Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

Chapter Two: Preparing for the Gray Dimension

Harry Potter and the Moment of Silence

When Draco Malfoy walked into #12 Grimmauld Place, his mind was clouded with the memories of his childhood. He remembered visiting his aunt and cousins here as a young child. His memories of Sirius weren't many, but he could remember his parents talking about him and his friends, the Potters, and of his ways. His mother had found it a disgusting way to live, on the run and poor as rats. Now, though, he could see why the man had left. At the moment, he desperately wished for someone in his family, and although, if he'd been alive, Sirius wouldn't have been exactly on his side, he wished for even the smallest bit of family who wasn't so damn righteous, like Tonks.

But his thoughts and memories were wiped clean away when he saw Harry, wearing only a pair of black jeans and a dark blue sweater, leaning against the doorway, a look of disinterest on his face. Ah, the mask, Mal realized, feeling a surprising emotion in his throat. He didn't realize it, but what he was feeling was relief.

Hermione, however, didn't stand still like Draco and Ron did. Harry was straightening and tightening his muscles in preparation even as she pounced on him.

"Oh my God!" she shrieked, her face rubbing against Harry's neck in complete and utter relief. "You bloody git; you had us scared to death!"

Harry smiled slightly. "Not my fault."

She pulled back and looked as if she wanted to slap him on his arm, as she was so fond of doing, but she seemed to sense that his wounds couldn't have been healed in such a short time. "You could have written us at least," she pointed out, then tripped over her right foot when Ginny entered and threw herself, more forcefully than Hermione had, into his arms. Harry, despite the ferocious pain tearing at his abdomen and back, wrapped his arms around her. It felt so good to hold her again. He could even close his eyes and pretend that it was the beginning of sixth year, when they'd still been together. But then he remembered how he'd treated her, how he would still treat her if they were forced into the same position, and so he pulled back.

"Hey, Gin."

She seemed to adapt to his distanced voice. Her eyes dried quickly, and she gave a smile, though he knew it cost her. "Hey yourself. Nice to see you in one piece, or relatively."

"Genevra Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley hissed, but Harry just snorted and shook his head.

"Still blunt, I see."

She jutted her chin. "Always too reckless." Then she pushed by him, her hips swaying and her chin still shoved in the air like royalty surrounded by a bunch of peasants.

Amused, Mal leaned back against the wall and watched as Ron greeted Harry in a one armed hug. The redhead had been extremely quiet on the ride back, leaving the Mudblood to talk to him. He appreciated her efforts for clearing his mind, but when you were thinking of death, there wasn't much that could distract you from it.

Ron (Snape had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't start calling them by their first names) mentioned a similar sentiment to Ginny's then left with Hermione, his mother, and his luggage to get settled. Harry's unsettling silence had placed a big, fat wedge between him and his best male friend. Even Mal could sense it.

Harry stepped forward, his face unreadable. "No greetings, Malfoy?"

"You want a kiss or something?" he asked lazily. "Sorry, but I think I'll just keep my distance." He summed his old arch-nemesis up, noticing the limp when Harry stepped even closer to him, and the healing slash on his cheek. The hair had grown longer and his chin had the light fuzz of beginning facial hair. He definitely looked like some sort of British Auror. Strong, agile, and haunted. "Did you separate the ashes?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Harry gave him a bland stare, and didn't answer.

Mal gave an impatient sigh. "Listen, Potter, don't give me this crap about being too traumatized to speak of it. I need to know."

"I did what I had to. He won't come back, ever."

"Did you Obliviate the password from your memory?"

Again, Harry was silent. "Fine," Mal growled, "don't answer me. You do know how stupid you're being, aren't you? So you did a little black magic, a forbidden curse. Nobody cares. You got rid of You-Know-Who, and that's all that matters."

It didn't matter to either of them, Harry decided, but there was more to it for other people. "Shut up, Mal. I'll show you your room. Mrs. Weasley asked me what room you'd probably want, and I said you could have Sirius' since he's, uh, since he's dead. I didn't think you would want to room with Ron or Charlie."

Malfoy followed him up the stairs at a slow pace, his brow furrowed. Potter was letting him sleep in his dead Godfather's room? The Godfather he could barely talk about not even a year before? Creepy.

"Thanks."

That night, during dinner, Mal didn't talk that much. Harry didn't blame him, really, since most of the Weasleys either ignored or glared at him throughout the entire meal. If it had been Harry, he'd never have come down to eat a meal with the family in the first place.

When Malfoy got up and left, Harry set his silverware down. "You should give him a chance," he said quietly. If Ron could treat Mal decently, then so should his brothers, who barely even knew him.

One of the twins glowered at Harry. "Why should we give him a chance? All he's done is make everyone's lives a living hell. Not to mention the fact that he's a slimy Slytherin who can't win a Quidditch game unless he cheats. Remember the time he tried to make you think he and Flint were Dementers three years ago? And the time he called Hermione a-a Mudblood. I don't know why you even gave him a chance." Disgusted, Fred threw his fork down.

Harry's back was killing him and his left wrist was going numb. He had a splitting headache and would have to ask someone to help him put on his medicines, if he got the nerve to. He'd tried to delay it for as long as he could, but the pain in his back was leading him to the conclusion that they were becoming infected or something. They sure as hell didn't feel as if they were healing.

He didn't need this crap from them.

"For one thing, that was years ago. For another, he's lost his mother and I killed his father. So if you don't like him, at least give him a chance. You don't know what it's like to lose your parents. Give him a chance to get better."

This time it was the other twin who spoke. "If it weren't for him, you wouldn't have learned the Dark Arts. You wouldn't have the entire Ministry looking out to arrest you. It's his fault that you're even in this bloody mess!"

"No, it isn't!" Harry laughed bitterly. "I needed to learn the Dark Arts. I would have learned it by myself if he'd have refused. He had nothing to do with anything. Yes, he taught me what I wanted to know, but it was my decision, so if you want to blame someone, blame me."

He stood and stormed out of the room, then paused at the base of the stairs when he saw Mal standing on the highest step, hand on the rail, looking like a prince in his expensive robes with his hair slicked back. His gray eyes were cold as steel, but when they roamed over Harry's face, they didn't show any anger, just a deep sense of confusion and anger at the world.

Harry knew how it felt. He climbed the stairs and pushed Mal forward.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop, Mal. Don't forget that you're not at home anymore. You get caught here, they'll probably Obliviate your memories just for the hell of it."

"Do they even know I have the Dark Mark?" Malfoy asked in an undertone.

Harry shook his head negatively. "I'm sure Ron and Hermione figured out; they're brilliant, but I think the others are clueless. You don't have to hide it, though. They'll get over it."

Mal stopped. "Would you take off your shirt and show them your scars during dinner?" he asked suddenly, then, when Harry only stared at him stonily, nodded. "Thought so," he added smugly and went into Sirius' old room.

Back aching, he stood there for a few moments, then limped up the last of the stairs.

* * * * * *

It was three days into vacation when Malfoy got his first message from the outside world. Since he'd gotten there, Mal had basically stayed to himself, occasionally talking to Harry in the privacy of Sirius' old rooms. He ate little at mealtimes, but never turned down the extra plates Mrs. Weasley brought to him after everyone turned in for the night.

He was, quite literally, as much a loner as Harry was.

But the day that Gringotts sent him a letter through his own personal hawk (Malfoy had told them all how his father despised owls and so bought him a hawk instead), Poseidon, he showed the first real emotion Harry had ever seen. Except the time his mother had died.

Malfoy lost all of the blood in his face. His mouth slackened open in shock, and his gray eyes stormed as he finished reading off the yellowed parchment.

"What?" Harry said, surprised, then snatched the letter from Mal's hands when he only stared at him. He skimmed the letter, then looked up at Bill. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had paused in their chores to watch them worriedly; their offspring, however, stared boldly, more out of curiosity than worry. "Bill, they're trying to confiscate the Malfoy fortune by saying that Lucius Malfoy owed innumerous fraud and grievance fines. Can they do that?"

Bill stood and came around the table to read over Harry's shoulder. He, too, skimmed the calligraphic letters and frowned. "Technically, since Malfoy's a minor, they can. It happens a lot since only an adult over twenty-one can protest the will of the Minister. By the time he'd get old enough to do anything about it, nobody would care. Especially since they probably think you were on the Dark Lord's side, like your father. It's not in your favor."

Ron's face burst into grin of unabashed joy. "So Malfoy's broke?"

Bill's lips twitched. "Seems so."

Malfoy snorted, the shock rapidly transforming into fury. "Do they think a Malfoy would be so stupid? Do they honestly think my father was stupid? I've got thousands of galleons hidden throughout the entire world! Me, broke?" He scoffed, amused. "We'll just see whose arse is burned once I get through with them! They're going to wish they never messed with a Malfoy! And sell Malfoy Manor?" Mal waved the Gringotts parchment in the air. "I'd like to see anyone get past the wards without my blessing without losing their bloody heads! I'm a Dark Wizard! But, no!" Mocking, Mal made a face. "Of course, my very Death Eater father wouldn't make very Death Eater financial arrangements! Of course he didn't protect the Manor with more than a million Dark, very Death Eater wards! My father was a Death Eater, not a bloody imbecile!"

His cheeks were tinged with pink as he stormed out of the room, his fists clenched and his nose held snobbishly in the air.

The kitchen was eerily quiet for a second. Harry tried to stop himself from laughing, but only managed to make his snort of laughter a quick, deep chuckle. Hermione covered her mouth across the table, her eyes watering. Then, when their eyes met, they both burst into loud guffaws of mirth.

"What's so funny, you two?" Fred asked with a befuddled glare. "He just admitted to being a Dark Wizard!"

Hermione threw her head onto her arms to muffle her laughter with her arms.

Harry, breathing heavily, decided to explain. "He's worse than me," was all he said, then both he and Hermione both burst into another round of hilarity.

Ron, Ginny, and the other sibling Weasleys glanced at each other in perplexity.

The two of them just laughed harder.

* * * * * *

Harry made himself a pot of tea in the middle of the night. His vision wasn't blurry, as most peoples would be at this time of night. He was wide-awake. Malfoy, on the other hand, was a complete wreck. There was a shot of Firewhiskey in front of him (Harry wasn't going to ask how he found it) and his eyes were bloodshot. He had his head cradled in the palms of his hands and was staring at the large black charred line in the table. While he finished up sweetening both cups, Harry told the blonde how the mark was made.

Fred and George had just gotten their rights to do magic out of school the summer before. They were using magic to transport anything and let a large ladle of soup get out of control. It flew on the table, sending a knife straight in the air. Mal's lips twitched half-heartedly.

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked quietly, taking his seat. He swapped the Firewhiskey for tea, stole a long gulp, and pocketed it for later. Mal barely noticed.

"I don't know, Potter." His voice was quiet, resigned. "I really have no bloody clue. Malfoy Manor has the most dangerous wards placed over it. Nobody but me could possibly get in it without my father's constant charming. He controlled it all. I'm not even sure I could get in it without losing an arm or a leg. With him gone, it's nearly impossible. There's about one million galleons hidden in vaults in that place. There's no way I could get access into it. My father was going to give me the passwords and incantations when I turned seventeen, but as you shattered his spine," Mal smiled thinly, "I'm completely and utterly broke."

Harry took a sip. "So, you were lying when you said you have money hidden all over the world?"

Mal winced. "Not altogether. Before Azkaban was broken into, there was, but my father took it all when he was forced into running. I don't know anywhere he would've kept it beside a small cottage bank in Batavia, run by a foreign supporter of Voldemort."

Harry didn't hesitated. "You can borrow a couple dozen galleons from my account and pay me back when you go into the Ministry next year."

"No," Mal said instantly.

His impatience thinning, he snapped. "Mal, you don't really have a choice at the moment. School is starting in another two months and books usually cost about fifty Sickles if you've got no gold. The Weasleys won't buy you your school supplies. They don't even have the money to go off paying for all their own kids."

"Only Weasel and your girlfriend are going to Hogwarts next year," Mal pointed out, then shoved his nose up in typical Malfoy fashion when Harry gave a hiss of anger. "I won't sponge off the soddin' happy bunch. I'll get the money. My father had connections in the Minis-"

"Do you think they would even talk to you? Come on, Mal, you know they won't. Everyone considers you a for-sure Death Eater. They won't admit to owing either you or your father any money. Bad for their reputations. You know this, remember? Has the whiskey gone to your head this quick?" If it had, Harry figured he'd have to nick some more often.

"Sod off, Potter. I'm trying to figure all this out. My head feels like it's going to implode and splatter all over these moldy walls."

"Welcome to the real world, my friend. Listen, I'm going up to bed."

"To drink the whiskey I stole," Mal muttered under his breath. "You know, you really should leave that with me. Aren't you supposed to be righteous, Gryffindor?"

"Aren't you supposed to be off slithering into your silk bed sheets, Slytherin?" Harry retorted, then took the stairs by twos silently.

Cocooned in his room, with Lycander out cold on his bed, Harry fell onto his back, the springs of his mattress squeaking noisily. He pulled out the bottle of Firewhiskey and guzzled it all in a long gulp.

Lycander watched him from across the room. He didn't move, didn't speak, just glanced through his eyes at the teenage boy who shoved the empty whiskey bottle under his bed.

* * * * * *

Lycander was insane. Harry decided that the next day when he fell, exhausted, onto his bed after being locked in the Side Salon practicing all day. His wounds were on fire and he knew for a fact that some of them were infected since he'd glimpsed some of the puss in the mirror after his daily shower. His hands, well, they'd actually been on fire. The process was called Calleio Elamontal, which meant Elemental Calling. He'd spurted water from his fingertips, air from his mouth, fire from his hands, and had even made a small oak grow in the palms of his hands. The latter had been the most interesting, but also the most tiring. And that had simply been the first three out of a fourteen-hour practice. After that, he'd started Practillez (which he simply called martial arts), where you learned to protect yourself from someone else's magic and, literally, their punches. It had been the protecting in which he'd tired most from.

After all, Lycander was built like a tall bulldozer. Having that kind of person attack you over and over again, you sort of worried about keeping your face in one piece instead of trying to run. So he'd fought, and realized that what Mal had taught him had only been the base of an extraordinarily large pyramid.

The muscles in his body were still trembling violently from too much exercise.

When a knock sounded on the door, quiet and timid, he frowned. Everyone knew he'd been practicing all day. Hell, even Lycander had left him since he was in such a horrible mood.

"What?" he snarled.

The door opened and Mackenzie Snape walked in, wearing a simple black robe and a white dress underneath. She smiled uncertainly at him. "Hello, Harry. I just came to see how you were holding up."

Harry felt as if a bucket of ice water had been splashed on him in the middle of a boiling hot day. He struggled to sit up, then hissed when Mack went to come closer and help. She instantly backed off, her arms crossing her chest in an uncharacteristic move of insecurity.

"I don't want to see you," Harry told her truthfully.

She swallowed. "I know, but I also know you haven't been reading my letters."

"Your letters? Who cares about your letters? I have more important things to worry about than your bloody letters."

"I imagine so, but I want you to know why I wasn't there when you got back."

"I don't care," Harry said slowly. "I don't care what you have to say, Mackenzie, I really don't. Now, I'm tired and sore and I'd like to go bed. Please, leave."

For a moment, the brunette seemed immoveable, but it only lasted a second. "If that's what you want, Harry, then I'll leave."

He nodded. "That's what I want, Mack," he admitted slowly.

Then she turned and left the room without another word.

* * * * * *

"You look tired, Harry." Hermione made a move against Ron on the chess set seated between them. It was one of the few times it was just the three of them, no Mal, no Ginny, just the trio. Harry would have given anything for it to be like it used to be, with laughter and cleverness. They'd used to save the world together, but now...It was all on him and he had to get used to the fact. It wasn't right for this to ruin all three of their lives.

"You sure you just don't want to take a nap?"

He rolled his shoulders, which was pretty difficult considering he was stretched flat on his back in one of the old, worn couches. And not to mention extremely painful and stressful on his unhealed wounds.

"No. I want to spend some time with you guys before I leave. After all, it'll be a month before I'll see you guys again."

"You aren't leaving for another four days, Harry. You should relax, not worrying about us. I mean, we usually never talk anyways."

It was the truth. Grimly, Harry threw an arm over his forehead. "Yeah, I know, and I'm sorry. But today'll be different. You choose anything, and I swear I won't hold back."

Hermione looked up; her eyes narrowed, and hesitated. "I want to talk about May fifteenth."

Harry's body stiffened. He sat up quickly, then winced when his back screamed with pain.

"Hey," Ron said, alarmed, "you okay?"

Harry shook his head. "I think they're getting infected."

"Harry, don't change the subject!" Hermione admonished gently. "You said I could choose, and I have. Now talk."

He could at least try, he told himself. Uneasily, he rested his elbows on his knees. "I'll tell you what I can, Hermione, but there isn't much."

She looked at Ron, as if for permission, and then turned back and asked, "How much Dark Magic did you use?"

"The Organic Deflection, and I think that's it." No, it isn't. I made myself disappear from St. Mungos in a mere whoosh of air and I don't even know how! "I don't know, Hermione. I could have done a lot and not even realized it." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't really concerned about doing anything other than making Voldemort pay. And I did make him pay."

Ron shivered. "I'm on your side, Harry, but losing control like that and actually shrinking someone's organs is a little insane."

Since he was restless, he started pushing his left hand repeatedly in his hair. "What do you want me to say, Ron?" he asked him quietly. "These powers are so strong, and I kept hearing my mother's screams in my head, and my father telling my mum to run for it. They died for me. He deserved it."

Hermione was always the stem of logistics though. "Your parents wouldn't have wanted that, though."

Before she could say anything else, he jumped to his feet and began to pace. "You don't think I realize that? I killed three men, you guys! Three men! And even then I'm excluding Bellatrix! I killed Percy! I smashed his bloody head open like a coconut because I didn't know what to do! I remember sitting there, in the rain -the rainstorm that drowned forty villagers in the closest town- I created, I created with just my emotions, and watched the blood wash off my hands like soap! I didn't know if it was his or mine or somebody else's altogether! I just knew I had blood on my hands, and that I killed four people. I can't close my eyes without seeing my hands and the rain and the blood and the relief -the relief- that I felt when it was all over! I killed forty-four people on May fifteenth, and I was bloody relieved!"

His throat constricted. Harry made himself sit back down on the couch and stick his head between his knees.

Hermione sat down next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just take a couple deep breathes, Harry. It'll be okay."

Harry pulled at his hair and shook his head. "No, it won't," he said, his voice muffled. "It won't go away."

A few feet away, Ron Weasley looked up into Draco Malfoy's face. Mal had been eavesdropping on them, his foot keeping the door open a few inches. Slowly, he pulled the door shut and left them to their privacy. He'd heard what he'd wanted to, but he wasn't feeling very triumphant.

* * * * * *

"This is insane, Lycander!" Harry's voice was a little strangled as he took the piece of silk (it would be his clothing for an entire month) and held it up. It was identical to what Lycander and Head Counselman Questcinzay had worn when they returned from the Gray Dimension, except it was in a deep bottle green, sort of like his dress robes for the dance in his Fourth Year. Except then he'd only had to wear the bloody things for a few hours, but this... He'd be wearing it for a month straight!

"Don't they clean their clothes?" he asked in disgust.

Lycander, offended, snatched the outfit back and folded it neatly on his own bed across the room. "Of course, Romane! Don't be ridiculous. It'll get washed, but by hand and by the women of the castle."

"Castle?"

His Qaiul looked at him as if he was stupid. "We'll be housing with the Head Counselman and the Counsel. They live in a castle called the Pour Deign, meaning Justice Be Done Generously. You'll be rooming next to me in your own suite, along with Hallyanka. I know, Harry," he said when Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, "but you don't really have a choice. When you're there, you follow protocol to the dotted line and you do as is expected. Any man, be it a Luidan or a Qaiul, above the age of fourteen must have a consummated marriage. Now, the Head Counselman has already relieved you of matrimony, but he refuses to budge. You must room with Hallyanka, and that's it. Just sleep on the floor or one of the chairs if you must, but she'll expect you-"

Harry held up a hand for silence. Lycander shut up angrily. "I'll do the former, just move onto to the next part of the debriefing."

At his wording, the older man snarled. "This is not a game, Harry! It is phenomenally important that we both impress them the first time around. Now, at meals. Most of the time the males of the castle eat at different times than the females, except for holidays. The women eat in the kitchen; we eat in the Grand Room, the Grandelie. You shouldn't be the only child-"

"Not a child," Harry muttered quietly.

"But you will be separated. Children there, or at least the males, are both more and less mature than you are used to. The Qaiuls, the Royal family, and the Counsel should be in the room when you and I eat. You stand up," Lycander met Harry's eyes to make sure he understood, "you simply stand behind your chair until the Head Counselman takes his seat. After that, the Qaiuls will seat themselves. Second will be the two buernos, Aphrozodis's merges, Zash and Airon. You will be seated beside them. Hallyanka with reside in front of you-"

"I thought you said-" Lycander interrupted him impatiently, "The Royal women reside in the Grandelie, but they do not speak. They do not even eat with us. They are simply there to entertain us, so do not try to speak or they shall get whipped."

"Whipped?" The thought -and the memory- brought fury, black and rich, into his voice. "They whip them for talking during a meal?"

The question brought a brisk nod. "You do not understand yet, Romane, but you will."

Harry wished Lycander would either call him Harry or Romane, but using them both was beginning to confuse him. He didn't really mind which, especially since everyone in the Geyesh world would be calling him the latter anyways. Might as well get used to it now, he told himself.

"This world is strict. Honor and respectability is their most treasured morals; you insult that, and you pay dearly. You barely speak unless spoken to, and that shouldn't be too rare. You answer questions politely -do NOT ask them, however, save that for me, and be absolutely silent during any speeches the Head Counselman may wish to speak during your presence. Mostly, if you do what the buernos do, you should be okay. Your rank will be equal mostly only to theirs, which, needless to say, is a great honor. And never, and I mean never, talk either loud or obnoxiously. Do what you're told and do it obediently. No defiance in that world, Harry, or I'll whip you myself, regardless of your condition."

"Now," he went on, "your days will consist mostly of studying and practice. You'll work with the Qaiuls, their charges, and me in one of the castle rooms. You'll learn what to do there. Mainly just Practillez and discipline runs. You'll stand in rows, silent, and do moves and sequences for a few hours, then fight me, fight another charge, and then me again. After that should be lunch, in the Grandelie (we'll eat alone since the more high-ranking officers like at least one meal alone every day), and then we'll transfer into meditations and dueling. During that, you'll sit out for a few weeks. It is tough and near impossible to win. A lot of the charges are equal in power, and they must be extremely talented to be allowed room in the Pour Deign."

A little overwhelmed, Harry let himself fall backwards onto his Qaiul's bed. "Anything else?" he asked tiredly.

"There are different days there, which are longer and more spanned. There are still seven days, but fourteen months, and the days are four hours longer, which are spent practicing. It will be very stressful for you. It will be hard, fast, and confusing considering the language barrier, but I've taught you well and you should do excellent. Any questions?"

Harry turned his head to stare at him. Any questions? he pondered. Instead of answering, he just groaned and pulled his right arm over his face.

He had only two more days and one night at #12 Grimmauld Place before they were sent through a portal and into the Souriom de Solfiace. After that, he was there for exactly thirty-one regular days. He'd return one week before school, where he, the Weasleys, and Malfoy would go school supply shopping, and then he was off to Hogwarts for his last year as a student. Then, well, Harry didn't know what came after that. Conquering Olean, he guessed, or going back to the Gray Dimension for another yearly visit. More than likely he'd become an Auror. Possibly a professional Quidditch player.

It was all unknown. Hell, he'd still be lucky to survive another year.

He closed his eyes, knowing Lycander was still pacing around the room restlessly. Lycander had lived there his entire life and Harry was just going there for the first time, and look at who was the one pacing around the room like an expected father?

* * * * * *