- Rating:
- R
- House:
- Schnoogle
- Ships:
- Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley Remus Lupin/Sirius Black
- Characters:
- Draco Malfoy Ginny Weasley Harry Potter Hermione Granger Ron Weasley
- Genres:
- Mystery Romance
- Era:
- The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
- Spoilers:
- Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
- Stats:
-
Published: 07/18/2002Updated: 01/08/2006Words: 91,993Chapters: 8Hits: 38,299
Sins of the Father
Ali Wildgoose
- Story Summary:
- In his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry returns to a half-empty school full of strange whispers of a dangerous future. In a time of uncertainty, of shifting alliances and unexpected foes, Harry finds himself turning to the person he'd least suspected -- and who seems to want nothing to do with him.
Chapter 01 - Hedgehog's Dilemma
- Chapter Summary:
- In his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry returns to a half-empty school full of strange whispers of a dangerous future. In a time of uncertainty, of shifting alliances and unexpected foes, Harry finds himself turning to the one person who seems to want nothing to do with him.
- Posted:
- 07/18/2002
- Hits:
- 14,280
- Author's Note:
- Credits, thanks and such are at the bottom.... here's hoping you make it that far ^_^
It had been the worst summer of Harry's entire life. More painful, even, than
the summers before the letter from Hogwarts. At least then, he hadn't known
there was anything better, any alternative to his miserable existence on Privet
Drive. Oh, he had been vaguely aware that most people weren't quite as badly
off as he - the always-blaring television and occasional trip to the cinema
told him as much. But rarely had Harry allowed himself the luxury of dreaming
that such a life could ever be his; that there was a world beyond his cupboard
that he had any hope of joining. By the time his eleventh birthday had rolled
around, any illusions about his lot in life had been firmly beaten out of him
by Dudley's pudgy fists.
Four years of Hogwarts had proven him wrong. Spending half of last summer with
the Weasleys had spoiled him immensely. Turning fifteen had seduced him into
thinking that he was, perhaps, finally old enough to be in control of his own
life; to make his own decisions for once, no longer a child that needed careful
guidance. He would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. This, Harry had
thought, was going to be a summer to beat all others.
How very, very wrong he had been.
Contrary to Mrs. Weasley's early assurances, Harry had not been allowed to visit
the Burrow over Holiday. Nor had he been permitted to take Hermione up on her
offer to spend the day in London, while her parents attended a dental convention.
No trips to the local Quidditch finals. No afternoon tea with Hagrid before
he left for Norway. No visits with Mrs. Figg. This was due to the uncannily-timed
arrival of a short but official-looking note at the Dursley household, delivered
by owl the moment Uncle Vernon had swung open the door. It had borne the Hogwarts
seal, which, along with the owl, was enough to make Vernon nervous to begin
with. The actual content had nearly sent him over the edge.
It had been a letter from Dumbledore. A letter which expressly forbid Harry
from leaving the company of his relatives until he was safely aboard the Hogwarts
Express. It might as well have been a death sentence.
The Dursleys followed these instructions to the letter, no doubt fearing any
wizardly repercussions. On Dudley's birthday, Harry had gone along with them
to the amusement park. When Vernon's co-worker invited the family over for supper,
Harry had been dressed in his cousin's old sailor suit and forced to eat copious
amounts of ambrosia salad. And on bank holidays, Harry had been dragged all
over Little Whinging, attending more ghastly picnics and baby-sitting more hideous
toddlers than he cared to think about.
Needless to say, Vernon, Petunia and their overfed spawn had made their opinion
of Harry's constant presence abundantly clear. He was convinced that the only
reason he had survived was that he had been reluctantly allowed to send Hedwig
off with as much post as he liked, as often as he felt the need, and was thus
able to live vicariously through his friends. Ron owled him about Percy's upcoming
wedding, the latest creations from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and the scattering
of Chudley Cannons matches he'd been able to attend. Hermione wrote him about
the hilarious conclusion of Rita Skeeter's captivity, sent him various books
she thought he might find interesting, and even took out a subscription to the
Daily Prophet in his name, so he could keep up with wizarding news. And while
the letters from Hagrid and Sirius had been short and infrequent, they never
failed to bring a smile to Harry's lips.
But not even the heartfelt efforts of his friends could salvage this abysmal
summer, nor his ever-darkening mood. Everyone had been carefully avoiding the
topic of what had happened at the end of last term, something which Harry found
illogically annoying. Dudley had somehow managed to sniff out - and subsequently
devour - the stash of birthday cakes and mince pies leftover from Harry's birthday.
Aunt Petunia had discovered his stack of newspapers while cleaning his room,
which resulted in much screaming and hysterics after she saw the moving photographs.
And only a few days after that, as if things weren't already awful enough, Hermione
had gone to stay with Ron for the entire month of August, which Harry felt was
enormously unfair. Neither of them had been particularly good about owling him
since then.
And now, on a rainy Saturday at the end of August, Harry was enduring the latest
in a long string of indignities. Dumbledore had agreed to allow Harry to join
the Weasleys and Hermione for a day of school shopping in Diagon Alley. However,
Harry had been forced to beg a ride to the Leaky Cauldron off of Uncle Vernon.
Vernon seemed to feel that the best way to punish Harry for the inconvenience
was to invite Aunt Marge along, as a sadistic form of entertainment.
She was just starting on the topic of his lay-about parents as they drove over
the Thames. By now, most of what she said was blending together into a sort
of ill-tempered haze. "Good for nothing hangers-on, they were...no doubt the
bastard was roaring drunk when he got himself killed!" "Can't believe that boy's
still in school!" "Too bad my Ripper isn't here, he'd teach the little scoundrel
a mite of respect." And on and on and on and on.
Harry was somewhat surprised to discover that none of it bothered him nearly
as much as it should. The fact that Harry had once blown his aunt up like a
great, ugly blimp made the ordeal somewhat easier to bear, even if Marge herself
didn't remember it. And after three months of constant Dursley, his already
thick skin had grown another layer or two.
Harry stared forlornly out the window of Vernon's bland but expensive car, his
eyes unfocusing as the city rushed by in a blur of muddy browns. The summer
had hardened him, more than he liked to think about. That...and having
spent half of last year not talking to his best friend....being betrayed by
those he trusted...watching his schoolmate die at the hands of the Dark Lord...Wormtail,
cutting off his own arm...Voldemort, rising again...the blood-red smolder of
his eyes....
A sudden exclamation from Aunt Marge jerked him back into the present. "Where
are we going, anyway?" she snapped irritably. "There's not a single shop worth
visiting in this entire neighborhood. Why did we need to drive the little brat
all the way here from Surrey? Couldn't he have walked, or hitchhiked? I hear
loads of nasty little boys have been done away with like that...."
"Er..." said Uncle Vernon, chewing on his mustache. "The ah...headmaster...of
St. Brutus'...asked that the boy be brought here. For extra...ah...extra work,
you see. He's helping to build roads." Vernon glared at Harry in the rearview
mirror. "Aren't you."
"Oh, yes," said Harry distractedly, "Roads. Loads of heavy labor, back-breaking
really...don't know how I make it through the day..."
Marge eyed him suspiciously. But before she had the chance to inquire any further,
Vernon had pulled up in front of a rather unexciting row of shops. Knowing that
Muggles couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had given his uncle the address
of a perfectly ordinary building nearby.
"Thanks for the ride," he said quickly, climbing out onto the pavement. "Pop
the boot, would you?"
Much as he enjoyed indulging Marge's sadistic streak, Vernon was also quite
eager to be rid of Harry as quickly as possible. There was a pause as the impulse
to torture his nephew further battled it out with the desire to rid his life
of strangeness for another nine months. The latter eventually won out, and within
a minute or so Harry was standing on the corner with a pile of luggage, Vernon's
car rapidly retreating into the distance.
So that was it, then. Harry's summer of hell had officially drawn to a close.
Somehow, though, he was more numb than excited. So many months of systematically
ignoring his surroundings and of being forcefully disconnected from the wizarding
world, had left him with a vague feeling of unreality. It was only after he
had spent several long minutes alone on the pavement, surrounded by nearly all
his worldly possessions, that he started to come back to himself; to take note
of the activity around him. Harry watched as a steady stream of pedestrians
rushed by, their heads bent, clutching handbags and briefcases and umbrellas
as they made their way to various engagements. He watched the traffic, a mess
of cars and delivery vans. And he was about to turn his attention to the nearby
shop windows when a spindly girl of about twelve years clipped him on the shoulder
as she ran by.
"Muggles," he muttered absently, as her bobbing ponytail disappeared around
the corner.
And then something turned over inside him. These were Muggles. He was
in Muggle London, looking at Muggle things. And this was not where he belonged.
He was Harry Potter. Not a Dursley, not an errand boy, not ordinary in any possible
sense of the world. He was a wizard.
And he was on his way home.
"Harry!" He turned, and saw three red heads bobbing above the crowd. A moment
later, Ron Weasley came tumbling out from behind a gaggle of fat housewives
out for their Sunday shopping. "Harry, how long have you been standing there?"
"Not long," said Harry, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth. Relief
washed over him, and any lingering resentment about the lack of post evaporated.
"Did you find him?" Fred and George jogged up, identical grins on their faces.
"Hullo, Harry! Have a good holiday?"
And with that, Harry was once again pulled into the crimson swirl of activity
that was the Weasley family.
"We've all got rooms at the Leaky Cauldron," Ron was saying, his arms full of
Hedwig's cage. "Me and you and the twins in one, and Hermione and Gin....I mean
Virginia in the other."
Harry made a face. "Virginia?"
"She's got us all calling her that, now. Says 'Ginny' is undignified. Whatever."
The boys took a moment for the necessary eye-rolling.
"What about your parents?" Harry asked. They'd reached the tavern, and he was
now hauling his trunk up the steps and into the murky interior. "Aren't they
here, too?"
"Just Mum," said Ron. "Dad's been away on ministry business for weeks. There's..."
"Boys!" Quite suddenly, Harry found himself swept into the well-padded embrace
of Molly Weasley. "Harry, I'm so glad to see you! It's horrible you couldn't
come visit this summer, just horrible."
"S'ok..." Harry mumbled into her bosom.
"We'll take his stuff upstairs," said George. "He's in Ginny's room, right?"
"Virginia!" cried Ginny, who had popped up like a flame colored daisy right
next to her mother's elbow. From his peculiar vantage point, Harry could just
make out that she'd grown quite a bit over the summer. Or at least, that's how
it seemed. Height was hard to judge when one was sandwiched between the bosoms
of an overly enthusiastic witch.
"He'll be staying in the boys' room, George," said Mrs. Weasley sternly,
finally releasing Harry. "And don't tease your sister!"
Harry adjusted his glasses, which were now slightly bent out of shape. Ginny
had definitely gotten taller. Not that she looked especially comfortable with
it - her hands and feet were still too large for the rest of her, and she stood
with her shoulders hunched and her head down, as if trying to return to her
former stature. She was still shorter than her brothers, but that wasn't saying
much.
"Come on, Harry," said Ron, pulling at the sleeve of his jumper. "I'll show
you the room. We're gonna go shopping in a bit, and I want you to see the new
Cannons book Charlie bought me!"
"I'm sure Ginny wants to see it, too," Fred called from the top of the
stairs. "Right, Ginny? You want to sit around with Harry and just swoooooooon
away..."
"Over Quidditch, of course," finished George with an evil grin. The twins cackled
as they disappeared from the landing.
"It's Virginia," Ginny squeaked miserably, still inches away from her mother.
Harry was struck by the ridiculousness of such a tiny noise coming out of such
a large and gangly girl. He didn't have much time to dwell on the matter, though,
as Ron was now forcefully dragging him up the stairs.
The inn at the Leaky Cauldron distinctly reminded Harry of the Burrow, all winding
corridors and stairways to nowhere, a mishmash of materials and architectural
styles. When Harry had stayed there a few years back, he'd been placed in a
large and comfortable room with a private bath and windows that looked out onto
Diagon Alley. The hallway Ron had pulled him down, however, did not look quite
so well-kept. It was poorly lit and smelled faintly of garlic, and the walls
were covered in peeling, moldy-looking paper. Still, it was clean, as was the
tiny bedroom that he found himself standing in front of. These windows, Harry
noticed, faced the Muggle street he'd been standing on a short while before.
He suspected that most wizarding folk would have thought this an especially
unfortunate view.
Most of the room was packed full of trunks and various bits of luggage, with
Harry's stacked on top of everything else by Fred and George. The cages for
Hedwig and Pigwidgeon were hung from a curtain rod. And Crookshanks was curled
up fast asleep next to the one thing in tiny space that Harry was actually interested
in - a bushy-haired girl sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, her nose buried
deep in the pages of an enormous book.
"Hermione!" he said, rushing over. She looked up, then, and smiled widely.
"Hello, Harry!" she said as she leapt to her feet, the book tumbling off her
lap and landing on top of her unfortunate cat. But instead of rushing to hug
him, she pulled a scrap of newspaper out of her pocket and thrust it into Harry's
face.
"Has Ron told you why his father isn't here?" she asked briskly, still holding
the clipping at arm's length. "I know you canceled your subscription to the
Daily Prophet, so there's no way you'd know, is there?"
"Um...aren't you going to ask how my summer was or anything?"
"It was horrible, I know," said Hermione. "Now read, so I can explain things
to you."
Still somewhat dazed from the flurry of Weasleys, Harry took the clipping and
squinted down at the tiny print. Whatever news Hermione wanted to tell him was
squashed into an unassuming little column, and Harry could barely make it out.
The Ministry has quietly been conducting raids on wizarding households since
the beginning of August. So far whatever Dark Arts paraphernalia has been found
has gone unreported to the general public, but several high standing members
of the Ministry have gone missing, and most suspect they are being held for
questioning.
Harry looked up. "What's this have to do with Mr. Weasley?"
Ron opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione steamrolled right over him. "Those
were raids against Death Eaters, Harry! And Mr. Weasley's been heading
nearly all of them! That's why he hasn't been around, he's been too busy with
coordinating Aurors and searching houses and filing evidence and everything."
"It's SO COOL!" said Ron, finally elbowing his way back into the conversation.
"He won't really talk about it, but I bet he's been in combat and everything,
I mean, he comes home with his hair all singed and-"
"Ron, I hardly think this is something to be excited about," Hermione sniffed.
"It's very dangerous work."
"Yeah, but it's a helluva lot more exciting than Muggle artifacts, isn't it?"
"Who's he gone after so far?" asked Harry.
"We don't really know, actually," said Hermione, "he won't tell us. And besides,
he spends most of his time at the Burrow asleep, so we hardly ever talk to him."
"I hope he gets around to the Malfoys," Ron grumbled. "If anyone deserves it,
they do..."
Harry thought for a moment. "Maybe I should write Sirius about this. I wonder
if he - "
"Virginia!" said Hermione, rather louder than necessary. "Do you need something?"
Harry and Ron turned around, following Hermione's gaze. Sure enough, Ginny was
hovering awkwardly in the doorway, staring at her practical shoes.
"Um," she said quietly, "I just came to tell you that we're, ah...we're going
out. Shopping. Now. So you should, ah....go...downstairs?"
Hermione smiled kindly, and walked over to put a hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Thanks
for telling us, Virginia. We were just finishing up anyway." She glared warningly
at the boys. "Weren't we?"
"Er, yeah," said Ron.
"Just about to go down," said Harry.
And they did, not having much of a choice now that Ginny was there. Normally
Harry didn't mind having her around, but it was annoying to have to stop in
the middle of a conversation like that. As much as she was a nice girl and all,
she wasn't Ron - or Hermione, for that matter - and there were some things he
just couldn't talk about around her. Particularly Sirius, who was an escaped
convict as far as she knew.
At least he was with his best friends again. He hadn't realized just how much
he'd missed them until now. Going back to Hogwarts almost seemed a technicality;
Ron and Hermione were all Harry needed to feel at home again.
However, technicality or no, he still had to go to school. And for this to work
properly, he would need to scour Diagon Alley for all of the various books and
supplies on the disturbingly long list in his back pocket. More so now then
ever, Harry was starting to realize just how intense the remainder of his academic
career was going to be. How unfortunate it was that his chances of having a
school year free of evil overlords, mad professors and other such distractions
resided somewhere between zero and nil. It was a small miracle, really, that
Snape still hadn't managed to flunk him out of Potions.
It occurred to Harry, sometimes, that these were extraordinary concerns for
a boy his age; that most fifth years in most schools had little more to worry
about than homework, girls and spots on their chins. Every so often, he sat
down and thought about how unusual his life had become. Trailing Ginny into
the tavern of the Leaky Cauldron, suddenly among magical folk again after an
unending summer of Muggles, the division between Harry's worlds was sharpened
by its proximity.
Through a crack in the tightly shuttered windows, he watched a car drive by;
heard the faintest whisper of pop music from an unseen stereo. Then he rounded
the last bend of the stairway, and as he walked towards the back door where
Mrs. Weasley and the twins were waiting, this last vestige of his other life
was left behind.
Not that he minded.
***
An hour into their annual Diagon Alley shopping trip, Harry had decided that
no amount of owl post could compare to an afternoon with his best friends. With
the possible exception of Hermione, none of them were accomplished writers by
any means, and their letters had a sort of bare bones quality to them. Retold
in person, though, the summer's narratives became exponentially more exciting.
Harry described his holiday of horrors, and Ron and Hermione groaned in all
the right places. Ron recounted Percy's botched marriage proposal, which had
resulted in copious amounts of pudding being dumped on his head, and his friends
howled with laughter. Even Hermione's dry commentary over lunch on Rita Skeeter's
week of captivity had Ron snickering into his pumpkin juice.
Sadly, it was only a matter of time before they ran out of summer to talk about,
and were forced to move on to the subject of school. Apparently, Ron had thoroughly
convinced himself that Snape was actually a vampire, and was not allowed to
teach Defense Against the Dark Arts because it required too much fieldwork,
and the sun would kill him. At which point Hermione reminded him that Snape
had managed to referee several Quidditch matches and spend many afternoons in
Hogsmeade without melting into a puddle of goo. Undaunted, Ron began to construct
a complex explanation for how this could work, but before he could get too involved
in hypothetical, extra-potent vampire sunblock, Harry discreetly interrupted
him.
"I hope it's Professor Lupin," he said wistfully, immediately distracting Ron's
attention. They were finishing their sundaes at Florian and Fortescue's ice
cream parlor, and he took a moment to swallow. "Dumbledore told Sirius to go
stay with him last year, after...y'know..."
"Yeah," said Ron.
"...And I was thinking that maybe he'll be coming back? He's the best Defense
Against the Dark Arts professor we've had, aside from not-really-Moody -"
Hermione sniffed. "I hardly think he counts."
"Exactly. So now that Voldemort's gaining power again, don't you think that
Dumbledore would want us to be prepared?"
"You'd think so," said Ron. "But now that everyone knows he's a werewolf, I
don't think they'd let him teach at Hogwarts again. Dad says that Minister Fudge
has a thing against creatures holding regular jobs."
"Minister Fudge doesn't seem to mind house elves holding jobs,
as long as they're horrendously taken advantage of," grumbled Hermione. Ron
and Harry exchanged a look.
"Anyway," said Harry, "I don't think Dumbledore would listen to Fudge or anyone
else about who he hires. He didn't even tell Lupin to leave at the end of third
year, he just accepted the resignation."
"Hey!" said Ron. "Maybe Sirius will be the new professor!"
"What?" said Hermione, raising an eyebrow.
"No, really!" Ron was on a roll. "I mean, he was in Azkaban, right?"
"Yeah, for most of my life," said Harry. "Thanks for the reminder."
"So he's spent loads of time around dark wizards and dementors and everything,
right? He'd be perfect! I bet Dumbledore sent him to stay with Lupin so that
- "
"Sent who to stay with Lupin?"
As one, they turned around in their chairs. Ginny had come up behind them unnoticed, her arms
full of parcels and a look of mild interest on her thickly-freckled face.
"What do you want?" asked Ron flatly.
"Um," said Ginny. "Mum wanted me to tell you that she's all done, and that you
should get back to the Leaky Cauldron before seven so we can have dinner."
"Thanks," said Ron. "Now go away."
"Ron!" Hermione scolded. She took a moment to glare at him fiercely before turning
her attention back to Ginny. "We're almost finished, Virginia. Harry was just
telling us about how he wants to go stay with Professor Lupin sometime. Weren't
you, Harry?"
"Ow! Yes!" Harry surreptitiously rubbed his leg where Hermione had pinched it.
"Ok," said Ginny. But instead of scurrying off to find Mrs. Weasley, she stood
her ground, waiting expectantly. As the previous avenue of discussion was no
longer an option, Harry, Hermione and Ron paid their bill, and the four of them
set out towards the Leaky Cauldron.
***
Harry was used to dinner with Ron's family without Mr. Weasley joining them.
But this felt different, somehow. Last summer, when he had been away dealing
with Ministry business for fourteen hours out of every day, meals at the Weasley
household had had a weary, strained quality to them. Now, though, there was
another sort of tension: an undercurrent of excited anticipation; of a secret
shared. Mrs. Weasley had cooked and packed a meal of cold chicken and baked
potatoes for them that morning, and they ate at a makeshift table in her room,
away from the ears and eyes of the tavern downstairs.
It was general knowledge that Arthur Weasley had been unusually active in the
Auror Corps as of late, championing the cause of anti-Dark Arts precautions
with unprecedented vigor. But only a select few were privy to the level of his
involvement, and what his true motivations were. The Dark Arts raids he had
been leading were not nearly as random as they seemed to the casual eye - they
were strikes against suspected Death Eaters. Whatever Minister Fudge might insist
to the contrary, Voldemort had returned, and for the moment the best way to
keep him from regaining his old power was to cut him off from his most devoted
supporters. And so, under the guise of routine searches for Dark Arts paraphernalia,
Arthur Weasley and his team began the slow but steady process of doing just
that - raiding homes for the illegal possessions he knew were there, then taking
them into custody at a detention center controlled by the Auror Corps. Dumbledore
no longer trusted Azkaban.
"What I can't get my head around," Fred was saying, "is the idea of Dad being
so damned heroic."
"I know!" said George. "He's supposed to be dealing with the misuse of Muggle
artifacts, not crusading about the countryside after Death Eaters!"
"Your father's only in that department because he's so fond of Muggles," Mrs.
Weasley sighed, absently piling a third helping of chicken on Harry's plate.
"He always wanted to be an Auror..."
"Well, he's not exactly the Auror type, is he?" said Ron.
Harry had to agree with that. Tall, thin and balding, with a shock of red fuzz
around the back of his head, Mr. Weasley had always struck him as somewhat bumbling,
if in a noble sort of way.
"Your father is a good man," Mrs. Weasley said. "He's just eccentric, is all."
"Is he always out this late?" Harry asked.
"Actually, no," said Mrs. Weasley. She checked her watch, a smaller and less
detailed version of the clock that hung in their kitchen at home. The hand that
stood for her husband was firmly planted on "at work."
"I'm sure he's just filing a last bit of paperwork," said Hermione cheerfully.
"Of course, dear." Mrs. Weasley stifled a yawn. "It's late, we should all be
getting to bed. We have to catch a shuttle to King's Cross first thing in the
morning."
"Aw, mum!" Fred and George whined in unison.
"It's not even eleven, yet!" said Ron.
But there was no arguing with Molly Weasley. Ginny and Hermione helped her clean
off the table while the boys packed up the leftover food, and within a half
hour they were all dressed in their night things and fighting over who had to
sleep on the floor.
***
"Got any fives?"
"Ron, for the last time, this is hearts," said Hermione irritably.
"Oh yeah," said Ron, scowling down at his hand. "Suppose all these pairs aren't
going to do me any good, then, are they?"
"Pairs?! What are you doing? Do you have any diamonds or not?"
"Umm..." Ron squinted at his cards. "Yes?"
"Put one on the pile, then!"
"Hey, how come I have so many more cards than you?" Harry asked suddenly.
Hermione blinked at him. "Harry, have you been putting all the cards you win
back into your hand?"
"Yeah...is that bad?"
"You're supposed to be putting them in a pile. A separate pile!
AUGH!!" She shook her head, looking as if the beginnings of a migraine were
creeping up. "Honestly, I can understand Ron not knowing how to play anything
but Exploding Snap, but you, Harry? You grew up with Muggles! How can you not
know how to play hearts? It's like not knowing how to ride a bike!"
"I don't know how to ride a bike," said Harry quietly, "I never had one."
"Oh."
A slightly awkward silence.
"Which ones are the diamond ones?"
"The cards with the little red diamonds on them, Ron."
"Ah all right..." Ron grinned and tossed the ten of diamonds onto the pile.
Hermione looked as if she wanted to say something, but thought better of it
almost immediately.
"Ron just doesn't like games where nothing explodes," said Ginny, giggling a
little self-consciously.
"Hmpf," said Ron.
Harry sighed inwardly. He'd really wanted to talk more about Sirius - the more
he thought about his godfather and what might be happening to him, the more
anxious Harry became. He wouldn't have minded a good, long discussion of what
they all thought was going on with Snape, either, but that was also out of the
question. Having been driven out of the boys' room by Fred and George, they
were sitting on Ginny's bed, and they couldn't very well kick her out. Consequently,
the conversation had been somewhat sparse, aside from game-related discussion.
Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed.
"Who could that be?" Hermione wondered. "It's nearly four AM."
A few seconds passed in silence; it was broken by the creak of old stairs, then
slow footsteps down the hallway, drawing closer and closer to their room.
Harry crept over to the door, the others close behind him, and cracked it open
just enough to be able to see into the hall. The lights had been dimmed for
the night some time ago, but he could just make out a figure at the end of the
corridor, straining against the weight of what looked like a large trunk.
Then the figure stumbled into the light, and somewhere near Harry's right ear
Hermione let out a tiny gasp of surprise. It was Draco Malfoy.
Disheveled silver-blond fringe fell over his eyes as he hauled his luggage past
their door, his movements uncharacteristically awkward. Even stranger was the
expression on his face - Malfoy didn't look disgruntled or angry so much as
resigned, and maybe a little weary.
And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the pale boy rounded the corner and
was gone.
"What was that all about?" whispered Hermione, straightening as she stepped
back from the doorway.
"What's so strange about it?" Ginny wondered. "He's just going to his room..."
"There are several things about this situation," said Hermione, "which could
definitely be considered odd.
"Firstly, the fact that Malfoy was carrying his own trunk, instead of having
it levitated by a servant or house elf. Secondly, that he's alone, without his
parents or his henchmen. Thirdly, he's arriving in the middle of the night.
And finally, that he's staying here at all."
"I can't believe you just used the word 'henchmen' in casual conversation,"
said Harry. This earned him an impressively venomous glare.
"What do you think it means?" asked Ginny.
"It doesn't mean anything," said Ron, "other than that Malfoy's a stupid
prat and left off his packing too long."
Ginny mumbled something inaudible and hunched even lower than before, which
brought her nose down to less than a foot above the bed.
"No, I don't think that's it," said Hermione, who was apparently too deep in
thought to notice Ginny's current misery. "Besides, even if we knew why he arrived
so late, that still doesn't explain why he's here, specifically. I've
been reading 'A Guide to Wizarding London,' and there are much more expensive,
exclusive inns than this one. A few are even in Knockturn Alley, which would
definitely fit him better."
There was a faint squeak from Ginny's direction.
"What was that?" asked Harry.
"I, ah....I was just thinking," Ginny murmured. "Maybe he was sent here to get
information? About you? You've been away all summer, and maybe...maybe You-Know-Who
wants to find out what you've been doing?"
"You mean like a spy?" asked Ron, a little incredulously.
"Yeah," said Ginny, "kind of like a spy, I guess."
"He didn't seem very interested in me when he walked by," said Harry.
"Well, that could just be part of his act," said Ron, slowly warming to the
idea.
"He could have dropped a listening charm by the door!" Ginny whispered.
Ron gasped a bit. "D'ya think he can hear us?"
"Oh, honestly!" snapped Hermione. "We're not at school yet, Malfoy can't use
magic here any more than we can. Why do you think he was dragging that trunk
instead of levitating it? His father would probably be furious if he was reported
for underage wizardry. Besides, I think that assuming You-Know-Who would have
any interest in Malfoy is giving him too much credit." She flounced over to
the bed and started picking up the scattered playing cards. "This is silly.
We have to be awake in less than four hours, we should all go to bed and try
to get a little sleep."
There was a collective sigh, but they all knew she was right. Harry, at least,
had no interest in angering Mrs. Weasley. And failing to wake in time for his
first day of school definitely had the necessary potential for incurring her
wrath. So with no small amount of grumbling, Ginny, Harry and Ron helped Hermione
tidy up. The boys went back to their room, and a few minutes later Harry was
blowing out the candle next to his bed. It had been a long day, full of events
and conversations worth mulling over. But for some reason, the last image to
flit through his consciousness before sleep finally took him was the lost and
weary look he had seen in Draco Malfoy's eyes.
***
An interesting assortment of witches and wizards had gathered in front of the
Leaky Cauldron, trying (unsuccessfully, Harry thought) to be inconspicuous as
they waited for the Kings Cross shuttle to arrive. Most of them were from one
of the two extremes of age - either too young to Apparate or too old to remember
how. Harry yawned, his vision blurring slightly. The Weasleys and Hermione were
off running last minute errands, and he had been left alone to watch the luggage.
Only a few minutes had passed, though, when an oddly-familiar purple bus careened
around the corner and came to a screeching halt in front of the small crowd.
Harry's suspicions were confirmed when a pimply conductor in his late teens
came stumbling out onto the street.
"Neville!" he cried, rushing over. "Goin' back to Hogwarts, are ya?" Before
Harry could answer, the older boy had leaned his head back into the bus. "Hear
that, Ern? It's Neville!"
"Neville? Where?" Hermione came trotting over, carrying a bag from Plumeria's
Parchment and Post.
"Er," said Harry.
"Oh good, the shuttle!" said Mrs. Weasley, emerging from the Leaky Cauldron
with the rest of her clan in tow. "Thank goodness, we got back just in time."
"Yeah," said George, "would have been a tragedy if we'd missed it."
"Horrific," said Fred, and started hauling his trunk across the pavement.
"Isn't this...the Knight Bus?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, well...that's more of an after dark thing," said Stan, grinning. "This
here is just a daytime gig."
The outside of the bus looked much as Harry remembered it, a flaming purple
triple-decker. But as he shoved his things up the short flight of steps into
the cabin, he saw that the interior had been completely converted. The sturdy
old four-posters Harry remembered were gone, replaced by squashy, comfortable-looking
armchairs and a couple of sofas. None of these seemed to be bolted down in any
way, however, and Harry was quick to caution the others about sitting near a
wall and holding on to something.
"I'm going upstairs to have a look around," said Ron, ditching his trunk next
to Harry's chair. "You coming?"
Harry shook his head. "They're going to leave soon...I think I'd rather stay
sitting down."
"Suit yourself," said Ron. He jogged over to the spiral staircase that led to
the upper level, and a few seconds later had disappeared from sight.
"Did the conductor call you 'Neville?'" Hermione asked, adjusting Crookshanks
on her lap with one hand and pushing her bushy brown hair out of her face with
the other.
"Yeah...long story," said Harry. "I bumped into him third year. His name's Stan,
I think. This is the bus that picked me up when I ran away from the Dursleys."
Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, Harry," she said, "it's
odd that you put it that way."
"How so?"
"Well, you've lived there most of your life. Most people would have said, 'ran
away from home.'" She sighed. "You really hate it there, don't you? I forget
sometimes, you don't really talk about it..."
"S'not so bad...." said Harry with little conviction. "Though I'd be lying if
I said I wasn't glad to be headed back to Hogwarts." He grinned. "You must be
positively thrilled. It's been months since you had any homework."
"Ha."
"Harry!" Startled, Harry looked up in time to see Ron come careening across
the cabin, his freckled face red as a beet. "C'mere, you gotta see this!"
"See what?"
"Just come on! You won't believe who I just saw."
With no small amount of reluctance, Harry and Hermione followed him back to
the stairs, climbing just high enough to be able to see over the line of the
floor. For a short while, Harry couldn't figure out what he was supposed to
be looking at. Then Ron forcefully turned his head in the right direction, and
Harry understood what was so terribly strange. Back in the farthest corner,
sitting in an enormous, tattered green armchair, was none other than Draco Malfoy.
There were a few, silent moments of open gawking. Then the trio backed slowly
down a few steps, and stared at each other in mild disbelief.
"What is he doing here?" said Harry in a harsh whisper.
"I told you!" Ron hissed, "he's a spy! He's following you!"
"Why would he follow me onto a bus?! He knows where I'm going, and he's not
even sitting on the same floor as me! If he's a spy, then he's a farking useless
one!"
"Harry!" Hermione looked scandalized. "Language!"
"'Farking' isn't even a word!"
"Maybe he's been disinherited, and he doesn't have enough money to take a private
carriage anymore," Ron whispered hopefully.
"Not bloody likely." Harry let out a frustrated sigh. "Here, let me have another
look..." He climbed back up the steps a bit, raising his head just enough to
see....
...and found himself staring at a pair of highly polished black shoes.
"Do you want something?" Though lacking in its usual, arrogant drawl, the voice
was unmistakable. Harry swallowed, and tilted his head up to find his worst
fears confirmed. Malfoy had apparently been paying more attention than they'd
thought.
But there was something horribly wrong with how he looked. Last night in the
Leaky Cauldron, Harry had thought he seemed a little out of sorts. Now, though,
properly lit by the daylight streaming into the cabin, the shadows under his
eyes and the blue veins on his cheeks stood out in stark contrast to his pale
features. His hair, always worn long but usually confined by careful styling,
fell over his face haphazardly, almost entirely covering a pair of hollow, slate
gray eyes. He looked tired and wan, almost fragile...as if he was about to collapse,
exhausted from the sheer effort of living.
For a long, weighted moment, Harry gaped up at him dumbly, unable to think of
an excuse for being there. Then the bus jerked to life, screaming away from
the curb, and Harry, Hermione and Ron were thrown off the staircase and into
a heap on the floor.
"That went well," mumbled Ron, somewhere in the vicinity of Harry's left elbow.
***
"See you at Christmas!" called Mrs. Weasley, standing next to their now-empty
luggage cart on Platform 9 3/4. Harry, Hermione and the Weasley children waved
to her from the train, leaning out the open windows as it pulled slowly away
from the station.
"You're going home this year?" asked Harry, stepping back from the window and
reaching for his trunk.
"Yeah," said Ron. "Percy's getting married at the end of the holiday, and Mum
wants us all home to help out with getting ready."
"Meaning our job is to keep Percy from killing someone," said George, hefting
his trunk onto his shoulder. "Or himself."
"Our only comfort is that he'll finally move out after this," added Fred, grinning.
"And we get to use his room as a lab."
"Oi! George! Fred!" Lee Jordan leaned out of a compartment further down the
train, waving what looked suspiciously like a rolled-up copy of Golden Snatch.
The twins chuckled appreciatively, gave their brother an affectionate punch
in the shoulder, waved to the others, and headed off to join their friends.
"Well, then," said Hermione, readjusting Crookshanks in her arms and getting
a handle on her luggage. "We'd better find a compartment. As it is, we'll probably
have to go to the back of the train."
Ron and Harry picked up the ends of their own trunks and had started down the
corridor after her when there was a small, squeaky cough behind them.
Harry turned. Standing a few feet away, eyes wide and lip trembling slightly
as she clutched the handle of her trunk in overlarge hands, was Ginny. They
had forgotten about her.
"Oh, sorry," said Harry. "You, ah..." Ginny swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
Harry sighed. "You want to come sit with us?"
Her reaction was not what he would have expected. A huge grin spread across
her face. "Really?"
"Er...yes?"
"Harry, you coming or what?" called Ron, already several cars down.
"Yes! Wait up!" Ginny cried, galloping down the length of the train before Harry
even had time to respond.
It was as if his small acknowledgment of Ginny had flipped a switch in her brain.
As soon as they found an empty compartment (at the back of the train, as Hermione
had suspected) and settled down, Ginny launched into what promised to be a non-stop
monologue that would last the entire ride. Ron had always insisted that at home,
his sister never shut up, but Harry had found that hard to believe. Now, though,
he felt like he finally understood what Ron had been talking about.
"So Hermione and I were thinking that maybe this year we should try to start
a drama club!" Ginny was saying, smiling brightly. "Because there're loads and
loads of kids who don't really like Quidditch, and they never have anything
to do on the weekends or in the evenings except sit around and listen to other
people talk about Quidditch, which isn't really much fun."
"Uh-huh..." said Harry.
"Yeah," said Ron.
"So we thought that since all the Muggle Studies fifth years need to do projects,
maybe we could find a way to get credit for putting on a Muggle play of some
kind, like Oil!"
"Grease, Virginia," said Hermione.
"Yeah, Grease! Or something...anyway, we just thought it would be fun!"
"Well..." Harry tried to think of something useful to say, but as he'd only
been paying vague attention, all he could come up with was, "That, ah...that
sounds nice..."
"Really?" Ginny beamed at him. "Oh, it's so great that I'm finally getting to
hang out with all of you! I never got a chance to talk with you before, and
now look! We're all finally getting know each other!"
"I already know you better than I want to," Ron grumbled.
Ginny's face fell a bit.
"It's, ah...it's very nice to have you here, Virginia," said Hermione, smiling
kindly. "And I think the Drama Club is a lovely idea. I just hope it's more
popular than S.P.E.W. turned out to be."
Ron snorted. "That shouldn't be very hard."
"Well, maybe it would have gone better," said Hermione icily, "if you had actually
helped me out a little."
"Helped you with what, being loony over house elves? You did a fine job with
that on your own."
"Just because I actually care about an issue not directly related to
my own well-being does not mean that I'm 'loony!'"
"I'm sorry!" meeped Ginny. "I'm sorry, let's just talk about something else,
ok?"
"No, it's all right," said Hermione. Her voice was dangerous. "I think Ron has
something he wants to say to me."
"Like hell I do," said Ron. "But nothing I can say in front of Ginny, lucky
for you."
"It's 'Virginia'...."
"Ron, you leave your sister out of this!"
"I would, if she didn't follow us around all the time!"
"Do you want me to leave?" Ginny asked in a tiny voice.
"No!" Ron and Hermione yelled in unison, both turning to face her, which had
the instantaneous effect of reducing her to a blubbering heap.
"You know," said Harry suddenly, jumping to his feet and raising his voice to
be heard above the general chaos. "I think I could really go for a Pumpkin Pasty.
See you in a bit." And before anyone else could protest, he had made a hasty
retreat from the compartment and slid the door closed behind him, blocking out
most of the noise from the already-resumed argument.
After taking a moment to let his ears stop pounding, Harry set off up the train
in search of the snack-cart witch. Though he was more concerned with getting
away from the others than actually finding food, he figured he may as well kill
some time before braving the ill-tempered compartment again. He hated to see
his friends fight, and the thought distracted him considerably. It wasn't until
he had located the cart, purchased a pasty and a selection of peace offerings,
and set off toward the back of the train again that he noticed Draco Malfoy,
sitting alone in a compartment only a few doors down from his own.
Sitting alone. On the Hogwarts Express. Crabbe and Goyle, who Harry had always
regarded as being attached to Malfoy at the hips, were nowhere to be seen. Nor
were any of his slimy little Slytherin lackeys hanging about. It was just him,
by himself in the tiny room, staring blankly out the window as the countryside
streaked by.
When Harry wandered back to his seat a few minutes later, holding a small feast
of pumpkin juice, pasties and sweets from the snack witch, the oddness of Malfoy's
solitude was no less disturbing. The others had finished with arguing by then,
and for a few minutes they sat in an amiable enough silence, punctuated only
by the sound of crinkling wrappers. Eventually, though, Hermione noticed the
expression on Harry's face.
"Did something happen?" she asked, frowning slightly.
"It's Malfoy," said Harry slowly. "He was by himself again, further up the train."
Hermione nodded. "Well, that makes sense."
Harry looked up. "How so?"
"Harry, there was an article about it in this morning's Prophet, don't you ever
even attempt to keep up with the news?"
"What news?" said Harry, a bit irritated now. "What happened?"
"It's the Slytherins," she said, her voice low. "It's been kept quiet until
now, but there are a lot of parents taking their children out of Hogwarts this
year, and most of those students are Slytherins. They're all being home-schooled,
or sent to Durmstrang. They're using what happened at the tournament last year
as an excuse, but I think it's because they're scared of Dumbledore finding
out what they're up to."
"Why the hell are we still being cursed with Malfoy, then?" Ron grumbled.
"It's because he's a spy," Ginny whispered, "I'm telling you!"
"Or maybe his parents are just reeeeeeeally sadistic," said Ron. "Maybe this
year I'll finally get to punch him right in his stupid wanker face."
"Maybe," said Harry, who was immediately surprised at his own lack of enthusiasm.
Normally, he would have thought that a smack in the face didn't sound nearly
painful enough. Friendless or no, Draco Malfoy was a slimy, evil git, and he
deserved whatever he got. No matter how horrible.
***
Hagrid was not there to welcome the first years when they pulled into Hogsmeade
Station. Instead, Argus Filch waited with a rusty, dim lantern, scowling down
at the sea of nervous children. "First years this way," he growled, and set
off towards the lake, muttering about how the giant squid didn't eat nearly
enough students, as Mrs. Norris wove in and out of his legs. Though none of
this was entirely surprising, it did nothing to help Harry's unsettled mood.
"I can't believe he's not back yet," said Ron. "I mean, I know you said he was
in Norway....but..."
"Yeah," said Harry. "It didn't seem real until now."
"I'm sure that whatever he's doing is very important," said Hermione, attempting
to be cheerful. "And he's probably with Madame Maxime, right?"
Harry smiled a bit, grateful for even this small attempt at levity. But there
was nothing that anyone could say to lift their spirits when they stepped into
the Great Hall. In four years of trial and triumph, through basilisks and trolls
and escaped convicts, the hall had never looked so desolate. Hermione's talk
of students being taken out of Hogwarts had not prepared him in the slightest
for this. Though the long Gryffindor table seemed decently occupied, and the
Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were only slightly worse off, the Slytherin table
was almost entirely empty. In all the years he had been at school, Harry had
battled against them, not-so-secretly wishing that he would wake up one morning
and find them gone, having tragically and mysterious perished in their dank
and dreary dungeon. Yet now he walked past the rows of empty chairs, and felt
that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
"Over here," said Fred, and Harry turned to see that he, George and their friends
had already found seats. He found it strangely reassuring that they looked almost
as uneasy as he felt.
Ginny went over to join a small cluster of fourth year girls, and Harry, Hermione
and Ron sat next to the twins. "Maybe he's talking with the giants," said Hermione.
"Maybe he's just been talking with the giants, and as soon as he's done he'll
come back and everything will be perfectly normal."
Harry looked up at the staff table. As expected, Hagrid and Snape were missing,
and so there were two unfamiliar faces this year as opposed to the usual one:
a stern-faced old witch who seemed oddly familiar, and a slightly manic-looking
wizard with chiseled features and overlarge silver spectacles. "Yeah, maybe,"
he said finally, but with little conviction.
His gaze wandered back towards the Slytherin table, now as full as it was going
to be before the Sorting. It was strange, Harry thought, to see what remained
of the house when most of its more illustrious and notorious members were gone.
Few of the faces were those he recognized; a handful he remembered from class,
but they had never said much and he could not recall any of their names. There
was, however, one face that stood out from the others. A pale boy that sat apart
from the rest of his house, alone at the far end of the table, staring fixedly
at his empty golden plate.
Out of his line of sight, the main doors of Hogwarts creaked open, the sound
echoing without the usual buzz of voices. A few moments later the line of terrified
first years filed into the hall, Professor McGonagall herding them into place.
The old and tattered Sorting Hat waited for them on its customary stool. Somehow,
even it seemed peculiarly somber. But when the line of new students had reached
the front of the room, a large tear in the hat's brim opened up as it always
did, and it began to sing.
A thousand years and some ago,
The founders thought it best to find
A way to see new students go
Into the house that fit their kind
Would Gryffindor be their new home,
A place for strength and courage fierce?
Or maybe Ravenclaw would hone
Their young minds and their wits that pierce?
Or after Hufflepuff they could take,
For those with loyalty and heart.
Perhaps a Slytherin they would make,
Where drive and ambition play their part.
And so the task did fall to me,
A hat with no small share of wit,
To figure out where you should be;
Which house would make the perfect fit.
I know the days are dark and grim,
I see we've lost both friend and foe,
But now's the time to find your kin,
So try me on, and off you'll go!
There was a short and uncomfortable silence when it finished. A few of the upperclassmen
applauded belatedly, including Fred and George, but it died down quickly. Then,
with no preamble, McGonagall read off "Brosgol, Vera!" and the actual Sorting
began.
Harry watched with a mild, detached interest, cheering a bit when a new Gryffindor
joined the table but staying quiet otherwise. He noted after the first dozen
names that a surprisingly large fraction of the first years were being sorted
into Slytherin, though none of them looked especially happy about it. "Noll,
Jessica," even whimpered a little as she made her way over to the house table,
a few stray tears rolling down her cheeks.
"If this gets any more depressing," said George, "I think I might have to jump
off the astronomy tower."
"Not before I drown myself in the lake," said Fred.
"Or maybe we can just hand Ron over to Snape, and call it even," said George,
and they shared a wry grin.
"I hate both of you," said Ron.
"Shh!" Hermione hissed, and pointed to the front of the room. The sorting had
ended, and now Dumbledore stood behind the staff table, waiting patiently for
the students to notice and quiet down. For the first time in what seemed like
hours, Harry smiled. No matter what else had changed, as long as Albus Dumbledore
was still headmaster of Hogwarts, Harry couldn't imagine that everything wouldn't
be all right.
"Welcome," said Dumbledore, his voice reaching every ear in the hall without
having to be raised. "I'm sure that all of you want to tuck into your dinners,
but I'm afraid I have a few announcements to make before I lose your attention
entirely.
"Those of you who are returning to Hogwarts will have noticed by now that there
have been changes since last term. Many of your friends are not here, their
parents having decided that this school is no longer safe. I'm glad to see that
the rest of you have more faith in these walls.
"You may also have noticed absences and additions in the staff," he gestured
to the other teachers. "Unfortunately, Professors Snape, Hagrid and Moody will
not be rejoining us in the near future, as they all have pressing matters to
attend to away from Hogwarts." A wave of murmuring passed over the crowd. "Some
of you may remember Professor Grubblyplank - she will be teaching Care of Magical
Creatures for the time being. Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taught by Professor Figg..." The
stern woman stood, nodded curtly, and returned to her seat. "...And Professor
Fletcher will instruct you in Potions." The wily old man
with the spectacles waved amiably to the assembled students, but didn't stand.
There were a few moments of polite applause.
"There is little doubt in my mind," he continued, his voice far graver than
normal, "that all of you who were here last term are still reeling from the
shared and profound loss of one of our own. And while I would like to reassure
you that such dark and trying times are now past, I am afraid that would be
the most unfair and unproductive of lies. Now more than ever, we must be here
for one another." At this, he looked out at the house tables, and for a moment
his eyes locked with Harry's across the room. "One of your classmates, in particular,
is in need of your kindness this year." Harry cringed inwardly. This was it.
This was when Dumbledore singled him out, made him an object of pity. He closed
his eyes and braced himself for the flood of unwanted concern.
“It is my sad duty to inform you," said Dumbledore, "that the parents of
Mr. Draco Malfoy passed on two weeks ago under unfortunate circumstances. I
urge all of you to help him through this difficult time.”
A moment of silence, more shocked than respectful, followed that statement.
Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile, but his voice was tinged with weariness
when he spoke. "Alas, the sound of my own voice tires me. So. Welcome home,
all of you. Enjoy the feast."
Amidst the clink of glass and silverware, Harry stared blankly at his plate,
now covered in roast beef and gravy. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved
or not. He didn't seem to be feeling much of anything, aside from a sudden weight
at the pit of his stomach. It occurred to him to look up. Across the room, Malfoy
had sunk even lower in his chair. None of his housemates were looking at him.
"Well, that explains everything," said Hermione quietly. "The Leaky Cauldron,
the shuttle...it all fits." She sighed. "Poor thing."
"'Poor thing?' Whatever," grumbled Ron. He stabbed a Brussels sprout with far
more force than was necessary. "I say they got what was coming to them."
"Ron, don't say things like that," said Hermione.
"Well, it's true," said Ron.
"It's still sad," murmured Ginny.
"Yes," said Hermione. "It is." She poked at her food dispiritedly. "At least
the new professors seem nice enough."
After that, the conversation rambled its way elsewhere. The twins started handing
out copies of their new order forms (somehow smuggled out of the Burrow); Neville
showed everyone his Rememberall Deluxe, which told him not only that he'd forgotten
something, but also what that something was; Ron used his spoon to launch peas
at the back of Seamus' head.
But Harry wasn't really paying attention anymore. Dumbledore's words seemed
to hang in the air around him, echoing through his consciousness. Dead,
Harry thought. They're dead. His eyes lingered on Malfoy, taking in the
other boy's figure in all its pathetic details. Harry didn't know what to think.
But he knew what he had to do.
He stood almost without realizing it.
"Harry?" Ron blinked up at him, thrown by the unexpected movement. "Harry, is
everything ok?"
"Yeah," said Harry, "fine. I'll be right back." And he started to walk towards
the Slytherin table.
Ron grabbed his arm, stopping him. "What are you doing?" he hissed.
"I need to talk to him."
"Talk to..?" Ron followed his line of sight. "Malfoy?! Look, it’s rotten
for him that his folks are dead and all, but they bloody well deserved it, and
-”
"He's the slimiest, nastiest, evillest, most horrible person I know," said Harry.
"But no one deserves to lose their parents." He jerked his arm out of Ron's
grasp. "Not even him."
Malfoy did not look up as Harry approached, stopping a foot or so behind his
chair. A few of the Slytherins turned to look at him, sneering unpleasantly,
but Harry wasn't sure Malfoy had noticed his presence at all. Harry was just
working up the nerve to say something when -
"Have you taken to following me, Potter?" It wasn't an attack, or a challenge
- that, Harry would have expected. It was just a question. A tired, resigned
question.
"N-no," Harry stammered, taking a step back.
"Come to gloat?"
"No..."
Finally, Malfoy turned around. He looked Harry right in the eyes, dull gray
meeting green. "Then bugger off."
"But, I just...I just wanted to -"
"I don't care what you just wanted to do," said Malfoy, a growl creeping into
his voice. "And I'm not in the mood for a chat. So why don't you and your stupid
poncy Mudblood friends find someone else to torment."
Harry's eyes narrowed, the old hatred bubbling up inside him despite his initially
good intentions. "Yeah? Well...well at least I have friends."
"If I wanted friends like those, I'd buy myself a dog and a textbook."
"Shut up!"
"Oh no, Potter," Malfoy sneered, "spare me your razor wit."
"You know what, Malfoy?" Harry said, his voice thick with disgust. "I was this
close to feeling sorry for you. But you're not even worth the effort."
For a moment, what looked almost like confusion flitted across Malfoy's face,
the introduction of possibly non-hostile intentions throwing him off guard.
Then the uncertainty vanished so quickly that Harry thought he must have imagined
it.
"At least my parents were worth something when they were alive," said Malfoy,
his voice soft and dangerous. "At least they didn't die of their own, noble
stupidity."
"Listen, you stupid prat!" Harry was yelling now. "All I came over to tell you
is that they deserved it. Your whole fucking family deserves anything they get!"
Harry regretted his words as soon as he said them, but it was too late. He was
too angry. The hate was too strong. Malfoy stared at him, expressionless. And
when he couldn't stand it anymore, Harry turned and left, storming across the
great hall in a swirl of robes.
***
"I hate him," said Harry. The feast was over, and they were on their way up
to Gryffindor tower. Harry had stomped his way to the front of the crowd, Ron
and Hermione jogging a little to keep up. "I just went over to talk to
him and....GAH, I HATE HIM!"
"Well, I don't know what else you were expecting," said Hermione. "What happened
to him was unfortunate, but that doesn't mean he's going to have a miraculous
change of heart."
"You don't just wake up one morning and go, 'hey, I'm a good guy!'" said Ron.
"I told you not to go over there. He's evil, there's no getting around it."
"I'll try and remember that next time I have the urge to make peace." Harry
sighed. They'd reached the portrait of the fat lady.
"Jabberwocky," said a blonde sixth year. Harry gathered she was one of the new
prefects. The painting swung aside, and they spilled into the common room. It
was warm and welcoming, as always, but no one seemed in the mood to linger.
Harry caught sight of the back of Ginny's head before she disappeared up the
stairs to the girls' dormitory. Fred and George had skulked off ages ago, probably
making a run to the kitchens before bedtime.
Harry slouched over to a chair near the fire and collapsed into it, the events
of the day finally catching up with him. His friends took seats on either side
of him, and for a while they stared silently into the flames.
"I really do hate him," said Harry quietly, slumped so low that his chin was
touching his chest.
"Me, too," said Ron.
"I can't say he's my favorite person," said Hermione.
"I still feel bad, though," said Harry, "about what I said to him."
"Don't," said Ron. "His dad tried to kill my sister, remember? He tried to kill
you. He almost killed Hermione. They're just bad people, Harry."
"I know," said Harry. But the twinge of doubt was still there.
Eventually, the three of them said their goodnights and went to bed. Ron and
Harry climbed up to their circular room at the top of the tower, where Neville,
Seamus and Dean were already asleep. Ron was under the covers and snoring almost
immediately, but Harry knelt in front of his trunk and rummaged through it until
he found a large, leather-bound book - the album of wizarding photographs that
Hagrid had given him first year.
He drew the scarlet curtains of his four poster together tightly, and pulled
his quilt up under his chin, the book propped against his drawn-up knees. From
page after page of pictures, his parents smiled and waved up at him. And Harry
wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to actually remember
having them.
Author notes: Special thanks go to everyone who helped me whip this damn thing into shape! Cassie, my plurting partner-in-crime and mistress of betaing doom; Derek, my boy and beta numero dos, for answering the constant "does this look ok?"s and putting up with more Ali than anyone should ever have to; Emily, crazy lucky catcher of typos, grammer problems and evil inconsistencies; and Aja, last-minute beta woman, for her running commentary that's as amusing as it is useful. I loff you all!! :D
The title is snatched from Neon Genesis Evangelion. The relevant quote is:
"The hedgehog's dilemma... The nearer we come up, the more deeply we hurt each other..."
All illustrations by moi. Because I am just that cool. Muah.