Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Characters:
Draco Malfoy Harry Potter Hermione Granger Severus Snape
Genres:
Drama Slash
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Stats:
Published: 07/17/2003
Updated: 08/11/2003
Words: 114,996
Chapters: 43
Hits: 388,758

Snakes and Lions

GatewayGirl

Story Summary:
When Ron and Hermione get together, they notice only each other. A nightmare prompts Harry to return alone to the empty Chamber of Secrets, and leads to a new look at an old enemy. Harry enjoys the company, but with Bellatrix LeStrange actively hunting him, how far can he trust a Death Eater's son? (H/D -- mostly friendship, progressing to mild slash) Sixth year. Rated R for unseemly behavior (drinking, stealing, and Dark Arts), occasional cursing (the non-magical sort), and off-screen violence.
Read Story On:

Chapter 02 - Taking Turns

Chapter Summary:
Correspondence continues....
Posted:
07/17/2003
Hits:
10,231



Taking Turns

Sunday night, right after dinner, Harry returned to the Chamber. He took a torch from the end of the first hallway, doused it with a quick spell, and hid it under his cloak. In the chamber, as he expected, a third torch had been added, this one on the wall across from the writing. The torches, Harry decided, were reassuring. A person was coming here, and someone who wanted more than wand light. Harry didn't know how to spin a sconce from the stone, so he just laid his torch down across from the other, completing a square. He made himself wait a moment before looking at the new words.

This entry asked:

Are they worth it? My friends are idiots.
I can't talk to them about anything.

And no, I'm not lurking behind you in an
invisibility cloak.

Harry thought about that for a while. Hermione was impressively clever, and Ron. . . . Well, Ron could be dense, sometimes, but he wasn't stupid - he just thought he knew how things worked, and often as not, he didn't. He was clever enough to be fun, though. After some thought - remembering how difficult it was to obliterate the marks - he wrote:

Mine are smart enough - about most
things. There are still things I don't talk
about. There are some things you can't
explain to someone who hasn't experienced
them.

On impulse, he added:

I need a girlfriend.

He regretted that immediately, and the longer he looked, the more annoyed he became. He didn't want a girlfriend. He added a carat after the "a" and added "friend without a".

friend without a
I need a^ girlfriend.

He wondered if his correspondent was a boy or girl and thought about Hermione. She was an okay friend, really, though not as fun as Ron. On impulse, he added "or boyfriend," then looked the entry over and shook his head. What a mess! he thought.

Harry lay on his stomach on the cold stone and did his Divination homework, which was a long-range prediction meant to cover the next term. It was laughable easy to predict doom and despair. Subtle tragedies flowed from his quill with barely a thought, but with no sense of reality - isolation, betrayal, strange alliances, loved ones in mortal danger. He thought he'd keep himself out of danger in this one, just to avoid becoming too repetitive. Despite some stiffness in his muscles, he felt better when he left. At least his homework was done.

Monday night, he stayed in the Common Room, although Ron was studying with Hermione. It was, after all, his correspondent's turn.

Tuesday night, Quidditch practice went late again, but Harry managed to get himself down to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, down the hole, and to the Chamber of Secrets. Under his last entry, someone had written:

Is that "need a girlfriend or boyfriend" or "a friend without a ...?"

Harry reddened slightly, and wrote:

I need a friend without a girlfriend or boyfriend.
Sorry I was messy. I wrote the first bit, then realized I
don't want a girlfriend, now. I tried that - I'm not ready
to try it again, yet.

That brought the entries down almost to the floor.

Harry started doing his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. This year's teacher, Professor Horsyr, had given them an interesting assignment - you were to pick a spell from a list of spells commonly classified as Dark Arts, describe how the spell worked, then write arguments both for and against allowing its use. Harry had just finished outlining legitimate uses for a spell that burned flesh, when his yawns grew too close together to continue. He sat and rolled up the parchment. On impulse, he wrote, high on the next bit of wall:

Today's assignment: write a personal advert for a friend.

Grinning to himself, he extinguished the torches and left the suddenly dark room.


The next night, Harry declined games with Ron. He was too tired to play. He did his Potions homework as well as he could, then went up to bed and fell immediately to sleep.

Thursday, the wall said:

Seeking friend: Must be intelligent enough to
hold a conversation, difficult to intimidate,
and capable of independent thought. (That
is, must be able to break rules. Being under
alternate rules, as in service to the Dark Lord,
does not count.)

Harry read this a few times. Well, he was certainly all of that. He was unsure what to write for himself. He had spent most of Potions, while not defending Ron from Malfoy's sniping, thinking about what mattered to him in a friend, but he still found it hard to categorize. Finally, he wrote:

Seeking friend: Must be fun, perceptive, and
willing to explore after hours. Must not treat me
like a

He stopped. He couldn't think of anything to put there that would not be too strong a clue of his own identity. He found he liked being anonymous. He considered and discarded "freak" and "collectible" and "exhibit" and finally crossed out the "not" and finished with "real person."

Saturday afternoon, Harry was working on an essay for Transfiguration. He felt almost ready for exams, except for Potions. Hermione, in contrast, was frantically revising. She actually snapped at Ron when he tried to cuddle her. The loud words caused Harry to look up.

"Not now, Ron! I should have done this days ago."

Harry saw Ron look over towards him. Quickly, he returned his attention to his parchment and quill.

Ron came over anyway. He sat down on the couch beside Harry. Harry ignored him.

"Heard from Mum," Ron tried.

"How is she?" Harry asked. He wondered if he should repeat some things Professor McGonagall had said about transfiguration theory, just to show he remembered them.

"Fine. She...." Ron paused, and Harry glanced up at him. Ron looked uncomfortable. "She wants me to come home this year. With Hermione."

Harry concentrated on the parchment.

"Have fun," he said.

"Will you be okay?" Ron asked anxiously.

Harry put on his best smile, and looked up at Ron. "I'll be fine," he said, pushing all his available sincerity into his voice and his smile. "You two have stayed for me every year, Ron - go home, for once." He forced a grin. "I could probably use the time to bring up my grades a bit."

Ron looked relieved.

"If you don't mind, then. Bill will be there, and everything." He rolled his eyes. "It will be crowded."

"Tell him I say hi," Harry said. He blew on the end of his essay to dry the ink. "I left Charting the Dark Arts upstairs, I think," he improvised. "See you at dinner?"

"Sure," said Ron. "Thanks. You're a true friend, Harry."

"Thanks," Harry responded. He turned away quickly.

He did see Ron at dinner, but they hardly spoke. Ron was busy detailing Weasley Christmas traditions for Hermione. Harry left early.

In the well-lit center of the great Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, Harry responded to:

Neither of us wrote what we, ourselves, are
like. Would that provide too much information?

with:

Yeah, I think so.

His correspondent also had a request:

Give me an example of something that cannot be explained.

Harry thought for a moment, then wrote:

Watching someone die.

He couldn't think of anything that didn't sound flippant after that. He did his divination homework again, lying in relative comfort on a rug he had carried from a hard-to-find parlor on the second floor, but the thought of holidays alone kept coming between him and the required dark visions. He was supposed to do a medium-range prediction, covering until the end of the holidays. He thought it should be something about isolation and loneliness, but that seemed a little too mild. He tried a tarot reading, hoping to get inspiration for something more specific, but that was a complete failure. First, he laid down the Sun, crossed by the Page of Cups, reversed. A quick scan of the rest of the reading showed nothing worse than the second card, and the only other thing that looked at all negative was the juggling act in the two of pentacles.

"Just what I need," Harry muttered. "An entire layout of happy cups and coins." Carefully, he noted all the cards and their places on the top of a new sheet of parchment. Below the record, he wrote, "For no fathomable reason, I am going to enjoy the holidays."

Harry looked at that, and frowned. If he was seriously going to say he would have a good time, he better be able to spin it. Maybe he could tie it in to the last prediction as a set-up for some disaster. At any rate, it would need thought. He rolled up the parchment.

Before leaving, he added to the wall:

Are you going home for Christmas?

Harry went back upstairs late and yawning. Ron was in bed, for once, or at least his curtains were drawn. Harry told himself he couldn't care less. He got into bed, and fell asleep. He dreamed of the Weasley Christmas, which was somehow a television show that he watched from the back of the Dursley's living room.

When Harry next went to the Chamber, the longest entry yet filled the wall below his. The graceful letters had shaken to a scrawl, as if his correspondent wrote with the quickness of anger.

I hate going home. My father will tell me
what a failure I am and punish me for not
achieving what he thinks I should, never
mind that he has no idea what it's like here,
now. Awful things will happen, just because
it's home, and I'll have to pretend I don't
notice, or that I'm impressed. Maybe I'll
just stay. They won't care.

Harry felt immediately sympathetic. He added:

I don't have a "home." The people I live with
despise magic. They hate me, just for being a
wizard. Until I came here, they kept me in a
cupboard. After my first year here, they didn't
dare, so I got the small bedroom, but they put
locks on the door and bars on the window.

A few years ago, I met a dangerous man, and
now they are better to me, because they are
afraid of him. They know he will protect me.

Harry looked at that, and was afraid. Would his correspondent recognize the boy who was kept in a cupboard as Harry Potter? He didn't think most people knew about that. He looked beyond the torchlight to Salazar Slytherin's scowling face. The statue's impotent disapproval cheered him. He settled on the floor with Charting the Dark Arts, Deliver Us from Evil, and a blank roll of parchment that filled steadily with a reasonable analysis of criteria used to evaluate the legality of new charms and hexes.

Monday night, he found that his correspondent had added to his own text. A red line under "The people I live with despise magic" led to a side question, also in red:

Are you a Muggle-born?

Similarly, a line under "wizard" went to the side comment

Ha! Now I know you're a boy. You had me guessing.

Under the main text, Harry read:

Dangerous friends are great - when they're
not around. I'm fine at school, my father's
such a terror, but then I have to go home.

Harry considered that. This was the second time his correspondent had written about his father as if he was afraid of him. Harry thought that must be worse than not having a father at all - having one you did not like or trust. He wrote:

I'm not really Muggle-born, just Muggle-raised.
I'm only 2nd generation on one side, though.
My godfather (the dangerous one) has never hurt me,
but I can't live with him, because he's a fugitive.

The next response was disappointingly short, but intriguing. His correspondent had replied with:

What kind of a fugitive? Is he a Death Eater?

I know a few fugitives. I wouldn't trust any of them.

Harry wrote:

No - he's been convicted of a multiple murder.
He didn't do it, really, but we can't prove that.

I wouldn't feel safe with a Death Eater.

The writing replied:

Is he really dangerous, then?

You wouldn't necessarily be unsafe with a
Death Eater - well, on second thought, you
would. Half-2nd generation isn't enough to
get you on the victim list, though - it's
just that all Death Eaters are unsafe.

Harry laughed at that. He agreed completely, he thought. He considered writing that he had met a few of the Death Eaters, but thought that might cut into his anonymity too much.

"Well, either that, or my correspondent will think I'm in Slytherin," he muttered. Harry looked at the first line, again, and thought about Sirius. He loved and respected Sirius, and would gladly go live with him, but...

Yes, he is dangerous, but not in the way
people think, or as much as certain people
think. (Okay, so I "forgot" to tell the
Muggles he's innocent.) He's powerful, both
physically and magically, and he has a
wicked temper. I know he's been willing to
kill, before. I'm his, though. I am safe.

The week passed quickly. Harry and his correspondent chatted about testing. Harry picked up a useful pointer on the Potions exam ("Concentrate on procedure - you can sometimes deduce ingredients if you remember, for example, that the component affecting memory needs to be evenly sliced"). Exams were an intensity of concentration, and the Gryffindor party afterwards, supplied by Harry, Ron, and Hermione, now that Fred and George were gone, was an outburst of familiar energy. The expedition to Honeyduke's was the first special thing the three had done together since Halloween, and when it was over, and Ron and Hermione kissing in the corner, Harry felt lonelier than ever.

Harry got up late, the next day, and walked Ron and Hermione down to the train, but he hoped he didn't need to wait for long. Now that they were leaving, Ron and Hermione were more focused on him.

"Try to enjoy the holidays," Hermione said, looking worried. "I've left my present, and Ron is going to send his."

Harry shrugged. "Yours are in Ron's trunk," he said. "I snuck them in before breakfast."

Hermione giggled. Harry wondered if it would be acceptable for him to say goodbye and leave now. Hermione quieted, and the silence grew awkward.

"Will you be all right, Harry?" Hermione asked. "It's just a few weeks."

In the distance, Harry heard the train. Now that it was close, he felt braver, and decided to say something he had been trying to get up the courage to say since late November.

"Hermione ... I think you should be a better prefect, next term."

"What?!"

"He just wants you not to wander off with me," Ron said lightly, glaring at Harry all the while.

"You certainly could set a better example," Harry said, "but I don't care. Just ... You should be available more. No one can find you if they need help with anything. It would be better of you to have your little snogging sessions - or whatever - in your room, even if it looked more improper." By now, he was fairly shouting to be heard above the chugging of the steam engine. Hermione looked hurt, but there was no time to do anything about it besides hug her, and return the little kiss she placed on his cheek.

Harry smiled amicably throughout their goodbyes, and while the train was pulling out. As the last of the cars disappeared around the bend, he turned away and scuffed angrily through the scant inch of snow on the frozen ground. He saw Draco Malfoy up by the school. The Death Eater's son was staying, for some unknown reason. Perhaps his parents were going abroad, and didn't want a whiny teenager with them, Harry thought.

He didn't want to spar with anybody, even Malfoy. On impulse, he turned to Hagrid's cabin. My usual refuge, he thought, as he knocked.

"Harry!" Hagrid called, hurrying up behind him. "I wen' down ter see ther students off. Come in, then. I ha'n't see yeh since the snow fell."

Harry felt comforted the instant he entered Hagrid's hut. The warm room smelled of wood smoke, dog, and a dozen other things that Harry couldn't identified, but which all combined into "safe." Hagrid motioned Harry to a seat by the hearth and immediately set about making tea.

"Heard yeh'll be stayin' alone, this holiday," Hagrid remarked.

Harry shrugged. "Hermione is going home with Ron."

Hagrid shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. "Children do grow! Hardly seems but yesterday when I was bringin' you lot over the lake."

Harry's eyes blazed. "Can't I be lonely without being told I'm simply immature?" he demanded.

Hagrid looked over, his brows drawn in a puzzled frown. "Why it isn' that, Harry. Yeh just haven't found anyone, yet, and they have. It doesn' happen all neat and scheduled, life doesn'." He set the lid on the filled teapot and turned to get cups. "It'll settle out, though. They'll stop wanting to be together all the time, or yeh'll find someone else to be with -" he laughed, "or, worse, both at once - but after a time, it'll settle." He set down the cups. "Now, who'd be saying that you're 'immature?'"

"Ron," Harry growled.

Hagrid frowned. "When he comes back, Harry, I'll have a talk with him. The boy can' tell firs' love from bein' all grown up!"

"No," Harry said quickly, in embarrassment. "It's okay."

Hagrid shrugged his great shoulders and drank his tea. Fang came over, and Harry slipped him a biscuit.

"Yeh all right otherwise, Harry?" Hagrid asked.

"I guess."

"Lestrange can't get yeh at Hogwarts, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "I'm not worried."

Hagrid stopped. His black eyes squinted at Harry. "Yeh shouldn' let 'em get to yeh," he said, "but they are sommat to worry abou'. Not a lot o' worry. Just enough."

Harry looked into the dancing flames and sipped at his warm tea. The small room was starting to feel stuffy.

"Yeh do know about the Lestranges, don' yeh, Harry?"

"They're couple of Death Eater nutters who got out in the fall of Azkaban, last year. They blamed me for the fate of Barty Crouch, and wanted to kill me. Messily. Then he died in the attempt to capture me, and she blames it on me." Harry shrugged. "What else is there to know?"

"They were terrible people, Harry. Her, especially. At their trial, she was proud - proud - of the horrible things she'd done...."

"I saw some of it."

"Yeh were a baby, Harry-"

"In Dumbledore's pensieve, two years ago. I hadn't meant to pry - I didn't know what it was. He'd been reviewing pieces of trials - Karkaroff's, the young Barty Crouch... I found out Snape had been a Death Eater, and Neville's parents were tortured to madness...." Harry trailed off. He wondered if he would have been better off not knowing these things. "I'm too curious, sometimes," he muttered.

"Does Neville know yeh know?"

"No. It's awkward. He's never told anybody, as far as I know." Harry sighed. "I should get to know him better."

"Yeh don' sound eager."

"He's kind of boring." Harry shrugged. "Nice, but boring." He remembered Neville's tentative criticism of his night wandering, a few weeks past. "I can't see that we'd ever be real friends -- I mean, it wouldn't be like with Ron or Hermione."


Chapter 3 -- Harry worries about meeting his correspondent