Palindromes

Chapter 1 - Solos

Draco at Age Five

The sun is shining through the heavy drapes of his father's sitting room in tapered shafts.

Sun- sun makes him think of Quidditch, sun on grass and sun on goalposts and sun gleaming on the good, solid handle of his first broomstick. That feeling that lies in the hollow of his mouth, curled between roof and tongue, named delight. He wants to stay with sun, think about it all day, but his father prods him gently with another word and soon sun doesn't seem to matter anymore.

This is Father's game. Another word can mean something else entirely, like 'snake' reminds him of favors and ice cream carries a certain bitter taste. Draco plays along and likes it very much- or else he would pout and Father would give in, like always. Draco understands it well enough now and calls out rushy exclamations in reply.

How about mornings, Draco, Father is saying. What does it make you think of? And then Draco thinks about mornings and sees sun and sees Quidditch and he is happy again. He smiles a secret smile for little amusements and announces this to Father, Quidditch.

Between his careful fingers, fingers that seem never to stop flickering in and out of sight, Father watches him. The little hand gestures and daydreams of his son filter through, and he sees everything, watching every movement, sharing every secret smile.

Somewhere it must come together, because, in the end, Father understands everything too.

<>

Draco saw Harry two weeks after term ended. If anything, he felt pleased rather than surprised and outraged.

He had entered the café early, as he did from time to time when breakfast back at the inn didn't suit his tastes. He never expected to see anyone there; in fact, it irritated Draco when he wasn't served immediately. Most mornings he would enter and find a seat by the window just before the waitress appeared, jotting down his requests before he had a chance to settle.

Today he frowned, taking in the smell of coffee in the air and the brisk waking rituals of the shops ouside. His attention had already turned to his plans for the afternoon when the waitress bustled up with her pad and wand in hand.

"You're slow today," he said with disdain. She peered at him along her narrow nose and dipped her head smartly.

"I'm sorry," she replied airily, amused, and offered no explanation. There was fresh made jam on her dress. A house elf dashed out of the kitchen and wafted the smell of strawberries into the air. "What'll you be having today, Draco? Or are you too insulted now to breakfast in my café?"

"The usual, but hold the sarcasm if you would." She sent him a wry smile and was off to fetch it.

Moments later he was stirring his tea idly with a silver spoon, head leant up against the back of his chair and tilted slightly to his right so he could look up towards the sky and the street. It was a pleasant view, if quaint, and he found himself forgetting the thoughts he had meant to be thinking and instead looked up at the clouds, seeing hopes for Quidditch today floating among them.

The jolt of a shattered coffee cup made Draco lift his head and turn his attention to the other side of the room. A large Chinese urn was blocking his view, but he heard a boy's voice and could see the scene reflected faintly in the window.

His gray eyes widened by a fraction. There was that uncertain shift in his mind, and he blinked his eyes, thinking 'Potter'. Harry Potter, here, in his café, when it was widly known that he spent summers with his Muggle family. He mouthed the name as if feeling it on his lips would convince him of the truth.

Then he smiled, finishing his tea with the clinking of sickles on the tabletop, and left with his eyes cast downward and Potter's stare teasing the back of his neck.

<>

Draco Malfoy left.

Harry hadn't seen him enter, hadn't seen him sit down and sip his morning tea. He hadn't noticed that translucent reflection in the window beside him, floating ghost-like above the vibrant window boxes trimmed with summer flowers.

Yet he watched closely as Draco rose and left. No insults, no stray sarcastic remarks or scathing death threats. No smirk.

"Was that...?"

"Draco Malfoy? Yes." Lupin glanced across the table at him. Frowning, Harry turned away from the window. "Don't make too much of it, Harry. I know for a fact he regularly comes here for breakfast. I can assure you that you're not being hunted down."

Harry rolled his eyes, picking at his muffin. Lupin had not ordered anything to eat. "Why would I worry about that?" he replied, but felt himself relax into his chair.

"Yes, well- it might be a good idea to worry a bit more. I'm not saying you should drink from a hip flask," Lupin continued quickly, before Harry could protest. "I'm not Mad Eye, there's no need to live in fear, but just...use caution. You put his father into prison; he's not going to be queuing up to join your fan club. Revenge should not be underestimated, Harry."

Harry looked away.

The day was innocent outside on Diagon Alley, so full of life with its pale green stems and sunshine blues and pink daffodils charmed to bloom through the heaviest snow. Hatred had no place where even Malfoy was passive rather than confrontational; yet Harry clutched at his hatred and hid it away, ashamed but unwavering.

No one could take it from him. It had made Privet Drive more than the usual torture by consuming his idle hours. He didn't want to remember what he had considered then while his scar was a constant agony and he was feverish and weak from the pain. The Dursleys knew better than to disturb him in his state, but they turned away the battalions of owls and cursed at him through the door flap as if they could scream his nonsense into submission.

But owls still came, and Harry stared at the newspaper for an hour every morning since his eyes would never focus very long. Some days he wondered if the task was worth taking on, when every edition read nearly the same.

Murder- Muggles were dying, no, more than dying because Dementors wandered the streets at night and stole souls as they pleased- like foxes stealing chickens. The Muggle world became a slaughterhouse and no wizard or witch dared enter, no one dared to go in and save them all because it wasn't worth the risk of discovery.

Harry despaired. Locked away in his room he experienced nightmares and rages until the Dursleys were afraid to slide food through the door.

He was caged like a beast left to die and he no longer cared. Hedwig found one night that he would no longer open the window to let her in. She sat on a tree branch hooting softly and tapping her beak on the glass but Harry was too busy breaking himself apart; it all seemed impossibly misunderstood.

He could not help, he could not leave, he could not eat or sleep from the pain. All in all, he lived because of the distant pulse of a greater need: only he could end this war.

But still they kept him locked away.

And then a letter arrived. It was left on top of a stack that sat outside on his window ledge, unanswered. It was red but didn't look like a Howler and curiosity got the best of him.

He opened the window and took a cautious breath to see if, perhaps, he could still remember the smell of fresh air. But then a sharp pain shot through his scar- a man was killed twenty-three miles away. His elderly mother and three small sons were under Imperius in the next room as a group of laughing Death Eaters looked on.

A short, muffled cry escaped his lips and Harry slid down the wall, letter crumpled into the shape of his fist. Opening the envelope, he glanced down at it with eyes half-closed and one cheek pressed against the wall.

Dear Harry,

Are you all right over there? Why haven't you been writing us? We've been worried, Hermione is going spare- didn't you get any of our letters? I hope the Dursleys aren't giving you a hard time. Honestly, we didn't think they would, but with everything that's going on, you know, we couldn't be sure.

Hold on, Professor Lupin wants to add something.

Harry- sit tight. I know Dumbledore's explained the situation to you, so you understand why it's so important, don't do anything that'll put yourself in danger. Arabella says she hasn't seen you outside and that your family won't give her any information- let me know if anything's wrong, and please, keep in touch. ~Remus Lupin

It's Ron again-...

He shredded the letter and then let it fall with a groan; the scraps of parchment fluttered down and stuck against his shirtfront like the perspiration that beaded in the hollow of his pale throat.

He had wanted more than anything to give up.

One morning Uncle Vernon charged through the door and forced him into clean clothes. He was made to eat properly for the first time in days and he could not complain. Instead, he stared at each Dursley in turn through glassy eyes, wishing he knew if this was a sudden change of heart.

They threw him out afterwards, Aunt Petunia saying tremulously that she wanted no dying ingrates in her house and Uncle Vernon saying good riddance. Dudley said nothing to him at all; he only demanded to know if he could finally reclaim his second bedroom. Harry found himself staring at the door, standing on the doorstep where he had been left sixteen years ago. A letter addressed to Petunia Dursley had fallen at his feet. It told her that he was no longer in her care.

And so he left.

He staggered into the second level of a parking deck belonging to Grunnings where his uncle always parked. It was Sunday, around half past nine, and there were very few cars.

Sitting down, he smelt petrol and cigarettes on the air. It provoked the pain. The combination made him lightheaded, but it was no worse than usual and the sleepy flickering of the lights made him laugh once before falling silent; any sound rebounded harshly against concrete ceilings, floors, and walls.

"Harry?" His name echoed strangely as well. A figure followed the voice out of the shadows and into a pool of artificial light. "Good god, what...? Harry, are you all right?"

"Fine," he replied with a weak smile. "Hello Professor. I saw your note."

"So it seems." Lupin checked him over silently. "Harry,-"

"I'm fine. I..." One glance at Lupin told Harry that further explanation was pointless. He fell silent and concentrated on the blurred outline of his trainers.

"You don't have to tell me now. We haven't got enough time anyway. It isn't safe for you here. I've already made arrangements; you'll have to follow what I say, all right, Harry?"

"All right. And I'm fine, really," Harry lied. The pain was ebbing now; he knew it would return at any time. "Go on."

"Come with me."

Lupin set off from the direction he had entered. With some difficulty, Harry kept up with his brisk pace, though Lupin was obviously slowing for him. A sense of urgency was all that kept Harry moving; Harry was aware of the danger in this rescue. The last time he had left the Dursley's house a guard of nine witches and wizards had been sent to accompany him, with possibly more to help in planning and assisting.

They began to ascend a flight of stairs. Lupin stopped midway to face Harry. He searched Harry's features, which were flushed a pallid red-gray, and sighed. "I didn't think this was a good idea from the start. Neither did Dumbledore- he discouraged me from coming for you this time, since there seemed to be no immediate danger."

"Is that why...you came alone?" said Harry, his breath shallow

Lupin smiled. "I couldn't have you suffering, could I? A good Healer could probably come up with something to treat those pains."

"I wasn't...about to die," said Harry slowly, hesitant to believe it himself.

"No, you weren't."

"It felt like it, sometimes. Nothing seemed to make sense, then. And now, you say that you went against Dumbledore. That doesn't make sense either."

Looking down at Harry from a step above him, Lupin seemed suddenly distracted. He turned his head to glance up towards the top level, where a scattering of stars was just visible. "We should get going, Harry. That can wait- your departure can't. Come on." His voice was suddenly rough, and he climbed the remaining steps too quickly for Harry to keep up.

When Harry emerged, he could see little. Apparently, Lupin owned his own Put-Outer. No lights lit the top level, but concrete ceilings gave way to the night sky.

What he saw when his eyes adjusted was Lupin standing next to a giant motorcycle. The older man was examining it intently with his fingers, tracing over handlebars and metal that felt like the raised muscles under the fur of a big cat. A memory sparked in the back of Harry's mind, but he was too weary to recognize it.

Instead he approached the motorcycle- the motorcycle, rather than Lupin who, for a moment, didn't seem to notice him at all. When he did, he acted as if he had been woken in the middle of a dream.

"Oh, yes, Harry- have you got everything?"

Harry looked at him plaintively. He hadn't been able to salvage anything except his wand, which he carried in his pocket at all times, before he had been thrown out.

Lupin sighed. "That's right. I'll come by later to fetch your belongings. Now-," He gestured towards the motorcycle. "This should take you to Diagon Alley. You'll be staying there for the night."

Harry nodded. Lupin seemed encouraged and continued, "I know you've always taken a room at the Leaky Cauldron, so you should be fine there. Someone will meet you. We haven't been sure lately if..." he trailed off. He stared at Harry for several seconds before sighing again and running a hand through his hair in agitation. "You haven't got your invisibility cloak."

"Though, apparently, I need it," said Harry listlessly. "Of course."

"No, no, it'll just be a bit more difficult, that's all. Here, get on-" He helped Harry mount. Harry had never really ridden a bicycle before, aside from pretending a few times on Dudley's dirt bike when his cousin left the house. It reminded him strongly of riding a hippogriff.

Lupin curled Harry's hands around the handlebars, showing him the brakes. "Only for emergencies. The motorcycle should guide itself; I've already made sure of that. Nothing should be able to get at you up in the air."

"It flies?" asked Harry, surprised. Lupin smiled sadly, though it was hard to tell in the dark.

"Yes, it does. He wouldn't have liked it so much if it didn't." Harry froze.

"Not now," he said, his voice deadly soft but sharp and more distinct than it had been for days now. "Don't talk about him now. If I want to get through tonight I can't be thinking about him, so-...so I'll pretend you never said that, all right?" He closed his eyes, trying to calm his mind.

"Are you sure you're fit to do this, Harry?"

"I'm not staying here."

Lupin took a step away from the motorcycle, looking pointedly down the stairs as if there were somewhere else he had to be.

"If that's what you want, then. The motorcycle should take you a few streets down from the inn, a side street- you should be fine, but stopping for directions wouldn't be the best of ideas. Make sure to keep out of sight."

"What about a Disillusionment Charm?" asked Harry, shifting his grip on the handlebars.

Lupin shook his head. "If I could, I'd do one for you, but I haven't got the knack for them that Moody does. You'll just have to stay inconspicuous, and get down to the inn as quickly as you can without attracting attention. From there, there's no way I can help you, so you have to play it by ear- and don't let Tom see you. We aren't sure which side he's on recently. Once you've gotten in, go up the staircase, to number 12. If I remember correctly, it's at the end."

Harry repeated this to himself several times. The words swam in his head and it was difficult, but soon he remembered the directions well enough to satisfy himself.

"Ready then?" Lupin asked. Harry couldn't help but think how tired Lupin looked- not from age, the darkness took away the gray streaks in his hair and the lines around his mouth in eyes, but from indifference. He didn't seem to care how he looked anymore.

"I guess. And, Professor- thank you." Harry smiled.

"Go on. I'll see you in a few days, Harry. I would wish you good luck, but maybe you should just have this, instead." Lupin drew a small gray box from an inner pocket of his robe and continued wryly, "It's no wedding ring, I can promise you that. A pocket watch. I notice you lost the wristwatch you always wear."

It was true- Harry's old watch, slightly dented by the time it had been passed down to him, had been lost. "Thanks, Professor. I'd open it now, but...never mind." Just as Harry moved to pocket the box, he faltered. Instead, he flicked it open, fumbling as he brought it near his face.

The watch was made of plain gold. It was smooth except for a long scratch where silver showed through from underneath, and several dulled areas where the watch must have been dropped and then polished carefully afterwards. At one point there must have been a matching gold chain, but this was gone, as well as the latch that would have held it tightly shut.

Harry was careful to keep it from swinging open as he replaced it gently, putting both box and watch into his pocket. He felt a dull pain in his head that didn't came from his scar, and swallowed.

"You'll be fine Harry," said Lupin reassuringly. "Go on, now."

"Thank you."

"No need, just go."

Soon the thrumming growl of the motorcycle overcame his ears. The bike took a mighty leap into the sky; Harry looked back as Lupin became more and more faint in the distance and then disappeared.