Part One
~o~ Prologue, May 1st 1998, 4:48PM ~o~
Sprawled on top of the duvet of the four-poster bed, Harry Potter slept the sleep of the just, the late afternoon sun highlighting his exhausted features. Except for his trainers, he was fully dressed, though bedraggled. The big toe on his left foot stuck out through a large hole in his mismatched socks. He still held a half-eaten sandwich in the hand resting on his chest. There were two wands lying next to his jeans-clad leg. The sounds of voices and activity drifted in through the open window but did not disturb his peaceful slumber. He was not even dreaming.
Abruptly, he sat up, his oblivion shattered, awakened (aghast) by a sudden mental picture of Snape’s corpse, lying forgotten in a pool of its own blood on the filthy wood floor of the dilapidated Shrieking Shack. Sick to his stomach at that image, he dragged himself out of bed, shoved his feet into his trainers and left the quiet dorms, resolved to retrieve Snape’s body and to bring it to lie next to those of the other fallen heroes, in dignity. He felt the need to do this it alone, out of some weird sense of obligation to his professor and, strangely enough, to his own mother.
He crossed the empty common room and took a circuitous route out of the castle and to the Whomping Willow, not wanting to talk to anyone or have to explain his errand. Using a long stick, he immobilized the flailing branches of the tree, and, his muscles aching from the day’s activity, made his way through the low and narrow tunnel to the Shack.
The body was still where they’d left it. Harry stopped in the doorway, surprised at the crushing sadness that hit him. The slanted afternoon shafts of light coming in through the boarded up window, filled with dancing specks of dust, put the black of Snape’s robes and hair in stark contrast to the awful paleness of his face and the brilliant crimson of his blood.
...Crimson blood?
Fresh blood!
Harry rushed to Snape’s side. Though still seeping, the ragged wound on Snape’s neck was almost closed. Harry fell to his knees and lifted Snape’s head onto his lap.
“Snape! Professor Snape!” (Why hadn’t they checked for a pulse? They’d just abandoned him to die! Please Merlin, let it not be too late!) “Please Professor! Stay with me! Hold on! Kreacher! Kreacher!”
Snape slowly opened his eyes and stared critically at Harry. “About bloody time, Potter,” was his irritated comment, before he fainted dead away.
Part 1. Harry
~o~ Alive and Sneering, May 3, 1998, 11:00AM ~o~
Harry stared at Snape’s sharp profile, at his stringy black hair, at the slow rise and fall of the grey blanket that covered his thin body. Why he felt compelled to sit here, watching over the unconscious man, he had no idea.
Snape would live. Madam Pomfrey had said so. He had apparently recovered enough after his faint in the Shack (when they thought he had died) to swallow the contents of a collection of small vials that he had prudently been carrying around: an antidote to Nagini’s poison, a tissue regenerator, and a blood-replenishing potion.
There had been more vials, left unused in the hidden pockets of his robes. He had apparently fully expected for Voldemort to attempt to kill him at some point and had prepared himself for a number of possible methods, some fairly gruesome if Madam Pomfrey’s shuddering reaction upon reading the labels on the vials was anything to go by.
Even so, the blood loss from the punctured artery had been much more than he had apparently prepared for. The blood-replenishing potion needed the presence of blood itself in the body to be of use, and there had been so little left and the wound had been so grievous, that it had only kept him on the very threshold of death for hours rather than heal.
Seventeen hours to be exact. Time enough for Harry to view the memories, die in the forest, battle (and defeat) Voldemort, commiserate with his friends and take a well-deserved nap. Harry was still appalled at himself for forgetting about him all that time.
From the Shack, Kreacher had whisked them both to the hospital wing, to the able care of Poppy Pomfrey. That was more than sixteen hours ago and Harry still sat in vigil, despite Pomfrey’s attempt to send him to his dorm and Ron and Hermione’s efforts to drag him away.
The sallow skin, the rattling breaths and the thin lips parted over yellow teeth filled him with revulsion. The hatred in his heart, cultivated over so many years, had not left him. But it was overpowered by so much anger, he was almost choking with it.
From the start, they should have been allies. From the start, Snape could have chosen to see him as Lily’s son, and… foster some kind of bond between them. Instead, he had only seen James Potter’s clone, assigning him all of his father’s worst traits without bothering to get to know him.
So much of the pain, the loneliness, the mistakes of the past seven years could have been avoided had Snape not been such an unforgiving, bitter, and cruel bastard. Even if, to protect himself from Voldemort, Snape had preferred not to befriend him, couldn't he at least have ignored him?
Why was Harry still sitting here? What could he possibly hope to gain from it? Snape would live, yes, yet he would still be the same unforgiving, bitter, and cruel bastard. Nothing would change that. Not Harry’s anger, nor his regrets, not the apologies he intended to make, despite his rage, for his own conduct. It was pointless. The man had nothing to give.
Harry got up. He carefully put the small vial containing Snape’s memories on the night table next to Snape’s beautiful ebony wand, and feeling utterly defeated, left the infirmary.
Snape’s eyes opened. With shaky hands, he dragged both his wand and the vial of memories underneath his pillow, sneered at the door and fell back asleep.
~o~ Rebuilding Hogwarts, May 1998 ~o~
After a long shower, Harry slept thirty-six of the next forty-eight hours, waking only to eat and see to his bodily functions. Being back in his own four-poster bed, in clean lavender-scented sheets, wearing a clean undershirt and clean boxers in Gryffindor Tower was simply too marvelous. Waking up to remind himself, again and again, that it was all over was so satisfying that he might have enjoyed doing so a few more times had guilt not forced him to get out of bed to face the world.
Reality was not all sweetness and light. There were so many dead friends. (How would George survive without Fred? What about little Teddy? Like Neville, like Harry himself, he would grow up without parents. And poor Colin. How had he sneaked back into the castle?). Harry had already indulged himself too long. Hermione and the others had started becoming concerned about him, and they certainly did not need more worries.
Having taken yet another shower (after the tent’s cramped and moldy smelling bathroom, with its tepid water, the spotless white tiles and endless hot water of the tower were irresistible), he left the dorms. The extent of the damage Hogwarts had suffered was shocking. The castle needed major repairs and a great deal of clean-up.
Nonetheless, his first stop was the infirmary to check on Snape, who was no longer there. Against Madam Pomfrey’s recommendation, he had discharged himself and returned to the dungeons. She looked torn between her concern for his health and her relief that he had started brewing the potions she desperately needed for her other patients. The infirmary was full and her reserves were swiftly dwindling.
Draco Malfoy was apparently assisting him. (That piece of information was provided by Narcissa Malfoy, who was helping Poppy. She had planned on studying to become a mediwitch herself, but had fallen in love and married Lucius Malfoy instead.)
A little surprised at having experienced his first civil conversation with a Malfoy ever, Harry headed to the Great Hall, where he hoped to locate Ron and Hermione. There, he was greeted with smiles and hugs as if everyone had known that he, not unlike Snape, had also returned from the dead.
~o~
Harry immediately became involved in Hogwarts' repairs and spent the next weeks participating in delicate restoration efforts that had to take into consideration the many wards of the castle, the ancient stonework and the oft-contrary personality of Hogwarts itself.
It actually was going rather well, especially once Malfoy senior started directing the efforts. His experience maintaining and repairing Malfoy Manor proved invaluable. Strangely enough, everyone acted as though there was nothing peculiar in the fact that the known Death Eater and his family appeared to be there to stay.
The atmosphere during the rebuilding effort was a bit surreal. A lot of people Harry did not know had joined the efforts for the love of their Alma Mater. At mealtimes, no one ate at the teachers’ table. Instead, people ate at the students’ tables, separating themselves by Houses.
The Gryffindor table was the fullest, the Weasley contingent alone being quite impressive, if sadly short one of the twins. Neville’s grandmother had remained and with Neville and George Weasley managed communications with the outside world. It seemed that all alumni unable to be present wanted to be apprised of the progress of the restoration of their beloved school and owls swooped in and out of the owlery constantly.
At the Slytherin table, the Malfoys kept company with a gaunt and grim-looking Snape and a subdued Slughorn (until he departed for Gwenog Jones’ estate, ‘to recuperate’). Andromeda Tonks eventually joined them. She seemed very close to her blonde sister despite their divergent pasts. She arrived at Hogwarts with little Teddy Lupin, who could be found in a crib in the infirmary during the day, and who promised to soon become the most spoilt child in the Wizarding world.
The funerals had been too many: grim and sober affairs everyone attended, but after which people returned and resumed the work with renewed purpose.
It was while Harry was on his way to visit his godchild that he overheard a conversation in the corridor outside the infirmary.
“Staying in Britain is not a choice,” Snape was explaining to Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks. “There is no safe haven for me here. As long as there are Death Eaters left alive, my life is forfeit. Although the side of the Light has difficulties believing my true allegiance, Voldemort’s remaining supporters will not. They have nothing left, save revenge. I will be dead the moment I leave Hogwarts’ protection. Perhaps Potter might have done me a favor and let me bleed to death.”
Harry’s persistent anger at Snape was close to the surface and sprang forth easily. He stepped into view.
“I didn't save you, Snape. Your potions did. Kindly blame yourself for your continuing existence.”
“You will continue addressing me as Professor Snape, Mr. Potter. That you inadvertently saved my life in no respect alters our relationship. You will reserve your familiarity for your groupies, if you please.”
Snape’s dismissive response annoyed Harry further. Why was it that knowing more about Snape made it even more difficult for Harry to understand him? So much courage, honor and loyalty existed, he knew, inside this hateful man and yet here he was, as odious as ever. Harry couldn't reconcile what he had learned from Snape’s memories with the bitter man in front of him.
But he did remind himself that he owed Snape respect, more respect than he had ever shown the man before. For Dumbledore’s sake and Lily’s sake, he refused to listen to his boiling anger, and instead forced himself to say, “You are absolutely right, Professor. Please accept my apologies.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed as if searching Harry’s face for mockery, but evidently found none in Harry’s carefully open expression. He nodded stiffly to acknowledge the apology.
Harry walked on, thinking about Snape’s predicament. Short of checking the forearm of every wizard and witch in Britain, there was really no way of finding all the Death Eaters. It would have been thoughtful of Voldemort to keep a registry… But he, of course, had been able to Summon them.
The work on the castle went on and when Professor McGonagall announced one evening at dinner that there had been enough progress for the goal to reopen on the first of September to now be achievable, the celebration went on for several minutes. The workers continued their labor the next day with renewed energy.
~o~ Bye-bye love ~o~
Evenings were fun. The Gryffindor common room was crowded with friends and families and they played chess, Exploding Snap, or charades. Harry mostly enjoyed it after months and months of being cut off from everyone but Hermione and Ron. Sometimes, though, he missed the quiet. And sometimes, when he looked around, all he could see were the people who were missing.
Through all the noise and the laughter, Molly Weasley sat in an armchair next to the fire and knitted colorful jumpers that Harry was sure would be seen again at Yuletide. The chair next to hers was always occupied: Percy would sit in it to read a book or Arthur would look through and comment on the Prophet. Neville’s gran might be there, and knit right along with Molly. Sometimes, Hermione and Ron would share it and she would seem cheered by the sight. Neville seemed to be her favorite companion, though. They would chat quietly, and sometimes he even made her laugh. Harry wished he knew how to do that, how to make her laugh.
He saw how her gaze often followed George around the room, how she would reach for him whenever he was close. Once, as George was sitting on the arm of the chair next to her talking to Neville and Harry, she automatically reached for his arm to hold it possessively. Embarrassed, she caught herself and let him go. “I’m sorry, George,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
George leaned toward her and took her into his arms. “It’s all right, Mum,” he answered, holding her tightly. “It’s more than all right.” He held her for a long time, and Harry realized George needed the reassurance of her touch as much as she did.
Fred was mentioned often, by the Weasleys and by others around them. George seemed to prefer it that way. Usually, there was laughter involved. But although remembering Fred in happier times brought them all some measure of comfort, Molly’s grief remained palpable and Harry did not know how to help.
By contrast, Ginny’s grief was erratic. She might spend a few evenings in high spirits, the life of the party, laughing just a little too loud, and the next few days sitting by her mother, staring into the fire, her face grim, her eyes lost.
On one of those evenings, Harry came to join her. Molly smiled at him encouragingly and he was distraught to think she might still be viewing them as a couple.
“Hey, Gin.”
She turned her face to him and seemed to come back to herself from a faraway place.
“Hey, Harry,” she said, smiling a little.
“D’you want to go flying with me?” Harry asked impulsively.
She looked startled and then gave him a real smile. “I would love to,” she said, getting up. “I’ll go get my broom.”
“Me too. I’ll meet you at the portrait in five minutes.”
As he climbed the stairs two by two to his dorm, Harry felt cheered. The noise, the crowd in the common room had been getting to him and he hadn't even realized it. A long flight alone with Ginny in the quiet evening sounded wonderful. He should have thought of it sooner.
On a whim, they decided to try to climb to the top of the tower and fly off from there. Neither of them had ever gone to the tower’s attic, where a ghoul was rumored to reside. Ginny said the seventh year girls thought they could hear it sometimes, at night, from their dormitory.
As they reached the trap door at the very top of the stairs, they could hear… something. It could as easily be the weather vane spinning as a ghoul grumbling. Still, Harry climbed up first, pushing the trap open. The sound of winged things taking flight told them that if nothing else, the attic housed some pigeons.
The room they entered was empty except for a few small piles of droppings, with openings on all four sides to an encircling balcony outside. In one corner, a small spiral staircase went up to what must be the conical space right under the tower’s pointy top. A griping murmur and a slightly unpleasant smell came from there, pretty much confirming the presence of a ghoul. They smiled at each other, having confirmed the legend.
They quietly closed the trap door behind them and in no time were diving off the tower’s balcony. The sun was low on the horizon, getting close to setting, and the sky was already a magnificent dark blue high above. Harry filled his lungs with the bracing evening air and felt as if a weight had dropped from his shoulders. It had been far too long.
They flew east, side by side, their backs to the blinding sun, fast and smooth, grinning like fools at each other. They passed the empty pitch and headed for the high craggy hills above Hogwarts, racing, cutting each other off, enjoying the ascending air currents coming off the stony cliffs, still warm from the afternoon sun.
There was a ledge near the top of the rugged face to the west. After a while, they alighted on it and sat, their feet dangling off the edge, to watch the changing colors in the sky as the sun sank behind the horizon. The slanted light was golden, intensifying the hues of the grass and the leaves, kissing everything with its warmth.
Harry turned to Ginny, who seemed lost in thought, looking outward. Her bright hair was a halo of fire around her sun-kissed face. Her profile was perfect against the night sky, her ear a fragile swirl, her cheekbone and eyebrow delicate and elegant. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
Harry admitted to himself, with a bittersweet pang in his heart, that he was no longer in love with her.
Sensing his gaze, she turned to him and looked questioningly into his eyes. Then she smiled, a wistful little smile that was a perfect reflection of his own feelings. For a while, they stared at each other in perfect understanding.
Once again, she looked out to the setting sun. He felt so attuned to her, he could read her every emotion in her face and posture. It was all there: her sorrow over Fred’s death, her grief at the loss of her carefree self in the harshness of the past year, her worries for her mother. But there was something else, he realized. Something else was weighing on her mind, darkening her face. He reached over and grabbed her hand.
“What is it, Gin?” Harry asked gently.
She took a deep breath, and sighed, shaking her head. She looked down, hiding her troubled face behind the cascade of her fiery hair.
He scooted closer to her, and wrapped his arm around her. “What’s the matter, Gin? Why are you upset?”
It was a testament to their friendship that she did not pretend to misunderstand him. She turned into his embrace, and rested her forehead on his shoulder and he enclosed her in his arms.
“Fred is dead,” she said, “my mum is barely coping, George has lost his twin, and I… ”
“What, Gin? What is it?”
“I've fallen in love with someone, Harry, and that’s all I can think about.”
Guilt. It was guilt that he had seen, marring her beautiful face. He should have recognized it right away. Guilt was his particular friend. How easy it was to see its pointlessness when it was someone else’s.
Sitting there, with his grieving and guilt-ridden friend in his arms, he suddenly felt so young, so ill-equipped to help her, so overwhelmed by his own unresolved guilt. He sighed, and spoke softly, trying to say the right thing. “Maybe it’s good to think of that right now, Ginny. Maybe it helps. Because, you know, even if you only think of the bad stuff, it’s not going to make it go away. Your mum and George will still be sad, Fred will still be dead...”
Sweet Merlin. That was tactful. Harry decided to stop talking. He was no good at this. He just gave Ginny a squeeze, hoping she understood he meant well. It was nice to hold her like this. Her hair still smelled just as good as it always had. He was so glad they could be friends. Still. She was in love with someone else? He knew it was ridiculous, but his pride was a little wounded.
“Who is it, anyway?” he blurted out.
She pulled out of his arms, a rueful smile on her face. “You’re not very good at this, you know… ”
Harry smiled back, relieved that he did not seem to have made things worse. If she was teasing him, it might even mean that he had made them a little better. “Hermione says teenage boys have the emotional range of a teaspoon. I’m doing the best I can here… ”
She chuckled.
“So, who is it?” asked Harry again, completely unable to let it go.
“It really doesn’t matter. Nothing will ever come of it,” she answered dismissively.
“Why should nothing come of it?” He knew he should stop prying, but…
She blushed. “He doesn’t even know how I feel, Harry.”
“Well, don’t be silly, tell him. Any bloke would be thrilled to find out that you are in love with him!” Harry meant that with all his heart.
She smiled fondly at him. “Thanks, Harry.” She looked away from him and added gently, “Let’s not talk about this anymore, OK?”
Merlin, but she was pretty. The sun had completely disappeared below the horizon. They should get back before it got too dark.
“Hey, Gin! Let’s dive down the cliff. First one to pull up is a rotten egg!”
She looked at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t think so, you maniac. I’ll race you back, though!”
And before he knew it, she had mounted her broom and was flying away, laughing at him over her shoulder. He got on his own and kicked off in hot pursuit.
They got back to the common room disheveled and in high spirits, both insisting they had touched down on the front steps first.
~o~
That night, as he was getting ready for bed, Ron came into their dorm room. “Hey, mate!” He started to strip, to put on his pajamas, but Harry could tell he was itching to ask him something. Harry was already under his covers when Ron sat on the sat on the side of his bed and asked bluntly, “So, Harry, are you and Ginny back together?”
He looked a little concerned. He had always been so protective of her. Harry put his hands behind his head. “No. And we’re not going to, either.”
Ron looked both surprised and a little relieved. “Good, good,” he said.
“Gee, thanks, Ron,” said Harry. He was teasing, but curious at Ron's reaction all the same. “Would it have been so terrible?”
Ron had the grace to blush vividly, embarrassed. “No, you git, it’s not that. Just… Hermione thinks it would have been too soon. She said you might both feel pressured to go back to where things were, to make my mum happy and stuff. But also that people shouldn't make important decisions like this so soon after… you know… ”
“Wise girl. Not taking her own advice though, is she?” asked Harry, teasingly.
Ron blushed again. “It’s different for us,” he said, shrugging. “I mean, I’ve always known, you know? Well, not always, but for a long time… ”
Harry chuckled. “Yes. I know!” he said, rolling his eyes.
“She’s the best,” added Ron, with a grin, totally in love and loving it.
“Don’t you go and get all mushy on me, mate,” Harry said, still teasing. “I’m happy for you, and all that, but puh-lease… ”
Ron laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll just go to sleep and dream of my beloved, then,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
“Sleep? Dream? Like last night you mean?” Harry laughed at him. “Well at least tonight, do it quietly, or put up a silencing charm or something.” Harry got a pillow to the head for his trouble.
~o~ Houses Uniting, June 1998 ~o~
Starting in early June, some unexpected guests started joining the Slytherin table for meals. Minister Shacklebolt made an appearance, as well as several high-ranking Aurors Harry did not know. None of them seemed surprised to find the Malfoys at Hogwarts, or in any hurry to remove them and throw them in Azkaban, which was quite strange. It was a good thing though, since their help was invaluable—Draco in brewing, Narcissa in assisting Madam Pomfrey, and Lucius in restoring the castle.
Twice, Flitwick left the Ravenclaws to join the Slytherins in some animated discussions. Ron, Hermione and Harry, along with the rest of the people present were watching these developments and wondering at their meaning.
“Something’s going on,” said Ron, stating the obvious.
“It has something to do with the Death Eaters, I bet,” said Hermione. If Shacklebolt needed information, he would ask the only three Death Eaters who might be willing to give him some. And Flitwick could be involved because of the Mark. It has to be tied to some kind of a charm, maybe a modified bonding… and he is the specialist.”
“Snape said he was basically a prisoner in the castle, because if he steps out, the Death Eaters will get him,” volunteered Harry.
“And there is always a chance they will regroup behind someone else. Just because Voldemort is dead, it doesn’t mean they are unable to do horrible things,” added Neville. He should know. His parents had been tortured into insanity after Voldemort had disappeared the first time.
“Well, I for one am happy to leave it in someone else’s hands this time,” said Harry, meaning it with his whole heart and happily returning to his treacle tart. “I’ve done my part.”
So, of course, it would be that afternoon that Snape would approach him as Harry was helping to restore the belfry. All the workers were covered in white stone dust and Snape made an amazing contrast with them, not even a speck of plaster marring his impeccable black robes.
“Mr. Potter, your presence is required at the Slytherin table this evening," he announced, without so much as a greeting. Without waiting for an answer, obviously assuming compliance, he spun on his heel and walked away. Resigned to Snape’s incomprehensible ways, Harry decided to ignore them.
“Of course, Professor Snape. It will be my pleasure,” he replied loud enough for Snape to hear. Snape snorted, but did not even bother to turn around.
Harry was surprised when he met Lucius Malfoy’s eyes before getting back to his work. The aristocrat, his hair in a long braid made even whiter by the plaster dust, was wearing only trousers and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and, like the rest of them, looked like a baker. He seemed highly amused by the encounter. Harry smiled at him and shrugged.
Getting back to work, Harry wondered. Had he just smiled at the man who had almost killed Ginny in second year and been part of the raid on the Ministry that had caused the death of Sirius? The man who would have happily delivered them to Voldemort if Dobby had not saved them? Concentrating again on the block of stone he was squaring, Harry felt awfully confused that he held so little resentment toward a man he had previously despised.
Of course it was no less strange than having Hermione, who did some research about the wards and the original plans of the castle in the library, having lengthy conversations with the same man, and laughing with him…
~o~
Though he had warned his friends about his dinner with the Slytherins, that evening Harry felt horribly self-conscious anticipating sitting at their table. He was relieved when he saw Professor Flitwick at the door of the Great Hall, and realized the diminutive man was waiting for him.
“Banding together to enter the snake pit… ” Flitwick winked, putting Harry at ease.
Draco’s eyes were flat and his face expressionless when they approached the table. Harry found himself seated between Andromeda and Narcissa, across from Snape. Flitwick sat across from Narcissa, and greeted her with a genuine smile. Harry wondered if they had known each other long and then realized she might very well have been one of his students.
Surprisingly, it was Lucius, sitting on Snape’s right, who started speaking to him as the meal began. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Potter. You must be wondering why we sought your company this evening.” He was obviously referring to Snape’s highhanded command, and once again, he and Harry shared a smile of understanding. “I’ll explain. Since the Dark Lord's demise, the Unspeakables and the Order have been fruitlessly researching a way to efficiently identify and capture the Death Eaters still on the loose.”
He smiled at his son who was as expressionless as Snape and there was no disguising the loving pride in his eyes. “It seems that Draco, however, has come up with a most promising hypothesis. His idea is that we might be able to somehow use our Mark to accomplish that task.”
Lucius Malfoy continued. “According to Professor Flitwick’s analysis, the Mark itself is a form of magical bonding charm, augmented by an enslavement curse. All bearers of it are interconnected. Even though the original caster is dead, there remains an open magical channel between those who bear his Mark. The Dark Lord's Summoning Charm traveled through these channels. Severus and I tested our Marks. I touched it with my wand, as the Dark Lord used to touch his. I put as much magic as I could behind the Summoning Charm I heard him use countless times, and Severus felt a slight pull, though it was exceedingly weak; the same was true in reverse.”
“I felt that pull also, both times,” added Draco, helpfully.
“We think it should be possible to use this connection to Summon the other Death Eaters,” concluded Malfoy.
Harry frowned. “But you could resist the summons when Voldemort was sending it, couldn’t you?” he asked. All three Death Eaters cringed at his casual use of the name.
“Not easily," Lucius answered. "It was quite… uncomfortable. In any case, Professor Flitwick believes it is theoretically possible to modify the Summoning Charm into an Apparation one. We could try to resist, but once we understood what was happening, we would have already been Apparated to the location of the Summoning Mark. We would just have to be contained. A large enough group of people, adequately prepared, should be able to stun us all as we arrive.”
It was so bizarre to hear Malfoy speak that way. He was not trying to pretend he was not a Death Eater but was obviously actively participating in planning their capture. Then again, here he was, at the castle. At no point had he even mentioned leaving, yet he surely knew that the Ministry would come for him eventually.
“Well, that’s fabulous!" enthused Harry. "The Aurors would be able to do that.”
Snape took over. “Yes, Mr. Potter, obviously. But that is the easy part, is it not?”
“What’s the hard part, then?” asked Harry, impatiently.
“In case you were not paying attention the first time or have difficulty understanding multiple syllable words, Potter, let me repeat for you Lucius’ description of the magical pull we were able to create through the Mark from our best effort: Exceedingly weak. Exceedingly weak means not strong enough, Potter. Not strong enough to force anyone to obey it, nor to carry the energy necessary for compulsory Apparation.”
Harry was too interested in the discussion to take offence at Snape’s usual barbs. “What if you cast the Summoning Charm together?”
Snape glared at him. “We tried, of course! It made no difference. It could be that only the dominant wizard’s Summons makes it through, or that only the original caster's magic had the right magical signature to be able to use the channels efficiently enough to do so with sufficient energy.”
“Well, there has to be a way we can do this!”
They all looked at him with skepticism. Flitwick and Snape both said, one smiling fondly, the other rolling his eyes, “Gryffindors… ” which for some reason struck both Harry and Draco as funny. They both snickered and then looked at each other in surprise. Laughing together, rather than at each other, was a new experience. Harry returned his attention to the issue at hand.
“Well, Professor Snape, I am quite sure you didn't ask me here for the pleasure of my company. So… why don’t you tell me what you have in mind.”
Snape and Lucius exchanged a glance, loaded with unspoken tension.
“Potter, are you still a Parselmouth?” asked Snape.
“Yes, of course! I think… Uh… Well I haven’t tried to use it, since...” He looked at Snape and shrugged. “I‘ve no clue.”
Obviously trying to contain his temper, Snape asked sarcastically, “Well, do you think you could you be bothered to check?”
Harry looked around and spotted Malfoy’s walking stick. “May I?” he asked.
Malfoy passed it to him without a word. Concentrating on the very realistic snakehead that formed the pommel, Harry asked it, “Beautiful snake, can I still speak Parseltongue?” He looked up at Snape.
“So you can,” said Snape, having heard only a chilling sibilant hiss. He looked unexpectedly upset. Flitwick and Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, exchanged satisfied looks.
“Why is that important?” Harry asked Snape.
Flitwick actually answered. “Mr. Potter, it was Professor Dumbledore’s theory that, when you defeated Voldemort as a child, his magic somehow imprinted yours.”
Harry realized that only Snape and he actually knew that he had, in fact, been the recipient of a piece of Voldemort’s soul. Suddenly, the significance of his retained ability to speak Parseltongue became clear. Whatever magical abilities he had gained from Voldemort’s parasite, he evidently had not lost once the piece of the dark wizard’s soul had remained behind in the waiting room of King’s Cross. He still possessed Voldemort’s gifts.
“You think I could do it!” he exclaimed, in sudden understanding.
Snape looked slightly surprised that Harry had caught on so quickly. “Yes, Potter. If, because of the early influence of his magic on yours, your magical signature resembles the Dark Lord’s enough, there is a chance you could reach the Death Eaters through the Mark with enough power to Apparate them back.”
“How do we find out for sure?” asked Harry, excited.
“We think the only way is to try, Mr. Potter,” sighed Flitwick. “If you are willing.”
Snape looked troubled. Harry asked him pointedly, “Professor Snape, why wouldn’t I be?”
Snape looked up, surprised Harry sought his opinion. He answered, “Well… you have abundant power for someone so young, Mr. Potter, but the magical energy needed for Apparation is not negligible, and the number of Death Eaters remaining to be captured is unknown. If, once the process started, you ran out of power, the Death Eaters in transit would be Splinched, but more grievously, you could fall into a strain-induced magical coma, from which you might not awaken for a very long time… ”
That sounded ominous. “How long is a very long time, Professor?”
“There is a special ward in St. Mungo’s for people who overstrain their magic. Some of the patients have been there, insensate, for many, many years.”
“Oh.” All of them were silent for a while. Harry felt very glad none of them were looking at him.
“I think it is unfair to ask Harry to do such a dangerous thing,” said Andromeda, who had stayed silent until now.
“I agree,” said Snape immediately, to Harry’s surprise, “which is why I am not asking. I think we might yet find another solution.”
“Well, I am asking,” snapped Malfoy. “This is not just about your personal freedom, Severus, nor is it your decision. It would benefit the entire Wizarding world. Just think, if it could have been done seventeen years ago, the Dark Lord would have never returned.”
Hearing Malfoy say such a thing was astonishing to Harry. He had always thought Malfoy had been glad Voldemort had returned. He had gone back to him, hadn’t he? And allowed his own son to join the ranks!
“The Dark Lord would have returned either way, Lucius. It might have taken him more time, but he would have returned.” It seemed as if they had had that conversation before.
Snape continued, “I, for one, think that Mr. Potter risking his life for the good of the Wizarding world once already this month entitles him to more than a few weeks’ rest before being asked to do so yet again. We will either find another way to use the Mark, or the Death Eaters will have to be hunted and taken the old-fashioned way, one at a time.”
“The Aurors will never get them all. None of us even know how many there are, let alone who they are. The three of us together can only come up with forty-seven names. You know there are at least twice that many.” Once again it sounded like an argument many times repeated.
The more Harry thought of it, the more he agreed with Lucius Malfoy. Snape’s reservations about putting Harry in danger again came as rather a surprise. Was it a reflection of Snape’s devotion to Lily? Had he loved her so much he would still continue protecting him for her sake? He was of age, now. He could make his own decisions.
“I think we should do it,” he said.
Snape gave him an angry glare. “Your need for heroism is astonishing, Mr. Potter. Are you so overconfident in your touted abilities as to refuse to consider the possible consequences of your actions?”
Once again, Harry was able to ignore the blatant baiting, though Snape’s obvious reluctance to proceed gave him pause.
“I am not suicidal, Professor. I don’t think we need to do it tomorrow. But I think it is too good an opportunity to pass up. We just have to find a way to make it safe. We can afford to let the Death Eaters go into hiding. If we can make this work, they won’t be able to run or hide.”
The look Snape gave him was thoughtful, as if he was re-evaluating his opinion of Harry.
Narcissa Malfoy weighed in. “I am just as eager as you to see the Death Eaters brought to justice,” she said to Lucius, “but I think Severus and Mr. Potter have a point. Though it would be nice if all this could be over quickly, there is no reason to endanger anyone by rushing. The Mark on your arm is not going anywhere.”
Harry thought he distinctly heard bitterness and grief in that last remark.
“I agree with Mum, Father. Let’s do this right,” added Draco.
More than ever, Harry did not know what to make of the Malfoys. He did not understand them at all. He turned to Snape. “Professor, would you mind if I ask Hermione to help? She is very good at this sort of thing.”
“Though I do not see what Miss Granger could bring to the table that Filius or I could not, by all means, Mr. Potter, bring her into the fold. You might as well invite Mr. Weasley also and my torment will be complete.”
Filius Flitwick bewildered Harry by chortling appreciatively. Did he actually think that Snape was joking?
~o~ Goblins are Funny People ~o~
Walking back through the castle with Flitwick, Harry had to ask, “Do you genuinely think Snape is funny, Professor?”
Flitwick looked sheepish. “I know, I shouldn’t encourage him, but Severus’ humour tickles my goblin side.”
“You think he was joking?”
“Of course he was, Harry. Severus may not be an easy man, nor a charming one, but he unquestionably has a great sense of humour.”
“But he is so awful, Professor!”
“Right you are, Mr. Potter, which is why, tickled goblin side or no, I should not laugh at his jokes. Giving him an audience only encourages him.”
“What does it have to do with your ‘goblin side’, sir?”
“Oh, Harry, it is a shame you young people know so little of goblins, save through the rather bloody history of the goblin–wizard conflicts. Goblins have a sense of humor, but it is unfailingly cruel, just like Severus’. My family reunions are pretty much open verbal warfare.
“Goblins are very thick-skinned. It takes a lot more than a nasty joke about looks, intelligence, or abilities to hurt a goblin’s feelings. They just find it hilarious. A few years back, before you came to Hogwarts, I actually took Severus home with me for the Yuletide. I warned him it might be harsh, but he was so curious about our culture, he could not resist.
“My cousins were fairly annoyed at his presence. They dislike wizards in general. The blood-letting started as soon as we got in the door, but Severus gave as good as he got, no holds barred.
“By the end of our stay, he could have been one of us. My grandmother, in particular, took quite a shine to him. He was actually invited to return, with or without me.”
“And has he gone back?”
“Oh, no, not yet. But he will be welcome when he does. Goblin friendships are forever.”
“Can I ask you a personal question Professor?”
“I think I know what you want to ask. If goblins dislike wizards so much, how did I come about? Am I right?”
“Yes. Sorry, if it’s too personal… ”
“Not at all, Harry. It’s actually a funny story. My mother was a witch. She was scrawny, and skinny, and mean as a snake by human standards.” He chuckled. “Her temperament was a lot like Severus’, actually. After she left Hogwarts, she decided to get a vault at Gringotts.
“My father was the goblin who helped her. He found her amazingly attractive for a witch, and started flirting with her, which means he teased her mercilessly, in the cruelest fashion, about her looks, the pitiful amount of money she had to put in her vault, her lower class accent, and on and on.
“She did not take it well. First, she replied in kind, her venomous side rising to the occasion, but finally, when she thought he really had gone too far, she hit him over the head with her purse. That was it for my dad, he was completely smitten. He started to court her, goblin style, which, alas, bears a striking resemblance to stalking, really.
“She was a proud young woman, and did not go to the authorities, but tried her best to cope on her own. She booby-trapped her door, jinxed her sidewalk, Apparated everywhere she went. Of course, though she did not know it, all this only increased my father’s interest. After a month, she was surprised to receive a visit from my grandmother with an official offer of marriage. She was flabbergasted, but relieved as well. He had really started to scare her.
Of course, my grandmother had brought records of all of my father’s financial holdings, which are impressive even by goblin standards, as well as the family heirlooms destined for his wife. She also brought a courting gift, and an engagement one.
“My mother turned down the engagement gift, but took the courting one. And why not? There were no strings attached, and she figured she was owed for her month of anxiety. She thought they would see each other once or twice, and that then she would break it off. After selling the gift she would be several thousand Galleons richer, not a bad way to start out.
“However, once they began spending time together, well, she was done for. My father is very intelligent and well educated. He was much older than she, and she was seduced by his knowledge, his experience. Of course, the goblin-manufactured gifts didn’t hurt.
“They were married a year later. They were very happy, by all accounts. She was a great favourite of everyone. Sadly, she died prematurely. She was only fifty-two years old. I was at Hogwarts myself, a seventh year.”
“I am sorry.”
“Oh, Harry, that was almost eighty years ago. My father never remarried, though. She was the love of his life.”
“Wow. How old is your grandmother?”
“She is nearing three hundred, very old even by goblin standards. But as she says herself, she is too mean to die.” He chuckled. “You know, you could meet her if you wanted. The goblins are very grateful you got rid of… Voldemort, and that you returned the sword of Gryffindor to its rightful owners.”
“Well, that wasn’t entirely voluntary, to be honest.”
“I figured as much.” He chuckled again. “You got credit for it, nonetheless. And Griphook said a lot of good things about you. You would be an honored guest.”
“That’s a very kind invitation, sir. I’m not sure I could take the joking, though. I can hardly stand one Snape, never mind several like him.”
“Oh, I am sure they would go easy on you. You did break into Gringotts. You get a lot of respect for that.”
“Really? I thought they would be furious!”
Flitwick shook his head. “No. They are quite grateful, actually. It made them realize they were getting complacent. With the improved security they placed since, I don’t think it will be done again for a very long time.”
“Well, then. Maybe when all the Death Eaters are rounded up, I’ll take you up on your offer. Your grandmother sounds like quite a character.”
“She is, Harry. She is. Perhaps we can persuade Severus to come as well. She would like that.”
Harry did not think much of that idea, but kept it to himself.
~o~
Harry had not lingered over dessert, and even after chatting with Flitwick he had made it back to the Gryffindor common room before anyone else. Ron and Hermione arrived moments later, eager to find out what was going on. He recounted his conversation with the Slytherins, explained what had come of it. They were excited. The idea of bringing all Death Eaters to justice at once was incredibly tempting.
“Harry, there must be something that can be done to protect you. Probably not a charm, Flitwick would have thought of it. And not a potion either, or Snape would have. That doesn’t leave much. Well maybe… I'll need to go to the library… ” said Hermione.
George, Neville and Ginny entered the common room, mentioning joyfully that the staircases, frozen since the battle, had started moving again. They all discussed the progress made in the restoration effort, which reminded Harry of his strange forbearance in the Malfoys’ presence.
“What do you make of the Malfoys?” he asked.
“Beats me,” said Ron, who threw himself on the nearest armchair and put his feet on the coffee table. “Yesterday, old Lucius and my dad were actually having a civil conversation, if you can believe that.”
“I know, it’s strange, isn’t it?” Hermione said, sounding puzzled. “Lucius Malfoy has been nothing but respectful and charming anytime I’ve dealt with him. It’s as if he’d had a personality transplant. Maybe they’re relieved. Maybe they didn’t want Voldemort to win, after all.”
“Well, they could have fooled me!” said Harry.
“Who knows what motivates people,” observed Ginny, quietly. “Maybe all along, they only did what they thought was best for one another. Maybe the safety of the ones they love is the only important thing to them. I think they are very close.”
“Well, Malfoy always just about worshiped his father,” added Hermione. “Perhaps you have got something there, Ginny, but still… they seem so changed.”
“Bloody ferret,” added Ron nonsensically, causing Hermione and Harry to start laughing.
Neville had kept quiet, but now said, shyly, "If you really want to know, my gran can tell you about the Malfoys… "
"Really? There actually is an explanation?" asked George, curious.
"Yes. I asked her, because I too thought it was strange the Malfoys were still here. I also thought it was weird that Draco has been… well, not nice to me exactly, but cordial, I guess. Let me go get her."
Augusta Longbottom was seated near the fire with Molly Weasley. Though tiny in size, she was an impressive old lady, proud and rather forbidding.
"She's not that bad," said George, who'd been working with her in communicating with the outside, sensing the others' discomfort. "She really loves Neville, even if she kinda has a broom up her arse… "
After listening to Neville, she approached the group of friends with her grandson and Transfigured one of Ron's trainers, which he had taken off to put his feet on the coffee table, into a straight-backed armchair.
"My grandson tells me you are perplexed by the Malfoys?" she asked, sitting down. "Don't they teach the history of old Wizarding families in this school?"
"The only history we're taught has to do with goblin wars," said Ron, shrugging.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, your Muggle-born friends and Muggle-raised friends have an excuse for their ignorance, but you Weasleys? I am sure your mother, a Prewett by birth and a Weasley by marriage, adequately instructed you in the old customs… What would your excuse be for displaying such ignorance of the Wizarding ways?"
Ron, George and Ginny looked properly chastised. "Uh… I'm sure she tried," said Ron, "but we were probably not paying much attention… Our poor mum had a lot to put up with."
Augusta Longbottom snorted her disapproval, and gave Ron another scathing look. "Well, pay attention this time and maybe you will not continue shaming your good name by broadcasting your ignorance."
She Summoned a cup of tea for herself and, after taking a small sip, started to explain. "All the Malfoys' magic is bound to Malfoy Manor and has been ever since the Manor was built by their long-ago ancestor, Arcturus, not too much after Hogwarts itself. Binding the family’s magic to the seat of one’s family, and therefore to their land and the earth itself, increases their magical strength significantly, especially when they are at or near the Manor, allowing them to better defend it. Because of this, the Malfoy family has never lost Malfoy Manor in battle. It can also never be taken away from them legally, and as long as they live within its walls, they are guaranteed the birth of at least one male heir."
She took another sip of tea, looked up at her captivated audience, and continued. "When Lucius Malfoy was a boy, he was enthralled with another boy: Tom Riddle, who was three years ahead of him in school. After Riddle started calling himself Lord Voldemort, Lucius brought him home and introduced him to Abraxas Malfoy, his father."
Augusta shook her head, in obvious disapproval. "Now, Abraxas was a powerful wizard, but an idiot who loved flattery. Riddle charmed the socks off him and Abraxas magically pledged his support to Lord Voldemort's cause.
"After that, how Lucius came to feel about Voldemort did not matter. Abraxas had made that pledge as head of the family and the Manor itself insured that Lucius either fulfilled his father's commitment or lost his magic, his title, and his home to a Malfoy relative who would. When Abraxas died, the pledge remained active, as well as Lucius’ obligation to fulfill it."
Augusta explained further, "A lot of the old families are bound to their home or land. The Longbottoms’ magic is tied to the Longbottom estate, though in a different way. Most of the family's magical strength is bestowed to the head of the family. Neville will not reach his full magical potential until I pass. The Rosiers’ estate has been empty since Evan Rosier's death and will remain so until Rosier Manor finds an heir in the distant family that it approves of."
"So Lucius Malfoy definitely lied after the first war when he said he had been under Imperius?" asked Hermione.
"Pfft! As if there has ever been any doubt!" said Ron.
Augusta put down her empty cup and gave him a quelling look before answering Hermione's question. "Lucius indeed lied about being under Imperius, but the way the Manor honored Abraxas’ promise was almost like a compulsion. The Malfoys were bound to Voldemort by the pledge, enforced by the Manor through their magic. Resisting would have meant the loss of their magic, of their home, of their identity. Few would have resisted."
Hermione nodded in understanding. Harry was amazed. There was so much he didn't know about the world he lived in.
"The moment Voldemort died," continued Augusta Longbottom, "the Malfoys were free. The Wizengamot is composed mostly of the heads of old pureblood families who understand these types of things. That's why they were so easy on Lucius after the first war and why they are allowing him and his son, known Death Eaters both, to remain at Hogwarts for now. Questions?"
They had none. She got up, smoothed her old-fashioned robes and wished them good night, going back to her place by the fire. After a few steps, she must have remembered the chair she had Transfigured and changed it back, not bothering to turn around but just aiming her wand over her shoulder. Ron squeaked in surprise when his trainer suddenly reappeared.
Harry felt he had a lot to think about. He resented the fact that there was no instruction for people like him to inform them about the world they entered when they came to Hogwarts. The pureblood wizard culture was complex and rich. There was more to the disdain aristocrats like the Malfoys felt for Muggle-borns than prejudice. They resented that these people waltzed into their world, taking their right to be there for granted while showing little or no interest in its ways. He promised himself, yet again, to at least read Hogwarts: A History.
Moments later, Hermione was off to the library, no doubt to research what could be done to protect Harry during his attempt at Summoning the Death Eaters, her bag hastily swung over her shoulder and a determined look on her face. Feeling like things were now under control, Harry and Ron joined George, Neville and Ginny in a riotous game of Exploding Snap.
~o~
Hermione now spent her every waking moment in the library. By day she studied Hogwarts’ magic to help with the restoration, and by night she researched a way to ensure Harry’s protection. She started eating her meals with enormous books open in front of her. Her frustration was mounting. She was not finding anything. She snapped another book shut in annoyance one morning at breakfast, startling Neville into spilling a full glass of pumpkin juice down his front and onto the table.
“Oi! Hermione! What’s eating you?” asked George, who had only barely avoided getting juice all over his trousers.
“I’m sorry, Neville.” She cleaned him up with an impressive wordless wave of her wand. “I’m stumped.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Neville.
Hermione discreetly sent a questioning look at Harry, who shrugged. “I’m looking to protect someone who needs to do a spell that requires a large amount of power from being overstrained magically.”
George turned to Harry. “What are you up to, mate?”
“I never said it was for Harry!” said Hermione, chagrined.
“Well, isn’t it?” asked George, grinning.
Neville laughed at Hermione’s expression. “Don’t worry, Hermione. You can never hide anything from this guy.”
“So, come on, Harry, spill!” George requested.
“Yeah, your turn. I already did,” remarked Neville, pleased with his pun. George looked at him with an indulgent smile.
“Just what Hermione said, George,” replied Harry. “I need to do something that might require more power than I have, but once started, it can’t be stopped, so I might run out and go into a coma or something. But I’m not worried. I’m sure she’ll figure it out in the end, she always does.” He smiled at Hermione. “No pressure, Hermione.” They all laughed.
As they were leaving the Great Hall, Neville looked awfully pensive.
~o~ Perfectly Compatible, June 17th 1998. ~o~
They were all shocked when that evening, Neville and Professor Sprout ate dinner with the Slytherins. Once they all returned to the Gryffindor common room, they quizzed Neville mercilessly. Quite unlike his usual modest and slightly apologetic self, he looked flushed with excitement and self-confidence.
He explained animatedly. “There is this plant called Doulah weed. I read about it last year while researching a paper and though it was only mentioned briefly, I recalled something about it after our conversation this morning. It’s a rare and highly magical plant. If someone whose magic is highly compatible with yours is willing to share his or her magical power with you, and if you both chew Doulah weed leaves from the same plant, if possible from the same stem, for about an hour and you make physical contact, it connects their magical core with yours and they can actually pass some of their magical energy into you.”
He added as an aside, “It was used a long time ago during difficult magical births, where the baby just couldn’t be born without magical assistance, like in the cases of mixed parentage. You know, a mixed centaur and human baby, or a goblin and human baby. For the conception to even be possible, the parents’ magic had to be extremely compatible, and so the dad could pass some of his magic to the mum to help her during the birth, to prevent her from completely depleting her own.”
“That’s amazing, Neville.” The pleasure of learning something new lit up Hermione’s face. “Why isn’t it used any more today?”
“Well, I think mediwizardry has come a long way. People who have these kinds of pregnancies just don’t have their babies at home alone anymore, I guess. They have more help, more resources. Plus Doulah weed is so very rare. It only grows in areas where unicorns graze. But the Forbidden Forest has unicorns! Professor Sprout says it does grow in the Forbidden Forest.”
“Neville, that’s fantastic!" exclaimed Harry. "Now we just have to find someone whose magic is compatible with mine!”
Neville looked suddenly hesitant. Hermione sighed.
“What? What’s wrong?” asked Harry.
Hermione explained. “Even in average wizards, each individual’s magic is so unique, compatibility is really rare. When it is found, it’s usually found in soulmates or sometimes in siblings, but the stronger the wizard, the more difficult the match. To be honest, Harry, as powerful as you are, finding someone whose magic is compatible with yours, especially highly compatible, is pretty unlikely.”
“What are you talking about, Hermione? I’m not particularly powerful… ” corrected Harry, honestly.
The head shakes, eye rolling, and chuckles answering that statement were truly puzzling. They all knew how he’d defeated Voldemort… Expelliarmus could be cast by a second year, for Merlin’s sake!
“Harry, trust me. You are… a little more powerful than average, and it will make a match more unlikely,” said Hermione. Seeing his deflated look, she added, “Well, there are a lot of people here, and I am sure every one of them would be happy to help. So, there’s still a chance… ”
Harry could tell she was just trying to be positive, but decided to follow suit. “Well, how would we go about testing people?”
“Transfiguration.”
~o~
None of them were surprised, therefore, when Professor McGonagall was the next guest at the Slytherin table. Professor Flitwick was there as well. Harry kept an eye on the animated conversation taking place between Snape and McGonagall and wished he could have been a fly on the wall.
Finally, halfway through the meal, Snape got up and struck his glass to get people’s attention. “Before leaving, please Transfigure your fork into a comb and mark it with your name.” He sat back down, without any further explanation. So, so very Snape. Harry laughed to himself.
Once again, there seemed to be some heated discussion between him and the Gryffindor Head of House. McGonagall’s glare and Flitwick’s chuckle told Harry that Snape had probably made another one of his ‘jokes’…
~o~
Transfiguration was used to assess magical compatibility because to obtain the same thing while Transfiguring, say, a hat into a bowl, wizards actually all got to the end result differently. By examining the path the magic took to transfigure objects, an expert such as Minerva McGonagall could tell which objects were Transfigured by the same person or judge how compatible one person’s magic was with another’s.
The Headmistress sat at her office desk and emptied her hat of the comb she had Summoned into it before leaving the dining hall. She sighed. Though necessary, her task was going to be horribly tedious. This would take hours upon hours…
She decided to start with a quick look at Harry’s comb and was ever so glad she had. Her task would be eased greatly by the amazing power of Harry’s magic. She had known the boy’s magical energy was high—anyone could tell just by watching him fly—but how high it really was came as a surprise. And he’d not yet hit his magical puberty… Merlin’s beard…
The path his Transfiguration took was as straight as an arrow, simply changing one object into the other without frills or detours. There was no coaxing involved, no circumvention. First it had been a fork, now it was a comb, and that was that. Each molecule had done what it was told, without argument.
That eliminated ninety percent of the candidates, those who had to seduce the fork into obeying, or beat it magically into submission, or first morph it into a nondescript mass of something before transforming it into the comb.
Of the ten percent remaining, there were the people who simply had a gift for Transfiguration and used little power, such as the Patil sisters or Narcissa Malfoy and her son, and those without that natural gift, who had practiced hard enough to make it now effortless, like Hermione Granger or Filius. There was hardly a trace of the magical energy they had used.
That left only four others whose Transfigurations had as much to do with strength as natural talent. One was hers, one Lucius Malfoy’s, one Luna Lovegood’s, and one Snape’s; these four, and Harry’s, she now had to look at very closely to see the pattern of change. It took an intricate spell over each of them to allow her to see the echo of the alteration that had occurred.
Hers was familiar, of course. As always, the surface of the object had changed first, the transformation then proceeding from there to the core in a domino effect. Luna’s was the exact opposite, the change occurring from the inside out. Lucius Malfoy’s comb showed the man had a relentless and methodical mind, something she would not have guessed. His magic had transformed the fork systematically, starting at the tip of the handle and proceeding to the tines, no part of the object ever being composed of elements of both. Had he stopped in the middle, the handle would now have been a perfect comb, the head still a perfect fork.
She expected Severus’ Transfiguration to resemble Malfoy’s very closely. He, too, had a relentless and methodical mind. However, she was amazed at what she found. The change in his fork had occurred in what appeared to be a completely random pattern. Nothing to indicate where or how it had started, and what had guided its progression.
The power behind it was staggering, but that was no surprise. She had known Severus Snape to be one of the most powerful wizards of her acquaintance. As a student, his disdain for practice had been galling. He only worked on a Transfiguration until he managed it perfectly, and never practiced it again. However, if asked, he could reproduce it immediately, as if once learned it could never be forgotten. And yet it looked as if there was no method to his Transfiguration, as if he had done it all, all at once.
She put it down again, and after rubbing her tired eyes and pushing up her glasses, she took hold of Harry’s comb, recited the spell, put down her wand and sought the pattern of change, hoping it would resemble one of theirs, particularly hers, because she was eager to help him. She picked up Snape’s comb again with its incomprehensible lack of method. She obviously was getting tired. Ready to put it down again to pick up Harry’s, she saw Snape’s name clearly marked on the black surface of the comb still sitting on the table.
She looked at the comb in her hand. She had been so focused on their patterns of change, she had not paid attention to the physical aspect of each object. Harry’s comb was blue plastic, with a gold imprint that showed it had come from a Muggle Hotel in Lincolnshire. Snape’s was heavy black horn. She picked both up to compare them. Yes, they had been created exactly the same way, switching in complete randomness from being one thing to being another, smothered in enormous raw power: Snape’s magic and Potter’s were perfectly compatible. Miracles did happen.
She decided that it would probably be better to let Snape know this information in private. Merlin only knew how he would take it. And she couldn't pass up the opportunity to tease him a little. This level of compatibility usually belonged to siblings or soulmates. She chuckled. It was almost five o’clock. She decided to invite herself for tea. Snape’s quarters were appalling, but his tea was excellent. She went to her fireplace and Floo-called him.
“Severus?”
He was sitting on his straight-back chair in front of the fire, reading what looked like an old potions book. He looked up.
“What is it, Minerva?”
“May I come by your quarters in a few minutes? There is something I would like to discuss with you.”
Of course he looked put out. “And I suppose you will expect tea?”
“Oh! My! Look at the time! I had no idea it was so late already. Why, yes, thank you, Severus. Tea will be lovely.”
Ten minutes later, she was knocking on his door, which opened by itself and slammed shut behind her. Snape was still sitting in his chair, though a tea tray waited on a low table before the fireplace.
“Good afternoon, Severus.”
His response was a malevolent glare. Had she not known him for almost twenty-five years, she might have been intimidated. She came to the fireplace and bent down to help herself to a cuppa.
“Shall I be mother?” she asked, knowing he despised the expression. He snorted. She poured his tea as he liked it, plain. To hers, she added only a cloud of milk. His tea was too good to alter with sugar, as it would mask the complex and delicate flavors.
And now for the fun part. “Severus, what do you know about magical compatibility?”
He raised an eyebrow at her, signifying he probably knew a lot more about it than she did but was willing to play her idiot game. “That it is rare, and can almost never be found for the more powerful wizards; that it usually occurs only between wizards who share a strong affinity and a deep affection, or close familial ties.”
Since it was obvious they were talking about Potter, he apparently felt free to add, “I would think our best chance in this case would be Miss Granger, or Miss Weasley. Miss Granger is the stronger witch and a very close friend for many years, and I believe there is a… romantic attachment between Miss Weasley and Mr. Potter. Romantic attachment does not necessarily reflect magical compatibility, but I believe the opposite, with rare exceptions, is almost always true if the parties are not blood relatives.”
“Exactly so,” agreed Minerva, “which makes my findings ever so intriguing, I think you will agree.”
She took a sip of tea to prolong the moment. It was so unworthy of her to look forward to his discomfiture, but yet she did and decided she might as well enjoy her pettiness, if just this once. Snape’s face was as expressionless as ever. He was not going to give her the pleasure of showing interest.
“I have checked several times and there is no doubt. As unlikely as one would think it, Mr. Potter’s magic has not just a good, but an ideal match among us.”
Still on his face was that look of perfect indifference. She really admired the man’s control. She smiled sweetly. “Severus, your magic and Mr. Potter’s are perfectly compatible.” She was completely let down. Snape did not even flinch, nor miss a beat.
“Since he will be Summoning the other Death Eaters through my Mark, it is extremely convenient. We shall already be in close proximity.”
She set her cup down on her saucer rather violently. “Severus Snape, you are impossible,” she cried peevishly.
He gave her a sneer and a slight bow. “My dear Minerva, there is an exception to every rule. This is a case in point. We should only be grateful to be so fortunate. I had rather thought the situation was hopeless.”
She sighed, resigned to her disappointment but still annoyed at Severus’ equanimity. He and Potter had hated each other for years! He could at least have had the decency to be flustered knowing that, except for exceedingly rare exceptions, such a magical compatibility indicated the wizards involved to be soulmates! He was right, of course, but still, just once she would have liked to see him lose his perfect composure.
Resigned, she started to think strategically again. “We should call an Order meeting. There is a lot to discuss.”
“Indeed. I shall let you organize it. As you well know, my connections to the Order have been… compromised of late.”
She nodded, and gave him an apologetic look as she got up to leave. He extended her the courtesy of walking her to the door, in his own way apologizing that he had spoiled her fun.
“Minerva,” he added, “please ask the Malfoys to the meeting. Their help could be invaluable.”
“That might not be universally popular.” She thought a moment then sighed. “But I believe you are right. Good night, Severus.” She stopped on the threshold. “I shall tell Harry of our good fortune, shall I?”
“Better you than me,” answered Snape with a smirk.
She glared at him, nodded again, and was gone.
~o~ The Order Meets, June 27th ~o~
Eyebrows went up when George Weasley took the seat next to Severus Snape at the Order meeting. Despite the fact that Snape’s loyalties were proven and that large parts of his life story were now laid bare to public view, which should have softened the general sentiment towards him, Snape remained an unpopular figure and few had so much as greeted him when he entered Dumbledore’s office. When Harry sat on his other side and greeted him with a respectful, “Good evening, Professor Snape,” the tension at his presence seemed to ease somewhat.
No one objected to the attendance of the students who had remained at Hogwarts to participate in the restoration effort. The part each of them had played in the final battle was apparently enough to assure their welcome into the Order.
By the time almost everyone had arrived, the Headmaster’s office was extremely crowded. At first, the different attendees had Transfigured seats for themselves, each according to his or her preference. The late arrivals, however, barely had room enough for small stools. Greetings and conversations went on as they waited for Minerva McGonagall to make her appearance.
Just as she had stepped into Dumbledore’s role (once it had been vacated, rather dramatically, by Snape) as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, she had also, without any objections being raised, taken his place as leader of the Order.
However, when she made her entrance, escorting the Malfoys, her bringing known Death Eaters into an Order meeting still created an uproar. She raised her hand to quell the outraged voices, but it took her banging on a gavel she’d quickly Transfigured from a candlestick to bring the room to order.
“I have called this meeting to share some information with all of you and get your input on an important matter. The Malfoy family is already cognizant of what we are about to discuss and may prove to be of some assistance. It is clear that all of you have strong feelings about their allegiance during the war and I am quite sure they are acutely aware of it. Your objections to their presence among us are duly noted; nonetheless, they will be staying.”
She gestured for the Malfoys, who looked stone-faced but calm, to sit down. “Matters have greatly changed since our last meeting. Lives were lost, acts of great courage and personal sacrifice accomplished and enigmas explained.” Both Harry and Snape had made it clear to her that their roles in the downfall of Voldemort should not be singled out. She would respect their wishes.
“But all is not resolved yet. As after the last war, many of the people who committed grievous acts in Voldemort’s service are still at large, and unpunished.” She paused to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “This time, however, there is a possibility we might be able to bring all of the culprits to justice.”
Once again, she had to make use of her gavel to regain control of the room. She then explained in detail what they were hoping to accomplish. That once again Harry and Snape would be pivotal to the success of the operation, though obvious to everyone, was not particularly discussed, but once she was finished they nonetheless became the centre of attention.
Harry wished he could melt into the upholstery of his chair and unconsciously sank a little deeper into its seat. It earned him a surprised look from Snape who, of course, had no problem completely ignoring the sudden focus on his person.
The rest of the meeting was mostly administrative. Tasks were distributed: securing a location for the Summoning, approaching the Aurors’ office to obtain help and support, bringing forth a motion to the Wizengamot to plan an appropriate punishment for the Death Eaters now that the Dementor’s Kiss was no longer a possibility, organizing and coordinating the actual Summoning, securing holding space for an unknown number of prisoners, insuring security…
Finally, a date was set for the next meeting a fortnight away, at which point, if all went well, they could proceed with the Summoning.
~o~ The Price of Defeat, July 1998 ~o~
For the next two weeks, the Prophet was filled with stories of the Wizengamot Debates. How to punish a Death Eater had, for some reason, become the hottest topic of conversation in the Wizarding world. Everyone had an opinion, and seemed to want to express it in letters to the editor. (The few who thought that catching them was more important than deciding what to do with them once they were caught were completely ignored.)
When the final decision came, it was announced by Minister Shacklebolt in a brief speech, with no questions taken.
The Death Eaters were considered collectively guilty of all the crimes they had individually committed. The penalty for wearing the Mark was two-fold:
First, a potion would insure a complete suppression of the Death Eater’s magical abilities.
Second, he or she was to be stripped of all personal property, as if legally dead. All Death Eaters’ personal vaults would be emptied to pay victim compensation. Children and spouses could inherit, but nothing was to remain in the Death Eater’s name or under his or her control. If necessary, state-appointed trustees would be assigned to manage the minor children’s inheritance.
Once captured, the Death Eaters would have forty-eight hours to provide the court with whatever memories they had that might show mitigating factors sufficient to reduce the sentence. These would be put in a Pensieve and examined by a special Wizengamot committee.
The morning the decision was made public, the newspapers were passed around the Great Hall to everyone. Pretty soon, a lot of eyes turned to the Slytherin table, where the three known Death Eaters became the centre of attention.
The unofficial rumor from the Ministry indicated that Snape’s service to Voldemort was (sometimes reluctantly) acknowledged as being an unavoidable part of his spying for the Light. In fact, it was rumored he was to be the recipient an Order of Merlin, First Class. He therefore had every reason to look unconcerned.
The Malfoy males, however, were contemplating their future. Lucius looked stern but accepting. Draco held his body rigid and his face expressionless, but his jaw was clenched and his face incredibly pale. Harry felt a sudden wave of pity for him.
“You have to hand it to the Slytherins,” commented Ron, “they know how to keep a straight face under duress.”
“I feel sorry for Draco Malfoy,” said Neville in a quiet voice.
“He’s a git,” answered George.
“Still. It’s a hard sentence just for being a git.”
“He is a Death Eater, Neville,” Hermione reminded him. “I saw him put someone under the Cruciatus with my own eyes. And he did almost kill Ron and Katie.”
“He’s smart and ambitious,” said Harry. “Maybe he can make something of himself in the Muggle world.
“You’re right, Harry,” answered Hermione thoughtfully. “I could ask my parents to help him, if he was willing. I should talk to him.”
“See,” reprised Neville, vindicated, “you feel sorry for him too.”
She shrugged, looking a little guilty.
“Well, good luck with that,” Ron told her. “I’d rather cuddle a Blast-Ended Skrewt than offer Malfoy help to enter the Muggle world. I think he would rather die.”
“I think you may be right Ron,” agreed Ginny, looking sadly earnest.
~o~ Sweet Tea is for Wimps, July 26th 1998 ~o~
The two weeks between meetings passed quickly, work on the castle taking all their time, but finally it was almost finished. People started talking about going home. Molly invited Harry and Hermione to come to the Burrow, but of course Hermione was anxious to go to Australia to seek out her parents and restore their memories.
Ron and Harry were going with her, and the three of them were looking forward to the trip as an adventurous vacation. It would be quite a change to go on an escapade without a constant feeling of fear and impending disaster, and without the future of the Wizarding world weighing on their shoulders.
The three of them had decided to return to Hogwarts in September and take their NEWTS with Ginny’s year. Hermione was hoping her mum and dad would, by then, be all sorted out (and she forgiven).
The classes this year would be very off-balance. Both the first and seventh years would be overly large. Like Harry and his friends, a lot of their classmates had not been in school the previous year or had spent a lot of it in the Room of Requirement, not getting much of an education. None of them had taken their NEWTS.
The first year would include all the Muggle-born and the half-bloods who had been turned away the year before. The OWLS had been rescheduled and would be given before the Yule break. The whole academic year was bound to be an administrative nightmare.
After the official confirmation of Snape’s complete exoneration, the Hogwarts Board of Trustees had approached Severus Snape regarding resuming his function as Hogwarts Headmaster. Snape had made it abundantly clear he had no intention of returning in that role, nor apparently was he interested, contrary to popular belief, in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. The Dark Arts had been part of his life long enough. He wanted his dungeons and his potions back.
Minerva McGonagall was therefore officially hired for the position of Headmistress and was facing a rather difficult year. She had to find new teachers for three vacancies: Transfiguration, her old post, Defence against the Dark Arts, as usual, and Muggle Studies. Professor Burbage would be missed. She had been an excellent and popular teacher. When she approached Snape about at least being Deputy Headmaster, he had looked at her as if she had two heads and simply walked away. Filius Flitwick took on the position, “until someone better comes along,” he had said.
Harry thought it would be strange to be back in school, attending classes and following rules after a year of independence, but he was also relishing the idea of three delicious meals a day being served to him, of a warm, comfortable bed waiting for him every night and of temporarily relinquishing responsibilities and decision-making to his teachers again.
He had not given much thought to his future last year, thinking rather often that he might not have one. Now he had the rest of his life to look forward to and he felt quite unprepared. This next year would give him time to reflect, time to plan and a last chance to be a teenager.
After that, he would be alone in the world. He would have his friends, of course, and the Weasleys would always treat him like one of their own, but he would ultimately be in charge of his own destiny.
He felt rather detached about the coming Summoning of the Death Eaters. It would either all be for naught, if his magic could not use Voldemort’s Marks, or it would work. It was really out of his hands. He had no concern about the process itself: Snape would be with him. However much he disliked the man, he realized (and refused to dwell on the fact) that he completely trusted Snape.
As for the details, he knew the Order and the hand-picked members of Shacklebolt’s Ministry were up to the task. As far as he was concerned, the sooner they proceeded, the better. Hermione was anxious to see her parents and they could not leave for Australia until this scheme was all played out.
The evening of the Order meeting came at the end of a gorgeous day of relaxation, which they had mostly spent by the lake playing around with Ginny, Neville and George.
George had decided to reopen Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes two weeks before term began to take advantage of the rush of students as they got their supplies for school in Diagon Alley. Lee Jordan would be coming on board to manage the administration of the store, which had been Fred’s forte, leaving George free to focus on research and development, his own particular strength.
George missed Fred in a way no one else could possibly understand and would falter at the oddest moments. It was usually related to something funny that he would have naturally loved to share with his twin. The dichotomy between amusement and grief was crazy-making, but he stayed afloat, thanks to all the love and support around him. One of the most helpful aspects of that support came every Thursday night, when Lee, Angelina and George played Wizard poker. It had been Fred’s game.
They would drink a bit too much and spend half the night laughing, sometimes so hard that Angelina, who did not hold her drink all that well, would fall off her chair. It seemed very cathartic.
Ginny had been rather quiet but had been tenaciously resistant to returning to the Burrow, volunteering for any task that would justify her staying at Hogwarts.
She had even gone so far as to agree to join Snape and Malfoy in reorganising the Potions lab and stores when Professor Snape had hinted that extra hands would not be turned away. The stores still bore signs of Slughorn’s whimsical sense of order.
She had always been quite good at potions and managed to effortlessly stay very cool under Snape’s constant barbs. She explained that growing up with six brothers had rather inured her to petty harassment.
Harry suspected that she wanted to stay close to someone in the castle, but would have been hard-pressed to guess whom. She and Neville were spending quite a bit of time together but he was pretty sure there was no romance there.
All that afternoon, she and Harry had been playing Seeker vs. Seeker above the lake, and it was obvious that despite his long absence from the pitch, Harry had lost none of his skills. Playing Quidditch for Gryffindor again was another activity he was greatly looking forward to in the coming year.
They were all quite relaxed after their first day of true vacation when they made their way to the Order meeting, which this time would take place in the Staff Room to accommodate even more people than the last get-together.
Though Minerva McGonagall still headed the order, this time Kingsley Shacklebolt ran most of the meeting. The location that had been chosen for the Summoning was announced. It was the courtroom where Harry had once been prosecuted for underage magic. It would be transformed into a massive holding cell. Deep underground, with only three doors, it could be easily secured. The room would have to be set up and prepared without divulging a reason why, but enough Order members worked for the Ministry to make it possible.
According to Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy, once Summoned, the Death Eaters would Apparate in concentric circles, the inner circles composed of the early, most trusted Death Eaters and the outside ones of the most recent recruits. The Death Eaters already present would not feel the summons. The seventeen Death Eaters already in custody would be Petrified and brought to the Ministry from Azkaban by Side-Along Apparation, an hour before the event, to reduce the power drain on Harry.
The members of the Order of the Phoenix, the people who had fought on the side of the Light in the last battle, and eighty-four Aurors would be there to receive them. The Aurors would only be told of their coming roles minutes before the actual Summoning. Until then, they would believe they were participating in a training exercise.
Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones and Elphias Doge, as members of the Wizengamot, were already planning for the examination of the Death Eaters’ memories and their subsequent interviews. They had no way of knowing how many Death Eaters would plead extenuating circumstances, but they would be ready. If needed, they could recruit others of the Wizengamot as interrogators, but would only do so after the fact; they knew that in all probability some members of that celebrated body were Death Eaters.
It was decided the Summoning would take place the sixteenth of August, at three o’clock in the morning. Any sooner was just not enough time to prepare and any later would interfere with the planned reopening of Hogwarts.
The meeting came to an end, and people started to leave, with much excited talk. Harry, Hermione and Ron had just made it to the door when Snape stopped them.
“A word, Potter.”
Harry signaled for the others not to wait for him and took a few steps with Snape to get away from the exiting throng.
“Professor?”
“Though our magic seems to be… perfectly compatible, I think it would behoove us to test Mr. Longbottom's weed. Professors Hagrid and Sprout have gathered a small supply, which is in my possession. The weed is most potent when fresh. Professor McGonagall has offered us the use of the Headmaster’s office.”
He turned in that direction, and started walking.
“You mean, now? You want to do this now?”
Snape stopped and turned to Harry. “Have you got a more pressing engagement, Potter? Something more… vital to see to?” His eyebrow was raised in sarcastic query.
“Well, no, but… ”
Snape about-faced again. “Come along, then.”
Harry could not think of any logical reason not to proceed (he was quite sure a game of Exploding Snap qualified neither as pressing nor vital), but he was, as usual, irked by Snape’s presumptuous and condescending manner. He followed, resentful and sulking.
The gargoyle, newly repaired and back on duty, accepted the password from Snape (Iridescence) and let them proceed up the moving staircase.
Once in Dumbledore’s office (Minerva McGonagall had not yet moved in and Snape had changed nothing in the office during his tenure, so it was still completely Dumbledore’s), where all the portraits were slumbering, they both sat in front of the desk facing each other. There was a tea tray waiting on an occasional table between them, with an antique-looking teapot and elegant bone china cups. Snape ignored them in favor of a covered dish, which he offered to Harry.
Having refused countless lemon drops from the Headmaster, Harry’s response was automatic. “No, thank you, sir.”
Snape sneered, “Do you imagine I am offering you some delicacy? This is the weed, you idiot boy!” He uncovered the dish, exposing two delicate pale green leaves, the shape and size of teaspoons.
Harry felt like an idiot indeed, which was nothing new in Snape’s presence. Had he really imagined Snape and he would have a cozy chat before starting the experiment?
He took a leaf and ate it. It tasted a little like Lemon Verbena and seemed to melt on his tongue. Snape followed suit.
“I don’t feel anything,” said Harry, disappointed.
“According to my research, nothing will happen unless we make physical contact and I actually will my magic to assist yours, my power to sustain your own. A palm to palm contact is recommended by most sources.”
“Um… ”
“Mr. Potter, you will actually have to be actively using your magic if we want to test this.”
Harry sighed. There was no helping it. Snape was determined. He extracted his wand out of his jeans, with some difficulty since he was sitting down, and looked around. He pointed it at the heavy stone Pensieve.
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
The Pensieve rose slowly from its shelf and hovered about a foot above it.
“Now put out your left hand, Mr. Potter, palm up.” Harry complied.
Snape’s cool, long-fingered hand came to rest on his own. The touch was light, but Harry felt it acutely, as if every nerve in his palm soaked up warmth and sensation from Snape’s. He could not help a shiver of pleasure. This wasn’t too bad…
“I will start pushing magical power your way on the count of three.”
What, he hadn’t started yet? Then what was that tingling warmth in his hand, in his whole body? Why did the touch make him feel so alive?
He forgot all these questions when Snape’s melodious voice reached “Three.”
Before he could control it, the Pensieve rose another foot. His whole body was humming with power. He ignored his unexpected and swift erection, assuming it was the byproduct of the sudden rush of extra magical energy into his body.
Instead, just by concentrating on it, he made the tea tray join the Pensieve in levitating. The teapot lifted from the tray and poured a cup at a mere suggestion from his mind. Sugar cubes floated from the sugar bowl to the cup, the silver spoon stirring delicately. It was intoxicating. He felt as if he could do anything.
“Well, that’s one perfectly good cup of tea ruined,” commented Snape dryly. “Be prepared, Potter, I will stop the power transfer in three, two, one… ” The tray vacillated for a moment and the teapot landed on the tray with rather more force than necessary. Slowly Harry returned all the items to their original locations. He looked up at Snape.
“Well,” he said grinning, “that went well.”
“Agreed.”
“How much of your magical energy were you pushing to me, sir?”
“Very little, Mr. Potter. The high compatibility of our magic makes your power expand exponentially.”
Very little? But that warmth, that buzz, that… arousal? Evidently, it must be a normal side effect of the high compatibility of their magic. Harry pushed his curiosity to the back of his mind and focused back to what the successful experiment meant. “Excellent! I really hope this works,” he said, feeling optimistic.
“As do I.” Snape stood up. “Unless you have pertinent questions, Potter, that will be all.”
Well, this was probably as much of a cozy chat he could expect from Snape. What a git. He would never understand the man. He bit his tongue so as not to ask Snape if he’d gotten aroused too, just to see his reaction. He was hoping that Snape would change his attitude towards him, and acting like a petulant child was not the way to impress him.
“No questions, sir, pertinent or otherwise. Good-night, Professor.”
Snape turned his back to him and picked up a book from the desk. Harry watched the narrow back, shrugged and left without another word.
Snape waited for the door to close behind Potter to put down the book and dropped back in his chair. It had been just as bad as he had expected from his reading. The level of intimacy created by the Doulah weed had been unbearable. As soon as their hands had touched, he had become aware of the ever-changing tide of Potter’s emotions.
They had not been laid out to read like a book, only disconcertingly present, an ebb and flow of feelings, unexplained by relevant information: repulsion, vivid arousal, confusion, elation, anger, disappointment. Being somewhat prepared, he had been able to Occlude his own well-controlled emotions out of Potter’s awareness, but he had to wonder: what must it be like to live in such an uncontrolled state, constantly prey to the whims of passion? He shuddered at the thought.
No wonder he could read Potter’s face like an instruction manual on his moods. Being in Gryffindor had only encouraged the boy to wear his heart on his sleeve. He wondered briefly how being sorted into Slytherin might have changed Ha… Potter. That it would have been for the better, he had no doubt: sugar in tea, indeed!
~o~ Stupefied or Petrified? ~o~
Harry made his way back to the Gryffindor common room, feeling optimistic. The fact that the power transfer had worked so well felt like a sign that the whole project would be successful.
The Fat Lady noticed his mood. “Feeling chipper, aren’t we?” she commented as she opened up.
Harry grinned at her, and said in his most sepulchral voice, “Indeed… ”
Ron, Neville and George were still up. “What did the greasy git want with you?” asked Ron.
Strangely, Harry felt a little defensive for Snape. “He actually had a very good idea. We experimented with the weed.” He turned to Neville. “It’s brilliant, Neville, it works really well. I felt as if I could move mountains.”
Neville smiled a shy but pleased smile, and George slapped his shoulder. Ron rubbed his hands together. “This is going to work, I can feel it!”
“Yes,” agreed Harry. “I am really starting to think so.”
George said quietly, “I think we should stop so casually insulting Snape, Ron.”
“Huh? The git lopped off your ear, George!”
“Yes, and according to Harry, he did so trying to save my life. Without him you might have been short two brothers. I don’t know about you, but I feel I owe the man enough to show him some respect, even if I don't like him.”
“You know, Ron, I actually agree,” said Harry, relieved he had not been the one to bring it up. “He may be a resentful, humorless bastard, but he did save our arses countless times.”
The other three started laughing, and after thinking over what he had just said, Harry joined in.
Ron calmed down first. “All right, mate, got it. No more calling the bastard a git.”
Hermione rolled her eyes as Harry punched him on the arm.
“I’m just glad I don’t have Potions any more… ” added Neville earnestly.
~o~
With most repairs on the castle completed, they had more time to enjoy the weather and each other’s company. A lot of the volunteers started leaving, to go back to their lives or take advantage of the rest of their holidays. Being at Hogwarts together with no classes was actually a lot of fun.
After her parents had left, Ginny seemed more relaxed, since she had been allowed to remain with her brothers at Hogwarts until mid-August. She told a lot of stories coming from the dungeons; apparently the stores of expensive or exotic ingredients were quite diminished, and Snape was livid. He suspected Slughorn of selling them on the black market and was unable to exact retribution since old Sluggy was now sunning himself at Gwenog Jones’ beach retreat in the Virgin Islands.
Snape had attempted repeatedly to get Draco Malfoy to discuss the practicalities of a magic-less future, only to be coldly rebuffed time and time again.
Ginny had witnessed Snape brewing seven different potions for the infirmary at once, moving without pause from one cauldron to another, without hesitation and without notes, which had impressed even Ron.
She had come across manuscripts for at least four books, all written in Snape’s unmistakable handwriting, including one on snake antivenins.
Malfoy had started biting his nails to the quick.
From idle conversations between Draco and Snape, she had found out that there was a grand piano in the Slytherin common room that needed its yearly tuning. Malfoy and his mother apparently both played beautifully.
Harry was fascinated by these glimpses of the Slytherins’ world, realising how little he knew of the reality of the lives of two men he had always thought of only as enemies. He had certainly never imagined Draco Malfoy sitting at the piano in the evenings, playing for his fellow Slytherins’ enjoyment, or Snape sitting at his desk at night, writing something other than nasty comments on his pupils’ essays.
The Room of Requirement made an appearance the first week of August. Neville came with the news, quite elated. Apparently, in the evenings, he had regularly spent some time walking back and forth in front of it, trying to coax it to reopen. Hermione had been of the opinion that the Fiendfyre had probably destroyed it forever, but was thrilled to be proven wrong.
Neville would not say what form it had taken for him, even when pressed quite strongly by Ron and turning quite an interesting shade of red, just that it was functioning again. George looked on with a knowing smile, and Harry promised himself to quiz him later.
Finally, it was August fifteenth. That morning, Harry said goodbye to his little godson. Andromeda was taking him home. Though Teddy was the ward of them both, she would assume primary custody, since Harry was still in school. She encouraged Harry to live a little, so much of his childhood and teenage years having been consumed by adult concerns.
“He is my pride and joy, Harry. I am forty-five, and I have lost both my husband and my daughter. His smiles and cuddles keep me sane. You are eighteen, and have lived through more crisis and tragedy than men three times your age. Have some fun! Date! Travel! Grasp any opportunities that come your way.”
She smiled, looking at the sleeping baby in her arms. “Still, be a constant in his life. You are a good man, Harry, and a great role model for this little boy. Make sure to love him, Floo him, visit him. Between the two of us, we can raise him to be a good wizard, worthy of being the heir of the Primeval and Cunning House of Lupin.”
“There is a House of Lupin?”
“Yes, there is. With a seat on the Wizengamot. As a werewolf, Remus could not come into his inheritance, but Teddy will, I’m sure. The day of his third birthday, if it is proven that he is not a Squib—which we already know since he is a Metamorphmagus—we should get confirmation that the House of Lupin accepts him as heir, and upon his twenty-first birthday he should come into his full inheritance.”
“Wow. I had no idea that’s how it worked. But… I already have my Black and Potter inheritance, and I’m not twenty-one yet.”
Andromeda smiled. “No, Harry. Just as Teddy will be at three, you have been recognized as those Houses’ heir, so you have access to the minor heir’s vault and one of the residences. It is nothing compared to what you will receive upon your twenty-first birthday. The House of Potter is a minor one historically, without a seat on the Wizengamot, but the Potters have always been very astute businessmen, so the financial aspect of the inheritance should be… significant. The House of Black is as old as the House of Malfoy and, I believe, quite a bit wealthier, with a seat on the Wizengamot which you will be expected to fill, and extensive real estate holdings.”
“Oh, Merlin! I know Sirius left it all to me, but really, it should go to Draco, to you, or to Teddy! I’m not a Black!”
“Ah, Harry, I beg to differ… The House has spoken. It accepted you as heir. If it wanted Draco, Narcissa, myself, or Merlin forbid, Bella, it would have rejected you. But Kreacher obeys you, the wards welcome you, the minor’s vault is at your disposal. Have no doubt: you are the Black Heir. If you so desired, and are concerned to see the House return to someone with Black blood, you could designate Teddy as your heir, but you are under no obligation to do so.”
“That’s a great idea. I'll do that as soon as possible.”
Andromeda smiled approvingly, kissed Harry’s cheek and stepped into the infirmary Floo. “Tonks residence,” and they were gone.
Harry hated to see Teddy go; the baby had carved a place in his heart quite effectively, and Harry was one of the baby’s favorite sets of arms to fall asleep in. (It annoyed Harry quite a bit that Draco seemed to also be a favorite. Anytime Draco held him, little Teddy’s hair would turn as pale a blond as his, and remain that way for hours.) It left only eighteen people at Hogwarts: the Malfoys, the teachers, Madam Pomfrey, Filch, Neville, George, Ron and Ginny Weasley, Hermione, and Harry.
Those participating in the Summoning were to Portkey to the Ministry after a very late supper to sustain them in the hours ahead. Ginny was furious that she had been forbidden to go, and only calmed down after finding out that Hermione would be stuck at the castle as well, with a terrible summer cold resistant to Madam Pomfrey’s ministrations. She would not have to wait for news alone.
It was only during the middle-of-the-night supper that Harry started feeling nervous. With so few people left, the elves had decided to seat them all together around a single table in the center of the Great Hall, as they had done for the Yuletide in years past. The conversation was minimal. Everyone seemed to be thinking about what his or her role would be a few hours hence.
Suddenly, Harry panicked. He convinced himself that his magic would not work on the Mark, that all this planning had been for nothing, and that he was going to let everybody down. He automatically looked up at Snape, who had so much invested in this scheme. If it were unsuccessful, he would have to go into hiding to escape former colleagues out for retribution, or be a prisoner under Hogwarts’ protection forever.
Merlin! Harry just knew it was going to be a complete failure. Snape’s face was as closed as usual and he appeared completely unperturbed. Was it all a facade? Did the man ever get nervous, ever feel afraid of botching anything? Evidently not. He had probably never failed at anything in his life, probably had every tiny detail perfectly reasoned, planned, and executed.
He thought about Snape down in the dungeons, brewing seven flawless potions simultaneously; thought of him planning for his own murder, coolly carrying around life-saving potions for weeks; of him walking time after time into a snake’s den without fear, sacrificing any personal life for the greater good; living a full year surrounded by the disgust of his erstwhile colleagues, who thought he had murdered the Headmaster, without being able to explain, to justify himself. Harry had never until that moment understood fully the man's strength, his moral fortitude.
Seeming to sense Harry’s eyes on him, Snape looked up. Their gazes met, and neither of them looked away.
Harry wished he could tell the man of his admiration, of his respect. Tonight Snape's usually flat black stare seemed full of depth, warm and receptive. Remarkably, Harry felt no need to break the eye contact.
For once, he and Snape were not at odds. As quickly as he had lost all confidence just a short while ago, he now felt his doubts swept aside. Whatever happened that night did not rest only on his shoulders. Snape trusted him, and would be there to support him. He was not alone.
He almost jumped out of his skin when Ron pushed his chair back. Everyone was getting up to go to the Portkey. (An old aluminium pie pan waiting on the entrance hall table, its size enough to allow eleven of them to Portkey together comfortably.)
Hermione and Ginny both gave their friends hugs of encouragement, everyone trying hard not to look too nervous. Harry smiled as his friends joked but his mind was not on what was being said. There was a warmth in his chest, a buoyancy to his heart, that he neither could nor wanted to explain.
The Portkey took them directly to the cavernous room where Harry had once faced the entire Wizengamot, on trial for use of underage magic. Deciding that the unpleasant memory was definitely not helpful, he concentrated on the job at hand instead.
The Aurors had just been told by the Minister what the plan for the evening was, and one could feel their excitement and determination. They had been looking at years of Death Eater hunting, the same fruitless searches and paltry victories that came at a high cost which had been the rule after the first war. The concept of a wholesale capture of Voldemort’s followers was a very popular one.
Snape and Lucius Malfoy, knowing what to expect, strategically placed everyone so that, hopefully, any Apparating Death Eater would be in the direct line of fire of an Auror or of a member of the Order’s wand.
Snape and Harry were in the very center of the room and, their backs to them on four sides, were the men they had personally chosen to protect them: Lucius Malfoy, Filius Flitwick, Ron Weasley, and Aberforth Dumbledore. They would insure that no one could interrupt Harry and Snape or take advantage of their concentration to do them harm.
Minister Shacklelbolt felt compelled to reassure Harry that he was only expected to do his best. Harry knew the Minister meant well, but he’d had enough platitudes to last him a lifetime and had to make an effort not to roll his eyes. He could have sworn he noticed the shadow of a smirk on Snape’s lips.
Finally, it was 2:58 AM.
Harry was supremely conscious of Snape’s presence at his side, dark and ready.
“It is time, Potter,” said Snape encouragingly, handing him a small open container. There were more leaves today. “Four should do it, I think,” Snape added helpfully, noticing Harry’s hesitation.
After putting the small box away in one of his pockets, Snape rapidly undid the long row of buttons at the wrist of his robes and the long row of buttons of the snow-white shirtsleeve he had thus uncovered. Harry could not seem to look away, strangely fascinated by the slow uncovering of the luminous white skin and the toned flesh of Snape's forearm, of his narrow elegant wrist.
The taste of verbena he recalled from their experiment was filling his mouth again as the leaves seemed to melt on Harry's tongue. The sexual arousal must actually have been a result of the Doulah plant itself, since it had started already.
He placed the tip of his wand on Snape’s exposed Dark Mark, its black outline an insult to the flawless white skin, and held his left hand out to the taller man, palm up. Snape changed its position so he could comfortably intertwine their fingers.
“A more secure hold is probably best,” he explained, his tone gentle, without any of his usual bite.
Harry looked up, surprised by the mildness the professor was showing and his eyes met Snape’s. Again their gazes locked. Seeing nothing but goodwill and trust in the other man's eyes, Harry felt calm, strong, and confident. Snape gave him a small nod and Harry started reciting the complex charm Flitwick had created, that he had memorized with Hermione’s help.
“Now!” said Snape, warning the others of the imminent arrival of their quarry.
Harry pushed all his magic, all his will into the Mark on Snape’s arm. It felt as if his reach radiated from the tip of his wand and traveled through the Mark in all directions, seeking others, reaching, reaching…
Suddenly, his magic found a target and hooked it, pulling it irresistibly back towards him. Harry felt a Death Eater’s Apparation begin, sucking energy out of him. Then there was another hook, and another, and then a multitude at once.
He felt his power seep away like water and almost panicked, but suddenly Snape was there, his magic, his power filling Harry with warmth and strength. It felt so good, so wonderfully right, Harry felt complete in a way he had never known.
The Death Eaters’ Apparations now were effortless, almost instantaneous. He was vaguely aware of “Petrificus Totalus” and “Stupefy” being repeated again and again all around him, and of the thud of bodies hitting the ground hard. There was also yelling, and the sound of battle, but his focus did not falter.
Soon there were only a few Death Eaters left in transit, then only one last one, hooked very, very far afield and brought back in a rush of strength.
The task accomplished, Harry took a deep relieved breath and his surroundings came back into awareness. There was mayhem all around, many battles being fought on all sides. An iridescent shield was around them, evidently placed by their protectors, who were shooting hexes and curses at multiple targets. Snape’s hand was still gripping his own when Harry’s eyes turned to the closest fight, to his immediate left.
Fenrir Greyback held a disarmed Auror by the hair. Flitwick’s “Petrificus” bounced right off the werewolf. As Harry watched, frozen, Greyback tore the man’s throat out and threw the body at Flitwick, who tumbled under the weight.
Taking advantage of the hole in their defenses, Greyback jumped on Snape, reaching for his neck with his bloody teeth like a demon from hell. Without any conscious thought, Harry’s pushed his magic through his palm and into Snape. There was a sound like a slap, and Fenrir Greyback was gone. Snape let go of Harry’s hand, severing their connection.
“Where has he gone?" yelled Malfoy. "He couldn’t have Apparated out, the room is secured!”
Harry and Snape exchanged a look, and then Snape turned to Lucius.
“I believe Fenrir Greyback is no more,” he stated calmly, starting to re-button his shirt.
“What do you mean?” asked Malfoy.
“In the heat of the moment, I... wished him gone. Mr. Potter put the full power of his magic behind that wish, and… it was granted.”
“Where did you send him?” asked Ron.
“Nowhere," shrugged Snape, trying to explain. "I believe he simply... no longer exists. What do you think, Potter?”
Harry did not think, he knew. He had felt their combined powers negate Greyback’s existence, just… remove him. It was the most terrifying thing he had ever done: wandless, wordless magic, from a mere thought to reality in the blink of an eye.
“I believe Professor Snape is correct,” he said, trying to appear as calm as Snape. “I think he is gone.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” was Aberforth’s comment.
As all individual battles were finally over, people started to celebrate, and no one was paying attention to the six men in the center.
Flitwick, back on his feet, if with robes stained in blood, said firmly, “Let me tell you what happened.” He paused, making sure he had the other five’s undivided attention. “I Banished him, though I am not quite sure where to. He will assuredly turn up somewhere. Certainly, no wandless, wordless, frighteningly powerful magic was performed here tonight. Surely, none of you gentlemen would contradict me on that?”
He stared at all of them in turn.
“I concur,” said Aberforth. “Filius Banished him. No point in making up scary stories that might put strange ideas in people’s heads. Mr. Weasley?”
“Yep,” Ron said, coolly. “Banished. By Professor Flitwick.”
“Quite a powerful Banishment, Professor,” commented Malfoy. “But weren’t you a dueling champion in your youth?”
“I certainly was. Three years in a row.”
Harry and Snape looked at each other as the official version of Fenrir Greyback’s disappearance was being told.
There was doubt in Snape’s eyes. Harry understood what Flitwick was doing. If the actual facts became known, there would be fear and then suspicion: their combined powers, harnessed by a spell in the service of the Wizarding community, was all well and good. This… omnipotence was a different matter altogether. But could he lie about it? Harry thought about the Deathly Hallows, which by his decision would forever remain the stuff of legend. This was no different, really.
“It’s too bad Harry and you didn’t see Filius’ spell, Severus,” insisted Malfoy, “you were still too busy with the Summoning, I am sure. It was quite impressive.”
Snape’s eyes were still on Harry, still uncertain. Harry shrugged at him, a small movement that put the decision in Snape’s hands. Snape turned to Flitwick and said, in his elegant way, “Indeed. Well done, Filius,” and the truth would never be mentioned again.
Harry surveyed the grim scene around him as he caught his breath. Four Aurors were dead, their bodies covered with their cloaks, Minerva McGonagall’s hair was singed to the skull on one side, and Angelina Johnson had a rather nasty nosebleed. The judge’s bench was still smoking where it had caught on fire.
One hundred and twenty-three Death Eaters lay on the stone floor, some completely covered with Transfigured sheets, the rest of them immobile. Voldemort’s reign of terror was finally over.
Lying on the fringe of the outer circle wearing nothing but a pink push-up bra (but now covered to her neck by the cloak of a generous Auror) was Dolores Umbridge, a look of bliss still on her face. How long she had been a Death Eater was anyone’s guess. Apparently neither she nor her lover, Fenrir, had noticed the summons, being otherwise occupied. Angelina had stunned her before Umbridge even knew she had left her boudoir.
Sadly, Angelina had not been prepared for the werewolf who had been inadvertently caught in Umbridge's Apparation. He had broken Angelina's nose as he tried to escape. Fenrir had never been accepted as a Death Eater. That he had been captured was an amazing stroke of luck.
Flitwick healed Angelina’s nose and handed her his handkerchief.
“Umbridge’s in for a nasty surprise when she comes to,” commented Ron.
“Oh, it’s much worse than that,” smirked Angelina.
“What do you mean?” asked Harry.
“Well,” explained Angelina, “I am pants at Stupefying… I used Petrificus.”
Flitwick laughed, hard.
“What?” Harry asked, still in the dark.
“Mr. Potter,” said Snape in his best lecture voice, “had you learned anything during your time at Hogwarts, you might have known the difference between being Stupefied and Petrified. In case of Stupefaction, the victim loses consciousness as well as the ability to move. Petrified people, however, though they might be unable even to change the unfortunate expression on their faces, are perfectly conscious of their surroundings the entire time.” And for the first time in their seven-year acquaintance, Harry saw Snape’s smile.
Retelling the story to Hermione and Ginny later (and once the hysterical laughter had abated), Harry and Ron had both agreed: Snape’s smile made even his most evil smirk look benign.
Part 2: Malfoys
~o~ When Anything Really Means Anything, Aug.17, 1998 ~o~
The day after the Summoning, Harry, Ron and Hermione returned to the Burrow with a reluctant Ginny. The older three were ready to depart from there to Australia by a three o’clock Portkey to retrieve Hermione’s parents. The Portkey was a gift from the Minister himself, Shacklebolt having both cleared the time-consuming paperwork for them and taken care of the exorbitant fee for intercontinental travel with his discretionary fund.
Under some pressure from the Wizengamot, Kingsley Shacklebolt had invited Harry to join that esteemed body for the Death Eaters’ trials. It had been pointed out to him by some of its members that Harry was the heir to the Black seat, after all, and that having him participate in the trials would validate the entire process in the public eye. Harry had politely turned down his request, since he was leaving for Australia and did not like exceptions being made because of who he was. The three of them had intended to fly the Muggle way, but the Minister insisted on the Portkey to show Harry there were no hard feelings.
An hour before they left Hermione had summarily repacked Ron’s luggage, rolling her eyes while explaining to him that the middle of winter Down Under required the exact same clothing as the middle of summer in Scotland. Harry grinned at their good-natured bickering, and having not researched the weather conditions Down Under was glad he had procrastinated with his own packing...
Ginny sat with him while he threw the clothes Mrs. Weasley had just returned to him from the laundry into his travel bag. In contrast with their happy excitement, Ginny looked profoundly miserable. Earlier, Ron had surmised it was because they had not asked her to join them (Molly had threatened to kill Ron if they did), but Harry thought he knew better. She had been very upset since leaving Hogwarts the day before and he thought the problem lay there.
At two-thirty, as they were all sitting around the kitchen table with a last cup of tea, she suddenly got up and, looking everywhere but at Harry, asked him to talk with her alone for a minute.
Harry was happy to comply; he hated seeing her so wretched and was hoping he could do something to help. They headed outside and walked for a few minutes in silence in the gnome-infested yard, which was nonetheless brilliant with gorgeous blooms. She stopped, scuffing the dirt path with the tip of her trainer.
“Ginny, whatever it is, out with it already.”
She sighed, looked at him briefly, and looked away again. “I have a favor to ask you, Harry.”
“Anything, Ginny, you know that… ”
“Please don’t say that until your hear what I am asking. You may regret it.”
He took her chin, and forced her to look at him. “Ginny, I mean it. Anything you need, I am there.”
He was shocked to see her eyes fill with tears. That was so unlike her.
“I really hate to ask, but I have to, Harry, I just have to.”
“Okay.”
“Harry, I want you to try and save Draco Malfoy from losing his magic.”
“Okay.”
Ginny burst out laughing, crying at the same time. “That’s it? Just like that, you’ll help him?”
“I will do anything I can, try everything that might work. You want it, you got it. That is what ‘anything’ means, Ginny.”
“But you hate him!” she wailed. “You hate using your fame!”
“Yes, but not as much as I hate seeing you unhappy… ” He smiled at her.
She leapt forward and gave him a bone-crushing hug.
“Wow, wow, Ginny!” he teased. “I won’t be able to do anything if you choke me to death!”
She looked at him with a tremulous smile. “Thanks, Harry. You’re the best.”
“I haven’t done anything yet, and I might not be able to do anything, you know. But first, let me go tell Hermione and Ron that they’ll have to go to Oz without me. I don’t think I have time to go trekking in the bush, not if I want to save Malfoy’s sorry arse.”
“I’m sorry… I know you were looking forward to that trip… ”
He grinned at her. “Well, at least I don’t think they’ll miss me all that much.”
Since they made it back to the kitchen at five to three, there was thankfully not much time to explain his change of plans. He hugged both his best friends, told them he would owl them as soon as he could, and they were off. Ron definitely did not seem too bothered. It had only taken him a few seconds to realize that this new development meant he would be alone with Hermione for the duration, without a chaperon.
Luckily, that fact did not dawn on Molly until after they had left. Harry was amused by her sudden stunned look when the realization struck her. She walked out of the sitting room telling herself in a low voice that surely she could trust Hermione…
Harry took Ginny’s hand, and they went back outside. They walked to the stream that ran on the edge of the garden and sat on the grass in the dappled shade of the weeping willow.
“All right, Gin. I don’t have to have Trelawney’s inner eye to figure out Draco Malfoy is the person you've fallen in love with. You have to admit it is a bit of a change of heart on your part and a little hard to fathom from my end. So, take it from the top, make me understand.”
“I know it’s… weird. Let me try to explain.” She took a deep breath. “I missed you lot last year, a lot. And not because I was pining for you, though I was at the beginning, but because we’d been spending all that time together, and because things were so hard at Hogwarts.”
She pushed her flamboyant hair behind her ear and looked at him. “I got in the habit of sitting alone against the tree by the lake to do my reading assignments. You know, the big one, where we used to... Anyway. One time, I was studying Potions and I hit a passage that made no sense to me. Trying to work it out, I read it again out loud a couple of times, and tried to reason my way through it, and then all of a sudden, Malfoy popped out of nowhere and he explained it to me.”
She shook her head a little, and smiled lightly, apparently remembering her disbelief. “He made the whole thing so simple and so clear, and from his enthusiasm I could tell how much he loved Potions. Then he looked kind of embarrassed and just started to head back to the castle. I caught up with him and thanked him and I asked him where he’d come from.”
She shrugged. “He said he liked to sit against the tree just like I did, but on the forest side, away from prying eyes, to get some peace from Goyle and Crabbe and some of the other Slytherins. He’d been there at the same time I was many times before, but said the tree was quite big enough for the two of us and that my presence did not bother him.”
“I didn’t stop coming. It was my spot. I never knew if he was there or not, and didn’t think much about it. Then one day he started talking. He didn’t acknowledge I could hear him, and I didn’t answer. I think he just needed to talk.”
“He’s very different from what everybody thinks, Harry. He loves his parents, and he hated Voldemort. He can be funny, and sweet. And he has hated himself for a very long time and has tried to do the right thing, in pretty bad situations.”
She looked at Harry. “Did you know Snape is his godfather? He often wondered what side Snape was really on. He said he thought Headmaster Dumbledore had been pleading with Snape to kill him and that it had been the right move because now Voldemort trusted Snape above anyone. It had allowed Snape to save him and his parents from the monster’s wrath. He pointed out the times when Snape protected students from the Carrows and how he’d given Neville, Luna, and me detention with Hagrid after we’d tried to steal the sword. Draco loves him, and would do anything for Snape.
“I had my doubts about Snape, but I let him vent. Once in a while I started to talk too, when things really got to me. It was good to know someone was listening, even if he never answered.”
“Did you two become close?” asked Harry.
“We didn’t. He still sneered at me any chance he got; that was part of his persona. But he did things like take students to the Room of Requirement instead of to the Carrows, or mentioned to me where the Slytherin prefects were planning on patrolling that night.
“Harry, he did let the Death Eaters into the school, and he has the Mark. But he does not deserve to lose his magic. He has never killed anyone. Everything bad he has done was to save his family. I would have done the same. It’s not his fault he was born a Malfoy and not a Weasley, that his family was on the wrong side,” she pleaded.
Her voice shook as she added, “When he loses his magic, he will kill himself. I caught him brewing that awful potion one night last week, Fulgur Funera. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me pleadingly, so I didn’t tell Snape. Draco has no desire to live without his magic, that’s why he has no contingency plans. If they take it away, he will be dead within a day. I can’t let it happen. I… I want him to live.” She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes.
Harry remembered how Draco had lied in Malfoy Manor, pretending not to recognize them, how he had kept Goyle and Crabbe from killing him in the Room of Requirement.
He also remembered how he had not been able to leave Draco to die in that room, when it had been so dangerous to go back for him, and how Ron had saved Draco yet again during the battle that day.
They had hated each other from day one, and yet, when the chips were down, they had always done what they could for each other. So many times Harry had wondered what might have been if that day when he had found Draco crying in Myrtle’s bathroom, he had done some things differently, had tried to help him instead of slicing him open.
And on that very first day, on the train, when Malfoy had held out his hand, would there have been a way to make a friend of him? He had just been a brat—a rich, self-important little brat, spouting out what he had heard his father say all his life, nothing more.
“I’ll go to the Ministry and talk to Shacklebolt in the morning. We don’t have much time. The Death Eaters will all be sentenced the day after tomorrow, unless they have provided the Wizengamot with memories to review. Do you think Draco has?”
“No. I heard him talking to Snape. He thinks that letting Voldemort put that Mark on him puts him on a par with the others. Do you think that’s true, Harry?”
Harry considered the question carefully. What choice had Malfoy had, really? With his dad in Azkaban, his mum in Voldemort’s hands, what would Harry have done? There really had been no choice at all.
“No, Ginny, I don’t.” He smiled at her ruefully. “What’s the point of being the Boy Who Lived, and the Man Who Killed Voldemort if I can’t use it to try and get my way, once in a while? I’ll do everything I can. I promise you.”
She gave him a look that made him think that Malfoy was a lucky bloke, even if he didn't know it. He squeezed her hand.
~o~ Before the Trials ~o~
Harry’s Floo-call to the Minister that evening, accepting his offer to temporarily join the Wizengamot, surprised Shacklebolt but also pleased him. He knew that bringing in Harry would earn him a lot of political points. So it was agreed that Harry would assume the seat of the House of Black for the duration of the trials, due to start the next day at one in the afternoon.
Shacklebolt had explained that the process would be quick: the presence of the Mark was considered sufficient proof of guilt for the standard sentence to be applied. Death Eaters who had presented memories in their defense—and there were only thirteen of them—would get a continuance, until the Wizengamot’s interrogators made their decision as to whether the events shown in the memories were indeed sufficient to afford the Death Eater some clemency.
Because he was not being officially inducted into the Wizengamot, Harry would not wear the customary attire. However, Shacklebolt had made it clear that only dress robes would be appropriate for the occasion. Harry had grown a bit in the past year, and the dress robes he’d worn at Bill’s wedding, stuffed in Hermione’s beaded bag and used as a blanket for extra warmth in the tent during their meanderings, had seen better days.
He needed to do some shopping. He decided to go to Diagon Alley bright and early the next morning and enjoy himself. He spent the rest of the evening trying to familiarize himself with the workings of the Wizengamot and its many traditions from a book he borrowed from the Burrow’s limited library, but went to bed feeling it had confused him more than anything else.
In the morning, he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron as the stores were opening. Diagon Alley looked incredibly different than the last time he had visited, following Hermione disguised as Bellatrix Lestrange, on his way to rob a bank. Almost all the shops had reopened, even Fortescue’s, and it had regained all its wonder in Harry’s eyes. He grinned. He loved this place!
His first stop had to be Gringotts, where despite Flitwick’s reassurance he was a little wary of showing his face. To his surprise, no one at the bank acted any differently than they ever had. However, when the time came for him to go to his vault, it was Griphook who appeared from somewhere in the back, with his small oil lamp and his piercing eyes.
“Harry Potter,” was his greeting. They boarded the small trolley and made their way underground in silence. They stopped in front of the Harry’s vault. Harry opened it and was horrified to find it completely devoid of coins. He stared at the empty room for a moment and turned questioningly to Griphook, only to find the goblin holding his sides in silent laughter, tears of mirth on his cheeks. Remembering Flitwick’s lesson in goblin humor, he turned to look in his vault again, hardly surprised to find it as it always had been, quite filled with gold Galleons.
“You should have seen your face,” snorted Griphook. “Priceless!”
“I wish I’d seen the face of the head of Gringotts when he found out you helped me break into the place,” replied Harry.
“You’re right,” said Griphook, wiping his eyes. “That was pretty good too… ”
“Did you get into much trouble?” inquired Harry, suddenly concerned.
“No. I got a promotion,” Griphook smiled with satisfaction. He added, “I don’t think anyone could do it again, though, even with inside help. Breaking in was a great service to our bank. Security is much improved now. But you are owed an even greater debt, Harry Potter. One the goblins will not soon forget. Voldemort would not have been benevolent to our kind.”
“Well,” said Harry, shoving handfuls of coins in his moneybag, “does that mean I get a better interest rate?”
That started Griphook laughing again for a while. He wiped his face once again, and commented, “That was a good one… Are you done here, then?”
“I am,” said Harry.
Griphook closed the vault and handed Harry his key. They rode back up in silence.
“Griphook, “ asked Harry suddenly, “how would I go about designating an heir for my money?”
“Ah, very smart, very smart, young Potter. Let’s take this into my office.”
Griphook preceded him to the back of the bank, along a crooked corridor with some doors big enough for wizards, and others obviously reserved for goblins. There were words in runes on his door, and his office was a very beautiful room, from the rug on the floor, an intricate work of art in golden tones, to the forged bronze furniture, the seats of which were lined in rich brown leather. There was a tapestry with thousands of California poppies behind his desk, swaying to an unfelt breeze, and the paint on the wall gave the impression of a forest in the fall.
Oblivious to Harry’s admiring survey of his surroundings, Griphook was all business. “Potter, Henry “Harry” James,” he said, as he tapped on a very large file cabinet with his long finger. Three leather-bound books appeared on his desk.
“Here we go,” he murmured.
“My name is Henry?” Harry asked flabbergasted. “Are you sure?”
Griphook stared at him as if trying to decide how to respond to such an imbecilic question. “Harry is a nickname, Mr. Potter. Henry is a common first name and middle name in your family. Your father’s full name was James Henry Potter, your paternal grandfather was Henry Rumpelstiltskin Potter, and your great grandfather was Charlus Henry Potter, who by the way was married to Dorea Black, Mr. Sirius Black’s great aunt.”
“Oh. Er… OK, then. Henry it is. Weird… ”
Griphook rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Harry Potter, though you are of age, you have not yet reached your magical majority. You will attain it either when you come into your full power or reach the age of twenty-one, whichever comes first.”
“Full power? Am I to get more power?” asked Harry, confused.
Griphook let out a heavy sigh. “No, Harry Potter. At your magical… puberty if you will, you will gain access to all of your power, most of which is locked in your magical core until then.”
“Really?” Harry was blown away. He’d never heard of this.
Griphook shook his head. He grumbled, “For Bodrog’s sake, don’t they teach Muggle-born and Muggle-raised wizards anything in that school?” Then he sighed and recited, as if terribly put upon, “Harry Potter, some morning in the next few years you will wake up with almost no magic. You will feel sick and weak all day. Your temperature will go up and you will have hallucinations until you lose consciousness. When you recover, you will have access to the full extent of your magical power. On that day or on your twenty-first birthday, you will reach your magical majority and come into your full inheritance.”
He leaned forward, eyes shining. “Sadly, only then will we be able to review together the extent of your assets.” He gleefully rubbed his hands together. “But trust me, Harry Potter, they are… not negligible.” He sat back again and, turning the books one by one in Harry’s direction, went on. “They consist of the Potter estate, the Black estate, and the Lupin estate, though if all goes well, the Lupin estate will only be yours until the little Metamorphmagus Theodore Henry Lupin reaches the age of three alive and well.”
“Wow, wow, slow down, I’m really confused. Why do I have the Lupin estate, and how is Teddy supposed to handle even his minor heir’s vault at the age of three?”
“He is not. His estate will be managed by his guardians—his grandmother, Mrs Andromeda Callisto Tonks and yourself—until he, himself, reaches his majority. But you were Mr. Remus Lupin’s sole heir until the birth of his son, and will remain his heir until Teddy Lupin reaches his third birthday.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. Wait. My aunt Petunia was my guardian. Surely she didn’t manage my accounts?”
Griphook snorted inelegantly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your aunt may have had your physical guardianship, but your financial assets were, and will remain until your majority, in the best possible hands.” Griphook grinned at him, showing his very pointy teeth. “Mine.”
Harry could not help laughing at his expression. “How did that happen?” he wondered.
“When he came into his inheritance, your father was an Auror fighting a war. He had neither the desire nor the wherewithal to analyze investments, deal with long-term planning, or decide when to hold or sell assets. I have had the pleasure to counsel the Potter family in financial matters since your great grandfather Arthur Henry Potter, Charlus’ father. Your father entrusted me with the complete management of his fortune. I continued my work with the Potter estate after your father died and the Black estate’s portfolio came into my care after Mr. Black’s death, since you are the heir to the House of Black.”
“Oh, I see. That’s great. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about any of it for a couple more years,” said Harry, honestly. “But in case I die before then, I’d like to arrange the distribution of my assets. If I can do this, I’d like the Black estate to go to Teddy Lupin and the Potter estate to Ron Weasley. So, can I do this?”
“The only heir never denied the inheritance of its assets by a House is the legitimate wizard son of the previous Head of the House. In this case, there is no guarantee that the Black and Potter Houses will accept your choices, especially that of Ronald Bilius Weasley, since there are no blood connections between the Potters and the Weasleys. But being your heir of choice for these estates will put them at the head of the line, so to speak, and who knows what criteria the Ancient Houses use to decide to accept or reject an heir?”
He tapped his long finger on the two books concerned, naming Harry’s chosen heirs, and they opened to a page showing Harry’s decisions laid down in legal terms. “Please tap your wand at the bottom of the page while saying, “Read and approved,” and sign in the space provided,” Griphook requested.
Harry did what he was told. “So I can do this, even though I have not reached my majority?” he asked, curious.
“Correct. This is considered a magical contract, and you can legally enter such a contract as soon as you are of age. Before July 31st, 1997, there was nothing you could have done. Magical contracts entered into by wizards under the age of seventeen are null and void, and are of no legal value.” Griphook shook his head. “They should really teach a basic law class at that school of yours. How wizards are expected to function as productive members of society without this basic knowledge is beyond me… ”
Griphook got up. “Well, Harry Potter, if there is anything else, you’ll have to make an appointment. I have things to do.”
“No, that’s it I think.” They walked back to the bank’s lobby. “Thank you so much for your time and patience, Griphook. I learned an enormous amount,” said Harry gratefully. “Goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye. Give my best to my fourth cousin thrice removed, and tell him I went easy on you.”
“That would be the giant squid, right?”
Griphook started laughing again and dismissed Harry with a wave of his hand, chuckling away as he disappeared back in the depths of the bank.
Harry was quite pleased with himself. He was looking forward to relating this encounter to Flitwick to see if he had held his own with Filius’ distant cousin.
He next stopped at Madam Malkin’s for the dress robes he needed that afternoon.
“Well, if you want them right away, there will be an additional charge for spelling them to fit immediately, and you will have to return them for me to permanently alter them, as the spell will wear out over time,” she warned, chagrined at being unable to do things the right way the first time around.
He smiled at her. “I understand, Madam Malkin. But this is an emergency.”
“What are the robes for, anyway, Mr. Potter?” she asked.
“I am sitting in at the Death Eaters’ trials this afternoon, as the heir to the House of Black.”
“Oh, Mr. Potter! That is such an honor! Let’s get robes that match the color of the Wizengamot attire then, don’t you think? It is this nice maroon over there.” She picked a model off the rack and added black dress trousers, a white dress shirt with a straight collar, a maroon-and-gold striped cravat and a velvet maroon waistcoat. She put it all in a small room with a three-way mirror and told him to put them on.
She seemed to sense when he was dressed in the new garb, for she entered the room after only a perfunctory knock. Harry felt like a child trying on his father’s clothes, everything being so big on him. She made him stand on a small platform in front of the mirror and performed the complicated wand motion of what appeared to be a complex charm. Next thing he knew, the new garments fit Harry perfectly.
The robes were made of pure maroon wool flannel lined with heavy gold colored satin. Their clasps closed, the neckline showed his high collar and his cravat and the robes flowed to the ground in elegant folds, the sleeves so wide they dropped from his wrist to his knees, showing the contrasting lining. Clasps open, they revealed the complementary waistcoat, which made a beautiful contrast with the satin lining and the fitted black trousers that were extremely flattering to his slender silhouette.
”Wow. Thanks. These are… really nice,” said Harry, surprised and quite pleased with the way he looked.
She smiled at him. “You will never be tall, Mr. Potter, but you have grown a few inches in the past two years. You might as well wear robes that fit, especially since your proportions are perfect and you were gifted with a beautiful frame and long muscles, which, despite your smaller stature, give you that lithe, elegant look many would kill for.”
Harry blushed, but looking in the mirror he had to admit he did like what he saw. Feeling suddenly bold, he purchased a whole new wardrobe: school robes, dress robes, casual robes, and several pairs of the very fitted wizard trousers with stirrups he’d always substituted jeans for.
He had a great time picking the materials for waistcoats: one with the Black coat of arms, green with three black crows; one with the Potter one, dark blue with five small white flowers; one with a snake pattern, small silver snakes on a grey background, to celebrate his ability to speak Parseltongue; one with golden Snitches on a sky-blue background; and finally one with the golden Gryffindor lion on a dark red background. Madam Malkin helped him pick the matching cravats.
He even included socks, undershirts, and smalls that actually fit him to his order, promising himself to get rid of every Dudley hand-me-down as soon as he received his new garments. He loved the ankle-length leather boots he replaced his worn trainers with. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so scrawny now that his clothes were not three sizes too big.
Leaving Madam Malkin with his maroon robes opened on his waistcoat, he felt every inch the wizard. Diagon Alley was now bustling with people shopping, carrying on with the day’s business, or simply enjoying the beautiful morning in the revived street without a worry in the world. People happily greeted each other, stopped and chatted, celebrating with every smile the victory of freedom over darkness.
Harry, having performed a powerful Notice-Me-Not charm on himself, passed unseen amongst the throngs, soaking up the joyful atmosphere. He felt a lot of satisfaction on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix and of all his friends. As far as he was concerned, this walk was a much better victory celebration than any of those banquets he’d been invited to.
He stepped into Ollivander’s, which was doing brisk business: a lot of half-bloods and Muggle-borns had had their wands confiscated and destroyed, and the Ministry was paying for their replacements. Several witches and wizards were in line, Ministry of Magic vouchers in hand.
What surprised Harry the most was the fact that the stock looked undiminished from his first visit, years ago, to buy his own wand. He knew the entire store had been emptied by Voldemort’s minions.
A willowy young woman with Ollivander’s unsettling pale grey eyes and a very thick blond braid that reached her waist was serving customers. She looked enough like Mr. Ollivander that Harry immediately assumed she was his daughter. He approached the counter.
The young woman seemed as knowledgeable both about the stock and about matching wands to wizards as Mr. Ollivander himself, her small thin hands quick to pull boxes from the shelves and her melodic, soft voice dismissing unsuitable wands and celebrating matches with as much authority as her father’s.
Finally a lull presented itself and Harry accosted her, negating the Notice-Me-Not by doing so. “Excuse me, miss. Is Mr. Ollivander around today?”
She looked at him, a bit puzzled not to have seen him approaching the counter. She evidently recognized him right away. “He is in the back, Mr. Potter. Please! Come through, I am sure he would be glad to see you.”
She lifted a hinged section of the counter to allow him to step through and gestured vaguely to the back of the store, already concentrating on the next customer.
Harry made his way through walls of boxes that formed a murmuring labyrinth, as if the magic of each wand was reaching out in search of its owner, whispering to him as he passed. He got to a door and knocked lightly.
“Come in, Mr. Potter,” said an elderly but strong voice. How did Ollivander know who was knocking?
Harry entered a small room bright with sunshine. The entire back wall was a gigantic window made up of hundreds of small square panes. Sitting on a high stool in front of a workbench was Ollivander himself. A jeweler’s loupe was affixed to his eye, and he was meticulously laying a unicorn hair on the polished shaft of a thin black wand.
“Ebony, twelve inches, with a core of unicorn mane hair. Nice and supple handling, springy. It will be very good for Charms.”
The whole wand glowed brightly for a second as the long white strand sank right through the wood and disappeared.
“Not too many people get to witness this step, Mr. Potter. It is a trade secret, you know.” He carefully placed the newly finished wand on a bed of green silk inside its long narrow box.
“But I think you know more about wands than most wizards do.” Ollivander put down his loupe and gave Harry a thin-lipped smile. “Have you ever considered a career as a wand-maker Mr. Potter?”
“Uh, no… Not really.” The idea had never crossed his mind.
“Good, good, you would be terrible at it,” chuckled Ollivander. “Your magic is as bright as a beacon, and as straightforward. I am afraid wand-making requires a certain level of devious manipulation of which you are completely incapable. There has never been a Gryffindor wand-maker, did you know? Slytherins, every last one of us, I am afraid. Alas, my daughter Edelweiss, who is minding the store today, was a Ravenclaw. But my grandson Orion is learning the trade. He is only eight, but I have no doubt where he will be Sorted. The wands talk to him, just as they talk to me. He will take over, someday… ”
“I am glad to see you back in business, sir. The Alley was not the same without your shop.”
“Thank you, Mr. Potter. But I am here only thanks to your timely rescue, you know. I could not have lasted much longer in the hands of that madman.”
“And I would not have been able to defeat him without the knowledge of wand lore you shared with me, Mr. Ollivander.”
“Then I guess we’re even, aren’t we, Mr. Potter?” He looked at Harry with unreadable eyes. “May I see your wand, please?”
Harry did not like to give it up, but did not know how to refuse the man who had created it. He reluctantly handed it over. Ollivander accepted it with both hands, holding it reverently in the noon light.
“One of my best, I think,” he said. “And all the better for this impossible repair.” Eyes closed, he passed the tip of his finger along its length, and smiled. “It will be with you until the end, Mr. Potter.” Then Harry’s wand glowed brightly for a second as if hit by a spell, and Ollivander returned it to him. Harry could not help snatching it back and checking it, alarmed.
“You did me a great honor and showed me great trust by letting me handle it. I have added a little something to it.” Ollivander chuckled at Harry’s horrified look. “Oh, no, don’t fret. It is a good thing. One I can only very rarely bestow, because it takes a very special wand and a very special wizard to make it possible. From now on, you will sense where it is at all times, it will never accidentally fall from your hand, and no one will ever be able to take this wand from you, Mr. Potter, or use it, unless you give them express permission to do so. It is impervious to Expelliarmus or any other spell of that kind. I do not think you will find that all that useful anymore, times being much safer… But one never knows, does one?”
Harry looked at his wand. It seemed unchanged, but even though it had always felt good in his hand, now it truly felt like an extension of his being, a part of him. He spun it on the tip of his index finger and smiled. He could feel he would never drop it again, or misplace it. It felt bound to him somehow. “Wow, thank you, sir. It feels amazing.”
“Don’t mention it. I do not get to do this trick very often… It was my pleasure. But I must get back to work, now.” He extracted what looked like a thick twig from a quiver-like holder.
“Hawthorne,” he mumbled to himself. “Temperamental… ” He seemed to have already forgotten Harry’s presence.
“Mr. Ollivander?”
“Yes?”
“Your inventory seems intact. I thought Voldemort… ”
“He did. He took all of the stock from our store. Of course, the wands burned, when our boxes self-destructed. A nasty surprise for him, that was… One that almost cost me my life. Most of the boxes out there are empty, only for show, to reassure our customers. We had only a few hundred wands stored in our Gringotts vault, which is why I must get back to work… ”
“Of course. I am sorry. It’s good to see you, sir. Goodbye.” Harry left, realizing that Ollivander had already dismissed him from his mind. He retraced his steps through the store and back under the counter, sent away by Edelweiss with only a nod. He would probably never be fully comfortable with Ollivander, but neither would he forget that when the chips were down, the wand-maker had stood with the side of the Light, Slytherin or not.
Casting Tempus, he realized it was time for him to go to the Ministry. He walked to the Leaky Cauldron and Flooed from there. He went to get his wand examined, but the employee just looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Only visitors need register their wands, sir. Not members of the Wizengamot.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Harry went to the lift reflecting that he had just met the one wizard, except for Snape, who was unimpressed by Harry Potter…
The courtroom was almost full already, the Wizengamot members chatting amicably with each other. Kingsley Shacklebolt had evidently been waiting for him, since he welcomed him with a smile at the door and walked in with him. “Harry, thanks for doing this.” He added with a wink, “Nice robes, young man. Now you look like an honorable wizard.”
Harry grinned, actually pleased with the compliment. “Where do I sit, Kingsley?”
“First row behind the Presiding Interrogator, her assistant, and myself, actually. The first open seat on the left, there, between Beetroot and Carrow.”
Seeing Harry’s shocked expression, Kingsley added, “The main branch of the Carrows. Second cousins once removed from the charming siblings that terrorized Hogwarts’ students. You will like the Head of the House of Carrow. She is a lovely older woman who used to teach Charms at Merlin College.”
“Oh, okay. Well I’d better go and take my seat, I guess.”
“Yes. We will be starting momentarily.”
They both went down the steep stairs that divided the balcony in two. Kingsley took his seat at the front and Harry made his way to his seat. As soon as he approached, the Head of the House of Beetroot got to his feet and greeted him with a formal bow. Harry was terribly self-conscious as he bowed back, sure he was doing it all wrong. He’d read about male Heads of House bowing in greeting to other Heads of House the night before, but had obviously never practiced.
He must have done all right somehow, since the man was still smiling at him as he introduced himself. He was of medium height, balding slightly, with bright blue eyes and the pink cheeks and lips of a cherub. “Clarence Omer Beetroot, at your service, Mr. Potter. It is honor to meet you.”
How in the world did you respond to that? “Uh… Thank you. Nice to meet you too, sir.”
He must have said the right thing since the man beamed at him and sat back down. Harry, still standing, turned to the elderly woman seated regally on the other side of the Black seat. He bowed again. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Harry Potter, sitting for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” he said, using the traditional introduction he’d read about the night before.
The old lady smiled at him and the twinkle in her eyes would have rivaled Albus Dumbledore’s. “Well, do sit, then, young man, or I’ll get a kink in my neck talking to you.”
Harry obeyed instantly. The lady patted his knee. “That was well said, Harry, the correct way to introduce yourself. I am Rose Prewett, sitting for the Honorable House of Carrow. You are certainly an improvement over old Walburga. A stupider woman I have rarely met, with her ridiculous blood pride… ‘Toujours Pur’ indeed. I guess you are stuck with that, are you not.”
“Yes, of course, though I have decided its real meaning has nothing to do with blood, obviously, otherwise the House would not have accepted me,” said Harry with a smile. “I think from now on, it will refer to the hearts and intentions of the members of the House of Black. What do you think?”
The old lady let out a very youthful giggle. “I like that very much, Harry. It is a vast improvement.”
Griselda Marchbanks, the Presiding Interrogator, interrupted all conversations with a few raps of her gavel. She was sitting between the Minister of Magic and a grey-haired wizard with a bottlebrush mustache and half glasses who looked punctilious and disapproving. In a clear voice, she announced the beginning of the trials.
~o~ The Trials ~o~
“Please bailiff, bring Mr. Tertius Waldo Yaxley before this court.” The man accompanying the bailiff had a magic-suppressing collar on and his hands and feet were shackled. He wore simple tan robes with the word Azkaban printed on the front and the back. The bailiff removed the shackles, but as Yaxley sat in the chair in the middle of the court, chains wrapped securely around his wrists and ankles.
“Interrogator Minski? Please proceed,” said Griselda.
The grey-haired gentleman squared a stack of papers on his desk and said, in a monotonous and gravelly voice, “The accused will state his name.”
“Tertius Waldo Yaxley, Head of the Powerful and Dignified House of Yaxley,” answered the prisoner arrogantly.
“Not after today, I’m afraid, sir. You have been found guilty of being a Death Eater… ”
“And proud of it!” interrupted Yaxley.
“How nice for you,” said Interrogator Minski, dismissively. He went on, “As you submitted no memories that might have mitigated your sentence, all your personal wealth is as of this moment being transferred from your personal vault at Gringotts to the special treasury for victim compensation, following the Ministry override 1432-333 in accordance with the Wizengamot decision of August 1998, and under the supervision of Frymice, Head of Gringotts Wizard Bank. Your wand was reported and certified under oath to have been destroyed by Auror Charles Hector Chavez after your capture. You can either voluntarily drink the magic-suppressing potion that will permanently disable your magical abilities, or you will be forced to do so by a court mandated Compulsion Charm. Do you have any questions?”
“How dare you stand in judgment of me, you are not worthy of licking the Dark Lord’s boots!” yelled Yaxley.
“Unlike yourself, no doubt,” answered Minski.
Yaxley kept turning his head away from the strange iridescent potion presented to him by the bailiff.
They watched it go on for a minute until Minski commented, “Hmm. Compulsion, I guess.” He grabbed the wand at his side and flicked it in Yaxley’s direction. The man immediately stopped resisting and drank the slightly smoking liquid to the last drop. He put his head down for a moment and the bailiff took advantage of it to remove his magic-suppressing necklace. The chain fell away from his arms and legs.
“Mr. Yaxley, you are now a Squib. Any physical violence by yourself towards others will be punished by imprisonment in Azkaban,” warned Griselda Marchbanks.
“Physical violence! What do you take me for? Some Muggle thug?” spat Yaxley.
“If no family member is present today to retrieve you, you will be given a set of plain robes, five Galleons, and five English pounds, courtesy of this court. Goodbye, Mr.Yaxley, and good luck,” continued Griselda Marchbanks, not unkindly.
“I don’t need your charity. I am a Yaxley! You will all regret this when the Dark Lord returns. He will annihilate you!”
“Mr. Yaxley, as I am sure you were made aware, Mr. Tom Riddle is deceased, with no hope of return. You might do well to accept it, and concentrate on building a new life for yourself.”
Walking out of the courtroom to the antechamber, accompanied by the bailiff and joined by a tall, dark haired woman carrying a garment bag, Yaxley laughed and said, “That shows what you know, Marchbanks! Just you wait and see.”
Yaxley had been in court less than ten minutes. Shacklebolt was right. This was not going to take a very long time.
“Well,” commented Minski, “That went well… Let’s plan for a twenty-minute break at five for a cuppa, and a forty-minute one at eight for supper. If we start early tomorrow, we could be done by tomorrow night.”
Griselda and Kingsley nodded as she said, “Please, Bailiff, bring Mr. Albert Baltus Rockwood to the court… ”
The same scene was repeated again and again that afternoon. Some Death Eaters showed remorse, some despair at their loss of magic, some were almost catatonic in disbelief, some aggressive and arrogant like Yaxley. Harry was pleased to note that they all looked in good health, clean, with no trace of abuse at the hands of their captors and no evidence of deprivation.
Once without magic, none of them seemed inclined to resort to physical violence after they were free from their bindings, and all were met by relatives on the way out of the court.
One of them, an Anton Jay Barrow, purveyor of rare and mostly dark potions ingredients, kept saying, as if it excused his actions, “It was business, just business, I tell you! I took the Mark so he would buy from me! It was like any contract! He was my best customer in difficult-to-obtain ingredients! I never hurt anyone!”
“And what do you think these ingredients were used for, Mr. Barrow?” questioned Minski. “Making butterbeer? They were made into the only potions these ingredients can be used for: potions to torture, maim, possess, and kill. And you have a share in the responsibility of every crime committed with these potions.”
“But it was business! Just business!” he continued insisting, even as he was walked out of the court.
It actually made Harry curious. He asked Rose Prewett, “What is the legal meaning of the Mark? I know from Professor Flitwick’s research that taking it bonded a Death Eater to Voldemort, and that it contained an enslavement component, but what does it represent legally?”
“Griselda would be the best one to answer that question, Mr. Potter. To ask her a question, you simply raise your wand, just like you raise your hand in school.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to interrupt… ”
“You are not here merely to witness, Mr. Potter, you are here to participate. You have a question, and a good one. Ask it.”
“All right.” Harry did as he’d been told and raised his wand, feeling a little silly.
A light went on in front of Griselda’s desk, and the three forward seats turned as one, now facing the assembled interrogators. Mr. Minski said, “The Wizengamot recognizes the House of Black. Mr. Potter, you have the floor.”
Now Harry was completely embarrassed even though Griselda Marchbanks and the Minister, both Order of the Phoenix members he called by their first names, were smiling at him encouragingly. Mr. Minski just looked politely interested.
Harry took a breath, told himself not to begin his question with “Uh… ” and started. “My apologies for the interruption. I was wondering what the Dark Mark represents legally, what its legal significance is.”
“An important question, Mr. Potter,” said Griselda, putting him a bit more at ease. “Though it contained a hidden enslavement component, the Dark Mark represents, before anything else, a voluntary bonding between a Death Eater and his … Lord. As with all bonding, it actually is a legal contract, and it is on that basis that we were able to come to the decision we did regarding sentencing. Does that answer your question, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes. Yes, it does, thank you.”
The chairs turned back toward the front and Griselda Marchbanks called for the bailiff to bring in the next Death Eater, Erasmus Brutus Bluegum. It was the big blond Death Eater Harry had had more than one run in with. He did not, however, pay much attention to the man’s sentencing; he was too busy internally celebrating.
He had come to the Wizengamot fully prepared to make an arse of himself, milking the Boy Who Lived, the Man who killed Voldemort, and the essential part he had taken in the Summoning to his maximum advantage, basically hoping to save Malfoy from his fate by playing on his fame and the debt the magical world might feel he was owed. Though he had promised Ginny to go to any length to secure Draco’s release, he had not looked forward to doing something he so wholeheartedly despised. And now, he would not have to.
He was so incredibly relieved that, instead of the nausea he had expected, he actually felt excitement when, at twenty to five, Griselda called for Lucius Abraxas Malfoy to be brought before the court. She was being told by the bailiff that he had been released on his own recognizance when Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy entered the court. Lucius Malfoy, without further ado, took his place on the accused chair in the middle of the room. The chains wiggled, but did not bind him.
Mr. Minski looked at him above the rim of his reading glasses. “The accused will state his name,” he said, in a rather bored voice.
“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”
“Mr. Malfoy, you have been found guilty of being a Death Eater. As you submitted no memories that might serve to mitigate your sentence, you will surrender all personal wealth to the court for victim compensation, turn over your wand or destroy it forthwith, and drink a magic-suppressing potion that will permanently disable your magical abilities. Do you have any questions?”
“No.” Lucius Malfoy was displaying remarkable calm. He extracted a small gold key from his breast pocket and put it down on a velvet-lined tray that had appeared at the side of his chair.
“This is the key to my personal Gringotts vault,” he said. Next he hesitantly took out a wand. “My own wand was destroyed. I have been using my late father’s.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but if you have used this wand for more than thirty-seven days,” he waited for Malfoy to confirm this with a nod, “this wand is considered yours by law, and you will need to surrender it, or destroy it in our presence.”
“Very well.” Lucius was obviously about to break it over his knee, when he hesitated, and stopped. “Could I be allowed to use it one last time, your Honor,” he asked Griselda, “before I lose my magic?”
Griselda turned first to Kingsley Shacklebolt and then to Mr. Minski, who both nodded imperceptibly. “As it has remained in your possession until now, I do not see why not, Mr. Malfoy. Make it quick, please.”
Malfoy stood up and, picking up the walking stick that had been leaning against the chair, Transfigured it into a magnificent bouquet of long-stem red roses. He walked the bouquet to Narcissa, who looked stunned but took it with tears in her eyes.
Then he walked back to the centre chair, snapped the wand over his knee, and took up the glass of shimmering potion that was waiting on the tray. Without the slightest hesitation, he drank it down in one swallow. He made a face and a long shudder shook his body. It was done. Lucius Malfoy was a wizard no more.
He put the pieces of wand and the glass back on the tray, and walked to the public area, to stand by his wife. She slipped her hand into his and gave him a brilliant smile, tears rolling down her face. He leaned over to kiss her temple, then turned to Draco and gave him a hard hug. Without waiting to be called, Draco made his way to the central chair his father had just vacated.
“The accused will state his name,” said Mr. Minski, not even looking up, in the same bored voice.
“Draco Atticus Malfoy.” His face was pale and his voice lifeless, but he showed no fear.
Harry raised his wand, and as it had happened previously, after the light came on in front of Griselda’s desk, the three front chairs turned back. Once again Mr. Minski said, “The Wizengamot recognizes the House of Black. Mr. Potter, you have the floor.”
This time, Griselda, Kingsley and Mr. Minski all looked at him questioningly.
Harry had been planning his speech all afternoon and spoke with conviction. “Presiding Interrogator, Minister, honored members of the Wizengamot, it was confirmed earlier by the Presiding Interrogator of this court that the Dark Mark is the physical manifestation of a magical bonding contract entered into by the Death Eaters with the so-called Lord Voldemort.
“Like any magical bonding or other magical contract, it can only be entered into legally if both wizards concerned are of age. When the accused, Draco Atticus Malfoy, who was born June 5th, 1980, received the Mark, he was barely sixteen years of age and therefore his bonding was not legal. Regardless of the presence of the Dark Mark on his arm, he is not, nor has he ever been, a Death Eater.”
The members of the Wizengamot were whispering excitedly among themselves. Finally, Mr. Minski leaned forward and asked, staring at Harry above his glasses, “And what made you think of this, Mr. Potter?”
“I am in school with Draco Malfoy, sir, in the same year, or was, anyway. He is only a couple months older than I am. In the summer before sixth year, when he got the Mark, I couldn’t even Apparate legally.”
That did not really answer the gentleman’s question, but it was true, and the man was nodding understandingly nonetheless.
“Do you have any personal interest in seeing Mr. Malfoy… exonerated, Mr. Potter?” That question had come from behind him and Harry had no idea from whom.
“None. I don’t even like him, actually,” admitted Harry.
“Why is that, Mr. Potter?” That came from Griselda Marchbank herself.
“I think he’s a git,” said Harry, shrugging apologetically.
There were several chuckles at that, and a comment, once again from somewhere in the back, “Like father, like son… ”
“But you do not think he deserves to share the fate of the other Death Eaters.” Griselda Marchbank was making a statement, not asking a question, but Harry felt compelled to explain.
“Draco Malfoy and I are two faces of the same coin, really. Our destinies were pressed upon us, by our births, our families, our parents’ actions. I succeeded in killing Voldemort. He failed in killing Dumbledore. I was there on the tower that night. I saw it. The Headmaster was at his mercy and Draco Malfoy lowered his wand. It’s not easy to go against your destiny. He made a choice that night, which said a lot more about him than the Dark Mark on his arm does.”
“Thank you, Mr. Potter, for preventing this court from a grave judicial error,” said Griselda Marchbanks. The chairs turned back to face the accused and the public area again. “This court finds that the bonding between Tom Marvolo Riddle and Draco Atticus Malfoy, which is physically represented by the Dark Mark, was contracted before Mr. Malfoy was of age, and is consequently legally null and void. All charges against Mr. Draco Malfoy are therefore dismissed. Mr. Malfoy, you are free to go.”
Draco started to rise from the chair, but abruptly dropped back down. He covered his face with his hands, and appeared to take several deep, long breaths. Uncovering an expressionless face, he stood up again and walked calmly over to his parents. Narcissa put down her bouquet of flowers and opened her arms to her son, whose facade suddenly broke, showing the happiest smile Harry had ever seen on that pointy face as Draco rushed into his mother’s embrace. They held each other very tightly, and Lucius’ arms found their way around them both. They stayed in that huddle for several minutes and then stepped back, all three of them smiling.
Narcissa looked at Griselda. “Thank you, your honor. Thank you for my son.”
“You are welcome, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Griselda, gently.
Narcissa then directed her smile to Harry, who smiled back. Lucius acknowledged him with a nod.
“On this happy note, I’d like to ask for a twenty minute recess,” said Minski in his bored gravelly monotone.
Griselda struck her gavel. “Granted. We will reconvene at 5:20 PM.”
Harry hurried out to catch up with the Malfoys. “Malfoy! Uh… Draco, I mean,” he added when all three of them turned around. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Draco’s face was once again unreadable as he nodded in agreement. Narcissa and Lucius walked far enough ahead to give the two young men some privacy. Harry and Draco made their way to an alcove in front of a long window.
“What do you want, Potter, the expression of my eternal gratitude?” asked Malfoy flippantly.
Harry chuckled. “Yeah, right. Please, Malfoy, don’t make me ill. Besides, I didn’t do this as a favor to you, believe me.”
Draco looked at him, calculatingly. “Is this your way of paying us back, then, for when my mother lied to the Dark Lord to protect you?”
Harry shook his head, amused. Slytherins saw the world so differently than he himself did. “No, Malfoy. I did it for someone I care very much about, who would do the same for me were the circumstances reversed.”
“Snape?”
Huh? Snape?? Why would Malfoy think that? It certainly was food for thought, but for now, he simply shook his head again. “No, Malfoy. Would you believe… Ginny Weasley?”
The look Draco gave him was for once completely unguarded and devoid of pretence, showing genuine surprise and definite interest. “Why? What does your girlfriend have to do with this?”
“She has not been my girlfriend for over a year, Draco. It would seem, however, that she has grown rather… fond of you.”
Draco’s pale cheeks suddenly turned a most becoming shade of pink. “She has?”
Harry grinned, pleased by Draco’s reaction and deciding to let him off easy. “Just thought you might like to know, Malfoy. See you around.” He turned to leave.
“Potter?”
Harry turned back.
“Thank you,” said Draco. He added, with a smirk, “For telling me about the Weaslette, of course.”
Harry smiled back at him. “Don’t thank me, thank her—for me, as well. She made me do it, but she was right, you know. Welcome back, Malfoy.”
He turned away again, heading back to the courtroom, grinning, and this time, did not look back. He chuckled. Draco Malfoy was such a git.
The tribunal session went on until eleven that night, and Harry would have liked to spend the night in a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but he wanted to tell Ginny about Malfoy and put her out of her misery.
When he Flooed in, the whole family was still in the sitting room. Ginny and George were playing wizard chess, Percy was writing something on Ministry parchment, Molly was doing the household accounting, and Arthur was reading a Ministry report, making notes in the margin.
Harry shook the soot off his robes and stepped in, greeting everyone.
“Oh, Harry! Don’t you look sharp, love,” said Molly with a warm smile. “Come here, though, you still have soot on the lining.” She did a quick charm to clean him up.
“So, Harry? How was it?” asked Arthur.
He had all of their attention, and Ginny was chewing her lower lip in nervousness. “Each case is pretty quick really, and they are either broken, arrogant, or doing the stiff upper lip thing. The Malfoys were the only ones who broke the mold. Lucius Transfigured his cane into a bouquet for his wife before breaking his wand, and Draco got off.”
“He did?” said George, excitedly. “How did he manage that?”
“He had nothing to do with it. It was determined that he took the Mark before he was of age, and that the Mark represents a bonding contract which he was legally too young to enter into. The Presiding Interrogator pronounced the bonding contract null and void, the Mark insignificant, and Draco was released.”
Percy nodded approvingly and Molly said, “I’m glad. He’s so young. Narcissa must have been beside herself with relief.”
Harry grinned. “So was Lucius. They had a group hug for several minutes, and all three of them had big smiles on their faces, quite unlike the customary Malfoy deportment.”
Ginny got up and left the room quietly, and Harry was probably the only one to guess she was not heading for the loo. He said, “Well, we are starting again at seven tomorrow morning so, I’m for bed.”
Molly approved. “Good idea. Another long day ahead of you tomorrow?”
“Yes. They want to finish by tomorrow night.”
“Good heavens! What’s the big hurry?” she asked.
“I think they figure the quicker it gets done, the sooner everyone can put the war behind them and look to the future. No point in dragging it out and keeping people in Azkaban any longer than necessary, I guess.”
“Kingsley has made a lot of changes in Azkaban. There are medwizards on staff now, decent uniforms for the prisoners, clean bedding and three meals a day,” mentioned Arthur. “Of course, there are also human guards now that the Dementors have left. The place was quite crowded with all the Death Eaters. Aurors were sent to help the guards out. We can now take pride in the fact that prisoners are treated humanely, but it certainly is a noticeable drain on the Ministry’s budget.”
They exchanged goodnights, and Harry left, heading for his and Ron’s room. As soon as he closed the sitting room door behind him however, Harry got an armful of happy red-headed girl.
“Thank you, Harry! Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Harry laughed. “You’re welcome, Ginny. I feel pretty good about it myself. Things would just not be the same without the ferret around.”
“Did you have to lay it on thick with the Boy Who Lived stuff? Was it very horrible?” He could tell she felt terrible having put him in that situation.
“No, actually. I told the truth in there. It was pretty much as I described, I just happened to have brought up Draco’s age at the time he took the Mark to the Presiding Interrogator’s attention.”
“And you just thought that up, just like that, because you are secretly a legal genius?”
Harry stuck his tongue out at her. “No, you jerk. It was serendipitous. And as you can see, on top of my legal genius, I now have the ability to use five-syllable words… Anyway, Griphook at Gringotts told me that a contract is only valid if you are of age, and about three hours later, Griselda Marchbanks described the Mark as the physical evidence of a bonding contract, that’s all. It just clicked together nicely. I was just glad not to have to play on my notoriety.”
“Well,” she said earnestly, “serendipitous or not, I am impressed, and forever grateful. So… he’s free?”
“Yes, Ginny. Draco Malfoy is free. I am sure it will take him a few days to get use to the idea after the thoughts he must have been harboring since Kingsley announced the sentence Death Eaters would be facing. Now he’s got to figure out his future.”
Ginny said wistfully, “Even if I never see him again, I am really glad.”
“I know what you mean, but as far as not seeing him again… I wouldn’t count on it. You know, those bad Knuts have a way of always turning up.”
She smiled. “Oh, hush. Thanks again, Harry, really. Hey, were you going up to bed? I better go finish my chess game or George is going to wonder where I got to.” She gave him one more smile. “Good night.”
Harry walked upstairs feeling great, though he was tired and was facing more long sessions again the next day. He hung up his robes and fell into bed.
The next day was but a repeat of the day before. The last two Death Eaters to come up for sentencing, at seven-thirty that evening, were the Carrows, brother and sister. Both were filled with spite and bitterness and left the court accompanied by their mother, a woman who reminded Harry of Walburga Black. The interrogators were thrilled to be done. A small committee would review the memories of the thirteen Death Eaters who had presented them for evaluation, and would decide their fate. Harry had not answered Griselda’s call for volunteers to man the committee, so his duty was at an end.
Griselda and Kingsley both thanked Harry for his astute intervention in Draco’s favor, and more than one member of the Wizengamot made sure to greet him personally before he left. It was getting on nine by the time he made it back to the Burrow.
~o~ Gratitude ~o~
He needed to relax, and as soon as he got back asked Ginny if she would go for a flight with him. She was enthusiastic and walked upstairs to grab a jacket as they chatted. He had just hung his robes when there was a knock on the door. Ginny opened it.
“Harry?” It was Arthur Weasley, looking a little uncertain.
“Sir?”
“Severus Snape is downstairs to see you, Harry.”
For some reason, Harry’s heart seemed to think it was a galloping stallion. “Snape? What does he want?”
“I have no idea. I guess you had better come and find out.”
“Sorry, Ginny. Let’s fly in the morning, okay?”
What could Snape possibly want with him? Harry took the stairs down two at a time.
Molly was waiting at the bottom. She whispered, “He is waiting for you in the sitting room. I’ll bring coffee in shortly, shall I?”
Harry was sure that she was just making an excuse to come and check on him, and was glad of it. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Weasley. That will be great.”
He tried to calm himself before entering, but then inadvertently tripped on the corner of the rug as he walked in and made a less than suave entrance. Snape, luckily, had his back to him and Harry had recovered his balance before Snape turned around.
He was at his most… Snapish: all black robes and black hair, hands behind his back, his pale face giving nothing away.
“Good evening, Professor Snape. What can I do for you, sir?” asked Harry, politely.
Snape stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes sweeping up and down his body, without saying anything, making Harry uncomfortably aware he was still wearing his perfectly fitted trousers, his shirt and tie and his velvet waistcoat, a far cry from his usual attire.
“I have been informed of what transpired yesterday at the meeting of the Wizengamot.” Snape’s voice was soft and smooth, yet deep and harmonious. Unbidden came the realization, to Harry’s surprise, that it was very beautiful.
“Er… Yes?”
Again a few seconds of utterly uncomfortable silent staring.
“What you have done for Draco is beyond anyone’s ability to repay, Mr. Potter. As was what you did… for me, with the Summoning.”
To Harry, the situation had just gone from uncomfortable to unbearable. That this man, after all he had done and suffered, should feel the need to express gratitude, if that was what this was, was not something he could stand.
“Sir, I only did what was right, in both cases. There is nothing to repay, nothing at all. I rather feel that I should be the one… ”
Snape raised his hand, effectively quieting him. “I do not believe you have to fear unbecoming shows of gratitude from Draco Malfoy, Mr. Potter. It is not in his nature, nor is it in mine, for that matter. But it has occurred to me that I might have been… unfair to you, in the past, in regard to your… motivations. I thought I ought to acknowledge my error.”
“Oh… ”
A twirl of robes, and Snape was standing in front of the fireplace, a small box of Floo powder taken from a pocket somewhere now sitting in his hand.
A short bow, “Good night, Mr. Potter.” Green flames, a flapping of dark cloth, and he was gone.
Harry dropped onto the settee. Of all the awkward moments in his life, this short interlude with Severus Snape came near the top. And what did it mean? He really had no idea.
Molly chose that moment to make her entrance, a tray with two steaming cups of coffee floating ahead of her. “Oi! Where did he go?” she asked, looking surprised.
“He’s left already,” said Harry shrugging.
“Well, what did he want?” she asked, not hiding her curiosity.
She sat herself next to Harry on the settee, picked up one of the two coffee cups, and took a sip. No point in wasting fresh coffee, after all.
“To thank me, I think, or maybe… apologize? Not sure.” answered Harry, still nonplussed.
Molly patted his hand, commiserating. “Oh, my dear, how terribly awkward for you.” She brightened up. “Neither likely to happen again any time soon, I bet.”
She smiled at him, and drank up her coffee. Putting the cup back on the tray and giving him a one-armed hug, she added, “Get some rest, now. Tomorrow is another day.”
Harry wondered why, when coming from Molly Weasley, this type of nonsensical platitude sounded so wise and reassuring. He took her advice, glad he had postponed his flight with Ginny, suddenly out of energy. He was in bed with the lights off less than fifteen minutes later. He fell asleep thinking vaguely, and none too consciously, how warm and sexy Snape’s voice had sounded. He woke up with a mess on his belly, but thought nothing of it. He was eighteen years old, after all.
~o~ But He is Our Git. ~o~
On the 27th of August Ron returned. Harry had elected to spend the last few days before the new term started at the Burrow, relishing Molly’s coddling, the seemingly endless stretch of good weather, Arthur’s evening conversation with his children about their futures (treating Harry just like the rest), the beautiful garden, Ginny’s giddy happiness, and the reclaiming of his right to be a lighthearted teenager.
He could not remember ever having felt this carefree. Was this what life would be like from now on? He certainly hoped so.
One evening, right after dinner, a rather tanned Ron unexpectedly walked in through the back door. “G’day, mates!” he said, laughing.
Molly jumped up and ran to him, hugging him within an inch of his life. They all started asking him questions he could not possibly answer, smothered as his was by his mother’s kisses.
“Where is Hermione?”
“How was it?”
“Did you find her parents?”
“What’s Australia like?”
“Mum! Mum! Let me breathe here! I was only gone a couple of weeks, for Merlin’s sake!” he teased Molly.
“Well, I am glad you’re home,” she said smiling.
“Really, ‘cause I couldn’t tell,” he joked, kissing the top of her head.
“Welcome home, son,” said Arthur, smiling to see Molly so happy.
Ginny made room for him on the settee by kicking off George and said, “Sit right here and tell us all about it!”
“What am I,” protested George, feigning outrage, from the spot on the rug where he’d landed, “chopped liver?”
“You’re old news George. Now, hush,” ordered Ginny.
Ron sprawled on the seat and looked at his sister, “What, no tea?”
She kicked his thigh with her heels. “Speak, Ron, before I hex you!”
Ron laughed again, evidently thrilled to be home, and told his story. The retrieval of Hermione’s parents had not gone exactly as planned. They had been found easily, in Melbourne, a nice city full of cars and friendly Muggles who talked funny, and their memories had been restored without any difficulty. But then they had shocked Hermione by deciding to remain in Australia, where they had built a nice life for themselves running a B&B on the coast.
“Bonkers, they are,” commented Ron. “Who’d want to live in a place with 2,900 different species of spiders, I ask you?”
The only thing that had plagued their happiness during their year Down Under had been unexplained dreams of a little girl with bushy hair and chocolate brown eyes that had haunted them both… Now they knew why and rejoiced to have their girl back, but had no intention of resuming their dental careers. Hermione had decided to stay with them as long as possible and would Portkey back just in time to catch the Hogwarts Express.
While Down Under, Ron and Hermione had followed the news from Britain closely and had been amazed to read about Draco Malfoy’s escape from his fate, especially when it had become obvious their best friend had been involved.
“You know, Harry, it’s funny, but we were both really happy at the news,” admitted Ron. “Malfoy’s a git, but I guess he’s our git. What’s the story with Lucius’ ‘Grand Gesture’?”
That was what The Prophet had labeled Lucius Malfoy’s last use of his magic.
“I don’t think it was a ‘gesture,’ to be honest,” said Harry. “I think that whatever else can be said about Lucius Malfoy, he truly loves his wife.”
“Well, she is his meal ticket now,” observed Ron, pragmatically. “I guess he’d better stay on her good side… ”
“Yes, that too, I suppose, but temporarily. The Manor and everything Malfoy will become Draco’s when he turns twenty-one.”
“Wow, imagine that. All that money,” sighed Ron. “Must be nice. I don't suppose we’ll ever see him again.”
~o~
Of course, Ron could not have been more wrong. Later that night, as they were enjoying each other’s company in the sitting room playing a loud game of Exploding Snap, the Floo chimed. George, who was closest to the fireplace, answered. Draco Malfoy’s face appeared in the grate.
“Ferret!” exclaimed George. “You got the wrong Floo, mate!”
Malfoy pointedly ignored him, seeking Arthur with his eyes. Once he found him, he asked, in a rather formal voice, “Mr. Weasley, may I be permitted to come through?”
Harry put his arm around Ginny’s shoulders, noticing that she had suddenly gone a little pale.
“Certainly, young Malfoy, do come in,” answered Arthur, kindly.
Harry had to admire Malfoy’s gumption as he gingerly stepped into the sea of redheads, most of whom he’d insulted frequently and viciously for years, looking perfectly composed. Mrs. Weasley, who had been darning socks, watched the tall, handsome and well-dressed young man with curiosity as he bowed slightly to her first.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
She smiled warmly at him. She always approved of good manners. He turned to Arthur, and once again bowing slightly, said, “Sir.”
“Mr. Malfoy.” Arthur could not help a glint of amusement showing in his eyes.
“May I request permission to speak to your daughter privately for a moment, please?”
Harry felt Ginny shiver under his arm, and he watched a blush creep up on her porcelain skin. The Weasley boys were too shocked to do anything but gape at Draco.
Arthur did not let his surprise alter his impeccable (if rusty) pureblood manners.
“Certainly, young man. Ginny, why don’t you show Mr. Malfoy the garden?”
Malfoy walked towards Harry and Ginny and offered her his arm, greeting Harry with a dry, “Potter.”
Harry could not help but grin at him and thought he saw the merest twitch at the corner of Draco’s mouth.
As soon as they left, the room exploded with noise. The Weasley boys had finally recovered from their astonishment, but Harry did not pay attention to their ranting and speculation. He watched Molly and Arthur and the silent communication that seem to take place between them: a raised eyebrow, a quick smile, a shrug, a nod.
The game resumed, more subdued, as they all seemed to be waiting for Ginny and Draco’s return.
“Maybe I should go see if she’s all right,” said George, starting to get up.
“Sit down, George,” ordered his father, sharply. “I’m sure she’s fine. Besides, I do believe your sister is perfectly able to take care of herself.”
“But Dad… ” complained Ron, who’d been thinking along the same lines as George.
“Do you actually believe you would need more than one Weasley to wipe the floor with a Malfoy in a duel?” asked Arthur, raising his voice just a little.
Harry laughed to himself at Mr. Weasley’s manipulation. Now, going to check on their sister would be putting her abilities in question, and the boys would rather die.
After less than a fairly tense half hour they were back, Ginny wearing Draco’s cloak on top of her dress, and he looking stylish in a perfectly cut long-jacketed suit. Once again, Draco ignored everyone in the room but Arthur and Molly.
“As the Head of the House of Malfoy, I would request a word with the Head of the House of Weasley, if I may, sir?”
Arthur looked at his wife, who gave him a quick smile, and got up. “Let’s have a mug of tea in the kitchen, Draco.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Ginny slipped off the elegant cloak and laid them on the back of her father’s chair. She came back to sit next to Harry, carefully not making eye contact with anyone, biting her lower lip nervously. Molly looked at her with loving amusement.
George, Ron and Percy were talking all at once.
“Mum, what’s going on?”
“Ginny, what did that git want?”
“What does Malfoy want with Dad?”
“Go back to your game,” said Molly, in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’m sure they won’t be long. You can ask him yourself.”
Harry reached for Ginny’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She looked up at him, her eyes shining brightly; a joyous smile lit her face. Harry smiled back, happy for her. Less than fifteen minutes later, Draco and Arthur returned from the kitchen. Arthur returned his robes to Draco and they shook hands in front of the fireplace before Draco stepped back into the green flames to leave. Even as he was disappearing in the magical fire, he made eye contact with Ginny and gave her a smile that Harry had only seen on that pointy face once before, in the courtroom when Draco had been set free.
Once again the boys started talking all at once, directing questions to their mother, father, and sister, indiscriminately.
Arthur, still standing, raised his hands to stop the onslaught. Once peace was restored, he turned to his daughter.
“Ginny?” he said, not unkindly, “Do you want to tell them, or shall I?”
All eyes turned to her. “What Gin? Tell us what?”
She took a deep calming breath, and said, her voice shaking slightly, “Draco Malfoy and I are… betrothed.”
The brothers all jumped up as they expressed their disbelief, unable to convey their feelings sitting on the ground.
“What the hell?”
“You’re only seventeen!”
“You got to be joking!”
“Dad?”
Arthur was running his hands over his face. He sat down in his usual chair and looked at his assembled family.
“Boys, sit down and stop gesticulating.” He was immediately obeyed, so rarely did he issue an order. “Draco Malfoy is the head of the Malfoy family. As such, he came tonight to formally ask permission to court your sister.” He raised his hands to quiet them down again and shook his head. “No matter how little we care about it, we are purebloods, you know, and well, that’s how things are done.”
He looked at his daughter. “How long has this been going on?” he asked her, curious.
“Yeah, Ginny, when did you start dating the ferret?” asked Ron, less gently.
She looked down at her hands. “Tonight,” she said in a little voice.
“What is going on!” cried Percy.
“Ginny, what the hell?” said George.
“Shouldn’t you date him a while before getting ‘betrothed’?” continued Percy, ignoring George’s interruption
“You hate him, Gin! Hell, we all hate him!” Ron reminded her.
“He is not forcing her to do this, is he?” asked George, worried about all the weird pureblood courtship rituals out there.
Ginny looked up. Her usual fire was back. “All right, all of you. Enough already! I don’t owe you or anyone else any explanation, but I do know this is unexpected, so I will make an exception… However, you three will watch it or I will hex you. The truth is, I have been in love with Draco Malfoy for nearly a year and he with me for much longer than that. You know as well as I do that, as the Head of his House, Draco can’t just date casually. He has responsibilities and he takes them very seriously.” She blushed scarlet. “But even if it wasn’t for that, there is nothing casual about how we feel toward each other. It just feels… fated, somehow.”
The boys were staring at her, floored. Molly’s voice filled the silence. “Lucius and Narcissa were engaged the day she turned seventeen,” she recalled, out of nowhere. “We were still in school. She was going to be a mediwitch. She did not even like him while he was still at Hogwarts.”
Her children were staring at her, surprised. She shrugged. “What? She and I were good friends. We were partners in Potions and in Herbology. Lucius had been out of school two years when, two days after her birthday, he showed up at a Quidditch game. She was a Slytherin Chaser. Slytherin won against Hufflepuff. He talked to her afterwards, walking around the pitch after her team had gone to hit the showers, and that was that, they were betrothed.
“He left, and went to talk to Pollux Black, her grandfather, who was the Head of the House of Black at that time, to agree on a courtship ritual. They were married a year later, shortly after she left Hogwarts. Andromeda thought Lucius had put her sister under a spell, but Narcissa just smiled and that’s exactly what she said, that it was ‘fated’.”
“Ginny, this can’t be right. He’s a Slytherin!”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to get over it, Ron,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes at him.
Ron turned to Harry for help. “Mate, say something!”
Harry turned to Ginny making sure to have a terribly serious look on his face, and frowned as he pretended to think for a moment. Finally, he said, “Congratulations!” and grinned.
She burst into giggles.
“You’re supposed to talk some sense into her,” exclaimed Ron, disgusted.
Harry shrugged. “She loves him, he loves her. We should all be so lucky, mate. And you said it yourself, he’s a git, but he is our git. I guess that’s official, now.”
Ginny laughed again, hitting him playfully on the arm.
“So, is he coming back to Hogwarts?” Harry asked Ginny.
She looked shocked. “Oh, my God! I don’t even know!” She hid her face in her hands. “This is ridiculous.”
“You’re telling us,” said George in a whiny voice that made them all laugh.
“I know the answer to that,” said Arthur, smugly. “Draco will take his NEWTS in December. Until then, he will be at Hogwarts, to review for the exams and act as a teacher’s assistant to Professor Snape. Then he will be going on to law school, like a true Malfoy.”
Ginny’s face had lit up at the thought of Draco being with her for three whole months at Hogwarts. Harry teased her. “You’ve got it sooo bad, Gin.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, without a shred of embarrassment.
“I miss Penelope,” said Percy sighing dramatically, out of nowhere. Then his face lit up and he got up off the floor. “I think I’ll go and write her a letter.” As he left the room, they all started laughing again, the tension relieved.
The game of Exploding Snap was abandoned. Ginny and George teamed against Ron and nominally Harry in a game of chess instead. Harry, in fact, contributed nothing, just watching his best friend strategize his siblings’ defeat.
Harry was close enough to them to hear Molly ask Arthur, “So, what courting rites did you agree on?”
“Well, he wanted the Sylvan rites,” answered Arthur, “but I pointed out she still had a year of school. I offered Parnate rites, but he is required by the rules of his House to have a time limit. So we settled on the Mantes Rites, same as us. No less than eighteen months, no more than two years, no consummation before the final step,” they looked at each other and Mrs. Weasley giggled as he reached for her hand with a smile, “and weekly four-hour conversations in the presence of a chaperon. He agreed on Pomfrey or Flitwick, whoever is available. So they can go on regular dates while at school, and the formal conversation once a week will give them a chance to continue to get to know each other. He wanted the full rites. He would not forgo his obligation to give her monthly gifts, and insisted on her weekly Sunday meeting with her future mother-in-law. But Narcissa is lovely. I think it will work out well.”
“Yes. Good choice, Arthur,” approved Molly.
Harry decided he really needed to study not only the workings of the Wizengamot, but also some of the traditions and rites of the magical world. For the first time, he understood a little of the frustration felt by people like Malfoy, who placed such importance on their heritage, with people like himself who entered their world without bothering to learn the first thing about it.
After a few more minutes of silence, he heard Molly say to Arthur, “Well, that leaves only Charlie and Harry, then,” which made him both feel pleased that she had just counted him as one of hers, and curious about George…
~o~ Interlude for the Romantics.~o~
Ginny let go of Malfoy as soon as they stepped out of the house and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, conscious that she wore a simple summer dress in contrast to his impeccable dress robes. The sun was setting, the light extraordinarily golden, the evening air clear and alive with the songs of insects. They walked in silence on the weed-infested path, sending a gaggle of gnomes scrambling for cover.
Molly’s flowers were a glorious riot of color. They reached the edge of untamed roses and turned back, facing the house, still not speaking. Ginny was horribly conscious of how shabby the Burrow looked, built willy-nilly and held together with magic. She peeked at Malfoy, but though his eyes were on the crooked house, his face showed her nothing of his thoughts.
Near the well, he turned away from the house and took the path that led to the stream but stopped halfway there, under the big maple tree where the swing hung, the ropes unraveling.
He finally turned and looked at her, his silvery grey eyes searching hers. “Potter said I had you to thank for his help,” he stated.
She shrugged her thin shoulders. Harry had a big mouth.
Malfoy looked at his feet, then met her eyes again. “He also said that you had grown… fond of me.”
“Harry has a big mouth.” She had said it out loud this time and it was her turn to look down as she felt herself blushing again.
“I have been saying so for years, and have only gotten hexed for my trouble,” remarked Malfoy, deadpan.
Ginny could not help a burst of laughter.
Draco smiled and started strolling again. Ginny waited to hear what he would say next.
“He is a pillock, but I only started hating him in earnest when we were twelve. On Valentine’s Day. When you sent him that horrible excuse for a poem. I was so jealous, I could have cried.” He looked at her sideways. “So I made fun of you, of course, and made you cry.”
She could not walk anymore, too amazed by that confession, her heart beating very fast suddenly.
“I did not speak to my father for the entire summer, that year.” Draco added quietly. “He still has no idea why.”
She looked up and their eyes met. “You almost died because of him. It took me a long time to forgive him, even though he had had no idea, when he first gave you Riddle’s diary, of the depth of danger he had put you in.”
She started walking again wanting to get away from the terrible memories of that year.
Malfoy walked beside her and continued, “That said, I think there are some things you should know about me, even though you may not be able to remain so fond of me after hearing them.”
He took a deep breath and started speaking purposefully and earnestly. “I am a bit of a coward. I am vain and arrogant. While in sixth year, I nearly killed Katie Bell and your own brother Ron. I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, knowing full well people could be killed. I did not know Fenrir Grayback would be among them, but had I known, it probably would not have made any difference. It is because of me your brother William was disfigured and nearly died. I truly meant to murder Dumbledore myself, and regardless of Potter’s legal wrangling, I voluntarily took the Mark, and was a Death Eater.”
He took another deep breath, as if collecting his thoughts, and continued, “I am spiteful and jealous. Though I hated Voldemort and most of the other Death Eaters, I still believe wizards are better than Muggles, that our culture is unique and worth preserving. I believe that Muggle-borns and half-bloods should either embrace it exclusively or get out.” He stopped again for a moment. Ginny could sense he wasn’t done yet, so she waited.
“I am manipulative. I am proud. Proud to be a wizard, proud to be a pureblood, proud to be a Malfoy.”
He looked Ginny in the eyes intently. They were now standing on the edge of the stream and could hear the delicate sounds of the water on the rocks and the calls of the frogs.
“I will not lie to you, Weasley. I may have been in love with you since I was twelve years old, but were you not a pureblood, I wouldn’t be here tonight.”
He was finished now, she could tell (he was not a coward). She let everything he had said hang between them for a moment, enjoying the twilight and the residual warmth of the day radiating from the path.
She answered finally, “Aside from the fact that you have been… in love with me for six years, you have not told me anything tonight I didn’t already know, Malfoy.”
She looked at him. He was so beautiful, this blond boy with his cold, cold eyes and his unsmiling mouth. His face showed nothing of the turmoil he might be feeling after his confession.
Having organized her thoughts, she went on. “I, also, am proud of being a witch, and of being a daughter of the Tolerant and Benevolent House of Weasley, with all that it stands for. That means being able to accept and live peacefully side by side with all sorts of people, including people who do not share our views.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “It allowed me to listen with equanimity to all you had to say when we sat on opposite sides of the tree by the lake, and to really hear you. Knowing you were a Death Eater, I thought hearing your inner thoughts would make me hate you even more than before. But that’s not how it worked out.”
“How did it? Work out, I mean.” Draco sounded unsure for the first time that night.
After his earlier brutally honest description of himself, she felt owed him the truth. “I fell in love with you.”
He was very quiet again for a while then he said softly. “You heard my most intimate thoughts, Weasley, my doubts, my inner conflicts, and you fell in love me?”
She looked up at him again. His grey eyes suddenly held wonder and hope.
“Yes.” She let her feelings show in her luminous smile.
He chuckled softly, disbelieving. “I dared to hope after Potter… But I did not really believe him.” Pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, and gently cupping her cheek he said, his voice still soft, “If it’s all right with you, then, I would like to call you Ginevra.”
“All right,” she said, loving that name on his lips. He leaned forward, looking into her eyes for permission and kissed her. His lips were warm and dry, caressing hers, and then they opened up to each other, and his tongue was soft and gentle. His kiss felt so right, so perfect, like coming home.
He backed away a little, smiling into her eyes, and said, “You know this is forever, don’t you, Ginevra?”
She understood he was warning her that he did not give his heart lightly. As for herself, she had absolutely no doubts. “Yes, it is, Draco.”
They kissed again, savoring the simple joy of it. She shivered. The sun had gone down behind the hills, finally and it was getting cool quickly. He unclasped his elegant cloak to reveal a perfectly cut overcoat, and put it around her shoulders.
“I’ll need to speak to your parents, you know.”
The Head of a pureblood House did not engage in casual dating. She understood the ramifications.
“I know.”
They walked back to the Burrow quietly. As they passed the well and the silhouette of the Burrow appeared against the night sky, Draco said, “I like your house. It looks friendly.”
She squeezed his hand and almost tripped on a gnome. “I suppose you like our gnomes, as well?” she teased.
“The Manor has its garden pests too,” he countered straight-faced. “Some pesky white peacocks… ”
She burst out laughing. He turned to her with a smile, and in a rare spontaneous gesture, pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ve always loved your laugh,” he whispered into her hair.
Her cheek resting against his chest, she took a deep breath. Draco smelled like a summer’s rain. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his arms wrapped around her perfectly. ‘I’ll never be afraid again,’ she thought nonsensically, and sighed. His heart was beating slow and strong next to her ear. ‘This is where my head will rest, and I will hear this heartbeat in my sleep, every night of my life.’ There was not a doubt in her mind, their future a clear path ahead of them.
His arm still around her, they walked the rest of the way in silence, their bodies in harmony.
Part 3: Severus
~o~ Losing It. Jan. 1999 ~o~
It started innocently enough. Professor Severus Snape had gone for a stroll by the lake by the light of the full moon, enjoying the crunching of the frozen snow under his boots and the thick white clouds his breath made in the air. The night was beautifully clear and very cold. He’d kept his gloveless hands in the folds of his warm winter cloak, its hood protecting his ears from the frosty wind. Outside of the sound of his steps and breath, there was only perfect stillness, and silence.
He’d returned to his office feeling at peace, luxuriating in the sense of freedom afforded by the knowledge that Voldemort was gone forever, that the war, the spying, the constant fear of failing in his mission were over, that his life was finally his own… Only to find young Creevey standing at his office door, an expression of deep indecision on his face. It turned to relief at his approach.
“Mr. Creevey, to what do I owe the displeasure of your presence at my door this evening?”
“Detention, sir? You gave me detention this afternoon… ”
Of course. The exploding cauldron of Pepper-up in fifth period. Detention at seven o’clock.
“And how long have you been standing here, wasting your time and taking up space?”
Creevey looked at his Muggle watch. Funny how the Muggle-borns never let go of that one instrument.
“An hour and fifteen minutes, sir.”
“And it did not occur to you, realizing I wasn’t in, to assume that something more important than your detention needed my attention, and that you should consider it re-scheduled to tomorrow?”
“Uh… No, sir. I wasn’t sure. I thought you might arrive any minute… ”
“For over an hour?”
“Well, you see… ”
“Yes, sadly, Mr. Creevey, I do see. Deductive reasoning and decision-making are obviously beyond your limited abilities. I have no patience left for your incompetence tonight. Tomorrow, same time. Don’t be late. You are dismissed.”
Strange that he had so totally forgotten poor Creevey. That was a first. Well, the Shrivelfigs would still need shredding tomorrow. No harm done. And it was gratifying to know that the mere thought of his displeasure could keep a sixteen-year-old boy standing in the freezing corridor for over an hour.
The next day, he forgot the essays he meant to return to the first years in his office, and had to tell them that their work had been so dismal he couldn’t stand grading them all in one sitting.
Friday, he forgot to shave and would have missed the teachers’ meeting as well had Flitwick not mentioned it to him during dinner. He started worrying.
Saturday morning, he allowed himself to sleep in past seven for the first time in… for the first time. He got in the shower at seven-thirty, hoping the extra sleep would help his focus. Finished, and about to step out, he hesitated. Had he washed his hair or not? He could picture himself putting the oily, flame-retardant concoction he brewed for himself and used as shampoo in his hand, but was that today, or yesterday? It must have been yesterday. He did it again. The shampoo foamed instantly in his clean hair; he had done it already.
Annoyed at himself he left the shower, only to realize he did not have a towel. He dripped water on the hardwood floor all the way to the armoire where the house-elves left his fresh ones. He never used a towel twice, and always got a new one out before heading to the shower. Always!
His mood was so foul at breakfast that even Flitwick gave him a wide berth.
He stopped by the infirmary on the way back to get the list of potions Madam Pomfrey needed him to brew, and felt absurd satisfaction that he had remembered to do so. He spent the entire morning in his lab, doing what he loved best, brewing five potions at a time. The final cork put on the last bottle of Skele-Gro, with only the Dreamless Sleep to finish later (it had to simmer for six hours), he headed to lunch feeling much better. He left the door to his private lab unwarded and wide open behind him.
Over the next three weeks, things went from bad to worse. He coped as best he could, writing notes to himself and sticking to a very strict routine. There had been some close calls. A few nights ago, halfway through brewing he had had to stop with the horrifying awareness that he did not remember what potion was simmering in the cauldron nor what he was supposed to put in next. He had forced himself to calm down and, examining the ingredients on the lab bench, had remembered he was brewing Pepper-up—and from its light pink color, that it was ready for the mint leaves. Still, it had shaken him to the core.
The day after, the worst one yet, he had stood in glacial terror in front of his own door, unable to recall his password. For what seemed an eternity, though it had probably only been a minute or two, his mind had been frozen, completely blank. He could not bring to mind any password. Not the one for the Slytherin dorm, not the one to his private lab, not the one to his Gringotts vault.
He had turned around, heart racing, cold sweat sticking his shirt to the skin of his back, walking away from his door like an automaton. By the end of the corridor, the sight of a gargoyle triggered a flash of recall. Calcite. His password was calcite. The Slytherin dorm’s was Black Adder, his lab’s was Aspergillus, and his vault’s Excalibur. He had leaned on the wall, his knees weak with relief.
Sitting in his office one afternoon, he contemplated miserably his deteriorating condition when there was a soft knock on his door.
“Enter!”
It was a second year student whose name he could not, for the life of him, recall at that moment. A competent brewer, though.
“What is it?” he asked scornfully.
“Uh… sir. Is class cancelled today?”
Merlin’s beard! It was two-thirty! He’d forgotten the second years!
“Of course not!” Never mind that he was thirty minutes late, what kind of question was this? “I’ll be there momentarily. Prepare yourselves for a test!” There wasn’t time for them to brew the Cheering Potion now, and after all, they had to do something.
He could never let this happen again. The next morning he left his rooms in plenty of time for breakfast, to make sure not to be late for first period. The corridors were strangely silent. He was almost alone at breakfast and thought he must have left even earlier than planned. He took up the Daily Prophet that was lying next to Flitwick’s plate. Ah… It was Saturday. He rested his head in his hands. This would not do. He was going to have to talk to Poppy.
He was surprised to cross her path in the dungeons, and decided to take advantage of that opportunity to arrange for an appointment. She looked at him strangely.
“Severus, I am on my way to your rooms. You came by after breakfast and asked me to drop by.”
“Good Lord!”
~o~ A Beautiful Mind. ~o~
He hustled her inside his sitting room, and immediately started pacing in front of the empty fireplace, enumerating his symptoms.
She sat down on his couch, realizing that waiting for an invitation to do so would only leave her standing all afternoon.
As expected, he was very organized and thorough in his cataloguing of the frustrating incidents that had plagued him for over a month. A long and dispiriting half hour later, he took a seat next to her.
“Well, what do you think: a curse? A tumor? A consequence of multiple and prolonged exposures to the Cruciatus?”
Without a word, she stood up and forced him to a reclining position on his narrow and uncomfortable couch. She ran her wand over his body, spending extra time over his head and neck. “There is nothing wrong with you physically, Severus. You are as fit as a fiddle.”
“But I am losing my mind!”
“I don’t question that, Severus, I am just saying it has to be entirely psychosomatic. This sort of short-term memory loss in wizards is only associated with two conditions: dementia, which has its sources in the physical, and of which you show no sign whatsoever, and psychological stress.”
“For heaven sakes, woman!” He jumped to his feet and resumed his frantic pacing. “Are you out of your generally competent mind? Psychological stress?
“Spying for a devious old man in the very bosom of a psychotic one, that’s stress!
“Occluding without a pause for years on end or protecting the so-called Chosen One from his own foolishness, time and time again, that’s stress!
“Brewing potions for both sides of the war, all the while teaching a very difficult and dangerous subject to four hundred idiots who could not care less and have the gall to despise you, that’s stress!
“Knowing for months you are going to have to kill your beloved mentor and live with the scorn of your erstwhile so-called friends for who knows how long, now, there is stress!
“Lying on a floor bleeding to death while hoping the antivenin and blood-replenishing potion you have carried for weeks in your pockets for just such an occasion will be enough to stop you from dying until help arrives, for seventeen hours! That is stress!
“My life since that bastard’s death has been the least stressful I have ever lived!”
She grabbed at his hand as he was passing by and forced him to sit back down. “Calm yourself, Severus!” She looked at him with great concern. “I understand this has unsettled you, but you must control yourself, or we cannot hope to find the source of the problem!”
“You are right, Poppy,” Snape answered, completely overwrought. “My apologies. It is just that… You see... I have not been blessed with the most… handsome face, or the… easiest of personalities.”
Poppy almost rolled her eyes at the understatements.
“But my mind! I have always had a… a… beautiful mind. It has been my source of pride, of satisfaction, my lifeline. I am losing the only precious thing I have ever had! Without it, I have nothing. Nothing!”
Such a heartfelt confession from such a private man only showed the depth of his despair. Poppy, who had always secretly favored the snarky Potions Master, felt it keenly.
She dared put her hand on his arm. “We will get to the bottom of this, Severus. I promise you.” She pulled back her hand, feeling reluctant to take any further advantage of his momentary weakness.
She had been right. Already he was berating himself for the spectacle he had made. He once again took control, his features returning to their usual mask of disdain, his body back to perfect straightness, his aloofness restored. As she watched that transformation, a sudden niggling thought appeared in the back of her mind. “You have Occluded your mind for years, you said?” she confirmed.
“Yes. From necessity, obviously. I couldn’t exactly let Voldemort wander freely through my thoughts, could I? And he was the most powerful Legilimens that ever lived.”
“I have heard that said, and by Albus, no less.” She agreed. “I also heard him say that you were the most consummate Occlumens alive, that not a thought escaped the confines of your mind unless you let it consciously do so. ‘A mind like a black hole,’ I think were his words.”
She looked thoughtful. Then she asked softly, “How do you do it, Severus? How does one close off his mind so completely, so efficaciously, and for so long?”
He accepted her digression from his immediate problem as it gave him a chance to further compose himself. “It takes discipline, Poppy. You build walls in your mind, and false doors. You suppress, hide, and even forget your emotions. You do not allow your mind to wander. Not ever. You do not revive memories unnecessarily. You control your thoughts and hide the truth behind intricately woven lies.”
“But still, Severus, a powerful Legilimens should be able to find the truth, to see it behind the lies, shouldn’t he?”
“Not if it is not there. You see, Poppy, to resist him, I had to completely erase any distracting thoughts, to forget anything that could make me vulnerable. And then I had to convince myself that what was left was all there was, all there’d ever been. I had to lie… to myself."
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “Perhaps this is where the problem lies. Is it possible that you have hidden so much of yourself, even from yourself, that you are only left with an echo of who you really are? That your barricaded mind is so well trained that it refuses to even process any thought or feeling that could endanger your impregnable defenses?”
“But what would that have to do with my memory lapses?”
“It would produce stress, Severus. You would be faced with a terrible void, unable to feel emotions that would naturally occur now that you are at peace, since you have denied even the possibility of their existence, unable to process thoughts relating to options now open to you because you have convinced yourself they are not possible.
"I think the end of the external stresses you so eloquently described may have allowed internal ones to emerge, stresses of such magnitude that your mind is unable to cope. If, for a long time, you have denied any side of you that was not needed for survival in your dangerous environment, once that danger is removed, your equilibrium is lost and you find yourself lacking the basic tools, the adaptability to face your new surroundings.”
He was stunned. He was vaguely aware of having shunted—at first with difficulty, but after a while completely automatically—a number of thoughts, a number of avenues he had never explored. His interests had been culled, his focus honed to perfection. What had been ignored, hidden and forgotten, he had no idea. And how was he to find what he had lost when he was not even aware of missing anything? Yet what Poppy said somehow rang true. After all, what had he been doing with all his newfound freedom? Taking walks in the dark? Was that the extent of his interests?
He thought of all the things others were passionate about, all the things that gave meaning and depth to their lives: music, art, travel, friendship, sex. None of them held any interest for him. He could not fathom bothering to sit through a concert. He had only attended Quidditch games out of obligation, finding Minerva’s enthusiasm for the sport completely incomprehensible. Despite his childhood affection for Lily, he had never felt any sexual attraction to anyone, couldn’t grasp what the fuss was all about.
Potions, yes. Occlumency, strategy, obfuscation, yes. Dark arts and the defense against them, absolutely. But all these things that he understood, excelled at, thrived upon, were all a means to an end. And that end had come. And he was left perfectly prepared for a world that he was grateful no longer existed, but woefully ill-equipped to make life in this new world worth living. Surely, there was more to him than this? But where was it? Could it be recovered?
He finally spoke, “If you are right, and I believe you are, recovery of what has been suppressed is essential. Therapy is hopeless. Even Veritaserum-enhanced therapy would not work to uncover what one really believes does not exist.” He thought for a moment. “I think a variation of Veritaserum that could disable Occlumency might have some merit.”
“Severus, it does not exist.”
“Whatever depth I may be lacking, Poppy, I am a Potions Master. That a potion does not exist merely delays its use. It only has to be created. This is not Wolfsbane that we are talking about. Disabling Occlumency through a variation of Veritaserum should not be an insurmountable problem. “
He started thinking aloud. "But nothing would come of it as long as the patient’s perceived need for self-delusion remained. And to eliminate that, one would have to overpower the atavistic drive for self-preservation. An interesting challenge… I’ll start working on it. I will let you know when I have something ready for testing.”
“As you pointed out, Severus, this is not Wolfsbane. How would you propose we test it?”
“Well, on me, of course. But I will need your help. Suppressing self-preservation without shutting down the limbic system might prove… difficult. I have no desire to die trying.”
“Merlin’s beard!”
“Well, this was all your idea… ”
~o~ The Brewing ~o~
It took a little over three months to work out the right combination. The potion was composed of several individual parts, each of them frightfully dangerous both to the body and to the mind.
The first one was a modified version of a phobia-suppressing potion, and fairly removed the emotion of fear completely from the psyche. The second one was an elixir that, taken alone, rendered a person completely defenseless against suggestions, depriving them of free will. It was almost as good as a well-aimed Imperius. The third caused the conscious mind to stop overriding the subconscious. The problem with that one was an annoying side effect. It caused complete, if temporary, amnesia. A few extras were added to keep the heart beating and the diaphragm moving, and to counteract the sudden urge to kill oneself that occurred when the first three parts were mixed together.
On a nightly basis, Severus had come to the infirmary and tested this aspect or that aspect of the concoction. Poppy was a nervous wreck. Severus had come close to dying several times and would certainly have without their preparations and her constant monitoring. When she objected to continuing, he threatened to proceed without her and she had to relent.
As the level of Severus’ external stress increased (sleepless nights of research, constant preoccupation with brewing individual parts, imminent danger, and physical discomfort from side effects) his internal stresses must once again have gone dormant, as his memory was now as perfect as ever.
Finally, the complex mixture was brewed, bottled, and ready. There was only one more problem.
After taking it, Severus would be unable to lie to himself, but also lacking any desire to probe his own mind and search for the source of his problem on his own. And after the potion wore off, he would remember nothing of what might have occurred while he was under its influence. He was going to need some assistance.
Poppy would be in the infirmary monitoring his life signs through his wand and could not help otherwise. Someone else had to be involved. Someone Severus trusted (an extremely short list), someone who liked him enough to be willing to help him (an even shorter list), someone with enough perspicacity and intimate knowledge of Severus’ life to ask the right questions.
Flitwick’s time was consumed in choir practice and preparation for his yearly Easter bash, so that left Minerva McGonagall. Poppy, who had come to a very keen appreciation of Severus’ lack of social graces and of his reluctant nature, volunteered to approach her.
Of course, she immediately accepted.
~o~ A Joy and an Honor ~o~
Knowing how difficult Severus could be, Minerva sighed and knocked on the door. She knew perfectly well that he was already aware of her presence. His door had more wards than a Gringotts vault, Merlin knew why. There certainly wasn’t anything to steal from his spartan interior. Well, the books, maybe, if one favored potions and the dark arts…
He took his sweet time coming to the door, which she expected. It was bound to irk him to have to use her help. He opened the door without a word and let her pass, adding some exotic silencing charm to it for good measure. Well, he was a very private man. This was bound to hurt. He gestured for her to sit down. She Transfigured his straight back chair into a plush armchair. She was going to be there a while and might as well be comfortable. He rolled his eyes. He started pacing.
“You do understand that I will have to Obliviate you.”
“Yes, Severus. That’s fine.”
He stopped walking and faced her. He held his hands in tight fists, rigidly at his sides as if having to force himself to do something against his will.
“I am… grateful for your willingness to… assist me in this matter.”
Ah, but that must have cost him. She decided to be kind anyway, which did not mean the same thing when one talked about Snape as it did about others.
“Well, if we could get on with it, I don’t have all day,” she said brusquely.
He nodded, extracted a small vial from his pocket, and sat down. After the slightest hesitation, though she might have imagined it, he opened it and drank it down.
“It will take a minute or two to start working. You do understand that I will have no memory of this at all, once it’s over?”
“Yes, Severus. Poppy went over it with me in great detail.”
“I prepared a quill and some parchment for you,” he added, quite unnecessarily, since they were in plain sight on a small occasional table next to her chair.
“Yes, I see them. Thank you.”
He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, his head coming to rest against the back of his chair as his posture relaxed. She waited a moment. Had he fallen asleep?
“Severus? Are you with me?”
He opened his eyes, sat a bit straighter, and… smiled at her.
“I am, Minerva,” he answered amiably, “and a pleasure it is, as always.”
Well, this was certainly going to be interesting…
~o~
Minerva reread some of her notes, shaking her head, and smiled affectionately in the direction of the man who, lying on a very comfortable looking leather couch, was deeply asleep. It was going on eight. She had been in Severus’ quarters for over six hours. It had all gone as Poppy had predicted.
After five intense and very illuminating hours, Severus had started yawning deeply and, with an apology, had “closed his eyes for only a minute.” That had been an hour ago. He should be waking up soon.
“Severus? Are you with me?”
“Of course I am,” he replied archly. “Where else would I be?”
Ah… The old Severus was back. He sat up and frowned at the couch as if it had personally offended him.
“I would thank you to cease rearranging my furniture, Minerva. I like it as it is.” The couch changed back to the straight-back horror it had been (before he had Transfigured it himself, a few hours previously, grumbling that its seat “had to be stuffed with peach pits”).
She took the blame without comment.
He glanced at the sheath of parchment, now covered in her neat, spidery handwriting.
“Ah. I dare say it is done, then?” he asked, glaring at her.
“It is, Severus,” she replied, getting up gingerly. “I must be going.”
Saying nothing, he followed her to the door and took out his wand.
She raised her hand to stop him, “Before you do this, I would like to say something to you, Severus. I have always liked you. Well, except for last year of course, but that doesn’t really count, does it? I have liked you, and respected you, and at times admired you, since the day you came back to teach at Hogwarts. At this moment, when I know you better than anyone else, better than you know yourself, in fact, I want to tell you this: nothing I have heard today has changed my good opinion of you; quite the opposite, actually. It is truly a joy and an honor to know you, Severus. And I think I would like to hold on to that thought.” She took out her wand, and pulled her thought out of her temple.
She looked at him expectantly. “Now, do your worst, my dear,” she said.
It took only a second for him to erase the previous six hours from her mind. She stood there a moment, looking slightly disoriented and frowned at the silvery strand hanging from the tip of her wand. With a shrug, she put it to her temple and as it disappeared back into her head, a look of understanding came to her face.
She nodded, and smiled up at him. “Well, good evening, Severus.”
“Good evening, Minerva. And… thank you,” he added, as an afterthought.
“You are very welcome, Severus.” She left his rooms without looking back.
He stood by the door for a moment and looked at the stack of paper she had left. He had a vague urge to throw it in the fire. But he didn’t. Instead, he walked calmly to the table, pointed his wand at the writing, and muttered a spell. The text was now hidden. To anyone looking at it without uttering the proper password, it would appear to be something they would be most disinclined to read. He glanced at the first page:
“Battling the Basilisk, An Essay,” by Gilderoy Lockhart. He snorted. The spell worked.
He went about his nightly routine to get ready for bed. It was only nine o’clock but he felt very tired. An aftereffect of the potion, of course: the crushed water hyacinth and the anteater saliva would see to that. Dressed in his usual grey nightgown, he got under the thin duvet on his narrow bed, leaving his slippers in easy reach.
He lay unmoving for a long time, his mind blank.
“Like Pandora’s box” Poppy had said, her remembered voice disrupting the silence in his head. Whatever was in those pages, once read, would never be forgotten again.
He tried to empty his mind again.
“It is a joy and an honor to know you, Severus.”
He sighed, annoyed at his lack of control. But then, what was he afraid of? What was so great about his current life that he would cling to it so fiercely?
In another second, he was out of bed, the duvet falling noiselessly to the floor. He picked it up and wrapped it around himself. His bedroom was not heated. He went back to the slightly warmer sitting room and picked up the stack of parchment.
After a glance at his austere couch, he sat himself in the plush chair Minerva had forgotten to return to its original state. It was extremely comfortable. He arranged his blanket, straightened the pages, took a breath, said the password, and started to read.
~o~ Finding Severus Snape ~o~
Looking back, later, Severus realized the recovery of his denied self hadn’t happened as Poppy and he had imagined it would. He had pictured dragging heavy boxes out of a faraway hidden attic and tediously looking through them, finding a few interesting elements amidst a great deal of useless data.
But what he had hidden through the years was not stored neatly, in the deep recesses of his mind. It was everywhere, hidden in plain sight.
From the moment he had started going through Minerva’s carefully penned notes and reading his own answers. (“For a few months now, you appear to have been suffering from extreme personal stress, Severus. Do you know what has caused this?” “How could I not know? He is leaving, Minerva. Three more months and then it’s probable that I shall never see him again.”) He had felt as if his perception of himself was undergoing a sea change, like a black and white photograph shifting to brilliant color and then slowly becoming tri-dimensional.
He was the same man he had always been, just… more so. Nothing he had held true about himself had been wrong. It had only been the basic barren musical phrase to the complex symphony of who he really was.
After only a few pages, he put the papers down. He did not need them anymore. They had been a catalyst, nothing more, the key to unlock his self-imposed mental shackles. Now freed, he already knew all the answers. His complete self had been there all along, quiescent, and had now suddenly emerged fully formed, fully functional.
He looked around his bare, empty rooms and shivered at the self-denial they represented. They felt like a cell. He had the urge to get out. He needed to be outside, in open space. He got out of his rooms, out of the dungeons, and found himself walking down the front steps into the spring night.
Even in the chilly Scottish April, it was much warmer outdoors than it had been in the dungeons. He let his flimsy duvet fall to the ground and, reaching the Quidditch pitch, he stepped out of his slippers to better feel the soft lushness of the grass. He looked up at the stars peeking through the clouds. Thunder rolled in the night and like a sigh, rain started falling densely over the grounds.
He spread out his arms, then pulled off his threadbare nightgown. He stood naked in the downpour, staring at the sky, his pale skin bathed in moonlight, rivulets of rain running down his face and lean body.
He felt whole and alive, vibrantly alive. He smiled, then chuckled, and finally laughed as he had never let himself laugh before, his entire body shaking with mirth.
Stress indeed: the stress of contained life, bursting at the seams and screaming to get out. And once again, of course, Albus had been proven right, because of all the interests, feelings, and emotions he had been suppressing, it had been love—passionate, irrepressible love (love!)—that had finally been the undoing of his prudently crafted persona.
Artwork by Veridari
He laughed even harder at the absurd irony that he should be brought back to life, first physically and now figuratively, by the same person. After being so resentful for owing Harry Potter his continued existence, he suddenly had to face that, against all odds, it was his passionate love for the same man, that beautiful, untamed and eternally frustrating adolescent, that gave Severus’ life its meaning. Why should he be surprised that the untainted, completely inappropriately young, yet infinitely desirable target of his feelings be Potter? Wasn’t it always Potter?
He picked up his discarded nightgown, his soggy slippers, his abandoned duvet, and headed back inside, unapologetically nude. Because life owed him so many favors, he made it back to his rooms without encountering a soul.
After a long hot shower, he dressed in his softest and most elegant clothes, threw a few more pieces of clothing in a small leather bag along with two or three items he wanted to take. He sat down at his desk and wrote a short resignation letter.
Checking that it was still before midnight, he left his quarters for Minerva’s office. No doubt she would be there, catching up on whatever it was he had kept her from that afternoon. The gargoyle let him through and he knocked lightly on her door. He smiled when he heard her answer.
“Come in, Severus.”
~o~
Minerva had, of course, forgotten all that had been said that afternoon, but Severus had apparently been willing to leave her something she had gathered from the experience. Her feelings for him had been intensified and her understanding of him deepened. She had known, departing his quarters, that he would be leaving Hogwarts. She didn't know the exact reason for this conviction but it was blended with her deeper appreciation of him.
He deserved more out of life. He was still quite young by wizard standards, and had so much to explore, to enjoy. Yes, she had known he would be leaving, though not how soon. However, when there was a knock on the door at this hour, she had had no doubt who it was and what he was coming to tell her.
He looked the same, yet amazingly different. His body was relaxed and though still straight, his posture had lost its stiffness. His eyes, which had always seemed to be flat black mirrors, had depth and warmth. His stark facial features were as homely as ever, yet radiated an energy, a lust for life that had never been there before.
He sat down without invitation, as one would do visiting a friend, and handed her a letter.
"I am sorry, Minerva. I am sure this is bound to make your life difficult, but I cannot stay."
"I was expecting it, Severus, though obviously I don’t know why,” she answered, putting the unopened letter on her desk. “I have already contacted Horace to ask him to return, and though I told him I didn't know exactly when I would need him, I did warn him it would be short notice. I will start looking for a permanent replacement for your position tomorrow."
She smiled at him. "I will miss you, Severus. Where will you go?"
He shrugged. "To London, first, I suppose, to get my bearings. I have no idea what I am going to do."
This statement did not sound as it would have coming from a person lost, but more as if it had ended with the word ‘first’.
"I shall be leaving your quarters as they are for now, at least until a permanent replacement is hired. If you ever need a place to stay… "
"Thank you. I do not think I will return, at least not for a while, but it is good of you."
She could tell he was eager to be on his way. She stood up and walked him to the door.
"Goodbye, Severus," she said, daring to place a hand on his arm.
He looked at her with an amused expression and then enveloped her in a warm hug. After a second of surprise, she hugged him back tightly, her throat closing with emotion, her eyes filling with tears. It occurred to her, quite randomly, that in another life he could have been her son.
"I will miss you, too, Minerva. And Filius, and Hagrid." He stepped back from her. "Tell them goodbye for me."
"I will."
He smiled at her, an unusual sight, but it suited him. It was smirky and showed some very sharp teeth. Then he was gone, in his usual show of robes.
Minerva sighed and sat back at her desk. She was not going to get anything further done tonight and certainly could not call Horace back at this hour. She got up again and opened her window. A sleek cat with unusual markings hopped from the windowsill onto the thin ornamental ledge on the facade and in three more leaps was walking gracefully on the top of the roof to sit, alone, in the moonlight.
~o~ The Long Goodbye, April 23, 1999. ~o~
Voldemort was dead and gone and the Death Eaters incapacitated.
Harry’s enjoyment of his last year at Hogwarts was not overshadowed by anything more sinister than his NEWTS, the performance of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and the difficulty of keeping his very full dating schedule in order so as not to call a girl by the wrong name. Perhaps because of his newfound peace of mind, his classes and his reviews for the exams were going surprisingly well.
Even his performance in Potions seemed to have improved enough that most his finished products were worthy of a grade. He had got more from the Half-Blood Prince than improved directions for potions. He had learned techniques and had finally understood some of the subtle elements of brewing, which benefits carried beyond the destruction of the book.
Snape could still be a bloody bastard, but Harry was able—most of the time, to Hermione’s approval and Ron’s irritation—to let his abuse go unchallenged, defusing the situation. Snape no longer unfairly accused him of attention-seeking, compared him to his father, or misrepresented his childhood. Now he limited himself to questioning Harry’s intelligence and Harry, considering how stupid some of his mistakes could be, sometimes actually concurred.
If Snape was particularly difficult, Harry reminded himself of the warmth and strength he had felt upon receiving Snape’s magical support during the Summoning, of the feeling of completeness he had experienced that day, as well as of the surprising warmth in Snape’s eyes that evening, which had given him the confidence he had needed to proceed, and could feel his temper dissipate.
Following the Easter break, it seemed as if everyone suddenly expected him to know what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Considering he was still often astonished that he did have a future, he had not the faintest idea. Quite innocently, a lot of people were pressuring him, some by giving advice, some by making assumptions.
That evening Ron had mentioned their applying for Auror training together, and Harry had been unable to fall asleep. Being an Auror had lost all of its appeal. The last thing he wanted to do was be on the wrong end of a wand held by someone who meant him harm. Frustrated, he picked up his Invisibility Cloak and went for a walk through the sleeping castle.
In the Great Hall, he stopped to admire one of his favorite paintings, which showed England’s Seeker Phillipus Lestrange making a spectacular catch of the Snitch for the win in the World Cup of 1832. He was brought out of his reverie by barely audible footsteps coming down the main staircase.
It was Snape, looking… amazing, his tall silhouette accentuated by beautiful robes, his dark hair clean and glossy tucked behind his ears, and his features… His nose was still too large, the folds from it to the corner of his mouth still present, his eyes still black, his cheeks still hollow, and his cheekbones still prominent. Yet he looked so different. There was a small ironic smile on his lips replacing his usual sneer, and his demeanor was… relaxed.
At the bottom of the stairs the Potions Master stopped and seemed to listen, then scanned the entry hall quickly with his eyes, his glance passing over Harry twice. Then he continued toward the main doors. He was carrying a small leather satchel.
Harry followed him, intrigued. Once again, Snape stopped. He turned in Harry’s direction and his eyes unerringly focused on him. His lips curved in the ghost of a genuine smile, one Harry had never imagined could appear on these lips.
"Out of bed after curfew again, Mr. Potter?"
Harry took off his cloak, and suddenly realized what the satchel meant. "You’re leaving, Professor."
It was not a question, but Severus nodded anyway.
"But the quarter is not finished, sir. Our NEWTS are in three months!"
Harry felt surprisingly upset. He wondered why he found the thought of Snape leaving so distressing.
"You will be happy to know that Professor Slughorn is returning, Mr. Potter. Between him, Miss Granger, and the Half-Blood Prince, you should do quite well."
Snape was looking at Harry intently but, strangely enough, without animosity. Harry felt himself blushing under his scrutiny, a highly unwelcome and embarrassing sensation. He grasped at the first thing he could think of saying.
"I am sorry, Professor. I’m afraid The Prince is gone, burned in the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement last May." Harry missed the book a lot, and not only for the improved potions directives.
Snape was still staring at him, his eyes traveling over his body, then concentrating on his face as if memorizing it, or searching for something.
"Well, in that case," Snape said, reaching into his bag. He found what he was looking for, hesitated for a second, his expression wistful. Then, to Harry's surprise, he handed him a leather-bound journal. "Please take this. It is a little more advanced… but you might nevertheless find it of some use."
Harry opened the book. The slim tome was full of Snape's elegant writing, pages and pages of it, with diagrams and illustrations. Astonished, Harry looked up at Snape questioningly.
"It is a treatise on potions creation,” the professor explained. “I thought of publishing it at one time, but frankly, it could be very dangerous in the wrong hands."
Why would Snape give him such a priceless gift? Harry was desperately, searching for something to say. "Er… won't you need it?"
Once again, Snape’s eyes were on his face. "No, Mr. Potter. There is nothing in it I do not know intimately. I was keeping it for… sentimental reasons, which makes it even fitter for you to have it,” he added, as if it would explain the unexpected gift. “If you look at the beginning, you will notice it is written in two hands. I started it in my school days as a common project with my Potions partner… Lily Evans."
"You loved her, didn't you?" Harry blurted out. He had been wanting to ask that question for a year and could not let it pass.
Snape's eyes met his. "Do you love Miss Granger, Mr. Potter?"
"Well, yes, I do. But not that way… "
"I did not love your mother 'that way' either, Mr. Potter. But she was my dearest friend. I miss her to this day."
Though he was surprisingly reluctant to do so, Harry made to hand the book back. "You should keep this, then."
Snape shrugged lightly. "I really do not need it and it would… please me very much to know that you have it." Was he blushing? Harry could not be sure because Snape immediately picked up his bag again, ready to go.
Once more, Harry felt too overwhelmed and confused to voice what he was feeling, so he simply said, "Thank you, then. And goodbye, Professor."
Snape gave him the strangest look, one that was full of meaning he did not grasp, that left him feeling wholly unsettled. "No, thank you... Harry. And farewell."
Then he turned around, a whirl of black, and was gone, the heavy front door shutting quietly behind him, leaving Harry stunned, too stunned to think. He walked to the staircase and sat on the bottom step. Snape was gone. There was a painful hollowness in his chest, a strange sense of loss. He opened the notebook to the first page.
There it was, “This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince," but then, underneath, in a handwriting Harry knew from rereading her letter to Sirius so often, was his mother's contribution, “And his faithful assistant, Lily."
His faithful assistant. Just what he would be to Hermione, were she ever to write a book with him.
Throwing his cloak back on, he started back to the Gryffindor dormitories. Snape had given him more in those few minutes, than he had in their entire acquaintance. The echo of the old anger in his heart over what their relationship might have been all these years resurfaced but it was now tainted with regret and bittersweet sadness. Harry did not know what to make of it.
~o~ Majority ~o~
It took a long time for Harry to fall asleep that night, his restless mind unable to stop reviewing his encounter with Snape again and again, trying to sort out his conflicting feelings. When finally he slept, it was an unusually deep slumber, and he did not wake until mid-morning the next day, when Ron shook him repeatedly to get him up for Quidditch practice.
He got up on jelly-like legs and dragged himself to a cold shower, trying to shake out the cobwebs. His Seeker padding seemed to weigh a ton, and his stomach revolted at the sight of the slices of toast Ron had snagged for him at breakfast. His head felt fuzzy, as if filled with cotton wool. He had to sit for a breather in the common room before continuing down to the pitch.
Some pretty blonde girl he had snogged on the lawn by the lake the day before waited for him outside the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. After meeting her while checking out Neville’s latest Herbology project in Greenhouse Three, he had invited her to watch today’s practice. He gave her a peck on the cheek and held her hand as they walked together with Ron to the main staircase.
He made a panicked and clueless face at Ron, who chuckled before leaning down and whispering in his ear, “Amy Foxworthy, sixth year Hufflepuff...”
Harry mouthed “Thank you!” to Ron, rolling his eyes at himself, making Ron chuckle again.
“So, Amy,” he asked, “are you enjoying your project with Neville? He mentioned you have a real gift for Herbology… ”
He meant to pay attention to her answer, he really did, but his fuzzy head had started to ache. He tried to ignore it but the pain rapidly became so severe that he broke out in a cold sweat and had to close his eyes against the diffuse light of the staircase, which suddenly seemed to have the brightness of the sun. His knees gave out and he ended up sitting on the stairs, his coccyx unpleasantly jarred. He curled up on himself, his arms cradling his throbbing head, moaning, feeling that he might very well throw up, though—his stomach being empty—it would be difficult.
“Harry, sweetie! Are you okay?” cried Amy. Was the girl a complete idiot? Did he look okay?
Ron, being much smarter and more used to Potter emergencies, called out, “Kreacher! Harry needs you!”
Kreacher Apparated with a loud pop, took only a moment to evaluate the situation and, his skinny arm around Harry’s shoulders, whisked him away to the hospital wing.
By the time Madam Pomfrey came running to investigate the rather loud ‘pop’ of the elf’s Apparation, Harry, nauseated further by his sudden journey, was dry heaving while sitting on his usual hospital bed, Kreacher standing next to him.
One snap of Kreacher’s fingers and Harry was naked but for his boxers. Another and he was wearing a hospital gown, one more snap and he was in bed, the blankets to his chin, the isolation curtain closed around the three of them and the lights on low.
“Master has the headache,” Kreacher said to the mediwitch, who was a bit shell-shocked. Then, his duty done, he Disapparated with another ‘pop’.
~o~
Harry had already drunk a strong painkilling potion and was resting comfortably on his pillows when Ron and Amy, red in the face and out of breath, arrived at the infirmary. He smiled at Ron. “Thanks for your quick thinking, mate. It really hurt.”
“Harry, my poor sweetie! Don’t worry, I’m here!” said Amy, displacing Ron, sitting next to Harry on the bed and pushing his sweaty fringe back from his forehead. She really was pretty, with honey blonde hair, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots framed by dark eyelashes and perfect white teeth between lush pink lips. But this really was not a good time. Besides, my poor sweetie? No, just… no.
“Er… Amy. Madam Pomfrey insists I really have to get some rest, so I’m not to have a lot of visitors. Perhaps we can… get together again after I get out?”
“But I’m not a visitor, silly! I’m your girlfriend!” Amy said with a sweet smile and a shake of the head. “I won’t abandon you in your hour of need!”
“We’ve only spent about three hours together. You are pretty and sweet, and certainly have a lot of girlfriend potential, but potential is all it is. Right now, I need some peace and quiet and I am uncomfortable with having someone I barely know in my hospital room. Please, Amy. I am trying to be nice about this. Just go, okay?”
“You’re breaking up with me? I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me!” Amy started crying. “After… everything! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” She got up and ran out of the hospital wing in tears.
Harry turned to Ron, chuckling. “Maybe this migraine gave me amnesia or something, but didn’t I just meet her yesterday afternoon?”
Ron looked at him, a stunned expression on his face. “Harry, you and Amy have been together for almost three months, and mate… she’s pregnant!”
Harry sat up, horrified. “Oh my god! I’ve got to catch… ” Then he noticed Ron was just about peeing himself laughing and lay back in bed, disgusted. “Ron, you are such a git.”
Ron was still laughing, not even able to talk. Harry watched him trying to catch his breath, and couldn’t help but grin. “Arse,” he said.
Madam Pomfrey returned to Harry’s bedside and threw a curious look at Ron, who was still chuckling, quite red in the face.
“Feeling a bit better, Harry?” she asked, deciding to ignore his best friend’s antics.
“Much. The pain is much less though I still feel like my head is packed with cotton wool and I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“Did you not get enough sleep last night, young man?” asked Madam Pomfrey, who had heard of Harry’s popularity with the girls through the grapevine.
“Well, it took me a long time to fall asleep, but I didn’t get up until ten, so I got at least seven hours.”
“Hm.” She started running her diagnostic wand over Harry’s head and neck. “Did you get a Bludger to the head during your last practice, or have some kind of an accident?”
“No. Nothing I can recall.”
Ron started cracking up again. Harry rolled his eyes at him.
Harry took a deep breath. The nausea was still there, it felt like the room was tilted a little, and he just was achy all over. “Merlin, Madam Pomfrey, I really feel terrible. Even my hair hurts.”
“Have you had something unusual happened to you Harry? Something emotionally painful perhaps?”
Ron, annoyingly, let out a bark of laughter.
“Mr. Weasley, do you plan on sharing with me the source of your hilarity? Otherwise I am going to have to ask you to leave,” said Pomfrey, finally fed up with Harry’s sidekick.
“Harry just broke up with his girlfriend,” Ron managed to say, before losing it completely. Harry got his wand out and Ron, raising his hands in surrender, headed for the door, still laughing.
“Ron is just teasing me, Madam Pomfrey. I don’t have a girlfriend. He’s just being an idiot.”
She shook her head with a smile. “It’s so good to see all of you acting like teenagers. I am glad it wasn’t too late, that you all are still able to forget your hard-earned maturity for a while and enjoy a little irresponsible adolescence.” She got serious again. “So, no emotional crisis?”
“Nothing deep, no. Why?” He was not about to mention the weird feelings of anger and loss at Snape’s dereliction of duty, or the painful emptiness left by his departure. Those did not add up to an emotional crisis. It was because it had been late at night that he had experienced that deep sense of abandonment, of shameful rejection. In the light of day… In the light of day, it was different. He could completely stop himself from thinking about it.
“How old are you, Harry?”
“Eighteen.”
“Could you do a simple spell for me? How about lifting my quill from your side table?”
“Sure. Wingardium Leviosa!”
The quill trembled a little, but stayed put.
Harry frowned. “Wingardium Leviosa!” he repeated with more intent. Nothing. “Lumos!” The tip of his wand glowed for a second and went out. “Aguamenti!” A small drop appeared at the end of the wand and disappeared as if it had evaporated. Harry, panicked, turned to Madam Pomfrey. “I’ve lost my magic! Madam Pomfrey! What’s wrong with me?”
She patted his hand. “Calm down, Harry. Surely you know about magical maturing?”
The conversation Harry had had with Griphook a few months before came back to him. He’d called it something else... “I heard about reaching my magical majority. Is that it?”
“That’s the legal ramification, indeed; you reach your magical majority after you go through magical maturing. You are a little young to go through it now. The average age for it is twenty-seven but though rare it is not unheard of for it to occur sometime in the late teens.
“Sometimes the change can be precipitated by an emotional shock, hence my earlier question, but that is not a fixed rule. Why don’t you relax while I Floo Professor Snape? He can brew a potion that will help with the nastier symptoms.” She walked toward the fireplace.
“Madam Pomfrey?”
She turned back. “Yes, Harry?”
“Professor Snape is gone, haven’t you heard? He left last night… for good.” Harry was shocked when his voice shook. What the hell?
Madam Pomfrey was immediately back at his side, and took his hand. “Are you sure, Harry? How do you know?”
“I was out after curfew. He… he just ran into me on his way out. If I’d not been there, he wouldn’t even have said… said goodbye.” Harry was horribly embarrassed when tears filled his eyes and then actually escaped and rolled down his cheeks. “He just… left! He just abandoned m… us all! I bet he… he didn’t even say goodbye to his… his Slytherins! As if he didn’t matter to us, as if we didn’t care!”
A portion of Harry’s mind was slapping him about the head and asking what the hell was wrong with him, but another one hurt so badly it felt like letting go and crying on Pomfrey’s shoulder like a baby. To his complete astonishment, the second one won, and soon the mediwitch was holding him in her arms and rocking him while he cried and cried, his body shaken by sobs and hiccups, pathetic little wails issuing straight from his heart, seventeen years worth of misery pouring out on her wet plastron.
Gone… Leaving him all alone… His mum, his dad, his godfather, Dumbledore, Remus, all the adults he ever loved, and now, the one man he could always count on… Severus Snape was gone too, had left him too, had abandoned him without a backward glance… Why did the people he loved always leave him?
~o~
Poppy was astonished. Harry never cried. Not over broken bones, not over excruciating pain, not over dead friends, not in fear… Never. And now, suddenly, the dam had broken, and he was sobbing like the child he had never been, finally broken, and by what? By Severus’ departure.
Did he realize he had just included Snape in the people he loved?
She held him as he wept and allowed herself something she had never let herself do before, either: to let her affection for this child, which she had always hidden in the name of professionalism, to come to the fore. She gently rocked him, ran her fingers through his hair, kissed the top of his head, and said silly nothings like, “There, there,” or, “I’m sorry, Harry,” or “This too shall pass… ”
It took him a very long time to calm down, and about an hour later she gently laid him down, deep asleep. She dried his face carefully and put a monitoring charm on him before going to her rooms to change her soaked top. Then she quickly prepared for what was to come: the fever, the delirium, the visions. How bad would those be, without Severus’ special potion?
She’d only had to guide a handful of young people through the change in all her years, and had always used the special decoction. But she knew most people did not have that recourse and did just fine. She herself had not, and only remembered speaking to her dead grandmother and thinking she was a badger for a while, which she later suspected would have probably been her Animagus form had she ever learned to transform successfully.
Of course, when her magic had matured at the age of thirty, Poppy had not had as many grievous losses or seen as many horrors as poor Harry had at his young age. Maybe she should keep him under with some Dreamless Sleep? But so many people came through having resolved some deep hurt, having found closure, describing the experience as cathartic… Anyway, without Severus’ advice, she dare not do so, not knowing how it might affect Harry’s magic.
There was a knock on the door and Hermione Granger came in with a more subdued Ron Weasley. “How is he, Madam Pomfrey?” the young woman asked.
“He is fine, Miss Granger. He is just going through his magical maturation. Young for it, of course, but when has Mr. Potter ever done anything in the usual way?” She smiled at Hermione. She was turning into such a pretty young woman, and smart, so smart… She and Mr. Weasley looked at each other. They were worried.
“I understand there are visual disturbances that accompany the fever. Are they influenced by reality? Because then they could be especially… bad in Harry’s case, couldn’t they?” reasoned the girl.
Poppy sighed. “Yes, Miss Granger. I was thinking the same.”
“Would you like us to… stay with you? Maybe we can help. Will he be in touch with reality at all?” she asked.
“Most people go in and out. Your presence might help. He has no fever yet, so it will be some time before the visions start. Why don’t you both go to lunch and enjoy a bit of this beautiful day. Come back around five. Then you all can have a cuppa together, and relax until it starts.” They agreed to her plan and left for the Great Hall. Poppy was glad the two young people would be with her. They had shared most of Harry’s adventures. If he relived any of them, they would know what to expect.
Harry was waking up. She brought him a glass of water, which she had doctored with a bit of a tasteless and odorless Calming Draught. He drank gratefully, but could not bring himself to look at her. She made the decision to lie though her teeth.
“Mr. Potter, do not be concerned about your emotional outburst. During the change, it is very common for people to become easily overwhelmed by their feelings and find their reactions to them extreme and out of character,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. He finally made eye contact, looking relieved.
She continued in her usual practical manner, “So don’t let what happened bother you and instead, tell me how you are feeling now and let’s concentrate on what you might yet experience.”
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I feel really tired, and my head still hurts. My whole body feels achy, my muscles are sore, my eyes and my skin are… oversensitive. I am really nauseated, and the room…the room is tilted to the left. A lot. Like my bed should be sliding that way right now.” He gave her a sheepish smile.
Poor Harry. If only Severus was here… His potion helped with all these symptoms.
“I’m sorry, Harry. Here, take two tablespoon of this, it’s an anti-nausea potion, and drink the whole vial of this one, it’s a mild pain reliever.”
Harry made a face at the taste of the first potion. It was very bitter, but worked very fast. The minty pain reliever almost tasted good after that.
“Hey! That is better.” He sighed in relief. “The nausea is gone, and that was the worst of it. Wowww! The room just tilted the other way! That’s so weird!”
“Harry, I can assure you the room is perfectly straight. It’s just a faulty perception. As the day progress, you will experience more and more visual disturbances. You will develop a fever, and as the fever goes up you will start to actually hallucinate.
“Some people feel that these hallucinations are not fever-induced, but that people going through the change sometimes have true visions. I have no opinion on the matter. Some visions you will remember, some you will forget, some might help you to think about certain things differently, or to let go of some issues from your past.
“Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley came to see you and will come back for afternoon tea. They have volunteered to sit with you through your visions, just in case you need them.”
“Well, you’ll be there, won’t you?” asked Harry, looking nervous.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
He was quiet for a while, but she could tell something was on his mind. “What is it, Harry?”
“I am glad you were here earlier when I… that you were here and that no one else was. I don’t… I can’t… I’d prefer if… It seems that some private things might come out, and I’d much prefer if you were the only one there, to tell you the truth. There are things about me no one knows, not even Ron and Hermione. I’d rather it stayed that way… If you don’t mind.”
She could tell how important that was to him. She patted his hand. “Very well, Mr. Potter. We will send them away after tea, shall we?”
He looked so relieved. “Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.”
As he dozed off again, she sat next to him with a book she was not really reading. She reflected how much he and Severus had in common. Hiding their feelings and weaknesses behind volatile tempers, their public personae never showing their hungry hearts, choosing to handle things alone, trusting no one with their past misery, their hurt. Their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, to be figureheads in the war, to put up with people reducing them to one-dimensional characters, be they good or bad. How could she have missed it previously when now their similarities were so obvious? Two orphaned boys, driven to do terribly difficult things by their need to be loved by a manipulative old man…
Her monitoring spell animated and she got to her feet. Harry’s face was flushed, beads of perspiration on his brow and upper lip, his thready pulse racing under her fingertip. He opened eyes that were brilliant with fever and said, “… hot, Madam Pomfrey, thirsty… ”
She gave him more water with Calming Draught and he drank two full glasses. He was burning up and it was only early afternoon. He pushed his blankets off with his feet. “… hot… room is spinning… ”
“Can you hear me, Harry?” she asked gently.
His eyes focused on her. “Yes. I’m jus’ hot.”
“It’s started, Harry. You are here in the hospital wing, and I will be with you the whole time, no matter what. Remember that when you can, it will keep you grounded.”
She locked the door and sat next to him, holding his hand. He smiled at her. “Hand’s cool. Feels good.” He chuckled. “You’re a badger! Your stripes are so cute! Do you wanna see my Animagus? Look!”
There was a very long snake curled inside the hospital gown, light grey-colored head, dark grey body. The snake opened its mouth and Poppy realized it was ‘smiling’. The inside of its mouth was all black. For some reason, that was not reassuring. She was relieved when Harry was back again. “Wow! I’m a snake! Ah! I really should have let the hat put me in Slytherin!”
Harry frowned. “Snape doesn’t like snakes. He was bit by one, once. One more reason for him not to want me.” He raised his hand, as if reaching for someone’s face. “I’ll never change into my Animagus, Severus, I promise. I want you to like me. I want you to want to be with me, to forgive me… ” He whispered, “Don’t go, please… Don’t leave me… ”
That was the last coherent thing to come out of Harry’s mouth that afternoon. His fever kept climbing and he spoke nonstop, called out, and tried to get up. Poppy secured him to his bed with medical restraints that did not stop him from imaginary motions. From what she could tell, he ran, fought several battles, spoke to multiple people including Albus, Voldemort, Remus and Tonks, Ron and Hermione, and his parents. She thought he argued loudly about some sensitive subject with a dog and a stag, changing again into that scary snake at the end, hissing, his fangs dripping venom. She also believed he flew on his broom for a while, quiet and relaxed.
She became worried when his temperature spiked to 104. He was agitated, panting, and perspiring profusely. Pushing off the covers she had managed to keep on him, she covered him in conjured ice. Even wrapped in her professional mantle, she blushed when she noticed a very prominent erection tenting his hospital gown and realized, from the motion of his hips, what his current vision might be about. He seemed to find his release and she refused to attach any importance to the fact that Severus was the name he murmured in reaching orgasm. He said it too softly for her to be sure, really, and hadn’t he called out a multitude of names that afternoon?
He finally lost consciousness and she gave him a magical sponge bath, changed his gown, and changed his sheets. He would sleep until morning now, his temperature slowly dropping back to normal.
Half an hour later, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley came to join Harry for tea, and she explained to them that his maturing had been faster and shorter than average. It was all over already. They did take tea and reviewed for their charms NEWTS at his bedside, but left again for dinner in the Great Hall.
On Monday morning, Harry woke up bright and early. He took a shower and dressed in clothes Ron Weasley had brought.
“How do you feel, Mr. Potter?” Poppy asked him after running a last diagnostic spell on him, which came out perfectly normal.
“More rested than I have in a long time. I hardly remember anything of yesterday after I got that headache going to practice.” He frowned and looked around, grinning. “There was a badger in here,” he chuckled, “and Gilderoy Lockart gave me his autograph… So I think I did hallucinate for a while. Will I remember more with time, do you think?”
“Probably not. I’m afraid none of what you said made much sense. Have you tried using magic yet?”
The quill on the bedside table took off on its own, planting itself in one of the ceiling beams, and Harry’s wand tip lit up with a blinding white light. “I didn’t say anything! I just thought about the spells… ”
“Wandless, wordless magic… ” She nodded. “You were powerful before Mr. Potter. More so than most. Now only very few wizards might rival you, if any. You should have Severus… I mean Minerva McGonagall test your strength. It might also behoove you not to show anyone the extent of your abilities, and to control your temper. People naturally fear wizards with seemingly unlimited magic. You do not want rumors that you might become the next Dark Lord to start spreading around.
Harry listened to her carefully, and nodded. She was glad he was taking her seriously.
“Now go and have breakfast, Mr. Potter. And if anyone asks, tell them you drank too much of that bootleg Firewhisky Mr. McMillan seems to have an endless supply of on Saturday nights and that you had a terrible hangover.”
Harry laughed. “You know about his stash, do you?”
Madam Pomfrey grinned. “I always know when he has been sharing it from the number of Gryffindors at my door the next day, begging for hangover potion… ”
~o~
Harry soon learned to hold back on his spells so his increase in magic went unnoticed. With only a bit over two months left, Harry studied hard, pleasing Hermione and unnerving poor Ron. Professor McGonagall had tested his magic to the extent of her ability and had deplored Snape’s departure as she felt only he would have been able to truly evaluate Harry. Her conclusion was that he might well be the most powerful wizard alive.
After he’d heard Madam Pomfrey confiding that she missed Snape dreadfully, as Slughorn’s potions were ever so much weaker, Hermione complaining that they would not benefit from Snape’s traditional review sessions, and some random Slytherin whining that Professor Vector just wasn’t as good a Head of House as Professor Snape, he was ready to use his new-found powers to Crucio them all.
The man had abandoned his post. As far as Harry was concerned, good riddance. Things went on just fine without him. He was not indispensable, or even wanted. If people would shut up about him, Harry would have forgotten the man even existed by now. If he’d read the leather-bound journal from cover to cover twice already, it was only because it greatly helped him in his Potions reviews and no other reasons.
One of the last topics covered in Transfiguration was the possibility for some wizards to learn to change into animal forms. It was just quickly mentioned by Professor McGonagall, along with the fact that it could take years to learn to transform successfully. So Harry, his classmates, and Professor McGonagall were all a little surprised when, after Professor McGonagall had them all repeat the Animagus transformation spell out loud, Harry’s chair was suddenly occupied by a rather dangerous-looking snake.
It was not all that helpful when Hermione said, in a little voice, “That’s a Black Mamba! One of the ten most dangerous snakes on earth!” Minerva McGonagall addressed the snake sternly. “Mr. Potter, are you able to change back or do you need some help?”
Harry replaced the snake. “Well, that was weird,” he said. Then he made a face. “Why do I have to be a snake? Why can’t I be a red hawk, or even a gull? Why can’t I be something that flies?”
He realized this might not have been the smartest thing to say when he noticed that McGonagall was outraged. “Mr. Potter! For Merlin’s sake, count yourself lucky! Do you realize how few wizards are Animagi? Are you aware of how much pain and effort one normally has to put into to becoming one? Something that flies, indeed! I thought that was what your broom was for! You will write a twenty-four-inch essay on Black Mambas and on the potential usefulness of your ability to transform into one for our next class and give us a presentation about it. Maybe it will help you develop the right amount of gratitude for this amazing gift!”
He did do the work, and did develop an appreciation for the ability to change into a creature that could easily hide, tell if people were lying from the pheromones they released in the air, move as fast as an athlete running all out, and, well, kill with a bite… But it also made him more cautious than ever about reining in his magic.
The only time he did not hold back was while flying as a Seeker for Gryffindor. He’d had superior skills and a superior broom. Now his speed was fuelled by his massive power, and he was completely uncatchable. Before he even left Hogwarts, the offers to join professional teams came rolling in.
He was never happier than when he was on his broom, pushing himself to the maximum of his abilities. Since this was something he had trained hard for, so that his natural gift could become what was now a truly amazing skill, he knew without a doubt that the recruiters did not want him because he was Harry Potter, but because he had the potential to someday be one of the best Seekers alive.
The day after taking his last NEWT (and doing quite honorably, he thought), he accepted the offer from Puddlemere to become their relief Seeker. By the time his NEWT results came, the fact that he’d earned all O’s was a source of great personal satisfaction, but was not needed. He had already been training with his new team for two weeks, and he loved it.