Transformation: Chapter Four

 

It had been an exhausting evening. After facing an irate Snape in what had been Harry’s worst Occlumency lesson all year, he’d managed to run to the pitch to catch the last hour of Quidditch practice. Jack had taken to forcing them into early morning and late night practice, as if it would improve their skills to play at all hours of the day. It had begun drizzling shortly after Harry arrived, and when he tramped off the pitch with Ron and Ginny, all three were damp, unhappy, and covered in mud.

After that, it had been an hour of Charms with Hermione and a frustrated attempt to decipher his scribbled Potions notes before Harry could finally climb into bed.

“Mum’ll kill me if I get another P in Transfiguration,” Ron muttered to Harry over the slow snores of the rest of their dorm-mates. “I don’t know how she finds out, but I reckon Ginny. See how she likes it when Mum hears about how she’s been skiving off Charms to meet Dean.”

“At least the team’s looking better,” Harry sighed, flopping back into his bed. “That pass Natalie made today, that was brilliant.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, Mum’ll be loads happier when she finds out my courses are suffering ‘cause of Quidditch. ‘Night, Harry.”

Harry barely managed out a “’Night, Ron,” before an enormous yawn overtook him. Any attempt at clearing his mind before sleep turned swiftly into sleep; Harry was so tired that he scarcely remembered climbing under the duvet before he was dreaming.

In his dream, Harry was at the Burrow, lying in the grass with Ron. They seemed to be watching a Quidditch match in the sky, though Harry couldn’t make out any of the players, and when he sat up, it wasn’t Ron at all, it was Dudley.

“Heard you screaming about Cedric in your sleep again,” Dudley said, giving him a piggy grin. “Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend? Don’t tell Malfoy, he’ll be mad . . .”

Harry scarcely had time to question this when Dudley pointed behind him and, sure enough, there was Malfoy, coming towards him. Only, for some reason, he was wearing one of Ginny’s sundresses, and Harry stared at his bare legs, oddly muscular in the context of the yellow dress, and –

The dream changed. Harry was no longer lounging in the grass of the Burrow, but standing in a dark, drafty room of stone, his hands clenching the back of a chair. “Soon we will strike,” he hissed, and his voice was high and cold. “Where are Jugson and Rookwood, are they in place?”

“Master,” said a low, female voice, “they have been there for a week, acting as book collectors. Avery is to join them–“

Harry’s thin, white hands curled around the top of the chair, his knuckles standing out like bone. “And the Dementors are there, Bella?”

“Yes, yes, Master,” Bellatrix murmured eagerly, “all is in place, everything is set up, I’ve arranged it all–“

“And Malfoy?” Harry asked, his voice tight and terrifying.

But what Lucius Malfoy was doing, Harry didn’t find out. He felt the dream slipping away from him, and he tried desperately to remain, but it felt as if something were grasping after him, pushing him out . . . his whole head felt as if it were about to shatter, his scar searing . . .

“No!” he shouted, sitting bolt upright in his bed, forehead feeling as if it were about to split open. The ache throbbed as he looked around dazedly. He was in Hogwarts. In his own bed. Safe. Far away from Wales, where Lord Voldemort was pacing, deep in conversation with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Near the window, Neville gave a particularly loud snore, and then the dormitory settled back into its habitual quiet, broken only by the sleeping sounds of the four other boys inside it. As for Harry, he looked around, panicked.

It had happened again. He had been Voldemort, felt his displeasure, his skepticism, his eagerness to attack. But attack where? Moreover, Harry was sure that Voldemort had noticed him this time, his mind chasing back after Harry’s as desperately as Umbridge’s hand had grabbed for Sirius in the fire the year before. The thought made Harry shiver, though the room was warm enough.

He’d even been practicing. Oh, Snape had shouted at him that he was a waste of time, but he could clear his mind before sleep now, and it was only a matter of time before he could manage the same while facing down Snape. Things had been getting easier . . . he hadn’t had a dream about Voldemort in months . . .

Ron gave a spectacular snort beside him, sat up, said, “Whazit?” and promptly flopped onto his side and resumed sleep.

He would tell them the first thing in the morning, Harry resolved, already yawning at the very prospect of sleeping again. He’d tell Ron and Hermione at breakfast, that’s what he would do. Then he would think about telling Remus.

Though maybe he’d leave out the bit about Malfoy in a dress.

Before Harry even realized he had fallen back to sleep, it was morning. He woke to Ron shouting at Dean over something that might have been Ginny and might have been a thousand other things, and Neville rummaging loudly through what sounded like every book he owned. In the mayhem that was their dormitory in the mornings, he heard Seamus’s singing alarm clock beginning to trill, “Time to get up! Get out of bed!”

There was a loud noise that sounded suspiciously like Neville throwing a book at it, and Harry groaned gratefully. He suspected Seamus was in the shower, which meant that any minute now, they would all be treated to his off-key renditions of old Irish drinking songs, most of the words to which he didn’t actually know.

Harry got up with a sigh, just as Dean stalked out of the dormitory, leaving Ron fuming. Harry caught him by the arm and gave him a pointed look.

“Oh,” Ron said, after it took him a minute to get it, “is it–“ he lowered his voice, “You-Know-Who?”

“I need to talk to you and Hermione,” Harry told him, and Ron nodded. By the time they’d reached the common room, Ron appeared to have already told Hermione, because she looked at Harry solemnly and said, “Let’s go to the library.”

Once they were there and ensconced in a corner, Harry told them the story, trying not to leave out any detail. Hermione looked distraught.

“But that’s awful,” she exclaimed. “Now we know they’re going to strike, but we haven’t a clue where. Did you leave anything out, Harry? Bellatrix didn’t say anything else?”

“I told you everything I know,” Harry snapped, getting a bit irritated himself. “I couldn’t hear anything else, I told you, I felt something, like he was after me.”

“All right,” Hermione said, still looking anxious. “Oh, but there’s got to be something!“

Ron looked at both of them strangely. “Well, all you’ve got to do is figure out where Jugson and Rookwood are hiding,” he said. “I wonder if Dumbledore can find out all the booksellers–“

“The booksellers!” Hermione nearly shouted. Across the library, a group of frantically studying seventh years gave her a scathing look, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Ron, that’s brilliant!”

“What did I say?” Ron looked startled, but not entirely displeased, as Hermione seized him without warning and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s so obvious, how could I have forgotten?” Hermione exclaimed. “Hay-On-Wye. They’ve got to be in Hay-On-Wye. It’s full of books, it’s famous for its old bookstores! And it’s so close. It makes perfect sense.”

“They’re going to attack a town because it’s on our border?” Ron said skeptically, but he lowered his voice when both Harry and Hermione gave him a sharp look. “Well, it doesn’t all add up, does it? Why would You-Know-Who be so interested in a place like that?”

Hermione looked at Harry, her mouth set in a resolute line. “I don’t know,” she said pointedly. “But I’ll bet there’s someone who does.”

Harry sighed. “I’m not going to Dumbledore.”

“Harry, people are in danger!”

“I know that, I’ll tell Remus–“

“Well, I suppose that’s the same thing,” Hermione conceded, a frown still furrowing her forehead. “But you have to do it, Harry, you have to tell him today.”

“Do you think I don’t know how important it is?” Harry shot back. “It was my dream, Hermione. I’ll tell him, all right?”

But Remus’s office was empty when he went looking, and a search for Professor McGonagall proved fruitless. Without wanting to waste the time it would take to rummage about in his trunk for his map, he had no other choice. Speaking with Dumbledore began to seem equally impossible after several minutes passed, however, as his shouts of “Cockroach cluster! Lemon drop! Fizzing Whizbee!” did not work on the gargoyle there.

Just as he was about to go back to Gryffindor and send him an owl, the gargoyle slid back to reveal the open door. “I can assure you, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said dryly, standing there, “the password is not ‘Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.’ However, I suppose you’d like to see the Headmaster . . . yes, yes, here you are.”

Harry stepped inside gratefully. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, noticing as the gargoyle slid back in place and he began to move upward just how tired she had looked. He wondered if they had been talking about Wales.

When Harry entered Dumbledore’s office, he was startled to find it full of voices. For a moment, he thought that Dumbledore wasn’t even there, until he spotted him in the corner, fiddling with a strange little instrument which whirred and gave off a puff of pink smoke.

“. . . absolutely ridiculous,” a portrait of a tall, scowling man was saying, shaking his head firmly. “There would be no point in government if we were able to dispose our leaders at will! Anarchy, I tell you! Elections serve a purpose.”

“A purpose tied to political factions,” a ferocious portrait shot back from across the room. His long white hair fell over his shoulders. “It’s high time for change. Albus was just saying–“

“No one suggested anything of the sort!” Armando Dippet shouted. “Fudge is a hindrance, but–“

“–no time to wait–“

“–in a war–“

“–Voldemort–“

“–get everybody killed–“

Dumbledore coughed serenely and straightened, smiling at Harry as if nothing at all was going on. “Excuse me,” he said politely to the portraits surrounding him. “We shall continue this scintillating discussion in a moment. Now, Harry, what a surprise. Tea?”

“No, thanks,” Harry said, feeling bewildered. He looked up at the many portraits lining the walls, all of them now tight-lipped and scowling. One particularly ancient looking woman was shaking her head and muttering to herself. For the moment, he forgot about why he had come. “What were you talking about? With Fudge?”

Sitting down at his desk, Dumbledore folded his hands complacently. “There is some sentiment in the Order, Harry, that Fudge is not the most, shall we say, efficient Minister we could hope for in times of war? He doesn’t believe that anything out of the ordinary is happening in Wales, which leaves us struggling to get the Aurors we need.”

It took Harry a moment to realize that he wasn’t supposed to know what was going on, and he tried to look innocently curious as he said, “Something’s happening in Wales?”

“I believe you already know most of it,” Dumbledore told him, eyes twinkling, looking not surprised in the least. “Perhaps that’s even why you’ve come?”

“Oh,” Harry said, thrown off, “yeah,” and told Dumbledore quickly about the dream he had had, as well as Hermione’s deductions. Throughout the whole story, Dumbledore nodded, and behind him, Harry saw many of the portraits listing just as keenly. He felt almost as if he were testifying before the Wizengamot again, so many eyes were on him.

“I suspected something like this would happen,” Dumbledore said once Harry had finished, letting out a profound sigh. “It does not come as a complete surprise, but you and Miss Granger have been of much help.”

“Ron helped too,” Harry felt obliged to tell him. “Er, Professor, what’s so important about Hay-On-Wye? What does he want with it?”

“He wants to attack somewhere that will be noticeable by wizards and Muggles alike. I don’t doubt it will be his re-entry point into England. And, if I may be so presumptuous, there is something else. You see, Harry,” Dumbledore said solemnly, “Hay-On-Wye is where I was born.”

Harry tried to imagine a young Dumbledore, from the, what would it be, eighteen forties, eighteen fifties? It was difficult to comprehend. “D’you – do you have family there?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, smiling sadly into his beard. “My brother Aberforth is the only family I have left.”

“And he’s safe?”

Dumbledore looked down at his desk. “Up until last week, he has been serving as the barman in the Hog’s Head Inn,” he explained, as Harry suddenly recalled the familiar-looking man who had grunted at them and handed them their Butterbeers. “Yes, I believe you know it. But once he heard of the goings-on in Wales, he insisted on returning. He’s there right now, working with Moody’s forces. Thanks to you, Harry, we can alert them to be warned about the possible attack. There were assumptions, obviously, and Hay-On-Wye is rather well defended for the reasons I have explained to you, but no spy has been able to tell us any location for sure.”

“So it’s better that I saw it,” Harry said. “Isn’t it? Without my dream, we wouldn’t have known? So isn’t it better if I don’t close my mind, if I can still see what Voldemort does sometimes – you said yourself that he couldn’t bear being in me, because he can’t stand love – shouldn’t I try to see more?“

Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely, “it is imperative that you learn to close your mind to Voldemort, no matter how repulsive the emotion of love may be to him. All else is secondary.”

Harry challenged, “Even people’s lives?”

“I will never condone or approve of the loss of life,” said Dumbledore. “But as for the value of your life, Harry, it is great indeed.”

“But I helped!” Harry protested. “If I’d been really great at Occlumency, we wouldn’t know now, and Voldemort–“

Dumbledore looked at him from behind his half-moon glasses. His expression was solemn. “I think, Harry,” he said, “that by now, you have seen how untrustworthy dreams can be. With the knowledge that he can access your mind, Voldemort can trick you into believing anything he wants. Just as he did this past June, when he lured you to the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry’s stomach went cold. Dumbledore was right. He’d blindly believed that Voldemort had Sirius, and thus, Sirius had died . . .

“So the attack might not be on Hay-On-Wye at all,” he said numbly.

“One can never be too cautious,” Dumbledore assured him. “But if you are asking me whether dreams can be entirely trustworthy, they cannot. You must continue with your Occlumency, Harry. It is not simply about keeping him from your mind, it concerns whether or not he can ascertain if you are telling him a lie. Someday your life, and the life of your friends, may depend on your abilities.”

“I understand,” Harry said, his voice quiet. “Thanks, Professor.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “And do tell Ron and Hermione that I appreciate their help as well.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, though he thought it sounded rather halfhearted. What Dumbledore had said about dreams had sobered him; if Harry hadn’t been so foolish and eager to believe what he saw in his head, Sirius would be alive. If not for his “saving-people thing,” as Hermione had said, if not for his belief that he knew where Sirius was, nothing in June would have happened. But Voldemort had suspected that Harry would believe his dreams without question, and Harry had fallen right into the trap. He said, hollowly, “I’ll tell them.”

As Harry stepped out, the portraits began to bicker once again. “Depose Fudge, I say!” he heard a voice roar from the inside, which was instantly met with a slew of disagreement. Sighing, he stepped away.

Harry let the wooden staircase spiral him back to the door, mind blank: clearing his mind of thoughts was a habit now, but for once, he didn’t care if Snape would be pleased. He had told Dumbledore all he knew, but somehow, the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than it had when he entered.



&*&*



Harry almost took a step backward when he entered the Room of Requirement and saw a scowling Draco Malfoy with his wand extended towards the fireplace. He looked angry enough to destroy a couple dozen house elves, pale frustration creasing his features. Harry made a move to enter, knocking halfheartedly on the door as a warning, just as he heard Malfoy snap, "Expecto Patronum!" A mere wisp of silver floated from Malfoy’s wand.

"Thanks a lot, Potter," he sneered, whirling to see Harry poised at the entrance. "You threw me off."

Raising an eyebrow at the fading Patronus, Harry took a few steps forward. "Really? It didn't look too impressive to me, either way."

Malfoy glowered.

"I'm not saying you aren't good at it," Harry added quickly, which he was, "but it's just that you need to practice."

Malfoy's glare was withering. "What does it look like I'm doing, Potter?"

"Don't you remember what I told you? You have to think about your happiest memory. Focus on it, make it the only thing you're thinking about, hold onto it as tightly as you can." When Malfoy only stared at him, Harry sighed exasperatedly. "All right, close your eyes. I'm serious, Malfoy. What's your happy memory, then?"

Malfoy‘s eyes flickered open to look at him, not trusting him, then fluttered shut again. He muttered, "I don't know."

"You don't know? You've got to have something or it won't work. Didn't I tell you that? Don't tell me you've been practicing without even focusing on anything!"

Eyes snapping open, Malfoy folded his arms, wand tucked against the crook of his left elbow. "I just don't have one, all right?"

"Well, what've you been thinking about all this time?" Both of their voices were rising indignantly. Harry found that he didn't much care.

"Happy things," Malfoy protested vaguely. "You know. Good thoughts."

"Shut your eyes," Harry snapped. "Hold out your wand. You need something more specific, Malfoy, for the last time! Don't you have anything or anyone you can think about?"

"Oh, I have lots," he said, in a tone that seemed to indicate he was lying through his teeth. "The problem is choosing one."

"Well, hurry up and pick."

"It's not that easy, Potter! If you're so superior, what's yours?" His eyes were still open, and they were challenging. "Beating me at Quidditch or something like that, I'm quite sure. Hexing me on the train." It was the first time they had spoken about it in such specific terms and Harry was almost surprised by the resentment boiling under Malfoy's glare. In contrast, Harry's tone was mild.

"No, it isn't," he said. "I'm not you, Malfoy. My happy thoughts don't come from others' humiliation. I think about Ron and Hermione, mostly. Their faces. The Weasleys at Christmas. S–" But he stopped. No, he didn't think about Sirius. Not to bring happiness. Not anymore.

"The Weasel and Granger, no wonder the Dementors run away," Malfoy drawled, seemingly unaware of Harry's sudden discomfort at the thought of Sirius. "All right, then, if you insist. I'll think about my father."

"What? You can't think about your father!"

Malfoy raised an elegant eyebrow. "First you tell me I should, then you tell me I shouldn't. Why not, pray tell?"

Harry spluttered. "Because he's – he's your father!"

"Precisely. Now are we going to do this or aren't we?" Giving Harry one last smirk, he shut his eyes with exaggerated care and extended his wand.

Harry had been expecting flying, maybe, or a Christmas gift; perhaps even laughing at Harry in Potions class. What he had not expected was Lucius Malfoy. "Then think about your father. Picture his, um, face. And I guess he's smiling, then. Does he smile? I suppose he must. So yeah, your father, he's smiling, and he's – he's – not killing anybody, and he's not kissing Voldemort's feet, and he's, um, your father. Your happy memory. Okay. Think about that."

"Potter, you're not helping."

"Then think about him yourself! I don't particularly like your father, if you haven't noticed. Just concentrate."

But Malfoy, it seemed, was already concentrating. Harry watched the slight shift in his features, the relaxation of the tight corners of his mouth, and was appalled to find that he looked almost happy. Happy. Because of Lucius Malfoy. In fact, he looked a lot more pleasant when he was almost smiling like that, and that was something Harry didn't care to contemplate – because it was Lucius Malfoy, and that wasn't –

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silver light bloomed from the end of Malfoy’s wand, much stronger than before; it looked vaguely like a dragon, perhaps, but Harry couldn't be sure. Even so, it was a great deal better than his previous attempt, and Harry found himself grinning for Malfoy’s sake.

"Nice," he said appreciatively. "Almost solid." He took a step back and sat down in the nearby armchair, watching Malfoy admire his Patronus before he let it fade. The loose, almost happy expression he had worn while casting the spell had changed when he opened his eyes, and he looked strangely bitter now, though his eyes had flicked to Harry in surprise when Harry spoke.

“It was good,” Harry told him. And then, probably because Malfoy was still looking more relaxed than usual, or perhaps because Harry had hit his head recently and wasn't in his right mind, he added quietly, "You miss him, don't you?"

Malfoy's eyes flared unexpectedly. "Of course I miss him," he snapped. "He's my father! Of course I miss him!" And then, as if to reassure himself, he added, "I’m sure he’s alive. They’re all alive.”

"So they can kill more innocent people,” Harry said sharply. “I'm sure your happy memories will be multiplying twofold by then."

"He's my father," Malfoy hissed. "Don't try to tell me how I should feel about my father! He's my father, and I miss him. And no matter what you say, he will come back!"

"That's it, Malfoy," Harry shot back and surprised himself with the vehemence that had stirred at Malfoy’s words. He was sitting bolt upright now, hands balled into fists in the cushions. "That's just it. Your dad's coming back, isn't he? He’s out there somewhere and he’s coming back for you any day now, is that right? Then don't talk to me about missing somebody! DON'T YOU THINK I MISS SIRIUS? DON'T YOU THINK I MISS MY MUM AND DAD? DON’T YOU THINK I MISS THEM ALL UNTIL IT’S MORE THAN I CAN STAND? YOUR DAD IS COMING BACK, IS HE? WELL, THEY AREN’T!”

Malfoy said nothing at all; his mouth was gaping as if he were about to speak, but no words were coming out. Harry's anger was flooding out of him, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "I do mean it–" he began rather irritably, but Malfoy interrupted him.

"Potter," he said, sounding perhaps a bit shocked. "Well–"

"Forget it," Harry retorted, turning away and picking up a book on the table. He certainly wasn't looking for pity from Draco Malfoy. Nor was he expecting it, but if he wanted sympathy, Malfoy would be the last person on earth he would think of going to.

Malfoy said, very quietly, as he was tucking away his wand, "I didn't know."

Harry would have pointed out the fact that Malfoy certainly did know, so he had no right to pretend that he didn't; he would have pointed out that the statement was ridiculous coming from someone who had tormented Harry about his parentless state for years. But there was something of a concession in his voice, and it was probably the closest to an apology Harry’d ever get from him, so Harry settled for a halfhearted shrug.

"That's my book," Malfoy told him, perching on the arm of the chair. "You know, so don't do anything to it. Malfoy property."

Harry rolled his eyes. "This is a Muggle book,” he said. He sounded suspicious, inspecting the book with its thick leather cover in his hands. Trust Draco Malfoy to have the best of everything. Hamlet, read the gold lettering.

“It was Crabbe’s. He and Goyle are taking Muggle Studies for a laugh. He never read it.” Malfoy’s lips twisted. “It’s all right, though.”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t know you read stuff like this.”

"Maybe you don't know very much about me," Malfoy retorted stiffly.

Wryly, Harry muttered, "Well, we haven't exactly had the best of friendships."

"That's hardly my fault, is it?"

"Of course it is.”

Malfoy frowned. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who had the nerve to reject me."

Harry's eyes flashed. "You rejected me."

"Excuse me? Talk about bad memor–"

"You rejected me," Harry repeated staunchly. "By what you said to me. You embraced your pureblood prejudices and rejected who I was. If I'd taken your hand, I'd have betrayed everything I lived for and everything that my parents died for. So yes, Malfoy, you rejected me."

Malfoy said, rather quietly, “That’s twisted, Potter.” They were both silent.

Harry finally looked up at him, handing the book back. "What's the book about? Is it any good?"

Malfoy’s mouth twisted in what could have been amusement. "It's about a prince whose father was killed by his uncle, and his uncle married his mother, and then there's this crazy girl who goes mad. They all die." To Harry's skeptical look, he grinned. "Yes, it is good. Although I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about literature, you Quidditch brute.”

“Hey,” Harry protested, “you play Quidditch too.”

“What can I say? I’m a very well rounded young man.”

Harry laughed in spite of himself. They were silent for a moment, until he said, unexpectedly, “We should go flying sometime.”

Malfoy’s head flew up, and he stared at Harry. “Excuse me?”

Harry flushed. “I just thought–“

“You really are mad,” Malfoy said disdainfully, though he didn’t sound angry. “If you haven’t noticed, Potter, I’m doing this to prevent you sending me to Azkaban. Do you really think I would tutor you in Potions willingly?”

“We haven’t done Potions in a week,” Harry insisted. “Besides, you know I’m not going to tell anyone about you using the Cruciatus Curse.”

“Which is clearly your clever ruse to trick me into believing you,” Malfoy said loftily. “At which time you’ll run off to Dumbledore like a good boy and I’ll be eating beetles in Azkaban.”

“Do they really make you eat beetles?”

“How should I know?” Malfoy scoffed. “It’s not as if I’ve taken a tour.”

Your father was there, Harry thought about saying, and didn’t. He could hear the response without saying a thing. Malfoy would sneer at him and spit, remorselessly, So was your mutt of a godfather. Pity you can’t ask him now.

As if in mutual agreement to avoid that direction of conversation, both looked away. Malfoy said scornfully, after a moment, “You just want to spy on my flying, anyway, Potter. Because you know I’ll be leading Slytherin to a resounding win this weekend, naturally.”

“Like you can even catch the Snitch,” Harry shot back. “I’d like to see you try, Malfoy.”

“Oh, you’ll see better than that,” Malfoy retorted. “You can watch me catch it.”

Harry snorted. “You wish.”

Malfoy only smirked at him. “I’ll see you on the pitch, Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. He knew what was there, unspoken, carefully tread around; the word Azkaban immediately called to mind Lucius Malfoy’s escape, and if the conversation they’d just had was any indication, Malfoy would waste no time in leaping to his father’s defense. Nor would Malfoy think twice about insulting Sirius. It was just the way things were. He’d come to expect it; he couldn’t expect anything else from Malfoy, who lived to taunt him about these things.

So why did Harry feel so relieved that they hadn’t mentioned it?

And even more strangely, just why did Malfoy, who’d probably never done a noble thing in his life, not say a word either?



&*&*



“You are an abysmal failure, Potter,” Snape snarled at him during the next Occlumency lesson, glaring at him from where he stood beside his desk. “I have been working with you since last Christmas, and you have hardly made progress! That hopeless worm Longbottom could do better.”

“I have improved!” Harry said hotly. “I have been practicing, I can clear my mind all the time now–“

“Is that so?” Snape said, his voice silky. “Then why is it, Potter, that when I tell you to clear your mind, you cannot seem to do so?”

Harry wanted to shout at him. Instead, he snapped, “Look, I’m trying, all right? I just get – your office makes me–“

“Oh, I’m sorry, Potter,” Snape drawled. “Are you uncomfortable? Perhaps these are not the most accommodating circumstances for your lesson. Surely the next time you face the Dark Lord, you can invite him to a more appropriate setting.”

“I said I’m trying,” Harry muttered. After a look from Snape, he added sullenly, “Sir.”

“Very well, Potter, do try harder,” Snape hissed, and raised his wand. “We shall try this again. On the count of three . . . one . . . two . . .”

Harry tried desperately to think of nothing, but he was staring directly at Snape, and he couldn’t help but think of how Snape had provoked Sirius in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, how he had taunted him. “Legilimens!” Snape barked, and Harry stumbled backwards . . .

He was reaching for his broomstick in the Quidditch changing room . . . he was writing lines in Umbridge’s office as she smiled sweetly at him . . . Fudge was pumping his hand . . . Dudley was using his piggy arm to hold him underwater as he struggled in vain . . . Tonks was grinning at him as she said, languidly, “Come here” . . .

“How interesting,” Snape said coolly, one eyebrow raised in Harry’s direction. “I don’t believe that Blasting Curse was a conscious choice, was it, Potter?”

“No,” Harry admitted, though he was more worried about what Snape had seen of his memory of Tonks. What was it she had said to him? No one could get in trouble if they didn’t get caught? Well, if Snape saw any more, they were both in danger of getting caught, and Snape would not be one to allow Harry Potter to get out of trouble.

“Again,” Snape said, without waiting for Harry to recover. “One . . . two . . . three . . . Legilimens!”

He burst through the wall on Platform Nine and Three Quarters . . . Snuffles loped towards him with a newspaper in his mouth . . . Aunt Petunia handed him a plate containing only half a sausage and a teaspoonful of egg . . . Sirius was grinning at him as he polished a mirror . . . Harry reached out for the Snitch, its wings brushing his fingertips . . . Sirius arced backwards, falling, falling . . .

It stopped. He was on his knees in Snape’s office, the stone cold on the palms of his hands, and Snape was staring at him.

“Get up, Potter,” Snape hissed.

Harry clambered to his feet, wand at the ready. Snape stared at him coldly for a moment from where he stood, wand also in hand, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he said, voice steely, “Well, well, Potter. Perhaps you have been practicing. That will be all for tonight, I think. You may go.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry managed, before he moved for the door and scrambled out of there.

It had taken him a moment to realize it, but Snape’s reluctant dismissal had told him everything. He had done it. He had finally done it. He had pushed Snape out of his mind without using any other magic than his own thoughts. He’d mastered Occlumency, or at least had done it once, which was enough to know that he could do it again. Even Snape had not a word to say against him.

Grinning, Harry set off for Gryffindor Tower, feeling better than he had in weeks.

He took all the stairs to the seventh floor as quickly as he could, so that by the time he burst into the common room, he was panting. There was no sight of Ron anywhere, but he spotted Hermione curled up in an armchair, Crookshanks on her lap.

“Hermione!”

She looked up from her knitting, along with several third-years crowding by the window, and gave him a look of such weight that the grin immediately left his face. “What is it?”

“Professor Lupin came by looking for you,” she said in a low voice, beckoning him closer to the fire, where no one else could hear. “He said I was to tell you what happened.”

Harry looked over at her, all former elation forgotten. He could tell that what Remus had told her wasn’t good news from the grave look on her face. “What is it?” he said again, more quietly.

Hermione sighed and petted Crookshanks absently as she spoke. “We were right about Hay-On-Wye,” she whispered. “There was an attack this morning. He said that we probably saved a lot of Muggles, because the Aurors there were forewarned. But several Aurors and Dumbledore’s brother were killed.”

“Killed?” Harry echoed, stricken. He remembered clearly how Dumbledore had murmured that Aberforth was the only family he had left. “But – Dumbledore–“

“That’s not the worst of it,” Hermione continued, casting a quick glance over her shoulder and then looking back to him. “Lucius Malfoy led the attack. Aurors were about to re-capture him when Bellatrix killed four. She and Malfoy both escaped.”

Harry felt a chill shoot through his stomach. “No sight of Voldemort?”

“Shh,” Hermione hissed, but shook her head. “No, and no giants, either, but Hagrid was right about one thing: the whole town was surrounded by Dementors. Muggles can’t see them, you know, and they were just swooping down on them–“ She looked as if she were about to cry. “I just think about my parents, and how they wouldn’t know until the last minute, how they couldn’t even fight back. Oh, Harry, it’s horrible. But really, it could have been worse, couldn’t it have?”

Worse, Harry thought tiredly, how much worse? “It’ll be in the paper tomorrow, I expect.”

“That’s the other thing. Fudge wants it covered up. Nobody’s to know.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, too shocked to keep his voice down. “But why? He’s already acknowledged that Voldemort is back, all the Prophet prints are letters from people who say they’ve seen him, and now he doesn’t want anyone to know?”

“He doesn’t think the public can handle it without panicking,” Hermione said, looking disapproving. “But Professor Lupin said that was a huge problem with the last war, that nobody but the Order knew what was going on, the media was full of lies. I suppose Fudge hasn’t learned his lesson.”

Harry frowned. “They’re talking about deposing him, I think,” he confessed, and he told Hermione what he had heard in Dumbledore’s office. “Dumbledore says he’s just in the way.”

“That’s certainly true,” Hermione said, frowning. “But who will lead us? Dumbledore? You know that some people will go into an outcry against him, call him a tyrant, say he’s trying to take over the whole magical world.”

“Well, I don’t think he wants to be Minister,” Harry began, but just then, Ron loped through the portrait hole, and Hermione waved him over urgently. Harry stared into the fire while Hermione told the whole story again. How many people would have died if he hadn’t heard Voldemort’s plans in his dream? Dreams weren’t trustworthy, but this one had been, hadn’t it? Without it, would Aberforth be dead? Would more? Dumbledore had told him that his Occlumency lessons were to be put foremost, no matter what. But was that putting more people in danger?

“Harry,” Hermione said, interrupting his reverie, “I’m sorry, you were going to tell me something, too. What’d you come running in here for?”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to look casual. “Nothing, Hermione. Never mind.”

That night, he purposely didn’t clear his mind before sleeping, but instead of thinking of Voldemort, his mind seemed intent on imagining Lucius Malfoy, in the midst of dueling with an Auror, maybe even Dumbledore’s brother. Harry imagined him laughing and felt sick. Was that the imagine in Malfoy’s mind when he conjured his Patronus? The same man he idolized enough to scare off a Dementor was the one who terrorized Muggles and was responsible for Aberforth’s death. In the picture in Harry’s mind, the figure of Lucius became shorter, and shifted into his son. He looked at Harry, eyes blazing, wand extended towards him.

Across the dormitory, he heard Neville mumble to himself, “Erumpent fluid, erumpent fluid . . . Bundimun secretion . . . got to remember that,” as he paged through his notes. Harry shook off the image of Malfoy and sighed. He was getting nowhere with this. He might as well just clear his mind and attempt to sleep. If he dreamt of Voldemort, so be it.

He didn’t dream of Voldemort, once he finally stopped tossing and turning and fell into a fitful sleep; he did, however, dream of Malfoy. He was standing in the middle of a field and had his wand pointed straight at Harry, looking just as determined as he did during their Defense sessions. But, as Harry watched, rooted to the spot, he saw Malfoy’s lips forming the words Avada Kedavra, as green light flashed around them . . .

“No!” Harry yelled, sitting upright in a flash. Across the room, Seamus gave a snort of surprise, but after a moment, it seemed he was still asleep. Breathing heavily, Harry lay back. It was still the middle of the night.

He shut his eyes, trying his best to push the dream from his mind, but, try as he might, he couldn’t erase the image of Malfoy staring at him, about to shout the Killing Curse. It had been so familiar, the same way they stood in the Room of Requirement, the way Malfoy raised his wand and opened his mouth . . .

It was hours before Harry fell back into a restless sleep.

“Well, well, somebody was up late,” Lisa observed in Potions, taking one look at him and raising an eyebrow. “What are you carrying in those bags under your eyes, Harry?”

“Not funny,” he muttered, busy getting out their ingredients for the day. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Oh?” Lisa said archly, giving him a wink. “Out late for a snog, were you?”

Harry snorted. “Having nightmares is more like it.”

“Precious Potty was having nightmares again,” Malfoy sniggered to Blaise, as they walked past Harry’s desk. He smirked down at Harry. “What’s the matter, Potter, somebody been dogging your dreams?”

Harry was on his feet so fast that Lisa didn’t have time to restrain him. “You’ll shut your fat mouth right now if you know what’s good for you, Malfoy,” he snapped. Malfoy looked genuinely taken aback by the fury in Harry’s eyes, but before he had a chance to respond, Snape was sweeping towards them.

“Another altercation, Potter?” he said smoothly. “I think that will be five points from Gryffindor for harassing another student. Now sit down, unless you’d like detention for holding up the lesson.”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, but Lisa had already pulled him back into his seat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered, her voice harsh. “You said you’d behave after we got no marks for that healing potion last week!”

“I’ll behave if he behaves,” Harry said, casting a dark look at Malfoy. “Oh, forget it. What do we have to do with this salamander blood?”

Snape reluctantly gave them close to full marks on their potion that day, which seemed to appease Lisa, and she was as close to cheerful as Harry had ever seen her when she bid him goodbye. Hermione was deep in conversation with Anthony when she walked out, so she didn’t even notice that Harry wasn’t following. Still, he didn’t mind; lately, he wanted more and more simply to be left alone.

Harry was the last one out of the Potions classroom, but when he exited, he saw Malfoy standing in the corridor, speaking in a low voice with Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy spotted him and narrowed his eyes.

“What was that all about today, Potter?” he asked, turning away from Pansy. “There was no need to get in such a snit, you know–“

Harry advanced on him, an exhilarating thrill of anger shooting through his body. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about Sirius again,” he hissed. “Do you hear me?”

“Come to think of it, Potter, I don’t recall mentioning anybody named Sirius. You must be hearing things again. I was only inquiring after your dreams–“

“I don’t care what you were doing, Malfoy. Leave me alone.”

Malfoy frowned in genuine surprise. “But you said–“

The image of Malfoy’s father in the middle of Hay-On-Wye flashed again in his mind. Harry scowled. “I didn’t say anything!”

Malfoy was looking at him as if he might have lost his mind, and this civility, more than anything else, made Harry’s temper flare. “I’ve told Pansy,” Malfoy said sharply, as if that might be the only cause for Harry’s worry. “She knows, you don’t have to pretend–“

“Who’s pretending?” Harry nearly shouted. “What have you told her? Have you told her what happened in Wales? Have you told her how many people your dad killed yesterday?”

Malfoy had gone white. “What did you say about my father, Potter?”

“I said he’s a murderer,” Harry spat, but he had barely got the words out of his mouth before his world went white and pain exploded on the left side of his face. He could feel something wet above his mouth and, when he licked his upper lip, tasted blood.

Malfoy was staring at him, looking just as stunned as Harry was, as if he hadn’t imagined he could have it in him to actually punch Harry. Pansy was tugging on his other arm, screeching, “Draco, leave it, let’s go,” but he didn’t appear to hear her; he didn’t appear to notice anything else but Harry.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, “talk about him that way.”

“I’ll say whatever I want about him,” Harry sneered back, unaware of just how eerie he looked, blood dripping down his face. “What’ll you do about it, Malfoy? Run away? Because that’s what your dad did, you know that? Ran away like the filthy coward he is.”

Malfoy looked furious. “My father is not a coward,” he bit out, enunciating each word. “He’s twenty times the wizard your father ever was.”

Harry had his wand out before he even knew what he was doing, and before he could even process it, he had Malfoy pressed against the wall, the tip of his wand jabbed at Malfoy’s throat. “At least my father,” Harry said, low, “died a hero. When your dad dies, he’ll still be known as the scum he is.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy hissed out. He was wide-eyed, backed up as far against the wall as he could go, and his eyes kept flickering down to Harry’s wand and back up to his face.

“Scared?” Harry demanded, his face throbbing. His voice sounded so strangled with anger that he hardly recognized it. “I haven’t forgotten that Cruciatus Curse, you know, Malfoy. But,” and here he leaned in as close as he dared, “the difference is that, me? I want to hurt you.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said again, faintly, almost a whine. This time his face was white with terror, and despite himself, Harry felt a surge of horror at his own actions. But before he could do anything, even step away –

“FIFTY POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR,” Snape roared, striding out and forcibly pulling Harry back by his collar. Pansy stood at his side, looking frightened; Harry thought she must have darted in the classroom to alert him as soon as he and Malfoy went at it.

“You are a disgrace, Potter,” Snape continued, fixing Harry with his penetrating stare. “Threatening a fellow student, holding him at wandpoint – Draco, are you all right?”

Malfoy straightened his robes, still looking shaken. “Potter just attacked me,” he said shrilly, regaining composure as he spoke. “He insulted my father and came at me with his wand–“

“Attacked you?” Harry yelled, any remnants of pity disappearing completely. “Professor Snape, my face is covered in blood!”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, and then said silkily, “Well, Potter, perhaps Madam Pomfrey will have something to say about your excessive clumsiness. Do try not to get any blood on the floor as you go.”

Harry gaped at him. “Professor–“

“I said go, Potter,” Snape hissed. “And as for you, Miss Parkinson, I advise you to return to Slytherin. Draco and I need to have a word.”

Reluctantly, Harry pocketed his wand and put his hand to his nose, finally realizing how awful his face must look. He tried to take his time leaving, curious despite himself to hear what Snape might have to say, but Snape only gave him a sharp look and pulled Draco into the classroom. Harry heard what might have been, “You should know . . . your father in . . .” but just then, the door slammed shut, and Harry was left alone in the empty hallway.

He had been a fool to ever have entertained the notion of doing anything with Malfoy except loathing him. That was who Malfoy was: Lucius Malfoy’s son. He would never be anything else. And someday, it might be Malfoy on the other end of Harry’s wand, the way it had been today, only without Snape to stop them. Or it might be Malfoy with his wand at Harry’s throat. The thought of the prophecy sprung unbidden to Harry’s mind, and he thought darkly, kill or be killed . . .

With a sigh, he headed upstairs to the hospital wing. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match was the next day, and Jack would kill him if he came looking like this.



&*&*



When the Gryffindor Quidditch team assembled in the changing room on the morning of the match, Jack was already there, pacing agitatedly from one end to the other. As they crowded around him for last minute instructions, Harry noticed just how manic he looked, as if he were equally likely to run laps around the pitch or burst into tears any minute.

“I think Jack’s lost it,” Ron whispered to him, grinning, although he, too, looked a bit peaky, and the rest of the team not much better. They had been doing all right, but their last practice had ended with Andrew accidentally knocking Natalie off her broom and Ron narrowly missing running into a goalpost, so none of them felt overconfident about a Gryffindor win.

“So, look,” Jack said, sounding about as confident as Neville in Potions class, “we’ve got to win today, got that? We’ve got to.”

“I think we’re all in agreement on that,” Katie Bell said dryly, double-checking the straps on her gloves. “Hey, buck up, Natalie, you’ll do great.”

Natalie MacDonald looked about as green as Ron had during his first match, while Ron looked profoundly grateful that he wasn’t the one who had never played before. “But Malcolm Baddock said he’ll break both my arms if we win,” Natalie said faintly. The very mention of it made her look more ill.

“Just let him try,” Ginny said fiercely, before anyone else could reply. There was a murmur of agreement, and Jack slapped Natalie a bit too heartily on the shoulder.

“It’s almost time,” he said, eyes glinting, “come on, come on, good luck, everybody . . .”

Shouldering his broom, Harry marched out of the changing room just after Ron, followed by the string of Chasers: Ginny and Katie gave Natalie’s arm a quick squeeze before she went and she looked slightly bolstered, though her eyes were still wide and scared.

Slytherin was waiting for them, and Harry was shocked to see Malfoy at the front of them, sneering hard as Jack approached. “Malfoy’s captain?” he heard Ron gasp beside him, and Harry exchanged a disgusted look with Ron before they turned back to see Jack and Malfoy shake hands. They both gripped each other’s hands until they were white-knuckled, but Jack looked no less wild-eyed as he turned to mount his broom on Madam Hooch’s instructions.

“Good luck, mate,” Ron muttered to Harry, looking both queasy and determined, and then the whistle blew and they shot into the sky, Ron heading towards the goalhoops.

“Gryffindor’s got the Quaffle!” shouted Stewart Ackerley, a Ravenclaw who had taken over commenting from Lee Jordan. “That’s seventh year Katie Bell with the Quaffle – and Pritchard’s after her, but – oh, narrowly misses a Bludger from Goyle! Nicely done, Bell – a pass to Ginny Weasley – there she goes–“

Harry lapped the pitch, keeping his eyes peeled for any sight of the Snitch, but he saw nothing yet, only Malfoy, speeding by on the opposite side, and at the sight of him, Harry’s blood boiled. He zoomed higher, passing over Ginny’s head as she dodged out of Malcolm Baddock’s way, and made for the Slytherin goalhoops.

“– and it’s Weasley with the Quaffle still – oh, close call from Baddock – and MacDonald comes up on the right, Natalie MacDonald of Gryffindor – Crabbe close behind – and it’s a pass to Natalie!”

Higher up, Harry saw what was going to happen, but he knew any attempt he made to call out would be swept away by the wind. Just as Natalie went to shoot, Goyle knocked her from the side with the Bludger, and she dropped the Quaffle right into Pritchard’s waiting arms. Even from across the pitch, Harry could see Jack cursing as he sped after Pritchard.

“And Pritchard of Slytherin takes the Quaffle! But Kirke is after him – Slytherin speeds towards Gryffindor’s goal – Bludger to the head for Pritchard, and he’s – well, he’s still got the Quaffle, off he goes again–“

Good luck, Ron, Harry thought vehemently, as he lapped past Malfoy again. You can do it. Down in the Gryffindor stands, everyone seemed to be yelling the same thing, and he thought he saw Hermione’s face beaming upwards as he sped by.

“– Pritchard passes, and – oh, interception from Gryffindor, a nice save from Ginny Weasley! Back towards Slytherin, and she dodges Baddock, nice turn there, ready to – oh, that must’ve hurt, Bludger to the side – now Baddock’s got it, there they go – throws to Pucey, who dodges MacDonald – oh, and it’s back to Baddock now, great bit of teamwork there – and he’s heading for goal, he’s shooting – Ron Weasley as Keeper, stretches out to block–“

But Ron had overestimated, and the Quaffle shot right through his open arms and into the left hoop. “SLYTHERIN SCORE,” Ackerley roared, and the Slytherin stands erupted in cheers.

Across the pitch, Malfoy seemed to have had no luck sighting the Snitch either, and he was watching Harry closely as he sped towards the Gryffindor end of the pitch. Harry went into a dive just as he heard Ackerley yelling about a foul from Pucey, and when he leveled out, he found that Malfoy had shot after him, no doubt thinking he’d caught a glimpse of the Snitch.

“How’s your nose, Potter?” he jeered, flying up alongside Harry. “Is that why you’re flying all the way down here? Nobody want to look at your ugly face?”

Harry looked away, determined to ignore him. Instead, he continued to scan the pitch for any sight of gold, but there was nothing.

“Pity you can’t keep your temper to yourself, Potter,” Malfoy continued. “The next thing you know, you’ll cause such a scene that you’ll be banned permanently from Quidditch. Except, oh, wait, that already happened. Ha ha ha.”

“The Ministry rescinded it,” Harry replied stiffly, not looking at him. “Along with all of Umbridge’s stupid decrees.”

“GRYFFINDOR SCORE!” Ackerley shouted from the stands, and at the sound of that, Harry felt slightly bolstered. “That makes it forty-ten, Slytherin, but here comes Kirke – Quaffle to Bell, off she goes again – will it be forty-twenty? She shoots – and a block from Bletchley, who passes the Quaffle to Baddock – they’re off again– “

“You need to watch your temper,” Malfoy shouted through the wind to him, sneering as they rounded the corner by the Slytherin goalhoops and sped off on a curve, “I’d hate to think you would get so worked up about a couple of Muggles in Wales–“

“Maybe if you shut up long enough to look for the Snitch, you might actually catch it,” Harry retorted, and was about to veer off to the left when he saw a Bludger careening towards him, and narrowly avoided it by shooting upwards – then he saw it, glinting in the sun, hovering above them in the air – without looking at Malfoy, not knowing if he’d seen it or not, he shot off like a bolt, straight up –

Malfoy had either caught sight of the Snitch or of Harry’s rapid motion, and instantly he was chasing after him, outstretched hand even with the tail of Harry’s broom – Harry could hear him panting desperately behind him as his hand scrabbled beside Harry’s knee – Harry’s hip –

“Looks like the Seekers have spotted the Snitch,” Ackerley was booming, his voice mingling with the crowd’s screams to create a dull roar in Harry’s ears. “Harry Potter’s in the lead for Gryffindor – but Draco Malfoy’s fast on his heels–“

They were both careening desperately upwards, Harry’s right hand clenched tight around his broom as his left, closer to the Snitch, extended out to grab it – he was so close, Malfoy grasping beside him, his fingers grabbing desperately at the air –

“HARRY POTTER’S GOT THE SNITCH,” Ackerley shouted out as Harry’s fingers closed, at last, around the tiny ball. Its wings tickled his fingers and he clenched it tightly, just as Malfoy’s hand closed around his wrist and wrenched so hard that he almost lost his balance.

“So much for your great Slytherin win,” Harry hissed, shaking Malfoy off as he leveled out his broom. “I told you that you could never beat me–“

THUD.

Harry saw black.

The next thing he knew, he was cartwheeling wildly through the air, broom suspended above him, along with Malfoy’s pale, startled face–

“Impedimenta!” someone shouted. Finally his fall slowed to the pace of a feather, and he found himself drifting on air. He was gasping from the shock of it, though, and by the time he settled safely onto the pitch, his heart was still hammering, his body still convinced that he was going to continue plummeting through the sky, probably to die on impact.

He sat up woozily.

Of all people, Malfoy was the first one to reach him, apparently having dived immediately from the sky. Rather than triumphant, his pointy face looked white, as if he’d just had quite a scare, too. “Potter,” he said, too shocked to be belligerent, “are you all right, Potter?”

But before Harry could answer, Ginny and Natalie landed with thumps beside him, and Ginny immediately seized him. “Harry, are you all right? You scared us so badly – we thought you were going to die – do you still have the Snitch? Oh, Harry! We won, we won!”

“Leave him be,” Madam Hooch said briskly, approaching them, “the boy needs room to breathe – there, Potter, how are you feeling? No injuries? Good, good. Clever trick of young Malfoy’s, wasn’t it? Of course, I was about to cast a Floating Spell – but quick thinking anyway–“

I taught that jinx to him, Harry thought blankly, feeling dazed by all that had just happened. He still had the Snitch fluttering in his fist, and as soon as Hooch announced that he was fine, the Gryffindor team gathered around him, cheering and whistling.

It was all a blur to Harry. He stared at Malfoy through the growing crowd. Malfoy’s pale face stared back at him, expressionless, and then Ron pushed him aside to get to Harry, and he was gone.



&*&*



People were still talking about the Quidditch match two weeks later, when the second Hogsmeade weekend came around. Harry must have heard from half the school how both Goyle and Crabbe had sent Bludgers flying at him, and several eager fourth-year boys eagerly mimed the way he had fallen off his broom while eating dinner, until Hermione told them in a no-nonsense tone to get back in their seats. The castle was buzzing with the story of Malfoy’s intervention, as well, though most of the rumors in Gryffindor were that Malfoy had hidden his wand so he could hex Harry, or perform some other, worse, Quidditch foul. One of the favorite theories held that the entire thing had been planned and Malfoy had ordered Crabbe and Goyle to aim for Harry, so that Malfoy could act the hero. This didn’t make much sense, however, and no one outside Gryffindor believed it, though Colin and Dennis Creevey could be heard insisting to several people that it was the truth.

Still, even Ron admitted that it was strange for Malfoy, of all people, to have been the person to save Harry from his fall.

“Of course,” he pointed out, for the umpteenth time, as they walked towards Hogsmeade, “Madam Hooch would have saved you, of course, or anyone in the stands. So you don’t owe him anything, Harry, if you’re getting any ideas.”

“I know,” Harry said, but he didn’t look at Ron.

He’d tried to talk to Malfoy again, after the match, but Malfoy seemed to be avoiding him. When he did see him, such as in Potions, he tried to catch Malfoy’s attention, but Malfoy only sneered and told him, in an echo of Harry’s previous words, “I don’t care, Potter. Leave me alone.”

“Where did Tonks say she would meet you?” Hermione asked, interrupting his contemplation. “I’ve got to buy some more ink, but we’ll meet you afterwards, if you’d like.”

“The Three Broomsticks,” Harry said, flushing without knowing why. Everything that had happened with Tonks seemed so far away, as if it had happened a year ago, or more. “I suppose I’ll see you later – I mean, you can come too, that is–“

Ron and Hermione both looked at him suspiciously, and Harry was terrified for a moment that they had both guessed about what had really happened between him and Tonks. “Like I said, I have to find more ink,” Hermione said, after a moment, and Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. Ron added, “I promised Seamus we’d go to Zonko’s, but maybe later.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

Tonks was at the bar of The Three Broomsticks when Harry entered; she was chatting pleasantly with Madam Rosmerta, who was giggling at something Tonks had said. Tonks was wearing a skirt over outrageously striped tights, which were cut off mid-calf by large boots. When she turned around to see him, he saw the word SPELLSHOCK emblazoned on her shirt, presumably a band, from the moving silhouette of a drummer banging silently on a drum set above the words. For an instant, when she turned towards him, she looked utterly exhausted, but then her face cleared and he wondered if he’d been imagining things. “Wotcher, Harry,” she said cheerfully, and gave Madam Rosmerta a parting smile before sauntering over to him.

“How’s the Potions going?” she inquired, winking. Harry flushed.

“Fine,” he muttered. It felt impolite to jump into telling her that he knew about what had happened in Wales, but he suddenly had no idea what else to say. “Um, how are you?”

“Knackered,” Tonks said, propping her legs up on the empty chair beside her. “Mad-Eye’s like a machine, you know, thinks all of us are built to run on no sleep. I’m lucky I could get away for an hour or two, the way he’s got us all running about.”

“Oh,” Harry said, embarrassed, “well, you didn’t have to come.”

Tonks snorted. “I’m the one who invited you, and you’re apologizing. Don’t be daft. What d’you want to drink? I’ll get you something, if you like – never been a fan of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey, it’s got a bit of a bite, but I hear it’s a favorite–“

“I’ll just have Butterbeer,” Harry told her quickly. He wondered what would happen if someone like Professor McGonagall walked in and saw him drinking Firewhiskey with his former Professor.

“A boring favorite,” Tonks said, rolling her eyes, and signaled to Madam Rosmerta. “Well, it seems as if you’ve been up to plenty since I left you. I’ve only heard the dramatic saga of your Quidditch match, oh, three or four times now.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “But – from who? When?”

Tonks laughed. “Well, Arthur Weasley told the lot of us, I guess he heard it from his kids – and then I saw Oliver Wood the other day, turns out he’d heard the tale, too–“

“Oliver Wood?” Harry repeated, feeling a little ill. Oliver Wood was out there telling people about how Harry Potter had nearly died because he fell off his broom? The thought made him slightly queasy. “I suppose everybody’s laughing at me, then – how Harry Potter fell off his broom.”

“Oh, no,” Tonks said. “Everybody thinks you’re a hero. Caught the Snitch, hit by Bludgers, nearly died . . . it’s just what your public wants to hear.”

“I don’t have a public,” Harry muttered, feeling uncomfortable. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Tonks’s eyes were twinkling. “Oh, but if Oliver Wood of Puddlemere United Reserves thinks it’s a big deal, that’s quite a big deal indeed,” she said. “Anyway, I was out with Kirley the other night, and he seemed to think it was a good story–“

“Kirley who?”

“Kirley McCormack Duke, of course,” Tonks said. “He plays lead guitar in the Weird Sisters, you might have heard them on the WWN–“

“Yeah,” Harry said faintly, “I – I know who the Weird Sisters are – you know him? And, wait, you talked about me?”

Tonks was grinning. “Kirley and I go way back. It’s a bit of a long story. But anyway, of course we talked about you. He was quite interested when he heard I met you, you know. Owled me straightaway.”

“He knows my name?” Harry said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so breathless. He was practically worse than Lavender and Parvati.

Tonks only laughed. “Everybody knows your name,” she said. And then, more hushed, “And he was quite interested when he heard what happened, you know, that night–“

Harry exclaimed, forgetting to be quiet, “You told him that?”

“Oh, not too explicitly,” Tonks said, winking across the table at him. “Some details are just between you and me.”

Harry knew he was flushing, and when Madam Rosmerta set his Butterbeer on the table, he gave her a profoundly grateful look. Uncapping the bottle, he took several swigs of it before he was finally able to look at Tonks again.

“Er,” he said, hoping the subject change wasn’t too drastic, “I know what’s in Wales now.”

Tonks looked shocked for a moment, and her eyes shifted away uncomfortably, but after a moment she looked back at him again. “Been doing your research, have you?” Tonks said appraisingly. “I’ll bet Hermione helped you there.”

“Well, Hagrid told us,” Harry said. “And – I had a dream, I heard Voldemort talking about Hay-On-Wye–“

Tonks gave him a sharp look. “You might be Harry Potter, but you should know better than to say his name in a public place like this,” she scolded, casting a pointed look to the table next to them. Harry followed her gaze to see a witch hastily mopping at her robes where she’d slopped her drink at the sound of Voldemort’s name. “Just because you aren’t scared of him doesn’t mean other people aren’t.”

Harry wondered if Tonks were scared of Voldemort. She didn’t seem like the type of person to be scared of anyone.

“Anyway,” he said, “Dumbledore told me what happened there.” He wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk about the war and Lucius Malfoy, but it seemed preferable to talk of how he’d fallen off his broom and anything remotely relating to the blow job Tonks had given him. “About – about his brother.”

“Odd man, Aberforth,” Tonks mused. “Sad to see him go, though. He always said the strangest things–“

“I met him at the Hog’s Head once,” Harry said, to stem any reminiscences Tonks might have been inclined to share. He had heard so many stories told to him about people who were killed by Voldemort, and it only served to remind him that he was either destined to be one of them or had to kill Voldemort first. The thought of either in his future was not a pleasant one. “Tell me about things in Wales,” Harry suggested instead.

He listened to Tonks talk for awhile, but either she didn’t know much of what was going on or was determined not to tell him. It could have been the latter, because of the way she kept stopping in the middle of sentences and giving him strange looks, but for once, Harry didn’t care to know more. After hearing about Moody’s detailed plan to scour all the mountains for Death Eaters using search nets composed of six Aurors each and a color-coded system of sparks, Harry interrupted, “And no sign of Lucius Malfoy?”

“Shh,” Tonks hissed again, “you can never be sure who’s listening!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said. “I guess nobody’s caught him, then.”

“Not yet,” Tonks said and looked uncomfortable. “Hey, Harry, aren’t you tired of thinking about You-Know-Who all the time? We could, you know, go somewhere–“

Harry colored at her sudden change of subject. He knew enough to know that when Tonks said go somewhere, what she really meant was, go snog somewhere, and he said quickly, “I, um, actually have to meet somebody soon – if it’s not a problem–“

“Oh, no problem,” Tonks said, looking disappointed, though not overly so. “Who’re you meeting, then? Is it a girl?”

“Well,” Harry began, trying to think of a credible lie, but just then, a tall man Harry had never seen before approached the table. He had hair that fell to his shoulders, almost like Snape’s, though his was clean and well-kempt. “Well, now, is that Nymphadora?” he said, smiling widely. His voice was pleasantly smooth, and his eyes flickered politely towards Harry. “Illustrious company, I see.”

“Hello there,” Tonks said, looking up at him. She added agreeably, “It has been a long time, hasn’t it? Harry was just leaving, actually.”

“Then I’m pleased to take his place,” the man said, eyes flickering back to Harry once more. “Harry Potter. It’s not every day you see your like.”

Harry wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, and merely gave him what passed for an embarrassed smile. Some feeling in the room had changed, and he wasn’t certain he liked it. Still, he had no choice but to rise and offer the man his seat; he had, after all, insisted that he was leaving.

“Send me an owl or two, Harry,” Tonks winked at him. “I’ll be sure to pass it on to Kirley.”

“Okay,” Harry said, reddening, unsure of how much this man knew. “Um, ’bye, Tonks. Um, good luck. With. Things.”

Making his way towards the door, Harry saw the man lean forward and say something low to Tonks. He frowned, worried for an instant, but then glimpsed Tonks’s wand in her pocket. What was he thinking? She was an Auror. She could take care of herself. And besides, they sounded as if they were old friends. Harry was turning paranoid, seeing spies in every stranger he saw.

Still, he was preoccupied with whom the man could be when he stepped out of The Three Broomsticks into the bright November cold, and he was caught entirely off guard when Malfoy seized him by the elbow and dragged him around the side of the building.

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed, heart thumping. For a moment, thoughts still on Tonks’s friend, he had thought it was someone who was after him. “Why are you here?”

“It is a Hogsmeade weekend, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I do believe it’s entirely within my rights to be here.”

“I mean,” Harry said pointedly, “why are you here, waiting to drag me into a dark corner?”

Malfoy flushed. “Look,” he said, after a moment, “I wanted to talk to you.”

There was another long pause. Harry stared at him. “Well?”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, very quickly, “I didn’t know anything about the attack, all right? I haven’t heard from my father since June. And then you said something, and I thought you knew about him, and I didn’t know anything.”

Expressionless, Harry said, “So you punched me.”

“You called my father a murderer,” Malfoy said, in a tight voice.

“He is.”

“And I’m not him!” Malfoy snapped. It shocked Harry so much to hear Malfoy willingly admit that he was, or could be, different from his father, that he simply stared at him. “Look,” Malfoy said, taking his silence for impatience, “so I just wanted to know if we could . . . well . . .”

“Study together again?” Harry prompted.

“Since you’re offering so nicely,” Malfoy smirked back at him.

Harry frowned. This was Malfoy. Malfoy, who had punched him. Malfoy, who insulted Harry’s parents and Harry’s friends every chance he got. Malfoy, who had inexplicably saved his life. Malfoy, who, even more inexplicably, Harry still wanted to kiss.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said,” Harry snapped. “When? Tuesday? I can’t on Monday, I promised Lisa I’d work with her–“

“I’m rather busy this week,” Malfoy said, glancing around them, as if someone would walk by and overhear. “Can we do it now?”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, as if he’d misheard him. “You mean, now?”

Malfoy sneered at him. “I said now, Potter, are you deaf? What’s the matter, have you got to meet Weasley in Zonko’s to snigger like first years over some pathetic jokes? Or do you just wander around looking for people to give money to?”

“Well,” Harry began, realizing with shock that there wasn’t anything else he’d rather be doing. Ginny was right when she insisted Fred’s and George’s shop was better than Zonko’s, and besides, he’d been inside the shop more times than he could count. And he hadn’t promised Hermione that he would meet them, only said that it was a possibility . . .

Malfoy was looking at him with impatience. “Well?”

“Yeah, now’s okay,” Harry agreed, glancing down the street towards Honeydukes. He stepped out into the street, heading in that direction.

“Potter,” Malfoy said scathingly, still half in the shadows, “are you thick? Hogwarts is the other way.”

Harry paused. Was he really going to trust the knowledge of the tunnel to Malfoy? Malfoy could ostensibly get him into trouble for it. And, well, it was Malfoy. What was next, letting him borrow Harry’s Invisibility Cloak? Lending him his broomstick?

“Look, I know a shortcut,” he said, after hesitating a moment. “This way, Malfoy. Come on.”



&*&*



It was late afternoon, and the cool November light streamed in through the windows of the Room of Requirement, one of the beams falling right across Harry’s lap where he sat on the sofa. He had his wand out, but it was lying loose in the hand that rested on the armrest, and he was busy watching Malfoy.

“Incarcerous,” Malfoy said loudly, and several thin ropes appeared to wrap themselves around the pile of books they had assembled earlier. “Oh no, now they’re not thick enough–“

“Try again,” Harry said calmly. Scowling, Malfoy did; this time, they snapped upon contact. He kicked at the side of the sofa in irritation.

Harry told Malfoy to practice the spell again and watched him, though his gaze turned from analyzing Malfoy’s technique to watching the way his hair slipped and he tossed his head unconsciously to get it out of his eyes, the smooth lines of his forearms as he cast. Harry was fully absorbed in staring at the other boy when Malfoy said impatiently, “Well?”

“What?”

“Are you paying attention or not?” he demanded irritably. “Was it all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, startled again by the lack of rancor in their voices. It was so easy not to hate him when he wasn’t being purposely disagreeable. Why did he have to make it so hard? “It was fine.”

Malfoy flung himself onto the couch beside Harry and shut his eyes, hair falling every which way. “I’m getting better, aren’t I?” He spoke without opening his eyes, but his voice was smug, and Harry watched the sure curve of his throat as he talked. Malfoy had flopped haphazardly down, and his knee was nearly touching Harry’s. Sure he could almost feel the warmth of it, so close to pressing against his, Harry was absurdly torn between moving his leg closer and shifting it away.

“You’re pretty good,” Harry admitted, wishing his voice didn’t sound so shaky. Malfoy was good. It wasn’t that he was bad at Defense; he simply hadn’t had the same practice, which left him behind most of the DA members. But, as Harry was learning, he was quick to catch up.

“What is it?” Malfoy was looking strangely at him, eyes open now; Harry was staring.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, and then, softer, “Malfoy.” There was something sleepy and subdued about the way Malfoy was laying, and Harry was overcome by the urge to brush his hand over Malfoy’s jaw, slide a thumb over his cheekbone. He wondered what Malfoy would do.

Just then, Malfoy shifted and his knee knocked against Harry’s.

“Sorry,” he said, utterly oblivious, and resettled.

If the moment didn’t end, Harry thought he might die. He felt unnervingly close to Malfoy. He wanted to touch his knee with his. Touch the thin, pale angles of his wrists. He wanted to kiss him, he wanted –

“Harry?”

The familiar, unexpected sound of Hermione’s voice startled him badly, and he leapt to his feet. It seemed to have affected Malfoy the same way, because he sat bolt upright.

The door cracked open a little more and Hermione called again, “Harry?”

Harry thought for a split second of hiding, hoping she would go away, but it was useless, and he said with resignation, “In here, Hermione.”

She pushed the door open and came in, looking apologetic and anxious at the same time. For some reason, she didn’t look startled at all to find Draco Malfoy sitting there. Harry wondered for a second how much she’d surmised, but then he caught sight of the folded map in her hand. She must have seen him looking, because she said, flustered, “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry for taking your map, and I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I just had to find you.”

“I can’t imagine what could get your knickers in such a twist, Granger,” Malfoy drawled before Harry could answer. “Have you finally found a cure for looking like a horse?”

Hermione gave him a sharp look, but refused to acknowledge his remark directly. “I think you’ll find what I have to say of interest to you as well, Malfoy,” she said evenly. “There’s been an attack on Hogsmeade. Aurors are patrolling it now, and all of the injured parties are with Madam Pomfrey, but I’m afraid–“ She wavered. “Three people were killed.”

There was a roaring in Harry’s ears, and he felt, for a moment, as if he couldn’t stand up. He asked, hoarsely, terrified, “Who were they?”

It seemed for a moment as if Hermione wasn’t going to answer, she was so silent. Then, tears springing to her eyes, she said, very quietly, “Dennis Creevey, Seamus Finnegan, and Professor Snape.”

 

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