Sins of the Father

Chapter Six -- Sticks and Stones

***

"How..." Harry shook his head. "How could Figg have anything to do with it?"

"There was a hearing," said Hermione very quietly, glancing around to see if anyone might overhear. "Just the judge and a few witnesses, right after Sirius was captured. Figg was one of the witnesses. I don't know what she said, but -"

"It was enough to land Sirius a life sentence in Azkaban, apparently," said Harry.

"Aren't there any records?" said Ron. "You know, transcripts or something?"

"Not that we'll ever be able to see," said Hermione.

"There has to be some way to find out," said Harry.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "The Wizengemot archives are very closely guarded. I suppose we could ask someone who was there."

"Who else testified?" asked Ginny.

"One of the Muggle survivors from his fight with Pettigrew, Professor Dumbledore and," Hermione swallowed. "Professor Lupin."

"Then I'll write to him," said Harry, digging around in his rucksack for a quill and parchment.

"You can if you want to, but it doesn't matter," said Hermione. "Sirius told you to go and see Figg. I only mentioned the hearing to show you how important this must be, if Sirius is still willing to send you to her after all she's done."

"Maybe he doesn't know," said Harry, scribbling furiously. "He could think she's a horrible old bat for some other reason. It's not hard to imagine, is it?"

"No, not so much," said Ron.

"They couldn't have been very close," said Ginny, "if she didn't even want him to have a trial."

Harry finished with his note and held it up. "Here, will this do?"

The others bent over to look.

Lupin, what did Figg say at Sirius' trial? Harry

"I don't see how this is even relevant," said Hermione, frowning at it. "Whatever she said or didn't say, you should still go and see her tomorrow, Harry. It's what Sirius wants."

"I'll talk to her after class," said Harry. "But I won't trust her until I'm given a reason to."

"You seem to trust other people easily enough," Hermione muttered. He pretended to be too busy with rolling his parchment to have heard. He tied it with a bit of string and started toward the portrait hole.

"Want me to go down with you?" asked Ron brightly.

"No, thanks," said Harry, one foot already in the corridor.

***

When Harry returned from the owlery some time later, tired and worried and more than a little distracted, he almost failed to notice that Hermione was waiting for him outside the portrait hole.

"Harry," she said softly, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Are you all right?" Her arms were folded in a way that was clearly meant to be no-nonsense, but the effect was ruined by her anxious expression.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I..." She lowered her eyes. "We're worried about you. You haven't been yourself lately. Ever since we got back to school."

"It's been a rough few weeks," said Harry. "We're all a little out of it."

"There's something going on with you. First Malfoy, now Ginny..."

"Malfoy has nothing to do with anything."

"Don't lie to me!" she hissed. "I don't know what you've been up to with him, but getting Ginny to cover for you isn't going to throw me off. I'm not stupid."

"Ginny hasn't --"

"If you want to keep Ron and me out of it, fine," said Hermione, cutting him off. "But don't you dare lie to my face. This isn't some homework assignment you haven't done. This is important. How can you stand there and refuse to trust Professor Figg when you're hanging around Hogsmeade with that...that little ferret?"

Harry blinked. "How did you know...?"

"I wasn't sure, actually, but now I am." There was a trace of smugness in her voice that he found infuriating. "And I don't like it. I don't like that one of my best friends in the world is pushing me out of his life. I'm just glad Ron is too oblivious to notice, or he'd be heartbroken."

"You don't understand..."

"And Ginny does?"

"Look, just leave her out of it, ok?"

"That's just the thing, Harry...I shouldn't have to leave her out of it, we should all be in this together. We shouldn't have to keep secrets from each other. When you and Ron were fighting last year, it nearly killed me...I don't want to have to go through that again. I don't want to lose you to whatever it is you've been doing."

"That's a laugh, coming from you."

"What?"

"You're one to talk about leaving your friends out of things. I suppose that running off to shag Ron all the time doesn't count?"

Her face flushed bright red. "We haven't been shagging!"

"Close enough, then. And every time you do, you make some stupid excuse. I don't remember Hagrid's hut being on the way to the library."

"You were spying on us?!"

"I was LOOKING FOR YOU!" Harry bellowed, not caring if anyone could hear. "You left me when I fell asleep in class and I spent hours trying to find you. HOURS. Only to be treated to spectacular view of Ron's freckled arse."

He didn't see the slap coming, but he felt the sharp sting of it on his cheek and the angry cracking of joints as his head whipped to the side. It took a moment to realize that his vision was blurred because she'd knocked his glasses to the floor.

Hermione was trembling, her breath quick and her eyes bright with rage. Harry knew this was his last chance to apologize. That if he didn't say the right thing in that moment, he might never be able to mend whatever damage he'd done.

He knew these things, and in that instant he did not care.

"You two deserve each other," he said, with as much venom as he could muster. "At least with Malfoy, I know what I'm getting into."

He braced himself for another blow, but it didn't come. Hermione stood in the hall with her bottom lip between her teeth and her fists so tightly clenched that it was painful even to look at. Her eyes were closed under knitted brows. But that didn't stop a tear from escaping down the side of her nose.

Harry couldn't remember having made her cry before. The feeling was not a pleasant one, to know that he had that kind of power. It made him sick. But he couldn't bring himself to reach out to her, to beat down whatever it was that raged inside him and tell her he hadn't meant it. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to. Because he had meant it. Every word.

The Fat Lady's portrait swung aside, and Ron clambered out into the hallway. "Hey, what're you lot up to out here? It's been ages, I -- Hermione, are you ok?"

This seemed to pull her out of it, and she scrubbed a hand across her face, wiping away the dampness with her sleeve. "I'm fine," she said, carefully avoiding Harry with her eyes. "Let's just go back inside."

Confused and concerned, Ron offered his arm and guided her into the common room, murmuring words of comfort. When Harry didn't follow, he looked back and asked, "You coming?"

"Later," said Harry. "I have some things to do."

Too busy with his girlfriend to argue, Ron disappeared behind the portrait, and Harry was left in the corridor on his own.

It was after curfew, and he wasn't supposed to be roaming around the school. He didn't have his map or his cloak, and with every corner he turned he risked detention at the hands of Filch. But Harry's mind wasn't on practical matters. He wandered the hallways alone until he was sure the others would be asleep, and only then did he make his way back to Gryffindor Tower, mumble "Bandersnatch" at the Fat Lady and drag himself up the stairs to his dormitory.

A full moon hung outside his window, casting an icy light over the room. Harry undressed and crawled into his bed as quietly as he could, then lay back on his pillow. Seamus, Neville and Dean snored softly behind their curtains. Only Ron's four poster was open to the moonlight. There were two lumps under the blanket, rising and falling in unison, so close that it was hard to tell them apart. Harry watched them for a long time. Then he pulled his own curtains closed.

For the first time in his life, he felt the emptiness next to him.

***

The fireplace was cold and dark that night, the room lit by strangled moonbeams and the sickly flicker of a candle. A pale skeleton of a man sat in his usual chair, fingering the ancient leather and smiling to himself.

Things were going well, better than he had dared to hope. His enemies sealed their own fates, blinded by self-righteousness and foolish bravery as they stumbled toward destruction. They walked the edge of defeat, he knew, oblivious to the drop beside them. A gentle push, well-timed and effortless, would send them tumbling over.

The click of a lock and a few, shuffling footsteps echoed through the darkness. His servant had returned.

"My Lord," whispered the servant, his voice tremulous and pitched too high. "He is here."

***

Harry awoke with a start, sticky with sweat and shivering under the covers. He opened his eyes and pushed aside the edge of his curtain. It was barely past sunrise. Ron was alone in his bed. And sometime during the night, Harry had pulled one of his pillows down next to him; his legs were still wrapped around it.

The dream was lost to him, details bleached of color and meaning in the early morning sunlight. He knew it had been important, but could not remember why. Emotions that belonged to someone else -- hatred and triumph and a malicious sort of joy -- still burned in his chest. But they were fading with every breath, and he knew that by the time his feet touched the cold stone floor they would be gone.

Harry pulled the curtains closed again and dressed behind them, feeling strangely vulnerable.

Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't until third period. He would have to suffer through Charms, Potions and what promised to be a very awkward lunch before getting his talk with Figg over with. For once, he was glad Ron and Hermione were dating -- at least they would keep each other busy, allowing Harry to sit quietly on his own and pretend to be someplace else.

Ginny was waiting for him in the common room. Harry should have been surprised by this, but he didn't have the energy.

"Morning," he said softly, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground.

"Morning," she said. She stood up and slung her rucksack over her shoulder. "Breakfast?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Ok."

They walked down to the Great Hall in amiable silence, which remained unbroken through sitting down at the house table and heaping their plates with food. It wasn't until Harry was halfway through his second helping of eggs that Ginny asked, "Did something happen last night?"

"I had a fight with Hermione," said Harry.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know...not yet. Maybe...maybe later." He downed the rest of his pumpkin juice, then glanced sideways at Ginny before adding, "She spent the night in our room."

Ginny put down her goblet and looked over at him with wide eyes. "They could be expelled for that."

"I know," said Harry. "I think...I think it's my fault."

"No it's not," said Ginny. "It's been coming for a long time, I'm just surprised they went through with it." She sighed. "I don't think anyone'll turn them in, though. They'll be fine."

Harry wished he could believe her. But he remembered all too clearly the look on Hermione's face in the corridor, and how she had clung to Ron's arm as he led her back inside. There had been desperation in her grip, and Harry had caused it.

"They'll be fine," Ginny repeated. "All right?"

"Mmm," said Harry noncommittally. He went back to his eggs.

***

His first two lessons were made tolerable only by the fact that Hermione and Ron seemed content with ignoring him. In both Charms and Potions they chose a pair of seats several rows away, and he was spared the awkwardness of stilted conversation.

The deliberate separation did not go unnoticed. Dean and Seamus made a point of sharing a workbench with Harry during Potions, and the three of them chatted quietly while Fletcher swooped around the front of the room, alternately shouting instructions and recounting past sexual exploits. Dean and Seamus were not normally much for gossip, but these were extenuating circumstances. Apparently, Hermione's late night visit had not gone unnoticed, and the discussion of this topic and what they planned to do about it carried them through the end of the period.

"I don't plan on telling anyone," said Dean as he scraped minced beetroot into their cauldron. "It's not anyone's business what they do, really...and it's not like they did anything..."

"Yet," Seamus added darkly.

Dean sighed. "Aw, Shay, you said you were over her-"

"I AM." Seamus grabbed a strip of dried mandrake and hacked at it with unsettling ferocity.

Harry dutifully stirred their potion and wondered how he could have missed this development. But then again, missing things seemed to be a talent of his. Particularly romantic things. Hermione had once remarked that he wouldn't notice a girl liked him unless she threw herself naked at his feet. Pointing this out hadn't made him any more observant, but it had resulted in an interesting mental image of Cho.

"Cho," Harry murmured, pausing mid-stir. His eyes flickered over the Ravenclaw side of the room.

Dean looked up from his notes. "What's that, Harry?"

"Cho Chang," he said slowly. "She's not at Hogwarts this year, is she?"

Seamus coughed. "Her mum thought that after...after what happened with Cedric, you know, that maybe she needed a change of scenery. That's what Roger Davies told me, anyway."

"Didn't you have a monster crush on her?" said Dean with a grin.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I did."

"And you just noticed she's gone?" Seamus chuckled. "The wizarding world is doomed."

Harry managed a weak grin. He was saved from having to answer, though, by Fletcher's spirited announcement of their lesson's end.

"All right, sprouts, off you trot! Your luncheon awaits!" the professor boomed, spreading his arms magnanimously. As he was standing on top of the podium again, this gave him the air of a benevolent monarch looking down upon his kingdom. Harry had only just started to shove books into his bag when he was stopped by another outburst.

"Potter!" Fletcher swung one of his arms around to point at Harry's chest. "Moment of your time?"

"Er..." Harry glanced behind him just in time to see Ron and Hermione leave, by all appearances unconcerned with his fate.

"Much obliged." Fletcher hopped down to the floor again and strode across the room to where Harry stood. "I take it you've heard from your godfather, then?"

Harry nodded, perplexed.

"Good." Fletcher scratched his chin thoughtfully. "In the mood to be useful?"

"Yeah. I mean, of course."

"Marvelous." Fletcher broke into a wolfish grin. "For you see, while Arabella is a charming woman...somewhere, deep down inside...."

"Very deep," Harry muttered.

"...She's something of a disaster when it comes to potions. I love that witch with all my heart, but she could melt a cast iron cauldron given five minutes alone with a wet match."

"But...didn't Dumbledore send her to help you last month? With Lupin's wolfsbane potion?"

"The headmaster has a remarkably twisted sense of humor," said Fletcher, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "Regardless, I'm in need of a new assistant, you're in need of a distraction, and dear Remus is in need of our capable aid. SO!" he said with a brisk clap. "My office, tomorrow night? Say around seven? Yes? No?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" barked Fletcher. And without any preamble he jumped up onto the nearest workbench, evidently intent upon kicking spare bits of mandrake onto the floor. "See you then, Potter. Bring your gloves."

Somewhere between the dungeons and the great hall, Harry slowed and came to a stop in the empty corridor. He listened as the echoes of his footsteps faded, stared blankly at walls lined by flickering torches, and wondered exactly what he was going to do. He didn't think he could stand being ignored by Hermione and Ron at lunch; he'd never fought with both of them at the same time before. Really, he had no idea how to deal with them as a unit, which was what them seemed to be becoming.

A couple, he reminded himself with an involuntary shudder. They're a couple, now.

Lunch was definitely out of the question, then, which left him with an empty stomach and a period to fill. He dug a handful of biscuits out of his rucksack and sat on the floor against a suit of armor, nibbling slowly while he considered his options. Only a minute or so had passed, though, before the sound of approaching voices made him look up.

It was a gang of Slytherins, led by the girl who'd invaded Gryffindor tower.

"Oi, Morag," one of them said with a feral smile. "Look who it is!"

So her name was Morag. Morag MacDougal, he supposed, remembering her name from a class list somewhere. Black hair, milk white skin, a dusting of pale freckles across her nose -- she would have been pretty, if not for the cruel twist of her mouth and the fierce contempt in her eyes.

"What're you doing down here?" she sneered, hands on her hips and she glared at him. "Shouldn't you be stuffing your face with the other Gryffinpussies?"

"That was incredibly lame," said Harry flatly, eyeing her from the floor. "And it's none of your business, so piss off."

Morag flushed. "You made it my business, Potter, the minute you sat your pansy ass down in our dungeon."

"I had Potions."

"Which is over," Morag growled. "So unless you're planning to pay another friendly visit to Malfoy, find somewhere else to kill time. Savvy?"

"Savvy." Harry sighed. Normally he would have put up more of a fight, but as it was he just couldn't find the energy. And without Ron at his side to help with the pummeling, it didn't seem as wise a choice.

Or Ginny, even. Ginny seemed like she could be fantastic at pummeling.

"Still waiting," said Morag, examining her nails. The other Slytherins chuckled appreciatively. And as he lacked both motivation and manpower, Harry had no choice but to collect his things and stump up to the castle proper.

No longer even remotely inclined toward making himself useful, Harry slouched his way past the great hall and up to third floor, where Defense Against the Dark Arts would meet once mealtime was over. He slipped into the empty classroom and found a seat near the back. Tired and hungry and fed up with the world at large, Harry folded his arms on the desktop, lay his head down on them, and was soon fast asleep.

***

There was someone else in the room with him when he opened his eyes. His glasses had half fallen off and were dangling from one ear, so when he sat up and looked around all he saw was a blur of cream and white. Harry yawned and shoved them back into place, though it wasn't really necessary. Even before the details sharpened, he knew it was Malfoy.

The other boy was sitting one desk away, hands folded neatly in front of him and eyes fixed on the empty blackboard. But as Harry watched him he risked a glance sideways, and for a moment their gazes locked.

"You're early," said Malfoy, breaking the contact to look down at his hands.

"So're you," said Harry. "Escaping from your housemates?"

"Possibly."

"Same." Harry rubbed the back of his head, further ruffling his already untidy hair. "Hermione's mad at me."

"Which means her pet weasel is mad at you, too, I suppose."

Harry felt he should be offended by that, but wasn't. He shrugged. "Yeah, basically. They're...you know..."

"Snogging relentlessly."

"Yeah."

Harry had not looked away from Malfoy, and now the other boy's lips curled almost imperceptibly into a smile. "My condolences," he said quietly, glancing away from the blackboard again. "Care to trade? I'm sure you and Morag would hit it right off."

"'Hit' being the key word," Harry chuckled. "She looked ready to bash my head in when she pitched me out of the dungeons."

"What were you doing in the dungeons?"

"Avoiding everywhere else."

"And I suppose that's why you came up here?"

"Pretty much."

"Sorry to have interrupted your solitude, then," said Malfoy with a touch of the old smirk. Harry found that he didn't mind. They sat in companionable silence for a while, shuffling papers and digging quills and ink out of their bags. Then, cautiously flippant, "Still on for tomorrow, Potter?"

Harry looked up from his notes. "'Course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I...just thought you might have reconsidered," said Malfoy. There was a forced casualness to his words. "You can back out, if you want. I wouldn't blame you."

"Malfoy, there's no way I --"

But he didn't have a chance to finish that thought. The door was flung open again, and a stream of Gryffindors filed into the classroom, chattering obliviously as they hunted for seats. Ron and Hermione walked by as if he didn't exist, settling at the very front of the room. Dean and Seamus, well intentioned as always, headed straight for Harry's desk and sat themselves on either side of him. Malfoy disappeared behind Dean's encouraging grin, and Harry was left with no choice but to let his friends try and cheer him up.

Figg swept in a short while later, black robes and salted auburn hair billowing behind her. Her tone was brisker than usual as she explained the lesson -- they would be continuing with charm grids, apparently -- and after ten minutes of lecture she split them into pairs and set them to practicing.

Harry and Seamus were put together, and they took turns trying to hex their way through each other's defenses. Dean had the misfortune of being paired with Malfoy, and while his grid was a decent one the hexes that Malfoy flung at him were much stronger than those Figg had written up on the board as suggestions. Seamus had just successfully deflected a Jelleylegs Jinx when Dean yelled out in startled pain.

Harry looked over to see what had happened, and found himself choking back laughter. Dean, rumpled and out of sorts, now had a miniature Christmas tree growing out of his forehead, complete with fairy lights and a tiny, gold star. Malfoy looked very pleased with himself.

Figg stalked over to them, charmed the foliage off of Dean's skull, and took twenty points from Slytherin for deliberately ignoring her instructions.

"What!" Malfoy spluttered, grey eyes wide and indignant. "It's not my fault Thomas couldn't defend an anthill!"

"Ten more points, then," Figg snarled. "Another word, Mr. Malfoy, and it'll be fifty."

Malfoy gaped at her as she stormed away to the front of the room, the other Slytherins all looking daggers at him for losing them so many points. Dean and Seamus were thrilled with this new development, of course, and immediately called for Malfoy to get his grid back up again so they could have another go.

And Harry, though he knew perfectly well Malfoy shouldn't have used that curse, was nevertheless inclined to sympathize with him as he fended off a sudden volley of hexes.

By the time the lesson was over, Harry's resolve to talk to Figg afterwards was hanging by a thread. Malfoy was in awful shape. None of them were old enough to be any good at medical magic, which wasn't covered until sixth year. And while Figg had been repairing the damage that her students inflicted upon each other, Malfoy's growing collection of injuries was left unattended. His attempt at cursing off the boils Seamus caused did little more than add a nasty looking rash to the mix.

Try as he might, Harry couldn't keep from watching Malfoy with what must have been a worried expression. He knew there was nothing he could do, not then anyway, but the knowledge did little to soothe his conscience.

Figg dismissed the class with a curt reminder to practice over the weekend, and as she organized her notes the students filed out into the hall. When Malfoy passed his desk, Harry offered what he hoped was an understated and yet encouraging smile. Malfoy didn't seem to notice, though it was hard to tell, as one of Dean's hexes had swollen his eyelids to three times their usual size.

Scowling as the anger bubbled up inside him again, Harry cursed Sirius for making life so difficult, and Figg for being so unfailingly horrible. But despite all this he stood, swallowed his resentment, and forced himself to walk across the room to her desk.

"What is it, Mr. Potter?" she snapped, eyes still on the neat stack of parchment in front of her.

"It's....it's about..." Harry took a deep breath and tried to sound neutral. "Sirius...I mean, my godfather...told me to talk to you."

"Did he, now?" Figg studied him archly. "Was a particular topic specified?"

"He said he wanted me to be prepared," said Harry. "He seemed to think you'd know what that meant."

"I do, at that," said Figg. "Though I fail to see why he thought attaching his name to the matter would do you any good."

"You won't do it, then."

"Of course I will, Potter," said Figg with a dismissive wave. "It's not even a question. Dumbledore would have my head if I came between you and your safety. Besides, Miss Granger was kind enough to explain the Malfoy situation when she came to see me last week, which I admit I was worried about."

"She did?"

"Yes, and I understand. Playing it awfully close to the chest, though, aren't you? I'm impressed." She pushed back her chair and got to her feet, tucking the satchel of papers under her arm. "Be outside my office Monday morning at six o' clock. If you're late, I'll assume you're not coming. Do you know how to block a Stupefy?"

"Er...no..."

"Make sure you've read up on it by Monday, then." With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving a somewhat befuddled but no less embittered Harry in her wake.

***

Herbology went about as Harry would have expected. Hermione refused to even look at him, and while Ron would risk the occasional guilty peek, neither of them said a word to him for the entire lesson. Even when Professor Sprout set them all working on the same patch of adolescent Mandrakes, along with a woefully uninformed Neville, they tended the plants in stoney silence.

Harry had hoped that Care of Magical Creatures would be slightly more tolerable, as at least there was a chance of catching Malfoy away from the others for a chat. But Malfoy aggressively avoided conversation all period, and when Harry sidled over to ask if he was all right, Malfoy grabbed the salamander eggs he'd been measuring and stalked off to another table. When Seamus and Dean came over to keep him company a minute or so later, Harry barely even noticed.

It was Thursday, which meant the Runespoor was due for its rat. Preferring solitude to the unwilling company of his friends, Harry told Seamus to tell Ron that he and Hermione shouldn't bother showing up. A part of him hoped they'd ignore the request, but when he went up to Grubbly-Plank's office and opened the door, there was no one there waiting for him.

Harry gave the Runespoor its meal, stunning the rat first and then dropping it into the sunny side of the tank. All three serpentine heads were in a foul mood, grumbling about noisy neighbors and substandard housing, and by the time Harry managed to escape they had given him a pounding headache. Being a Parseltongue was interesting, he decided, but rarely worth the aggravation. Snakes were lousy conversationalists.

It wasn't until the next morning that anything even remotely welcome happened to Harry. He'd decided to eat his breakfast in the common room, begging a few scones off one of the house-elves when she came to sweep out the hearth. It was nearly time for first period, and he was dumping his books into his bag when a small, unassuming brown owl swooped in through an open window and landed on the back of a nearby armchair.

"Hallo there," said Harry, reaching out to untie a scrap of parchment from its leg. "Let's see what you've got..."

It was a letter, written with brown ink in neat, even script.

Harry,

I'm afraid that owl post isn't the best format for this particular dialogue, as it's not only insecure but also stilted and inevitably one-sided. However, as you seem to be understandably anxious about Padfoot, I'll do my best to explain.

As you and your friends have no doubt already discovered, Arabella Figg testified against Sirius at his hearing. However, as she requested that no one aside from herself, Dumbledore, Mad Eye and the judge be present, I'm honestly not sure what was said.

I do know that she had suspected Sirius for some time -- as, I sadly admit, had I -- and thus followed his movements and activities very closely. I have said before that Sirius did not act the part of an innocent man. I can only assume she had sound reasons for her suspicions, and that she explained them to the judge's satisfaction in her testimony.

I stress to you, however, that this is all very long past. We know the truth, now, and regrets won't make those years in Azkaban disappear. Arabella is an extremely capable woman, and you should learn as much from her as you can. Don't let old grudges get in the way of your education. If Sirius can forgive her, so can you.

Best wishes,

Remus

Harry reread the letter several times, trying to glean as much information as possible, but it did little good. At the end of the day, this was more Hermione's thing than his. He was sure that if she were there, she would have remembered some obscure and useful fact that would have slid everything else into focus. Even Ron, having grown up in the wizarding world, would likely be able to provide some insight.

As it was, Harry was left to his own, markedly insufficient devices. Going to Figg was out of the question for a whole host of reasons. He supposed he could try and question Dumbledore, but he was reluctant to, and the headmaster never gave straight answers anyway so there didn't seem much point. He would just have to wait until Sirius got back from wherever he was, and ask him about it then.

Still, it was a letter from Lupin -- the first he had ever gotten -- and this cheered him a bit. Lupin had been his favorite teacher by far, and Harry felt a pang of guilt for not having written him sooner. He supposed he just wasn't much good at correspondence.

Which reminded him that he hadn't written to Hagrid in weeks. Now resigned to being late for his first lesson, Harry dragged out a parchment and quill and dashed off a quick note. Lupin's owl had flown off at some point, so Harry grabbed his things and started off for the owlery.

***

"You all right, Harry?"

Harry, who had just finished tying a note to Hedwig's leg, looked up and around. Ginny was standing in the doorway, a letter in her hand.

"Yeah," said Harry, giving Hedwig a pat. The owl took this as a dismissal, it seemed, hooting softly and then flapping off through the nearest window. "Just writing to Hagrid."

"Why weren't you at breakfast?"

"Didn't feel up to the company, really." He pointed at the parchment in her hand. "Going to post that?"

"What..? Oh!" She flushed. "Yeah, sorry, letter for Mum..." She hurried across the room and grabbed the nearest school owl, fumbling with the note and some twine until it was finally tied. The owl, looking ruffled and rather indignant, flew off as soon as she let go.

"Did they say anything about me?" asked Harry, trying to sound nonchalant.

Ginny bit her lip. "You shouldn't worry about it. Hermione's just really angry..."

"What did she say?"

Ginny held her breath for a long moment, considering. "She didn't mention you at all, actually. Dean and Seamus and Ron were all trying to talk to her about it, but she kept changing the subject." She sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry, I don't know what to tell you."

"Not your fault," Harry mumbled.

"I know, but...I feel like I should be able to do something. It's horrible for you all to be fighting with each other..." She shook her head. "I don't even know what you're fighting about."

"She found out about Malfoy," said Harry quietly. "And I...I guess I might have said something nasty....about her and Ron..."

"That would be it."

"Yeah."

"So what're you going to do?"

"Nothing," said Harry, surprised at his own bitterness . "I'm sick of watching them paw at each other anyway. I'll just wait for them to break up."

"What if they don't?"

"Meals in the common room from now 'till commencement, I guess."

"Harry, that's just silly," said Ginny. "Ron and Hermione are your best friends! You're going to have to forgive each other eventually."

"Not until they're done snogging all the time."

Ginny closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. "Fine. Whatever you want." She opened her eyes again. "So. Got to go to Potions in a minute, but I'll be around after lessons if you want any company. Ok?"

"Yeah..."

"Great," she said, flashing a smile. "Later, then..."

Harry watched as she rushed back inside the castle, confused and strangely guilty, though he wasn't precisely sure what about.

***

It was some time before Harry found him, and he was halfway convinced that he'd been stood up when he rounded a corner and caught sight of him, pale and sharp against the backdrop of worn leather bindings. Malfoy sat alone, as Harry had expected, at a table mostly hidden by the Herbology shelves. His face was behind a crumbling volume, the title of which was written in peeling gold on the spine, Curses, Hexes and other Unpleasantries.

Harry pulled out a chair and sat next to him, thumping his bag down onto the table. Malfoy let out a rather unflattering squeak at the impact and dropped his book.

"You're here," he mumbled a moment later, catching his breath.

Harry frowned. "I told you I would be. Did you think I'd forget?"

"No...but...I thought..." Malfoy picked up his book again and flipped through the pages, avoiding Harry's gaze. "I thought you might not come."

"Why?"

"So you could have a good laugh at my expense, I suppose," said Malfoy. "Wouldn't be out of character, would it?"

"Yes it would," said Harry. "I show up when I say I'm going to. You're the one who left us in the trophy room first year."

Malfoy reddened. "Well...where do you want to start, then?"

Harry pulled the book over toward him and turned to the index. "Defending against Stupefy."

"But I thought you wanted to learn curses?"

"I do," said Harry. "But plans have changed a bit..." He explained about the upcoming lessons with Figg, carefully omitting all references to Sirius.

Malfoy glowered at the yellowing pages. "I don't want anything to do with that...that woman," he spat.

"Neither do I," said Harry. "But she used to be an Auror, and if she wants to teach me how to fight, who'm I to turn her down?" He shrugged. "May as well take what I can get."

"Well then," said Malfoy brusquely. "I suppose this means you'll have no more use for me."

"See, that's just the thing! You probably know loads of curses and such that Figg would never think to teach me, and once these lessons start I'll know how to defend myself properly, right?"

"Your point being...?"

"We can swap," said Harry. "We'll get together and practice, and show each other what we know, and at the end of it we'll both be able to hold our own in a fight."

"So you want to....be dueling partners?"

"Basically, yeah."

"Ah." Malfoy considered this, eyes still on the book in front of him. "That sounds awfully social."

"No more than broom shopping."

"Wouldn't you rather do this with Granger or Weasley?"

"No."

"Well, then...." Malfoy leaned back in his chair, eyes finally meeting Harry's. "Defending against Stupefy, was it?"

"I thought I'd try page..." He skimmed the index. "Two seventy-four. Repelling basic curses."

"All right," said Malfoy.

"And then when we've finished with that," said Harry, finding the page, "maybe you could show me a few good curses to get started with?"

"All right."

The two boys sat there for hours, noses buried in their book, whispering about hexes and counter-curses and looking for all the world like old friends.

As eight o' clock ticked closer, Harry remembered his potion-making appointment with Fletcher and told Malfoy as much. The corridors were mostly deserted by then, so they didn't see any harm in walking down to the dungeons together, recalling what they'd learned that afternoon and making plans for when they'd meet again.

"Same time next week, then?" said Harry brightly. They'd reached the door to Snape's old office, now sporting a shiny brass plate that read "Mundungus Ichabod Fletcher, Esq."

Malfoy nodded once, caught himself midway through a proper smile, then ducked his head and shuffled off toward the Slytherin dungeon.

Harry rapped on the office door with his knuckles, and almost immediately it was flung open. Fletcher appeared in a cloud of greenish smoke which spilled out into the hall and smelled strongly of rotting grass. Grinning manically as always, he thrust a pair of a round goggles at Harry that matched the ones he was wearing.

"I've got two cauldrons going," he said as Harry pulled the goggles into place. "We're going to need a third in a minute for the wormwood extract, so why don't you grab a spoon and start stirring the belladonna and ladyslipper fusion over there," he pointed, "while I get another fire going."

Harry made a vaguely affirmative noise and went to do as he'd been asked, the door snapping shut behind him.

"That's it," said Fletcher, watching him. "Just make sure to stir counter-clockwise." He got the final cauldron going and then swept across the room again, snatching bottles from shelves along the wall as we went. "So, Remus tells me you've been asking after Arabella?"

Harry almost dropped the spoon. "Um...well, I guess...a little...Sirius -"

"You know, those two never really got on," said Fletcher, tossing handfuls of dried moss into his cauldron. "She didn't much care for his family, you see. Not that Sirius did, either, but one supposes it was a matter of principle, eh?" He tapped the cauldron with his wand, muttered a short spell and left it to stir itself as he went to hunt for more bottles. "It's a miracle he ever made it into the Auror corps after what she put him through.

"Has your glop turned properly green, yet?"

"I think so..."

Fletcher leaned over to check, nodded, and dumped a large jar of silvery powder into Harry's mixture. "Keep stirring, clockwise this time, and let me know when it starts smoking." He picked up the second of the three cauldrons, sniffed it, then poured the whole lot into the third cauldron, which was still stirring itself.

"I didn't know Sirius was an Auror," said Harry, his eyes watering slightly from the fumes.

"One of the best, along with your father. Arabella tried to get him chucked out every other week, but Alastor always put a stop to it. Poor Mad Eye was a right mess after your parents died, and we thought --" Fletcher broke off and went uncharacteristically quiet.

"Thought what?"

"Thought your godfather'd done them both in, obviously," said Fletcher shortly. "Is it smoking yet?"

"Er, sorry...yeah, it is...."

Fletcher lowered the heat underneath it and sprinkled a few pinches of what looked like dried blood onto the surface. "Those were bad times, Potter. The worst I can remember, really. You never knew who would turn, who you could trust, who was going to die. We all thought we knew Sirius, you see, but there was so much stacked up against him, and James...James, in a typical act of well-intentioned idiocy, never told the rest of us he'd changed his secret keeper. So there wasn't much for it. And really, after what happened with Severus, I was ready to swallow anything."

Harry blinked at him through the smoke. "Snape? What about him?"

"Taught him everything he knows, elixirs to antidotes. Brilliant boy. Also a slimy git, of course, always sticking that nose of his where it wasn't wanted, but sharp as a tack. Silver shavings were his idea, actually."

"You mean for the wolfsbane potion? Did you invent it?"

"Yep."

"And he...he helped you with that?"

"'Course he did, he was my lab assistant."

"Why would you pick him?" Harry spluttered.

"Had to," said Fletcher, adjusting his goggles. "Not only was he top of his class, he was the only student aside from the obvious who knew Remus was a werewolf. Spent all of his sixth year down here with me, cooking up potions and watching Remus choke them down."

Fletcher sighed, peering at Harry's cauldron. "A good lad, that Severus. I had high hopes for him. Nearly cried the first time I saw that thing on his arm, and I'm not the crying type. Naturally, I'm glad he's come back to us, but what a price to pay. He might have been a greasy little bugger but he had fire in him. Never stopped kicking back no matter what your father and Sirius did to him." He shook his head, picking up the cauldron at last and pouring its contents in with the rest of the potion. "But he was never the same after Voldemort got ahold of him. Broke his spirit."

Harry tried to process all of this, the wheels in his head spinning crazily. "Are you....are you worried about him?"

Fletcher grinned. "Not especially, though I probably should be. He's tougher than he looks, he'll be fine." He lifted his goggles, pulled a faded paisley handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped the sweat off his brow. "All right, that's it then. It'll simmer overnight, then I'll ship it off to Remus. Much obliged for the extra pair of hands, Potter, but I think you'd better be getting back to your tower or Minerva'll have me skewered."

Though Harry was still brimming over with questions, Fletcher had already turned his attention back to his work, and Harry was left with no choice but to do as he'd been told.

So Sirius had been an Auror, Figg had always hated him, and Snape was friendly with Professor Fletcher? Harry had no idea what to make of any of it. He did, however, despise Figg with a renewed passion. If she'd always had it in for Sirius, no wonder she'd testified against him. If not for her, he might never have gone to Azkaban. And though Harry still hadn't a clue as to why she'd lived as a Muggle for all his life, he hoped fiercely that she had hated every minute of it.

Once he'd reached Gryffindor tower, Harry pinned a reminder about Sunday's Quidditch practice on the notice board before retreating up to his dormitory. It was early enough that the other fifth year boys were still in the common room, which left Harry free to sit on his bed and read the copy of Jinx Your Way Out of Any Jam that he'd checked out of the library. As soon as he heard footsteps on the tower stairs, he pulled his curtains closed and read by wandlight instead.

In fact, he had gotten quite good at avoiding people when he felt the need. Saturday morning he woke just after sunrise and met Ginny in front of the portrait hole again, and the two of them spent the day in an empty classroom full of ottomans, catching up on homework and chatting idly. She asked after Malfoy, and was properly horrified when he recounted what Figg had done. He also told her about what Fletcher had said, but she didn't know what it meant either, and they soon gave up on the topic entirely. From then on, they mostly discussed exactly how gross it was to watch Ron and Hermione kiss.

After an ill-fated attempt to get Harry to join her, Ginny packed up her things and left for the Great Hall, promising to bring him some dinner so he wouldn't starve. For three quarters of an hour, Harry sat doodling Quidditch matches in the margins of his notes, assigning names and positions to each tiny stick figure. He was just adding plaits to the one labeled "GW - Reserve Seeker" when the door to the classroom opened again.

He looked up, but the smile on his face evaporated as soon as he saw who it was.

Ginny had returned, carrying two plates heaped with roast chicken and potatoes. Standing next to her was an especially stubborn-looking Ron.

"Hey, Harry," he said quietly.

"Hey."

"All right?"

Harry shrugged. "Been better."

"Yeah. Yeah, suppose so," said Ron, rubbing the back of his neck. "Seeing as we're...well, I guess we're fighting, aren't we?"

"Guess so," said Harry. "Me and Hermione, anyway."

"Yeah," said Ron. "Yeah, well...might as well be all of us then, huh?"

Harry bristled. "How's that?"

"Well, you know...since we're sort of...sort of dating and all..." said Ron awkwardly. "I guess that changes things a bit, doesn't it?"

"Guess it does," said Harry, scowling. "So what is it you want me to do, precisely?"

"Stop acting like a prat and apologize to Hermione so we don't have to avoid each other anymore," said Ron, not angry so much as tired.

The scowl deepened. "Not before she apologizes to me."

"For what? What did she even do?"

"She started it."

"I don't care who started it! Look, she might be my...you know, my girlfriend, now...but she's still Hermione. All she wants to talk about is homework and S.P.E.W. and -"

"That sounds more like your problem than mine."

"I'm trying to say that I miss you, you stupid git. And Hermione misses you, too."

"Which is why she's avoiding me?"

"She's just mad. If you -"

"I'm not apologizing to her."

"At least talk to her, then?"

Harry folded his arms and looked away. Ginny, who had watched all of this with a helpless expression, pushed past her brother and crossed to where Harry was sitting.

"Harry, please," she whispered.

"I'm not giving him the satisfaction," Harry muttered, loud enough for Ron to hear. "Not until he gets his priorities straight."

"Fine," said Ron coldly. "I'm going back to dinner, then." The classroom door slammed shut and he was gone.

Ginny sighed. "I'm sorry, he just followed me -"

"It's fine," said Harry shortly.

"What did she say to you, Harry? Why are you...why are you so angry with her?"

Harry got up from his ottoman and started pacing, hands deep in his pockets and eyes on the floor. "Ron's my best friend," he muttered. "Always has been, I mean....I didn't have any friends before him. I really like Hermione, but it's not the same. She's...they never would've even talked to each other if it wasn't for me. Ron was my friend, and then we took her on after that Halloween with the troll, but I was there first. And now they're going out, and that's fine, whatever, it's their business...

"Only now she's mad at me and she's...it's like she's stolen him, and I...I don't feel like I even know her any more, Gin." Harry shuddered, suddenly cold. He would have looked up at her, but there were tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I don't know how to talk to them. I don't know what to do with them. I can't even count on their being around, and I don't have anyone else."

"What about Seamus?" said Ginny, so soft he could barely hear her. "Or Dean? Or Neville?"

"S'not the same," said Harry, hugging his shoulders.

"Malfoy, then..?"

"Are you joking? I can barely get him to talk to me, and that aside I'm only just past hating him."

Ginny fidgeted, twisting the end of her plait. "What about..." Her voice wavered and broke, and she dropped her hands to her sides. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I should tell you,"

"You can tell me you're coming to practice tomorrow," said Harry, fighting to smile. "That's a start."

"Harry..."

"We don't have to talk about it, it's fine. I'll get by, I'll....I'll figure something out. You don't have to worry."

She managed half a grin. "You know I'm going to anyway."

"Yeah, suppose so."

Ginny looked down at the plates she was still holding but had obviously forgotten. "We should really eat this before it gets cold," she said.

"Yeah," said Harry.

And they did.

***

Oliver Wood, though an excellent captain, had never made much use of his reserves. As the only key team member ever to miss a match -- namely Harry -- was also the only one who didn't have a backup, the reserve players typically spent all season on the bench. But there had been a match against Ravenclaw two years back where Angelina had been ill, and another the year before that Fred Weasley spent nursing a broken arm in the hospital wing. Both those times, their replacements had proved under-trained and ultimately inadequate, and Gryffindor's score had suffered as a result. And of course, there was the match that Harry had missed, which had turned out so abysmally that no one cared to think about it much.

Harry had no intention of letting this happen again. He knew better than anyone how much trouble a Hogwarts student could get into, and he wanted to make absolutely sure that no matter what disastrous luck befell them, the Gryffindor Quidditch team would be at their best.

And so, for the first time in four years, practices would include the reserves. The notice he'd posted in the common room said as much, and though Angelina and the twins both cornered him Saturday night to ask about it, after he explained his reasons they all agreed that it was worth a try.

Faced with the whole crowd of them on Saturday morning, Harry began to wonder at what he'd gotten himself into. Though everyone had at least changed into their uniforms and found their way to the pitch, nobody seemed particularly inclined to get started with the actual practice. Fred and George were chatting up the new reserve Keeper, Emma Dobbs; Angelina, Alicia and Ginny were cooing over Chaser Simon Branford's accent; Joshua Kettleburn, reserve Chaser and son of a former Care of Magical Creatures teacher, was deep in discussion with Keeper Geoffrey Stebbins on the topic of Dragon breeding; and Nobuhiro Watsuki, the unnervingly fragile-looking reserve Beater, watched it all with a look of detached amusement.

"Ah, excuse me?" said Harry, too quietly. No one paid him the slightest bit of attention. "Maybe we should...should get started?"

"Say 'Banana!'" Angelina giggled. "Say 'Secretary!'"

"Secretary," said Simon brightly, sending the girls into raptures.

"Look," Harry tried again, "we've only got the pitch booked for a few hours..."

"I hear Hagrid got his hands on one a few years back," Geoffrey was saying. "Ridgeback, and an egg besides."

"Da tried to breed them with alligators, once," said Joshua, "to get them down to a manageable size. But all it did was give them more teeth."

There was a loud pop, and a flustered looking squirrel appeared where Emma had been standing a few moments before.

"Oi!" Harry barked. "Do you lot want Slytherin to win this year?"

This did the trick. His teammates stopped chatting amongst themselves and looked up, all but Fred and George having the good graces to look sheepish. Emma the squirrel chattered angrily from the ground. Harry wilted.

"Um, all right then," he said, keenly aware of the eyes fixed on him. He felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach, but plowed ahead before he could loose his nerve. "Since a lot of us haven't played together before, I thought we should take today to work the kinks out. We'll divide into two teams and play a few matches, so you can all get used to each other and I can see what we need to work on before the season starts. Ok?"

There was another pop, and Emma reappeared.

"Sounds good," said Angelina, and the others nodded amiably.

Harry grinned and quickly devided them into teams. Balls, brooms and players took to the air, and in no time at all the game was in full swing. Leaving the Snitch to Ginny, Harry flew in lazy circles high above the pitch. Every so often he would shout instructions or encouragements down to the others, and after each twenty minute match he descended to rearrange the teams. Mostly, though, he just watched.

Ginny was too easily distracted by Bludgers. Geoffrey didn't seem to want to catch the Quaffle one-handed. Hiro repeatedly hooked too far to the left, which spoiled his aim. Emma favored the right goal hoop. Geoffrey's attention wandered when there was a slow point in the game.

Harry fished a scrap of parchment out of his robes and scribbled notes, already planning out training regiments for the next few weeks. Every team member had something they needed to work on, but nothing that couldn't be fixed if given enough time.

"Great practice!" he called a few hours later, as they all made their way back to the locker rooms. And he meant it, understanding at last why Oliver had put up with so much for the sake of being captain. His team waved cheerfully to him over their shoulders. Considering their experience and the fact that this was the first practice of the season, they had done remarkably well.

"Aren't you coming?" asked Ginny, who had hung behind.

"Slytherin's got the pitch booked after us," said Harry, strapping the last Bludger back into its box. "I want to make sure I've got everything cleaned up. No point in giving them a reason to make trouble, is there?"

This wasn't entirely true, of course, and he could tell that Ginny knew it. But she smiled anyway, said something about seeing him at dinner, and jogged off after the others.

The real reason for his dallying concerned a note he'd sent that morning. He'd asked Malfoy to meet him behind the equipment shed a half hour before the rest of the Slytherin team was due to show up. He hadn't specified why, and truthfully he wasn't sure himself. He supposed they could talk about shield charms if nothing else presented itself.

Tucking the crate of balls and a couple of team brooms under his arm, Harry slung his Shooting Star over his shoulder and set out across the pitch.

The equipment shed and the broom shed were both behind the bleachers, a few hundred yards away from the locker rooms. Harry whistled softly to himself as he rooted through his pockets for the keys, ducking his head to avoid the wooden crossbeams of the bleachers.

And then he froze, because a sudden buzz of voices suggested that Malfoy wasn't the only one waiting for him. Harry slowly put the crate down, leaned the brooms against a support, and walked quietly toward the sheds. The sound was coming from behind them.

"Teach you to mix with the fucking opposition!"

There was a sickening crunch and broken sob. Someone laughed. Harry's fingers tightened around the wand in his pocket.

"Whassamatter? Miss yer mummy and daddy? Wanna make friends with the other li'l orphan tossers?"

More laughter. Harry came around the corner, his wand out and his heart pounding. Malfoy was lying on the ground in a circle of his teammates, his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms covering his face. Magnus Bayne was standing over him with a bloody Beater's bat in his hand.

"Stop," Harry whispered. No one noticed him, and the bat swung back for another blow. Watching this, watching the cruel mirth on their faces, the blood shining on white blond hair, pulled a scarlet haze down over his vision. There was a snap of something in his chest, an echo of remembered fury, a fiery bloom of rage in his heart.

"INFLIGO!" Harry bellowed, and Bayne collapsed with a howl of pain. Harry could feel his hatred coursing through his body and down the length of his wand, hot and merciless. He watched Bayne writhing at his feet, eyes popping and mouth open wide in a silent scream of agony, and the sight filled him with a bitter sort of joy that was at once terrifying and familiar.

"Contego!" someone shouted, and the connection was broken. Bayne gasped for breath, pushing himself to his knees. The other Slytherins were backing away, their eyes on Harry, and he found himself sickly pleased by the fear he saw there.

"Anyone else want a go?" he growled. The threat was ridiculous, he was outnumbered and outclassed and surely all of them knew it. But no one made a move to stop him as he levitated the now-unconcious Malfoy off of the ground. And no one followed when he started back toward the castle, Malfoy floating eerily ahead of him. He was only dimly aware of the sudden rush of whispers behind him.

Harry was halfway across the grounds before he had recovered his senses enough to realize just how badly Malfoy was hurt. Ugly bruises purpled most of his face, and there was a great gash across one cheek. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, blood trickling down his fingers and dripping onto the grass.

There was no one else in sight. The Gryffindor team was likely still getting changed, and wouldn't be finished for at least ten minutes or so; the Slytherins had not followed him; and the rest of Hogwarts was already at lunch. Harry wondered if he could maintain the levitation charm long enough to get Malfoy to the hospital wing.

He never got the chance to try it. Because as soon as he stepped into the entrance hall, carefully holding his wand steady while he hauled open the doors, he came face to face with the very last person he wanted to see.

"Mr. Potter," said Professor Figg. She was standing just outside the Great Hall, a stack of books in her arms. "Might I ask what you're doing?"

"Malfoy's hurt," he said, feeling this was fairly self-evident. "I'm taking him to the hospital wing."

She sneered at the dangling body. "Well, it's good to see he's getting what he deserves."

Harry's jaw dropped. Surely she didn't mean... "They could have killed him!" he said, his voice rising. "He's still a student, don't you care?!"

"He would have done the same to someone else, given the chance," said Figg, apparently unconcerned. "Though I suppose we should get him upstairs. He's dripping all over the floor."

"Are you completely daft?!" Harry yelled.

Her face hardened. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," she snapped. "And if you ever speak to me like that again you'll deeply regret it."

Before Harry could lose his head entirely, Professor Fletcher strolled out of the Great Hall, looking vaguely concerned. "Arabella, you old tart, what on earth are you yelling about..?" When he spotted Malfoy his usual joviality evaporated. He swept towards them, wand out, and conjured a stretcher out of thin air.

"What happened?" he said to Harry, carefully arranging Malfoy on the stretcher. "Who did this?"

"Bayne," said Harry. Figg was looking daggers at him, and he ignored her with relish. "The whole Slytherin team was there."

Fletcher sighed. "I was afraid of this." Apparently satisfied that Malfoy was secure, he levitated the stretcher and started up the grand staircase. Harry trotted along behind him, closely followed by Figg.

"I'm sure he provoked them," she snarled, shifting the books in her arms. "You should make certain to hear Mr. Bayne's side of it before -"

"I am quite capable of handling this," said Fletcher cooly. "They're in my house, Arabella. They're my responsibility, not yours."

"But Potter -"

"Potter is also not in your house, and I doubt he had anything to do with it." They reached the hospital wing at last, and Harry ran ahead to open the door. "Why don't you make yourself useful and let Minerva know what's happened, eh?"

Figg looked close to stamping her foot. "Mundungus, you can't just -"

"Off you trot," he said, flashing a grin as he closed the door in her face.

"I thought she was a friend of yours," said Harry.

"She is," said Fletcher, levitating Malfoy onto one of the beds. "Which means I know better than anyone that she's also completely insufferable."

A moment later Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office, and Harry was pushed none-too-gently out of the way. He watched her from the far wall as she surveyed the damage, stripping off Malfoy's heavy black robes and tapping him all over with her wand as she muttered incantations. Wearing only his trousers and shirt, Malfoy looked much worse off than he had under the bleachers.

"Is he going to be ok?" Harry asked, his eyes fixed on the huge red stain that had spread across Malfoy's chest.

This turned out to be a mistake. Madam Pomfrey spun around, as if noticing his presence for the first time. "Out!" she shouted, pointing at the door. "This boy is seriously injured and I can't have any distractions!"

"I'll let you know how he is later," said Fletcher, sounding understandably distracted himself.

"But -"

"OUT!" Pomfrey roared.

Harry had no choice but to do as he was told, stealing one last glance over his shoulder before the door slammed shut behind him.

The rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was already most of the way through lunch by the time Harry joined them in the Great Hall. Mercifully enough there was no sign of Ron or Hermione, who Harry assumed had already eaten. He sat down between Ginny and the twins and started spooning carrots onto his plate.

"Harry, what happened?" asked Ginny. Her hair had come out of its usual plaits during practice, and she had a slightly wild look about her.

"What do you mean?" he asked, blanching. They couldn't possibly have seen...

"You left all the equipment under the bleachers," said George.

"Yeah, we had to duke it out with Bayne to get everything put away," said Fred. "Lucky for us, his head wasn't screwed on proper today."

"He did seem a little out of it," said Ginny.

"He kept twitching, you know?" said George. "Jumping at small noises." He did an impression of Baye making jerky little movements, and Ginny giggled appriciatively.

"I, ah...I suppose I got distracted," said Harry.

"Well, no matter," said Fred, slapping him heartily on the back. "You can make it up to us by forgetting about that little episode with the Squirrel Nut Clusters."

"All right..."

"Cheers, Harry," said George, raising his goblet in a mock salute.

The thing was, Harry had already forgotten about it. In fact, he had barely thought about practice at all. His brain had locked itself in on the fight with the Slytherins, and no matter how many times he relived it he couldn't make sense of what had happened. He'd found them beating Malfoy to a pulp, seen that awful look on their faces, and of course he'd been angry, of course he'd wanted to fight them off.

It wasn't even the curse he'd thrown at Bayne, horrible as that had been. Bayne deserved to suffer a little, if anyone did. It was how he, Harry, had felt while casting it. The rage and hatred that had coursed through him, that had made the curse so much more powerful than it otherwise would have been, had not been his own. They were borrowed emotions, thrust upon him in a moment of weakness. He hadn't a clue where they'd come from or whose they were, but the loss of control had been unsettling to say the least.

That night, Harry went to bed much earlier than usual. He was supposed to be in front of Figg's office at six in the morning, and strangely enough he was still planning to go. He was going to have to learn how to fight one way or the other, especially now that Bayne was out for his blood. Maybe being at the mercy of Figg's wrath would force him to pick things up more quickly.

He lay on his back and stared at the velvet canopy of his four poster, his eyelids heavy with tiredness. But just as he reached the cusp of sleep, his scar began to throb, and borrowed emotions writhed in the pit of his stomach, jerking him into wakefulness again. This happened over and over again until he was covered in cold sweat and shivering under his bedclothes, and so exhausted that he sank through the whirl of alien emotion and finally fell asleep.

***

There was a note for him the next morning at breakfast, delivered by one of the school owls. Tired of forcing himself to eat, Harry abandoned his porridge and read:

Mr. Malfoy is going to be fine. Broken arm, broken jaw, broken nose, three cracked ribs, a missing tooth, a concussion and a fair number of bruises, but he'll be right as rain in a day or so. Not sure how friendly you two lads are, but if you want to be helpful you can owl him a copy of your notes for the lessons you have together. Good luck with Figg, I dare say you'll need it. --MF

It was strange, he thought, reading a letter of importance in the Great Hall with no one there to share it with. Not that he had a choice -- dawn was only just beginning to creep across the enchanted ceiling above him, and there was no one else in the room aside from Professor Sinastra and a handful of Ravenclaws.

At least this particular letter, unlike the note from Lupin, was obvious enough that he did not miss the outside opinions. Malfoy had been seriously banged up and needed help with his schoolwork. That, and it seemed even Professor Fletcher thought his lessons with Figg could prove unwise.

And yet, a short while later, Harry was knocking on her office door. It didn't open immediately, though he could hear her moving around inside. He was about to try knocking again when the door swung open of its own accord.

The room that Harry entered did not look anything like like the office he remembered. It was much larger, for one thing, nearly half the length of the Great Hall and at least twenty feet wide. The walls were bare stone lit by oil lamps, and the only decoration was a narrow red carpet rolled out along the length of the floor. Standing at the center of the room, on top of a large Gryffindor lion that had been embroidered into the carpet, was Professor Figg

"I assume you have researched standard defenses against Stupefy," she said crisply, raising her wand.

"Yeah," said Harry, closing the door behind him and starting across the room. "I -"

"Stupefy!"

Harry barely had time to register he'd been attacked, let alone mount any kind of defense, and he scrambled out of the way as her curse blasted a small crater in the wall behind him.

"How very Muggle of you," she mused.

"You're one to talk," Harry spat, dusting himself off. "Are you trying to kill me or what?"

"I am attempting to recreate the conditions of an actual duel," she said coolly. "If I had been a Death Eater, I wouldn't have paused to make certain you were ready before attacking. And if you continue to address me as anything other than 'Ma'am' or 'Professor,' I will take five points from your house for every offense. Now." She raised her wand. "Pay attention."

"Professor -"

"Stupefy!"

This time, Harry was ready. "Protego!" he yelled, slashing his wand across the path of her spell. The air in front of him shimmered, and the red light of Figg's curse slid harmlessly around him.

"Better," she said. "Though ideally, the spell should be reflected back upon your attacker. Again?"

They practiced for half an hour, Figg speaking only to correct his technique and Harry maintaining a stoney silence. He had been worried that she would spend their time together nagging him about Malfoy, but in a way her cool detachment was even more infuriating. She acted as if they were barely more than strangers.

When he had managed to deflect three consecutive Stupefy's in her general direction, she admitted satisfaction and ended the assault. She waved her wand, murmured an incantation, and the office shrunk back to its usual size with a soft whoosh, her bookcases and desk melting out of the walls.

"Your reflexes and instincts are still those of a Muggle, though you seem to have learned to compensate for it to some extent," she said, pulling a large carpet bag out from under her desk. Her lesson planner and a large pile of books were neatly stacked on the desktop in front of her, and she started piling them into the bag. "It's a shame you weren't allowed a Wizarding upbringing, it would have made my job somewhat easier." She sniffed disdainfully. "And you would know better than to mix with Slytherin fascists."

"You know, Professor," Harry muttered, his grip on his wand tightening. "I could be mistaken, but it seems partly your fault that I didn't have a 'Wizarding upbringing,' doesn't it? Seeing as you pretended to be a batty Muggle catlady my whole life."

"Watch your tongue, Mr. Potter," she snapped, pushing yet another book into the seemingly bottomless carpet bag.

Harry sqeezed his wand so hard he thought it might snap in half. "Are you going to keep pretending like we don't know each other?"

"Five points from Gryffindor," she said, not bothering to look up.

"Well, are you?!"

"Mr. Potter, I am as aware of our shared history as you are. More so, in fact, as I spent the entirety of it out of nappies." She slipped the last of her books into the bag and closed it with a snap. "But it is not a topic that I am particularly inclined to discuss. However unpleasant it was for you to live with the Dursley family, I assure you that my distaste for Muggle living conditions far outstripped your own, as I had previously resided in the Wizarding world and thus knew what I was missing.

"Now, if you're finished asking questions I am unlikely to answer, I believe you're due in Transfiguration fifteen minutes from now."

Still seething, Harry stuffed his wand into his back pocket and slung his rucksack onto his shoulders, then stomped off toward the door.

"Oh, and Mr. Potter?"

He paused with one foot in the corridor, not turning to look back. "Yes, Professor?"

"Next time you send Miss Granger to make excuses for you, try and at least make an effort to convince me. I was not impressed by your bizarre display of concern for Mr. Malfoy, and I suggest you reevaluate your priorities in the future."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry grumbled.

"Five more points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter. And do say 'hello' to Minerva for me."

***

The next week was as unrelentingly dull as any Harry could remember. Hermione and Ron still weren't speaking to him, which suited him just fine; Ginny tried her best to keep him company, and continued to meet him in the common room every morning before breakfast, but as they didn't have any lessons together there was only so much she could do. He spent most of his time with Seamus and Dean, listening to them talk about Muggle sports and comic books, but as Seamus was constantly bringing up the subject of Hermione -- and how Ron was obviously not good enough for her -- there was only so much of his company Harry could take.

He was actually sort of impressed with how completely Hermione had managed to ignore him. Ron kept stealing glances at him during lessons, but as far as he could tell she only acknowledged his presence once that entire week, and it was to stare at him for a moment during History of Magic. He was taking careful notes, his full attention on the ghostly drone of Professor Binns, and she looked ready to die of shock.

Of course, she didn't know that he had a very good reason for his sudden interest in Giant wars of the fourteenth century. It was O.W.L. year, after all, and Malfoy was going to need to stay caught up. And although he only had Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins that year, Harry didn't think it was likely that anyone in Malfoy's own house was going to do any note-taking for him. It was one thing to mangle his own education, Harry decided, but quite another to muck around with someone else's. If he was going to bother at all, he might as well be thorough.

Every afternoon when he was done with last period, Harry spent half an hour in the Library copying his notes for day, then went up to the Hospital wing and tried to convince Madam Pomfrey to let him in to see Malfoy. Invariably, she told him that Malfoy did not want any visitors, and after a few minutes of futile argument Harry would hand the notes over and stomp off to Gryffindor Tower.

When he complained to Ginny on Wednesday during lunch, she suggested he send an owl. He pointed out that if Malfoy wanted to talk to him, he could have at least sent a note through Madam Pomfrey, and on Thursday he specifically asked if Malfoy had given her any kind of message.

"He just takes the lesson notes and thanks me for bringing them," she said, barring the door with her arm in case Harry tried to slip past. "Quiet as a mouse, that boy. I've done all I can for him, but he insists he's not ready to leave, and Professor Dumbledore asked me not to force him."

Harry had gotten quite used to the rhythm of these visits by the end of the week, so much so that when Madam Pomfrey told him Malfoy had left the hospital wing on Friday afternoon, it didn't immediately register. He just stood there blinking foolishly for a moment, still holding the day's stack of parchment out to her.

"You'll just have to give them to him at breakfast," she said.

Only Malfoy didn't go to breakfast on Saturday. And after he failed to show up at lunch or dinner, either, Harry decided it was time for a more proactive approach. He supposed he could just owl him as Ginny had suggested (and she did, again, when he mentioned the problem at dinner) he didn't think it was likely that Malfoy would write him back. As strange as it was to think about, he was worried. And he wanted to know what had happened with Bayne.

He suspected that gaining entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon wouldn't be as simple as it had proved last time, now that Morag MacDougal and her cronies were on to him. It was going to take stealth. Stealth, and a select few pieces of equipment.

***

It was almost nine o' clock when Harry slipped out of the portrait hole and through the emptying corridors of the school. He was wearing his father's cloak; the lesson notes, the Marauder's Map and the penknife Sirius had given him were all tucked into the pockets of his robes. He would wait outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room until someone else entered or left, and then slip in before the door could close again.

After three quarters of an hour of waiting, however, he began to question the merit of his plan. Grumbling softly, he pulled out the map and tapped it with his wand.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he whispered. At least this way he could check to see if there were any Slytherins still wandering the castle. As it turned out, there weren't, and Harry was about the stuff the map back into his pocket when he noticed something strange happening to the dot of ink labeled, "Harry Potter."

A microscopic word bubble had appeared over its head, so tiny that he had to squint to read what it was saying.

"Aconite?" he murmured, reading it aloud.

The door swung open.

That map just kept getting better.

Only ten or so Slytherins were in the common room, studying at mahogany tables or curled up in luxurious velvet wing chairs. A few looked up to see who had entered, and Harry held his breath as Malcolm Baddock frowned, put down his book and walked over to examine the empty doorway.

"Hey, Liggins," he said after a moment. "You left the door open, you great twat."

"Must've stuck on the carpet," said Liggins, a weasely-looking first year.

"Whatever," Baddock grunted, shoving it closed again.

Harry skirted the edge of the room, catching fragments of conversation as we went. One comment, in particular, made him pause.

"Did you hear about the Parkinsons?"

"Yeah, got raided las week, didn' they?"

"Ministry took everything..."

"...Serves them right, bloody pureblood bastards..."

More raids, thought Harry, mounting the stairs to the boys dormitory. A wizard standing on a mound of Muggle bodies sneered at him from the carvings on the wall. Wonder if anyone died...

The door to Malfoy's room was locked, as Harry expected it would be. He unfolded Sirius' penknife and slid the blade down the gap between the door and its frame. There was a soft click, and he pushed it open.

Malfoy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his back against the headboard, the notes Harry had given him spread out on top of the blankets. "Go away, Morag," he said wearily, eyes still on the parchment in his hands

"It's not Morag," said Harry, closing the door behind him and sliding off his cloak.

Malfoy's head whipped up, his grey eyes wide and shadowed. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, seeing as I stopped you from getting your head knocked in last weekend, I thought I should pay a visit," said Harry. He pulled the notes out of his robes. "Besides, I had to give you these."

"You shouldn't be here," said Malfoy. "You'll just make it worse."

"Make what worse? What's going on?" Harry walked over to the bed and cleared a space so he could sit down, dropping the parchment he held into Malfoy's lap. "What was that all about, anyway?"

Malfoy bowed his head over the parchment, his fringe slipping forward to hide his face. "I don't think we should do this anymore."

"What? Why not?"

"They saw us," Malfoy whispered. "In the library. And in the dungeons. They saw us together and they know what's going on."

"There's nothing going on, we're just keeping each other company," said Harry defensively. "Besides, who cares what they think?"

"I don't care what they think," said Malfoy. "But I have to care what they do, don't I?" He touched his cheek, running his finger along the thin, white line of new skin. "It's been a long year, Potter, and it's not even Halloween yet. I...I don't think I can do this anymore."

"Bludgers..."

Malfoy looked up. "What?"

"They're the Bludgers, aren't, they?"

Malfoy nodded, avoiding Harry's eyes. "It's pathetic," he whispered. "I'm a Malfoy and they're nothing more than Mudblood rabble. I should...I should be able to..." He laughed suddenly, a short and unpleasant sound. "And then you came along and fought them all off, didn't you? Famous Harry Potter to the rescue..."

Harry bristled. "Would you rather I'd just left you there? They could've killed you."

"I know," said Malfoy.

"Besides, it was your curse that drove them off, wasn't it?"

Malfoy met his eyes, finally. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember?"

"I'm sorry," said Malfoy drily. "I missed it due to my head injury. Concussions are funny that way." Strangely, Harry found the sarcasm reassuring.

"I used the curse you tried against those Death Eaters," said Harry. "Infligo. Seemed to do the job well enough."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. "You used Infligo?"

"Yeah."

"And it...it worked..?"

"Yes, honestly, are you sure Bayne didn't addle your brains?"

"Potter, do you know what that curse does?"

Harry shrugged. "No, not really. Looked unpleasant enough, though."

"Crucio creates an illusion of pain," said Malfoy. "It was classified an Unforgivable Curse because it can easily drive the victim mad if used for long enough."

"But I didn't - "

"Infligo attacks the nerves directly. It doesn't cause any permanent damage, but you can be sent to Azkaban for up to a year if you're caught using it without a good enough reason." Malfoy chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I only know about it because my Father insisted I study curse theory as soon as I was old enough to read. He said I'd need it later on. But I've never been able to cast Infligo, not properly. Father told me it was because I lacked a killer's instinct."

Harry stared at the loose sheets of parchment that surrounded him, eyes slipping over the untidy scrawl without actually reading any of it. "I don't want to stop meeting you," he said finally. "Figg's going to teach me how to fight, and I'm going to need someone to practice with."

"I don't think so, Potter," said Malfoy. He started pulling the notes toward him, stacking them neatly in his lap. "I'd prefer to avoid having anything else broken."

"No one has to know," said Harry. He reached out and took hold of Malfoy's wrist, and the other boy looked up at him. "We'll meet here, in this room, and no one will be any wiser. And we'll teach each other how to fight. And the next time Bayne tries anything, he'll be in the hospital wing for a month."

Malfoy stared at Harry's hand. "Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly. "You obviously don't need me."

"I just want to, all right?"

Malfoy pulled his arm out of Harry's grasp, and picked up the last few sheets of parchment. "All right," he said.

***

Malfoy started answering his owls after that. Their notes to each other were short and not especially important, but they were frequent enough. It wasn't so much the content as the gesture of writing. Harry was strangely pleased that Malfoy cared enough to bother, and he suspected the feeling was mutual.

A few days before the next Hogsmeade weekend, Harry suggested that they stay behind and spend the day practicing. Malfoy balked at this, pointing out that it was Halloween and that people would wonder where they were, but Harry insisted. He still wasn't talking to Ron and Hermione, and he knew Ginny had plans with the other Fourth Years. He had no desire to spend the day alone in the Three Broomsticks, with nothing but a tankard of butterbeer and his own, gloomy thoughts for company.

And so as the rest of the upperclassmen lined up in the front hall to have their names checked against Filch's list, Harry crept down into the dungeons and slipped into the Slytherin common room as a first year girl held the door open for one of her friends.

Malfoy had pulled the mattress off his bed and laid it out in the middle of his room. Harry had been working on offensive Mobilicorpus charms and Petrificus Totalus variants with Figg, and the boys planned to spend the afternoon perfecting their technique. Harry had no intention of making any mistakes with Figg on Monday morning.

"Does Figg ever let you try these out on her?" Malfoy asked. He had just sent Harry flying backwards onto the mattress, and looked rather pleased with himself.

"Not often enough," said Harry, accepting the hand that Malfoy held out to him. He pulled himself to his feet. "I did get her with a wicked Stupefy last week, though. Right smack into the wall. Figured she deserved it after that stunt she pulled."

"Well, it's not every day that a professor sets your hair on fire, is it?" said Malfoy with smirk that looked only slightly forced. "I suppose I should be flattered by all the attention."

Harry grinned and checked his watch. "Almost lunchtime. You hungry?"

"Not hungry enough to risk the Great Hall on a Hogsmeade weekend," said Malfoy, wrinkling his nose. "Nothing but a load of first and second years and upperclassmen too dull to leave their studies."

"What, you mean like us?" Harry teased, chuckling.

"Shut up, Potter, or I'll reintroduce you to the mattress."

"Like to see you try!"

"Maybe after I've eaten," Malfoy drawled, pocketing his wand and crossing the room to his trunk.

"I thought you said you didn't want to go downstairs?"

"Don't have to," said Malfoy, tilting back the lid of his trunk. "I am a man of advanced preparation." He rummaged around for a while, then emerged with a package of sausages and half a loaf of bread. "Don't worry," he said, seeing Harry's doubtful look. "They've got preservation charms on them, they'll be fine."

"I like the way you think, Malfoy," said Harry, grinning.

The two boys sat down on the hearth, getting soot all over their robes and not especially caring. Harry took the sausage Malfoy offered and levitated it into the flames, rotating it carefully as it sizzled.

"This was my Mum's idea," said Malfoy quietly, a small smile on his lips. "She was always worried I didn't eat enough. I gave most of them to Crabbe and Goyle, but...every so often..." He retrieved his sausage and poked it experimentally with a finger. "Accio plates," he said, and two china saucers flew gracefully out of his trunk and onto the hearth stones in front of him.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to know her at all," said Harry, taking a bite out of his own sausage. "She sounds like a really nice lady."

"Liar," said Malfoy conversationally. "You hated her almost as much as you hated me, admit it."

Harry chuckled. "Well, maybe just a -"

His voice trailed off, his opinion of Narcissa Malfoy abruptly forgotten. Albus Dumbledore's head had appeared in the fireplace.

"P- Professor," Harry stuttered, scrambling backwards. "I'm sorry, I can explain, I -"

"I am not here to reprimand you, Harry," said Dumbledore briskly. "I would like you come to the hospital wing immediately."

"But...but I'm fine..."

"I would rather explain in person," said Dumbledore, his eyes flickering toward Malfoy. "Suffice it to say that time is of the essence."

And he disappeared, absorbed into the flames so quickly that if not for Malfoy's quietly horrified expression, he would wonder if it had happened at all.

"I've got to go," he said, standing up. "I'll....I'll owl you later tonight, all right?"

Malfoy didn't reply.

Harry did not start to worry until he was most of the way to the hospital wing, and it occurred to him that one of his friends might have been hurt. What if there had been another Death Eater rally? What if Ron or Hermione had been attacked? Or Ginny? But Mr. Weasley had told them the charm grid was repaired, that there was nothing to worry about...

The door to the hospital wing was locked, and Harry beat on it continuously, his heart pounding in his throat, until someone finally opened it. He did not stop to see who it was. He went straight for the bed at the end of the row. The curtains had been drawn around it, and he jerked them roughly aside, visions of Ginny's dismembered body flashing through his brain.

But it wasn't Ginny.

In fact, it wasn't a student at all.

It was Sirius.

He was pale and almost perfectly still, his long, black hair matted with blood. He was shirtless but had not yet been bandaged. His chest was covered with partly dried blood, his flesh cut so deeply that the white bones of his ribs shone from the wounds.

Harry stared at his godfather's body for a long moment before realized what he was seeing, and when he did it took all the strength he had to keep himself from being sick.

It was a Dark Mark.

***