Our Fathers

Chapter Nineteen — No Day But Today

"I don’t want to attend the game," Harry snapped. He pulled the duvet over his head and stuffed his face into the pillow.

The curtains on the four-poster were thrown open and one of the Weasleys — without his glasses, they all appeared to be identical flashes of orangey-red hair — yanked the covers from over his head. "Maybe you’re not playing today, but you’re only on hiatus. Team loyalty, mate!" It was one of the twins.

The other chimed in from behind him without a beat of silence. "And Dennis needs you there! You know how he and Colin idolize you. If you’re there cheering him on, Dennis will play all the better — just to impress you."

Harry groaned and snatched his glasses from the table. It was true, unfortunately enough. Dennis had appeared in the Common Room just after Remus’ bad news a day earlier asking Harry’s permission — begging, actually — to take his place for the game. He’d said yes, of course. Everything came back into view behind the thick lenses. Fred (recognizable only because of his Weasley jumper) hopped onto the bed with a false pout on his face. "Please?" he whined, "this is our last game with Slytherin... you’ll be better for the Ravenclaw game, Madame Pomfrey says, but we can kick their arses any day... we need Dennis’ best for Slytherin..."

"Fine. I’ll sit there and look pathetic while doing homework with Hermione," he quipped. He hoped Ron would have pity on him. Ron had been sitting with Lee Jordan for the past games, learning the ropes to take over the announcer job in the next year. He’d left Hermione sitting alone every week since.

Ron didn’t take the hint. "Perfect! Hermione doesn’t like Quidditch anyways, she’ll take your mind off it!" Ron grabbed Harry’s shoulder and yanked him upright. "C’mon, mate, get dressed! We’ve got to get to the Pitch. We’ll get Hermione to wait for you!" And they were gone before Harry could object again.

Harry sighed and pulled himself out of bed, padding loudly to the loo to wash his face. Neville, Seamus, and Dean were already gone, probably to save seats in the Gryffindor section. He frowned at himself in the mirror. How different he looked compared to his reflection when he’d first arrived. He looked ill. His skin had gone pallid, his hair dull, and his eyes bloodshot and sunken.

He headed back into the dormitory, stripping his shirt away as he went, and caught his reflection once more. Harry’s form was near skeletal. Never a rotund child, neglect had kept him from growing at a normal pace. Stress over the summer had made his ribs visible beneath skin, but sickness had hollowed everything. It would take months to return even to his former thin state. Was it his own fault he’d become emaciated? Yet another result of the terrible mistake of the potion? Or was it lack of sleep and loss of appetite over the visions of death he’d seen which created such a skeletal form?

With a low sigh, Harry chucked off his trousers and started digging through his trunk for a clean pair of clothes. A red jumper for House solidarity, a pair of black trousers (only slightly wrinkled), a plain white shirt —

"Oh, God... Harry..."

He turned bright red, snatching his jumper from the bed to cover himself as best he could. Hermione stood in the door way, staring in some sort of horror at Harry. "Sorry, sorry!" he spat out, snatching the drapery of his bed to wrap himself in. "Just another moment, I had to wash my face -"

Hermione blushed bright scarlet but crossed the room anyways. "Aren’t you eating?" She reached out and lifted his arm away from his body. The drape fell away a little, but he still clutched his jumper close. "Does Madame Pomfrey know?" Her eyes were filled with concern — the blush had faded quickly, but there was no pity visible at all, only the concern.

"She knows," he muttered, looking away. His face still felt hot. Hermione was a girl, she wasn’t supposed to be in the dormitory in the first place! If Seamus or Dean came back and saw, or if Lavender and Parvati wondered where Hermione had disappeared to —

Hermione touched Harry’s face lightly and took a step back, turning away. "Go on, get dressed. We’ve Quidditch to watch."

Harry stood for a moment, baffled — why had she done that? — before launching himself for his clothes and yanking them on in embarrassment. The bulky jumper covered his frame and made him seem only skinny, rather than starved. "Um... sorry, I didn’t know you meant to come up here..."

"Done?" She didn’t wait for his response before turning around. Luckily, he was only putting on his socks and was mostly covered. "You need to eat more. If you’re going to get over this, you’ll need to be in top form, and Professor McGonagall told me that you’ll certainly be getting over it -"

"I’m fine," Harry muttered darkly, trying to ignore the blush rising in his cheeks again. Hermione seemed to be sizing him up — it was on odd look on her face, one he really didn’t want to see again, he didn’t think. "We don’t want to be late. Dennis might get worried."

"You aren’t going for Dennis," Hermione retorted, the subject suddenly seeming to change, though the long, searching glance she sent down his frame was enough to let him know it hadn’t been forgotten. "Fred and George would kill you if you skipped the match. It’s Slytherin, after all. We can’t be losing to them, even if Malfoy’s gone. Blair’s quite good — or he was in the Slytherin/Ravenclaw match, but Cho’s hardly been at top form of late."

Harry blinked slowly. "Who are you, and where have you put Hermione? You never talk about Quidditch."

"Do you actually think I’ve not learned a bit listening to the two of you bickering over teams since first year? Honestly, Harry, I’m not deaf!" Hermione crossed her arms and pouted, leaving Harry feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

"Er... right, Slytherin game," Harry murmured, making a dash for the door. Hermione followed on his heels.

In the Common Room, a few eyebrows were raised as Hermione entered via the boy’s dormitory staircase, but a glower from Harry kept Matthew Eck, one of the sixth years, from commenting. Hermione, seemingly oblivious, snatched up her knapsack and a tartan travel rug from a sofa. She shoved the blanket in Harry’s direction. "Here. You’ll catch a chill, and I absolutely promised Professor McGonagall -"

Harry gave a loud snort to cut her off and stormed for the portrait. Professor McGonagall, in only the past day, had suddenly morphed into an overprotective guardian of the worst sort. He was afraid to see what she’d do when he was back on his broom. McGonagall adored Quidditch, but seemed to see Harry as some sort of invalid. Perhaps, for the moment, he was.

"Harry! Harry!" Hermione was calling, hurrying down the corridor after him. His feet went on automatic toward the Pitch, and he slowed only for a beat. "There’s no need to sulk. It’s all for your sake."

"I’m sure it is. I rather like making my own decisions, however, thank you," he responded. It wasn’t cold out, he didn’t need a stupid travel rug, even it if was a handsome tartan. "I don’t need a mother. I’ve done perfectly well without one since I was a year old. I don’t need Professor McGonagall to do it, and I certainly don’t need you to."

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Harry could practically see the steam emitting from Hermione’s ears with her intense rage — her cheeks had gone a deep red and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Harry gulped. "For your information, Harry Potter, I am not acting as your mother. I act as someone who cares about you quite a bit. Now, then, is that enough of an answer, or are you going to go sulking about?"

"Perfectly fine answer," Harry responded hastily. Angry, Hermione became a fairly formidable person. In third year, she’d actually punched Malfoy in the face in Hogsmeade. And Harry had managed to rile her up to top form. "Can we go outside? It looks to be nice out..."

Hermione glowered but followed silently. They joined the procession of Gryffindors and Slytherins heading for their respective sides of the Pitch. Most of the Ravenclaw team was there to scope out the Gryffindors, while the Hufflepuffs were watching Slytherin to ready for their match in a few weeks. Neville, Seamus, and Dean had indeed saved seats for the pair, and Ron waved excitedly from Lee’s side in the professors’ stand.

A blanket suddenly draped itself across his shoulders, and Harry jerked around in shock. Professor McGonagall stood behind him, frowning. "I knew you’d show up to the game without warm enough clothes. You’re ill, Harry. Until you’ve regained some weight, your body will lose heat very quickly -"

"I brought a blanket for him, Professor," Hermione offered, tugging on the travel rug, which Harry was using as a cushion for the wooden bleachers instead.

She gave a curt nod. "Very good, Miss Granger. It’s nice to see Harry has such a good friend looking after him... Harry, I’d like to talk to you after the game, if you don’t mind? There are forms that need to be signed."

Harry rather did mind, but he doubted Professor McGonagall would be appreciative if he said so. He nodded instead and sunk into his seat as the professor smiled in a motherly sort of manner and patted his shoulder before disappearing down the stairs. Seamus gave a grin from his elbow. "I almost feel sorry for you, mate... living with Professor McStickUpHerArse, there."

"Almost sorry?" Harry retorted with a snort.

"Seamus! Harry!" Hermione, of course, was outraged. "How dare you speak of one of our professors that way! Especially you, Harry, she’s in essence your aunt!"

"I spoke of Aunt Marge that way. And Aunt Petunia. You haven’t had a problem with that," he replied, shrugging the new blanket from his shoulders and tucking it beneath the seats.

Hermione yanked it out again and tossed it around his arms. "Professor McGonagall hasn’t mistreated you. Your aunts did. Now hold still and wear the bloody blanket!"

From the corner of his eye, Harry watched as Seamus and Dean exchanged baffled looks. Hermione never swore. Harry’s words must’ve made her exceptionally angry — even Malfoy hadn’t drawn such a reaction from her. Consequently, Harry stopped arguing — though he was tempted to bring it up again as Seamus leant over and made a whip-cracking noise in his ear. He wasn’t whipped! He wasn’t even dating Hermione!

Harry was understandably distracted as the game started, trapped between Hermione’s indignant frowns and Seamus and Dean’s winks and understanding nods. Unfortunately, Slytherin took the lead in the first few moments with a lucky shot past the new Keeper, Leyton Jones. Their lead didn’t last long — Katie Bell passed to Angelina Johnson, who scored past the Slytherin Keeper without a problem. Without Oliver Wood playing Keeper, the other team had begun getting more goals, though Harry was still able to catch the Snitch before anyone else. But now, without Harry on the Pitch... things might not be so easy for Gryffindor.

Playing Quidditch was much more enjoyable than watching it, especially with Hermione unwilling to talk. She muttered under her breath about the Arithmancy equations on her page, while Seamus and Dean had a running commentary going on about the state of the Slytherin stands, and Pansy Parkinson’s new fling, and Seamus was trying to explain about the old wizarding families’ tradition of marrying off children soon after schooling. Neither conversation seemed of much interest to Harry.

He sunk farther into his seat and peered across the stands at the Slytherins. Blaise Zabini was there, seated with a first-year and a third-year (or fourth-year? Malcolm Baddock?) apart from the others. She shouldn’t have been on the Pitch at all, at least in Harry’s opinion. She was certainly in danger there, though Professor Dumbledore was aware of his vision and had likely acted accordingly. He couldn’t help but be worried over her fate, however, even if she was a Slytherin. She, along with Draco Malfoy, had struck a truce with him — but a truce with the enemy of Slytherin was becoming an ever-more-dangerous position to take up. Draco wouldn’t even show his face on the Pitch.

Harry wondered whether that had anything to do with his classmates, however. Draco had become increasingly hard to find, especially after Potions class. According to Ron, he’d been getting into trouble with Snape, of late. It seemed ludicrous, especially since Snape’s cover as a loyalist to Voldemort had been blown wide open during some unknown event over the past summer, while Harry was wasting away, locked in Dudley’s second bedroom. The facts remained, though — Malfoy, Snape’s favourite and ward, had been doing his best to anger his professor. Harry couldn’t explain it. Neither could Ron who, due to his hate of the Slytherin, just blamed it on idiocy. Harry wasn’t sure.

"And Slytherin scores again, unfortunately — that’s 30-20, Slyth, the buggers — sorry, Professor — Oh, and is that the Snitch? So early? Yes! Blair’s diving for it, but Creevey’s ahead — Creevey, filling in for Potter, on sick leave, give us a wave -" Harry didn’t. "And yes, Creevy has the Snitch! Gryffindor wins!"

It seemed anti-climactic, at best. Harry gave a sigh and launched himself from his seat, intending to make a run from the Pitch before the team could try to engulf him in their throws of celebration. It was Dennis’ moment for glory now, not Harry’s.

He hadn’t even made it to the door before Hermione caught up, snagging his arm with a scowl. "Professor McGonagall wanted to see you, remember? I won’t let you get out of that one."

"Since when are you my keeper?" Harry couldn’t help but snap. She merely scowled back, holding his arm in a grip of steel.

"Since you’ve decided that rules don’t affect the infamous Harry Potter," Hermione snapped back. "I’m sorry you can’t live with Professor Lupin, but you have to be honest — did you really expect that act to be passed? Wizards have a notorious history of prejudice against non-humans. Take the house-elves, for example, they’ve been enslaved for centuries -"

Harry broke in, anxious to avoid a repeat of the S.P.E.W. lectures of fourth year. "And since you think I’m full of myself, you’ve appointed yourself my mother?"

Hermione halted mid-sentence with a glare. She turned on her heel and marched away from the rapidly-filling Entrance Hall to a slightly quieter side corridor, before trapping Harry into a corner. "That’s it," she hissed softly, fists balled at her sides. "I’ve had enough. Can’t I care what happens to you? Is it so hard to believe that I won’t abandon you, even if everyone else seems to? I know it hurts — first your parents, then your aunt and uncle, then Sirius, then Professor Lupin — but Professor McGonagall won’t! And I’m sure Professor Lupin will be back to visit soon, it’s only been a few days since the article about the little girl -"

"He has more important things to think about than me," Harry choked out. How did Hermione know his own mind better than he did? Everything she’d said was true. Even though he knew his parents, and Sirius, and Uncle Re never wanted to leave and that all cared... it didn’t change the end result. He felt abandoned, even by Ron, sitting over with Lee instead of with Harry and Hermione.

And before he could stop himself, he was crying again, and Hermione was hugging him. "There’s nothing more important for him," she soothed, "I know it. But it’s a dream that can’t come true — you know it as well as I. Please, Harry, let Professor McGonagall have a chance. She cares as much as Professor Lupin, I know it."

Harry nodded slowly. She was right. It had only been a dream. Who’d ever believe that Fudge’s MPs could see a werewolf as anything but a monster? It seemed that Harry was trapped. But, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. He let Hermione keep talking, even though he didn’t hear the words, at let himself cry out his grief for his parents and Sirius and Uncle Re. It was about time for him to grieve for his dreams.

"Harry, are you alright?" He kept his head down and slunk into the office, trying to hide his red face. Hermione waited outside for his meeting to be over. No matter what McGonagall wanted to get done, Hermione would be waiting for him.

"Harry, you aren’t in trouble..." The edge of a sheet of parchment appeared in his vision. "You’ve a form to sign. As you’ve reached fifteen, you have to give consent for me to be your guardian. It’s a wizarding law... has to do with the old coming of age rituals and all..."

He couldn’t help but sulk. "Isn’t this a little soon? The act is still being debated."

"Debated, yes, but the number of nays seem to be increasing every moment. Even now, the parents of that young girl have been brought in to argue their case. The werewolf in question will probably be executed on Tuesday — there’s a barrister arguing Monday, once news of the act is available. If you want to wait..." she sighed. "I know I’m not your first choice."

Harry snatched the paper from her hand. Maybe he’d made enough trouble for the professor — she wanted to help. Hermione said so. Jerkily, he scrawled out his signature, without even reading what the parchment said.

And then he sat, uncomfortably. McGonagall lightly took the parchment and added her name in a delicate hand before she, too, sat quietly. The silence stretched on, and Harry saw in his mind’s eye a shade of things to come: sitting silently on a summer morning, alone and across from each other in the empty, darkened Great Hall, not looking anywhere but at a plate of food, not sharing problems and triumphs as the Weasleys were like to do. Cold.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and Harry shifted in his seat, dispelling the loveless image. "Well then," she began curtly, "that covers it. I reside here and in Hogsmeade for most of the year. My mother owns property with her brother on the Isle of Skye, and every-other Christmas I spend there. If you wish to remain here, I’m sure Professor Dumbledore would look after you. As Henry’s namesake, I’m sure you’re as much family -"

"But I’m not Henry," Harry cut in, barely louder than a whisper. He wasn’t sure who the comment was meant for. More himself than McGonagall, at least he thought so — he wasn’t his grandfather, he hadn’t even known his grandfather’s first name until seeing the terrible book that seemed to cause so many of his problems. If he were not the grandson of Henry Potter, the great-grandson of Ulysses Potter, the very teacher of Grindelwald, would Voldemort have bothered to hunt James Potter and his Muggleborn wife? It seemed Harry had finally found his reason — his orphan status, his pain at the hands of his mother’s sister, his loneliness; all could be traced to Ulysses and Henry.

It was a comfort to know, almost. If it hadn’t been for Henry, would Dumbledore have worked so diligently to save Harry’s life? Or were relations really everything — did Harry’s family mean so much in the wizarding world that his very surname, connected with the Dark and the Light alike, could influence the course of his life? The Malfoys... the Weasleys... Draco thought he had to be what his father was. Ron seemed to idolize his father; he wanted to be what his father was. Family was everywhere around him — and Harry had none. So there was the root of his problem. Ulysses, Henry, and all the Potters. Their ghosts haunted him even long after their deaths. He had plenty to live up to, if he managed to survive school.

He wasn’t Henry — but Albus Dumbledore expected him to be.

"No, you aren’t Henry," McGonagall finally broke in, words mirroring his thoughts. Harry was jarred awake and glanced up from the gouges in the professor’s wooden desk into her ashen — almost guilt-filled — face. "I think we forget that you are not Henry and you are not James. You look so like them both... I knew Henry well, we were schoolmates. Truth be told, I was jealous of him." Her gaze drifted away, focused on a time years past, somewhere over his shoulder. "He was a model Gryffindor — brave, strong, unafraid. And innocent — Professor Dumbledore saw to that; he made your grandfather totally unaware of the evils his own father had committed. Henry saw the best in everyone — he could not see the evils committed, not even the evils of his own sons... He’s tried to do the same for you Harry, though your relatives have ruined that from the start. He seems to have pushed aside remembrances of the falling out he and Henry had, years ago... it was when Henry found out about Ulysses Potter." She let out a low sigh. "I’m sorry for all of this. I truly am. Mistakes have been made again that should’ve been learnt from the first time around."

She fell silent and Harry’s gaze dropped back to the paper on the desk. "Has Uncle Re been by since the news?" He didn’t want to hear any more about his grandfather or apologies for trespasses that could not be repaired. He had his own to make, to Remus.

"He’s a busy man. He’s likely cementing his contacts in the Muggle world. Trials against werewolves often result in severe prejudice in our own world for some time afterward. I doubt Remus will be able to spend much time here."

Harry didn’t look up, stomach clenching in despair. If Remus didn’t come back... he truly had been abandoned, once again because of events completely out of his control. "May I go?" he asked softly.

McGonagall shot over a concerned look before nodding her head and glancing away. "Yes, of course. I’ll just get the papers sent off. I know my mother can’t wait to meet you — do you mind if she drops by sometime soon? She’s given up hope of getting grandchildren from me, but she’ll more than make up for your absent family, I promise."

"Yes. Sure," Harry muttered half-heartedly. If McGonagall had gone to school with his grandfather, then her mother was certainly old enough to be more than his grandmother. He ducked out of the office before she could make another request to find Hermione waiting, just as she’d promised.

She gave one glance at the look on his face — presumably harried, though he’d no way of knowing — and snagged his robe sleeve. "It couldn’t have been too terrible, right?"

"No blood spilt," he shrugged. He didn’t bother to yank his sleeve away, though. "I have to meet her mother soon. Can we go and do something else — even homework? Anything to take my mind off it."

Hermione nodded and pulled him off toward the Common Room. "No homework, today. A card game — that’s the remedy. I have some Muggle cards my mum sent with me to school. How does that sound?"

The afternoon, spent with a good friend, and nothing expected of him but conversation. "It sounds perfect," he answered truthfully, and managed to give a wavering smile. Hermione’s beam in return was enough to bring his on in full.

"Pass the chips, Ron?" Harry asked. He’d filled his plate with all his favourites in a silent celebration that evening, if a little melancholy, of finally having a family. True, Minerva McGonagall wouldn’t be the best of parental figures, but things could be a lot worse — he could still be living with the Dursleys.

It felt almost like a day before the start of the Triwizard Tournament — before life had fallen into chaos and fear for his very life. Ron chucked over the basket of greasy and salty chips (not quite so good as those at McDonalds, but the house-elves had done their best) before plunging back into his plate, stacked high with chicken, potatoes, and a bit of everything else that graced the table. Hermione sniffed daintily at Ron’s table manners and picked at her plate while Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Lavender chatted almost gaily just down the table. Parvati had gone into hiding with her sister, Padma, two days earlier.

The thought made Harry pause in his feasting to remember the lives taken. But life still went on for the rest. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs and flashed a smile, which Harry returned and went back to the mounds of food before him. If all of this terror had taught him one thing, it was that life was to be enjoyed — every moment of it.

He was about to strike up a conversation with her about their last Astronomy assignment — it was sure to rile Ron up, since he’d forgotten to finish it — when murmur began at the end of the Great Hall nearest the doors, accompanied by pounding feet. Harry looked up in alarm, expecting none less than Voldemort himself standing in the doorway, from the disturbance that had been caused among the students. But it wasn’t Voldemort at all. It couldn’t have been anyone better.

Remus Lupin charged down the aisle, swerving around a Ravenclaw seventh year to land neatly next to Harry. Before he could make a sound, Remus had swept him up from his seat and spun him about as if he weighed no more than a small child — and Harry, though still recovering from illness, was still muscled enough from Quidditch to have some mass. Someone was thundering down from the High Table (Professor McGonagall, likely enough, to find out what the disturbance was), but Remus had already put him back into his seat. The werewolf was grinning from ear to ear and, most disturbingly, had tears coursing down his face.

"They passed it!" he crowed, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and pulling him into a hug, nearly crushing the boy in its intensity.

"Passed what?" Harry heard Hermione asking. "Professor Lupin, what do you mean? Who passed what?"

Remus shook his head slightly and pulled back, peering Harry in the eye. "You won’t believe it... I didn’t believe it... Harry, it was passed. The Act, it’s law..." The words didn’t seem to want to sink in properly. When Harry’s face was only a dull, blank mask, Remus pushed on. "I can adopt you, Harry — the Ministry’s changed my status!"

Only then, when it had been stated plainly and clearly, did Harry allow himself to believe. Oblivious to Hermione’s joy, Ron’s shock, and McGonagall’s pale smile, blending in against a hall full of confused faces, Harry leapt to his feet and charged into Remus’ arms, only then letting the tears of joy fall. Into his soon-to-be father’s arms. All was right with the world, Voldemort be damned.