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 03 - A Question of Upbringing

Chapter Summary:
Chapter the third, in which a chase is ended, a line is drawn, and a broomstick changes hands.
Posted:
09/19/2002
Hits:
3,546

Chapter Three - A Question of Upbringing

***

Harry tore down the empty corridors at a full run, chasing the occasional glimpse of white-blonde hair as it disappeared around a corner. This wasn't a matter of rational thought, but rather a sort of reflex; an impulse based on instinct as much as anything else. Like a fox chasing a hound, or a seeker diving for the Snitch, Malfoy ran, and Harry followed. It seemed the natural thing to do.

Malfoy was small and light and fast, just like Harry; by all rights the chase could have gone on forever. But these were not the dungeons, and Malfoy had not spent countless nights wandering the school with cloak and map as Harry had. He made a wrong turn past the Transfiguration wing, and there the hallway ended.

Harry jogged to a stop just behind him, and for a long while they stood there in silence, Harry looking at Malfoy and Malfoy looking at the wall. As the sound of his own heartbeat slowed and faded, Harry wondered what exactly he was doing there.

"I don't want company right now, Potter." Malfoy's voice was a dry rasp, barely audible.

"Do you ever?" Harry murmured, as much to himself as anyone.

"I don't need you snarking at me, either. Just...go back to the classroom, will you?" A bit of the old drawl crept back into his voice. "Famous Harry Potter, running out in the middle of a lesson...I'm sure your sniveling little housemates are besides themselves with worry."

"I don't much care what they think right now," said Harry.

"How fabulously noble of you."

"No, I mean it. It was wrong of them to laugh at you like that." Harry sighed. "Look...what Professor Figg just did...that was really horrid of her."

"You think I care about the opinion of a pathetic old hag like her?" Malfoy barked out a laugh. It sounded hollow as it echoed against the ancient stone. "I'm a Malfoy. We don't care what anyone thinks. We tell them what to think." Grey eyes flashed as he turned, his face twisted into a grimace of what might have been anger. Or possibly pain. "Why am I even talking to you? What in bloody hell are you still doing here?"

"I..." Harry swallowed. "I just wanted to tell you..."

"What, Potter?" Malfoy was yelling, now, a raw edge to his voice. "Spit it out, if that's what it takes for you to leave me alone."

"I wanted to tell you..." Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "If you ever need to talk...about anything..." He looked up. Malfoy was staring at him, and he almost lost his nerve. "You can talk to me. And I'll try to help. All right?"

Malfoy didn't answer. He turned back to the wall and leaned his forehead against it, his fists clenched and his knuckles white. And Harry stared at his back for a long while, wondering if he was going mad. It was obvious that Malfoy wasn't interested in talking to anyone, Harry especially.

Twice in as many days, Harry had made an awkward but sincere effort to communicate -- what he wanted to communicate exactly, he wasn't sure -- only to have Malfoy summarily reject the attempt. And yet here he was, offering the olive branch once again. A logical sort of person would have given up by now. And there was part of Harry that wanted to -- a voice in his head that told him to walk away. But the rest of him could not help but remember the emptiness behind Malfoy's eyes; the grief that crept into his features when he thought no one was looking; the rare moments of vulnerability. Expressions Harry remembered from the mirror beside the bed in his cupboard. They weren't something he could ignore. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, there didn't seem to be anything he could do.

By now, the silence had gone from uncomfortable to oppressive. And with nothing else to say, Harry turned and went back the way he'd come.

***

Harry didn't see much point in going back to the lesson, so he made his way down to the Great Hall, sat at the Gryffindor table, and waited for classes to end. Some time later there was a sudden and distant rumbling as hundreds of students pushed back their chairs and poured out into the halls. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was one of the closest to the Great Hall, so it wasn't long before Ron and Hermione arrived.

The incensed look on Hermione's face when she spotted him would have been comical, had it been directed at someone else. Dinner had appeared, and Harry tried to look busy with the potatoes.

Hermione took a seat to Harry's right, dropping her books onto the table with rather more force than was necessary. "Are you insane?" she hissed. "What were you thinking?!"

"Hey, Harry," said Ron lamely, sitting on the far side of Hermione. Harry offered a feeble smile.

Hermione leaned over, blocking Ron from view. "Well?!"

Panicking slightly, Harry tried to think of a believable lie. None came to him. "Malfoy was upset," he mumbled.

"So?" said Ron.

Harry pretended to be intensely interested in his dinner. "Well, I thought that maybe someone should talk to him."

"Don't you think," said Hermione, "that perhaps one of his friends might have been a better candidate?"

"He doesn't have any."

"That's hardly your problem, is it?"

"Yeah, seriously," said Ron. "He deserves it, too."

"Do you not understand that his parents are dead?" said Harry, more nastily than he'd intended.

Ron bristled. "Why should I care? So what if his mum and dad got themselves blown up?"

"We don't know they were blown up," snapped Harry irritably.

"That's not the bloody point! I don't care if they were run over by a rampaging hippogriff! It's not like losing your parents makes you any less of a bastard! It just makes you an orphaned, bitter, antisocial bastard!"

"Ron," said Hermione, placing a hand on his shoulder as if to restrain him. "Why don't you go put all our names down to help Professor Grubbly-Plank with her creatures."

"What?! But that'll take ages!" Ron cried.

"Exactly."

"But..."

"Now, Ron."

Ron sighed, got up from the table, and left the Great Hall with a resigned air about him.

"Huh," said Harry, watching him go. "When did he start listening to you?"

"Don't change the subject," said Hermione. She leaned forward. "What's going on, Harry? Why the sudden interest in Malfoy's well-being?"

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was sitting alone again, hunched over his plate and looking especially miserable. "Something's wrong," said Harry finally. "He isn't acting like himself. Of course, he's still being sort of a prat, but...it's like his heart isn't in it...."

Hermione heaved a great and dramatic sigh. "And you're worried about him?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "I guess I am."

"This is going beyond worry," said Hermione. Her voice was stern. "Harry, I don't know if you realize it, but this is starting to look very strange. And if you keep chasing him around the school, people are going to notice."

"I don't care," said Harry, knowing perfectly well that he did.

"Well, you should," Hermione snapped, "because we're your friends, Harry. Not him. Ron and I will always be here for you, you know that...but there's a limit to how much the others will take. They hate him. You hate him, or at least you used to. I know you're just trying to do the right thing, but it's not worth it."

It was a long time before Harry answered. And his eyes were still on Malfoy when he did. "Do you know what it feels like to think that no one in the world cares about you?" he said quietly. "No one at all?" He turned, and Hermione started a bit at the look on his face. "Because I do. And now he does. How can I ignore that?"

Hermione blinked at him. "I....well..."

But before she could answer, Ron was back, grumbling loudly about how very far away Grubbly-Plank's office was. "And I ran into Professor Figg in the hall on the way back," he said, heaping food onto his plate. "She still looks really angry." He glanced at Hermione. "Did you tell him?"

"Goodness, no...I completely forgot..."

"Tell me what?"

Hermione cringed. "She wants to see you in her office after dinner."

***

Harry stood outside of Figg's office for nearly ten minutes before he worked up the nerve to knock. And he regretted it as soon as he did.

"Come in," she said, her voice muffled by the door. Harry fought the urge to run, and somehow managed to turn the knob and step inside.

The room was small, poorly lit, and smelled strongly of cat. A bookshelf behind the desk sagged under the weight of enormous tomes with titles like, Witchcraft for the Wise and Wary, A Guide to Undetectable Poisons, and A Thousand and One Unfortunate Ways to Die. The room was stiflingly hot, but Harry found himself shivering. And then there was Figg herself, glaring at him over steepled fingers.

"Sit down," she said, pointing to an uncomfortable-looking stool. Harry sat.

"Now. I assume you know why you're here."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry. His voice was squeakier than usual.

She raised an unamused eyebrow. "And?"

"And I'm sorry for running out in the middle of the lesson. It was very rude of me."

Her lips pursed into a small frown. "And?"

This was not what Harry had expected. "And I won't do it again?"

Figg rapped her fingers on the desk impatiently. "And?"

Harry gulped. He had no idea what to say. His brain worked furiously. "And...I'll...um....get the notes from Hermione?"

There was now nothing small about the frown on Figg's face. "Mr. Potter, is there something wrong with your short-term memory?"

"I don't think so, Professor."

"Then would it be safe for me to assume that you remember why you left my classroom ahead of schedule?"

"I was....following Draco Malfoy...." He cringed. Hermione was right. This sounded really bad.

"Now, please forgive me if this seems a stupid question," said Figg cooly, "but is there a particular reason why?"

"Because he was upset."

"He was upset," Figg snarled, "because I wanted him to be upset."

Harry stared at her. "You....you what?"

"Dumbledore has allowed him to continue attending Hogwarts out of pity, but I know better. I know what he is. I know what his kind are capable of. You're young, Potter, but it's time you had some sense knocked into you."

"Wait...You mean that you were horrible to him on purpose?"

Figg narrowed her eyes. "Do you have a point?"

"Am I the only one who understands that he just lost his entire family?!" Harry stood so suddenly that the stool was knocked over. "How can you DO this? You're supposed to be a teacher!"

"Exactly," said Figg. There was a flicker of something dangerous in her voice. "I am a Hogwarts professor. And this afternoon I taught Mr. Malfoy the most important lesson of his life: that he cannot, and will not be allowed to, follow in his father's footsteps." She leaned forward, and the greying waves of her hair fell down around her face. "I could tell you things about that boy and his family that would make your ears bleed, Mr. Potter. Do not presume to know better than I how he should and should not be treated."

"You might've known his father, but you don't know Draco at all!" Too late, Harry realized he was yelling. "His whole life, you've been living in Little Whinging, pretending to be a doddering old cat lady and watching me on holidays! He's been my bloody nemesis for four years, now, and even I don't think he deserves this!" Harry tried to stop. He really did. But the floodgates seemed to be jammed open. "You're just a bitter, paranoid, mean-spirited old bat! You don't know anything! You -- "

"ENOUGH!" Figg was on her feet, now, red spots of anger burning her cheeks. "Mr. Potter, you will stop with this nonsense immediately, and you will accompany me to the headmaster's office. It is clear that higher intervention is required."

Harry had enough sense to stay quiet as they made their way through the corridors, though he was still shaking with rage. After years of being tormented by Snape because of his father, he couldn't stand to see the same thing happen to someone else, even if it was Malfoy.

But by the time they had reached the ugly stone gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore's chambers, Harry realized that he was completely without a plan. He had yelled at a professor. And not just any professor, but one whom Dumbledore obviously valued and trusted. She was a member of the "old crowd," after all, whatever that meant. Which suggested that Harry was in a great deal of trouble.

"Canary Cream," Figg snapped, and the gargoyle leapt aside. As they stepped onto the moving stone staircase, Harry made a note to himself to tell Fred and George their product line was catching on.

At the top of the stairs was a gleaming oak door, flanked by torches. Ignoring the brass knocker, Figg rapped her knuckles against the door, then pushed it aside without waiting for an answer.

Dumbledore's office was just as Harry remembered it, a beautiful circular room filled with all sorts of interesting odds and ends. Fawkes the phoenix sat on a golden perch next to the door, and trilled softly when Harry waved to him. The portraits of former headmasters were snoozing gently in their frames, the Sorting Hat stood on a shelf behind the enormous desk, and Godric Gryffindor's sword hung in its glass case, the rubies on its hilt glittering in the candlelight. It was a peaceful and comforting scene.

There was a soft moan of hinges, and a section of wall near the fireplace swung aside like a door. Standing behind it was Dumbledore, wearing robes of deep purple velvet and his usual benign smile. Harry caught a glimpse of a small room draped in red and gold, but then Dumbledore stepped aside and the door swung back into place, melting back into the wall as if it had never been there.

"Good evening Arabella, Harry," said Dumbledore cheerfully, settling down into the high-backed chair behind his desk. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"This...boy," said Figg, jabbing a finger in Harry's direction, "has been disrespectful and disobedient. He left my classroom without permission, he consorted with unsavory characters, and he has spoken to me in a manner unbecoming to a student. He must be disciplined."

"How dreadful," said Dumbledore. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a silver tin. "Sherbet Lemon?"

"No. Thank you." Figg's eye twitched. "Now, about his punishment -- "

"Arabella, I seem to recall Mundungus telling me over dinner that he needed help with a batch of wolfsbane potion," said Dumbledore. He popped a sweet from the tin into his mouth. "Perhaps you should go and see how things are progressing?"

"But...but, Headmaster!"

"He'll be in the dungeons, I believe," Dumbledore continued. "If you hurry, you should be able to catch him before he adds the infusion of wormwood."

Figg sighed, defeated. "Of course, Headmaster." And with a last, lingering glare at Harry, she turned and walked back through the door.

"Now, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Why don't you tell me exactly what happened."

And so the whole story came spilling out in a jumble, though Harry was rather vague when it came to his conversation with Malfoy in the hall. Mrs. Figg, however, was spared no detail. "It was awful," he said. "The whole class was laughing, and Malfoy ran out, and...well, what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't just leave him."

"You did the right thing, Harry," said Dumbledore softly.

"And Mrs. Figg, she did it on purpose! How could she do something like that?!"

"Harry, I'd remind you that you're speaking about one of your professors," said Dumbledore, a touch more seriously. "However, I agree that her behavior in this case was inappropriate, if not unexpected. She was at school with Lucius Malfoy, for a time. They had something of an unpleasant history together."

"That's hardly an excuse," said Harry mulishly. "It's not Malfoy's fault that his father was ghastly."

"This is true," said Dumbledore slowly. He sucked his sherbet lemon thoughtfully. "But you must remember, Harry, that Lucius was a Death Eater of the highest order, a fact he was never completely able to hide. He tortured and killed hundreds during the war, Muggle and wizard alike. And people hate him for it. Perhaps even more than they hate Voldemort."

"But Draco was just a baby, then!" said Harry. "He's an insufferable git, but he isn't a Death Eater any more than I am." His eyes drifted to the Sorting Hat, dirty and patched, now only a few feet away. "You told me once that it's the choices we make that define who we are. That we can choose between what's right and what's easy. And I'm saying that Draco hasn't had a chance to make any choices at all! He didn't choose to have a murdering father, he didn't choose to be brought up in a rotten family!"

"No, he didn't," said Dumbledore. "But some would argue that a person is shaped by those who raise him."

"That's ridiculous!" Harry cried. "I was brought up by the Dursleys, and I turned out all right! I got out of there before they could make me as horrible as they are. And now Draco's parents are dead, and it's really sad and all, but at least now he can make some choices for himself. At least now he can decide what kind of person he wants to be." His eyes met Dumbledore's. "You trust Snape, and he actually was a Death Eater. I know that Malfoy's a bastard, but maybe he just needs some time. Just a chance to make the right choices."

By now, the portraits were all awake, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, but Harry wasn't really paying attention. He was waiting to see what Dumbledore would do, completely sure that he'd stepped over the line and was about to be given detention. Or worse.

But Dumbledore did not look upset. His eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles, and a smile had spread beneath his very crooked nose.

"I will speak with Professor Figg," he said quietly. "And I will encourage her to be a bit less...extreme...with her discipline in the future. Now. What are you going to do, Harry?"

There was a long pause. Fawkes hummed softly on his perch and the sound drifted through the room, a blanket of warmth and reassurance easing the tension in Harry's shoulders. "I don't know," he said finally. "What should I do?"

At this, Dumbledore's smile grew even wider. "Whatever you feel is right."

It was some time before Harry figured out what that was.

***

The next couple of weeks went by in a blur of activity, and while Harry tried to keep an eye out for Malfoy he found himself having less and less time to worry about anything more than classes and Quidditch. Being captain of the team was even less glamorous than he's expected. Trials were scheduled for the third week of term, and it seemed that every spare moment was spent making last-minute arrangements. When he trudged into the Great Hall at the end of the day, Harry was usually too exhausted to do much more than shovel down dinner and drag himself back to the dormitory.

Sooner than he thought possible, it was the evening before the first round of Quidditch trials, and of course half the shin guards had gone missing. Dinner was nearly over by the time Harry had tracked them down (it turned out Peeves had started a collection), tossed them into the equipment shed, and stumbled back across the grounds.

"Oh, Harry, you look exhausted!" said Hermione, scooting her chair over to give him more room.

"Mmm-hmm," said Harry, spooning peas and mashed potatoes onto his plate. He used his free hand to stifle a tremendous yawn.

"They're doing it again," said Ron, nodding toward the staff table.

Harry looked up, his mouth full of kidney pie. Professors Figg and Fletcher were seated on either side of McGonagall, and the three of them were embroiled in what looked like a fierce debate. This was notable only because it happened nearly every mealtime. The staff had always been close, but Harry couldn't remember ever seeing a small group of them pay so much attention to each other.

"There's something weird going on with those three," said Ron. "I keep seeing them together in the corridors, too, and they're always coming out of each others' offices."

"Well, Figg was helping Fletcher make a wolfsbane potion," said Harry. "Maybe that has something to do with it."

"Wolfsbane?" said Hermione. Her eyes widened. "Harry, you remember what that potion is for, don't you?"

"Sure," said Harry. "Snape used to make it for Lupin, so he wouldn't hurt anyone when he transformed."

"Yes," said Hermione. "And Snape isn't around right now, is he? And hardly anyone knows how to make that potion."

"So...you think that Fletcher's making the potion for Lupin?"

Hermione nodded. "Which makes me wonder. I keep thinking about the end of last term, when we were all in the infirmary. Dumbledore told Sirius to get the old crowd together again. Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher..." She tapped her wand against her goblet, idly changing its color from gold to blue and back again as she pondered. "And this year two of them are teaching at this school. That has to be important, doesn't it? And now, with the wolfsbane potion...you don't suppose Lupin is staying somewhere near here? Wouldn't we know?"

Harry rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. His brain was starting to hurt. "I don't know, Hermione... I wish Sirius would write me, I'm sure he could explain all this..."

"Maybe you should owl him," said Ron. "He might not know that no one's told you what's going on."

"I suppose," said Harry. "But it's been so long since I've heard from him..."

"It's worth a try," said Hermione. "And besides, you'll feel better." She smiled, reached into her bag, and pulled out a quill and parchment. "Here, if you write him now you can send Hedwig out with the letter before you go to bed."

Too tired to argue, Harry spent the next few minutes scrawling a note to his godfather. And to be honest, he did feel better. Though it didn't seem likely that he would hear from Sirius any time soon, at least he was making an effort.

"You'd better hurry," said Hermione, putting her quill away. "The new prefects are all very strict about students being in their common rooms past dinnertime."

Harry, who had been rolling his letter and tying it with a bit of string, stopped and stared at her. "You know, I just realized...Hermione, why aren't you a prefect?"

Her response was not what he'd expected. "Oh, for goodness' sake!" she said, rolling her eyes in an exasperated fashion. "Harry, the student body is a fraction of what it used to be. There are no fifth year prefects anymore. We just don't need them!"

"Oh," said Harry.

"Honestly, it's like you don't even go to school here! You probably haven't even noticed half the Slytherins are from Durmstrang."

"They are?" said Harry.

"Guess that's why I didn't recognise most of them," said Ron.

Hermione looked positively disgusted with them both. And Harry, in the interest of self-preservation, grabbed his things and made a hasty retreat, leaving Ron to fend for himself against Hermione's indignation.

***

It was cold in the owlery; an autumn wind swirled through the rafters, and the crisp air tickled Harry's nose. Hedwig fluttered down before he even called her, landing on his outstretched arm and hooting softly. Smiling, Harry stroked her feathers, tied his letter to her leg, and walked over to one of the many windows.

"Good luck," he murmured. "Come back soon." And with a soft hoot and a rush of wings she was gone.

Harry watched her until she was lost in the darkness. And when he could no longer make her out against the night sky, he sighed and turned to leave.

And he realized he wasn't alone in the room.

Standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the light of the castle, was Draco Malfoy. He looked very lost and very small.

"They took my broom," he said, his voice flat.

Harry gaped at him. His mouth moved, but took a while for any sound to come out. "What?"

"The sixth years," said Malfoy. He was almost whispering, now. "They broke it in half and left the pieces on my bed. My...my father gave me that broom. And Quidditch trials are tomorrow. And if I have to use one of the school brooms, there's no way I'll make the team."

Suddenly light-headed, Harry sat down on the window ledge. "That's...that's really too bad."

Malfoy stared at his feet. "You said that if I needed anything... that I should come talk to you. And now I need something." He glanced at Harry, eyes nearly hidden behind pale blonde fringe. "So here I am."

"Why do you need to try out?" Harry asked. "You're already on the team."

"Not anymore," said Draco, in a tone that did not invite discussion.

"Well," said Harry. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well. You need another broom."

"I can't buy one on such short notice. The shops are all closed, and so are the banks."

"What about the team brooms? You all had Nimbus 2001s."

"The new captain won't let me use them. I already asked."

"Well." Harry stood, taking out his wand. "I guess...you'll just have to borrow mine, then."

Before Malfoy could even respond to this, Harry raised his wand and called, "Accio Firebolt!" And the two boys stood there looking at each other, Harry smiling a bit and Malfoy looking shocked, until the broomstick came sailing through one of the windows high above them. It made a twirling descent through the owlery and came to a gentle stop next to Harry's legs, hovering just above the ground.

The uncertain silence continued. Eventually, Malfoy bent over, picked up the broom, and cradled it protectively against his chest. Harry started a little at this. It had never occurred to him that Malfoy might love Quidditch as much as he did. He didn't seem the type to love anything.

"Thank you," said Malfoy. The words sounded dusty and seldom used. "I'll send it back to you with one of the house-elves tomorrow."

"All right," said Harry. Malfoy nodded and turned to leave, and just as he was stepping through the doorway Harry added, "How did you know I was here?"

"You were writing a letter at dinner," said Malfoy, without looking back. "This seemed the logical place for you to go."

Harry didn't answer. He watched silently as Malfoy turned a corner and left his line of sight.

The strangeness of their talk in the owlery didn't really sink in until he was most of the way to Gryffindor tower. In the entire time Harry had known him, he had never had a conversation with Malfoy that went further than a trading of insults. It was creepy. Not bad, necessarily, but definitely creepy.

And it wasn't just the unexpected civility that bothered him, either. For weeks, Harry had been watching Malfoy, wondering about him and worrying over the details of what he saw. And now, it turned out that Malfoy had made a habit of watching him back. Harry was used to being watched; he knew that he was famous, and knew that he was always under scrutiny. Most people had an unnerving fascination with him with him, what he did, and who he dated (ironic, since he hadn't dated anyone).

Most people. But not Draco Malfoy. Malfoy had only been interested in what he could use against Harry. Harry fainting on the Hogwarts Express, Harry falling off his broom in a Quidditch match...material for his sadistic comedy routines. Loud, obvious things that everyone noticed. Malfoy had not cared to look beyond that.

And yet he had been watching Harry tonight, had seen him write to Sirius. Which meant he'd probably watched him other times, as well. Harry wasn't sure exactly what to make of this.

"Password?"

Harry looked up. The Fat Lady was smiling down at him expectantly. "Vorpal blade," he said, and the portrait swung aside.

It was only half past eight, and a handful of Gryffindors were still scattered about the common room, most of them chatting or studying in small clusters. Hermione and Ron didn't seem to be around, which was hardly surprising. They had taken to disappearing at least once every day. Usually, Harry would go looking for them, as he often managed to track them down in the library or the astronomy tower or the gardens. But it was late enough now that he didn't want to bother, so he wandered over to an armchair by the windows and plunked himself down in it.

Almost immediately, Ginny appeared out of nowhere.

"Hullo," said Harry, so slouched in his seat that his voice was muffled.

"Hi," said Ginny. There was a pause as she worked up the courage to continue. "I have a confession to make."

"Oh?" said Harry. He sat up a little straighter.

Ginny twisted the hem of her skirt around her fingers. "I was in your room, just now."

"What? Why?"

More twisting. "Dean and Neville and Seamus were down here looking at football magazines. And I heard this strange tapping noise coming from the tower, and...Well, I went to look. And it turned out to be in your dormitory."

Harry looked at her blankly. "What was it?"

"Your broom," said Ginny. "Your broom was trying to get out the window. So I...I let it out. And it flew away. And I don't think it's come back, because I closed the window again and there hasn't been any tapping."

When Harry started laughing, she nearly fell over with shock.

"Gin...I'm sorry...Virginia..." Harry grinned, still chuckling. "It's all right, I Accioed my broom from the owlery. I'm actually glad you opened the window, or I would've waited all night for it."

Ginny looked instantly relieved. "Oh! Well, that's good!" She frowned a bit. "But...where is it now?"

Harry's grin faded. He looked around, checking to see if anyone was close enough to hear. And then he beckoned for Ginny to lean forward.

"Can you keep a secret?" he whispered.

Ginny's eyes widened. "Um...yes. Yes, definitely."

"I leant it to Malfoy."

"No!" Ginny gasped. "Really? Why? What did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything," Harry murmured. "He just needed a broom." He sighed. "Don't tell Hermione or Ron, ok? I don't think they'd understand."

"All right," said Ginny. She sat in the chair next to him, a fierce blush rising beneath her freckles. "Not that I understand, either. But all right."

"Thanks."

Feeling much better, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out his copy of Ivan Wronsky: An Autobiography, figuring he should get into a proper mindset for tomorrow. Ginny went up to her room and fetched her Transfiguration homework, and for the next few hours she and Harry sat in companionable silence, punctuated only by the rustle of pages and the scratching of her quill.

Eventually, Harry finished his book -- it wasn't a very long one, after all -- and turned his attention to the view. It was dark, now, and the warm light of the common room turned the windows into mirrors. Harry pressed his face against the glass so he could see outside, his spectacles digging into the bridge of his nose.

The moon was only a sliver of white behind the clouds, rimmed by a dim halo in a starless sky. Across the grounds, beyond the Quidditch pitch and Hagrid's hut, the silhouette of the Forbidden Forrest stretched across the horizon, swimming in and out of the mist. It seemed eerily familiar.

"Harry?"

Ginny's voice pulled him back. He pushed away from the window and turned to her, blinking in the light. "Hmm?"

"I'm going to go to bed," she said, gathering her things and standing up. "I'll, ah...I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Suppose you might," said Harry. They shared a small smile, and then Ginny was climbing the stairs to her dorm.

Harry watched her go, aware that the room was empty, and that it was very late, and that Ron and Hermione still weren't back. But strangely, this didn't bother him much. A muffled sort of warmth was spreading through him, like he'd drank a bottle of butterbeer, starting somewhere in his chest and tickling its way down his limbs. It was a peaceful feeling. And it made him sleepy.

So he dragged himself and his books up to the boys' dormitory, to the little round room at the top of the stairs, and into his four-poster. Snuggling down into the sheets, he was only just aware of Ron's footsteps in the stairway before he drifted off to sleep.

That night, Harry dreamed of broomsticks and Quidditch, grey eyes in pale faces, and plaits of strawberry hair.

***

It was a crisp, cool morning, and the lawns were wet with dew that sparkled in the early light. It soaked the hems of Harry's courderoys as he made his way to the Quidditch pitch, carrying the case of balls and one of the team's spare Cleansweeps. For years, he'd wondered at Oliver Wood's dedication, how he could schedule a practice at the crack of dawn and still manage to get there an hour before the rest of the team. And now Harry, who had moaned and complained along with everyone else, was doing the exact same thing. And it felt good. The air was sweet and fresh and smelled of cut grass, and a slight breeze ruffled his hair as he stepped onto the pitch.

Harry set down the balls and climbed onto his broom, taking a minute to get used to its unfamiliar contours before taking off into the pale blue sky. It was an older model, sticky on turns, and it tugged slightly to the left when he accelerated past a certain point. But it flew, and held steady at a decent altitude, and that was all he needed.

He made a few laps around the pitch, weaving between the goal hoops and testing the wind, letting his thoughts drift. When he saw the black and white form of Madam Hooch standing on the ground below, he descended in a slow spiral and touched down a few feet away. She had brought parchment and quills for the record keeping, as well as a list of the available positions: Keeper, Chaser and a handful of reserves. Not much, when you thought about it. But then again this was the first time in four years that there had even been an opening in the main team.

For the next quarter hour they discussed what they would look for in the candidates, what they thought the team's weaknesses were and ways in which they could be dealt with. And eventually, the first cluster of broom-toting hopefuls arrived.

Most of the faces were only vaguely familiar -- third and fourth years whom Harry did not know, and even a pair of terrified second years. Pretty much what he had expected, and he dutifully took down their names. But then there was a shout behind him, and Harry turned to see Ron pushing his way through the crowd.

"Ron? What're you doing here?"

Ron hefted his broom, an ancient Shooting Star. "Trying out!"

Harry blinked. "You are?"

"Of course! I'm best friends with the captain, aren't I?" Ron grinned, taking Harry's list away and writing his name on it in an untidy scrawl. "There have to be some side benefits, eh?"

"Well..." Harry took back the parchment and frowned at it. "Actually..."

"Harry! Harry, wait!"

Harry scanned the crowd, looking to see who was calling him.

Ron squinted up at the sky. "Is that...Ginny?"

Harry looked. Sure enough, streaking toward them on a broomstick he'd had no idea she owned, was the lanky form of Ginny Weasley. She was gripping the handle with one hand and waving frantically at him with the other.

Ron scowled. "What in bloody hell is she doing?"

Seconds later, Ginny had tumbled onto the field a few yards away, her long limbs flailing wildly as she ran over to Harry. She was out of breath when she reached him, and it was a moment or so before she could talk. "I'm...I'm sorry I'm late!" she gasped. "Can I still try out?"

Madame Hooch had come over by now, and favored Ginny with a curt smile. "You're just in time, Miss Weasley," she said, adding Ginny to the list. "Please wait in the stands until we call you." She looked around. "That goes for all of you," she barked. "We'll start in a minute."

Ron lingered, watching as the other took their seats. "What does she think she's doing? I mean, I know she likes you and everything, but this is kind of ridiculous."

"Maybe she just wants to play," said Harry evenly.

"Whatever," said Ron. Madam Hooch gave him a withering look, and he stomped off after his sister.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Harry scanned the list of names. "Simon Branford?" he called. An owlish blonde boy with huge spectacles clambered down onto the grass, clutching his broom like a lifeline. Harry offered a smile that he hoped was reassuring. "Come on, let's see you take a few laps." Along with Madam Hooch they mounted their brooms and kicked off against the ground, pushing themselves up into the air.

For the most part, the trials were pleasant but uneventful. Even the youngest of the Gryffindors trying out managed their brooms well enough, swooping through the drills with bumbling competence. Not unexpectedly, Ron was somewhere near the middle ability-wise, benefiting from years of play with his brothers but lacking in any natural grace. At most, Harry thought to himself, he might be able to squeeze into the reserves.

It was Ginny that surprised him.

Her recent growth spurt had left her an ungainly tangle of arms and legs, her movements exaggerated and slightly out-of-control. Up until that summer she had been somewhat petite, and her new discomfort with her own body dominated the way she flew. She was nervous, too, which only served to make everything worse.

But there was a glimmer of something beyond that -- an easy understanding of the space around her, a latent sense of where she needed to be and how she could get there. She was at home in the air, if not her frame. And the arms she couldn't find a place for also gave her incredible reach. She was unpracticed, yes. And awkward. But she had a talent that Harry couldn't bring himself to ignore.

"That's the last of them, then," said Hooch, drifting up on Harry's right. "Ready, Potter?"

"Ready," said Harry.

They flew back to the stands together and dismounted, pausing to make a last few notes before addressing the anxious crowd. "That will be all," said Hooch. "The new team roster will be posted in the Gryffindor common room tomorrow. If your name is on it, please speak to Mr. Potter at your earliest convenience. If not, perhaps we'll see you next season."

"Thanks for coming," said Harry, wanting to end on a friendly note. And with that, the others picked up their things and started back toward the castle.

Ron tried to engage Harry in a friendly, "what position did I get?" sort of chat, but Harry begged out of it by saying he needed to tidy up. Ron shrugged and didn't argue, and a short while later Harry was alone, gathering up the last of the borrowed brooms and guards, and chasing down a particularly rebellious bludger.

The sun was high and bright when Harry closed and locked the door to the equipment shed. Hooch had told him that there was another team using the field after breakfast, and according to Harry's watch they were due to arrive any minute. Perfect timing.

"What's the big idea, Potter?"

Harry turned. A gang of Slytherins had come down from the castle while he wasn't looking, led by their new captain: Magnus Bayne. Though not as trollish as the illustrious Marcus Flint, he looked just as ill-tempered. And now he was pointing at the locked shed with a displeased scowl on his face.

"Is there a problem?" said Harry, as calmly as he could manage.

"Yes, there's a fucking problem," Bayne growled. "I lost my key to that shed, and you've gone and locked it. How'm I supposed to run these bloody trials if I don't have any gear?"

"Well, that's hardly my problem, is it?" said Harry. "Madam Hooch is getting breakfast, she'll be back to help with your trials in a minute or so. Get the keys from her." He gathered his notes and shoved them in a back pocket. "I'll be going, now."

"You hear that?" Bayne jeered. "Harry Potter thinks he's too good for us."

"Give it a rest," said Harry. He edged past Bayne and set off toward the castle, pushing through the cluster of Slytherins. Some glared at him as he passed, others simply stared. Harry did his best to ignore them.

But Bayne wasn't ready to give up. "Hey, Malfoy! Potter here says he's better than us! You two should start some kind of club for spoilt little toffy-nosed wankers!"

Harry looked up. Standing far apart from of the rest of the Slytherins was Malfoy, Harry's Firebolt gripped in his white-knuckled hands. He was staring fixedly at the ground.

Careful not to be obvious about it, Harry veered slightly to the right, which brought him within a few inches of Malfoy's shoulder. As he passed, Malfoy looked up, and their eyes connected -- Harry's questioning, Malfoy's wide and startled and uncertain. For a split second they simply looked at each other. Then Malfoy's lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

The moment ended. Harry turned away, and made his way alone up to the castle, his heart thudding in his chest.

***



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As always, very special thanks to my wonderful betas - Cassie, Derek, Amy, Aja and Emily - as well as John, who was kind enough to lend a hand with last-minute britpicking. I could never have gotten this stupid thing done without you guys! You're all just lovely ^_^

I would also like to cheerfully blame Alex for the lateness of this chapter. I've been having a lovely time with him, and his company makes chapter updates look far less appealing by comparison. *hugs* Loff you, sweetie!

Title was Cassie's idea. Illustrations were all done by me. How very exciting. :}