Sins of the Father

Chapter Two - Preludes and Nocturnes

***

The room was dark, and it was cold. A fire roared beneath the mantelpiece, but its warmth and flickering light were lost in the vast space. The far walls and ceiling might as well have not existed; beyond the dim circle there was nothing but impenetrable black.

An armchair sat in front of the fireplace. A man sat in the chair, staring at the flames. He was tall, and his face was shadowed. Another stood just behind, bent and shaking, the bald spot on the back of his head shining when he turned away from the fire. There was a faint gleam of something metallic at the hem of his sleeve.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead," he said. His voice trembled. "This changes everything, my lord."

"It changes nothing," said the man in the chair. Long, pale fingers caressed the old leather, dark wood and brass rivets. "The plan will still work. Lucius has already done his part."

"B-but master," the smaller man stammered. "This house is in his name; this land was his property. They will come, soon, and they will find -"

"An old, rotting building of no consequence. Do not worry, Wormtail. The Ministry does not want to find us; Fudge would prefer to think that I am dead. His Aurors can only do so much without attracting his notice." The man in the chair smiled, his sharp teeth glinting in the firelight. "Lucius was a wealthy man, with properties throughout Britain. He owns many houses with more obviously sinister natures. And my influence in London is still strong."

"But what of the plan?" asked Wormtail anxiously. "What of the boy? We needed Malfoy -"

"I do not need him anymore. My hands still work within the walls of Hogwarts, that much Lucius has guaranteed. He merely set events in motion, Wormtail. His death does not affect their coming to fruition."

"And the boy?" said Wormtail. "He is too well-protected, Dumbledore has seen to that."

"I admit," said the man in the chair, "that the old man is not as much of a fool as I thought. He has brought our old enemies together again. He knows some of what I'm planning, no doubt. And he has shielded the boy from me as best he can." A cold, harsh laugh. "But it will not be enough. He is too late. I already have the key, Wormtail - I need only wait until the time comes to turn it. And then Harry Potter will die."

Hundreds of miles away, in a bed that no longer felt quite so safe, behind walls that suddenly seemed flimsy and insubstantial, the scar of a failed curse burned.

***

Breakfast was nearly over by the time Harry had dragged himself out of bed, into his clothes, and down to the Great Hall. He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he sat down at the Gryffindor table between Ron and Hermione.

"Got your timetable," said Ron, handing him a crumpled bit of parchment. "Double Potions first. At least it's with the Ravenclaws this year."

"How late did you stay up?" Hermione made the question sound scolding. "Ron said he tried to wake you..."

"Not that late," said Harry, which was true. "I just didn't sleep well." He looked blearily at his schedule. "Ugh, and I don't even have Divination until Wednesday. So much for catching a quick nap later."

"It mystifies me why you signed up for that ridiculous subject again," said Hermione. "I swear, the both of you must be gluttons for punishment."

"Better than Potions, any day, and you never complain about that," said Ron.

"Actually," said Hermione, "I've always been rather fascinated by potion making. It's just that I've been held back by Professor Snape's determination to dislike me." She poked at her eggs. "I'm quite excited about today's lesson, though. It should be wonderful to be able to concentrate on the subject with a more reasonable teacher."

"How do you know the new professor won't be just as horrible as Snape?" said Ron.

Hermione smiled up at the staff table. Mundungus Fletcher was deep in conversation with McGonagall, his spectacles flashing. "I just have a good feeling about him," she said. A smile played across her lips. "He reminds me of my uncle...such a sweet old man..."

"Maybe," said Ron, "but I wouldn't get your hopes up. Besides, it's just temporary until Snape gets back."

The question of where Severus Snape might have gone brought Harry's dream came back to him then, in an unsettling rush of half-remembered details. The night he had spent in the graveyard, surrounded by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, forced itself to the forefront of Harry's consciousness. For a moment, he could almost see Avery writhing in pain on the ground. Avery, who had come when summoned that first night, who was not one of those missing from the circle. He didn't want to think about what awaited those who were.

"I don't know," said Harry. "I don't know if he's coming back at all."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Hermione, keeping her voice to just above a whisper. "Is there something you haven't told us about?"

Harry shuddered a bit. "I...I'm just not sure he will."

Hermione didn't look satisfied. But Harry was rescued from further discussion by the sudden whisper of wings. "The post!" he said, finally brightening. A cloud of owls had rushed into the Great Hall, and Harry scanned the mass of feathered bodies for a flash of white. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen, but a small, unassuming brown owl swooped down over his head and dropped a grubby envelope into his breakfast.

As he tore through the seal and pulled out the parchment within, his heart fluttered in his chest. Weeks had passed since Sirius' last letter, and Harry was getting worried. At that moment, nothing would have made him happier than knowing his godfather was all right.

But the letter was not from Sirius.

"Dear Harry," it began.

Olympe and I are in Iceland, now. Can't really talk about it, but things are going well. Hope you and Ron and Hermione are having a good time at school.

Hagrid

"Who's it from?" asked Ron, leaning over to see.

"Hagrid," said Harry. He could not keep the disappointment out of his voice, and instantly felt wretched about it. Shouldn't he be happy to hear from Hagrid? He knew that if anything were to happen to Sirius, he would be the first to know; he knew that it was silly of him to be worrying and that if Sirius could survive thirteen years with the Dementors he could survive just about anything. But the creeping fear in the pit of Harry's stomach would not go away, and refused to be soothed.

"Can I see it?" asked Ron, reaching for the tattered parchment. Automatically, Harry handed it to him, and then slouched down into his chair, scanning the rest of the room. It was only then that he noticed the large, eagle owl that had landed next to Draco Malfoy's plate.

"Wonder who'd be writing him," Harry murmured. But the words were barely out of his mouth when Malfoy refolded the letter he had been reading and began to methodically shred it into tiny pieces, a closed look on his face.

"That was a bit odd," said Hermione, having followed Harry's gaze. "Why would he -"

"Harry!" They looked up. Ginny was trotting over, her plaits bouncing against her shoulders.

"Hey, Ginny," said Harry. "Do you need something?"

"Professor McGonagall wants to talk to you," she said, hands clasped behind her back. Harry wondered why McGonagall had sent Ginny over to get him, instead of calling on him herself. But Ginny looked determined, and he was about as done with breakfast as he was going to be. So with a vague wave to her and his friends, he got up from his seat and started off toward the staff table.

Angelina Johnson was already deep in conversation with McGonagall as Harry approached. "Um," he said. "You wanted me, Professor?"

"Ah, Potter," said McGonagall. "I was just informing Miss Johnson of the unusual situation in which we've found ourselves this year."

"Katie Bell's parents pulled her out of school," said Angelina, looking grim. "We voted her the new Quidditch captain the season before last."

"Oh, dear," said Harry.

"Normally, in circumstances like these," said McGonagall, "we give the captaincy to the student who came in second place in the vote."

"Sounds reasonable," said Harry. He wondered where this was going.

"We tied for second place," said Angelina.

It took a moment for Harry to respond, and when he did it came out as a sort of sputter. "But I'm two years behind you! I don't know anything about being captain!"

"Apparently, the rest of the team has more confidence in your abilities," said McGonagall dryly.

"I don't mind being joint-captain," said Angelina, "but really, I think it'd be easier if you just took the position for yourself. I'm going to be terribly busy this year getting ready for the N.E.W.T.s, and I don't know if I'm up for such a huge time commitment."

McGonagall considered this. "That's true, Miss Johnson. Potter?"

"Well...I mean, I do have my O.W.L.s this year..."

"Studying for the N.E.W.T.s is considerably more time-consuming than preparing for your O.W.L.s," said McGonagall. She raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Er," said Harry. He didn't know why, but the idea of being captain was suddenly horrifying. He wracked his brain for another excuse, but none presented itself. "I'm just the Seeker. I'm not even part of the team actual."

"Nonsense," said McGonagall. "Miss Johnson's academic responsibilities outweigh her obligations to the team. Mr. Potter, you will be captain."

And that was that. Angelina went back to her seat to finish breakfast, but it was almost time for lessons before McGonagall was done briefing Harry on his new responsibilities. He'd been serious when he said he didn't know anything about being captain, and the list of duties his new position entailed was staggering. He had to set up and conduct trials with Madame Hooch, make a timetable of practices, clean and maintain the equipment...Harry wished he'd brought something to take notes on.

The Great Hall was nearly empty by the time he escaped from McGonagall, but Hermione and Ron were waiting dutifully in their seats, deep in hushed conversation. They looked up as he approached, and Hermione immediately reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a battered roll of parchment.

"Harry!" she said, her voice a harsh whisper. She glanced over at the retreating form of McGonagall, as if checking to see if she was listening. "You have to read this!"

"What is it?" Harry asked, as Hermione thrust the parchment into his hands. He unrolled it on the now-empty table. Despite its condition, it looked official and stuffy, with a large, red seal stamped on the bottom. It read:

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We at the Ministry offer our most sincere condolences in regards to your recent loss. Although the regrettable event was unavoidable, we nevertheless feel a certain responsibility, and will attempt to compensate you to the best of our ability. Arrangements will be made for your accommodations during the summer holidays, but you should plan to spend the Christmas holidays at school, as it would be more convenient for the department.

We hope that you have a successful term, and remind you not to neglect your studies.

Sincerely,

Bartholomew Basely
The Department for the Protection and Regulation of Underage Wizards

Harry blinked. "Where did you get this?"

"It's the letter he got this morning," said Ron conspiratorially. He looked positively thrilled by all the covert activity. "Hermione went over after everyone had gone and picked up all the pieces."

"Simple Reparo spell," said Hermione. She frowned a bit. "I'm not really sure what to make of it, though. I know that this department normally handles the affairs of orphaned children, but some of this wording...They're obviously referring to Malfoy's parents, but why would the Ministry feel responsible for their deaths? It's so peculiar..."

"Yeah," said Ron. "The Ministry doesn't usually kill anyone...and if they had, wouldn't we have heard?"

"I know," said Hermione. "We would have, of course. And there's been nothing in the Daily Prophet about it....so strange..." She glanced at her watch. "Goodness, it's nearly time for Potions! We'll talk about this later." She snatched the parchment away from Harry and shoved it in her bag, then jumped up from the table and started off towards the dungeons, the boys jogging after her.

***

There was a crowd of students outside the Potions classroom when Harry, Hermione and Ron finally rounded the last corner. This was unusual only in that class had supposedly started several minutes ago, and the Ravenclaws, at least, weren't the sort to be late on the first day.

"What's going on?" asked Harry, craning his neck to get a look at the classroom door. There was no sign announcing a delay or change of schedule, and the lanterns inside seemed to have been lit.

"It's the professor," said Dean Thomas.

"What about him?"

"He's on top of the podium," said Dean, and pointed toward the little, barred window near the top of the oak door. Feeling skeptical, Harry walked over and stood up on his tiptoes to get a better look.

Mundungus Fletcher was, indeed, sitting on top of the podium. Though really, he perched more than sat: a wiry, balding, scarecrow of a man, peering down at the tiny window though thick spectacles that shone when he turned his head. He was like a giant, featherless bird of prey, poised to swoop down upon unsuspecting interlopers, and Harry could see why no one wanted to be the first one into the room.

By now, almost a minute had gone by. Hermione scowled. "This is ridiculous," she said, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Shoulders back and chin up high, she undid the latch and threw open the heavy door.

Fletcher broke into a toothy grin. "Ah! The sprouts!" he said, eyeing the cluster of students in the doorway. His voice had a peculiar, almost lyrical quality to it. "I was starting to think you'd got lost." A wand appeared in his left hand, and with a small flick all the chairs in the room were pushed back from their desks. "Do come in."

Reluctantly, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws filed into the room and found their places, their eyes never leaving the podium or the professor. Harry expected that, now that class was starting, Fletcher would come back down to ground level and get to the business of teaching. Not so. When the last student had taken his seat, Fletcher stood up on the podium itself, towering over them, and then began the lesson as if nothing was amiss.

"Today we'll be brewing Pepperup Potion," he began nonchalantly. "I'm sure a good lot of you've had some experience with it already, thanks to Madame Pomfrey. It's a useful sort of thing to have around, hundreds of applications, you see...cures hypothermia, several types of flu...and I tell you, it does wonders for one's libido."

There was shocked silence. Pavarti and Lavender giggled nervously.

"So!" Fletcher jumped down onto the floor, landing with a tremendous thump that rattled the supply racks. "Get your cauldrons out, and start chopping up those chili peppers I've left out for you."

Ron leaned over a bit, whispering to Harry out of the corner of his mouth. "He's out of his bloody mind."

"I know," Harry murmured. He chopped his peppers.

"Now, I always like to keep a bottle of this stuff in my robes," Fletcher was saying. He'd taken to pacing back and forth at the front of the room. "I'm getting a bit on in years, and the old equipment isn't working as well as it used to, if you know what I mean." He chuckled. "Can't have that! Never know when a pretty young witch might wander into my office, eh? Got to be prepared for any developments!"

Hermione dropped her knife with a loud clatter. Fletcher didn't seem to notice. He'd set up his own, larger cauldron next to the chalkboard, and he dumped a small bowl of pre-minced peppers into it.

"Now, measure out a tablespoon of rose oil and a quarter of an ounce of powdered, dried salamander." He grabbed a pair of bottles off the shelf and casually poured the contents directly into the cauldron. "How old are you lot? Fifteen? Eh, too young...Dumbledore wouldn't stand for it. Daft old badger."

"He isn't even measuring those ingredients!" Hermione muttered, frantically trying to keep up with his rambling instructions. "This is a complete waste of time!"

Harry wasn't sure what to think. Fletcher continued his erratic and startling monologue without batting an eye, pulling bottles and flasks and pouches down from the supply shelves and tossing their contents into the cauldron. If not for the intermittent snatches of instruction, it would have looked like he was adding ingredients at random.

"Now, Minerva McGonagall," Fletcher continued, having poured half a bottle of Ogden's Old Fire Whiskey into his concoction. "Oh, that woman was a delicious bit of crumpet in her day. Shame she didn't age better. Not that a few gray hairs would keep me away....there's fire in the old girl yet. I hear she's a real tiger, if you get my meaning, not that I'd know personally." He snatched up another bottle. "Add a pinch of fairy wings, and stir over low heat for a good ten minutes."

"Professor McGonagall?!" Seamus couldn't contain himself. "But she's so...so..."

"Never underestimate the abilities of an older woman," said Fletcher matter-of-factly. "They pick things up over the years."

Harry stirred his potion rigidly, trying very hard not to allow any of this to form a mental image.

"I don't think," piped Hermione, her voice a tiny little squeak, "that she would appreciate being talked about like that."

The entire class turned in their seats to face her, surprise evident on their faces. Hermione Granger talking back to a teacher was rather like Snape in a frilly pink dress: some things just didn't happen.

To everyone's surprise, Fletcher laughed. "Fair enough! Let's talk about Pepperup Potion. I've already told you three uses, who here can tell me the other six?"

It turned out that the potion had more unexpected (and often nefarious) applications that Harry could possibly have imagined, the least of which was its effectiveness as a cure for hangovers. Harry had never seen his classmates take such enthusiastic notes. Hermione, however, and most of the Ravenclaws looked thoroughly scandalized. There was a joke about a nun, a flobberworm and a dwarf near the end of the lesson that practically knocked them off their stools.

When first period finally ended, Hermione looked as if she'd run a particularly grueling marathon. Without so much as a glance in Fletcher's direction, she gathered up her books and supplies and bolted out of the classroom. For the second time that day, Harry and Ron had to sprint down the hall to catch up with her.

***

"You know, I almost hate to say this," said Ron. "But I actually enjoyed that Potions lesson." He, Harry and Hermione were walking across the Hogwarts grounds towards Hagrid's hut, on their way to Care of Magical Creatures. They were all still smoking at the ears a bit, having tested out their potions at the end of class.

"I don't really know if 'enjoy' is the right word," said Harry. "But it was certainly...different."

"What on earth are you two talking about?" cried Hermione. She still looked ruffled. "That was one of the most horrifyingly uncomfortable experiences of my life! That man is a complete and utter lunatic!"

"Yeah, I know," said Ron thoughtfully. "Makes for a nice change, doesn't it?"

"He's insane! And we're supposed to be learning from him?!"

"Well, the potion did work, didn't it?" said Ron. "Who cares if he goes about it sort of..."

"Insanely," Harry supplied.

"Yeah."

"You're both hopeless," Hermione grumbled.

Harry would have answered, but at that moment a flash of silver and green up ahead caught his attention. A tie, it turned out, around the neck of surly-looking boy whom Harry did not know. And he remembered: this lesson was with the Slytherins.

Malfoy was impossible to miss. Standing apart from the main cluster of students, he looked sullen and distracted. He kicked at the stones around the base of the hut, and did not look up as the last of the Gryffindors approached. None of his housemates would look at him.

Professor Grubbly-Plank began her lecture - it seemed that the main theme of this year's studies would be domesticated creatures - but Harry was only half-listening. He kept thinking about the Ministry letter. And he wondered what Malfoy was thinking as he stared off into the distance, his gray eyes unfocused and his face almost without expression. Harry felt an odd fascination. The anger and loathing of last night were still there, burning dully in the back of his mind. But for some reason, Harry couldn't look away; couldn't help but wonder what what going on behind those pale features.

"Harry!" Hermione hissed, jabbing him with her elbow. "Quit staring at the Slytherins!"

Grudgingly, he turned his attention back to Grubbly-Plank. It looked like she was holding a handful of orange and black snakes, but after a few moments of more careful inspection Harry realized it was actually one snake...with three heads.

"This," she said, "is a Runespoor. They're very rare, as they were much coveted by dark wizards in the mid 1970s, and thus the wild population was depleted. They're generally considered to be wild creatures, but due to their popularity as pets they are often enchanted to be docile." She patted the snake affectionately. Harry thought it looked sleepy. "Only one of its heads - the right one - is venomous. Runespoors lay eggs through their mouths, and are the only magical beasts to do so. The eggs themselves are much sought after for use in potions, as they increase mental agility.

"Each head," she went on, pointing to them in turn, "serves a different purpose. We know this from the writings of Parselmouths, the only wizards capable of understanding this snake's complex psychology. Simply put, the left head is the planner, the right is the critic, and the middle is the dreamer. It's worth noting that many specimens are found with the right head missing, the other two having conspired to bite it off." She chuckled. So did Hermione. None of the other students seemed to get it.

"Now, since many of the creatures we'll be studying this term are domesticated, a lot of hands will be needed to take care of them all. I'll be leaving a sheet of parchment on the door of my office; if you're interested in learning to help look after the collection, put your name and house down and I'll contact you about a timetable.

"All right, then. Off you go." With a thin smile and a curt wave, she sent them back toward the castle for lunch. Harry and the other Gryffindors trudged across the lawn in a tight clump, the gossip starting as soon as Grubbly-Plank was out of earshot.

"Did you see Malfoy?" said Neville, glancing over his shoulder. The pale boy trailed far behind his classmates, his eyes on the grass.

"Yeah," said Dean. "He's acting even weirder than usual. I can't believe he made it all the way through class without being a complete pillock."

"He's probably just depressed about his parents," said Lavender sensibly. "Kind of pathetic, really."

"I wonder how they died, anyway," said Ron. "Maybe they summoned a demon monster and it ate their brains."

"Maybe," said Neville. "Or maybe they got on the wrong side of You-Know-Who..."

"Or they could've been poisoned by their angry, underpaid servants," said Parvati.

"Or maybe," said Seamus, "they just died of embarrassment over their poofy little shirt-lifter of a son."

The others laughed appreciatively at this, but Harry was stone-faced. "I don't think it's very funny to joke about people's dead parents, do you?" he said. There was a harsh, dangerous edge to his voice.

The others stopped and stared. Seamus mumbled an apology, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

***

As was the usual these days, Ginny was cheerfully oblivious to the tension at the Gryffindor table. As soon as the group of fifth-years had arrived at the Great Hall for lunch, she wandered over from her end of the table and plopped herself down next to Harry, grinning broadly.

"Hi!" she said.

Harry turned and blinked at her. "Hullo."

"Go away, Ginny," said Ron. "We're not in the mood."

Lip trembling a bit, she moved to get up from the table, but Harry reached out and took hold of her arm.

"No, it's ok," said Harry, gently pulling her back down into her seat. "Gin....um..."

"Virginia," Hermione offered.

"Yeah," Harry managed to smile a bit. "Did you need something?"

"Oh...well..." She blushed. "I just wanted to ask how your talk with Professor McGonagall went this morning."

"Pretty well, I suppose," said Harry. "She made me Quidditch captain."

"She what?" Ron spluttered.

"Yeah, weird, isn't it?" Harry poked at his green beans. "I guess it was either me or Angelina, and she has her N.E.W.T.s this year. So they decided it should be me."

"And you didn't tell me?" Ron looked completely flabbergasted. "Harry, seriously! This is important stuff! Thing is, with you as captain, I might actually get on the team this year!" He pointed at Ginny. "Bloody hell, even she could!"

"Thanks, Ron," Ginny muttered.

"Well, I just kind of forgot, all right?" said Harry. "The two of you showed me that letter, and then we had to go to classes, and - "

"What letter?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other, and then back at Ginny. She shifted nervously in her seat.

"Malfoy got a letter from the Ministry this morning," said Harry, his voice low. "He tore it up, but Hermione managed to put it back together so we could read it."

Ginny's eyes widened. "Really? What did it say?"

Hermione took the letter out of her robes and showed it to her. Ron did not look happy, but for once he didn't say anything. He merely glared at his sister as she slowly read the crumpled parchment.

"Well, this is horrid," said Ginny. "But he is a Malfoy...if anyone deserves a nasty letter, he does."

"Definitely," said Harry, though with little conviction.

"Thanks for showing me," said Ginny, folding the letter and handing it back to Hermione. "It's funny, I keep feeling like you three are hiding things from me, but...oh, I'm just being silly, eh?"

Hermione made an uncomfortable sort of noise, and started shoving the books she'd been skimming back into her bag. "Well," she said briskly, "it's almost time for class. We've got Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs, and Professor McGonagall will skewer us if we're late."

"Yeah," said Ron. "She'll probably turn us to pincushions, too, if she's heard about what Fletcher said."

"I hope no one's been stupid enough to tell her," said Harry, heaving his bag over his shoulder. He turned to Ginny and smiled. "See you at dinner, ok?"

"Um...Ok..." said Ginny.

"Bye, Virginia!" said Hermione. Then she took Ron by the arm and hauled him out of the hall, Harry bobbing along in their wake.

***

Transfiguration was blissfully uneventful, much to Harry's relief. The lesson was on turning apples into oranges, which was just interesting enough to keep him awake but not so demanding that he couldn't let his mind wander a bit. He wondered idly about Quidditch practices and tryouts and why Ginny seemed so interested in both, and aside from the occasional interruption by Hermione ("Harry! This'll be on the exam, you know!") he managed to daydream his way through most of the lecture.

History of Magic, on the other hand, was a completely hopeless enterprise. After less than ten minutes of Professor Binns droning on about the House Elf Revolution of 1875, Harry had to struggle to keep his eyes open. Hermione was taking furious notes, of course, and the rhythmic scratching of her quill only made it worse. He leaned his head on his arms, meaning only to rest his eyes for a bit. But a warm, contented feeling swept over him, and it was just a matter of time before the velvety curtain of darkness closed in.

***

When Harry awoke, he felt stiff and slightly dehydrated, the usual for an unplanned afternoon nap. What was odd was Ron and Hermione. Or rather, the complete lack of Ron and Hermione. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Harry stood and looked around. The room was dark and empty. A glance at his watch confirmed it: the class had ended, and no one had woken him up. In fact, if he didn't hurry, he'd miss dinner as well. Not entirely sure how to feel about all this, Harry collected his things and wandered down through the empty corridors to the Great Hall.

Once again, Harry was struck by how desolate it seemed with so many of his classmates gone. But while this hadn't bothered him too terribly much when he was sitting with his friends, without them it seemed downright bleak.

Hermione and Ron were not there. Fred and George were busy collecting order forms behind McGonagall's back, and Ginny looked deep in conversation with her friends. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. Harry sighed. Suddenly, dinner didn't seem like such a grand idea after all. He walked over to the table just long enough to grab a roll and some roast beef, and with a few mumbled excuses to Seamus and Neville he trudged back towards the doors to search for his friends.

They were not in the Gryffindor common room. Or the library. Or the trophy room. Or anywhere else that seemed likely. And eventually what had started as an earnest search for his friends became a random drifting through the castle. The walls blurred, and Harry let his feet carry him down the stone hallways; his mind, by now, was elsewhere.

He wondered if Sirius was all right. He wondered if his dream meant anything. He wondered if Snape was still alive. He wondered when he would see Voldemort again. A sniggering gang of Slytherin seventh years pushed past him, and he wondered where all the others had gone. For the first time in two days, not a single thought was granted to Draco Malfoy and his unfortunate circumstances.

And then Harry rounded the corner.

Somehow, he realized, he'd ended up in the dungeons again. That explained the Slytherins. But nothing could explain what looked disturbingly like Malfoy crying behind a pillar. He was hunched close to the floor, shuddering slightly with every breath, and his face was buried in his hands. It took Harry a few moments to notice that there was blood leaking from between his fingers.

"Malfoy?" he said. He didn't know what else to say.

The other boy raised his head. Harry could see now that his nose was broken, smashed into his face at an odd angle and dripping down over his bruised mouth. His skin was ashen in the candlelight, and the streak of red across it was more startling than it would have been on someone else.

"What are you gawking at, Potter?" he demanded, his lips twisting into a half-hearted sneer. It looked painful. "Thinking that this is a close to pure blood as you're ever going to get?"

There was a short and oppressive silence. It occurred to Harry that he very much wanted to be angry. He remembered the rich and heated fury that had ripped through him before, facing Malfoy in the Great Hall. He had wanted to hurt him; to beat him down with his words, if not his fists. But as he looked at Malfoy now, white as death and bleeding profusely, Harry felt nothing so much as a peculiar sort of pity.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "about what I said yesterday. About your parents." This was dangerous. He knew it was. He decided he didn't care. "Nobody deserves to have their parents die."

Slowly, Malfoy took his hand away from his mouth. A wad of spit and blood landed at Harry's feet. "Fuck you, Potter," he said, though without the usual enthusiasm.

"You know," said Harry evenly, "maybe if you were a little less hateful, the rest of us wouldn't detest you quite so much."

Draco shot him a look of utter loathing.

"Just a thought," said Harry.

"Fuck. Off. Potter." Malfoy wiped his mouth, staining the starched white cuff of his shirt. "Even a muggle-raised commoner like you should know when he's not wanted."

"Yeah," said Harry. He sighed. "All right, then."

Without another word he turned around and headed off down the corridor, leaving Malfoy alone with his bitterness and a growing pool of blood.

***

Harry spent hours in search of Ron and Hermione, the resentment building a little bit more with every empty classroom. It was nearly midnight before he finally made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, and the common room was mostly deserted. Harry was not surprised to note that Ron and Hermione were absent. Ginny, however, was not. She was curled up in a massive armchair in front of the fire, reading over her Muggle Studies textbook. She looked up when the portrait hole closed with a dull thud.

"Harry?" The book was dropped on the hearth rug, immediately forgotten. "Harry, are you all right? You look exhausted."

"Hmm?" It took him a while to properly focus on her face. "Oh, yes...well...been a long night." He collapsed into another armchair, rubbing the back of his neck. "You haven't seen Ron and Hermione, have you?"

"Actually, I have," said Ginny. "They came back about an hour ago and went right to bed."

"Figures." Harry stared into the fire. "I haven't seen them since History of Magic. I fell asleep in class and they just buggered right off without me."

"Oh, no...really?" Ginny sighed. "I was worried that this would happen."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Well...um..." She pulled her legs up underneath her, hunkering down into the upholstery. "Hermione was at the Burrow for almost a month this summer."

"I know," said Harry. "So was I, a couple years ago."

"Yes, well...they ah..." She coughed. "They spent a lot of time together. A lot."

"Doing what?"

"Oh, I don't know...just...walking and talking and fighting and everything. The usual. They just did it all the time...and without you around...you know?"

Harry stared at her. "Did they..?"

"No!" Ginny lowered her eyes. "Well....not that I know of, anyway."

"Are they angry at me about something?"

"No, no of course not!"

"Oh..." said Harry. "Well, that's good, I suppose."

"I'm sure...they want to see you," said Ginny. She twisted the hem of her dressing gown in her fingers. "I'm sure they had a good reason for leaving. They probably feel horrible."

Harry thought privately that if they had actually felt horrible, they would have been waiting in the common room, but he nodded anyway. "Probably."

The fire was dying. The chill of autumn hadn't yet set in, so the house elves let the flames burn themselves into embers overnight, leaving nothing by breakfast time. There was a sharp, crackling sound as one of the charred logs settled.

"I should get to bed," said Ginny. She stood, tucking Unlocking the Muggle Mystery in the crook of her elbow. "See you at breakfast."

"'Night," said Harry. With a last wave and a smile, Ginny bounded up into the girls' dormitory. And with little else to do but watch the hearth go cold, Harry decided to go to sleep.

***

His dreams were not as sharp that night; they lacked the clarity of purpose, the crystal imagery, the fine detail that marked his most disturbing nightmares.

He dreamed that he was alone in the Great Hall - or rather, a shadow of it, warped and drained of color. The stool for the Sorting Hat was there, at the front of the abandoned room. Harry sat on it, staring at the empty tables the seemed to go on forever.

He was outside. A heavy mist drifted over the grounds, icy fingers of moisture creeping through his robes. The shadowy form of the Forbidden Forest stretched out before him, a dark smudge against the swirling, white tendrils of fog. There was no sound except for a dry cracking...almost a roar...

Harry felt himself turn. A hot wind blew towards him, stinging his eyes.

Hogwarts was burning.

***

Hermione and Ron were waiting for him when Harry stumbled down into the common room that morning. They looked properly ashamed of themselves, but they were standing closer together than was usual for platonic friends, and this made Harry feel less inclined to let them off easily.

"Hey," said Ron. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Hey," said Harry.

"Look...we're really sorry..."

"Can't imagine why," said Harry.

"We didn't think you'd mind..."

"Oh, no of course not! Why would I mind being forgotten like a rucksack and spending half the night trying to find my best friends?"

Ron goggled helplessly.

"Harry, what we did to you was just awful, and we're really, truly sorry," said Hermione. "We just had things to do, and we didn't stop to think about how you might feel. And it was very wrong of us."

"Yeah," said Ron, rather unhelpfully.

"So don't be angry with us...Please?" Her eyes were pleading. "We won't do it again, we promise. We just weren't thinking."

Harry sighed. They really did look sorry. And he supposed that if he could bring himself to talk to Malfoy, then...

"It's all right," he said finally. "I was just worried, not being able to find you."

Hermione smiled. "Oh, good! Wonderful!" She crossed the short distance between them and threw her arms around his neck. Harry patted her back, not quite sure how else to respond, and after a last, tight squeeze she released him.

No one looked more relieved than Ron. "Excellent," he said. "Now, let's get down and have some breakfast, eh? I'm ravenous."

***

"They broke his nose?" Hermione gasped. Harry had told them all about the encounter with Malfoy in the dungeons. "Are you sure?"

Harry nodded. "Looked like he'd been hit by a Bludger."

"Who got him?" asked Ron eagerly.

"Actually..." Harry leaned forward, his voice hushed. "I think it was a load of his housemates. They were the only other people there, and they certainly looked nasty enough."

"Whoa...really?" Ron's eyes widened. "That's brilliant! I mean, the chances of him getting thrashed must be at least tripled, now!"

Hermione sighed. "Ron..."

"It's his own fault for being such an insufferable git," said Ron. "I mean, if even Slytherins can't stand him, what does that say?"

Harry wasn't sure, himself. But he did remember being the fourth champion of the Triwizard Tournament, resented by his classmates for stealing Cedric Diggory's limelight. And he remembered how he'd felt second year, when most of the school had thought he was the heir of Slytherin. They were not pleasant memories.

He looked up toward the staff table. Mundungus Fletcher was gesturing wildly to Madame Hooch, who looked properly offended; Professor Figg was stroking a large tabby cat that sat on the table in front of her, winning some pointed looks from her colleagues. And Dumbledore was staring fixedly at the back of Draco Malfoy's head, his bushy white brows knit with worry.

***

The Gryffindor fifth-years had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with the Slytherins after lunch that day. And Harry spent most of the morning trying to figure out why Arabella Figg looked so familiar. Seeing her with the cat had triggered something in his mind, but he couldn't quite pin down where he'd seen her before. Diagon Alley? The Quidditch World Cup? Maybe Hogsmeade? It was right on the tip of his brain.

It hit him as he was climbing the stairs to the third floor. Arabella Figg. Professor Figg. Mrs. Figg.

"Mrs. Figg with the cats!" he shouted, startling all the nearby portraits.

Hermione and Ron stared at him.

"You know, the cat lady! She used to take care of me when the Dursleys wanted to do something interesting. Loads of photos of dead pets, old chocolate cake, house smelled like cabbage..."

"No!" said Hermione, remembering. "You really think...?"

"Well, she's all got up like a witch, now, but yeah...pretty sure...."

They had stopped in the middle of the corridor, a few doors down from the classroom. The other students flashed them odd looks as they filed by.

"What'll we do?" said Harry.

"What you mean, 'what'll we do?'" Hermione scoffed. "We'll go to class and you'll say hullo to your old nanny."

"But - !"

"Honestly, Harry, it's not like she's going to start telling embarrassing stories about your childhood," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "At the very worst, she'll just whip out an unfortunate-looking photograph of you in Dudley's clothes."

Harry choked.

"Come on then!" Taking hold of the boys' sleeves, Hermione stepped lightly down the hall, dragging them along behind her.

The Mrs. Figg that Harry remembered was a frail, crooked and slightly batty old woman in the twilight of her life. She was always wearing a woolen shawl, no matter how warm it was outside, and she never walked more than a few feet without her stick. The witch that stood at the front of the classroom, however, was anything but frail. She was aged, yes, but no more so than McGonagall. Her hair was not as gray as it had been, and fell down her back in a cascade of peppered copper. She stood straight and tall, rigid as an steel rod. And her face, which Harry recalled as pouchy and muddled, now bore an expression that clearly marked her as the sort not to be trifled with.

She glowered at them silently, until they had all taken their seats and pulled out the parchment and quills.

"I would like to make it immediately and abundantly clear," she said suddenly, "that I have no intention of pretending that the events of last spring did not occur." Her voice rolled over them like a thundercloud. "As Professor Dumbledore so helpfully pointed out, dark times are fast approaching; we must acknowledge this if we have any hope of surviving them. I would not be doing you any favors if I acted as if this were not so.

"The purpose of this class is to arm and prepare you for what is to come. You will need your wits as well as your wands about you, for evil is as ingenious as it is horrible, and a dull mind does not stand a chance against the Dark Lord and his followers."

By now, the entire class was at rapt attention.

"I understand," Figg continued, "that Mr. Crouch was kind enough to educate you all in the Unforgivable Curses. As a review, we'll continue in that vein today, starting with a practical lesson in resisting the Imperius Curse."

She took a small roll of parchment from her desk - Harry assumed it was the class roll - and scanned it for a moment. Then she lowered it slightly and gave her students a narrow look over the top.

"I see there are still a few stragglers from the Slytherin house," she said slowly. "Normally, Slytherins are a veritable gold mine of Dark Arts knowledge. Somehow, I don't think that will be the case this year." Her eyes roamed over the rows of desks, finally resting on a lone figure in the back corner.

"You. Malfoy." He looked up, startled. "Why would you cast a cardius delendum curse?"

His answer was dull and automatic. "To create the illusion of a heart attack in your victim."

Figg smiled nastily. "Very good, Malfoy. Ten points from Slytherin."

The Slytherin side of the room burst into angry whispering.

"For what?" Malfoy demanded. "I answered the question correctly!"

"For being an example of everything that's wrong with wizarding society," Figg's voice was cold. "It's people like you that make these classes necessary."

"You can't do that! Just because I'm not an ignorant Gryffindor pansy doesn't mean -"

"One more word," said Figg, "and I'll have a new target for hex demonstrations."

"But - !"

"Fifty points."

Harry watched all of this with a sick sort of fascination.

By now, Draco was out of his chair entirely, his cheeks burning with fury. "You can't talk to me that way, you Mudblood, Muggle-loving squib! If my father - !"

He froze. Figg regarded him with pitiless contempt. When she spoke, her voice was a cruel purr, barely above a whisper. But Harry could hear every word.

"That's not going to work any more," she said. Her eyes glittered with triumph.

For a long, sickening moment, Malfoy stared at her open-mouthed, too thunderstruck even to move.

When he went tearing out of the room, the class erupted into cheers.

No one but Ron and Hermione noticed that Harry had gone after him.