Of Heirs and Kings and Other Things

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It was dark, and the castle ('Castle?') was saturated with an aura of danger. Dream-Harry looked to the King.

"I fear your son-- forgive me, your nephew-- has betrayed us, my liege." The King looked at him, eyes glinting with dim fury.

"He is not my son. He is not my nephew. I renounce any claim of blood between us. He is dead to me." ('A traitor? What's going on?') Dream-Harry sighed.

"I fear we may die tonight, sire," he said, with only regret coloring his voice. "There is also the possibility that his soul may be reborn. It is highly likely that he has prepared for the event of his death."

"We cannot allow such an evil to be released in the future. Generations upon generations of time may dull the power of magic, and he could easily take advantage of such a situation. What can we do?" Dream-Harry looked out onto the barren fields that surrounded the castle, eyes landing on the dots of flame that scattered themselves across the horizon-- torches of the King's son's army.

"A friend of mine once said, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and make sure not to get old Julius angry.' ('Is that where that saying came from? I guess the last part must have been lost in time.') We must do as our enemy has done."

Harry snapped awake. His breathing was normal, which, considering recent events, was abnormal. Harry threw off his thin blanket and pulled his legs around, letting them dangle off the side of the bed. This had been the first non-Voldemort-killing-Cedric dream he'd had since the event occurred over seven weeks ago. Though glad that he hadn't woken up with a massive headache and an injured psyche for once, he couldn't help but ponder the dream's meaning.

He knew it was a prophetic dream, or at least a true-dream; he had become adept at differentiating between mere nightmares (the kind where he just remembered he had forgotten his broomstick while in the middle of a Quidditch game) and true-dreams (the kind where he reluctantly saw Voldemort's actions). The difference was the level of control. In nightmares, he could actually direct his movements, although he was unaware that he was living in a dream. In true-dreams, however, he saw things through someone else's eyes, and though powerless to control his host's actions, he was lucid enough to realize that he was dreaming.

Harry stood slowly and walked toward the window, hoping Hedwig would return soon. There were only three weeks left until the new term at Hogwarts began, and Harry had sent Hedwig along to the Weasleys to see if he could join them at the Burrow, but now he wished he hadn't. Harry let out a held breath and began to pace the room, wondering how he could contact Dumbledore about this strange dream. After a moment, he sat down on his bed, tired of pacing and perceiving that he would indeed be there for a while.

He remained in that position, meditating on his dream, until Hedwig arrived at the crack of dawn, bearing a letter from Ron along with an official-looking document with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned into the sealing wax. He took the delivery from the owl, absent-mindedly stroking her as he inspected the letters and opened them.

Harry,

How have you been, mate? Hope the Muggles are treating you all right. Mum says of course you can come over, the only reason she's allowing you to stay with those people is because Dumbledore said you had to. Hermione's here (she says hi) and Charlie and Bill are visiting for the summer. A lot has been going on around here, involving a certain incident at the end of last term, I think, but nobody's telling us 'kids' about it. Speaking of that incident, how are you holding up?

By the way, you'll never guess-- I'm a prefect! Hermione is, too, of course, and Fred and George won't let me hear the end of it. I thought for sure it would have been you, but when I asked Professor Dumbledore, he said you'd be busy enough during the school year without added prefect duties. What do you suppose that means?

Right, anyway, Dad will be arriving tomorrow to pick you up at around noon, so have your stuff ready.

Ron

Harry stared at the parchment in disbelief. It had come as no surprise that Hermione was a prefect, but Ron was another story. He, too, had thought that he (Harry) would be a prefect. Now that he thought about it, however, he had gotten into too many scrapes over the years to warrant such a position; after all, what kind of role model breaks countless rules every other month so that he can play hero? Harry smiled. Ron deserved it, anyway.

Satisfied, Harry moved on to the next letter. 'It's heavier than last year's,' he observed mentally, weighing the envelope in his hand. He broke the seal and opened it, pulling out several sheets of parchment. There were the usual inclusions-- booklist, the initial letter from McGonagall-- but there was also another sheet, written out by hand instead of the magical typewriter used to make multiple copies of the letter. His interest piqued at this curiosity, he put the other pieces of parchment aside and settled down to read the hand-written one.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Due to last term's events and the Ministry's denial that those events came to pass, it has been decided that Hogwarts will form a defense society for those interested in learning to protect themselves from Voldemort. After careful consideration, we have decided that the best candidate for the student president of this club is you.

We understand if you wish to decline this position. Either way you decide, please send a return owl as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry blinked owlishly, stumped. He had always known there were school clubs, and had noticed the absence of a defense club, but he had come to the conclusion that because the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors were sporadic at best, there would be no one to advise the club. More perplexing, however, was that he was being asked to be student president while he was only a fifth year; student presidents were always seventh-years, no questions asked.

At first, Harry thought of refusing. He had too much to worry about, what with OWLs and this death-battle with Voldemort. But then... Voldemort should be the exact reason he should accept. Last term had proven that Harry was not at the skill level he should be for dueling against Voldemort, and being the president of this club would give him a valid excuse to delve into stronger offensive and defensive spells. Maybe he could even get permission to browse the Restricted Section of the Library. It would also help him immensely with his OWLs, at least in the Defense Against the Dark Arts category...

Harry shook his head in pseudo-exasperation. He was starting to sound like Hermione. Ron would go mad if he had heard Harry's train of thought, especially the part about the OWLs. Sighing, Harry extracted a fresh piece of parchment from his trunk and penned a quick reply to Ron, and then wrote his acceptance of the position of presidency (not forgetting to mention his true-dream, albeit in passing).

After sending the letters off with Hedwig, he started packing up his trunk-- it was already ten o'clock, and he had to get going. Assuming Ron had written the letter yesterday, that is.

///

It was a rare quiet moment at the Burrow. Ron and Hermione were playing chess, as Ginny watched, bored. Fred and George were muttering to each other in a corner, adding up figures and managing numbers for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, which was going quite well, thank you very much. Percy was reading a thick book, sending occasional glares at the other members of the family, angry with them for inviting the unstable Potter boy to stay with them. Charlie was playing around with a snitch, revealing exactly why the Gryffindor Quidditch team had been devastated when he graduated, and Bill was reading the Daily Prophet beside him, frowning at the article. Mrs. Weasley bustled around in the kitchen, making quiet clanking noises with pots and pans.

Yes, all in all, it was a quiet morning.

And then Harry arrived with Mr. Weasley.

"Harry!" Ron and Hermione cried simultaneously, knocking over their game in their hurry to jump up and greet him. (Or bowl him over as they leapt at him, as Harry later put it.) Harry laughed giving Hermione a return hug and Ron a friendly thump on the back.

"I take it you missed me, then," Harry said.

"We were worried about you, what with... You-Know-Who returning, and all," Hermione replied, frowning slightly as she looked Harry over, making sure he was in one piece.

"It's been pretty quiet, actually. No true-dreams, just nightmares," Harry said, trying to reassure her.

At that remark, Percy's face turned an odd puce color, and he stood up and slammed his book shut, stalking out of the room. There was silence as the family stared at the door Percy had left through, various levels of emotion on each face. The twins were the most vindictive, glaring with disgusted expressions on their faces; Ginny looked like she was going to cry.

Harry looked in askance to Ron. The redhead shook his head sadly.

"I'll tell you later," he whispered. There was an awkward silence in the room once more, until Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.

"Well, Ron, Hermione, why don't you help Harry get his stuff up to Ron's room?" The trio exchanged relieved glances and assented, Ron and Harry heaving Harry's trunk and Hermione running ahead of them to open any doors.

Harry and Ron set the trunks down in the middle of the room, and Hermione closed the door.

"What's going on with Percy?" Harry asked, sitting on his trunk. Ron settled himself on the bed, and Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Well," Ron began, biting his lip, "you remember last term when Fudge denied You-Know-Who's return?" Harry nodded. "Percy... well, you know how much he adores high places in the Ministry..."

"Just tell me, Ron," Harry ordered, noticing his best friend's hesitation.

"Fudge appointed Percy as Junior Minister," Hermione finished for Ron, "so he's been raving about you being unstable and a liar."

Harry turned his gaze to the ground, glaring.

"Harry?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Have you been reading the newspaper?" Harry snapped up, staring at her in shock.

"What have they been saying about me, Hermione?" Harry felt a sinking feeling in the fit of his stomach; he could handle a bit of flak from the Ministry, but the press could make him into a laughingstock in the blink of an eye.

"They keep slipping in snide comments about you, like you're a deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he's a great tragic hero. Fudge is behind it, I'll bet anything. They're trying to destroy your credibility, I think," Hermione informed him sadly.

"Damn," Harry muttered, putting his head in his hands.

"My sentiments exactly, mate," Ron said. The trio fell into silence, each pondering what this negative attention would mean.

"How are people going to react when we go to Diagon Alley?" Harry asked. "Worse, how are they going to react to the club?"

"Club?" Hermione asked, giving him a curious look. Harry stared at his friends, who both seemed to have no idea what he was talking about.

"Didn't you get an extra parchment in your Hogwarts letters, about a defense society being formed?" Harry asked.

"No extra parchment beside our prefect letters, no. Speaking of, why didn't--?"

"Drop it, Hermione. Anyway, Dumbledore sent me an extra parchment about a defense society. It's supposed to prepare students to defend themselves from Voldemort," Harry said.

"That's strange," Hermione said. "Why didn't we get it? I'd love to be in a club like that, no matter how much bad press it will get. Do you know who the adviser and president are?" Harry looked down sheepishly, fighting off a slight blush.

"Well, that might be why you didn't get a letter... Dumbledore said I was the best candidate for student president. And, no, I don't know who the adviser is, but it's probably whoever our Defense professor is."

"You, Harry?" Hermione asked, eyes widening. "But... you're only a fifth year! It's almost always a seventh year who's club president, and on the rare occasions that it's not a seventh year, it's always a sixth year!"

"I know," Harry replied quietly.

"This won't go over well with the press at all," Ron commented. "They already don't like you Harry. They'll call this a blatant and unnecessary act of arrogance." Harry stood up and paced over to the window, looking out over Otter River and Ottery St. Catchpole.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Harry said finally, watching the scenery with a wistful gaze.

///

Diagon Alley was a busy as ever, Draco noted with disgust. He didn't like people. In fact, he loathed people, especially when they were clumped into crowds and intent upon getting in his way. Fuming, Draco stalked down the thoroughfare, heading toward Madam Malkin's; he'd never admit it to anyone, but clothes shopping always calmed him down.

Halfway to his destination, the crowds solidified and silenced, leaving Draco stuck and feeling as if he had suddenly gone deaf. Rolling his eyes, he shoved past people in an effort to get somewhere, and then stopped short when he found the cause of the commotion (or lack thereof).

Potter.

Draco seethed. Perfect, golden-boy Potter, who was getting attention in spite of all of the negative attention from the media. Typical, that Potter would be able to draw gazes even after such bad press.

Draco would most assuredly not stand for it.

Stalking to the front of the crowd, he cleared his throat, turning up the charm to full blast.

"Good citizens of Diagon Alley," he announced into the silence, "while it is indeed true the Harry Potter is in the immediate vicinity, I would like to remind you all that you have people to see, places to go, and things to buy. Please continue with your business." Draco stood, the picture of confidence, until the crowd gradually began dispersing.

And then it occurred to him that Potter, the clan of Weasels, and the Mudblood were standing behind them, staring at him like he had grown an extra head and began spouting off the Muggle tune "I'm a Little Teapot". Not that he knew any Muggle tunes, by the way.

"What?" he snapped at them, sneering. Potter did not flinch, but instead stared at him even harder. Draco glared back, unruffled.

"Thanks for getting them off our backs, Malfoy," Potter said at last, a grave expression on his face. Draco faltered, but didn't show any outward signs of it.

"They were in my way," Draco snarled, before stalking off to Madame Malkin's.

Ugh. Gryffindors.

///

Harry was brooding, and he didn't care who knew it. The day at Diagon Alley had gone downhill since Malfoy had 'saved' him at the very start. It wasn't the cold looks he was receiving from the passersby. It wasn't even Florean Fortesque refusing him service at the ice cream parlor.

It was Seamus. They had passed each other when Harry, Ron, and Hermione were leaving the bookstore. Harry greeted him happily, but Seamus had stopped cold. He threw Harry a disgusted look, spit at his feet, and stalked off. Harry had been paralyzed with shock, leaving Hermione to attempt to hold back a murderous Ron on her own. She succeeded, though barely.

Harry stared at the fire burning merrily in the Weasley's living room hearth, contemplating how on earth he would make it through an entire school year in the same dorm room as Seamus Finnegan.

Hermione and Ron approached him tentatively, both quite worried for their friend, and rightly so; Harry looked as if he'd been trampled on by a parade of Blast-Ended Skrewts. His hair was messier than usual, his eyes so pale green that they were almost blue. Tight-lipped and pale, he stared at the flames as if they held the secrets of the world.

"Harry?" Hermione said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. Harry made no movement to acknowledge her. Before the silence grew unbearable, he spoke.

"You know what's ironic? Malfoy was nicer to us than Seamus was," he said, not taking his eyes away from the fireplace. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances; they wouldn't have realized this if Harry hadn't pointed it out.

"Maybe his family doesn't get the Prophet?" Ron offered. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't be stupid, Ron. The Malfoys not getting the Prophet? They're a pureblood family! Of course they get the Prophet. And they're pretty cozy with Fudge."

"Not to mention Voldemort," Harry said bluntly, moving his gaze away from the flames at last and ignoring Ron's intake of breath at the forbidden name. "They know he's back, good little Death Eaters that they are. They know the articles aren't true."

"That doesn't explain why Malfoy would save us from the bloodthirsty mob. If he's the son of a Death Eater, why didn't he leave us to the mercy of the townspeople?" Ron asked.

"Oh, don't exaggerate, Ron, they wouldn't have killed us," Hermione scolded, although the look on her face said that she had been stumped by the essence of the question.

"Well it seemed like they would!" Ron said mulishly, looking away and frowning.

"Don't pout, Ron!"

"I'm not pouting! Quit jumping down my throat!"

"I'm not jumping down your throat, I'm just saying..."

Harry gave a small smile and leaned back in his armchair, listening to his friends' bickering. Their conversations almost always degenerated to quarrels, albeit friendly ones. Harry looked into the fire once more and frowned.

Why did Malfoy help them?