Black Sheep

Neville Longbottom had been true to his word and when Harry showed up for breakfast the next morning, looking a bit wan, there was an owl waiting on the high table. The bloody thing was pecking at the ham and annoying Professor Vector something fierce, as he was the only other staff member to be breakfasting at such an early hour. It was only half-six, after all. Harry hadn't been able to sleep.

Wondering distantly just what sort of shift they had poor Neville on, Harry plucked the tightly rolled note from the owl's leg and shooed the tetchy bird away. He unrolled the scrap of parchment and then understood just why the bird seemed so ill-tempered and peckish - it was dated the night before.

Harry dropped into a chair several feet from Vector and read the note through. Basically, Neville hadn't been able to do a whole lot of anything so far, or so it seemed to Harry. He said he was researching past cases to try to provide any sort of precedents for Malfoy and that he'd petitioned to get Malfoy pulled out of Azkaban for some 'preliminary questioning', but that the higher-ups didn't seem in any rush. He promised to continue sending Harry updates, but with only news of this calibre, Harry wasn't even sure why he should bother.

He let the note fall to the table and leaned back in his chair. It'd been nearly twenty hours since Draco had been taken from Hogwarts. Even if he figured in several hours for transport and processing, Draco had probably been within the walls of Azkaban for at least fifteen hours. The longest Harry had ever been in the presence of Dementors was less than thirty minutes and that was with his Patronus keeping them at bay. What could Malfoy be going through, this very moment, as Harry was sitting in front of a lavish breakfast spread, under the bright morning sky that shone through the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling?

Harry pushed his plate away, deciding he'd lost his appetite. He noticed the unfurled newspaper lying next to Professor Vector's elbow and asked, "Would you mind if I...?" He gestured towards the paper and the Arithmancy professor handed it to him without a glance.

Thinking that it was the first time he'd ever actually spoken to the professor, Harry realised belatedly that he should probably at least have introduced himself or something - but honestly, who didn't know just who Harry Potter was? He was startled when the dour-looking man pushed back his chair with a screech and suddenly stood. He paused for a moment, then spoke in a deep, dolorous voice. "Shame about the Malfoy boy. He was one of my better students." Then he walked away, letting the side door fall shut heavily behind him. Harry stared after him, glad he'd never been in Vector's class himself.

Sighing tiredly, he turned to the paper. Of course Draco was front page news. There was even a bit on Harry, since they'd been so recently linked in the news. Luckily, though, it seemed that word of Harry's wild entrance into the Ministry yesterday was being suppressed so far. Harry didn't take much note of the words on the paper, instead he was staring at the Wizarding photo of Malfoy. It had been scowling when he'd first turned the paper towards himself, but then it had noticed Harry and begun cavorting about energetically, making rude gestures and trying to either make him angry or make him laugh - Harry wasn't sure which. When Harry didn't respond in either fashion, the photo Draco sighed, blew his hair out of his eyes, and looked bored. He started examining his tiny, printed hands.

Harry still hadn't made it past the first page by the time that the other staff members began arriving. He did look up when he heard the side door open again but he immediately wished he hadn't. Of course it would be just his luck that the lone teacher to join him as he sat at the empty high table was Marianthi Fotiadis.

"Oh!" She exclaimed aloud when she saw that they were the only two present. She naturally took the seat right next to Harry and asked him brightly, "What are you doing up and about so early, Harry?"

"Couldn't sleep," he said shortly, hoping she would notice his foul mood and leave him alone to stare moodily at Draco's photo in the newspaper in peace.

"I had to be up for the sunrise, to calibrate the seeing crystals for my fifth years today," she explained cheerily and without prompting, taking no heed of Harry's silent ire. She noticed the newspaper in front of him and took the opportunity to lean across him, her warm body pressed against his arm, under the guise of reading the paper. Her cheeks seemed a bit flushed as she said, "Oh, yes. I heard yesterday that your friend was taken to the Ministry." She looked up at him from this close distance. "I'm so sorry."

When Harry's only response was a grimace, she laid a soft hand on his knee. "If you ever want to talk... I know you two were close..."

Something inside Harry seemed to snap, as the witch practically tried to crawl onto his lap. "Yes, we were," he snapped. "So 'close' that we were sleeping together."

Marianthi's dark eyes darted about as she tried to think of an alternative meaning for the English words. "You were..."

"Come now," Harry said cruelly, "We stay together in the History master's room and there's only one bed, of course. What did you think our relationship was?"

"You mean, that you're - but you couldn't be..." She stared at him, her dark eyes like black marbles in her pale, shocked face. She whispered disbelievingly, "Are you...?"

"Well, obviously!" Harry exclaimed, feeling as if he might laugh - or cry.

Marianthi pulled back from Harry and leaned against her high-backed chair limply. She mumbled numbly, "I understand. I mean, I have a cousin who is - I just never imagined that you might be..."

Harry had finally got rid of his unwanted suitor, but - he was realising as Marianthi moved away and the strange madness slowly receded - he may have just created a far uglier problem. His face was suddenly serious again. "Oh... er, please don't feel bad about it. No one knows, after all. We're, er, very private. I only wanted to tell you, to... to apologise for Malfoy's behaviour. The way he strung you along. All that nonsense." He winced at his own babbling. "So please, don't mention it to anyone else."

Marianthi still looked lost in thought, but she at last said, "Yes, I understand. Of course not." Her eyes flicking awkwardly in Harry's direction, she reached out for an enchanted flagon of coffee and poured herself a cup. She ate quickly and silently and though other professors started arriving and engaging in their normal morning chatter, she rushed off without exchanging more than a half-dozen words with anyone.

Harry silently berated himself. He'd just been so eager to get rid of the witch and make her stop talking to him about Draco. Now she was shocked and he had no idea what she she might do next - or who she might tell. All he knew was the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him that, once again, he'd done something stupid.

He felt useless without Malfoy around to stop him from making a fool of himself, or to make fun of him when he did so anyway and make him at least laugh at himself.

Maybe he should just invade Azkaban, he thought hopelessly. What were the chances that the Ministry, even after their maximum ninety days, would just let Malfoy go free?

But then again, that was probably another of those idiotic ideas that Malfoy would have put a stop to - telling him that he'd only end up in Azkaban as well, or else Kissed, and what bloody good would that do anyone? Gritting his teeth, Harry resolved to do as that snippy little voice in his head told him. The only way he knew to get through the next several days was to do what Malfoy would do. He wouldn't let anyone see how much he was hurting, he wouldn't loosen his icy control on himself, and he would drink profusely.





Still burning with his fresh determination, Harry went to the History classroom alone. He was surprised to see the whole class already assembled, but managed to act aloof, or so he thought. The students all looked at him doubtfully and someone yelled, "Where's Malfoy?"

"Malfoy," Harry corrected the girl reproachfully, "is away from Hogwarts, so I'll be taking your class today." There was a dark murmur from the crowd and Harry made a mental note to tell Malfoy, if he ever got the chance. Not only were the students for the first time disappointed to have one of their teachers disappear, but they were more interested in having Malfoy standing in front of them than Harry Potter. What changes a week could bring.

"Now then," Harry said bluntly, taking up Draco's usual position on the empty teacher's desk. "I may have more first-hand knowledge of Dark Lords than anyone else alive, but I know fuck-all about any history before Grindelwald, so I hope some of you have done your reading."

He wasn't as insidiously charming as Malfoy, but thanks to their years of shared experience, he could at least stare just as mercilessly and unrelentingly. Eventually, a student raised a hand and class began.

The day dragged on like that: Harry stumbling his way through the history classes and feeling keenly alone every time another group of students trooped out and he was left on his own in the large, shadowy room. After the last class for the day was finished - a particularly awkward two hours, since it had been a NEWT level class - he trudged back down to the Great Hall. He hadn't bothered to go down for lunch, but now his empty stomach was urging him to brave that bright atmosphere. As soon as he stepped through the doors, though, and was awash in the din of chattering voices and chiming silverware, he knew he'd made a mistake. This wasn't where he wanted to be.

He stepped back but it was too late; Hermione was waving at him furiously and it would be impossible to pretend he hadn't seen her. He slunk over and slid into the chair she'd kept open for him. He noticed Marianthi looking in his direction and he avoided her eyes.

Hermione jogged his elbow, catching his attention. "Harry, how are you doing? You just rushed off at breakfast and then you never even came to lunch. I was beginning to wonder if you'd run off again..." She looked genuinely worried that he might try something foolhardy.

Staring blankly at the food in front of him, he reassured her - very unreassuringly - that he wasn't planning to storm Azkaban or anything of the sort. "I may not be great at being a functioning adult," he said bleakly, "but I do at least know that I can no longer do things like invading the Ministry and expect that Dumbledore will be around to save me or that the Ministry will shrug it off in light of Voldemort." He looked down at the palm of his hand, where something seemed to be written, and told her, "I'm the best shot Malfoy has of getting out of that place. I know that. But only so long as I have the public's good opinion, and if I go about acting like a deranged criminal, then I'll be useless to him."

Hermione was staring at him in surprise. In the past two weeks, she had felt that he was the same boy she had known as a girl, and she had felt as if he'd become someone strange, who she wasn't sure she liked. But who now was this serious, thoughtful man, who was doing the best he could in a situation that obviously pained him? She felt like hugging him, there in front of the whole Hall, as she searched his sad expression. She settled for squeezing his arm warmly, though, and saying, "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. And I'm proud of you for doing it."

He didn't look pleased, though, as he looked sideways at her. "It doesn't mean I like it, though," he told her softly, and she could see dark horror and despair in his eyes. She wondered if she would be able to stand it. If their roles were reversed and it was Harry in Azkaban, would she be able to hold herself back? Or was she still too much of an impetuous Gryffindor, following her heart and forgetting her mind? This cold pragmatism of Harry's - it didn't come from Gryffindor. She thought she knew where it came from. "You are doing the right thing," she told him again, "and I think Malfoy would agree. He's very logical, when he wants to be, that Slytherin of yours."

Harry knew she was right. He'd told himself the same things before. He knew that Draco would tell him not to antagonise the Ministry. But he also knew that Draco would never follow his own advice. Hadn't he said that he would do anything for the people he cared about? Hadn't he become a Death Eater to protect his mother? Hadn't he suicidally gone after the Horcrux at Snape's behest? Of course he wouldn't stand by while someone he cared about was going through psychological torture. He was as hotheaded as a bloody Gryffindor sometimes.

Harry pushed his chair back and said in a choked tone, "I'm sorry. I'm not hungry." Then he practically ran for the side door.

In his mind, he cursed the wards at Hogwarts that prevented him from Apparating on the spot. He wanted to be somewhere far from here; he didn't know or care where. No, that was a lie: he knew exactly where he wanted to go, but he couldn't - he shouldn't - right?

His long, furious strides brought him back to the history professor's room and he threw the door open. There was no one there, of course. He slammed the door behind him and stalked into the bedroom. He pulled the doors of wardrobe open with such force that the wood creaked and then he stood a moment, staring at Malfoy's clothes in front of him. He reached out and grabbed an armful of the clothes, yanking them from their hangers. Then, sinking to the ground, he clutched the soft bundle to him tightly, inhaling the familiar scent that clung to Malfoy, and finally letting his hot, frustrated tears fall.

How had it come to this? A month ago he could never have imagined that he would be back at Hogwarts, back among Wizarding folk, and sick with worry about Draco Malfoy, of all people. He almost wished it had never happened. But he still remembered how being with Draco had felt. Clutching at the empty clothes in his arms, he fought to remember every moment. The need to recapture those feelings, to have Malfoy back in his life, was the only thing he could cling to now.





The next morning brought another disappointing owl from Neville and another day of wasting time with classes. He was being more proactive - seeking out Hermione's help in researching magical law - but he looked worse than ever. The first day after Draco had been taken away, he had merely looked wan and ill-rested. After the second day, his skin was a chalky white and his eyes were sunk in dark circles. Hermione began hounding him to eat more at meals, but there was little she could do to force him to sleep at night. When the third day dawned and no owls came from the Ministry, Harry had trudged out of the Great Hall without even pretending to eat.

When Friday afternoon arrived and marked four full days that Malfoy had been in Azkaban, Hermione scolded Harry: "You have to eat something. I will personally have Pomfrey hospitalise you if you don't stop your bloody moping." She watched hawkishly as Harry picked up a roll and started absently pulling off small pieces to put in his mouth. She hardly blamed him, though. Malfoy was in Azkaban, and with no magic to protect him; for all they knew, he might already be irreparably damaged.

Chewing mindlessly, Harry fought to swallow the bread that tasted like ashes in his mouth. It was Friday afternoon. Friday afternoon. How was he going to make it through the weekend? Two whole days with nothing else to occupy him. Over forty-eight hours to imagine what Malfoy must be experiencing, to wonder if he would ever see him again, to wonder if he would even be the same.

He stood up abruptly. "I'm going for a walk." And then he strode away from the table, without even waiting for any sort of response. Hermione gaped for a moment, then jumped up after him. His longer legs ate up the long paths of the castle corridors, and he just kept walking faster. Hermione had to practically jog to catch up with him.

She called out to him breathlessly, "Harry! What are you doing? You know you can't go to him! What - are you going to Apparate to the shores of Azkaban, thinking that the Dementors will just welcome you with open arms? Well, they will - open arms, and open mouths, because you'll be Kissed, you bloody fool!" Her tone grew angrier and angrier as she struggled to keep with him. She didn't even particularly care for Malfoy, but even she was frustrated with the situation and feeling pushed to her limits.

Pushing herself into a run for a moment, she managed to reach out and grab Harry by the arm, spinning him around to face her. "Harry!" She berated him, shaking him slightly, "You can't go there."

He knew it. He knew it but he hated it and he tore himself away from her, loping across the grounds towards the gates of Hogwarts and the limit of her wards. He had no clear idea of what he was going to do once he crossed those borders, but he couldn't stand sitting still. He needed to do something, even if it amounted to nothing more than an empty gesture.

The gates were in sight and he was about to break into a full run when someone appeared from the other side, rushing towards him just as urgently. He stumbled to a halt and his knees seemed to give out, driving him down to the ground. Hermione ran up behind him and stopped, bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing hard and staring up at the man approaching.

Waving a large hand, Neville jogged up to them. Harry had gone almost green; was this good news or bad news? He wasn't sure his heart could take either. He let Hermione be the one to speak up and she called out, "Neville! What're you doing here? Have you heard anything...?"

Neville slowed to a walk as he drew near, but he was shaking his head slightly. "I can't believe how lucky I am to run into you two here. I was dreading trying to sneak into the school. The Ministry shouldn't hear that I was ever here." A couple of feet from Harry, he stopped and looked down at the pale man. "I'm afraid I don't have good news."

Harry swayed back as if struck and Neville hastened to add, "I mean, I don't have bad news either! I just don't have much news to speak of. That's what I'm here to talk to you about." He squatted down and spoke quietly to Harry, and Hermione, who leaned closer.

"Look, I have some clout in my own department, but not many people want to see Malfoy get out again. It didn't sit well with any number of folk the first time. I've been sending requests to get him out for questioning, but the higher ups are obviously happy to put my requests at the bottoms of their piles." He peered at Harry, whose eyes were hidden by his overgrown fringe. "There's no support for Malfoy now and I can't do much more than I already am."

He winced and said the words that he knew Harry would hate. "I need you to go public for him, Harry. Malfoy needs you to."

Harry twitched slightly and he did finally look up at Neville. "What do you mean?" he asked numbly.

Neville slapped his thighs and spoke more confidently now. "I'm suggesting a press conference. We call the Prophet, or any other paper you want, and offer them the juiciest scoop of the decade - the first interview with Harry Potter in nearly a decade."

He saw Harry grimacing and knew how much his old school friend hated the press, so he pushed him gently. "I know it'll be a pain, Harry, but we need you to paint your side of the story. Tell how Malfoy helped you during the war, how he's been helping at Hogwarts, anything you can do to bring the public over to his side. If the public and press start to pressure the Ministry, they'll be a lot quicker to get this charade over with."

"So you want me to tell them how we became... friends?" Harry asked in an odd sort of voice.

Glad to see any sort of response, Neville nodded encouragingly. "Exactly. Anything to warm the public to Malfoy's side."

Harry was silent for a long moment, staring down at the grass before him. Then he said quietly, "But you know more about what happened to Malfoy than I do."

Neville swallowed hard and looked squarely at Harry. "I can't be linked to this in any way, you know that. And even if I could, it wouldn't be my place to tell strangers what Malfoy only told me under Veritaserum."

"Could you..." Harry gnawed on his lip a moment. "Could you tell me? I'm hardly a stranger."

The breath whooshed out of Neville and he looked doubtfully at Harry's kneeling figure. He said sadly. "It's still not really my place. I think if Malfoy wanted you to know, he'd tell you." The Auror waffled for a moment and then he continued, "The one thing I can tell you is that he's already been punished enough. By himself and by the Death Eaters. But I think you already knew that."

Harry stared at the ground. "Did they... did they..." He squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud. He knew Neville was right; if Malfoy had wanted him to know what the Death Eaters had done to him, he would have told him himself. Whether he was trying to protect Harry, who would surely blame himself, or whether he was protecting himself, by trying to hide the ugly things that been done to him, Harry felt like asking would be a betrayal of Malfoy's trust. He whispered, "Never mind. I know enough."

Neville clapped him on the shoulder and looked to Hermione. "I can trust you to handle the rest?" he asked her, smiling ruefully. She nodded and he stood, brushing at his trousers unnecessarily. "Then I'd best be off. They'll have my head back at the office if anyone hears I was here helping with this." His eyes lingered on Harry one last time and he said quietly, "Do your best." Harry blinked and glanced up at him, and Neville gave him an awkward little smile. Then he was off again, jogging through the castle gates and then Apparating away in an instant.

"Okay, then," Hermione said briefly. "Let's get back to the castle. I still have one class this afternoon, but I'll send off an owl before that to arrange for the press." She dragged Harry to his feet and began propelling him back towards the castle. "Would you like to hold it here or down in Hogsmeade? We would have more control here, but we'd also need McGonagall's permission. And then we'll need to..."

Harry barely heard a word, as they slowly made their way back to Hogwarts' safe walls. He was picturing Malfoy, in his imagination's hazy idea of a cell, and wondering if his awkward words would be enough to get him out.





Hermione had arranged everything and the next morning she came to the Great Hall early to get her copy of the paper. She wasn't surprised to see Harry sitting alone at the high table. In the quiet of the empty hall, they looked at each other silently for a moment, and then Hermione stepped forward. She took the seat next to him and he handed her the paper without a word. In the calm before the storm, she snapped the paper open and began to read.


Mr Potter's Plea

By Peter Lovejoy

I met with Mr Harry Potter in the History classroom at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As I sat down with arguably the most famous wizard alive, I felt indeed like I was experiencing a bit of history, but it didn't for a moment feel like a lecture.

Mr Potter is an interesting man, most curiously for his utter normalcy. If you didn't know his part in our history, you might simply walk by him in the street without giving him a moment's notice. Of course, his looks are arresting - his eyes are as green as rumour says and there is a knowledge in them that catches you if you happen to meet them. Yet he is a quiet and self-conscious man, obviously awkward being in the limelight, and the only time he forgets himself and smiles is when he talks of happier times.

I was lucky enough to hear about some such times from Mr Potter, who had requested to be able to speak out on behalf of his friend, Mr Draco Malfoy, who has been kept locked up in Azkaban this past week.

"We first met in Diagon Alley," Mr Potter tells me, with one of his private little smiles. "I thought he was awful. He reminded me of my horrendous cousin. He was the first wizard of my own age that I ever met - I'd been living with my Muggle relatives until then, after all." Mr Potter then laughs and for a moment he looks like what he should have been: a happy young man in the high days of youth. "He was self-absorbed and sneering and I wished that I'd never have anything to do with him again, but you can see how that turned out."

He tells me about their time at Hogwarts School, as Quidditch rivals and seemingly natural enemies. Gryffindors and Slytherins are not often known for their great love for each other, after all. "Still, in a way," he says thoughtfully, "we were always very important in each other's lives. If I caught the Snitch in a match, I would search out his face to see his expression. If I made a mistake in class, I knew he'd be around the corner to rib me for it. I think he felt very much the same. Everything we did was with each other in mind. That is, until Voldemort."

In light of the Dark Lord's return, their rivalry and dependence on each other was pushed aside. "Of course, many people were close to Voldemort in many different ways. But we were especially entangled with him, and perhaps that's why we understand each other so well now. I was perhaps the closest person to Voldemort in many ways - we shared a link after he failed to curse me as a baby, which he had several times tried to take advantage of through Legilimency. I would have visions of the awful things he did. I had a part of him, a part of the monster who had killed my parents and so many others, living on inside of me, giving me abilities like being a Parselmouth and making me..." Now he breaks off suddenly, and it is several moments before he speaks next, telling Mr Malfoy's story this time.

"Malfoy ended up being closer physically to Voldemort than he could ever have imagined in his worst nightmares. He was of course raised in a family infamous for producing Dark wizards. His father was a Death Eater and I had often come face-to-face with him in confrontations with Voldemort. But by that time, Lucius had been locked up, captured during the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort expected Draco to take Lucius' place. I know that Draco was afraid for his own life, but more than that, he feared what would happen to his mother. I think he could see no possible escape, no one who would help him - everyone he knew and trusted was under Voldemort's sway. He was given the Dark Mark and then he was ordered by Voldemort to kill Dumbledore. We were both sixteen at the time."

Mr Potter then revealed the truth of what had happened on the mysterious night that Albus Dumbledore died and both Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy ceased being regular schoolboys, if they had ever been regular at all. "The three of us were up on the Astronomy Tower. I'd been petrified and Malfoy had disarmed Dumbledore, but he couldn't kill him. Malfoy would do anything to protect his mother, who Voldemort was using against him, but he still couldn't seem to bring himself to kill another person." Mr Potter paused, obviously remembering that painful night.

"You have to understand," he tells me, his lips now twisted into a sad smile, "that Malfoy is a bit soft, really. He was a rotter to me all our years at Hogwarts and he fought dirty and he knew more curses than any schoolboy rightfully should. But I don't believe he ever wanted to kill anyone. He loved his mother most in all the world, perhaps because she was the only person who ever showed him any love. I think at that time, desperate, he thought that any price would be worth her life. Yet he still couldn't force himself to kill for her, at sixteen. But before the end, he was forced to hurt people, to torture, to murder. And his mother was killed by Voldemort anyway, horribly, right in front of him.

"I know that the fact that he didn't want to do the things he did doesn't make them any less wrong or horrid or painful. But I don't know if anyone else understands how it feels to be forced to do such things, to be forced to kill, and to then live on with that knowledge." He looks at me and for the first time I see the full horror that haunts him, a man who was forced at age seventeen to kill for all our sakes.

Mr Potter talks briefly of his highly private journey to defeat the Dark Lord and of Mr Malfoy's assistance in that journey. "Severus Snape, who had endured more than anyone to protect both Malfoy and me, was finally tortured to death by Voldemort for his deceit. Before his death, though, he and Malfoy had worked out the final piece to the puzzle, the last tool I needed to have a chance of defeating Voldemort. He had..." He seems to search for words and finally says, "He had certain weaknesses."

"Malfoy was sure to be Voldemort's next victim, after Snape had been revealed as a traitor. He could have run then. He could have tried to flee the country, as other Death Eaters had before him. But instead he came to me and put his life right back on the line. He helped me find the last tool I needed to go after Voldemort."

But Mr Malfoy's good deed did not go unpunished. "He was captured by Voldemort," Mr Potter explains, looking grim. "And it was because he subjected himself to a curse that was meant for me. As a result, he lost his magic and was absolutely powerless against Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters. They tortured him without end, until all of the Death Eaters were eventually rounded up by the ministry." It's difficult to imagine what Mr Malfoy must have gone through at the hands of the Death Eaters. Not many have survived to tell tales of such horrors. "But I think even that pales next to the emotional torture that Malfoy has put himself through," suggests Mr Potter. "I don't think he's forgotten for a day what he's done. He's punished himself every day for the past six years that he's survived.

"He was originally let out of Azkaban because of these two facts - that he had already been punished more than anyone could be expected to endure, and that he'd lost his magic and become virtually powerless. Recently he and I began researching ways to restore his magic, never imagining the consequences. Directly or not, I was the one who took his magic away from him. I was certainly the one who left him to be tortured. I thought if I could help make him whole again in any way, that I would do it. I wanted to help my friend. But now he's been taken back to Azkaban and is being forced to relive every terrible, ugly thing in his life again and again."

Mr Potter's control, which has been almost unwavering through his retelling of the horrors he has carried on his young shoulders, now begins to fail. His eyes are shiny with tears as he admits to me softly, "I'm afraid it might already be too late."

Looking pained but desperate, he gives his final plea: "I don't think I've really asked too much of people. At least, I hope I haven't. I've mostly just always asked to be left alone. But once, nearly eight years ago, I asked for you all to believe me. To believe that Voldemort had come back and to prepare yourselves. Now, one last time, I'd like to ask you to believe me. You may believe that Malfoy doesn't deserve to get his magic back, but he doesn't deserve Azkaban. He has been punished enough. We've both been through enough. Please believe me when I say that he doesn't deserve this. Please let him go."

These two men, who approached the war from opposite side, who chose different paths, but who now walk side by side. They set an example of the understanding that can reach across the hurts we've all experienced. Will their suffering and sacrifices go ignored? Will no one hear Mr Potter's plea? ▅


Hermione finished the article and let the paper rest on the table. Glancing at Harry, she was at least relieved to see her friend manage a nervy little smile when he said, "Well, you were right about this Lovejoy fellow. He wrote up a right sob story, just as you said he would."

"That is what he's known best for," Hermione agreed absently, glad that the journalist had followed the conditions of their offering him the interview. She had feared it would turn into another attention-grabbing gossip fest about Harry, but the man had managed to stick straight to Harry's quotes, only adding touches of melodrama for his loyal (and largely female) audience. "Now we just have to wait and see if Neville was right, and if we can spur the Ministry into some action.

They both glanced towards the grey morning sky through the enchanted ceiling, seeing the small shadows of owls approaching in the distance. Swallowing hard, Harry murmured, "We might not have to wait all that long."