Adamant and Starlight

Chapter 8: Rude Awakening

The low hum of voices awakened Harry from a fitful doze. He pushed himself upright, gazing at the door and blinking in a muddled way, while his mind limped through the tatters of his comfortable dream to grasp his surroundings. The hospital wing. The Room of Requirement. Draco's bed. Draco lying beside him, still sleeping with that calm, untroubled expression on his face that made him look so young.

The voices grew louder. Harry recognized one of them as belonging to Professor McGonagall. She sounded angry, and Harry wondered what else had gone wrong while he slept. A moment later, the door flew open to reveal both McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey standing just outside.

McGonagall was saying, "There's no time for that. I'll delay them all I can, but you'd best not waste any time."

"I'll handle it, Minerva." With that, Madam Pomfrey stepped into the room and shut the door in McGonagall's face. When she turned in Harry's direction, he saw that she wore a harassed frown. "Get out of that bed, Potter! On the double!"

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"Out!"

Harry obediently scrambled out of the bed, as Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him. She shoved a chair into the back of his knees, making him sit down with a plunk, then she twitched at his robes in a futile attempt to put them in some kind of order.

"Gracious, Potter, what have you done to your hair?"

"Slept on it," he retorted, his face flushing.

Madam Pomfrey whipped out her wand and pointed it at his head, but he ducked away, throwing his arms up to shield himself from her spell.

"I'll do it!" He raked his fingers through the disordered mop, surreptitiously straightening his glasses. "What's going on? Why do I have to comb my hair?"

"You can't look as though you've been curled up in bed with Malfoy."

"But I have been curled up in b..."

"No lip from you, young man," she snapped. With quick, furious gestures, she pulled the blankets into place and smoothed them over the spot where Harry had lain a moment before. Her hand brushed at the pillow, erasing the imprint of his head. Then she bent over to peer closely at Malfoy. When she straightened up, Harry saw that her mouth was tight and her eyes shadowed.

"You still haven't told me what's going on," Harry said, very quietly.

"Narcissa Malfoy is here, with the Minster of Magic. She's come for her son."

"No!" Harry shot out of his chair as if the seat were spring-loaded. "You can't let her..."

"Sit down, foolish boy, and keep quiet!" She pressed him back into his chair, then clasped his shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. Harry thought he could feel her fingers trembling slightly. "Leave it to Dumbledore."

Harry subsided, but his face was white and strained, and the eyes he turned on Madam Pomfrey bled fear like tears. "She'll give him to Voldemort. You know she will."

Before the nurse could find an answer to this, they heard new voices approach the door. Bending close to Harry under the pretext of adjusting Draco's blanket, she hissed, "Not a word, Potter!"

Harry swallowed convulsively and knotted his fingers together in his lap, his teeth clenched so tightly together that his jaw ached. He watched the door open again and a whole cavalcade of witches and wizards trail into the room, while his mind raced, trying to decide how he ought to react if he'd really been sitting here innocently, watching Draco sleep for the past few hours. About the time Madam Pomfrey reached the new arrivals and demanded, sharply, to know why they were disturbing her patient, he reached the conclusion that it didn't matter whether he'd been sitting in a chair or lying in the bed. Either way, he'd be furious and frightened, and not one of these adults would expect him to be anything else.

Dumbledore led the group, with Professor Snape at his shoulder. Cornelius Fudge came next, escorting Narcissa Malfoy as if she were his favorite niece. His pudgy hand held her elbow with an avuncular familiarity that made Harry itch to hit him with a particularly vile and embarrassing hex. Behind Fudge were a pair of wizards in lime green robes, with the badge of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on their chests. Professor McGonagall entered last and closed the door behind them all. Suddenly, the room was much too small, and Harry felt as though he were being pushed to the back of it, away from the bed and the boy lying in it.

None of them failed to notice Harry sitting at Draco's bedside, but only Dumbledore looked squarely at him. The Headmaster fixed him with a steady, approving gaze and smiled a welcome, while Narcissa stared over the top of his head in stony silence. Fudge cut a quick glance at him from the corners of his eyes, coughed, and looked away, but not before Harry caught the flash of distaste in his eyes. The two healers ignored him completely, all their attention fixed on Draco.

"As you can see, Cornelius, the boy is just where I said he would be. Sleeping," Dumbledore said.

Fudge waved to one of the anonymous healers and said, "Best wake him."

"Headmaster, I must protest..." Madam Pomfrey began, but Dumbledore cut her off with a raised hand.

"The Minister is here on official business, Poppy, and he has every right to do as he sees fit."

Fudge did not seem to hear the irony in his voice, but Narcissa did. In a tone cold enough to freeze the tips of Harry's fingers, she said, "The sooner my son is in the care of responsible healers and safely away from this castle, the better."

"Where are you taking him?" Harry demanded, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

Narcissa finally deigned to acknowledge his presence, turning eyes full of contempt on him, her face set in lines of rigid disgust. "That is not your concern. Dumbledore, I insist that you remove this student from my son's room, immediately."

"I'm not leaving," Harry said, truculently.

"Fudge?" she prompted, without bothering to look at the Minister.

"Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Potter, I don't see any need for you to remain."

"I won't leave him alone with that woman," Harry retorted, glaring hard at Fudge until the Minister once more shifted his eyes away.

"She is Malfoy's mother and responsible for his care..." Fudge began, but Harry did not let him finish.

"Not anymore! Not since the siege! Dumbledore is responsible for him, now, because that's how Draco wanted it!"

Narcissa drew her lips back in a snarl, then she turned furiously on Fudge and demanded, "Why are you arguing with this insolent boy? Do your duty, Fudge, and stop wasting time!"

"Yes, indeed." Fudge carefully avoided the eyes of Harry and the Hogwarts teachers, as he turned to the healers again and said, with a sorry attempt at authority, "You will awaken the boy and place him in restraints, if necessary."

"I'll do it," Madam Pomfrey snapped, pushing her way past the others gathered close to the bed. "Step back, all of you."

Mrs. Malfoy looked as though she'd like to protest, but the St. Mungo's wizards and Fudge all obeyed without hesitation, and she decided not to press her point. She moved back, staying close to Fudge, as though afraid that contact with Dumbledore or Snape would soil her robes. Only Harry stood his ground, refusing to back away. Madam Pomfrey did not spare him so much as a glance, so he stayed right by the bed, watching intently as she bent over Draco.

"Time to wake up, Malfoy," she said, in her crisp way. She clasped his shoulder and shook it, gently. "Open your eyes. That's a good boy."

Draco stirred very slightly and, obedient to the pressure of Madam Pomfrey's hand on his shoulder, rolled onto his back. His eyes were open, but they had turned blank and unknowing again and did not focus on any of the faces around him. His face was utterly still, like a marble mask.

"You have company," Madam Pomfrey said, still in that brisk way, and she grasped his arm to pull him upright. When Harry made a move to take his other arm, the nurse caught his eye and shook her head the tiniest bit. He let his hands drop to his sides again and watched as she coaxed Draco into a sitting position.

At Fudge's imperious gesture, the healers moved forward again with their wands in their hands. But Madam Pomfrey stepped squarely in front of them, blocking their view of the boy in the bed. Taking Draco gently by the shoulders, she guided him to the edge of the mattress and drew him to his feet. He stood numbly at her side, head tilted at a slight angle and eyes staring blankly past the crowd of adult bodies at something none of them could see. Madam Pomfrey kept one arm about his shoulders and turned to face the intruders defiantly.

"Now say what you have to say, Minister, then let this poor child alone."

"Step away from him, Poppy. He must be properly restrained."

"I will not." Her glare reduced Fudge to spluttering embarrassment and held the green-clad healers at bay. "Restraints, indeed! I never heard anything so ridiculous!"

"This 'poor child,' as you term him, is accused of using an Unforgivable Curse to murder his own father. He cannot be allowed to walk free through the castle..."

"He's not under arrest, yet," Madam Pomfrey hissed, her grip on Draco's shoulder tightening, "and until he is, I'm still his nurse!"

Fudge sighed. "Very well." Turning to Draco, he said in his most pompous and condescending way, "Draco Malfoy, I arrest you on the charge of using an Unforgivable Curse to bring about the death of your father, Lucius Malfoy. Do you have anything to say, before I take you into custody?"

Draco did not move, did not even blink, and Fudge gave him an irritated look.

"Do you understand the charge made against you?"

"Of course he doesn't understand," Narcissa snapped. "His mind is gone! Look at him, Minister. Look at what Dumbledore and his minions have done to him!"

"Now, now, Narcissa..."

"I want him out of here!"

"Ah, not so fast, my dear Narcissa," Dumbledore interjected. "We have a few things to discuss, before you whisk Draco away from Hogwarts."

"We have nothing to discuss. My son is under arrest and will certainly spend the rest of his life in a prison of some sort - either Azkaban or the Incurable ward of St. Mungo's - thanks to you. I should think you'd be very pleased with yourself and quite ready to let him go, now that he's served his purpose!"

"But curiously, I am not." Dumbledore had on his most benign expression, but his eyes were veiled and his smile fixed in a way that told Harry he was deeply angry. This was Dumbledore at his most dangerous. "As Harry so correctly pointed out, Draco is under my protection through his own choice, and while the Ministry of Magic may care nothing for the promise I made to my students, I care very much. I have no intention of breaking that promise now, simply because a distraught mother shows up at my door with a few bureaucrats in tow."

Fudge visibly swelled at this unflattering description of himself, his face turning an unattractive shade of purple. "You may think you are invulnerable, shut up here in your stronghold, but you are not, Dumbledore! You still answer to the Ministry of Magic, and to the Governors of this school!"

"Certainly I do," Dumbledore said, still in that gentle, dangerous tone, "and I have no intention of defying either the Ministry or its duly appointed representatives. But neither do I intend to hand Draco over to his mother with no assurances of his safety or his... shall we say, impartial treatment under the law."

"What are you suggesting?" Fudge said, bristling.

"That emotions in the wizarding community are running high, and the temptation to sacrifice the son of a known Death Eater may be too great for some to withstand. Oh, not you, Cornelius! I have no doubts as to your integrity! But others, some with a great deal of influence in the Ministry, might not be so fair-minded and clear in their thinking."

"Malfoy will have his trial," Fudge said, stiffly, only slightly mollified by Dumbledore's words.

"Ah. And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow."

For the first time, Snape spoke, his voice dripping with scorn. "Awfully eager to have him shipped off to Azkaban, aren't you, Fudge?"

"The sooner this matter is resolved, the better for everyone. Including Mr. Malfoy."

"What time tomorrow?" Dumbledore asked.

Fudge went from blustering to shifty, all in the space of a breath. His eyes slid away from the Headmaster's, and he chuckled with a patently false assumption of ease. "Now, Albus, you resigned as head of the Wizengamot some months ago, don't you remember? This doesn't concern you."

"Not as a member of the Wizengamot, no. But as the person responsible for Draco's defense, it concerns me very much, indeed."

Everyone turned to look at Dumbledore - some in shock, some in grim amusement, and one at least in relief. Harry felt a wave of gratitude hit him so intense that it made the room spin dizzily about him for a moment.

"You're appearing for Malfoy?" Fudge demanded, his jovial manner slipping.

"I am. And so is Mr. Potter."

Now all the eyes were on Harry, making his stomach clench and his palms begin to sweat.

"What has Potter to do with this?"

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Did I misunderstand what Narcissa told us in my office? Is she not accusing Harry of entrapping Draco and turning his wits, driving him to commit murder in effect?"

Narcissa lifted her lip in a sneer. "You did not misunderstand."

"Why, then, Harry is intimately involved, wouldn't you say? And as one of the few people who knows what actually happened to Lucius Malfoy, I should think his presence would be welcome to the Wizengamot."

The look Fudge gave Harry would have curdled fresh milk. "Nine o'clock, in Courtroom Ten."

Dumbledore nodded understanding. "And Draco's safety?"

"What assurances do you expect from me?" Fudge had abandoned all pretense of good humor and now glared sourly at Dumbledore. "He goes to St. Mungo's under close guard."

"Where he will be examined by qualified healers, no doubt?"

"Of course."

"Healers with whom I will be allowed to confer?"

Fudge's eyes narrowed. "No one outside the St. Mungo's staff will be allowed to visit the prisoner."

"I did not ask to visit Mr. Malfoy, but to speak with his healers."

"Why?"

Dumbledore spread his hands in a gesture of complete openness. "I have been responsible for his care, up to now. I know details of his illness that no healer could glean from a single night's observation. And I have a promise to keep," he added, softly.

Fudge hesitated for a long, tense moment, then he nodded. "Ministry wizards will be present, as well."

"Certainly."

"Then we're agreed? I have your permission to do my duty?"

Dumbledore smiled at the rancor in his tone. "By all means."

Fudge waved brusquely to the St. Mungo's healers, and they stepped forward yet again. This time, at a glance from Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey backed away from the still, silent Malfoy. One of the healers took her place at his side and fastened a large hand around his upper arm. Draco shuddered slightly at the touch, seeming to come out of his trance. He looked around the many faces confronting him, bewildered.

"Come along without any fuss, Malfoy," Fudge said.

Draco gazed dully at him then looked away.

It wasn't until the healer began leading Draco toward the door that Harry realized it was over. Dumbledore was finished fighting, and Draco was leaving the castle with his mother. Horror flooded him, lending a frantic edge to his voice when he cried, "Stop! What are you doing?"

"Let him go, Harry," Dumbledore murmured quietly in his ear.

"No!" Harry looked wildly around at the watching adults, reading a combination of pity, regret, loathing and triumph in their faces. "You can't just take him away! He doesn't understand... he doesn't know what's happening!"

Narcissa Malfoy turned a contemptuous shoulder on him and said, coldly, "I will not stay here and listen to that creature's ravings. Come, Fudge."

The Minister threw an uneasy glance at Dumbledore, then nodded to the healers. Once again, they all moved toward the door.

"No, wait!" To his own disgust, Harry felt tears starting in his eyes. "He hasn't got any shoes on, or even a cloak. He'll freeze to death! He's always so cold..."

Giving Harry's shoulder a squeeze, Dumbledore lifted his wand and flicked it in Draco's direction. Fuzzy blue slippers appeared on his feet, and a long cloak settled around his shoulders from out of nowhere. For the first time, Draco reacted to his surroundings. At the touch of the cloak against his arms, he looked down at it curiously, then he caught a fold of its thick wool in his right hand and drew it around him. His eyes tracked emptily about the room until they found Harry's face.

"Harry?"

As if drawn by an invisible cord, Harry moved toward Draco. Narcissa stepped angrily forward to intercept him, but she found Severus Snape blocking her path. Harry halted in front of the smaller boy and gazed down into his confused, troubled face.

"Are we going somewhere?" Draco asked.

"You are." Harry lifted his hands to pull the cloak close about Draco's throat. "I'm not coming with you."

The trouble in Draco's eyes deepened into fear, and Harry could not stop himself from brushing his fingers against the other boy's cheek in a fruitless attempt at comfort.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, softly. "I promise."

"I don't want..." Draco began, gazing steadily up at him with the closest thing to awareness Harry had seen in him since his return. Then his eyes went blank again and the moment was lost.

Harry watched, helplessly, as the healer guided Draco to the door and paused for Dumbledore to open it with his password. As Draco stepped out of the room, one of his escort murmured something to him, and Harry heard him say, numbly, "The stars are gone."

Then the door closed behind them.

Harry sank down on the bed, his legs suddenly too weak to hold his weight, and began to shake. The Hogwarts teachers left in the room looked as stunned and lost as Harry felt, their faces blank and slightly sick, their eyes glazed. Snape took a few steps toward the door then stopped, unsure what to do. Behind him, McGonagall stared at Harry as though she expected him to take wing before her eyes, or burst spontaneously into flame. Madam Pomfrey picked up Draco's pillow and smoothed it mechanically, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. None of them said a word.

It was Harry who broke the long silence. He managed to get his shivering under control and stop his teeth from chattering, and as his mind started functioning again, he turned instinctively to Professor McGonagall for guidance.

"What do we do, now?" he asked her.

The three adults started at the sound of his voice, blinking as if awakened from a bad dream. Madam Pomfrey put the pillow down and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. Snape began to mutter under his breath and pace around the room. McGonagall answered Harry's question in her usual brusque way that so poorly concealed her worry.

"Wait for Dumbledore. He'll know how to handle this."

"How could he let them take Draco away like that?"

"He didn't have a choice. If he defies Fudge, he declares war on the Ministry of Magic - the duly appointed governing body of our world, Potter, not a renegade group of troublemakers. We can't isolate ourselves from the rest of Wizarding Britain just to protect one boy."

"I would," Harry said, bluntly.

"Then it is a very good thing you are not in a position to choose." McGonagall came perilously close to smiling. "You're a teenaged boy on hormone overload; you're entitled to think the world well lost for love. Dumbledore doesn't have that luxury."

Harry opened his mouth to deliver a hot rejoinder - all about how unfair and disrespectful it was to call the Hero of the Wizarding World a boy on hormone overload - but he was interrupted by Dumbledore's return. The Headmaster strode into the room, fairly crackling with energy, and began tossing off orders before the door had fully shut behind him.

"Severus, I have a number of owls to send that will need our strongest security charms on them. Please find Professor Flitwick and bring him to my office. I'll be there shortly. Minerva, I leave Hogwarts in your care until I return. We shouldn't be gone any longer than a day, I should think, but one must be prepared for all contingencies. Do your best to keep the rumors to a minimum. Granger and Weasley will need to be told where Harry has gone, but no one else. And Poppy, if you would put everything you can remember about Draco's condition down on parchment, I'll take it to his healers at St. Mungo's, along with his warmest cloak I think..."

Keen, kind blue eyes rested on Harry's face, and Harry felt his panic fade a little. Dumbledore would not abandon Draco. However dreadful the current situation seemed, Dumbledore must have a plan for getting them all out of it, or he would not look at Harry with so much understanding and confidence.

"Run down to the dungeon, Harry, and get some things together for Draco. Clean clothes, a Hogwarts robe, his winter cloak and scarf. He should look his best for the trial, and we don't want him to catch a chill."

Harry swallowed once, noisily, and nodded. He did not relish braving the Slytherin dungeon on such an errand, but he was not about to admit that to Dumbledore.

"Then pack a bag for yourself and come to my office, as quickly as you can."

"Can I tell Ron and Hermione what's happened?"

"I think you'd better leave that to Professor McGonagall. Off you go, now."

With another nod, Harry hurried from the room. He made straight for the Slytherin dungeon, turning over in his mind the various ways he might persuade Vincent Crabbe to help him, without disobeying Dumbledore's instructions to keep Draco's arrest quiet. In the end, he told Crabbe the truth, in spite of Dumbledore. After all, if Ron and Hermione deserved to know what was happening, then Crabbe certainly did.

The result was that Crabbe jammed a collection of clothing and personal effects into a leather satchel and handed it over to Harry with a growled demand that he look after Malfoy. He acted more annoyed than frightened by Malfoy's predicament, a fact which Harry found surprising.

As he dumped the contents of the satchel out on the floor of the dungeon passage and began to fold Draco's clothing properly, Harry threw a curious glance up at Crabbe and remarked, "You don't seem very worried."

"I'm not."

"Draco could end up in St. Mungo's for the rest of his life. Or worse."

"He won't. You'll bring him back."

Harry stared at him, his hands falling still. "You think I can do it?"

"I know you can." A gleam of amusement crept into Crabbe's eyes. "You're Perfect Bloody Potter. You always get what you want."

Harry was not at all sure Crabbe meant that as a compliment, but he held onto it anyway, using the Slytherin's certainty to bolster his flagging courage. And he found Crabbe's attitude much more comforting than Ron and Hermione's. They were in the Gryffindor common room when he climbed through the portrait hole, and one look at him told them that something was seriously wrong. They followed him up to the dormitory, sat on Ron's bed to watch him pack, and trailed after him when he came back downstairs, always with a tragic look in their eyes that made him long to run away.

Hermione asked him once what was wrong, and he answered, simply, "Ask McGonagall."

They must have heard the finality in his voice, just as they saw the pain in his face, because neither of them pressed him. And as he crossed the common room a second time, with Draco's satchel slung on his shoulder and a bundle of his own clothes tucked under his arm, his loyal friends cleared a path for him, deflecting the attention of his curious housemates so that no one interfered with his progress. Harry was grateful, but he was also intensely relieved when the portrait swung closed and hid their anxious, woebegone faces from him.

He ran all the way down to the second floor and arrived, panting, in front of the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Canary cream," he said, when he could catch his breath. The gargoyle leapt to one side, and Harry stepped onto the moving staircase.

He found Dumbledore alone in the tower room. The Headmaster was placing something in a huge, brass-bound trunk that hovered a few inches above the surface of his desk. He favored Harry with a smile and waved him over.

"You're ready to go? Excellent. I just have a few more things to pack..."

Harry wandered about the room, stopping to say hello to Fawkes, while Dumbledore conjured up various items and put them in the trunk. Then the old wizard shut the lid, waved his wand to lock it, and sent the trunk drifting toward the door.

"I've arranged for the Knight Bus to meet us in front of the Three Broomsticks and five o'clock." Dumbledore glanced at a mysterious but fascinating collection of golden wires, gears and crystal tubes that sat, whirring, on a round table beneath one window, and he nodded in satisfaction. "We should be right on time."

Under other circumstances, Harry would have asked him how the contraption worked, but today he had other things on his mind. As the staircase carried them down to the second floor again, he turned to the Headmaster and asked, "Where are we going?"

"London. We'll stay the night with Sirius."

"In Grimmauld Place?" Harry's voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying his nervousness.

"Of course. It's conveniently close to the Ministry and quite safe from Voldemort's agents."

"Oh." Harry's stomach sank another inch, and he stared glumly at the walls sliding by them, choosing to keep quiet rather than tell Dumbledore what he thought of this plan and risk being left behind.

*** *** ***

Dumbledore must have slipped Ernie Prang an extra Sickle or two, because the Knight Bus took them from Hogsmeade to London with only one short stop in between to pick up a ragged old witch who smelled of onions. The other passengers gave them rather dirty looks, as the triple-decker bus banged to a halt at the curb of Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore ushered Harry up to the door of the bus, waving a cheerful farewell to the old witch as they went past, then he lifted his wand and murmured a spell.

Suddenly, Harry found himself standing next to a small, plump, middle-aged businessman who bore a suspicious resemblance to Cornelius Fudge. He wore a pinstripe suit and a bowler hat, and he pulled a bulky suitcase behind him on little wheels. Harry did not dare to look at himself, not wanting to know what disguise Dumbledore had inflicted upon him.

"Quickly, now, Harry."

Harry tucked his bundle of clothing beneath his arm and clambered down the steps of the Knight Bus to the sidewalk. Dumbledore followed, somehow managing to keep his suitcase upright as he did so, then he led the way across the pavement to the steps that had appeared just in front of them. As they climbed the front steps, Number 12 squeezed into view between the houses to either side. Harry cast it a dubious glance, then ducked his head and went through the door ahead of Dumbledore.

Harry hated this house. He had hated it from the first moment he set foot in it, nearly two years ago, and his feeling of loathing had not diminished with time. It was filthy, cold, more than a little perilous for the unwary, and thoroughly depressing. Sirius had made steady progress in cleaning and refurbishing the interior, but a certain gloominess could not be scrubbed out of it, nor could the most industrious housekeeper remove the feeling of brooding malice that lingered in the very walls. In his present state of mind, gloom, malice and depression were the last things Harry needed.

He hesitated in the entryway, hanging back, until Dumbledore gave him a slight shove to get him moving. They had both resumed their normal appearance, the obscuring spell dissipating the moment they stepped into the house, and Harry had to shuffle sideways to avoid tripping over Dumbledore's enormous trunk.

"You'll use the same bedroom as the last time," Dumbledore whispered, in an attempt not to awaken the portrait of Mrs. Black. "Do you remember where it is?"

Harry nodded, glumly, wishing that he did not remember.

"Go on, then. I'll tell Sirius that we've arrived, then I must go out again."

"Where?"

"St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic. I have much to do before the trial tomorrow."

"Can't I go with you?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I think that would be a mistake."

"But Draco..."

"You won't be allowed to see him. Neither will I, but he is in good hands, I assure you. Narcissa can't reach him on the closed ward." Dumbledore took the satchel full of Draco's clothing from Harry's shoulder, smiled kindly at him, and waved a hand toward the staircase. "Get yourself settled, then come down to the kitchen. It's nearly supper time."

With another glum nod, Harry plodded up the stairs toward the second floor and the bedroom he had once shared with Ron. It, like the entry hall, had undergone some noticeable improvements. The walls were clean and the corners free of cobwebs. The beds were decked with flowered counterpanes that looked startlingly out of place in the otherwise gloomy interior, and matching curtains covered the single, narrow window. Much to Harry's disgust, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus that hung above the beds was awake and smiling in an oily way when he walked in.

"Well, well," the portrait said, rubbing its long hands together, "the Prodigal Potter returns and poor old Phineas is called out of retirement to look after him. Again."

"Bugger off," Harry mumbled. Moving over to the nearest bed, he dropped his bundle of clothes and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

What did Dumbledore mean by "get settled"? Did he expect them to spend more than a night here? Did he think Harry was going to hang up his robes and make himself at home? Did he imagine, in the dim recesses of his brain, that Harry would bring Draco back to this dreadful old barrack of a house, once they had freed him? The sharp eyes of the portrait seemed to bore into Harry's skull, and he turned to glare at the still-smiling Nigellus.

"What are you looking at?" he demanded, knowing that it was foolish to pick a fight with a painting, even as he said it, but unable to resist the challenge in those mocking eyes.

Nigellus struck an elaborate pose. "Why, the Hero of the Wizarding World, of course!"

"Well, stop it. Go to sleep, or take yourself off to some other portrait and leave me alone."

"Can't do that. Headmaster's orders." The cold eyes glinted nastily at him. "And I am honor-bound to serve the present Headmaster, whatever my personal feelings in the matter."

Harry was left in no doubt as to what Phineas' personal feelings were, and he was in no mood to tolerate them. "I don't care what Dumbledore told you; I'm telling you that I don't need you lurking around, so bugger off!"

"That's a fine way to talk," Phineas said, his voice silky with malice. "I'd have thought you'd learn some manners from your Slytherin..." A furious glare from Harry made him pause, then he smiled widely and finished, "...Sweetheart."

"Don't you say a word about Draco, you moldy old piece of canvas!"

"And here I was about to pay you a compliment on your taste." He sighed dramatically. "Gryffindors are always so crude and ungrateful. One wonders what a Slytherin boy of good family sees in an ill-mannered brute like you."

Harry gave a reluctant laugh, and Nigellus scowled at him. Clearly, the portrait had meant to goad him into fury with his insults, but Harry had swallowed far worse from people whose opinions meant far more to him. Phineas' barbs had little power to wound him.

"So Precious Potter has a sense of humor," Phineas drawled. "About himself, anyway."

"You know," Harry remarked, "you remind me a lot of Professor Snape."

Phineas preened slightly, the oily smile spreading over his face again. "We Slytherins all have a certain air about us..."

"Don't you mean a certain smell?"

The smile twisted into a sneer. "You should know. You snuggle up to one every night."

Harry bounded up off the bed and took a threatening step toward the portrait. "I told you to leave Draco out of this."

"I'd say it's a bit late for that. Malfoy is right smack in the middle of things, thanks to you. That is why you're here, isn't it? To save the love of your life from the clutches of the Enemy? Precious Potter to the rescue?"

Harry ground his teeth together, feeling the frustration and rage that were never very far from the surface come bubbling up in him, fresh and hot. "One more word, and I'll..."

"What, you don't like Precious Potter? How about Potty Potter, or Potter the Poofter, or the Boy who Bugg..."

Harry's shoe struck Phineas square in the face, bringing a shout of pain from him and making him duck out of the frame. Harry stalked over to the wall. The portrait was a very large one in an ornate frame, but it was hung on the wall with a simple hook, and Harry lifted it down easily. Dropping it onto the floor with a thunk, he turned it around and propped it against the wall.

Phineas gave an undignified shriek and cried, furiously, "Put me back, you insufferable brat!"

"Sod off!"

"How dare you speak to me that way?! Me, a former Headmaster, pure-blood scion of the Noble House of Black..."

"Foul-mouthed old villain."

"Hang this picture up where it belongs, Potter, or you'll find out just what a moldy old piece of canvas can do to an uppity little half-breed who doesn't know his place!"

"Precisely nothing," Harry said, feeling a smug satisfaction fill him. After months of reining in his temper, while his classmates whispered, sneered and giggled behind their hands, he could not help reveling in this small victory. True, it was only a portrait, but it still felt good to put someone in his place. To shut just one mouth. To be revenged for just one insult. He felt the knot of anxiety, depression and fear inside him loosen a trifle, and he smiled at the tattered back of the portrait.

"Enjoy the view, Headmaster."

Then he turned and strode out of the room, headed for the kitchen and his supper. He bounded down the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to find Sirius. He had not spent time with his godfather since the lifting of the siege, more than three months ago, and then his emotional state had made real conversation impossible. Sirius' brief intrusions into his life since then had been of little help to him at a time when Harry needed the support of an adult he trusted.

He heard the clatter of dishes coming from the basement and quickened his pace. "Sirius! I took down that blasted painting..."

A plump, motherly figure, who bore no resemblance whatsoever to Sirius Black, turned away from he hearth to greet him. Harry came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, utterly taken aback to find her here.

She gave him a rather fixed, glassy smile and said, "Hello, Harry dear."

He pulled his jaw shut and said, uneasily, "Hallo, Mrs. Weasley."

She strode briskly over to the table and slapped down the platter she held. The smell that rose from it was enticing, but Harry was afraid to approach Mrs. Weasley too closely. Something about her expression made his stomach sink, and he knew a momentary impulse to turn and bolt up the stairs again.

"Found your room all right, I hope? I tried to make it more comfortable for you - chased the pixies out of the wardrobe and hung up some clean curtains. There's nothing to be done about the wallpaper, of course, but at least the pests are gone."

"Uhm," was all Harry could think to say.

"Don't stand there gawping, dear. Sit down. I'll have your supper ready in a tick."

Harry stepped into the room, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Weasley as he crossed to the table. She looked as though it hurt to hold her smile in place, and for all her cheery talk, she would not meet his eyes. Harry felt the tangle of nerves in his stomach twist even tighter, and suddenly, the platter of chops on the table did not smell nearly so appetizing. He slid into the nearest chair.

"I, umm, wasn't expecting to find you here," Harry offered, by way of making conversation.

"Dumbledore owled me, said you were coming down to London for the night, and asked that I look after you. Sirius means well, but he's a dreadful cook and his housekeeping is a disgrace."

"Oh." She continued to bustle about the hearth, avoiding his gaze, and Harry sighed inwardly. The last thing he wanted right now was a confrontation with Mrs. Weasley, but he couldn't sit here and pretend that everything was all right when she wouldn't even look at him. Finally, he could take the charged silence no longer, and he cleared his throat. Her head came up sharply, but she did not turn around.

"Are you angry with me, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Don't be silly."

He stared glumly at her rigid back. "Disappointed, then."

"Not in you, Harry." She hesitated for a moment, then suddenly slammed a large bowl down on the counter and snapped, in a voice that sounded much more like her own, "But I could wring Dumbledore's neck for this!"

"Professor Dumbledore hasn't done anything..."

"Hasn't he?" She turned suddenly to face him, her eyes bright with angry tears. "This entire disgusting mess is of his making, and if he cared for you one tenth as much as he claims, he'd never have gotten you involved!"

"You mean Draco, don't you?"

The look on Mrs. Weasley's face made Harry feel sick. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, then said, with deadly calm, "I promised Albus I wouldn't discuss Malfoy with you."

"Then you might as well not talk to me at all!" Harry retorted, feeling his face heat. He dropped his gaze to the table top and glared furiously at his clenched fists, afraid to risk another look at Mrs. Weasley's expression and not at all sure that he could master his own.

She did not move or speak for a long, burning minute, then she stepped up to the table and pulled out a chair. As she settled into it and reached out one hand to clasp Harry's where it lay on the table, she gave a tired sigh. "Why are we arguing about this?"

"Why do you look like you swallowed a dung bomb when I say Draco's name?"

"Albus wants me to keep my opinions on that subject to myself."

Harry lifted troubled eyes to her face and asked, seriously, "Do you really think all of this is Dumbledore's fault?"

"I know it is."

"He didn't make me fall in love with Draco." That dreadful look swept over her face again, and Harry turned away, blinking back angry tears. "Professor Dumbledore is only trying to help."

"How? By parading you in front of that flock of harpies at the Wizengamot? You can do without that kind of help. If he had a grain of sense, he'd pack you off to Hogwarts, where no one can touch you, and let them have that Malfoy creature as..."

Harry tore his hand out of hers and sprang to his feet, rage churning like acid in his stomach and blazing through the fresh tears in his eyes. He turned for the door, intent only on escaping before he said something unforgivable to Mrs. Weasley, something he could never take back, but the sight of Sirius leaning against the doorjamb brought him up short in surprise.

Sirius met his gaze for a moment, then flicked a dark glance at Mrs. Weasley and said, "That's enough, Molly. Dumbledore warned you."

Mrs. Weasley pressed her lips tightly together and made a sour noise in her throat.

Sirius pushed himself away from the wall and loped across the room to collapse into a chair. "Harry, what is that racket coming from your bedroom?" he asked. "I can hear it two flights up, and it's making Buckbeak nervous."

"Oh. The portrait." Harry hesitated for a moment, then drifted a little closer to the table and his godfather's sheltering presence.

"What portrait?"

"The one of Phineas Nigellus. I took him down and turned him to face the wall. He was being incredibly rude, and I... well, I decided I wasn't going to take that from a painting, so I..."

"That portrait is there for your protection, Harry," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Dumbledore specifically told me to put you in that room, so Phineas could keep an eye on you."

Harry set his jaw stubbornly and glared at the floor, refusing to look at her. She gave a snort of disgust, pushed herself to her feet, and began stomping back and forth from the counter to the table, carrying food and cutlery. Sirius glanced from one to the other of them, a glint of unholy amusement in his eyes, and said, genially, "Molly's right."

"He's horrid!" Harry blurted out. "You wouldn't believe the things he called me!"

"Oh, wouldn't we?"

Harry flushed at the ironic note in Sirius' voice and muttered, defiantly, "I hit him in the face with my shoe."

"Good for you."

"Sirius!" Mrs. Weasley protested.

Sirius chuckled. "I often wish I could cut the whole lot of them to ribbons. My dear family, preserved on canvas for the torment of later generations."

"He called me an uppity half-breed who doesn't know his place. And that was the polite part!"

"Potter the Poofter?" Sirius murmured, softly.

Harry flushed even more furiously, but he mustered an awkward laugh. "I interrupted him in the middle of the worst one."

"I think we can all do without the litany of insults," Mrs. Weasley said, acidly, as she slapped a bowl of potatoes down in front of Sirius. "We hear them often enough as it is."

Sirius, who had been piling food onto two plates as he spoke, now shoved one of them toward Harry's place at the table and said, "Sit down, Harry. Have a chop and forget about old Phineas."

When Harry still hesitated, Mrs. Weasley snapped, "Oh, do sit down. I won't bite." Then she added, stiffly, "And I won't say another word about that... friend of yours."

Harry edged into his chair, one eye fixed warily on Mrs. Weasley, and picked up a fork. No one spoke for a long, uncomfortable minute, while Mrs. Weasley brought the last few dishes over to the table and took her own seat. Then Harry said, very quietly, his eyes on his plate and his fork picking aimlessly at the food on it,

"Draco isn't so bad, when you get to know him." Mrs. Weasley gave a snort of disgust, which she swallowed at a sharp look from Sirius. "You only hate him because his name is Malfoy, but that's not his fault."

"The way he's treated my family is very much his fault," she retorted.

Harry took another stab at the defenseless meat on his plate and said, with suppressed savagery, "People grow up! Even Malfoys! And maybe he would be nicer to Ron, if Ron grew up a little!"

"True enough," Sirius said, earning him another glare from Mrs. Weasley. He raised an ironic eyebrow at her. "Fair's fair, Molly. You can't expect Malfoy to sit meekly by while your boys pelt him with insults. Or worse. He is a Black, after all, and we're not known for our meekness."

"I'm a Black, too, somewhere high up the family tree. Does that give me the right to be a bigoted, hateful little viper?" she demanded.

Sirius laughed, harshly. "Depends on who you ask. My mother, now..."

Harry abruptly pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I'm not hungry." Ignoring Mrs. Weasley's anxious look and Sirius' call to wait, he turned and ran up the stairs, two at a time.

He couldn't take the stifling air of the kitchen any longer, but neither did he want to brave his bedroom again, where Phineas Nigellus was no doubt waiting to ambush him. He needed a quiet place to think, with no one badgering him or abusing him, where he could collect himself. Not knowing where else to go in this rotting, filthy old house, he headed for the first floor and the drawing room.

The room bore little resemblance to the dingy nest of magical mischief-makers that he remembered. None of the furniture rattled, groaned, or shifted ominously on its legs. The windows were sparkling clean, the curtains washed and pressed (and blessedly free of doxies), and the glass-fronted cabinets full of Quidditch memorabilia instead of sinister magical objects. Even the great tapestry that covered the opposite wall, depicting the Black Family Tree, had been ruthlessly cleaned.

Harry moved slowly up to the tapestry, gazing intently at it. Of course, all the names that meant anything to him had been burned away by Sirius' mad mother. All but one. His eyes drifted down to the last row of names, the last generation of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He knelt on the worn carpet and reached out to touch the thin gold thread that tied the one remaining name, the one traitor to the pureblood cause who had not been burned from the family tree and family memory, to his parents. Draco Malfoy.

If Mrs. Black were still alive, what would she do to this name? Harry wondered. What curses would she heap on Draco's silver-blond head? What terrible revenge would she take for his act of betrayal? Harry felt a gnawing desire to pull out his wand and burn Draco's name from the tapestry himself, cutting that golden thread and all that it stood for, setting him free. Draco did not belong to them anymore. He did not belong among that collection of murderers and madmen.

Footsteps sounded on the carpet behind him, and Harry turned to find Sirius standing at his back.

Black's dark, haunted eyes scanned down the tracery of names and connecting lines 'til he found Draco. "We're first cousins, once removed."

"I know."

"I used to be grateful for the 'removed' bit."

"The first time I saw this tapestry and realized you and Draco were related, I wanted to be sick."

Sirius shot him a narrow, considering look. "Why's that?"

"I hated him for horning in on yet another part of my life. It was bad enough that I couldn't get away from him at school, but then he showed up right here, in your home, as part of your family - something I could never be."

"You don't want to be a part of my family, Harry, trust me. I'd rather have you as a godson, knowing you don't have any of the precious Black blood in your veins. We're a bad lot."

Harry shook his head, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. "Some of my favorite people are Blacks."

Sirius' face darkened, and he snapped, "Don't make light of this!"

Harry turned to gaze squarely at him, and Sirius dropped to a crouch, bringing their heads almost on a level. He was clearly upset, more so than usual, and Harry felt a creeping cold go through him. Sirius was about to warn him off of Draco, to lecture him on the dangers of associating with Malfoys, to browbeat him with horror stories and dire predictions. Sirius, the one person Harry had counted on to stand by him, was about to shatter his last hopeful illusion.

"You think you know people, Harry, but you're still a child in many ways. You can't know what kind of darkness lives inside a man... or a woman. I've seen it, so I know."

"So have I," Harry interjected, quietly.

Sirius blinked at him, taken aback, then nodded slowly. "I suppose you have."

"Sirius, I really don't think I can take this right now. This has been a ruddy awful day. I'm tired and I'm scared. And honestly, you don't know Draco like I do."

He blinked again. "I should think that was self-evident."

"Then don't you think you can trust my judgment about him?"

"I'm not questioning your judgment where Malfoy is concerned. I'm trying to prepare you for his mother."

Now it was Harry's turn to blink in surprise. "Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Narcissa Black Malfoy. Daughter of a pureblood snob, married to a pureblood villain, bound by her own beliefs and her husband's oaths to the Dark Lord." His eyes bored remorselessly into Harry, as he said, his voice hard with bitterness, "Don't trust her, Harry. Don't believe one word that comes out of her mouth. She may be Draco's mother, she may even love him, but that won't matter a damn when she has to choose between him and Voldemort. I'm telling you that we Blacks are a bad lot and none are worse than the cold, pure, virtuous ones who stand up in front of honest people and lie."

Harry thought of his encounter with Mrs. Malfoy earlier that day and felt a fresh spurt of anger. "Do you think I'd ever trust that horrible woman? She just had her own son arrested for murder!"

Sirius gave him an ironic look and said, "A murder which he did commit."

Harry returned the look without flinching. "What do you want me to say? That I blame him for killing his father? That I hate him? That I'm afraid he'll try to kill me?"

"He did that, too."

A tremor of rage went through Harry's body, and he clenched his fists against his thighs. "He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't mean to hurt me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! I was there; you weren't! I saw what happened in the Pensieve! I know that Draco would never deliberately hurt me!"

"All right. You don't have to convince me, you know, only yourself. And the Wizengamot."

"I thought you would understand, Sirius. I thought at least you'd give Draco a fair chance. But you're as bad as the rest of them..."

Sirius shrugged uncomfortably and let his eyes slide away from Harry's. "I have nothing against Draco Malfoy, except his name and his blood and his parents and his treatment of you all these years. The name and the blood I share, to an extent, so I understand how hard it is to live them down. The parents he can't help. He's not responsible for their actions. But his treatment of you is something else."

"I've forgiven him."

"Yes. Well." The dark eyes flicked back to his face. "You love him, don't you? That makes it easier to forgive."

Harry almost blurted out, You could love him too, but stopped himself in time. Sirius had no love in him for his family, so trotting out the family tie would mean less than nothing to him, and Sirius Black was not a man to open his heart to just anyone. After a long, awkward pause, Harry said, rather heavily, "At least you understand that much."

"I understand a lot more than you think." Sirius stared broodingly at the name on the tapestry, his face lined and troubled. Then he said, roughly, "I'm not a hypocrite, Harry, and it would be damned hypocritical of me to lecture you on the dangers of trusting Malfoy. I just want you to be careful. Your life is such a mess, as it is, and you spend so much of your time fighting the kind of evil no boy your age should even think about, that it seems plain stupid to invite more trouble the way you do."

"Draco doesn't cause trouble," Harry began, but Sirius cut him off with a shake of his head.

"Draco is trouble. He doesn't have to cause it."

"That's incredibly unfair!"

"It's the truth, whether it's fair or not. Potters and Malfoys can't breathe the same air without causing trouble for each other. Or Potters and Blacks, for that matter. Look at the trouble I caused for your parents, when I convinced James to change Secret-Keepers at the last moment! If I'd stayed out of it, done what he asked and kept my idiot mouth shut, your parents might still be alive!"

"You did what you thought was right..."

"And got Lily and James killed. So what will happen to you the next time Malfoy does what he thinks is right?"

Harry said nothing, but swallowed painfully, remembering the feel of Draco's crystalline fingers around his throat.

"Blacks and Potters," Sirius said, shaking his head again. "Like flame and tinder. I feel sorry for my cousin right now. I feel bad that he's gone off the rails and landed himself in a pile of dragon droppings. I feel bad that he's going to pay so dearly for defending himself and standing up for what's right. But I feel more sorry for you. And if it comes down to a choice between you and Malfoy..."

"Just like his mother," Harry murmured, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Sirius shrugged. "I can't help how I feel."

"Neither can I." He looked squarely into Sirius' frowning eyes. "And no offence, Sirius, but I'll choose Draco every time."

"Well, I suppose even a Black-Malfoy is entitled to one person who'll choose him first."

Harry broke out in the first real smile he'd managed in days. "Yeah."

Sirius gave him an awkward half-smile in return, but it faded quickly. "Go on back to the kitchen and eat your supper," he advised. "Molly won't say anything."

"I'm not hungry. I'm too nervous about tomorrow." He eyed Sirius thoughtfully for a moment, then he ventured, "All the nasty things that old Phineas called me... you and Mrs. Weasley acted like you've heard them before."

Sirius nodded, eyes wary.

"Do people say things like that a lot?"

"Some do. Some are a little more subtle about it."

"I guess I'm not the Hero of the Wizarding World anymore." Harry felt a curious twinge of relief, mixed with regret at that thought.

"Of course you are. That's why your bad taste in boyfriends matters so much to so many people."

"Bad taste?!"

Sirius chuckled and clouted him on the shoulder. "I'd give a lot to see you in front of the Wizengamot tomorrow. You'll set all those fussy old women back on their arses!" Pushing himself to his feet, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and sidled toward the door, smiling apologetically down at Harry. "Buckbeak is waiting for his supper. He gets cranky when the meat is cold."

"Okay. And thank you, Sirius."

"For what?"

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "Trying."

Sirius thought about that for a moment, then nodded shortly and slipped out the door, leaving Harry alone with his tangled thoughts.

*** *** ***

It was past midnight when Harry finally climbed the stairs to his bedroom, and the entire house was silent except for a few, suspicious rustlings behind the wainscoting. Either Mrs. Weasley or Sirius had hung Phineas' portrait back in its place, and he sat there in his frame, all hunched up like an angry spider, glaring daggers at Harry. But Harry was so tired that he didn't have the energy to waste on the old villain. He undressed in numb silence, shoved the bundle of clean clothing off the bed, and crawled under the blankets without favoring his hostile babysitter with a single word.

He felt bruised in body and spirit, and so cold - from exhaustion and loneliness - that his feet ached with it. He wanted desperately to sleep, but instead he lay staring at the ceiling, trying to picture the closed ward of St. Mungo's where Draco was lying alone in a strange bed, hurting from the cold, wondering when he would be warm or safe or unafraid again. Just like Harry.

The pain in Harry's chest expanded to fill every corner of him, turning the breath in his throat ragged and forcing hot tears from his eyes. Curling himself into a tight, defensive ball, Harry scrunched up in the middle of the mattress and pulled the blankets over his head. There, in the darkness where Draco always waited for him, he cried and cried until his body was light and empty. Then he slept.

And he dreamed.

...They stood together atop the North Tower, under a brilliant canopy of stars. Draco's hair hung loose about his shoulders, stirred by a cold wind that neither of them felt, and his winter-grey eyes smiled an invitation. Harry stepped closer to him. The smile touched his lips, as he tilted his head back and let his eyes fall half closed, still gazing at Harry from beneath his lashes.

Harry slipped his arms about the other boy's waist and pulled their bodies together. Draco lifted his hand to clasp the back of Harry's neck. His adamant fingers were cold and smooth against Harry's skin. Insistent. Irresistible. The silver flame inside him burned so brightly that it hurt Harry's eyes to look into his face, but he could not turn away. He was held by Draco's beauty.

"I missed you," he whispered.

Draco did not speak, but the flush of desire in his cheeks was answer enough.

"You're my archangel. Too beautiful to be real."

He could not resist the lure of that unearthly face. He had to touch it, to feel the white, perfect skin beneath his fingertips and see it heat at his caress. Slowly, he lifted his hand.

Slimy, rotting fingers trailed gently down one smooth cheek, leaving a smear of filth behind them. Draco closed his eyes, his sharp features softened by desire, the tantalizing smile still curling his lips. Harry felt a jolt of raw lust go through him - a need so visceral, so elemental, that it transcended love or passion. It consumed him, ignited him, and all he knew in that moment was the unbearable need to fasten his mouth to Draco's and suck the magnificent silver fire from his body.

He lifted both hands to clasp his lover's face between his glistening grey palms, cradling it, tilting it to bring the smiling lips up to meet his own...

Harry sprang bolt upright in his bed, his heart slamming painfully against his ribs and the breath sobbing in his throat. He looked wildly around and saw that he was still in his room at Grimmauld Place, and weak sunshine was leaking through the flowered curtains. It was morning.

"Rise and shine, Potter!" Phineas Nigellus sang out, tauntingly. "Time to save the world!"

To be continued...