A Season of Revelations

“No bloody way!” exclaimed Ron, leaning forward with intrigue. “A cat chased her onto the roof? It’s no wonder Hermione looks like she’s been through the wringer.”

He and Harry sat on Ron’s bed, tossing up Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and catching them in their mouths. Harry grimaced, spitting out a chewed-up bean.

“Asparagus quiche. Yuck,” said Harry.

Ron took Harry’s macerated problem-bean and popped it in his mouth to pass judgment. After a moment, he shrugged and swallowed it.

“But I haven’t told you the best part,” grinned Harry. “She crawled down my nightshirt to hide, and when I reached in and pulled out this giant squirrel, Aunt Petunia nearly lost her bladder.”

Ron laughed a bit and then his face fell serious like he’d lost his appetite.

“You didn’t tell me Hermione was, er, under your shirt.”

“I just did,” Harry said casually. “You know – big cat chase, fat scary uncle and all.”

Ron feigned a half-smile. “Right,” he said. He stood up and dusted non-existent crumbs off his hands.

“Anyway,” Ron changed the subject. “Want to get out for a bit?”

While Hermione still lay resting upstairs from their journey to the Burrow, Harry and Ron disappeared outside with their broomsticks in hand. The thick blanket of clouds had finally given way to some sunshine, and the scent of July heat on the grasses rose into the air like an enticing musk. Harry inhaled deeply as he kicked off from the ground, hovering over brambles and bushes that lined the Weasleys’ property.

Ron was quickly at his side, idly tossing the practice Quaffle and catching it with one arm. He passed it to Harry, who caught it firmly.

“Bit of a warm-up?” signaled Ron.

Harry nodded, throwing it back to Ron. They flew like this, over the treetops and around the Burrow, relaying the ball back and forth without speaking.

Less than a day ago, this is what Harry had wanted – some time to have fun and not worry about who was trying to kill him or exact some kind of revenge. Now that he had it, it didn’t seem enough to fill the hole in his chest. All notions of peace and happiness seemed surreal to him when Sirius was still dead and Voldemort even more alive.

The words of the prophecy rang through his mind… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. He lost focus on the game and didn’t notice as Ron’s Quaffle came barreling right at him.

“Harry, look out!” Ron shouted. Harry missed the ball altogether, but swung his Firebolt around to dive for it. The rush of adrenaline felt good. For a brief moment Harry thought this thrill was what he’d been missing.

Harry fell into a nosedive, barely catching the Quaffle and fumbling a bit at its large size. In the sensation of it all, he didn’t have a second to glance up before crashing straight into Mrs. Weasley’s greenhouse.

Large panes of opaque glass-like material did nothing to stop his fall. With a booming crash, Harry took out an entire corner of the structure, landing on a prickly bed of mangled herb pots and wooden beams.

“Ow,” he cringed aloud. Harry took off his dirty glasses and watched a blurry Ron run to his aide. Ron grabbed his arm, pulling Harry out of the rubble.

“Bloody hell! Are you alright?” asked Ron. Harry stood up stiffly, brushing bits of soil and vines off his head and body.

“Fine,” he replied. The only thing hurt was his pride. Harry figured he’d better get in plenty more practice before Quidditch season or else go down in history as The-Boy-Who-Used-To-Be-Seeker.

The shrill voice of Mrs. Weasley in distress caused them both to turn around abruptly.

“What in blazes has happ– Merlin’s beard!” Mrs. Weasley covered her mouth. “My atrium!”

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m so sorry,” Harry put his dusty glasses back on. He noticed a strong scent of something very fragrant wafting up his nose. It lingered there, overpowering him.

“Mum, it was an accident,” Ron pleaded, staring at the devastation with something like shock mixed with amusement. “Harry, you really took a big chunk out of this thing.”

Harry glared back at him and Ron stopped grinning.

“What HAVE I said about practicing Quidditch this close to the house, Ronald?” Mrs. Weasley’s hands went to her hips, the sign that she’d shifted from shock to angry concern. She picked bits of leaves out of Harry’s hair.

“It was just warm-ups, honest. But then I threw the Quaffle,” Ron paused, looking at Harry. “And it’s like you didn’t even see me. Like you went off somewhere in your head, mate.”

Harry didn’t feel like explaining himself. Annoyed, he sifted through the mess to pull out his broomstick. He breathed a sigh of relief to see it hadn’t broken in half, though he frowned at an ugly scratch along the handle.

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” said Mrs. Weasley. “But you’ve gone and squashed my entire crop of frog’s spindle.”

Ron sniffed the air and moved in closer to Harry. He recoiled, crinkling his nose.

“Ug, Harry. I think you landed in something. You smell like Ginny’s perfume, like, er…”

“Orchids,” a sure voice joined in behind them. Hermione pulled a crumpled flower from the rubble, sniffed it, and then cringed from the overpowering scent.

“Olfactus Giganteus – a special kind of orchid, also called frog’s spindle. Only they’re not like regular flowers. You can use them in all sorts of potions, from healing tonics to love tinctures. Don’t you two pay attention in herbology?”

Ron and Harry glared at her. She was obviously feeling better after some rest.

Harry felt nauseated by the pungent, flowery aroma that clung to his skin and clothes. It was horrifically embarrassing for a boy almost sixteen.

“At least let me repair it for you, Mrs. Weasley,” offered Harry.

“Oh yeah, of course Mum,” Ron chimed in. “Only we can’t because we’d have to use magic, and those darn underage rules. Maybe if we ask Fred and George to come by.” Ron scratched his head to add to the phony sincerity.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. Harry caught on to Ron and nodded in agreement.

“Nice try, Ronald,” Mrs. Weasley saw right through him. She turned to Harry. “Harry dear, I know it wasn’t on purpose. But you two are old enough to repair it the old fashioned way. With tools.”

“With what?” Ron asked, furrowing his brow.

Harry nodded at her, resigned to right the situation somehow.

As soon as Mrs. Weasley left, Harry suddenly felt an anxious urge to run away as well. The smell was driving him batty.

“Glad you’re feeling better ‘Mione,” Harry turned to Ron. “Can I use your bath?”

That night lying in the spare bed in Ron’s room, Harry tried to ignore the strong hint of floral aroma that hadn’t washed off his body. Since the incident at the greenhouse earlier, Harry had barely spoken to Ron or Hermione. After eating his dinner on the back porch, he bid everyone goodnight and hid out in Ron’s room.

He pretended to sleep as Ron crawled into bed.

The same feeling of discontentment that came to him on his broomstick surfaced again as he lay in the dark. After everything that’d happened in his life, Harry wondered if things would ever be simple again. Would he ever be happy like he was just a few years ago catching the Snitch for the first time, or sneaking out to Hogsmeade with his friends for a butterbeer?

Harry sighed deeply, thinking of how he was going to tell them about the prophecy.

“Harry, you awake?” Ron asked, turning to Harry in the dark.

“Yeah,” Harry replied.

“When you crashed out there I wasn’t trying to poke fun at you.” Harry wasn’t up for hearing an apology. He didn’t feel like talking at all.

“The whole thing was funny, that’s all,” Ron continued.

“Whatever, Ron. I’m fine,” Harry lied. He could see Ron sit upright in his bed. Oh no, more talk, he thought.

“What happened last year, Harry – that was bollocks. You’re still the best bloody Seeker Hogwarts has ever seen, and ever will.”

Harry reluctantly listened to Ron’s words of encouragement.

“I’m not so sure of that. How can I be sure of anything?” Harry waxed bitter. “Hogwarts was the place I called home, but last year Umbridge made it feel like a prison where I was her punching bag for everything. I thought Dumbledore would be there, but not even he could be there for me because…because of this curse!” Harry rubbed his forehead angrily.

Ron waited in silence. It was clear Harry had more to vent.

“When Sirius was alive he was my only family left. I had some glimmer of hope that I might finally be free of Privet Drive. Now even that’s been taken away from me.”

“But you’re here now, and Mum and Dad want you to stay for the whole summer,” offered Ron.

“When Hermione came and brought me here, I thought it would be enough. But I…” Harry broke off. It felt good to finally get some of this off his chest, but he was afraid it all sounded like some self-pitying sob story.

“I get it, you know – that part about not knowing what to expect from now on. I still have nightmares about it, Harry,” Ron confessed. “About that night we fought the Death Eaters. So I can imagine it must be ten times worse for you.”

Harry’s knotted insides started to soften. Maybe his best friend in the world did understand.

“Granted, my dreams were mostly about killer flying brains and such. Not about being trapped inside You-Know-Who’s mind,” added Ron.

Harry’s stern expression melted and he found himself laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all.

“It’s not funny,” Ron said, completely serious.

“Sorry,” Harry cleared his throat. Only he couldn’t stifle his chuckling. It exploded out of him in a loud guffaw. Despite himself, Ron also started to laugh. Soon they were both wiping away tears of laughter.

When the fit settled down, Ron turned to Harry again.

“Listen, I know there’s something on your mind that you’re not telling me. We’ve both been best mates too long to hide it. Just try and be honest with me, okay.”

“Ron, I can’t,” Harry started. What’s the point of telling Ron about the prophecy? There was already a war going on. Someone would have to win it, and the other would lose.

“If I guess right, then this can’t change anything between us – you, me and Hermione. I’d really hate that,” Ron said, inhaling deeply. Harry could tell he was nervous.

“Are you, er… Do you like Hermione?” Ron blurted out. It caught Harry off-guard.

“Sure. I mean, she’s as insufferable as ever, but she’s one of us…”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Ron interrupted. Harry couldn’t suss out where this was going, but he had a strange feeling he was about to find out. “I just thought…Okay, she comes to see you, alone, at the Dursleys – “

“To rescue me, transfigured into a squirrel,” Harry added.

“And she wore your clothes, Harry. Where were her clothes anyway?” Ron asked, suddenly puzzled.

“Didn’t have any on. Did I mention ‘squirrel’?”

“Didn’t have any? So when she transfigured, she was all…starkers?” Ron cleared his throat nervously.

“Where are you going with this?” Harry was slightly embarrassed that he had gawked at Hermione that day. He liked girls – really liked them – but Hermione hadn’t counted until that point.

Then suddenly it occurred to Harry that Ron had thought of Hermione that way before.

“Ronald Weasley,” Harry mocked Mrs. Weasley’s tone. “Are you jealous?”

“Okay, sure Harry. Now you’re sounding like a nutter,” Ron tried to play it off.

“I always wondered when you’d finally have a crush on some girl, I just never thought it’d be – “

“I DON’T HAVE A CRUSH ON ANYONE!” Ron shouted in a whisper.

Harry bit his lip. He knew better than to taunt Ron when he was finally feeling comfortable around him again.

“Forget it then,” Harry said, secretly smiling to himself. “’Night, Ron.” The idea of Ron thinking anything about Hermione was strangely amusing to him. Harry turned over and fell into a deep sleep.

The pale, spindly fingers of Narcissa Malfoy curled around the ebony teapot as it magically started to spout steam. She poured the boiling liquid into her guest’s teacup and glanced up into his darkish features.

“So good of you to come, Severus,” said Narcissa. “You’ll have to pardon the condition of my home. The Ministry’s taken what they pleased.” Severus Snape glanced around at the bare sots on walls and rugs where portraits and bureaus used to be.

“It has been several years since I last visited Malfoy Manor,” Snape said, his pallid face and dark eyes ever emotionless. “I can see this has been a hardship for you and Draco.”

“Practically unbearable,” languished Narcissa. “Draco is suffering the worst, I’m afraid. A boy his age needs a certain masculine figure in his life – to teach him and guide him. Which is why I’ve called you here today.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at Narcissa. Her reputation as a Black and a Malfoy didn’t lend itself to outright honesty. He knew there was something more she wanted.

“I’m the Head of Slytherin House, Mrs. Malfoy. During school term the boy is under my care,” said Snape.

“And Draco’s spoken highly of you,” she put her teacup down and leaned forward, touching Snape’s hand just slightly. “Severus, I need you here – just until school term starts. Lucius may be in Azkaban for months, maybe years.”

Snape gently pulled his hand back. His eyes wandered to the overlarge portrait of Lucius Malfoy that remained over the fireplace. The painted Lucius looked down his nose at Snape suspiciously.

“I’m not entirely certain Lucius would approve of my presence at the moment. He’s taken some risks that he knows I haven’t…committed to.”

Narcissa smiled coyly at him. “My husband understands your sensitive position as a professor at Hogwarts, surrounded by members of who-knows-what allegiances.”

Snape didn’t flinch or do anything that might let on he was in contact with the Order of the Phoenix.

“There’s been talk that you’ve abandoned your old ways completely, Severus,” fished Narcissa.

“No one is ever able to shed their former skin completely,” Snape countered. He thought of the Dark Mark permanently etched into his arm. A mischievous smile spread across Narcissa’s face.

“So you’ll agree to it then? Draco will benefit from your extra tutoring. He’ll be needing to study the Dark Arts, of course, after a series of inadequate professors these last few years,” her words stabbed in just the right place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Snape rose, pushing his long black robes behind him.

“Indeed, we’ve sorely needed a decent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Snape emphasized. “But I’m afraid I have a full plate at this time.”

“Pity,” said Narcissa as she stood up. “I could offer you a handsome salary, and the recognition amongst certain groups that you deserve.”

Snape paused, letting Narcissa’s words sink in. If he did this favor for the Malfoys, he might regain the trust of people in the Death Eaters’ inner circle.

“I can stop in for mentorship twice a week, but I cannot stay on full-time,” Snape conceded. “When shall I start?”

“This morning,” she smiled, sliding her palms together with satisfaction. “Draco should be down promptly. I’ve set up a classroom in the east wing.”

Meeting eyes with the veela-haired woman, Snape suspected he’d just been seduced into something – and that it wouldn’t be the last time.

With a deep scowl on his face and heavy-lidded eyes, Draco drug his quill and parchment up the spiral stairs to the east wing of the manor at five past eight that morning.

His tight-lipped, crook-nosed nanny had woken him ten minutes ago, threatening to tell his mother about the sappy love letters from Pansy that she’d found wadded up in his garbage. Bloody hag, he thought, even more furious at Pansy for being such a girl about things just because they’d snogged a few times.

Draco flung the doors open, slamming his quill and parchment down on the table. The chamber looked empty.

“Hullo,” he called, annoyed. No one answered. “Bugger this! I’m out of here.” He turned around to leave, and came nose to nose with his potions teacher. Draco screwed up his face in disbelief.

“Professor Snape?” Draco said, somewhat rudely. He changed his tone immediately. “Sir, what are you doing here?”

“You’re late,” Snape replied coldly.