Harry Potter and the Burden of Becoming

Harry Potter and the Burden of Becoming

Chapter 57 - A Fine Team

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"He shoots... he scores! Ten points for Hufflepuff!"

Though Ron scowled fiercely, the Hogwarts crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers for the underdog. Even a few of the dozens of Aurors surrounding the pitch clapped. Thirty minutes into the most guarded match in Hogwarts history, Gryffindor was up fifty to nothing when Zacharias Smith of Hufflepuff charged the center ring with the Quaffle. Ron had seen Elenor Branstone trailing behind her teammate, but focused instead on the leader. It was an obvious feint, only Ron missed it. At the last moment, Smith tossed the Quaffle to Branstone who scored through the left ring. It was the first goal scored on Ron Weasley in competition or at practice all year. As Madame Hooch flew to reset the Quaffle, Harry came over to Ron.

"Zach dropped his shoulder just before the charge," offered Harry. "He had to be thinking of throwing to his left."

"Yeah?" Ron glowered. "Well, I wouldn't know what he was thinking now, would I?"

Harry's face broke into a smile, and a moment later so did Ron's. The redhead's newest treatments had helped shrink the foreign nerve tissue growing into his brain. The voices pounding into his head were fading, and it required effort to read minds, effort he chose to leave off the field.

"Would you two break it up?!" Katie yelled from the center of the pitch.

"You'd better keep your eyes peeled, Harry," said Ron. "I don't think we'll be able to run the score on them, so we're going to need the Snitch."

"I don't know about that," Harry shrugged. "You've blocked eight good shots on goal already. That's damn sharp, and--" Madame Hooch's whistle blew, spinning Harry around. In an instant he shot past the Hufflepuff Seeker, Summerby, nearly knocking him from his broom and high over the pitch into the cool, clear air. On a day like today, he had no need for the warming charms of his broom, and chose to suppress them and enjoy the crisp feel of the blustery air against his face. Harry focused hard on the field below, searching for any golden glint that might reveal his quarry.

"Watch it!" a voice yelled. There was a loud thump just behind Harry's left ear. Jack Sloper had just clobbered a Bludger down toward Smith below. The Bludger shot wide as Jack cursed, but Smith seeing the Bludger heading his way swung wildly to the side and missed a pass from Branstone. A blur, Dennis Creevey had the loose Quaffle in his arms, shot straight for the center ring and scored before the Hufflepuff Keeper could react. Both Harry and Jack pumped their fists.

"That one nearly took your head off, Harry," Jack cautioned and Harry nodded in agreement.

"Thanks for the save."

"You were right about Smith being skittish after being cracked in the skull last match. He nearly flew out of his shorts, and my shot was way off target." He lowered his head a bit. "Goyle would have had him off his broom."

"Hey," Harry said brightly, "you saved my skull; that counts for something doesn't it?" At this Sloper smiled, tightened his hand about his bat, and spun down toward the field just as Hooch's whistle blew again.

Earlier in the year, Harry would have sensed the Bludger coming and been well out of its way... the work of the protection charm he figured. But now, that sixth sense and his ability to perform any serious magic without the use of his wand had vanished completely. Along with his scar, whatever happened at the falls had removed the effects of Grigor's spell, and the special gifts it had given him. Fortunately, he was released from the whistling charm, and while the mark remained on his forearm, it no longer ached. It was Dobby who had declared him free of darkness. He was late returning from the library last night when the house elf jumped him from behind. "It is gone!" Dobby screamed with glee.

"Shhhhhh," Harry hissed, trying to quickstep to the common room before Filch caught him out after curfew, the house elf clutched tightly about his neck. But Dobby would have none of it.

"Harry Potter is free of the dark mark!" he yelled. "How? Dobby knows the great Harry Potter is a wise and great magician. But how did Harry Potter succeed where all other wizards failed?" He was now bouncing gleefully on the floor in front of Harry.

"Dobby, be quiet," Harry pleaded. "This isn't--"

"Was the magician the great Professor Dumbledore? Yes... yes, of course. Dobby should have known--"

"It wasn't anybody," Harry cut in quietly under his now panting breath. They were ascending the staircase now, not much further. "It was burned out of me, or washed out, or... I don't know."

Dobby stopped cold, grabbing Harry by the cloak. "Washed?"

"Dobby, let go!" Harry hissed again. "I'm late, and if I don't--"

"Then what the Centaurs say is true." The house elf's eyes were wide. "Dobby was told of its return and--" He realized he had grabbed Harry's robe, and let go immediately. "Dobby is sorry, sir," he said looking, not at Harry, but at his hand. The Gryffindor picked up on this at once. Dobby had information about the falls, or at least what they were.

"What's true?" Harry asked, bending down low to one knee. "Who is returning?" This always made Dobby blush, and as the house elf regained his composure to speak, an all too familiar meow echoed from above. They looked up to see Mrs. Norris glaring down at them. Immediately, the house elf vanished, leaving Harry alone on the steps. A moment later, Mr. Filch appeared holding an unlit lantern in one hand.

"Surprise, surprise," he sneered. "What have we here, Mrs. Norris? A bit of treasure for the dungeons." He put one foot down on the steps leading to Harry. "Do you think, Potter, I have time to chase after the likes of you and Mr. Malfoy all night?" Knowing the routine far better than he should, Harry rose to his feet and started immediately toward Professor McGonagall's office. "At least you're clean," Filch said with a sigh.

"Clean?" Harry asked, as the two descended the staircase.

"Found the little rat just after curfew huddled up in the corner, vomit all over himself AND my floor!" Filch exclaimed, clearly more agitated that he had to clean the floor. "And Peeves has made a right mess of it down in the dungeons backing up all the toilets. "I suspect you and Malfoy will have a splendid time cleaning the muck up together." Filch chuckled out loud imagining the bickering that would ensue when the two students would be in detention together. Fortunately for Harry, Professor McGonagall postponed the detention to Saturday night after the Quidditch match with Hufflepuff, and Snape agreed to do the same for Malfoy.

And so it was that Harry found himself flying on the south side of the pitch, hoping that the match would carry well into the night. There was a sudden groan from the crowd. Katie had taken a Bludger to the back. Her posture was crooked, but she was still flying. If they lost her, the tide of the match would change to Hufflepuff. Harry redoubled his efforts to find the Snitch.

The Gryffindor lead was ninety when he saw it. The sun was beginning to cast long shadows out onto the grass below, and the Snitch flashed for only a moment between the shades of dark and light. It was all the time Harry needed and he rocketed down at once. The motion was not lost on the crowd, which swooned, nor on Summerby, who darted to intercept Harry at once. Harry kept both eyes fixed on the Snitch, now flying fast for the west side of the pitch, while with the corner of his right eye he noted Summerby closing quickly... too quickly. Harry cursed under his breath--the Hufflepuff had the better position. This was going to be close, too close for Harry's liking. He pressed down on his Caduceus trying to pick up speed. He had the better broom, but Summerby had the better angle. Harry needed a different tack. Basic Seeker training warned to never anticipate the movement of the Snitch; rather track it and react to its ever-random movements. But Harry had had no choice; if the Snitch flew straight, or dodged north, Summerby would have it. On his current path, there was also a better than good chance he would lose to Summerby if the Snitch chose to dart any other direction but up. He chose to improve his odds and guided his broom just south of the Snitch. The Gryffindor crowd groaned in disapproval, thinking he'd lost sight of the golden orb now careening straight toward them.

Even as the wind screamed in Harry's ears, he felt it. Only meters away from the stands, his eyes noticed they were drifting to the south. A goodly gust of wind from the north had pushed Snitch and Seeker alike, like leaves on a fall day. No one, not even Ron, would believe his theory that Snitches had personalities all their own. To Harry the Snitch the Gryffindor team practiced with almost always preferred to hide about the edges of the pitch, and when it was found it used more speed than agility to try to escape. Katie called it rubbish.

"They're all given the same standard charm, and they all respond in the same random way," she'd say, rolling her eyes.

This Snitch... this Snitch... Harry pulled up hard on his broom. Even the Caduceus had trouble responding with his sudden command to pull out of the dive and turn north into the wind. It looked as if he was trying to collide with Summerby rather than let him catch the Snitch, but the Hufflepuff Seeker simply ducked low and passed under Harry's feet, mocking Harry as he passed by and tracking for the Snitch to carry straight on. The Hufflepuff's hands were mere inches from the Snitch, when, in a blink, it turned into the wind and shot high. A blink more and the stands erupted as Harry grabbed it in his waiting hands. He held it high above his head, grinning broadly, and then his face fell slightly. There would be time for dinner, but no celebration tonight. Tonight he would enjoy the pleasant company of a very sour Slytherin, while cleaning the dungeons for Filch.

He was struck by his fellow teammates and flown straight into the Gryffindor stands as everyone cheered. Hagrid sat among them; his eyes were still wide in amazement.

"That... that was brilliant, Harry." Hagrid beamed. "It's as if yeh read the bloody bird's mind!"

"Thanks Hagrid, but--"

"You two!" a voice yelled out from the back of one of the guest boxes. A tall figure in dark robes was standing up pointing in Harry's direction, but he was silhouetted by the sun, forcing Harry to shield his eyes. Harry looked about to see who he was calling.

"You with the glasses," the man yelled again, stepping down towards them. "Potter, right? And the redhead, er... Winglsey?" When he shifted his position out of the sun, the group of Gryffindors let out a collective gasp. Dressed in long flowing robes of black with hand stitched white piping, stood Terrence Tellman of the Montrose Magpies, current leaders in the British and Irish League. He was holding a rolled program in his right hand and was tapping it against the other, smiling as he stepped close.

"H-Harry," Ron sputtered nervously, "it's Tellman of the bloody Magpies... here!"

"I know who it is," Harry hissed back through his smiling teeth. The sea of red and gold parted as the large wizard approached the pair.

"Some flying, son," Tellman said with a grin. He stood well over six feet with broad shoulders and hands that looked strong enough to crack walnuts. Standing so close to such a very large Quidditch professional, Harry suddenly felt very small. His hazel eyes peered down at Harry. "How long have you been playing Seeker?"

"S-Six years, sir," Harry said. Tellman whistled.

"Then it's true. You started in your first year." He stroked his chin pensively and then turned to Ron. "And you, Wingsley?"

"Weasley, sir," answered Ron.

"Not the Minister's son?" Tellman questioned in surprise. Ron shrugged and nodded his head. "Merlin, then I have hit the jackpot, haven't I?" Ignoring everyone else, he put his arms about Harry and Ron, and started to walk away from the crowd. "Tell me, boys... how'd you like to leave school a bit early, and have a go as pros? I dare say with you two on board there wouldn't be an empty seat in the house."

"On the Magpies?" Ron cried out. "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am," replied Tellman, his teeth still beaming in the glowing sun. The look reminded Harry a bit of Gilderoy Lockhart. "I'd heard the reports, and had to see it for myself... unbelievable play, simply unbelievable."

"Well of course we'd be interested!" howled Ron excitedly. "When do we start?"

"Hold on," said Harry sternly. "Mr. Tellman, we've another year to go here at Hogwarts."

"For what?" Ron cried. "So Snape can make you redo perfectly prepared potions? Or do you want to stay so you can clean backed up toilets after hours?"

"You know perfectly well why. I would think you, as Prefect--"

"A Prefect that's smart enough to know when galleons are headed my way. This is my chance, Harry. You've already got your estate. Let me make enough to have my own!"

"Ron, you can't be serious."

"Fine!" Ron turned his back on Harry and faced Tellman. "Well, he can stay. I'll go."

The Magpies' number one Chaser puckered a bit and clucked his tongue. "Sorry, Weasley. It's really a package deal, boys. My manger wants you both." He gently tapped each of their heads with the rolled up program in his hand.

"Surely you can--" Ron started, but Tellman held out his hand.

"He has his reasons, son," he interrupted. "Believe me; he has plans for both of you." Tellman's smile seemed to twist a bit at these words, but Ron was oblivious, still glowering at Harry. "Tell you what. Let's say we bring you both out for a team practice. No commitment. There's an open tryout the second Saturday of the month. What do you two say about having a go in February?" Without waiting for an answer he added, "Here's my card. You can owl me."

"Deal," Ron said, snapping the card out of Tellman's hand. "No need for an owl, is there, Harry?" Harry looked at Tellman, and then at Ron who gave him a look of pure fire. Finally, Harry nodded his agreement.

"Yes!" Ron shouted, clenching his fist and then slapping Harry on the shoulder.

Tellman winked and clicked his mouth, then turned and walked back through the crowd that once again parted. He stopped here and there to sign a few autographs, climbed on his broom, and was gone. It had taken less than five minutes, and they were going to get to practice with the Magpies. Harry didn't want to admit it, but he was giddy inside. Ginny stood and watched the whole encounter, and when it was over wasn't sure what to say.

"You know," she started, "you'll still need permission to leave, and there's no way--" Her words were drowned out by the crush of gold and red swarming to find out what had happened.

News of the meeting spread quickly throughout the school. At dinner it was all anybody spoke of in the Great Hall. Harry looked up at the head table to find Dumbledore looking down at him. Harry wasn't sure if there was a smile behind the old wizard's white beard, or a look of admonishment. What he did know was that there was no hope in trying to sneak out next Saturday night. They'd have to get permission. He was mulling the idea of how to approach Dumbledore when a hand tapped his shoulder from behind. It was Hermione.

"We're done with dinner," she said. "Are you coming?"

Harry was in no hurry to finish dinner. He poked at his roast beef, which had long ago turned cold. He would not be joining the night's celebration in Gryffindor tower. Detention with Malfoy would be next. He glanced over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was looking straight at him with a look of pure hatred. Harry knew that Draco was just as good at Quidditch as he. They were evenly matched at Seeker, and Malfoy had the edge at strategy. Only lately, Harry questioned if Malfoy could hold any cogent thought in his head. Even Neville was outperforming him in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there was talk that if his grades didn't improve he might be removed. Ron thought it a brilliant idea, but Harry needed Malfoy... wits intact. To do that, he would have to find a way to get Malfoy to stop the potions nearly everyone knew he was taking.

Harry looked at Hermione over his shoulder. "No," he sighed. "I've got to head to the dungeons and meet Filch for detention." He shoved his plate forward, and it vanished to the kitchens below. He looked back over at the Slytherin table, but Malfoy was gone. He sighed again.

"Be careful, Harry," Hermione said, as he took to his feet. "Malfoy's... well, crazy. Merlin knows what he might do down there with you two alone." Harry simply nodded and started on his way.

The stench became almost unbearable as he descended the stone staircase. What was an awful mess the day before had ripened and now seemed to penetrate his very skin. Harry's neck began to itch and his eyes watered. It was all he could do to stand upright and not wretch. He stepped into the sticky muck just at Peeves, the cause of all before him, shot passed his head.

"Ho-Ho-Ho! Prince Potter and Monarch Malfoy descend to serve as commoners!" chimed Peeves in an overly sing-songy voice. The poltergeist pulled a mirror off the wall and threw it to the floor. Instantly, Harry withdrew his wand and stopped the glass before it was half way down. The speed of the spell surprised Peeves whose pasty face seemed to flame with rage. "I see you're quick with what you've done, but that alone can't spoil my fun!" he jeered. In the next instant he flew directly down toward the suspended mirror intending to shatter it.

"Speculum Captus!" Harry cried out. Peeves hit the glass at blinding speed, but it did not shatter. Instead, his essence seemed to be swallowed whole by the suspended mirror. There was a muffled scream as Harry walked over and took the large mirror in both his hands. He turned it about to find the image of Peeves flitting about banging against each edge of the glass.

"Let me out!" he cried. Harry cocked his head in curiosity, then a small smile lifted at the corner of his mouth. "Let me out, Potter!" Harry walked over and stuck the mirror back against the wall. He took a step back crossing his arms, contemplating the trapped spirit. A voice startled him from behind.

"How'd you do that?"

Harry spun to find Malfoy inches from his right shoulder. His face was sunken and large bags hung under his dull gray eyes that hid behind his greasy yellow hair. His breath rivaled that of the stench they were already strolling in.

"Don't know," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "Can't ever remember reading about it. The words just came." Harry narrowed his eyes on the panicking poltergeist. "It's like I've learned the spells of the dead or something."

"Well," said Malfoy, turning away from Harry disinterested, "Filch, the cretin, will be eternally grateful if you can keep the creature locked away." The two students turned to face a squeak on the stairs.

"Cretin, is it Malfoy?" Filch slowly rolled the words out of his mouth, as if chewing over the pending punishment. Eying Malfoy up and down, he was oblivious to his captured nemesis. "You're not much without daddy around, are you?"

Malfoy glared, a hint of fire returning to his otherwise dead eyes. Filch had no idea the territory he was entering and Harry tried to intervene. "We've come to clean the floors, Mr. Filch." The old man glared at Malfoy for a moment, and then turned on Harry.

"Then get to it!" said Filch with a toothy sneer. Both boys faced the floor and pulled their wands. "No! Put those away. You'll be using these tonight." He had two mops in his hands. He handed one to Harry, but busted the other over his knee. "Oops! It broke," he said looking at Malfoy. Instead he handed him a small cloth barely larger than a handkerchief. "Get busy!" Filch started back up the stairs, holding the mop's two halves in his hands.

"What's this?" Malfoy yelled indignantly. "I can't--"

"Oh... but you will, boy!" Filch chuckled. "Your father was an imperious prick, and I won't have--"

There was a blinding flash of blue light. Filch stood frozen, his eyes open and his face still twisted in anger. At first Harry thought it some sort of Immobulus spell, but the incantation was wrong, and Filch's eyes showed no sign of consciousness. "What did you--" Harry began.

"You're not the only one who's learned a few things lately, Potter," Malfoy muttered dryly as he leaned against the wall next to the mirror. Peeves cried out again. "Shut up!" Malfoy yelled. "Or I'll shatter this mirror and you along with it!" Harry wasn't sure that would work, but Peeves quieted instantly. Malfoy turned to Harry. "In fact, give the CRETIN a good shove, and be done with him! Shatter the lot!" Malfoy reached into his pocket, pulled out a small silver flask and took a swig letting much of the liquid roll down the front of his neck. Harry walked over to Filch and touched his sleeve. He was cold... ice cold. Malfoy saw the concern on Harry's eyes, and rolled his own.

"Honestly, Potter," he drawled. "You look as if I killed your dog."

"Is he... is he dead?"

"Do you want him to be?" Malfoy asked as if they were talking about a mosquito about ready to be squashed.

"No!" Harry flashed back.

"Well," Malfoy began. "We can leave him there to thaw. That should take about a year, or I can thaw him now. He won't remember a thing."

"Do it!"

"How 'bout we clean this mess first?" Malfoy suggested.

Harry looked about at the muck. The thought of spending all night with a mop, was more overwhelming than Malfoy's breath. He pulled his wand and started vanishing the grime from the dungeon corridor floor. Malfoy also vanished away the muck, only Harry noted that his wand hand shook and the occasional spell would misfire splattering feces across the parts of the floor Harry had just cleaned. Harry neither teased, nor corrected the error. Indeed, the two boys did not say so much as a word to each other as they made their way down the corridor, side by side.

After an hour passed, they were nearly complete, having now worked their way into the lavatory Peeves originally backed up. Confined as it was, the stench was twice as bad, and they each held an arm over their faces as they continued to remove the filth.

"I say you shatter the bloody mirror over Filch's head!" Malfoy yelled out, having just splattered, instead of vanished, a large collection of clumped, used toilet tissue. "Two for one, I say!" Harry continued to flick his wand. He couldn't imagine trying this with a mop. Even now, his wrist grew weary from the movement of the incantation. Soon after, they were finished. The dungeon corridor and washroom shone brightly--the work of house elves some declared the following day.

As the last bit of dirt was cleared from the washbasins, both students slumped to the floor and wiped their brows. "Not a bad team," Harry said brightly. Malfoy let out a bit of a grunt, reached into his cloak, and pulled out the silver flask.

"Draco... don't," Harry asked, his voice laden with concern. Malfoy looked at Harry and then to the flask.

"What? This?" he asked flippantly. "Just a little something to get by, Potter. That's all." He took a swig and slipped it back in. Harry immediately saw the effect in Malfoy's eyes. What little brightness that was there moments before had now vanished like the filth from the floor. "Just a little... to get by," Malfoy said softly. There was no thirst for power, no hatred of Harry, no love of Quidditch. There was only nothingness, a blankness of emotion that burrowed deep into Malfoy's soul.

"You can't keep doing this," said Harry. "It'll kill you."

"P-Promises, promises," Malfoy muttered with a smirk.

"It's not funny, Draco!" Harry yelled taking to his feet. His mind flashed to Duncan's attempt at suicide. "It's not funny, at all." Taken aback by the high pitch in Harry's voice, Malfoy stood to meet him, albeit more unsteadily.

"And you care, why?" he snapped, trying to focus on Harry's face. "Morgana knows nobody else gives a damn. Everyone's stopped talking to me... even... even Blaise." His voice trailed off, and his head drooped. Then Malfoy took a deep breath and reached back into his pocket pulling the flask out again. He went to take another drink, but before the bottle met his lips it had vanished. Malfoy turned to see Harry pointing a wand in his face. Still, staring at the holly, his face bore no expression. He shrugged. "There's more where that came from, Potter." He turned to walk out, but Harry grabbed him.

"Damn it Draco, you promised! You swore to me!"

"What does it matter?"

"I need you. I can't do this without you." As before, these words seemed to penetrate Malfoy's façade somehow. "He's sick. I know you know it. I saw your hood in Ron's room at the Burrow." To Harry's surprise, Malfoy's eyes flashed a look of astonishment all their own. "We can win if we do this together, ALL of us." Malfoy looked away, but Harry grabbed him by the face, pushed back the hair from his eyes and looked intently into the wavering, dull gray pools. "I need you, Draco. Join me. I can't do it alone."

Malfoy's blank eyes looked back into Harry's. They welled, and a small tear made its way down his face, clearing dirt as it fell and leaving his clean, pale skin exposed like a thin white scar paralleling the red dagger beside it. Seeing him like this, Harry wished with all his might that he could remove the scar that he had placed, but he knew he didn't have that power... only Malfoy.

They stood in this odd embrace, for some time as more tears made there way down Malfoy's stoic face. Finally, Harry spoke. "I can heal your body, Draco... not your soul." Without a word, Malfoy turned and briskly walked out the door. Harry followed behind as he strode down the dungeon corridor to the steps. "Draco!" he called, but the Slytherin paid him no heed. "Draco, I need to know... please!" Suddenly, Malfoy stopped, spun on a knut, and began to almost charge at Harry, coming up just short.

"He's alive, Potter," he hissed, fire filling his eyes. "The bastard can't die, don't you know that by now? You can't kill him! We won't win!"

"Then we'll die trying," Harry said in a calm, cold voice, his eyes resolute. The look brought a small smile to Malfoy's face. The first true smile Harry had seen since his return. Malfoy nodded, and turned to leave. Stepping over Filch, frozen against the bottom of the stairs, he flicked his wand and a beam of red light bathed the Squib in warmth and he instantly revived.

"Honestly, sir," Malfoy drawled. "We do all the cleaning and you just sleep! Bloody cruel if you ask me, don't you agree, Harry?" Hearing his name... his first name, Harry smiled, but then quickly put on a face of exhaustion and persecution.

"Cruel," he said with a sigh, and slumped his shoulders as if exhausted.

Malfoy dropped his rag filled with muck directly in Filch's lap and it splattered as it hit. Harry pulled over his unused broom and dropped it on the floor. "I think you'll find the floor satisfactory, sir."

Filch was befuddled, but took to his feet and followed the boys up the stairs, wiping at his jacket and only making the situation worse. His ears picked up the faint sound of something below, but he was more interested in getting back upstairs and cleaning his jacket. The only thing the three left behind was the crackle of torchlight along the dungeon corridor, and a wailing Peeves, trapped in a mirror nearly filled to the top with the filth the two young wizards had spent the evening cleaning. A fitting punishment they both agreed.