Sins of the Father

Chapter Four - Dark Horizons

***

Most of Hogwarts had only just arrived for breakfast when Harry entered the Great Hall after the early-morning Quidditch trials. It was nice, he thought, to have done so much and still have an entire Saturday ahead of him. Flying in the cool autumn wind had left him feeling bright and alert, and Malfoy's hint of a smile still tickled at the back of his mind. He had a lot left to do, homework and captaining duties to attend to, but none of it seemed especially daunting. Today, he was certain, was going to be a good day.

Ron was waiting at the end of the Gryffindor table, his broomstick and a battered copy of Flying with the Cannons piled on the chair next to him. "Saved you a seat," he said brightly, shoving his things onto the floor as Harry walked over. "Know what position I'm going to get, or are you still thinking it over?"

"Thinking it over," said Harry. He speared a boiled egg with his fork. "Where's Hermione?"

"She'll be along soon, I guess," said Ron. "Said something about going to talk with Professor Figg. Her essay on the dangers of unregistered Animagi was five inches too long. She was in a total panic, even though I told her Figg probably won't even notice."

Harry chuckled. "Well, Hermione is sort of an expert on that topic. She could write fifty inches just on personal experience."

"Tell me about it," said Ron. He grinned. "So did you see the Slytherin team?"

"More than I wanted to."

"Are they a total load of wankers or what?"

"Didn't know most of them. The captain's a bastard though."

"Was Malfoy there?"

Harry made himself wait before answering. "Yeah, I think so."

"Figures," said Ron. "But I guess it's a good thing -- he's a totally useless Seeker. If he slimes his way back on the team, they might as well hand us the cup and save themselves the trouble of playing."

"Yeah..."

"And can you believe Ginny showed up like that? What's she doing? It's like she thinks you'll let her on the team just because she's my sister!"

"Um..." Harry hastily shoved a whole slice of toast in his mouth, buying some time while he chewed. "Well, actually, she -"

Somewhere to their left, there was a sudden rustling and the tinkle of silverware.

"Oi, Ron! Come fetch your owl!"

Ron and Harry looked up. Farther down the table, an annoyed Dean Thomas was pointing to his bowl, which currently contained more bird than cereal. The tiny owl bounced happily among the cornflakes, splashing milk everywhere and hooting in ecstasy at all the attention.

"Pig!" Ron stomped over to where Dean was sitting, grabbed the soggy owl and apologized for the feathers in his breakfast. "Stupid git," Ron mumbled as he took his seat next to Harry again, wrestling the note off of Pigwidgeon's flailing leg and then dropping him onto the tabletop. Pig landed on his head with a shriek of unbridled joy.

"It's a letter from Dad!" said Ron, brightening. "Here, listen to this..."

Dear Ron,

Last night, the anti-Muggle charms around Hogsmeade went down. We're not sure what happened - I suspect it was someone's idea of a prank - but it caused something of a stir. Muggles were turning up in the Three Broomsticks and trying to spend that funny paper money of theirs in all the shops and snapping photographs of everything. We've got the charms in place again, but I'll be in town all week helping them clean up the mess. The Ministry hasn't had to perform this many memory charms since the World Cup.

Percy tells me you usually have your first trip to Hogsmeade right about now. If you'll be in the village next weekend, let me know and I'll take you out to lunch. I sent letters to your sister and the twins. Tell Harry and Hermione they're welcome to come, too.

Love,

"I haven't seen him in ages!" said Ron, folding the letter and jamming it into his pocket. "He was gone for almost a week before we left for school, and even before that he was hardly ever around."

"We could ask him what happened to the Malfoys," said Harry, as casually as he could manage. "Maybe he knows."

"And we get a free lunch in Hogsmeade!" said Ron. "Wonder if I can convince Ginny not to go..."

"She's not so bad," said Harry. "She's just really young."

"I guess," said Ron. "Really young and really bad at Quidditch."

Harry sighed. "Speaking of which," he said, grabbing a muffin and pushing back from the table, "I really need to get started with putting together the new team roster."

"Need help?"

"No...no, it's ok...I'm just going to hole up in our room for a while, then go and find Madame Hooch to get the list approved. But I'll be done in a few hours. Come find me after lunch?"

Ron grinned. "Sure, Harry. Sounds great." Harry started out of the hall, but before he was out of earshot Ron added, "I want to be Keeper, all right?"

Feeling horrifically guilty for something he hadn't even done yet, Harry slunk into corridors, decidedly less cheerful than he'd been a short time ago.

***

An hour or so later, Harry was sitting on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by notes and feeling painfully undecided. Simon Branford, it seemed, was the best candidate for Chaser. Geoffrey Stebbins, a stocky third year, was probably most suited to be the new Keeper. But there were four reserve spots to fill, and twice that many suitable names on his list. And as much as he hated to admit it, nearly all of them came before Ron. Ginny in particular.

Taking his glasses off, Harry rubbed his eyes and yawned. It seemed the day was catching up with him.

And then, with a pop like a champagne cork, Dobby the House Elf was standing next to his elbow.

"Harry Potter!" he cried, flinging his arms around Harry's neck. "Oh, Dobby has been missing you, Harry Potter, sir!"

"Hullo Dobby," Harry choked. The elf was crushing his windpipe. "Er...how are things?"

"Things is wonderful, Sir!" said Dobby, releasing him at last and standing back enough for Harry to see him properly. It seemed his fashion sense had improved somewhat over the summer. Though his socks were still garishly mismatched - bright fuchsia and purple polka dots mixed with a festive print of Christmas trees - he had managed to find a pair of gray knickerbockers and a blue button-down shirt small enough to fit him.

"But Dobby is not here to talk, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby continued. "Dobby is having a delivery to make."

"What, for me?"

Dobby nodded so vigorously it seemed his head would shake itself off. "Dobby is having a package for you, sir. A package from....from..." His tennis ball eyes widened. Casting suspicious glances about the room, he leaned forward again to whisper in Harry's ear. "Mister Draco Malfoy."

"Is it a broom?"

"It is partly being a broom," said Dobby. "And it is partly being something else." With another loud pop, the Firebolt and a small, velvet pouch appeared in Dobby's hands.

Harry took the bag with a slight frown. "These are both from Malfoy?" Dobby nodded again, and Harry tipped the bag over. Ten coins clinked into his palm.

They were Galleons.

"Bloody hell," said Harry. "There's no note? Did he tell you what this was for?"

"Mister Malfoy is giving Dobby things for Harry Potter, sir. He is not explaining why," Dobby pulled at his ears nervously. "And Dobby is not wanting to ask. Draco Malfoy was kicking Dobby in the head for asking questions when he was Dobby's master, sir, and Dobby is not liking being kicked."

"You used to be his House Elf," said Harry. "I'd almost forgotten."

"They is bad, bad wizards, Harry Potter!" said Dobby emphatically. "Dobby is glad to be a free elf, sir. Dobby is not liking his masters."

"Draco's parents are dead," said Harry softly. "Did you know that?"

"Dobby is knowing that. Dumbledore is telling Dobby, and Dobby is not caring." He spoke as if this was a unforgivably scandalous topic. It seemed he might start closing his hand in a waffle iron at any moment. "They is bad, bad wizards, and they is trying to hurt Harry Potter. Harry Potter is too important, sir...Dobby is glad they're gone." The elf looked up at him, a glint of daring in his huge, green eyes. "And if Harry Potter is not minding his saying so, sir, Dobby is not liking young Mister Malfoy, either. Dobby is wishing Harry Potter would not be talking to bad wizards, sir. Or lending them his broom."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Harry. He ran his fingers over the smooth, polished shaft of his Firebolt, following the grain of the wood. "Do you know where Malfoy is, now?"

"In the dungeons, sir," said Dobby reluctantly. "But - "

"Dobby!"

Harry looked up just in time to see Hermione clambering through the portrait hole, her book-bag full to the bursting. She rushed over and dropped to her knees next to Dobby, pulling him into a hug.

"I was just thinking about you!" she said, giving him an extra squeeze before finally letting him go. "I found all the old S.P.E.W. buttons in my trunk the other day. After what happened with poor Winky last spring, it seems the ideal time to re-dedicate myself to elf rights."

Dobby looked rather like a squirrel caught in headlights. A very large, hairless, ugly squirrel.

"You wouldn't have a few minutes to talk about it, would you?" asked Hermione, smiling cheerfully.

"Ah...well...Harry Potter is needing Dobby, miss. So - "

"Actually, I was just leaving," said Harry, shoving his notes into a pile and getting to his feet. "Have to put my broom away, and then go and see Madame Hooch."

Hermione frowned. "Why do you have your broom down here?"

"I was cleaning it," Harry lied. "Right, Dobby?"

Dobby squeaked incoherently.

"If Ron shows up, tell him I'll be back in just a bit, all right?" Harry flashed a smile he hoped was reassuring.

And before Hermione could answer he'd trotted off to his dormitory, heavy coins jangling in his pocket as he ran up the stairs.

The broom was put away in his trunk. The notes were pocketed, and after a moment's consideration they were joined by the Marauder's Map and the Pocket Sneakoscope Ron had bought him in Egypt.

When he came back through the common room, Hermione had cornered Dobby next to the fireplace and was peppering him with questions about his thoughts on pension plans. Neither of them seemed to notice as Harry crept past and slipped into the hall.

A short while later, he was standing in a disused classroom near Gryffindor tower, the map unfolded on a desk.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," Harry murmured, tapping the ancient parchment with his wand. A delicate web of ink spread across its surface, and he watched as the innards of Hogwarts were laid out before him, populated by tiny labeled dots.

Madame Hooch was in her office, which was currently situated near the Ravenclaw wing. Draco Malfoy was alone in his room. Harry fingered the Galleons in his pocket, and knew with sudden and complete certainty that he was about to do something unwise.

***

It was halfway through lunch hour when Harry reached the door to the Slytherin common room, and the map showed only a handful of students lounging about inside. None of their names were familiar.

"Mischief managed," Harry muttered, tapping his wand against the map again. The lines vanished.

Not giving himself time to reconsider, Harry reached up and knocked on the door as loudly as he dared. And after a few, agonizing seconds of muffled conversation, it swung open to reveal the hulking form of a surly-looking seventh-year.

"Vat do you vant?" he rumbled, looking down at Harry from what seemed like a dizzying height.

"Um," said Harry. He swallowed. His mouth was suddenly very dry. "Malfoy. I need to see Draco Malfoy."

"He is not here." The Slytherin started to close the door. Harry blocked it with his foot.

"No, I know Malfoy's here," he said. "He's in his room. I just need to talk to him."

The Slytherin narrowed his eyes. "You are Harry Potter. You are Gryffindor. You do not belong in here."

"Yes, I know, but - "

"It's all right, Stefan," said a voice from inside the room. "He's only here to kick Malfoy around. Let him in."

Reluctantly, Stefan stepped aside to let Harry pass. Sitting on a couch nearby was a fifth-year girl that Harry actually recognized, though he couldn't recall her name.

She pointed at one of the stairways that led farther down into the dungeons. "The boys dorms are that way," she said with a disinterested air. "Malfoy's is the second on the right." Her mouth twisted into a sneer, though Harry suspected it was meant to be a grin. "Give him one for me, will you?"

"Sure..." said Harry, and hurried down the stairs. He hadn't liked the way she was looking at him.

Though Harry had been inside the Slytherin rooms once before in his second year, the stay had been brief and entirely confined to the common room. This was the first time he'd ever seen where students outside of Gryffindor lived. And he found himself feeling very lucky indeed.

The stone stairway he now walked up was chilly and slightly damp, lined with lamps that offered light without any warmth. The walls themselves were ornately carved, depicting scenes of wizarding conquest and Muggle squalor. They were stunning without being beautiful. In fact, everything Harry had seen so far seemed calculated to impress and overwhelm. There was nothing welcoming about this place.

Harry reached the door to Malfoy's room and found it locked. Again, he raised his hand to knock.

"I told you, Morag," said Malfoy, his voice dulled by the heavy door, "I'm not in the mood."

"It's...it's Harry," said Harry, and felt suddenly stupid. Draco had never called him Harry. Maybe he knew other Harrys. "Um," said Harry. "It's Harry Potter."

Now he felt even more stupid.

There was silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then footsteps coming closer until the lock clicked and the door opened.

Malfoy was still dressed in his Quidditch gear, minus the guards and outer robe. His eyes were rimmed in red, and his white-blond hair fell limply across his forehead. But the thing that Harry's gaze lingered on was the angry purplish bruise that was blossoming on his neck.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"Bludger," said Malfoy. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. "I suppose you'll want to come in."

"Guess so," said Harry, and he did..

The room was circular, much like Harry's own, but it looked strangely empty. There was only one bed, draped in heavy green velvet, and a scattering of gothic furniture. Draco sat cross-legged on the bed, his hands toying nervously with the coverlet. Harry stood a few feet away, feeling oppressively awkward and trying not to show it.

"I got my broom," he said. "Thanks for that."

Malfoy frowned. "Is that all? Did that useless elf forget to give you - "

"The Galleons?" Harry pulled out the money pouch again; held it up in front of him. "You mean you meant to send them? I'd thought it was a mistake."

"Is it not enough?" Malfoy asked, a twinge of anxiety in his voice. "I could - "

"I don't want your money," said Harry, stepping forward and throwing the coins on the bed.

Malfoy bristled. "Look, Potter, I don't need your pity. I may be orphaned but I'm not poor." He said the last word as if it were dirty.

"I'm not pitying you, Malfoy," Harry snapped, feeling his irritation take over. "I just don't want it! I don't even know why you gave it to me in the first place, it's not like you owe me anything."

"You lent me your broom," said Malfoy. "You helped me, now I'm helping you. I don't see what so radical about that."

"Lending you my broom was a gesture, Malfoy, not a transaction."

"But I want to pay you back," said Malfoy, "and there's nothing I own that you'd need. I don't like being in debt."

"Then pay me back with another gesture!" said Harry, his voice rising. "That's how these things work. If you hadn't spent your whole life buying people off you'd know that!"

Malfoy stared at him. "Then what, precisely, do you suggest I do?" he said quietly, with a hint of the old drawl. "Donate the money to charity?"

Harry forced himself to breathe, waiting for the frustration to ebb before he answered. "Well," he said carefully. "You need a new broom."

"Obviously."

"And I like brooms. And not once have I ever gotten to buy one on my own - they're always presents that someone else picked out."

Malfoy frowned. "So you want to buy yourself a broom?"

"No," said Harry. "I want to go with you when you buy your own."

"You mean, just...walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies with your nemesis and shop for broomsticks?" Harry cringed at the reminder of their not-so-distant past, but Malfoy pressed on. "Won't people think you've gone over the edge? Skeeter would plaster it all over the Daily Prophet."

"I'll wear my invisibility cloak," said Harry.

The last hints of color drained out of Malfoy's face. "You have an invisibility cloak?"

Oh, no, Harry thought. Now I've done it. He watched with wide, green eyes as four years of detentions, mud flinging and general torment flashed though Malfoy's mind, the latest bit of information allowing them to finally click into place. He braced himself for what seemed an inevitable explosion.

But none came. Instead, Malfoy twisted his lips into something resembling a smile. It looked like it required a lot of effort. "All right, then," he said. "When do you want to go?"

Harry let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. "The first Hogsmeade weekend is coming up. I have to be somewhere for lunch, but I could meet you around five. If you want."

"Fine," said Malfoy. Again, the forced smile that was somehow worse than any sneer he could have managed. "Good. I'll see you there."

Several minutes later, Harry was back in the hallway again, the door to the Slytherin common room slamming shut behind him. He was nearly to Madam Hooch's office before the significance of what had just happened finally hit him.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had made a social engagement.

***

Just under an hour later, Harry was back at Gryffindor Tower. Ron pounced on him the moment his foot hit the carpet of the common room.

"Did you talk to Madam Hooch?" he asked, close to dancing with excitement. "What did she say? What position did I get? C'mon, Harry, I've been waiting all afternoon! I'm going completely nutters, here!"

Harry tried to swallow the lump that had appeared in his throat. He'd planned to sneak up to his bedroom for a while before talking to anyone, giving himself some time to strategize about how he was going to break the news.

So much for that.

"Actually," said Harry, very slowly and with great care. "Actually...you didn't get a position..."

Ron stopped bouncing. "So I'm in the reserves?"

"Not really...No..." said Harry.

Ron's smile evaporated. "So I'm not on the team at all?"

Harry cringed. Ron stared at him with a look that was rapidly transitioning from confusion to horrified betrayal. Always one to sense trouble brewing, Hermione walked over from where she'd been studying and stood behind Ron, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

"Well...Crikey, Harry, why not?" said Ron, the hurt obvious in his voice. "I know I'm not the world's best Quidditch player or anything, but I'm sure I'm not so bloody terrible that I can't even sit on the bench."

This wasn't going well. "Ron, I didn't say - "

"It's because of my broom, isn't it? You're not going to let me play because I don't have a fancy new broom and - "

"There are team brooms..."

"So I'm just bad, right? That's what you're saying? I'm so totally useless that you thought you should keep me off the team entirely? Thanks a load, Harry."

"Ron, that's not what I meant - "

"I think what Harry is trying to say," Hermione broke in, her voice low and soothing, "is that he didn't want to be selfish."

"Selfish?" said Ron. He and Harry looked at her with equally blank expressions.

"Yes, selfish," said Hermione. "Of course he wants you to be on the team, Ron. You're his best friend! But he can't only think of himself -- he needs to think of what's best for the team; what's best for Gryffindor. It's not that you aren't good at Quidditch, you just aren't what the team needs right now."

"Yes," said Harry emphatically. He felt he could have kissed her, just then. "That's it exactly. Exactly. I want you to be on the team, Ron, but you are my best friend. You don't really fit into any of the positions that're up right now, and if I put you on the team despite that everyone would think that I was favoring you...because I would be, really...and I can't have that. I've just been made captain and I need them to trust me."

"So they know you're serious about being captain and aren't just messing about with your friends," said Ron.

"Yes."

"Oh," said Ron. "Well. That's not so bad, is it?"

"Of course it isn't," said Hermione. Harry noticed that her hand on Ron's shoulder had not moved, but decided it was best not to think about it.

"Have you decided on the rest of the team roster, then?" Ron asked, the enthusiasm creeping back into his voice.

"No, not yet," said Harry, a little too quickly. And as soon as the words were out of his mouth a high-pitched whistling erupted from his pocket. All three of them hastily covered their ears.

"What is that?" said Hermione, shouting to be heard over the din.

"Sneakoscope," said Harry shortly, jamming his hand into the pocket in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Must be broken." He edged toward the stairs to the boys' dormitory. "Hang on, I'll put it away..."

By the time he'd run up to his room and slammed the door shut behind him, the whistling had faded to a sort of low hum. When Harry drew it out of his pocket, it was barely spinning fast enough to stay upright on his palm.

Of course, it wasn't broken at all, just as it had been working perfectly well when Ron had first given it to him in third year. Then, it had reacted to the presence of Peter Pettigrew -- of Wormtail -- masquerading as Ron's pet rat. And now it was announcing the fact that the finished team roster was tucked carefully into Harry's robes. Harry had just forgotten he had a lie detector in his pocket.

Just as he'd forgotten about it when he went to talk with Malfoy. Because despite their minor argument, it hadn't gone off once during the conversation. Which was sort of a shocking concept, really, for it meant that not only did Harry mean Malfoy no ill will, but that Malfoy felt the same way.

As he shoved the Sneakoscope back inside Vernon's old sock and into the bottom of his trunk, Harry wondered at the surreal quality of his afternoon. It was barely an hour past lunchtime, and already he'd held his first Quidditch trials, pissed off the Slytherin captain, made a shopping date with Malfoy, and lied to his best friend. Nothing short of Hagrid wearing a tutu and fairy wings could make this day any stranger.

Or so he thought, until there was a sudden commotion in the stairwell, and the girl from the Slytherin dungeons waltzed into his room with Ron and Hermione right on her heels.

"I told her she couldn't come in!" Ron growled. "But she just barged right past me!"

"I'm allowed to be here," the girl sniffed, crossing her arms and looking down her pointed nose.

"Well, technically yes, as we did open the portrait hole," said Hermione, looking painfully torn between the rules and her pride. "But we're also allowed to ask you to leave."

"Yeah," said Ron, "and now I'm asking. LEAVE."

"I'll leave when I'm done with Potter," said the girl.

Ron was positively livid. "If you don't get your skinny little Slytherin arse out of my room, I don't care if you are a girl, I'll beat your - "

"It's ok, Ron," said Harry abruptly, his eyes on the girl. "I'll talk to her."

"But - "

"You and Hermione can wait for me downstairs." Harry glanced at Ron and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, she won't try anything."

Ron gaped at him openly for a moment, but in the end he didn't argue. Nor did Hermione. And a few seconds later they were gone.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "So?"

"I want to know what's going on with you and Malfoy," said the girl. "I want to know why you were in his room, since it obviously wasn't to beat the shit out of him, much as that would've be nice."

"There's nothing going on," said Harry, keeping his voice flat. "We had some business to take care of. That's all."

The girl scowled. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care," said Harry. "That's what happened, and that's all I'm going to say about it. So why don't you go back to your creepy dungeons and leave it be."

Her frown deepened, cutting a thin line across her pale and bony face. "Fine. If you're going to be like that, then fine. But..." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "If I think for even a second that you and Malfoy are up to something, I'll make sure everyone and the giant squid knows about it. I don't give two shits about you, Potter, but I'm tired of Malfoy and his stupid, rich-boy attitude. And if you give me the means to cut him down like the scrawny little weed he is, I'll snap it up so fast you won't know what hit you."

Harry fought to keep his voice level. "You'll be waiting a long time, then," he said. "Because there's nothing going on. And there never will be. Now," He pointed at the still-open door. "I think it's time you left."

And she did, though not before skewering him with a last, piercing glare.

"Who was that?" asked Ron when Harry descended into the common room a short while later.

"No idea," said Harry.

"Rotten Slytherins," Ron grumbled. "Can you believe the nerve of that girl? You can't just go barging into other houses whenever you feel the urge."

"Actually, you can," said Hermione quietly from behind a copy of House Elves of the Rich and Famous. "It's all in - "

"I know, I know, Hogwarts, a History," said Ron, waving her off.

Hermione bristled. "Actually, I read about it in the Prefects handbook Percy lent me this summer. There was a whole section on inter-house regulations, and it's stated quite clearly that while students are encouraged to spend their free time in their own houses, you are allowed to enter the common room of another house. Provided you're invited, of course, and opening the portrait hole counts as an invitation." Her brow crinkled in thought. "But now that I think of it, there was a passage in Hogwarts, a History about a Hufflepuff who snuck into the Ravenclaw tower and - "

"Anyway," Ron interrupted, earning a glare from Hermione that could have melted lead. "The point is, what was she doing here in the first place?"

"She wanted to know if Malfoy and I were up to something," said Harry, avoiding Ron's eyes. "And I told her were weren't, so she left."

"You and Malfoy?" Ron laughed. "Why the hell would she think that? She must have gone round the twist!"

"Maybe because Harry keeps chasing him around the school," Hermione muttered.

"There's nothing going on with me and Malfoy," said Harry quickly. "I thought I should be nice to him because his parents died, but he's nothing but a slimy wanker and so I've given up." Hermione shot him a glare, no doubt knowing perfectly well that this was yet another lie. Harry tried not to look at her.

"Well, I mean....everyone knows you and Malfoy hate each other," said Ron, sounding relieved. "That girl must be completely daft, is all. No wonder You-Know-Who and his goons didn't want her."

"What do you mean, they didn't want her?" asked Hermione, momentarily distracted from Harry's garish dishonesty.

"I mean that all the Slytherins who pulled out were the kids of Death Eaters," said Ron, clearly relishing the chance to be the authority on something. "All that's left are the Muggle-borns and weirdoes."

"And the transfers from Durmstrang," said Hermione.

"Yeah, and them."

"I didn't know there were any Muggle-borns in Slytherin," said Harry. "That couldn't have gone over well."

"Why d'you think we hardly recognise any of them?" said Ron. "They probably spent most their time avoiding pureblood snobs like Malfoy."

"How do you know all this?" asked Hermione suspiciously.

"Was just thinking about it over lunch," said Ron, casually examining his fingernails. "I did grow up in the Wizarding world, after all...I notice these things."

"And now that you have, we can file it away under 'information that will probably never be useful,' along with Fletcher's helpful hints for getting rid of ear hair," said Hermione. "Well then, if you're done being insightful, I suggest we all get working on our Defense Against the Dark Arts essays. They're due on Monday, after all."

Ron frowned. "I thought you were already done with yours?"

"Professor Figg suggested a few changes. Besides, I doubt the two of you have even started."

"True," said Ron.

Harry scratched his head. "What was the topic again?"

Hermione sighed.

***

Harry woke up an hour or so earlier than he had to on Sunday morning, posting the new team roster in the common room before anyone else was awake and then hurrying down to breakfast. He knew that at least one person was going to want a word with him, and he hoped that maybe forcing the confrontation into a public place would keep it from getting too out of hand.

The Great Hall was nearly empty, its enchanted ceiling reflecting the pale morning sky, but there was something strange about it. Harry had found a seat and piled his plate with sausages and eggs before he realized what that something was.

The tables. Half of the tables were gone.

Harry felt his chest tighten. Up until that moment, he had allowed some part of himself to think that the emptiness of Hogwarts was just temporary. That everyone had simply been spooked by what happened at the Tri Wizard Tournament, and that any day now they would come to their senses and fill the halls and classrooms again. He had never really believed that Katie Bell and Terry Boot and Hannah Abbot and all the other missing students weren't coming back.

But now there was no denying it. Even Dumbledore, it seemed, had given up. Cold fingers of loneliness crept through the warmth of Harry's jumper, making him shiver, and he wished he had waited for his friends before coming downstairs.

He had barely had the time to work up a good bit of angst, however, before Ginny came tumbling into the Great Hall wearing too-short overalls and a grin as wide as Dudley's bottom. She hurtled across the room, arms and legs flailing every which way, reminding Harry quite distinctly of a pigtailed scarecrow let loose from its field.

"Harry!" she cried, so out of breath that she must have run all the way from Gryffindor Tower. She skidded to a stop near his chair and stood there gasping for a moment, her head between her knees as she managed to cough out fragments of sentences. "Oh, Harry..!" Gasp. "...So glad you...!" Wheeze. "...On the team...!" She took a deep breath, and finally managed to look up at him, brushing aside the carrot-colored wisps that had come loose from her plaits. "Harry, thank you so much for this! On the team! Gosh, I...You've no idea how much..."

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. "Gin...Virginia...You're not really on the team, you're just in the reserves..."

"Oh, I don't care!" she laughed, collapsing into the seat next to Harry's. "Honestly, just being on the team at all is...wonderful! Just wonderful! Just knowing that I have the slightest little chance of getting to play..." She trailed off with a dreamy sigh. "And of course, I'll get to go to practices, and maybe if I work really hard I could even try out again next year, because by then half the team will be gone and there'll be loads of spots left and - "

"You're welcome," said Harry, smiling despite himself. "I'm glad you're happy. Really."

Ginny beamed at him.

"I'm just worried about your bro - "

"HARRY!"

Harry cringed. Ginny blanched. Ron stormed across the hall with a bit of parchment crumpled in his hand, his face as red as his hair. When he reached Harry he thrust the paper forward as if it were a sword.

"YOU TOLD ME," Ron bellowed, "THAT YOU WEREN'T PLAYING FAVORITES."

"I'm not," said Harry, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

"THEN WHAT IS SHE," Ron pointed at Ginny with a quivering finger, "DOING ON THE TEAM?"

"I'm actually just a reserve," Ginny squeaked. Ron didn't seem to hear her.

"She's on the team because I thought she would be useful," said Harry. "We keep losing matches every time I can't play. I was going to train her as a Seeker."

Ginny's eyes went round and bright as Galleons. Ron managed to look even more indignant. By now, all twenty or so sets of eyes in the room were pointed in their direction.

"Not that...I'll be missing any matches...she'll probably be on the bench all season...."

"Oh, yes," said Ginny emphatically. "The bench. Definitely."

"That's beside the point, and you know it!"

"Ron, look," said Harry. "I already talked to you about this. You know why things are the way they are. And if you don't like it, fine, but don't yell at your sister because it isn't her fault."

"OF COURSE IT'S HER FAULT!" Ron bellowed. "She sucks eggs at Quidditch! She must've....oh I don't know, bewitched you with her evil feminine charms!"

Harry blinked. "Ron, that is the dumbest thing you've ever said. And she doesn't suck at Quidditch, I wouldn't have put her on the team if she did."

Ginny looked as if she were trying to merge with her chair.

Ron continued to rage. "What, so I suck at Quidditch? That what you're saying?!"

"No," said Harry. "It's not. I keep trying to tell you that - "

"Hedwig!" Ginny cried, leaping up so fast that her chair was knocked over. With a soft hoot and the low thump of wings, the owl landed on a pitcher of pumpkin juice, a thick envelope in her beak. Ginny snatched it up and thrust it between Ron and Harry, clutching it between her fingers as if it were the holy grail.

"Oh, well!" she said with an urgent cheerfulness. "Letter for Harry! Guess we'll have to talk Quidditch later!"

"Kind of early for post," said Ron slowly.

Harry took the envelope and tore it open, pulling the letter out and scanning it over. "It's from Sir...I mean Snuffles!"

"Snuffles? Really?!" Ron dropped the crumpled Quidditch roster on the floor, forgotten in light of this new development. "You mean he finally wrote you back? Is he all right? Where's he been?"

"Who's Snuffles?"

Ron and Harry looked at each other, then back to the Weasley sister.

"Shove off, Gin," said Ron, sounding tremendously satisfied. "Private business." As soon as she was out of earshot, Ron turned back to Harry. "Go on, what does it say?"

Barely able to keep the parchment from shaking in his excitement, Harry held up the letter so they could both read it.

Dear Harry,

I can't tell you how horrible I feel that you've gone so long without hearing from me. I've been away on an errand since early August, and all my post was forwarded to Moony's house. I didn't realize that no one would tell you where I was. Not that it's any excuse, but at least it's an explanation. I know I haven't been a very good godfather to you, Harry. You should be thinking about your schoolwork and your friends, not worrying about me. Next time, I'll be sure to ask Moony to send you a note every so often so you know I'm all right.

There's only so much I can safely tell you about Figg and Fletcher - the Death Eaters and the Ministry are both keeping a close watch on the post these days, and this owl may be intercepted.

I can tell you that their presence at Hogwarts means Dumbledore is preparing for the worst. He was their head of house while they were at school and they've been trusted allies of his ever since. They may be a bit eccentric at times, but they're good people, Harry. You know from personal experience what Figg was willing to do to protect you - I doubt that Fletcher is any different. Mad-Eye would probably be there, as well, if he weren't so badly needed at the Ministry right now. I just hope that the extra precautions Dumbledore seems to be taking prove to be unnecessary.

Congratulations on being made captain! Your father would have been proud.

Keep in touch, but make sure to change owls and be careful what you say.

Take care. Moony sends his best.

Sirius

Harry read the letter twice, then refolded it and set it down on the table.

"It doesn't really say much, does it?" said Ron, sounding disappointed.

"Yeah," said Harry, and stared down at his hands.

He had thought that as soon as he heard back from Sirius, things would get a little better. Some of the weight would be lifted from the back of his mind; some of tension would leave his shoulders; some of the old joy would find its way back into his life when he knew his godfather was all right.

But now the long-awaited letter was right in front of him, and all he felt was empty. He was glad that Sirius wasn't hurt. And he was glad that he now had a little more information about his new professors. But the questions about Figg and Fletcher had just been an excuse for writing -- what Harry really wanted was to know where Sirius had been for all those weeks, and what he was planning to do now. Harry knew that most of the vagueness was born of necessity; that Sirius couldn't afford to include specifics; that Dumbledore had no doubt given him important and sensitive things to do that couldn't be risked for the sake of a godson's ease of mind.

Harry knew all of these things. And none of it made him feel any better.

He looked back to the half-empty tables in the half-empty hall. His friends and schoolmates weren't coming back. And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if the same was true for Sirius. One day, he thought, the letters might stop entirely.

Harry was lucky in one thing - that he didn't remember his parents, and so couldn't really miss having them. He had never lost a friend or a loved one, not like Malfoy or the Diggorys had. He did not know grief as they knew it.

He hoped he never would.

***

When Hermione saw the letter from Sirius later that day, she scolded Harry for being disappointed. As she was far more interested in politics than either of her friends were, she found the bits and pieces of information contained within the note absolutely fascinating.

"At least now we know why they're here," she said, meaning Figg and Fletcher. "They're friends of Dumbledore's, and Figg at least had something to do with protecting you."

"She was my nanny," said Harry. "I barely ever saw her."

"Oh, you know there's more to it than that," said Hermione. "Sirius said that their being here means Dumbledore is preparing for the worst. They must be fairly powerful wizards if he feels that much safer with them nearby." She scanned over the letter again. "Also, Sirius is strongly suggesting that whatever Dumbledore is doing, he's going about it without letting the Ministry know the details."

"Fudge is an idiot," said Ron. "Dumbledore knows that."

"Maybe so," said Hermione. "But how long can this go on before someone notices?"

With the first round of Quidditch practices and a healthy load of homework to distract him, the week was half over before Harry surfaced long enough to really think about what Hermione had said.

He was sitting in potions on Wednesday afternoon, carefully boiling a mixture of dandelion root and chizpurfle extract, when Sirius' letter fluttered back into his mind. Mundungus Fletcher was pacing back and forth on top of Snape's old desk, rattling off a list of ingredients peppered with random anecdotes.

"You see, sprouts," he was saying, "it's not the size of a woman's behind that's important, so much as the texture." He grabbed a tiny vial from a rack above the blackboard and poured half of it into his cauldron. "Add an eighth of an ounce of gunpowder and stir counter-clockwise for one minute." He flicked his wand and a wooden spoon flew across the room and began to stir his potion for him. "Now Minerva McGonagall....lord almighty, that woman had a rump to die for..."

Hermione and most of the Ravenclaws stared fixedly at their cauldrons. Harry, however, felt something slide into place in his head. He left Ron to the stirring and tentatively raised his hand.

"Question, Potter?" asked Fletcher cheerfully.

"Um..." Harry lowered his hand, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat. "About...Professor McGonagall...you weren't in school together at all, were you?"

Fetcher grinned down at Harry. "That would be an enthusiastic 'yes,'" he said. "We were in the same year at this excellent institution, along with the illustrious Arabella Figg. The finest birds in Gryffindor, and there I was with one on each arm!" He jerked his head up again and leered at the rest of the class. "Enough with the stirring, eh? Time to add those beetle legs! Try to pick out the ones that've stopped twitching before you dump the lot in, you want them extra fresh."

"We already knew that," Ron hissed, wiping sweat from his forehead as he stirred their bubbling cauldron. "Ask him something else!"

"So you were at school with Lucius Malfoy, then, too," said Harry. "Right?"

For the first time since the beginning of term, the mischievous amusement vanished from Fletcher's face. "Yes," he said slowly. "We all knew Lucius rather better than we would have liked. That particular gang of Slytherins caused us more trouble than you'd think was possible for a load of teenagers. Dark wizards, the lot of 'em." His eyes never leaving Harry's, he jumped down off of the desk and walked slowly over to the ingredients cupboard. He selected a jar of dark red powder. "Why?"

By now, the entire class was staring at the back of Harry's head.

"Just wondering," said Harry.

"A pinch of dried dragon's blood," said Fletcher. "Anything else you'd like to know, Potter?" It was not a friendly question. Not hostile, exactly, but not inviting either.

"Well...you said there was a gang of Slytherins...who else was in it?"

"Crabbe, Goyle, Lestrange, Avery..." Fletcher slowly raised his head. His spectacles caught the light of his cauldron and gleamed red like twin circles of flame. "Riddle."

It was strange, Harry thought, to feel your heart pound at the mention of a name, and know that hardly anyone else in the room had even heard it before.

Hermione had finally looked up from her cauldron. Her face was pale. "You went to school with Tom Riddle?"

"If only we could all be so lucky, eh, Miss Granger?" he said dryly. "Now, this particular brew needs to sit overnight in a cool, dark place before it can be used. Your homework is to come back when you have a free moment tomorrow, test your potion, and write a report on what happened...as opposed to what was supposed to happen. Good? Good." He sat cross-legged on top of the desk and flashed a toothy grin that lacked the usual zeal. "Class dismissed."

Ron, Harry and Hermione put away their things, added their own cauldrons to the growing pile in the storage room, and left the dungeons. None of them spoke, but nonetheless a decision was made, and instead of going to Gryffindor tower with the rest of their classmates they slipped down a side corridor and into an empty room.

"This complicates things," said Hermione as soon as the door had clicked shut behind her.

"I don't see how," said Ron. "So they went to school with Riddle. So what? It's just a coincidence."

"I don't think so," said Harry. "It all matches up too well, I mean...Figg, Fletcher and McGonagall were friends in school, and now they're all here? I know you said before that it makes sense to you, Hermione, but I'm not so sure. If they're such amazing wizards with such a strong connections to Voldemort, why aren't they Aurors? Or helping Sirius and Lupin? Or helping your father, Ron? It'd be one thing if it was only Fletcher, but Figg's been living as a Muggle for fourteen years, as far as I can tell. And now they bring her to teach at Hogwarts? Why? Why not last year? Why not second year? Even Figg would've been better than Lockhart."

Hermione stepped away from the door and started pacing, her loafers kicking up the dust that lay thick upon the floor. "It isn't just Riddle who was at school with them...Lucius Malfoy was there, too, along with half of You-Know-Who's inner circle..." She twirled her wand absently, her brow furrowed with concentration. "Malfoy is dead. Voldemort has returned. The Death Eaters are active for the first time in a decade." She ran a hand through her bushy brown hair, tangling her fingers in the curls. "But you're right, Harry, even if there was something between them all, that doesn't explain why Figg and Fletcher are at Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore asked Moody to teach last year," said Ron. "And Sirius said that Moody would be here now if he wasn't so busy. I don't see how this is any different."

"Moody was here...well, was supposed to be here...because of the Triwizard Tournament," said Harry. "There was a lot that could've gone wrong, what with Karkaroff and a couple dozen seventh years trained in the Dark Arts wandering around, not to mention the actual tasks."

"And look what happened," said Ron. "Can't blame Dumbledore for being a little paranoid."

"I suppose," said Hermione. "It just seems strange. I can't put my finger on precisely why, but it does." She sighed. "We'll just have to wait and see what happens. And hope that we're just being paranoid."

Harry remembered, dimly, his dream of Voldemort. It had probably been nothing more than a nightmare, born of nerves and bad memories. But it haunted him all the same.

The details were gone, washed away by time, leaving him with nothing but a scattering of images. The cold, cavernous room ... Wormtail, shuddering in the darkness ... and something about a key...

***

"All right, we've fed the flobberworms, brushed the Kneazles, cleaned the Fwooper's cage and checked to make sure none of the Bowtruckles are missing," said Hermione, glancing at the list that Professor Grubbly-Plank had given them. Their first day of volunteer work for Care of Magical Creatures had arrived, and for the last hour or so Harry, Hermione and Ron had worked their way through the numerous inhabitants of Grubbly-Plank's office. "All that's left is to give the Runespoor its monthly rat."

Ron blanched. "We're going to feed it a rat?"

"It's all right, I'll deal with it," said Harry, taking the rat cage from Hermione. "I like snakes."

"Thanks, Harry!" said Ron, already halfway to the door.

"Do you mind if I go with him?" asked Hermione. "I don't really want to watch this, either."

"No, it's fine...you two go on, I'll meet up with you in the common room when I'm done."

Once his friends had left, Harry hefted the cage and peered inside. A very unhappy looking rat trembled in the corner.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "Nothing personal."

Grubbly-Plank's office was dimly lit and smelled of wood shavings and wet fur. There were cages and tanks stacked on top of every surface, and as Harry walked between them he could feel the weight of dozens of eyes staring from exotic faces. Narrow beams of sunlight streamed through cracks in the heavy curtains, swimming with dust motes, catching the odd fragment of tail or wing.

It would have taken Harry ages to find the Runespoor's tank by sight alone. Fortunately, he didn't have to. A furious, breathy whisper was emanating from the far corner of the room. Harry couldn't precisely figure out what it was saying, but he could think of only one sort of creature that sounded like that. Snakes.

This one appeared to be arguing with itself.

"I don't care what you think," the left head was saying as Harry slowly approached. "It's high time we tried for another escape."

"And of course," hissed the right head, "you have a brilliant plan."

"I like plans," murmured the middle head vaguely.

There was a faint, squeaky scuttling as the rat shifted in its cage. The left head looked up. "Oh, good! Dinner!"

"You know," said the middle head. "I don't really like rat all that much...wouldn't it be nice to have a mouse for once?"

"Mice are all bones and fur," grumbled the right head.

"Um," said Harry. "Where should I put this?"

"Just drop it in here," said the left head helpfully. "We'll manage after that."

"We should have him kill it for us," the right head snarled. "I don't like it when my food can bite back."

"We have food?" said the middle head.

Ah, thought Harry. The joys of being a Parseltongue.

It was nearly fifteen minutes before Harry had sorted out exactly what to do with his delivery. After much deliberation, the heads agreed that it should be kept alive but stunned with a quick hex, then left in the sun-warmed corner of their tank with its tail pointing to the south. Harry wondered if they were always this picky, or if he was just over-accommodating. Either way, their constant bickering gave him a headache, and he was all too eager to escape into the corridors again.

He wasn't entirely surprised to discover that Hermione and Ron had gone missing again, They weren't in the common room when Harry arrived a few minutes later, and as far as he could tell they weren't in Gryffindor Tower at all. Normally he would have let it go and waited until they found their own way back, but as there was no one else to talk to and he didn't much feel like doing homework on a Friday, he decided he might as well go looking for them.

They weren't in the Library, or the Great Hall, or the Astronomy Tower, or any of the empty classrooms he passed along the way. They weren't outside by the lake, or in the greenhouses, or on the Quidditch pitch. He looked in all the likely places, as well as most of the unlikely ones, with absolutely no luck.

By now it was getting dark, and Harry was about ready to give up the search when he caught the faintest flicker of light at the edge of the Forbidden Forrest. Hagrid's hut. There was someone inside.

Had Hagrid come back without telling him?

Harry broke into a run, flying across the grass as the last tinge of scarlet sunset left the sky.

He came up underneath the lit window, crawling along in the grass so he wouldn't be seen. And then, very slowly, he edged his way above the ledge so he could see inside.

There was a fire in the grate. And someone was on the bed. No...

...Not someone.

Two people.

Doing....things.

To each other.

One with short, red hair and one....

Harry made a horrified, strangled sort of sound. And before he realized it he was running again, across the grounds, through the main doors of the castle, up the staircases, through the portrait hole, across the common room and into the relative safety of his own bed.

He was never. Ever. Going to look for them again.

***

There were soft, careful footsteps on the stairs outside Harry's room, and the door creaked open. A moment later, long fingers pulled back the edge of the red velvet curtains, revealing the worried countenance of Ginny Weasley.

"Harry?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"

"Mmmfine," Harry muttered. He was sitting against the headboard, idly toying with his model Hungarian Horntail. It paced back and forth across his lap, and whenever it started to wander he would pick it up and turn in back around again.

The curtains parted even further. "Are you sure? You've been up here for almost an hour, and you looked so...well, you know....when you ran by in the common room..." Very gingerly she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Did something happen?"

Harry fingered the tiny dragon, careful to avoid its needle teeth. "I think I saw something I wasn't supposed to," he said slowly. "But trust me...you don't want to know."

"Oh, don't be silly," she said dismissively. "If something's upsetting one of my friends, of course I want to know about it."

"It's about your brother," said Harry with a hint of warning.

Ginny looked at him expectantly.

Harry told her what he'd seen, keeping his voice low though he knew there was no one around to listen in. And to his complete and utter surprise, Ginny burst into giggles.

"Is that all?" she laughed, looking relieved. "I told you, they've been making eyes at each other ever since Hermione came to stay in the Burrow last summer."

"I know, but..."

"And even before then, there was all that nonsense with the Yule Ball..." She giggled again. "Ron was so jealous!"

"Jealous?"

Ginny shook her head, smiling. "Boys! You never notice what's going on until you're hit over the head with it."

Despite himself, Harry smiled. "I suppose I should have seen it coming, huh?"

Ginny grinned and lowered her eyes, tucking loose strands of red-gold hair behind her ears. "It's all right, you've had other things to think about. You're Harry Potter, after all. You don't have time for silly romances, do you?"

"Look, Gin...Virginia - "

"You don't have to call me that," she said quietly. "'Ginny' is fine...I'm just glad to be talking to you at all, I don't care what name you use." She glanced up at him, a hint of anxiety in her eyes.

Harry knew that she had given him something, just then -- a secret part of herself; a glimpse of her private world. He didn't know what to say.

"Look, I have to go," she said, standing so quickly that she nearly overbalanced. "I really shouldn't be up here, and I'm bothering you anyway, so -"

"You're not bothering me," said Harry.

"No, it's ok," she said, her hand already on the doorknob. "The others'll be back soon, and I don't want to get you in trouble so I'll just be going..."

And she was gone, leaving Harry to wonder what he'd missed.

***

There was a note from Mr. Weasley at breakfast (Pigwidgeon managed to avoid Dean's cereal bowl this time, and opted instead for Pavarti's oatmeal) telling them to be at the restaurant in the Four Founders Hotel by noon. Harry had assumed that their lunch with Ron's father would be at the Three Broomsticks, mostly because he'd never gone anywhere else. He was strangely disappointed to be going somewhere new. But Ron was ecstatic.

"It's the priciest spot in Hogsmeade!" he said. "Bill got to stay there once on Gringott's business, and he says it's fantastic!"

Hermione and Ginny insisted that they all go back to their rooms and change into nicer robes, and they were among the last to leave Hogwarts as a result. It was quarter past noon when Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George finally arrived in the lobby of the Four Founders, tracking mud from the street onto the plush, red carpets.

"Oh, gosh," said Ginny softly, craning her neck as she tried to take it all in.

It had been a castle once, Harry decided, or possibly a cathedral. High, vaulted ceilings; polished stone floors criss-crossed by carpeted paths; sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows; bronze urns brimming with flowers in autumnal colors. All around him witches and wizards in gold-trimmed finery went about their business, many of them trailed by House Elves hauling luggage or carrying parcels.

Even Harry could tell they were massively underdressed. But as luck would have it, so was Mr. Weasley. When combined with his flaming red hair, his dusty, grey robes made him easy to pick out in the crowd. And after a few more minutes of ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the decor, they wandered over to the hotel restaurant.

It, too, was splendid, all silver and porcelain and crisp, white linens. A heavenly aroma of cooking food wafted in from the kitchens. Ron muttered something about washing dishes to pay for their meal.

"Oh, that's all taken care of," said Mr. Weasley cheerfully. "This place was completely swarming with Muggles last week, and I personally made sure that we'd found every last one. Not an easy thing, I'll tell you! They kept trying to steal the flatware..." He grinned. "So! The maitre'd is treating us all to a lunch, as thanks."

"You mean we can eat whatever we want," said George, "and we don't have to pay for it?"

Mr. Weasley looked nervous. "Yes that's true, boys, but I wouldn't want to take advantage..."

A short while later, the twins, Ron and Ginny were all sitting in front of a lobster dinner, a plate of caviar and toast (which Ron didn't even like, but ordered on principle), and a glass of sparkling pumpkin juice. Mr. Weasley ordered the pasta, perhaps in an attempt to compensate.

"How are things at the Ministry?" asked Hermione with polite interest.

"Yeah!" said Ron, still chewing. "Have there been any more raids?"

"You know I can't talk about that, Ron," said Mr. Weasley. "We've been busy, that much I can tell you." He sighed. "Especially now. I still can't believe someone was foolish enough to tamper with those charms! The Muggles caused hundreds of Galleons in property damage, not to mention the cost of bringing in a fleet of memory charm specialists on such short notice."

"Do you know who did it?" asked Fred. Harry suspected he was keen on finding this out so that he could pester them for instructions.

"We're not sure, but it was definitely an amateur. No experienced wizard would have done so messy a job."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.

"Well, there are various spells in place that let us know when things have been tampered with. We knew the Muggle-repelling charms were down before they started wandering into Hogsmeade -- whoever did this tripped every single alarm. If they hadn't done it so quickly, we would have caught them before they could get away." He sipped his wine thoughtfully. "A more professional saboteur would never have been so obvious about it. There are ways around the safeguards, this person just didn't bother to find them. Fred and George could have done a better job of it..." He gave them a stern look. "Not that you should try, boys. Your mother would have my head on a stake."

"So you don't have any idea who did it?" asked Ron.

"Not a one, unfortunately."

"What about the Malfoys," said Harry suddenly. "Any idea what happened to them?"

The rest of the table stared at him. Harry quailed a bit, but held his ground.

"We know they're dead, Dumbledore told us," he said, stumbling forward despite the look Hermione was giving him. "And he said they died under 'unfortunate circumstances.' So I thought maybe they were...were murdered."

Arthur Weasley regarded him solemnly for a long, tense moment before answering. "The Malfoys were dangerous people, Harry. They were involved in some very dark and very risky magic. And there's only so long you can make use of the Dark Arts before they finally backfire." His face closed, then, like heavy curtains drawn over a window. "That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid."

"Oh," said Harry, trying very hard not to sound disappointed.

"Cheer up, Harry!" said Ron, thumping him on the back. "It's nothing we have to worry about! Just two less people in the world who want to kill you, that's all."

"I know, it's a heavy burden to bear, not being in mortal danger," said George. "But I think you'll pull through."

"And don't worry," said Fred. "If it gets to be too much for you we'll send an owl to You-Know-Who.."

"..And he'll be here with a brand new plan for world domination in three to seven business days," George finished. "Only the best for Harry Potter."

"Good to know," said Harry dryly.

It wasn't easy to make excuses for not joining the Weasleys and Hermione at Honeyduke's after lunch. He finally convinced them by saying he needed to restock his potions supplies at Slug and Jiggers, and ran off before Hermione could offer to lend him some of her own.

Harry ducked into an alleyway, away from the prying eyes of the weekend crowds, and reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the light, silken fabric of his father's invisibility cloak.

Malfoy was waiting for him in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, staring at his hands as if unsure where else to look.

Harry came up behind him, close enough to speak without anyone else hearing. "Malfoy," he hissed. "It's Harry."

Reflexively, Malfoy turned toward his voice, though there was nothing to see. Harry started a bit at the details revealed by proximity. The high collar of Malfoy's cloak did not completely hide the bruise on his neck, ugly and yellowing as it aged. And his overlong white blond fringe could not cover the purple shadow of a black eye.

"You're late," he muttered, glaring in Harry's general direction.

"What happened to your face?" Harry whispered.

"Bludger," said Malfoy. He started towards the storefront. "Come on, they close in an hour."

Harry had never actually bought anything Quidditch-related. His Firebolt, his broom repair kit and his books had all been given to him. He'd spent hours inside this place with Ron, gawking at the newest models and chatting with the clerks, but always as a window-shopper, never as a customer.

Of course, today wasn't going to be any different. Malfoy was the one buying a broom, Harry was just there in an advisory role. He fully intended to keep his money bag in his pocket.

But when they walked inside of the store, it was all Harry could do not to rush over to the counter. Every available surface was covered in desirables -- bins of Quaffles of various grades, deluxe cushioning charms for enhancing older brooms, cans of polish and bundles of replacement twigs stacked against the shelves, even a cage of sparkling new Golden Snitches. The entirety of the back wall was hung with brooms of every make and type, from Cleansweeps to Comets, arranged according to price and year. The latest and most expensive racing brooms, however, were underneath the others, in a long display case of crystal and bronze.

"There it is," Malfoy murmured. Harry followed his gaze.

And then he saw it, gleaming brilliantly at the center of the case, its model name embossed on the handle in gold: the Thunderclap. His pulse quickening with excitement, Harry squinted at the card beneath it.

New, from the makers of the world class Lightningrod and Firebolt brooms! Flawless handling! Sharper turns! Blinding acceleration! Perfect control at the highest altitudes! The Thunderclap is the Broom of Choice for champion Quidditch players everywhere!

"I want that one," said Malfoy.

"Yeah," said Harry dreamily. "It's gorgeous."

"Can I help you, sir?" The clerk, a tall and spindly wizard with a rather pronounced Adam's apple, had emerged from the back room and was looking at Malfoy expectantly.

"I want the best broom you've got," said Malfoy, his eyes never straying from the Thunderclap. "I don't care about the cost."

"Well, I see you've noticed our most popular broomstick this season," said the clerk, cheerfully picking through a ring of keys. "Just sent out an order to the Chudley Cannons last week. They've been flying off the shelves." He chuckled. Malfoy was already reaching in his pocket.

"But if you're not just looking for a flashy name," the clerk continued, "you might want to go with a different model." He found the key he was looking for and opened the back of the case. The broom he reached for make Malfoy cry out in alarm.

"A Shooting Star?!" he spluttered, taking a step back as if afraid it would do him physical harm. "They don't even make those anymore, the company went out of business decades ago! How could you even suggest -"

"It's a Shooting Star Mark Two, actually." The clerk brought it out and set it on top of the case, where it hovered peacefully a few inches above the surface. "Flyte and Barker bought what was left of Universal Brooms last year and decided to bring back the old name, try and play the nostalgia angle. They brought in a team of top-notch specialists, most of them from Nimbus Racing Broom and a few from the Firebolt team, and completely revamped the line. Revolutionary stuff, totally unprecedented." He sighed, stroking the handle fondly. "A lot of love went into this broom."

"I don't care if the blood of your firstborn child went into that broom, I won't sully my hands with -"

Harry elbowed him in the ribs, causing Malfoy to let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

The clerk stared at him. "Sir? Is there something wrong..?"

Glaring furiously in the direction the pain had come from, Malfoy said, "I'll be back in just a moment," and stalked off to a more secluded corner of the shop.

As soon as they were out of sight behind a shelf of antique Bludgers, Harry pulled back the hood of his cloak. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm trying to purchase a suitable broom!"

"So why don't you listen to him? He works here, he knows what he's talking about."

"He's just spouting a load of garbage to try and get me to buy that worthless toy."

"Why would he do that? It's half the cost of the Thunderclap!"

"Maybe they're overstocked."

"Or maybe you're just being a snob."

"There's no 'maybe' to that, Potter, if being a snob means having standards," Malfoy hissed. "And would you TAKE OFF that ridiculous cloak? I can't stand it when it's just your head floating around."

Harry pulled the cloak off and shoved it in his robes. "There, better?"

"Marginally."

"Fine. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm convinced." Harry pushed past Malfoy and started back toward the counter.

"Where are you going?"

"To buy a broom."

Harry walked up to the clerk and dropped his money bag onto the glass. "I want a Shooting Star Mark Two," he said. "My friend just told me about them. He's decided he wants one himself."

"I'm not your friend," said Malfoy as he came up beside him.

"Whatever," said Harry. "This person standing next to me just got on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Is this a good broom for Seekers?"

"The best!"

"Then we'll take it."

Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, his grey eyes blazing with indignation. But Harry was already counting out Galleons, and the clerk had gone into the back room to fetch their new brooms.

"Well," Malfoy said quietly, digging around in his own pockets. "At least I know that your broom will be as worthless as mine."

Harry grinned. "And the other teams?"

"Are you joking? Swiftsticks, Nimbus 1000's and a complete lack of talent."

"Thought you might say that."

They shared what could almost be called a smile while the clerk took their money and wrapped their purchases in tissue specially enchanted to protect the flawless finish. But the moment ended when he handed over their parcels.

"Wait," he said slowly, squinting at Harry's forehead. "Aren't you -"

"Thanks ever so much, we'll be going now," said Harry, and the boys ran back through the store before the clerk could piece things together.

When they tumbled out onto the street they were both in high spirits, chuckling at their close call and brimming with the usual giddiness that accompanied large and exciting purchases.

"Does that happen often?" asked Malfoy.

"Yeah, all the time," said Harry. "It's kind of irritating, really." He hugged his new broom, spinning a bit on the balls of his feet. "I can't wait until we can get back to the castle and try these! The card said they can outrun even the fastest Snitch and...they can..." He frowned, catching something on the wind. "What's that?"

There was a crowd gathering in the square nearby, and the chill air rang with angry shouts and the crackle of recent magic. These were not students. Or teachers. Or anything else so benign. They wore long, black cloaks that dragged on the ground, and their faces were hidden by the anonymity of smooth, white masks.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. And when he turned, he saw that Malfoy's had turned the color of ash.

"Father," the pale boy whispered. Trembling, he took a step forward.

***