michael said he’d seen him there. Madam Pomfrey was dead worried. He was scanning our mail and must have opened one of them and touched what’s inside.”
“What was inside?” Harry asked, ignoring Neville’s word-vomit and trying to concentrate on what was important here.
“No idea. Must have been cursed, though, right?”
Right. Cursed. Like the ring Dumbledore touched during the summer…Dumbledore…
“Serves him right for opening our mail,” Ron muttered, not seeming very worried about the caretaker.
“Ron!” Hermione cried out, scandalised, “You do realise that that package was meant for some, don’t you? Someone who is most likely not Filch.”
“Oh.” Some of the blood drained from Ron’s face, making his hair seem more vibrant than ever.
Dumbledore…
The news of the cursed object spread like a wildfire and by the time dinner was served, it was all anyone could talk about.
“What if it was Dumbledore,” Harry whispered urgently in between bites of roasted potatoes and pork chops, “Think about it. We know someone is trying to kill him. What if they decided to send a cursed object to do the job for them?”
“Then whoever it is, is not very bright,” Ron answered, “I mean, come on. Probably takes more than a cursed object to kill Dumbledore. Besides, he’s not even here.” Ron was right about that, of course. Dumbledore’s seat was empty. Again. “So it’s kinda dumb, innit?”
It kinda is, Harry thought, isn’t it?
Despite his good intentions, Harry found himself reluctant to tell Dumbledore about the Horcruxes the next time he was in the headmaster’s office for a trip down memory lane.
Despite his even better intentions, the plan to increase Ron’s confidence for the Quidditch match backfired horribly, deepening the abyss that had formed between Hermione and Ron even further to the point where Harry wished he could just ditch both of them and find better friends. Preferably, ones that were capable of saying more than five words to each without being at each other’s throats.
Despite his best intentions, Harry knew he’d come to regret that thought.
“Why don’t you join us? Potter.”
Harry froze. This was not a situation he’d ever wanted to be in but here they were.
It was a part of the dungeons he’d never seen before, never had any desire to see before. Or so he’d thought. Why exactly Harry had followed Malfoy and his friends to the old, abandoned Potions classroom in the deepest depths of Hogwarts after seeing them heading that way on the Map, Harry didn’t know. Or maybe did.
Bollocks.
What was he supposed to do? They couldn’t see him, not when he still had the Cloak on but somehow they must have still known he was there.
“We know you’re there,” Malfoy drawled, confirming his suspicion, “That Cloak is handy but does nothing to quiet your breathing. Or your footsteps.”
Scraping together all the Gryffindor courage left in him, Harry pulled off the Cloak, almost expecting to be hit with an array of hexes and curses but…nothing came. Instead Malfoy, Zabini, Parkinson, and Bulstrode all looked at him expectantly as if –
As if they actually want me to join…
But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Laughable.
“Unless, of course,” Malfoy went on, “You prefer standing in a corner.”
Harry chanced a look around, looking for traps maybe, but it was just an old classroom. The tables had been pushed against the walls, leaving space in the centre of the room which was filled with cosy looking cushions and blankets; flames in mason jars that gave off flickering, warm light; bowls filled with fruits and scones and sweets. And Slytherins. Not knowing what else to do, Harry slowly approached the four Snakes, looking out for any sudden movements, one hand clutching the wand in his pocket.
“Relax,” Parkinson said, a look in her eyes that could have almost passed as pity, had it come from anyone else, “We’re not going to attack you.”
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, unable to stop himself – one day, his curiosity was going to kill him.
Bulstrode gave him a flat look. “What’s it look like?”
Harry actually had no idea what it looked like, just that this wasn’t what he’d expected four Slytherins to get up to in their free time. If anyone had asked Harry, he’d have said that there was a suspicious lack of nefariousness paired with a surplus of domesticity. Nevertheless, Harry sat down on one of the pillows, begrudgingly noting that they were as comfortable as they looked.
“Now, I wonder,” Zabini said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “What could make you possibly stray so far away from your lion’s den?”
“Snake hunting,” Harry deadpanned which wasn’t even a lie. He’d seen the group leave their Dorm and decided to follow without wasting any further time, although ‘decided’ implied that there had been a thought process involved. In actuality, Harry had simply followed his instincts and there had been no Hermione around to stop him. “You never answered my question,” the Gryffindor went on, “What are you doing here?”
“The usual,” Zabini said, picking up a grape and popping it into his mouth, “Planning to overthrow the ministry.”
“Practice the Dark Arts,” Bulstrode added.
“Your assassination,” Parkinson concluded, a look in her eyes that almost made Harry belief she was serious. Almost, but not quite.
“The real question is,” said Malfoy, leaning forward on his own pillow, “What are you doing here?” A year ago, Harry might have seriously feared for, if not his life, at least his dignity and a few limbs, might have drawn his wand and started shooting hexes before the others had a chance to do the same and worse, might have snapped at Malfoy to mind his own bloody business but, and that was the thing, this wasn’t a year ago. This was now. And now was different. Malfoy wasn’t going to hurt him, that, Harry knew for sure.
“I needed to get away,” he answered truthfully. An olive branch.
“Trouble in paradise?” Parkinson asked and Bulstrode giggled.
“You forget, Pansy,” said Zabini without looking at the girl, “The Weasel and the Mudblood have a lot unresolved sexual tension between them. I imagine that’s enough to drive any man mad.”
Harry leveled the Slytherin with a chilly glare. “Don’t call her that.” It was useless, of course, these people were probably never going to change their ways but that didn’t mean that Harry would simply sit here and –
“Apologise, Blaise.”
Harry’s internal rant came to a screeching hold, his mouth falling open, as he stared at Malfoy in utter disbelief.
Zabini, too, was looking at the blond, though it seemed more annoyed than shocked. “Just because you –”
“Blaise!”
Something passed between the two Slytherin’s, something that was beyond Harry’s comprehension and that he wasn’t sure he really wanted to understand but it must have been big and it must have been effective because when Zabini turned back to Harry he said, “I apologise for calling your friend a derogative, racist slur. That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”
It’s alright – the words were already on the tip of Harry’s tongue, but he swallowed them back down because it wasn’t alright, was it?
“You should apologise to her, not me.”
It took maybe half a minute in which Harry and Zabini stared at each other and no one quite seemed to know what to say, before Zabini nodded. It wasn’t more than a subtle inclination of his head but it was enough Harry. At least for now.
“Anyway,” Parkinson spoke up, finally breaking the tension, “Milli, what were you saying about your cousin?”
It was…strange, to say the least. Normal. They talked about Bulstrode’s cousin in Japan who had apparently gotten in trouble with a Kitsune, complained about Binns’ lessons, wondered about the outcome of the quidditch league, and made fun of Blaise for his promiscuity. It was almost like sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room with his housemates if his housemates had a darker sense of humour and looser set of morals. Harry didn’t say much, content with simply listening and observing. Zabini, he was fast to realise, dealt in secrets and favours, hinting at things he knew, no doubt hoping someone would ask him about it. Bulstrode was a straight-forward, no-bullshit, ‘I’ll smack you in the face if you do that again’ kind of person that reminded Harry less of Dudley now that he thought about it and more of Ginny. Parkinson had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, calling anyone out on their lies if she caught them, with a love for Shock-o-Choc. And Malfoy…Malfoy was more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him, lounging on his pillow like a king on his throne, throwing in dry, sarcastic remarks and nibbling on a scone, the smirk on his lips somehow softer than it had seemed before. It was captivating, in a way, how the flickering of the fire illuminated his face, throwing shadows on his sharp angles and making his eyes look more intense than ever. Harry couldn’t help but notice that he was very pretty and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
The M-word didn’t fall again, almost as if they were all making a collective, conscious effort.
Maybe making some new friends isn’t so bad after all…
As the days outside grew shorter and colder and darker, the air inside the Castle started buzzing with the familiar excitement that was always present when Christmas approached, except Harry would have gladly traded all that against some peace of mind. It seemed the entire female population of Hogwarts was out to get him, offering him chocolates and cakes and various kinds of hot drinks. He’d nearly accepted a Treacle Tart if Hermione hadn’t been there and all but slapped it out of his hand, warning him that she had overheard a group of girls about slipping him a love potion. “You ought to be careful,” she’d said, “And you should definitely ask someone to Slughorn’s Christmas party.”
“Can’t I go with you?” He’s asked and Hermione had blushed a deep crimson and averted her gaze.
“I already asked someone.”
Harry didn’t know who Hermione’s date was and for some reason he was afraid to find out. She was spending more and more time in the library while Ron was preoccupied with Lavender, leaving Harry to his own devices and find himself in Slytherin company more often than not. At first, he had still taken the Cloak with him when going to the old Potions classroom but by now the group of Slytherins seemed to be welcoming him with open arms and all pretense had been forgone in favour of a mutual truce that almost felt like the beginning of a friendship.
“Tell me, Potter,” Zabini said a mere week before the end of term, “Who are you taking to the Christmas party?”
Harry frowned. Malfoy wasn’t even there – library, they’d said – but still they were sitting around the flames and food, chatting idly about everything and nothing. “No one, yet,” he answered, “Why? You interested?” It was meant as a joke, a weak jab at the other boy and maybe a harmless attempt to wind him up a bit, but the slow rise of Zabini’s right eyebrow and the curl of his lips as he gave Harry a once-over made the Gryffindor do a full-on double-take.
“You have no idea,” Zabini purred, “Alas, I already have other plans.”
Swallowing around the dryness in his mouth, Harry forced himself to speak with as much calmness as possible. “I don’t want to know.”
The smirk on Zabini’s face grew bigger, reminding Harry of Malfoy. “Anyone you would like to ask?
Harry tried to think of Ginny with her fiery hair and soft curves, tried to think of Cho and their disastrous kiss and date last year, even tried to think of Katie Bell or her friend Leanne, but all he could see was pale skin in the flickering light of the fire and a smile that was just this side of too sharp.
Stop it!
“Not really,” Harry answered quickly.
“Liar.” Parkinson was looking at him, a predator ready to jump its prey.
“Maybe I just don’t want to tell you,” he snapped, feeling awfully wrong-footed and off balance.
“Truth,” she said, nodding approvingly before going back to painting her nails.
Zabini was still looking at him, still smirking that damn smirk, but he didn’t ask again, allowed Harry his space and privacy which the Gryffindor was beyond grateful for. He’d noticed before that these people seemed to put a lot more value towards these kind of things. Unlike Ron and Hermione who usually nagged at him until he finally gave in and told them, they simply…didn’t. Still, Harry was under no illusion that they’d forget about this, they merely had more subtle and, undoubtfully, more effective ways of getting the information they wanted.
Bloody Slytherins, Harry thought darkly, manipulative, conniving gits, the lot of them. But he couldn’t deny the hint of fondness he felt when Bulstrode offered him a strawberry and Zabini started talking about his newest step-father. Not that Harry was listening.
Luna, he thought frantically, I’ll just ask her.
There was no risk, at least, that the strange Ravenclaw girl would see him as anything more than a friend, that he was sure of, and he liked her well enough. And Hermione was right, he really should ask someone and soon.
This was it. It seemed, their friendship had finally found something it couldn’t survive.
To everyone’s shock, Hermione had shown up to Slughorn’s Christmas party with Draco Malfoy of all people. She’d explained to Harry later that he had approached her in the library one day to apologize for his behaviour and they had become study-buddies of a sort, building a tentative relationship based on mutual interests in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes – “Maybe you’re right,” Hermione had said, “Maybe he has changed.” – a development that both pleased Harry and made him feel incredibly uncomfortable for some reason.
And then Ron had found out.
If it hadn’t been the last night of term, Harry was sure they would have gotten a week’s worth of detention for the yelling and shouting and the broken portrait in the Common Room, not to mention the language.
Now, Harry and Hermione were sharing a compartment with Malfoy and Bulstrode on their way back to London while Ron was Merlin knows where. He hadn’t as much as looked at either Harry or Hermione since the previous night, storming out of the dorm the second Harry had woken up and sitting on the other end of the Gryffindor table during breakfast, picking at his bacon and snapping at Lavender until she had left with a huff.
Bulstrode was engrossed in a book, not paying any attention to what was happening around her, and Hermione and Malfoy were animatedly talking about something that Harry was pretty sure was somehow related to Alchemy but that also went way over his head. He should be happy, really, that his two friends – and by now there was no other way of describing Malfoy – were getting along so well, and yet…the uneasy feeling in his stomach only grew as he watched them, and he desperately wished that the train could go faster. With nothing better do, and maybe slightly determined to tune out the conversation between Hermione and Malfoy, Harry started leafing through Quidditch Through the Ages. Outside, the rough and wild of the Scottish Highlands faded away, grew gentler and softer and tamed.
When the train finally came to a halt at King’s Cross and all the students hurried to get off, Harry was one was the firsts to step onto the Platform, already on the lookout for Sirius.
There!
His godfather was leaning against the wall, wearing his beloved leather jacket and grinning wickedly. Next to him stood Remus, who was talking to Mrs. Weasley.
Harry let out a breath of relief and crossed the distance between them, hugging Sirius as tightly as possible. “Sirius,” he said, reluctant to let go but knowing he had to, otherwise there would be questions, no doubt. “Hello, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Harry, my dear boy!” Mrs. Weasley smiled at him, “How have you been?”
“I – good,” Harry answered, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt, “How are you?”
Her smile wavered, just for a second. “I’m alright.”
It was a stupid question, of course. Pretty much a year ago to the day, her husband had died, because of Harry.
Stop taking responsibility for things that are clearly not yours to be responsible for.
It is awfully egoistical of you to presume you could right every wrong in this world, is it not?
He made his choice, Harry. We need to accept that
Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong, squeezing gently. “Are you okay?” Sirius’ voice asked low next to his ear. Numbly, Harry nodded, knowing full well that Sirius probably didn’t believe him, but he’d deal with that later. He watched as Luna and Neville got off the train, smiling at each other, as Bulstrode walked over to a tall, lanky man who Harry assumed was her father, as Ginny and Dean stepped onto the Platform followed by Seamus who had a surly expression on his face, as Ron walked up to his mum without even acknowledging Harry’s presence, as Malfoy and Hermione joined them.
“I expect I’ll be seeing you, Granger,” Malfoy said to the Gryffindor girl.
“Yes,” Hermione agreed before turning to Harry with a bright smile, “Enjoy your holidays, Harry.”
“Yeah.” His voice sounded odd even to his own ears. “You too.”
Hermione was still smiling but there was a look in her eyes, the same look Malfoy was giving him but unlike Hermione he did nothing to hide it.
“Well,” Remus broke the moment, stepping forward, “We’d better get going. It’s been lovely seeing you again, Molly.”
“Come by Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Weasley said, “We’re having a big dinner.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
They left the station, walking to the car, the weird tension that Harry had felt earlier following in their steps.
“You do realise that Granger only asked me to vex the Weasel, don’t you?” Malfoy muttered halfway to Soho.
“What?”
“Granger,” the blond repeated, slower this time but just as quiet, his gaze turned outside, “She asked me to be her date because it would bother Weasley the most – successfully, no doubt, though I imagine not in the way she intended it to be.”
Harry blinked. He had heard the words but had no idea what they meant, almost as if he had missed something along the way without even noticing it. “What?”
Malfoy turned his head, the funny look from earlier back in place. Something unreadable, something that went deep and made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Nevermind.”
They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.
For two whole days Harry managed to avoid the inevitable by feigning tiredness. Of course, pretending to sleep meant staying in his room and by the end of the second day Harry was about ready to crawl up the walls.
“Feeling better?” Remus asked when Harry finally ventured into the living room where the other three occupants of the apartment were sitting together on the couch watching Doctor Who.
Harry walked over to the sink. “I’m fine,” he grumbled, filling a glass with water.
“Harry –”
“I’m fine!” There was a shattering sound followed by a sharp, stinging pain and wetness. Harry looked down, watching as water and blood dripped down his hand, staining his trousers, his socks, the floor.
There was movement from the couch, warm hands closing around his own.
“Sorry,” Harry muttered without looking up.
The hands lead him towards one of the kitchen chairs and gently but firmly pushing him down to sit. Sirius’ face appeared in his line of vision, a deep crease of worry between his eyes as he looked at Harry’s injured hand.
“You have nothing to apologise for, Harry,” his godfather whispered, “Let’s take care of these, okay?” Harry nodded but he wasn’t sure of Sirius saw since he had already pulled out his wand and started muttering spells under his breath, watching as the shards of glass were pushed out and the cuts closed up. “There,” he said, raising Harry’s hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against the skin, “All better.”
“Thank you.” Harry’s voice was barely audible as the shame set in. He hadn’t lost control like that in a long time.
The chair next to Harry’s scraped over the floor as it was pulled back and Remus sat down. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Ron’s not speaking to me anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I believe that is my fault.” Harry raised his head to look at Malfoy who was still sitting on the couch. He’d forgotten that the blond was even there but found that he didn’t mind. “Granger asked me to accompany her to Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party and the – and Weasley didn’t like that.” It sounded so small, put like that, inconsequential, and Harry couldn’t have said why it hurt so much except that that’s not all, he simply didn’t have the words to explain the rest of it.
“Do you want us to tell Molly we won’t be coming tomorrow?” Remus asked gently.
Tomorrow? Harry frowned, trying to remember what tomorrow – oh.
Christmas Eve.
“No, it’s fine,” he answered, “She’d never forgive us if we cancelled.”
“Okay.”
Down on the floor, in front of Harry, Sirius let out a humming sound before getting back up on his feet. “What do you say, cub? Chinese? I’m starving.” Without actually waiting for a response, the man walked over to the phone to make the call, giving Harry the time and space to take a deep breath and close the doors once more. One by one.
“I’m fine,” he told Remus, just like before, only this time it was true. Or it would be. Eventually.
Christmas at the Burrow was always an experience and this time was no different. Molly had outdone herself and cooked more food than the House-elves for the first feast of term, the table buckling underneath the bowls and plates with various types of potatoes, vegetables, meats, and gravies. It also seemed like, apart from the entire Weasley clan, half the Order had come – Alastor Moody was talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt while inspecting the brussel sprouts with his magical eye; Hestia Jones was sipping her wine and watching in amusement as Tonks seemed to be re-enacting something or other, switching back and forth between herself and a bulky looking guy with a massive beard and a bald head; Hagrid was sitting just a few seats down from Harry, talking merrily to Charlie about dragons; Professor McGonagall was enjoying her mince pies; and Mundungus Fletcher was slumped over in his chair, half-asleep, and reeking of Firewhisky. Harry glanced over to where Ron was sitting next to his mum and Fleur Delacour, clearly miserable with the seating arrangement which, to be fair, he had chosen himself the second Harry had walked into the room, while Harry and Malfoy were sitting at the other end of the table with Remus and Sirius. As if feeling Harry’s gaze, Ron turned his head, glaring, and Harry let out a heavy sigh, setting down his fork. As good as the food was, his stomach was in knots, making it incredibly difficult to enjoy it.
Harry was glad when, one by one, people stopped eating around him in favour of mingling and catching up – Harry found himself with Fred and George, half listening to their stories about the newly opened joke shop in Diagon Alley. Ron was nowhere to be seen but he could feel someone staring at him and when he turned around, he saw Ginny’s deathly scowl which was, in a way, even worse than Ron’s.
“So,” George interrupted himself, following Harry’s gaze, “Malfoy, huh?”
The twins and Harry looked over at the Slytherin who was deeply involved in a conversation with Fleur in French while Bill and Charlie stood by, looking confused.
“He needed help,” Harry said.
“Oh, we know,” said Fred, “Mum explained it all after the summer, she actually cried.”
“The poor boy,” George mimicked Mrs. Weasley, “Dragged into all this against his will. So noble of Remus and Sirius to take him in.”
“He’s different now,” Harry tried to explain and was met with two incredulous looks and four raised eyebrows, “He is.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” the twins answered in unison.
“What I’m interested in,” Fred went on, “Is what did the ferret do that got Ron’s wand such a twist.”
“Yeah,” George agreed, “He’s been sulking ever since he came back.”
“Malfoy didn’t do anything. Hermione just asked him to go to a Christmas party with her and –”
BANG!
Harry whipped around to see Ron pinning Malfoy against a wall, wand drawn and pressed against the Slytherin’s throat.
“You nasty piece of shit,” Harry could hear him say, “First Hermione, now Fleur. Who’s next? You gonna shag my sister?”
“Ronald Weasley!” Mrs. Weasley screamed from across the room but Ron ignored her.
“I swear, if you don’t leave my family alone, I will –”
“Ron, stop!” Harry hadn’t even noticed standing but he must have because now he was standing in the middle of the room, his own wand out, “What is wrong with you?”
“With me?” Ron yelled back, letting go of Malfoy to face Harry, “What is wrong with you? Can’t you see what he’s doing? How can you defend him? After everything he’s done! Merlin, you’d think you’re in love with him or something.”
Harry’s mouth opened and closed again, opened and closed, probably making a good impression of a fish, but no words came out. He was painfully aware that everyone was silent and staring at him, at Ron, at Malfoy, at the whole bloody mess that was unfolding in front of their eyes.
“Ron. Bedroom. Now,” Mrs. Weasley gasped out, her voice trembling with rage and this time, Ron listened. With one last reproachful look at Harry and Malfoy, he turned on his heel and stormed up the stairs, leaving the room in an uncomfortable silence.
“Draco, did ‘e ‘urt you?” Fleur asked Malfoy who shook his head, his eyes fixed on Harry and Harry couldn’t take it. Slowly, he turned around and walked towards the door, grabbing a still full bottle of Firewhisky from the table before stepping into the chilling air outside.
Merlin, you’d think you’re in love with him or something.
The words echoed through Harry’s mind, his ears ringing at the memory and his heart racing at something he didn’t want to name.
I’m not –
It’s okay if you are.
Once more he saw Dra – Malfoy sitting in the old classroom, stormy eyes flickering in the light of the fire, platinum blond hair falling loosely into his face, a knowing smile on his lips.
Did you want to call him?
Maybe.
Malfoy in his best dress robes, holding onto Hermione’s arm as they stepped onto the dance floor. Malfoy laughing as Ginny emptied a goblin of pumpkin juice into Blaise’s lap. Malfoy looking at Harry, looking into Harry, seeing his very soul laid bare, while the Gryffindor felt sick to his stomach. Malfoy –
Draco knows. The thought was there, disconnected from everything else, and barely registering in the cacophony of Harry’s mind. He took another swig of the bottle in his hand. The world blurred slightly at the edges and the ground he was sitting on was swinging left, right, left. Left, right, left. It was a bit like the boat Hagrid had used when he had first taken Harry away from the Dursleys – a voyage into a new life. Left, right, left.
“Harry?” The voice sounded familiar – Bill, maybe? One of the twins? It was a Weasley at any rate. Heavy steps came closer before a body sat down next to him, a body with very impressive arms, a body that smelled of leather and smoke, a body that, Harry was almost certain, belonged to Charlie. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Speaking was hard, Harry found, and he took another gulp of whisky to make the funny feeling in his mouth go away. A hand, callused and covered in blisters reached over and took the bottle from him. Harry turned his head, or tried to anyway. Moving was hard too, he found.
“Ron was out of line back there.”
“Ron’s ‘n idiot.”
A chuckle, dark and full. “He’s a Weasley,” Charlie said as of that would explain everything. It didn’t. “We mean well but sometimes we’re a bit daft.”
“I don’wan’him to hate me.”
“Ron doesn’t hate you. He’s just sulking right now but he’ll get over it.”
“N – not Ron,” Harry slurred. He wished he could have the bottle back. “Draco.”
“Why would Draco hate you?”
“’s of ‘at Ron said.”
Charlie breathed out, like a sigh. “I don’t think he would.” And an arm snaked itself around Harry – That’s a good arm, he thought distantly – and hauled him upwards, making Harry stumble. “Easy,” Charlie said. A second hand grabbed Harry’s shoulder, steadying him. “Let’s get you back inside, okay? It’s bloody freezing out here.”
There was light shining out from the house, just enough to let them see as the world started spinning and Harry raised his head to look at Charlie – pretty…
The world was spinning and the ground tilting, making Harry stumble forward into something firm and strong, the good arm, no, no two of the good arms, closing around him.
“Easy,” Charlie said again, “Easy does it.”
The arms were warm as they held him and the ground tilted back to its naturally horizontal position, or was that him? Harry wasn’t sure anymore. It was cold, now that he wasn’t leaning against Charlie anymore, on the other hand he could look at his pretty face again, the broad chest, the muscular arms. His lips looked soft and Harry wondered what they would feel like against his own.
I wonder what Draco’s lips would feel like…
He leaned in.
Soft. So very soft. Harry could taste the Firewhisky on Charlie’s lips, Firewhisky and chocolate. Firewhisky and chocolate and –
“Whoa, okay, stop!” The arms were back, holding him steady and at distance and the world was spinning faster and faster and faster. “Harry, you are very, very drunk right now, and you will be very, very embarrassed once you’re sober, so let’s just – let’s just get you home, alright?” Charlie was leading him towards the light, one arm slung around him, almost carrying him. “Just a little further – mind your step – there’s a good lad.”
“Harry?”
“Charlie?”
“What happened?”
“Is he –”
“What’s going on?”
“What happened?”
“He’s drunk. You better take him home.”
Voices. Too many voices, talking over each other, loud and confusing. A new pair of arms taking hold of him, leading him away, step by step by step, into the cold again, away from the light.
“Harry,” a voice said close to his ear, “Harry, look at me.” Grey eyes, like Draco’s but – but not Draco. Sirius. “Harry, we’re gonna Apparate, okay? So I need you to hold on very tightly, and then you’re probably gonna get sick but we can’t help that right now. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Harry’s head nodded. “Okay. Hold on tight.”
And then the world stopped spinning and went black.