playing the game, living the lie

chapter 8: intuition.

[date: 23-26 October]

Harry trundled obediently back to the Gryffindor dorms, chanting the password under his breath by rote, and trudged up the stairs, books firmly clasped against his chest. An impartial observer might have discerned there was something mechanical about his gait, or that the expression on his face resembled a stunned mullet, but, fortunately for Harry, the corridors were largely deserted, and he had Professor Snape's authorisation to be studying past curfew if Filch caught him.

He opened the Portrait Hole and shuffled inside, his mind still on autopilot. The firelight was burning low, and in the shadowed expanse of the Gryffindor commons, Harry could see Dean's form, the firelight playing across the ebony skin as he cradled in one of the chairs. He heard a skritch-scratch and moved closer, wondering what was making the noise. Leaning forward, he observed as Dean sketched dusty lines in charcoal over fine white paper, occasionally stopping to examine his work and continue. It seemed private, far too private for Harry to intrude with words, so he merely watched in silence. As the shape took form - and Harry could see scrunched up bits of paper on the floor next to the couch, noting this wasn't his first attempt for the night, he wondered why Dean still practiced his art. There wasn't any place for it in his studies; Hogwarts didn't have an art curriculum, like a Muggle school, and there didn't seem to be much place for artists, either. When scuffles broke out in the corridors, and damaged the paintings hanging on the walls, Professor McGonagall didn't send for the artist-in-residence to repair the torn canvas anew. Instead, Professor Flitwick would stop by, and rejoin the tear with a muttered charm. Indeed, what need did a wizard have for Art, when he could conjure up anything he dreamed? Yet since Third Year, and probably earlier, Harry could remember Dean tucked up in against a window, or on a couch or chair, like he was now, sketching or drawing away.

"Hallo," Dean murmured softly, intent on the thing taking shape in front of him, biting his lip absently in concentration. "You're up late."

"So're you," Harry offered back, and Dean looked up at him momentarily, before turning his attention back to the sketch.

"So I am." There was a pause. "You look completely snogged, Harry. Malfoy had his not-so-wicked with you, then?" There was a fond mocking to the tone, as if Dean knew all his secrets and couldn't give a toss.

Harry blushed, hotly, and his embarrassment gave way to indignation. "It's not that obvious, is it?" he near squawked, cautiously touching his lips as if he could feel the sign that Draco had left on them, on him. The one kiss had turned into several, and Harry had felt slightly light-headed before Draco had suddenly decided they both needed some sleep. Now he wondered exactly what kind of game Draco might be playing: yes, he wanted Harry, but wanted Harry for what? Maybe Ron was right and he was just another notch on Draco's belt. Rather wryly, he admitted that for someone who was essentially using Draco for politics, he seemed to care an awful lot about what the Slytherin thought of him.

Dean looked at him again, briefly, and Harry was almost insulted by the dismissiveness there. "Nah, not really," he said, still running charcoal along paper, "it's just well, I'm pretty observant - you have to be, when you like drawing and stuff - and after seeing Ron came up to the dorms looking like that after 'studying' with Hermione, I've got to recognise it. Speaking of which, you were well out of it, tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"Ron and Hermione still hadn't calmed down by the time they both won't to bed, let alone made up," Dean informed him casually. "Lavender and her little gang were even making predictions on what would happen next."

"They were what?" Harry was disgusted with their behaviour.

"You can't really blame them, Harry," Dean said, adding depth to an arm, and shading the ruffles in a blanket. "We live in a fishbowl, so to speak. All we've got for entertainment is each other, whether it be Ron and Hermione's bust up, or your and Malfoy's night time 'study visits.' I think Lavender's giving three to one odds they'll have broken up in a week, actually."

"Oh." That took the metaphorical wind out of Harry's sails. He wasn't anyone special, after all. Merlin knew how many people were carrying on vaguely illicit affairs inside Hogwarts' stone cage. He leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the picture, and rocked back, pensive. "Why don't you just tell him you like him, Dean."

Dean just kept on drawing for a few moments. "It isn't that easy. My family, well. My family wouldn't like it."

"Cause he's a guy?"

"No." There was a concealed emotion in the slump of his shoulders. A kind of constant anguish which Dean had learned to cope with, because he hadn't any other choice. "Cause he's white."

Harry was floored. "What do you mean?"

Dean spoke quietly, his incredible emotional control preventing the bitterness that crept into his voice from spoiling his concentration on the art. "My dad is a community leader for the black populace of West Ham. He feels that white people have done us enough trouble, and that's all they're good for, really. No matter what they say, they can't be trusted because they've always hated us and kept us down."

"But - but that's like Draco and his father, with all the pureblood/muggle nonsense!"

"Yeah. I'm not saying I agree with Draco, or my dad, but I can empathise." He stopped drawing and looked up at Harry. "I mean, just look at history, Harry. We got get told we're inferior, get told everything about us is inferior, and finally we have to fight every step of the way to even be considered equal, to have the same freedoms as you lot. And even that isn't all the time. Dad would probably love the fact I like guys. Just not if I was dating a white guy. He wants his kids to set 'an example.'"

"You're sure about this?" Harry was still stunned.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "A few years back, my older sister dated a white guy during the holidays. They'd been friends for years, but Dad didn't even approve of that. Anyway, when he found out they'd moved on from being 'just friends'..." He coughed, surreptiously. "Mel got grounded for three months. And sent to another school. Dad just doesn't think our sort should be mixing with your sort."

"You must be grateful you're a wizard then," Harry opined. He knew that all kinds of discrimination existed in the Muggle world - the Dursleys were a rather annoying example of that, what with their hatred of non-whites, gays, wizards and the like. Anyone who was different seemed fair game to them. But he knew that wizards weren't capable of that kind of ignorance. Well. There was Draco and his family, but they were in the minority. Aren't they?, that small, teasing voice asked, with added sneer. "I mean, you don't have to go back to that. Wizards aren't racist."

Dean snorted. "Like fuck they're not. And I don't just mean the whole pureblood vs. Mudblood thing, although that's part of it. How many black kids have you seen at Hogwarts, Harry?"

Harry stammered, unable to actually give a figure. It wasn't something he'd exactly bothered to notice. "Um, well-"

"I'll tell you. If you're lucky, you might get a few every year. At most, five. Out of about seventy or so new arrivals."

"Yes, well, statistically that's probably about you know, the right proportion, considering that they're aren't that many black people in England as a whole."

Dean wasn't having any of that. "I have a second cousin who's a wizard, although it was kept hush until I got my letter. He wasn't offered a place in Hogwarts, Harry. He got his letter from Avalon College, down in Glastonbury."

Harry had heard of it. "That's a good school, you know."

"Yeah, it is," Dean accepted. "But it's not Hogwarts. Why do some people get sent to Hogwarts and some to the lesser schools, Harry?"

Even Harry knew the answer to that. "It's a question of strength, from what I've heard. Some people are strong enough to use wands as focuses and some aren't. Wand magic is taught at Hogwarts."

"And every other major wizard school in the world. As Professor Lupin said, it's the western way of magic. White people's magic, you could say. Most black people get sent to those schools, the ones without wands." Harry didn't like where this was going. "Do you know, that the African tribes are one of the few holdouts left where non-wand magic reigns supreme?"

"I don't really see what this has to do with anything-"

"If we want to become full wizards, Harry, accepted by the Ministry and allowed to go on our way, anyone with my heritage has to give up the way my people have been doing magic for thousands of years, just because some white man says so." He changed the subject before that could sink in. "Out of those five black kids who arrive at Hogwarts, how many do you think usually take up positions of power, like with the Ministry?"

"I don't know."

"No, you don't. Virtually none. Know why? I'll tell you. Because we're not old enough. You look at the power here. It's in families who've been wizards for centuries - with noticeable exceptions," he said, casting a glance over at Harry. "I'd get looked over - even if both my parents were wizards simply because my pedigree isn't long enough; because my family came here in the fifties. And because of that I can never be good enough. Heck, even if I married Pansy bloody Parkinson, I'd be accused of diluting her blood."

"Would you want to marry Pansy?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, Harry, that isn't the point."

Harry fell silent, trying to think of a response. "What about the Patils?"

"What about them?"

"Well, they seem to act as if they're, y'know, as good as the Malfoys and whatnot. Yet they couldn't have been in Britain for very long."

Dean gave a short laugh. "Have you ever spoken to them, Harry?

"Well, no, not really in deep or anything."

"The Patils were Brahmans - well, her grandfather was, and Prince of the Empire at one stage. They have pretty much more money than God, from what I hear. Grandad settled here in the thirties, and since then they've been trying to convince everyone just how important they are."

"It isn't working?"

Dean looked at him sadly, and shook his head. "The Patils might act like kings in exile and they can certainly afford it, but the established families here won't give them the time of day. There's two aristocracies forming in Britain, Harry: the existing one and one made up of all the new arrivals that aren't being let in. And they pretty much hate any other with a passion."

"Oh," was all Harry could say, trying to take it all in.

Dean tried another tack. "Have you heard of the return rate?"

Harry shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"It's the proportion of kids from Muggle or half-caste families - like me, or Hermione, or you, or Seamus - who after finishing at a wizard school go back to Muggle society. At the moment, it's roughly been around 65% for the past few years. You should hear Justin Finch-Fletchley talking. His parents have been getting a tutor in during the summer hols, so he can do his O-levels and stuff. He wants to go to Cambridge, be a lawyer. And there's a lot of others like him." Dean suddenly looked bleak. "For young males of my particular background, the return rate is 95%."

"You could be the exception."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Just because discrimination isn't obvious doesn't mean it's not there. I mean, yeah, in my world racism was enshrined in law, so it was easy to point at it, and say 'That's wrong.' Gave us something clear to eradicate, y'know?" The words tumbled one over another. "But here, there was nothing spoken, nothing set down in stone. It's just the way things have always been, and Merlin forbid you try doing something differently. In some ways Wizard society hasn't changed for hundreds of years - just look at Diagon Alley! They think it's proper that the same families - the Malfoys, the Morgans, the Lestranges, the Hopworth-Evans are still the ones pulling the strings because they've always been the ones! Here, I'm hated because I'm not like them, in so many different ways, and there's no law against me so there's nothing to fight! I wouldn't get hired by the Ministry because I'm black, but because as a black person I don't have the five hundred years of British history running through my veins, and they wouldn't even let me try. There's nothing for me here, Harry."

"Except him."

"Yeah, and a fat lot of good that would do. Him in Ireland and me in London." He sighed. "You hear Ron talk about his uncle or whatever, the accountant? He doesn't; in fact they pretty much shun him, from what I've heard." A bitter sarcasm dripped from his words. "It's expected, after all, the Muggle and Wizard worlds are pretty separate, and what could they offer to one another? So. I can stay here, for him, and close the door on all my family, and get treated like a second-class citizen in the process. Or I can go back to the Muggle world, and become a teacher or something, bound never to use my wand again for anything more serious than a bruise in need of healing, and give him up." Dean stood up, suddenly, and Harry backed away, a tad scared.

"Sometimes I think that's what wrong with you wizards," Dean said, and Harry wondered to himself, 'you wizards'? Since when were we 'you wizards'?, but Dean continued. "You're all so busy waving your wands and fixing things that you don't even bother to see why things get broken in the first place." With that, he flicked his wrist, tossing the sketch into the fire, and tramped off, leaving Harry to watch, somewhat melancholy, as the flames rose higher, and ate away the portrait in charcoal, Seamus asleep in bed, his hair ruffled and arms askew.

When it was finally gone, he made his way up to the stairs and achingly undressed, climbing into bed. The curtains of everyone else's beds were closed, and perhaps for the first time, Harry saw the little barriers they'd all built up around one another. Suddenly, he realised exactly why Dean clung so to his artistry. Because it was the one thing he used to remind him of everything else he was losing from the Muggle world, and so he kept holding onto it, beyond any kind of logic.

Harry was glad when sleep washed over him, dispelling all thought.

He found her in the parlour. She was sitting, working on some embroidery she'd been putting aside - truth be told, she hated the stuff, but it gave her something to do, and made the Manor feel slightly less like a prison. Lucius strode in as if he was the Master of all he surveyed - including her, and that was probably more true that she wanted to admit. She bound herself to this present by dreams of her own making, and if this was a prison, Narcissa only had herself to blame.

Although it was nice pretending otherwise on occasion.

He'd not returned by the time she had retired the previous night, and when she awoke, she'd assumed that if he had returned, he'd slept in his own room. Whatever his business in London - and why would she get told, she was only the wife - it obviously hadn't delayed him for very long.

Placing the embroidery down on the cushion next to her, she inclined her head slightly, looking up at him, an expression of calculated boredom on her face. She would try cautious defiance, and see how far it got her today.

"I heard about your letter, my love," Lucius murmured, picking her hand and kisses it, gently. The hand dropped back into her lap, limp, and Narcissa's blood went cold. Her eyes quickly scanned the room. He wouldn't hit her, would he? He never had before. But there weren't any house elves - witnesses, her mind supplied, so who knew what he might do?

He chuckled, obviously pleased at her startled expression, the blood draining from her face. "What, you didn't think I know about everything that goes on in my house. Come now." It was a warning, a steely-edged sword held against her throat. Know you have no friends here. "Suffice to say, I do admire your persistence. And your concern for our son."

Narcissa gathered the embroidery back into her lap, and picked at a stitch, her face down to hide her anxiety. "You-you do? Why, that's wonderful," she said, and forced a trilling little laugh.

"Quite," Lucius mused, crossing to the desk and pouring a sherry from the decanter into a crystal class. He strode back and gave it to her as she outstretched a shaking hand, downing it in one gulp. Her first for the day, and probably not her last.

"Do you have anything specific you wish me to say to the girl?", she asked, trying to keep a note of bitterness from her tone. He knew! He had probably known about it even before she had done it, and now she felt relieved when he patted her on the head like a good dog !

"No," he replied, pouring himself a drink, and refilling hers, passing it back. "I expect you shall be able to use your-" his mouth twisted, "personal experience of such matters in order to convince her. If her parents wish to have guarantees, or some form of compensation, obviously we can see what will be arranged." He paused. "Obviously, you will not be giving them the true reason for our change of heart."

"Obviously." She was many things, but not a fool. If not a fool, a part of her asked herself, how did you fall so far, Narcissa Morgan? How did you come to this?, but she brushed it aside, impatient. Doubts were for those who had the time to grieve, and Narcissa no longer trusted her emotions.

Lucius raised the crystal to his lips, and took a sip, his moderation mocking her simply by its existence. Lucius was ever so precise, so controlled. Except when it came to James, of course. For her, the second shot met the same fate as the first. "I'll be in the East Wing," he said by way of departure, and strode to the door without a glance. They both knew what that meant. He would be holed up in that room, with that picture, and whatever promises he had made to her, they were nothing besides the oaths he had sworn to himself. Lucius respected her, but he did not love her; she had learnt that bitter fact too many years ago, and now it had gotten so familiar it barely grated.

"Of course," she said, not wanting to let him leave with the final word, as if she expected it, as if she knew, understood, and gave him permission. Ha ! It was petty, but pettiness was all she had left, some days.

He stopped under the doorway, and turned on the balls of his feet to face her. "It is good that you thought of this," he admitted. "There is no need for us to hold ourselves to promises we cannot keep." Then he was gone.

For a moment, Narcissa suddenly felt like weeping for that poor Parkinson girl, but then she realised that if she had to save her tears for anyone, it had best be Draco.

Meanwhile in Watford, a deranged former and technically also current Dark Lord was having breakfast. Specifically, he was having Fruit Loops. With milk. Pettigrew, who usually procured his shopping through various channels was currently fulfilling his Lord's instructions, and Voldemort had no wish to try the gas stove on his own. Watching somewhat hypnotised as he chased them with his spoon, and they swirled around the bowl. He was unable to use magic for fear of detection, and so he turned instead to technology. To the Muggle way of life. It rankled, certainly, but it also gave him some interesting insights into those he hated.

In some ways it was a pity to eradicate them. Even if they were vermin. But you could appreciate the determination of vermin, and realise it was that exact determination that meant they had to be killed.

He sat in the faded leather armchair, and turned the television on, skin glowing slightly with the light from the box, the patterns of morning television playing over his shape in the darkened room. All the windows were boarded up, of course. No-one could see him. And yet it seemed the Muggles had still felt him, despite everything. In the month he had been there, the petty crime rates had skyrocketed in the estate, as well as an increase in overall tension. People were being kicked over minor disputes, beaten just because they could. The teenage gangs were stabbing residents left right and centre, and the local police were tempted to make it no-go-area.

To be truthful, he had not started it. The tendency towards violence, and the foundations of hatred were ingrained in these people long before he arrived. But the darkness in his soul called to their own, magnified it.

This, truly, was England, 1996, Blair's 'Cool Britannia', and what a glorious world it was. Looking at the news, he wondered if they would kill each other over race and class and religion and sexuality, without any help from him.

It seemed quite likely, really.

Harry woke the following morning, and quickly toddled off to the showers, hoping not to catch the last dregs of hot water, and was pleasantly surprised. He showered in silence, cleaned himself, dressed and made his way towards the Great Hall, ready - and ravenous - for breakfast.

From the moment he walked into the Great Hall, Harry could tell all was Not Right at the Gryffindor table. Ron and Hermione were sitting about five seats apart, and those who'd had the misfortune of having to sit between them looked very uncomfortable. Not only that, but Ginny seemed even more sullen than usual, as if the world had not only been found wanting - as it always had - but even worse, had disappointed her. Neville was picking at his food dourly, and Seamus and Dean's usual double act was dead silent. He wondered if it had to do with Dean's comments from last night; if saying those things had brought to his awareness all the stuff the young black teen had been trying to avoid. Harry hoped not, and prayed it was just Hermione and Ron's bad mood that was infecting everyone. In some ways, Dean's apparent depression (which in turn affected Seamus something horrible) worried Harry more than anything. Hermione was chirpy most of the time, and Seamus boisterous, but it wasn't the end of the world if they weren't. Dean, however, had carried a quiet wry humour around with him wherever he went, making gentle observations about all sorts of things, with his ability to see beyond what most could. For the first time, perhaps, Harry realised how much he missed that stability, when it wasn't there.

Recognising that sitting too close to either Hermione or Ron would be misconstrued by the other as 'taking sides' Harry sat on the opposite side of the table entirely, next to Neville, and responded to the half-hearted greetings that ran up and down the table.

Turning his attention from the mournful lot of Gryffindors, he quickly scanned the Great Hall...and found Draco sitting at the Slytherin table without a care in the world, scarfing down his breakfast. And not paying any attention to him entirely! Harry was infuriated! Even when they were mortal enemies, Draco would spend at least half of breakfast spitting daggers at him and sneering copiously! Now they were...whatever the fuck they were...there was nothing! How dare he! He didn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because Ron spoke.

"Seamus, would you please pass the syrup?" Ron, it seemed was having pancakes for breakfast. And the syrup was right next to Hermione, and a stretch for Seamus to reach.

"Ron, why don't you just ask Hermione-" but he was greeted with a flat stare from Ron, and grouching under his breath, Seamus reached across the table, grabbed the syrup and passed it down to Ron.

Soon enough, Hermione countered. "Colin," she asked, "would you please pass the butter down this way?" Hermione was having toast, and yes, the butter was right next to Ron.

Harry watched at Colin, sighing, picked up the plate with the butter and passed it along till it sat in front of Hermione. Things must be bad for them to affect Colin, Harry realised. I'm surprised he's not taking happy snaps, so he can crow about how he caught the Legendary Harry Potter and His Friends having a Bad Day! The younger Gryffindor was part-Rita Skeeter and part-vaguely obsessive stalker, and Harry didn't particular like either part.

The sound of laughter caught his ears, and he turned, to see the Slytherins obviously very amused at something Draco had said, and from the looks of things, were congratulating him on his wit. Harry glared daggers for a while, and then turned back, shoulders hunched, to attack his own breakfast with a fury. Oh, I'm sure you were a riot, Draco, he snarled to himself, tearing apart a rasher of bacon.

Despite Harry's worst fears, the day did, indeed, get worse. Hermione and Ron refused - refused! - to speak to one another the entire day, and that left Harry trying to mediate between them. Although it often seemed as if war, not peace, was on their minds.

A typical lesson went something like this: Harry would be sitting between them, as they both took notes down, the scritch-scratch of quill on parchment the only sound. Then Ron would start talking, amiably enough to Harry, and that would start everything going straight to hell.

Hermione would invariably say: "Harry, if you don't mind, could you ask that loud-mouthed oaf next to you to keep quiet?" Her tone would be oh-so-sweet. "I'm not talking about you, Harry, but some people obviously don't know how to whisper, and some other people are trying to study."

To which Ron would reply, without ever acknowledging he heard her, "Harry, I was wondering if you could please ask that try-hard Percy sitting next to you that it isn't her place to control the lives of others, especially when some of us are trying to study." Of course, Ron actually studying would never happen, so he was clearly saying it to get up Hermione's nose.

To which Hermione would harrumph!, and Ron would snort!, and they'd both go back to their note-taking, and Harry would feel very uncomfortable indeed.

They even bickered (through Harry) during the instructional part of Care of Magical Creatures that day, and then gave conflicting advice, which invariably meant that Harry had to deal with the Unpronounceable and Absolutely Hideous Nasty of the Week. Even considering the fact they actually shut up during Potions - more due to a deep-seated fear of Snape more than any actual civility between them, Harry was in a right foul mood by lunchtime, and this wasn't mollified by Hermione's decision to hole herself up in the library for the duration, leaving Ron to tag along with Harry, grumping to himself about all sorts of things, and Hermione in particular. He didn't even help Harry put the posters all around Gryffindor Tower for the upcoming Quidditch tryouts! What kind of a best friend was he?

Worse still, Draco hadn't even looked at him the entire day! And due to Zabini being sick, Draco had been paired off with Pansy during Potions, and Harry got lumped with Ron and Hermione. Again. Had the world gone mad? Harry suspected it had indeed. By the time he'd put up with it all (and double Divination as well) he felt tired to the bone, more than glad of the fact that Professor Lupin - no, Remus, he had to think of him as Remus, and even more, Sirius' boyfriend, a fact that still wigged Harry out on occasion, especially since it caused flashbacks to that time he'd inadvertently walked in on Remus fucking his Godfather senseless on the kitchen bench, and people thought he was traumatised because of Voldemort? - the fact the Remus had invited him over for dinner that night, and Harry was happy to be rid of his friends, and all their problems.

All he wanted was a nice quiet evening with Sirius and Remus; filled with some humour, interesting conversation and some damn good food.

Of course, he didn't get it.

"You what?!" Remus tore his napkin from his lap and scrunched it onto the table, almost jumping out his chair. For a second Harry felt like joining him.

At the centre of the tempest, Sirius was calm, collected, and he kept eating. "Mmm. This is a lovely roast, Moony."

His lover narrowed his eyes. "Don't you dare think you can buy me off with compliments, Black," and Harry winced. If Remus was using surnames, this was bad. "You can't just tell me you're going overseas - just like that! - and tell me I'm a fucking good cook." Harry winced again. Remus swearing was a sign of Impending Doom as well.

"I think I just did," Sirius observed, and sipped his wine, wetting his palate. "Besides, this isn't my choice. Albus asked me, and I can hardly say no to him, now can I?"

"You could have at least talked about it with me first," Remus argued, "instead of just assuming I'd be fine with it."

"I knew you wouldn't be fine with it," Sirius responded, a twinkle in his eye, "which is why I didn't ask."

Harry all but forgotten, Remus slumped in his chair. "Where?", he asked, already despondent.

"America."

"America?" It was almost a screech.

"And Canada and Mexico, if I have the time. But mainly America."

"For Merlin's sake, why?" There was disgust in Remus' tone. Harry decided it was time for him to make a dignified exit, and so, using the pretence of clearing the table, he picked up the plates and made his way into the kitchen, still hearing the conversation over the harsh scraping of knife against china, as the remnants went into the bin.

Sirius' voice was quiet, modulated to reassure the other man. It was obvious that above all things, he cared deeply for Remus. "Even after last year, the Ministry won't openly admit Voldemort is back. Fudge has his head stuck in the ground, and he got voted back in for doing so. Most people want to ignore what's going on, Remy, and they will, until it's too late."

"So?"

"Albus wants me to renew a few old friendships, and acquaintances, with some people I know in the States, and contact some of his...associates. See if I can quietly sound out the support we have there, because Merlin knows, we need someone on our side. The Order isn't enough by it's own."

"If Voldemort's agents find out about it, they'll come after you."

"Yes."

Harry stopped, in the process of putting away the salt and pepper, and he could hear the quiet acceptance in his Godfather's tone. A part of him wanted to scream and rant and rave, but he knew it was Remus' place now, and not his own.

Sirius continued. "It's likely he has agents amongst the U.S. Department of Wizardry, and in the leading Magical conglomerates there. He has people everywhere else, why not where the money is?"

"Then you'll be setting the trap up around you." Remus seemed almost incredulous, wanting to disbelieve.

"I know. But I have to. If I don't go, nothing will get done, and even if I do get captured, at least we'll have some idea who his agents are."

"You're wanting to play the sacrificial lamb that much? Snape was right. You are a martyr."

"Remy, we're all in danger from Voldemort-"

Remus' response was cutting. "There's a difference between being in danger and actively putting yourself in front of his wand!" Harry peeked out the kitchen door, and saw Remus almost slumped over the table, his elbows propped up on the wood surface. There was a pause. "Right. When do we leave?"

Sirius' eyes brimmed over with a kind of gentle anguish. "You're not going with me, love," he said, softly, and Remus' head snapped up.

"What do you mean, I'm not going with you?", he demanded.

"You have duties here. And someone needs to stay and look after Harry."

"Harry can bloody well look after himself-" Remus blustered, but Sirius met him with a calm gaze.

"Albus agrees with me."

"Oh, fuck Albus."

Sirius laughed. "Not with that beard."

A pause. "If I'm not there, who's going to look after your back, Padfoot?"

"I guess I'll have to look after it myself," Sirius replied lightly.

Another pause, and the humour faded into silence. "How long will you be gone?"

"A few months. Six, probably. He doesn't just want me to meet and greet, but actually set up some kind of network, see what they're capable of, perhaps get some strategy going."

Harry felt as though he was intruding on something personal, almost sacred between the two, but he couldn't quite tear himself away.

There was a bitter, choked laugh, and Harry suddenly realised that Remus was crying. "Well, I lived without you for twelve years, so I guess six months shouldn't be that difficult a chore, should it?"

A sigh. "Moony-"

"Do you know how I survived those twelve years, Sirius? Do you?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You were dead to me. It's that simple. I couldn't care about the dead."

A longer pause. The two men faced one another, not speaking, before Remus spoke again, his voice a tad hysterical.

"And you were dead to me because I believed them. They told me you were responsible for James and Lily's murder, and Peter's, and although I didn't want to accept it, it seemed the only logical explanation. So I believed them and doubted you. I began to go over in my mind everything we'd done together, all those memories, to try and pinpoint the moment you'd gone bad." Another laugh, broken by tears, and Harry could feel his own eyes well up, and he turned away, still able to listen. "I doubted everything we were, just because they told me to. I wondered - agonised, even - if I could have stopped you from turning, from killing the others. If I could have, but didn't." His voice was suddenly very small. "If you'd ever loved me at all, or whether that was just a Death Eater plot."

There was the scrape of a chair on the floor, and the sound of someone padding across the floorboards a few paces, followed by another chair being moved, and more tentative movement. Harry could almost picture Sirius cautiously getting up, and following Remus, loosely wrapping his arms around him.

"It doesn't matter, Remy, a lot of people doubted me - Albus did, my parents did..."

"Albus didn't love you the way I did. He didn't make the promises I did." Remus' voice was quavery now, soft and stretched and shot through with emotion. "I lost faith in you, Padfoot. How can I make that up to you if you go and get yourself killed?"

Harry turned back, unable to resist one final glance, to see Sirius gently stroke Remus' hair, and down his arm, cradling the other arm around the man, holding him close. "I haven't got any plans to get killed by Voldemort," he said, softly, nuzzling against Remus, and Harry could see that he too was crying. "Besides, Remus, I need you too much to die."

"I remember Lily and James saying similar things." With that, he finally broke down, sobbing, and Sirius bundled him into both arms, Remus resting his head on Sirius' shoulder, uselessly clutching at a sleeve. "I've only just got you back, Sirius. I don't want to have to say goodbye, not now. I've only just got you back."

Sirius rocked him gently, shushing him, and occasionally stroking his hair and back to calm him down, and there was something oddly maternal in it. As Remus' sobs subsided, Harry left them to their privacy and made his way to the room they kept for him.

Sleep was a long time in coming.

Harry woke in the little cot, and stretched. Soon enough, he was in the kitchen, grouching down pancakes and trying to forget what had happened the previous night. From the look of Sirius and Remus, they were too. Briefly, Sirius reached over the take the hand of the man sitting next to him, and Remus squeezed his hand softly, both sharing a sad, gentle smile. Then they ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Sirius was off soon enough, to do his usual round of Hogsmeade, and the castle grounds, and Remus made sure that Harry was ready to go, fussing over him like Harry had seen Mrs. Weasley do over Ron. He made sure Harry cleaned his teeth - although he knew that Harry's hair would be invulnerable to a comb, and got Harry to check his satchel, in case he'd left any homework from the previous night in his room. He even found some spare quills in case Harry needed them during the day! That being done, they set off from the cottage, towards Hogwarts.

The ground was slightly hilly, undulating grasslands and scrub. They walked in companionable silence for perhaps ten or twenty minutes - Harry wished sometimes that amongst his much-vaunted abilities (including the ability to Intimidate Dark Lords with his Very Reputation, and Cause Young Witches to Swoon at the Sight of Him - invariably before they Grew Up and Came Out) he had the ability to keep accurate track of the time. Although Harry didn't wish to pry, there were some things he felt he needed to know, even if he'd refused himself the knowledge previously. He'd never been entirely comfortable with the idea he had to 'share' his Godfather - sole relative - with anyone, but last night had changed a lot of his reluctance towards Sirius' and Remus' relationship.

"When did you and Sirius actually get together?," Harry asked, as they were trudging their way up a steep incline.

Remus, despite his somewhat fragile look, showed no sign of slowing down, answered as easily as if he was taking a gentle stroll. "Ah. Well, that's relatively easy to answer. I'd always had feelings for Padfoot since second year, when I started hanging around with him and James. It was Sirius' concern for me that drove them to become Animagi, when they discovered my rather unwholesome secret." They managed to get onto of the rise, and Harry doubled over, panting, Remus stopping to let the schoolboy catch his breath.

"Go on," he huffed.

"One night, Peter was sick, and James was off with...his significant other-" Remus eyed Harry warily; both he and Sirius had agreed that it was far too soon to tell Harry of his father's relationship with Lucius Malfoy, but Harry seemed not to notice his hesitation, and moved on smoothly "-it was the full moon, and poor old Padfoot was left to take care of me all by himself. I was in the Shack, in my wolf form, and Sirius transformed soon enough." He paused. "When you're in animal form, Harry, whether as Animagi or werewolf, one's emotions are...less inhibited. The wolf in me knew the man wanted Sirius as a mate, and the wolf had no compunction claiming said mate. What was perhaps more startling was that his smell agreed." The ghost of a smile played across his lips, and he set off again with long strides, Harry walking double to keep up with him.

"What do you mean, his smell agreed?"

"A werewolf's smell is quite acute, Harry, but with three other animals in the same enclosure - dog, stag and rat, all their scents masking each other, only the fear and anxiety is strong enough to be recognised. With Padfoot being the only other person there, I could smell him. All of him. Everything he wanted. And he wanted me." There was that almost smile again. "So although we could never say anything, our animal selves came to an agreement."

He glanced across, to see the strong look of shock on Harry's face, and tsked. "Not like that, Harry. Please! But it was understood. I awoke the following morning, and he dressed my wounds, and held me close, and kissed me, and told me he'd always take care of me." Remus was positively grinning, rather goofily, and Harry coughed, causing the other man to come back to the present. "Your Godfather is an incurable romantic, Harry. Fortunately for him, so am I."

He risked a look at Harry again, walking next to him, beaming, and Harry soon returned the smile. Remus' good humour was often infectious. "We turned up for breakfast at the Gryffindor table that day, a couple. I can remember Lily telling us it was about time."

The smile died on Harry's lips. "My mother?"

"Your mother was an extremely perceptive woman, Harry. I was scared of her, at first, because she could see what I felt for Sirius. Lily could see the dynamics between Sirius and I, and James and Peter in a second. Probably saw we were falling apart even before we did."

"Then why didn't she do something to stop it?" Harry's voice was soft, and bitter. He still didn't want to accept his parents had failings, were nothing more - and nothing less - than human, and damned them thrice over for being so.

The response was just as soft, but with a sad forgiveness in its depths that echoed through the years. "Because she was watching the one she loved love another. She didn't want to see that happening, so she stopped watching all of us."

Harry was astounded. This was hinting at a whole side to his mother he'd never even heard of, let alone considered! "Who?" he asked urgently, imploring, "who was she losing?"

Remus stopped, shading his eyes from the morning sun. "Later, Harry." Pointing, Harry followed his outstretched hand, and saw the castle a short way off, past the Quidditch Pitch whose edge they were now standing on.

They had arrived at Hogwarts.

Harry walked into the Great Hall just as breakfast was breaking up, and from the looks of things, a winner in the great Granger/Weasley bout of 1996 had not yet been declared, and they might need to go to a knockout. The entire Gryffindor table looked sour and grumpy, and they all seemed to glower slightly at Ron and Hermione, who had no idea, mainly cause they were too busy trying to surreptiously glare at one another.

There wasn't much going on with either the Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws - although Finch-Fletchley seemed to be romancing a new girl by the looks of things, which made it about two so far this week. The Slytherins were also slowly drifting off to get ready for morning classes, and in what had become an annoying regular occurrence, Harry Potter was persona non grata as far as one Draco Malfoy was concerned. Indeed, Draco seemed more interested right now in the letter Pansy was reading, and Pansy was determinedly keeping it just out of reach, frustrating him. At any other time, it might had seemed comical, but thinking of yet another day of classes like yesterday, lumped in between Ron and Hermione, robbed any semblance of good humour Harry had. Storming back to the dorms to pick up his books, he tried not to snarl. But if the day got any worse, he'd take a leaf out of Professor Lupin's book and bite someone.

Probably Draco.

Fortunately, Charms was vaguely tolerable, mostly because Professor Flitwick kept them so busy swishing their wands they didn't have time to snipe at one another. Next was Transfiguration, and both Ron and Hermione kept themselves under control as they took down notes, mostly because they both knew that if they misbehaved in the slightest, Professor McGonagall would come down on them like a ton of bricks. But without any form of release, the mood intensified between them and engulfed Harry, oppressive and just plain ugly - so much so that Hermione scooted off to the library at the beginning of lunch for relief without even saying goodbye. Harry was tired, he was irritated and there were no words to describe just how he was. Completely. Fed. Up. About. The. Whole. Thing.

For Harry, much of that lunchtime was taken up addressing queries about the up-and-coming Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs. Unfortunately, Ron trailed around him like a lost puppy, and thought that he could break into any conversation to mutter about women! Darkly, Harry mused if he could strangle him with his own robes, and thought it would at least be a mercy killing. His mercy. Ron seemed to be scaring away more people than were actually interested, and it didn't look like they'd have a team this year, at this rate.

After he'd interrupted for the umpteenth time - disturbing two Second Years, who been eagerly pursuing the possibility of trying out (up until that point anyway), Harry forced a smile to his face, asking ever so politely to be excused, and dragged Ron off down the corridor, to a place beyond the hearing range of nearby students.

"I have had enough," he hissed, and Ron beamed.

"Yeah, I knew you'd see it my way, Harry. You're got to tell Hermione she's gone too far this time, she really can't-"

"I WAS TALKING ABOUT THE BOTH OF YOU!", Harry exploded, and Ron blanched, stepping back as Harry continued to advance. "You have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone! Hermione spends her time trying to make McGonagall look like a delinquent! If we put you together it'd balance out and we'd have a functional human being!" Ron opened his mouth to speak, but Harry gave him a Look, and he quailed. "But we can't. You two don't function separately, Ron. And you need to start working together again so you can STOP driving me INSANE!" He paused, for breath. "Look. You both said some stupid things. You argued over nothing. You love her. She loves you. Get at it, Ron! Now!" Ron opened his mouth to speak again, but Harry rode straight over him, chest heaving."Or I'll kill the pair of you WITH MY BLOODY BARE HANDS."

Ron watched wide eyed as the Boy Who Lived gesticulated wildly, spittle almost foaming at his lips.

He scarpered.

"Well," Harry announced to the empty corridor, "it's good to know I can still get things done."

Following lunch, they had History of Magic, and although Ron had clearly not swallowed his pride enough to apologise, whenever Hermione opened her mouth, a carefully placed look from his best friend turned Ron quite pale, and he refused to respond to any of Hermione's barbed comments.

She, on the other hand, looked quite perturbed by the lack of response, as it distracted from some of her fun; but after enough snubs, Hermione didn't try anymore. Harry, for his part, was most glad to get through the afternoon in blessed calm.

Except Draco still hadn't looked at him. And it had been almost three days!

Git. Harry didn't know why he liked him in the first place.

Then he remembered he wasn't supposed to have liked him to begin with.

Fuck.

Hermione had decided to get in some extra study before dinner, and so was reclining on her bed, a book open in front of her - although truth be told, she was avoiding the company of Certain Gryffindors who were in Her Year and had Red Hair, even if they did Remain Nameless. Devising all sorts of horrible tortures for him in the back of her mind, she tried to concentrate on the words on the page, her brow furrowed, but even that luxury was denied her.

Normally, the Vita of Leonardo Da Vinci (he was a wizard after all) would dazzle her: or at least it had, on previous readings, absorbing her so that it almost seemed like the first time, every time she read it. Normally. Now, her mind kept straying, and the words tumbled over themselves, unwilling to form coherent sentences in her mind.

And she knew exactly whose fault that was.

Looking up at a knock on the door to the girls' dorms, she saw the dunderhead in question, awkwardly standing under the doorway as he attempted to provide some sort of explanation. "I told her I needed to see you," he said, "so Lavender let me in," and Hermione's eyes narrowed. That one kept interfering in things which were none of her business. She'd have to deal with the self-proclaimed Divination Queen and Self-Help Guide to Hogwarts later.

Taking her nod as approval, he began a shambolic gait towards her bed, while she coolly considered some appropriately scathing responses. She would flay him alive and then rub salt in the wounds. She would humiliate him. She would eviscerate him. Metaphorically speaking. She would-

"I'm sorry, Hermione," and those three little words brought her world tumbling down around her.

"You're what?" she asked, blinking as if that would somehow speed up her comprehension, not quite getting how they'd gotten here.

"I'm sorry. For all the things I said," and he shrugged, looking down at the ground, his face red, unable to face her. "It's just, I worry that you don't actually want me. Because we've never...you know."

"It's not exactly easy for me either, Ron," she responded, her face softening as he sat, and she reached out to rub his shoulder. "It's not something you can learn from a book. Well. You can. But it's not very practical. And everything I'm good at, I learnt through books. So I'm worried I'll disappoint you."

"You could never disappoint me, Hermione!", and there was such an innocence in his voice she just had to believe him.

"Thankyou, Ron."

There was a pause. "Does this mean you're still my girlfriend?" he asked shyly, turning to take her hand in his, and Hermione laughed.

"I guess."

"Good." He was grinning now, and Hermione knew never to trust a Weasley when he grinned like that. Especially when he then tried to look innocent. "Does this mean I can buy that step-by-step guide?" he wondered aloud, looking at her. "Complete with appendices and index and full colour diagrams. 'Insert Tab A into Slot B', that sort of thing."

She hit him with the pillow.

The following morning Harry woke refreshed and upbeat. It was a beautiful morning, and the storm that had hung over Gryffindor for the past few days had broken (ie. Ron and Hermione were being disturbingly cloying again.) He showered, dressed, and ate as soon as he could, so he could run down to the Quidditch Pitch and eagerly await the first arrivals, an hour early.

He didn't notice the person who watched him leave the Gryffindor dorms.

Voldemort sat in his chair, watching Saturday television: repeats of Teletubbies were on, and he vaguely wondered if it was some form of psychological warfare. Perhaps; these Muggles would absurdly cruel creatures sometimes.

Whatever it was, it was disturbing in the extreme.

A rat ran across the old, battered floorboards, and his eyes followed as it went into the kitchen.

"Ah, Wormtail, so you have returned," he murmured.

There was a gentle whooshing sound, and soon enough, Peter Pettigrew emerged, donning a jumper, his silver arm reflecting the soft glow of the television set.

"I bring news, my Lord."

Peter knelt to the thing in the chair - Voldemort could never be called a man, not after all he had become - and rose when Voldemort weakly snapped his fingers together. He had no time for the usual obeisance, not now. "The mirror?"

"It is hidden in plain sight, in the Entrance Hall. Besides the usual wards that guard Hogwarts, it has no special protection. I am certain those who serve you within the castle's stone walls will aid in its capture."

The Dark Lord smiled, skin pulling tight across his face. He was far less certain of some parties' loyalty that Wormtail seemed to be. "This shall be a test of Snape's devotion to our cause, then."

"And if he fails?"

"Then he will envy the Potters, for I will not let him die as quickly as they did."

Peter smiled, and quickly hid it. He would certainly not mind if the ranks of the Death Eaters were thinned; it meant more power to him, or so he thought. It also meant he would be the one singled out, if everyone else was dead. There was a pause, and an uncertainty emerged in Pettigrew's voice. "My Lord...some of your followers, loyal as they are, find this interest in the Mirror...puzzling. Perhaps if you explained it to me, so I could speak with your voice and reassure them?"

Ah, Peter, you lie and I know it. You think that by learning some of my intent, my secrets, you may gain power for yourself. Voldemort was filled with a sudden bleakness. I have placed a nest of vipers close to my breast, he realised and the thought was hardly comforting. Wetting his lips from the beaker of Muggle drink that Pettigrew had bought for him, CocaCola or some such, he spoke. "The Mirror of Erised was created by Merlin, almost fifteen hundred years ago. It is often listen amongst the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, magical objects whose existence is tied with the doom of the land." There was a gentle trace of mockery in his tone; Voldemort was lecturing him as if he was a child, and Peter gritted his teeth and bore it. His time would come. "Do you know what the doom of the mirror is, Wormtail?"

"No, my Lord."

That was hardly unexpected. "Merlin created the Mirror for Uther, Pendragon and King of the Romanised Britons, in order to have him get a child upon Igraine, whose blood was tied to the old ways, the Druids. Such a child, he believed, could rule over Britain and bring a glorious new age, melding the old with the new."

"He wished to dilute the blood of wizards?" Peter was horrified.

"The minds of the ancients are unknowable to us now, Wormtail. And Merlin was the most devious of them all." And how that galled, that there was knowledge he could not understand, power beyond his grasp. "There was but one problem: Igraine was married to Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. Yet upon seeing her at court, Uther lusted after her with a passion that could not be quenched."

A realisation "She was his greatest desire."

"Exactly. Merlin created the Mirror to show Uther how his greatest desire could be grasped. He would have to take Gorlois' form, and under the cloak of that other name, he would come to Igraine and seed her womb. But the Mirror did not just show the way; the Mirror transformed Uther, enabled his greatest desire."

"But this has never been-" A finger was raised, and Peter fell silent.

"Once this was achieved, and the child born, Merlin soon had enough troubles keeping the kingdom stable, and then once he was trapped by Morgaine, the Mirror's true powers fell into legend. Except for one scroll in the Library of St. John the Beheaded, which I found after my time at Hogwarts." The Dark Lord grimaced. He could have had the Mirror then, but he had been young in those days, and still mortal, his mettle untested. And there was Albus, guarding it like a hawk.

Peter was lost in dreams of power and glory, and Voldemort wondered briefly what he would see in the Mirror, if he chose to look.

"I knew it was not the right time to take it then," he responded loftily, "for I had seen the Mirror itself. In my first year at Hogwarts, I came across it." His voice softened, to be almost rapturous, the present forgotten in the contemplation of the past. "It spoke to me."

A whisper. "What did it say?" The man was clearly overstepping himself.

"Nothing that would concern you, Wormtail," Voldemort sneered, before continuing. "But I owe the Mirror a debt. I am what you see before you today because of its wisdom. And I must keep the oaths I swore to it."

Pettigrew was blank.

"Wormtail, it showed me how to become a God. Do you not think that deserves some loyalty?"

As Peter looked on, uncomprehending, the Dark Lord roared with laughter.

Harry was exhausted. He'd watched, run, flew, talked, pleaded, suggested, cajoled and capered about the entire day. Thanks to the slightly larger pool of recruits that had turned up - and some of them could barely fly, and Harry had had to be nice, and considerate, and not tell them they were bloody hopeless - he had a good lot to pick from, and fingers crossed, Gryffindor would have a really good team this year.

On his own, he clomped up the steps, hardly noticing as the staircases - including the one he was using - shifted and changed around him. Ron and Hermione were off being lovebirds, although they had stopped by for a while - Ron to give tips on Quidditch strategy every five seconds, as if Harry was some clueless first year who couldn't tell one end of a broomstick from the other, and Hermione to study, burying her face in a book, and occasionally looking up to look at Ron. From what Harry could tell, the latest spat had been smoothed over, but the issues behind it had not...which meant he'd probably have to deal with Round Number Two in a few weeks. Like he needed something else to worry about.

Sighing, he made his way through the empty corridors, bloody-minded, and absorbed in his thoughts. Then he suddenly realised he had no idea where he was, and stopped short.

"Got yourself lost, Potter? I expected better," crowed a voice, and Harry turned round to see Draco Malfoy behind him.

"The only way you could have caught up with me is if you were following me," Harry retorted, and Draco chose not to answer the question, moving forward.

"I saw that little Quidditch run-through you had on the Pitch today. My, some of your team are horribly cute. They're like the Little Gryffindors That Could."

"Have you come here just to be sarcastic, or could you help me find my way back?" Harry snorted. "Maybe I should click my heels together three times and say 'there's no place like home.'"

Draco's eyes widened, shaken by the unfamiliar reference, but he continued nonetheless. "Perhaps I should just leave you here," he murmured, moving closer still - too close for Harry to be strictly comfortable.

"Draco-" Harry began, but was silenced by the look in those eyes.

"Yes?" Draco enquired, an eyebrow arched.

"Why haven't you well, talked to me, in the past few days?"

"Not everyone revolves around your little soap opera, Potter."

Harry sighed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Draco would probably leave him here, he'd starve to death, and Mrs Norris would probably pick the bones clean. At least he could go out on a high. And it had been three days.

"Draco, would you please kiss me?"

There was a gleam in the Slytherin's eyes, and he stepped forward, loosely curling his arms around Harry's waist. "Why, Harry," he said demurely, "I thought you'd never ask."

And he did.