A Summer Like None Other by aspeninthesunlight
Summary: COMPLETE. Family isn't everything, as Harry, Snape, and Draco discover in this sequel to A Year Like None Other. How will a mysterious mirror and a surprising new relationship affect a father and his two sons?
Categories: Parental Snape > Biological Father Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Draco, Dudley, Hermione, Remus, Ron
Snape Flavour: None
Genres: Angst, Drama, General
Media Type: None
Tags: Adoption, Slytherin!Harry, SuperPower! Harry
Takes Place: 6th summer
Warnings: Character Death, Self-harm
Challenges: None
Series: A Year Like None Other
Chapters: 24 Completed: Yes Word count: 236038 Read: 165701 Published: 21 Dec 2008 Updated: 21 Dec 2008
Shock and Awww by aspeninthesunlight

When Draco arrived with Rhiannon, Harry, Snape and Hermione were already seated in the lobby of the Wizarding Home for Displaced and Orphaned Juvenile Squibs. Emmeleia Volentier came out to meet them before anyone even approached the dreaded bell.

Her smile, Harry thought, wasn't exactly warm as she glanced over the register Harry and Hermione had signed, but that stood to reason. She was probably a little bit embarrassed about the ugly letter she'd sent Draco.

The least she could do is apologise, thought Harry.

But no, that didn't seem to be her style. Her voice was crisp as she addressed them all. "Welcome back. If the young people will follow me to my office, I'll give you a brief orientation before we proceed with the tour."

Harry thought it was a little impertinent of her to practically dismiss Snape, like that, but maybe it was just as well. Snape had already announced his intention to go to Hogwarts that morning. Whether that was to speak with Dumbledore, or work with Remus again, Harry didn't know. He hadn't asked.

No point, really. As long as Remus had to go about looking like Lucius, Snape would just say no to Harry's requests to see him, wouldn't he?

Oh, hell. Maybe Snape just needed to brew a couple of potions, or something. The cottage wasn't set up very well for that, though Snape had made do a couple of times during the summer. Brewing, for Snape and Draco at least, was obviously an entertaining way to spend a long summer evening. It was less than thrilling for Harry, particularly since Snape basically insisted Harry join in to keep his skills honed.

What skills, Harry had almost asked once, but he'd managed to hold the question in. He wasn't that bad at Potions, after all. He just thought he could do without having to study them during his holiday.

Well, at least the last time he'd whinged on about missing the telly, Draco had actually understood what Harry was talking about.

"Too bad we can't have one," Draco had lamented, pulling a face. Apparently he was going over to Rhiannon's house a lot during her lunch hour, and watching it there. He still found it fascinating, how the pictures could move without any magic being involved.

"I'll see you both at home," Snape said now, interrupting Harry's thoughts. "Be certain to travel back with Miss Granger."

"Yes, Dad," said Draco, rolling his eyes a bit.

Harry grinned. "We'll be licensed, soon enough."

"Until later, then." Snape nodded politely at Hermione and Rhiannon, and then headed towards the outside door. He didn't get far, though. "Mr. Snape," called Rhiannon softly, hurrying to catch up to him. "My parents would like to invite you for next Saturday at six p.m. Would that be all right, do you think?"

"Certainly, Miss Miller."

"Oh, Rhiannon, please."

"Rhiannon, then."

"Wonderful. I'll see you then, if not before."

"If not before?" Hermione quietly asked Harry. "What about the pool?"

"Oh, we'll probably see her at free swim, I guess." Harry shrugged. "But my sequence of lessons is over. Thank God, too. That last session, Roger practically swam me to death."

"No whinging, now," said Draco lightly as Rhiannon joined them again. "You know perfectly well that you begged for those swimming lessons."

"I did not--"

Emmeleia interrupted the banter. "Would you come through now, please?"

The moment her back was turned, Draco made a bit of a face. Harry almost laughed, though privately, he felt sort of sorry for the woman. It couldn't be easy for her to have learned she'd made such a terrible mistake. Snape might not have yelled at her, but he'd probably lectured some, and Harry knew how it felt to be on the receiving end when Snape felt like delivering a scathing assessment of your behaviour.

Besides, that whole story, her history with Lucius? It was really creepy. Harry felt sorry for her, even though it had been pretty awful of her to take it out on Draco like that.

As soon as they were out of sight of the reception area, Emmeleia turned to face the group, her features rather grim. "Your wands, please."

Hermione started.

Probably a bit mean of him, Harry knew, but he couldn't help but think it would be amusing, what was coming next. Snape had thought of all this, of course. He'd remembered that visitors weren't allowed wands in the presence of the children, and that Harry and Draco--Hermione too--would be asked to surrender theirs for the duration of the visit.

And like a true Slytherin, he'd had a contingency plan in mind.

"Oh, sure," said Harry easily, drawing the twig Snape had transfigured to look like an authentic wand. It wasn't, though. With no core, it was nothing but a bit of wood. Emmeleia would have no way of knowing that, however.

Hermione's mouth dropped open a little, but she was too quick-thinking to say what she'd just realised.

Smiling widely, Draco handed over his "wand," as well.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked outraged that she was the only one who had to surrender an actual wand, but she did it without complaint. What could she say, really? She wasn't going to give the game away.

Bit ironic that Harry didn't even need his wand, but got to keep it on him. Then again, he did need it if he was going to cover up any wandless magic. Though he wasn't expecting to need to cast any.

Still, better safe than sorry.

"This way, then," said Emmeleia as soon as she came back from putting their wands away. Harry wondered over that, briefly. What did she use, a Muggle safe, or something? Bit stupid; a simple Alohomora would probably open it. But then, that would require a wand.

Well, for most wizards, anyway. Not for Harry.

A little bit stunned, Harry realised then that he was starting to think like a wizard who didn't need to rely on a wand. Part of him thought it was about time . . . but another part of him almost cringed. One more way for him to be different from all his friends. He wasn't sure he wanted to get used to that. Sometimes, he wanted to be "just Harry" again. He didn't want dark powers and wandless magic and seer dreams and the scariest prophecy ever hanging over his head!

No point in wishes like that, though, so Harry tried to push them aside.

Emmeleia's businesslike demeanour helped distract him. She didn't mince words as she led them through the various parts of the orphanage. Drawn out by Hermione's questions, she began discoursing at length about "the rights and lifestyle realities of the magically challenged."

Harry noticed Rhiannon frowning at the phrase, but really, what could she expect? It was better than the word squib, wasn't it?

"Hogwarts, no doubt, completely glosses these issues over," Emmeleia continued as they made their way up a flight of stairs.

Harry almost snorted. In the first place, she had glossed over this same speech the first time Draco and Harry had met with her, and in the second place, what did she expect? Hogwarts was a school designed to teach witchcraft and wizardry, not instruct everybody about the difficulties facing squibs!

"What issues are you thinking of?" asked Hermione, very politely.

Rhiannon, Harry noticed, was wide-eyed and hadn't said a single word, yet.

"First of all, there are no house elves here. The wizarding staff is permitted wands in case of emergency, but they are strongly discouraged from any use of magic around the children. In fact, everything above the ground floor is a strictly magic-free zone, not least because replacing the electronics on a regular basis would likely sap our entire budget. But also, we feel it important for the children to learn self-sufficiency. Everyone is responsible for cleaning his or her living areas and those older than age thirteen take turns helping in the kitchen as well."

Predictably, Draco sneered at that. "I can accept that too much magic might disable your telly and computators and such, but that's no reason to work the squ—er, magically challenged children as though they are house elves!"

Emmeleia actually smiled. A warm smile, as if she'd just that moment begun to believe that Draco, indeed, wasn't of the same ilk as Lucius Malfoy. As if to underline the point, she called him by his last name. The right one, this time. "They're hardly overworked, Mr Snape. And you must consider the future they will face. Sending them out into the world without any idea of how to fend for themselves would be the real cruelty, surely. We try to impart the skills they'll need for non-magical employment or entrance to university, but their lives would be rather difficult if they couldn't fathom how to use a toaster or clean the loo, or find the proper Tube station."

Draco made a face, but probably more because he didn't know what a Tube station was, than because he had missed her point. At any rate, he didn't say more along those lines.

For his part, Harry thought the policy made perfect sense. He'd resented all the work the Dursleys had forced on him--what child wouldn't?--but looking back now, he felt satisfied knowing that he could do for himself.

Even if he'd never figured out the secret to finding his magic through Parseltongue--hell, even if he had lost his magic completely--he'd have managed to make his way in the Muggle world.

"Electronics?" asked Hermione, clearly intrigued.

"Oh, yes. We have a full computer lab with Internet. I'll be happy to show you as long as you don't touch anything."

Harry couldn't imagine wanting to touch them, since the computers he'd used once or twice in primary school had left him unimpressed. He vaguely remembered something about prompts and cursors and hunting like mad to find the right letters on the keyboard, just so he could type things that didn't make any sense at all . . .

He shook himself out of his reverie to realise that Emmeleia was going on about the layout of the school, now. He already remembered this information from his first visit: the ground floor was reserved for offices and storage and such; the first, for kitchen, library, and infirmary; the second for classrooms, computer room and an advanced science lab; and the third for recreation space. The building's top floor was where the children and live-in staff resided. Emmeleia described it as "divided into shared and private living space."

Harry almost snorted again. Sounded to him like she meant "common rooms and dormitories." He wondered if they had anything like a house system, but he decided not to ask.

"Truly, you fit all the kids into one floor without using wizardspace?" asked Draco, a little haughtily. "They must be packed in like the wands on Ollivander's shelves."

When Emmeleia gave Draco a blank look, Harry took over. "Tighter than tinned sardines, he means."

Emmeleia pursed her lips. Well, it had been a bit of a rude comment, now that Harry thought of it.

"Things on the top floor are perhaps a little cramped, but not as much as you might expect." She turned towards Hermione and Rhiannon as she explained further. "You see, we rarely have more than thirty children at any one time. Currently, there are twenty-two in residence."

"That few?" Evidently feeling more comfortable by then, Rhiannon swept her long hair back over one shoulder as she kept speaking. "Is it so unusual, then, for children in wizard families to be born . . . er, magically challenged?"

"I wouldn't call the incidence terribly rare, no," said Emmeleia, her voice all at once far kinder than Harry had ever heard it. Huh . . . it seemed to him that she liked squibs a lot better than wizards. But with her history, that made a lot of sense, even if it did remind him a bit of Draco preferring his "own kind" to everyone else for so long.

Emmeleia Volentier really was old enough to know better.

"Bear in mind that the Ministry doesn't transfer any orphans to this facility until they are at least eleven and confirmed to be completely magically impaired. And since we're only allowed to house them until they turn seventeen," she continued with a sigh, "we don't have many at once. The positive is that we're able to work closely with those we do serve. For example each child has private counselling once a week."

Harry tried hard to keep his expression neutral, but it was quite a challenge. Therapy once a week, just on account of being a squib? That seemed like . . . well, overkill, basically.

"And we work up a thorough individual medical profile of each child, as well--"

"The impression you gave us on our first visit was that many of the children are abandoned when they don't get their Hogwarts letters," Draco drawled. "Surely, their cowardly, degenerate parents can be forced to supply proper healing histories."

Emmeleia's eyes took on a glint. "Oh, they are, but the records often just present the beginning of the mystery." The petite woman hesitated, but only for a moment. "Rhiannon, what sort of experiences have you had with healers?"

Of course, Rhiannon's expression went rather blank and she turned to Draco, who became flushed with anger. "How dare you ask such a thing?"

The deputy head held her hands out in a placating gesture. "Oh, please do pardon me," she said, not sounding the least bit sarcastic. "I didn't mean to pry. I'll just use myself as an example, then, shall I?"

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. At times, his brother's tendency to be a bit touchy came in handy.

"Many of the children are officially turned over to Ministry guardianship when they fail to register as magical at the age of eleven, but most families are fairly certain of the disability before that. In my case, their first clue was a failed healing charm for chest congestion when I was just a baby."

"Right . . . magical healing doesn't work on er . . . non-magical people," Harry murmured to himself, thinking back to his inability to help Aunt Petunia except by Muggle means. And look at how that had turned out. His donated bone marrow had killed her, more or less.

No, not more or less. It had killed her.

Not his fault, of course. He'd meant only the best, and if he hadn't donated marrow, she'd probably have died soon in any case, but still . . . Harry felt a little icky over the whole thing.

"That's right in general," Emmeleia continued, "but the details are much more complex. After all, most magic can be applied to non-magical persons because the magical energy is generated from within the wizard or witch and applied to the outside target. However, healing magic is a bit trickier, as I'm sure you've been taught."

Yeah, I've been taught, thought Harry, wishing again that he hadn't had to learn it the hard way.

"I don't really follow," said Rhiannon, almost apologetically.

Emmeleia smiled again. "I wouldn’t expect you to be versed in magical theory. To briefly explain, all cast magic involves a transfer of energy between the caster and the target. Well, true healing magic involves the displacement of negative energy from the sick or injured, but the nature of basic light magic will not allow the caster to be harmed by his own spell, so the negativity must be balanced within the magical core of the patient."

"Which is why potions are more commonly used in magical medicine than charms or spells," Hermione gushed. She went on to babble something about the dangers of weakening a patient being less with the relatively external magic of potions which have ingredients to act as catalysts instead of magical cores. Harry just wondered whether it was obvious to everyone else in the room that the majority of the conversation had sailed right over his head. Of course, he wasn't as lost as Rhiannon--she looked positively baffled, by then--but that was hardly to his credit.

Oh, well.

"True, true," Emmeleia agreed. "It all boils down to this: if the patient lacks a viable magical core, healing charms cannot access it to power the magic. Hence, they fail. However, the fascinating part in all this is that the effects seem to be immensely variable from person to person. The theory seems to be that every person, whether magical, magically-impaired, or non-magical, does have some degree of magical core within them--it's a matter of degrees of magic as opposed to all or none."

Harry had heard this theory before--of course it was considered very liberal and controversial, and the pureblood students at school had openly sneered at it, Draco included. Curious what his brother might think of it now, Harry glanced over and saw him giving Rhiannon a look of intense contemplation.

At that, Harry had to suppress a groan. He really, really hoped Draco wasn't going to go back into the mindset of Rhiannon being some kind of witch, after all!

"…and so some of our students here are responsive to some magical charms and others only to potions and others to a combination of non-magical and magical methods and a few to nothing but non-magical medicine. I, myself, fall a bit in the middle. My sterilization surgery was completely non-magical, but I take potions to maintain my hormonal and emotional health."

Hermione let out a strangled gasp, just then. When Harry turned her way, she looked more than a little ill.

Noticing the attention, she stiffened and stammered, "I'm very sorry. I don't mean to be rude . . . I'm just surprised that a woman so clearly non-prejudiced as yourself would choose to have that sort of surgery. Unless, if was for a medical reason, of course."

Emmeleia smiled sadly and moved to stand with her hands clasped behind her back. Her voice was husky when she spoke. "I was sterilized solely so that I could never give birth to a magically-impaired child. I had the surgery willingly at the time, but I was only thirteen years old and was pressured into it by my family and their social circles. I was completely convinced that what I was doing was the responsible and moral choice for wizarding society.

"Obviously, I do not feel the same way now that I'm an adult. I would never, ever coerce any person to deny themselves the right to have children no matter what levels of magical ability might be involved." She shook her head sadly. "At the same time, I can't condemn those of us who don't want to take the chance of cursing their children with a more challenging, painful life."

To Harry, the mood in the room couldn't have been darker if Dementors where tapping at the windows. He was starting to get a headache from it all and he noticed that Hermione was actually sniffling a bit. Draco and Rhiannon also looked more than a little sombre.

Pasting a bright smile on her face, the tan-skinned squib brushed off her white skirt and stood. "Well, I managed to turn the conversation deadly, didn't I?"

"Pardon?" Draco asked.

"Hmmm, oh sorry, Canadian thing, means I got a bit carried away with the serious stuff. Let's all go to my office for a bit, shall we? I've got some biscuits there and sodas in the mini-fridge."

As they trooped off behind her, Harry couldn't help but mull over the previous conversation. He'd never really thought much about squibs and magical genetics; it had always seemed to him that worrying about such things at all was a very Slytherin, prejudiced way to think.

Predictably, Draco had scoffed and called his attitude typical Gryffindor idiocy. "Don't you realize, Potter?" he had asked, months earlier. "It's not snobbery at all. It's concern about the well-being of our children. You rant and rant about how unimportant blood is, but you didn't like it much when you didn't have magic, did you? Well, how would you feel if you knew you'd done that to your own child?"

Harry was a little ashamed now to realise that he'd never bothered to consider how difficult life would be for a wizarding child born without magic--having all that wonder surrounding them but being cut off from it. He found his arms itching just a bit, but managed to resist scratching them in front of the others. Maybe if he could nip off to the loo for a bit, though . . . No, no. Harry shook his head, trying to clear all those thoughts away.

Useless, the lot of them. He couldn't let himself get drawn into doing that again, no matter how tempting it might seem, at times. He just couldn’t. His father would be so disappointed in him. Though of course, he knew what Marsha would say to that. He knew what she had said, the few times Harry had voiced a similar thought. You must do things for your own sake, not for the sake of others, Harry, she would gently advise, her hands clasped together as she leaned forward in her chair. You won't truly stop self-injury entirely, not until you're doing it for yourself.

And yeah, Harry could see that she had a point. Well, sort of. He also thought she didn't really understand how much he loved Snape. He didn't go on about it, after all, though he had talked a lot about how tough it had been growing up without a father, and how Uncle Vernon really, really hadn't counted.

Shaking his head again, Harry realised he'd been wool-gathering for several minutes, by then. He'd barely even noticed when they'd reached Emmeleia's office, and he definitely didn't remember sitting down. Bit scary, really, that he'd lost track like that. Harry made an effort to focus again, grateful to hear that Emmeleia had finally got off the topic of magical bloodlines.

" . . . Yes, Millwood School," she was saying. "In the province of Quebec. My great-grandmother insisted on sending me there and it was absolutely brilliant. Canada and the States have a much better educational system for magical/non-magical integration. I've emulated Millwood here, as much as I can considering this facility is administered through an adjunct office of the Ministry."

Harry had heard all about Millwood School the first time they'd visited. He had to admit one thing: a Muggle boarding school that secretly catered to squibs sounded like a good idea to him. Well, in some ways.

"So then . . ." Emmeleia swivelled her chair to face the wall behind her, and began to rummage in the small-sized refrigerator she had mentioned. "Orange? Strawberry? Grape? I'm afraid I don't have anything except fruit-flavoured sodas just now."

"Anything in the diet range?" asked Hermione, a little bit primly.

"Don't tell me you actually like Diet Coke," said Draco, giving her a look of mock-horror at the mere idea.

Hermione made a face. "No, but you should hear my parents talk about sugary sodas and tooth decay."

"I think I'll skip that, thanks."

Draco was grinning as he said it, though, like all he'd meant was that he got enough lectures at home--though granted, not usually about his teeth. But anyway, he hadn't been making a slur about her parents being Muggles, and Harry could tell that Hermione got that. She grinned right back.

Harry hid his own wide smile, since he wouldn't want Draco to think he was making fun. It wasn't that, not at all. It was just so good to see Draco and Hermione getting along, finally.

Really getting along, instead of just putting up with one another for Harry's sake.

"Strawberry for me," said Harry, mostly for the novelty. He'd never had a that flavour soda before.

Emmeleia extended a bright pink can--the garish colour reminded Harry of Amaelia Thistlethorne, actually, and made him wonder if WFS was going to pay them any more visits. Not much point in that, though, was there? Within a week, Harry would turn seventeen and be a full, legal adult.

Draco was one already, though WFS might not know that unless they took a close look at his paperwork.

Ouch. As Emmeleia's hand brushed against Harry's, a sharp electric sting coursed through his fingers. Afterwards, they felt really sore, and rubbing them didn't really help much. Pressing the cold can of soda did, but just a bit.

Harry sighed, remembering the first time he and Draco had visited here. The same thing had happened, then. Twice, actually, both at times when Emmeleia had touched him in passing. Static electricity . . . Harry didn't know a lot about it, but he had some vague memories of rubbing a balloon against his head in primary school one day, during a science lesson. The static electricity that had built up had made his hair stand up even more than usual. Wool cloth would do the same thing, he remembered; that had been the next part of the day's experiment . . .

Harry's nostrils flared. You'd think the orphanage had wall-to-wall wool carpeting instead of hardwood floors, the way he kept getting shocked! And it wasn't just Harry, either. Draco had sort of flinched when he'd shaken Emmeleia's hand on their first visit, hadn't he? At the time, Harry had assumed that his brother was just being snooty over the squib thing, but maybe he'd gotten one of these stinging pains that touching her seemed to produce.

"Oh, how lovely. Is that a sari?" Rhiannon asked, interrupting Harry's thoughts. Glancing to the side, Harry saw that Draco's girlfriend was admiring a long stretch of crimson cloth embroidered with gold thread.

Emmeleia's brown eyes widened in what looked like alarm. Over a length of cloth? Nah, couldn't be.

But it was, because in the next moment, the woman was jumping to her feet to rush across the room. Hermione made a small noise, almost a squeak, as Emmeleia brushed past her. Harry took that to mean that she'd just got shocked, as well. Maybe Emmeleia was wearing wool, he thought, glancing toward the small woman.

But no, her outfit was clearly made of a lightweight summery sort of fabric. Something did catch his notice, however. As Emmeleia snatched up the cloth and hastily folded it, Harry got a clear view of the box it had been draped over. Or no, not a box . . . clearly, it was a wizarding trunk. Mad Eye Moody had been imprisoned inside one that had looked quite similar.

Harry eyed the woman critically for a moment. What would a squib be doing with a wizarding trunk? Then again, she was from pureblood family, wasn't she? And old Swiss one, Draco had guessed, based on her last name. So maybe the trunk was an heirloom or something.

"I'm sorry," Rhiannon said. "I didn't mean to pry . . ."

"Oh, no, not at all." To Harry's thinking, the woman's tone sounded a bit forced. But perhaps that just showed how paranoid he was becoming. Emmeleia certainly didn't seem the type to be keeping secrets; look at how she'd shared all those details about her medical history. No sense of discretion . . . Harry could easily imagine Snape drawling the words in tones nearing contempt.

"It's just that it's quite old," Emmeleia was going on. "I shouldn't have left it out like that, not in the summer," she said, waving a hand toward the window. "Strong light can damage the delicate fibres."

"It truly was lovely," said Hermione. "I didn't get a close look, though. Was it a sari?"

"Oh, no. It's a 'Goddess Aurora Altar Cloth,' or so I was told when I bought it at the Bizarre Bazaar. In Salem, Massachusetts," she added with a smile that suggested it was a fond memory. "The school took some of us on a field trip there when I was sixteen."

"Salem?" asked Draco, his voice slicing through the air. "The witch trials, that Salem?"

Not this again. "There weren't any real witches burned there, Draco," said Harry.

"There wasn't anyone burned at all," corrected Hermione. "The people convicted of witchcraft were hanged."

"Perhaps so, but the idea that not one was an actual witch is pure propaganda," said Draco, his voice quite cool.

To Harry's surprise, Emmeleia began nodding as she sat back down in the chair behind her desk. "It may well be. No credible evidence of witchcraft in Salem has ever come to light, but it wouldn't be the first time that the government covered up indications of paranormal activity." She gestured toward a poster on the far wall.

When Draco turned his head to look at it, his expression became curiously blank. And no wonder. The poster sported an enormous flying saucer hovering over an expanse of farmland bathed in an eerie, otherworldly light. At the bottom, large type announced, "I want to believe."

"Oh, I love that show," said Rhiannon. "It's my absolute favourite."

Emmeleia and Rhiannon started to enthuse over it together, a conversation which pretty quickly grew too inane for Harry. Muggle government conspiracies covering up evidence of space aliens? Daft stories of people actually being abducted by little green men?

Harry almost laughed, and not just because the whole thing sounded so stupid. It was also incredibly weird that a girl training to sing classical opera could also be so interested in bad science fiction.

He didn't laugh, though. At least this conversation was a lot more amusing than another dull lecture about curriculum or funding, and besides, laughing would be rather insensitive, considering that his brother was looking positively spooked.

Huh. Harry would have expected a Slytherin to be a lot more hardened. Clearly, though, the possible existence of extra-terrestrials was a brand new concept for Draco. And not a welcome one, either.

Harry traded glances with Hermione and very nearly laughed despite his resolve. She looked astonished by the idea that anybody could take such a stupid telly programme seriously.

"Thank you for the tour," said Harry politely, rising to his feet.

Draco shook his head like he was coming out of a daze, but then stood up as well. "Yes, thank you. It was good of you to give us a closer look at the facility."

Emmeleia's glance at him was somewhat critical. Or at least, Harry thought so. "Hopefully you'll conclude that your money is being well-spent."

Harry knew from the look that crossed his brother's face that Draco was thinking of Rhiannon as he answered. "Yes, it does seem so. It's good to be able to put the funds to good use."

Hermione pressed her lips together like she was reining in laughter again. Her expression, however, lost all trace of amusement when Harry began to move toward the door. "Ehem. I think we'd better get our wands back before we leave."

Oh, right. Not too amazing that Harry would forget, since he hadn't given away his wand to begin with. He was a little more surprised that Draco would make the same gaffe, but maybe the idea of space aliens had distracted him.

"Of course," murmured Emmeleia as she pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved Hermione's wand as well as the two decoys she'd been given. They hadn't even been under lock and key?

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

Well, Harry could sympathise. He'd be annoyed if his real wand had been treated so carelessly, plunked into a drawer where anybody could come along and nick it. The least Emmeleia could have done was keep the wands safe from the children, who might well be curious about them!

All Harry could think was that a squib couldn't possibly understand how important a wand could be to a wizard. If she did understand that, she'd never have asked for theirs in the first place.

"There you are," she said, giving Harry's fake wand to Hermione and vice-versa. At least she got Draco's right. As Harry traded with Hermione, he tried not to look too annoyed over the whole thing.

"Well, thank you for visiting," Emmeleia finished, the words clearly a dismissal.

Fine by Harry. He was more than ready to leave, by then.


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On Monday, Draco began complaining that since Harry's lessons were over, he wouldn’t see enough of Rhiannon unless they all went to free swim every day.

Harry had no real objection to that. He liked spending time at the pool, especially since now, he could swim as many laps as he felt like instead of the number Roger demanded. He raced Draco a few times, and then both of them raced Severus. It was all great fun, particularly after one of their races degenerated into a water fight.

Severus ended up looking slightly like a drowned rat; the wet look really didn't suit him.

Draco, in contrast, could somehow come across as suave and elegant even when dripping wet. He clearly knew it, too. Harry lost count of the times he preened when Rhiannon happened to be looking their way.

In another sense, though, Harry couldn't help but think that Draco's concern over his appearance was a bit sad, really. He kept applying and re-applying his special sunscreen, and not just to protect his fair skin; he was also making sure that the glamour charmed into it would stay active and keep the scar on his chest hidden.

Harry thought that if Rhiannon really loved him, she wouldn't mind the fact that Draco had a burn mark. Yeah, it was large, but it wasn't such a big deal. Harry had seen it loads of times by then and to him, it just looked like an expanse of puckered skin.

Draco was clearly self-conscious about it, though, and made sure to keep it entirely hidden from his girlfriend.

On Wednesday night, Harry could hardly contain his excitement. Finally, his birthday was close enough to almost reach out and grab. And not just any birthday, but the most important one of all.

Seventeen, at long last. It was all Harry could do not to whoop. He'd finally be an adult. He could get his Apparition license. He could stop worrying that one of his wandless spells would make people wonder why his underage magic wasn't being detected.

Casting Tempus, Harry saw that it was gone eleven, already.

"Well, I'm knackered," said Draco, closing his book with a snap. He sounded a bit like he thought Harry's spell had been some kind of hint. Or maybe not, since he was standing up and stretching. "Bed for me, I think."

"That'll teach you to try to out-fly me after dinner."

"Try, nothing, Potter. I did out-fly you," said Draco, his chin lifted slightly. "And what's more, it didn't exhaust me in the slightest. I happen to be tired because I've finally finished every last ethics book Severus can lay his hands on."

"Oh, I'm quite certain I can find more."

"Very funny--"

"Don't go to bed, yet," interrupted Harry. "Or you, Dad. Be nice to have company this time when I stay up for my birthday. Besides, I want to see it when your burden lifts, Dad."

"You aren't a burden."

Harry grinned again. "Good to hear. I still want to see it, though."

"I doubt there will be much to see," said Snape in an odd tone.

Harry laughed. "Well, I'm not expecting you to turn purple--"

"You always stay up for your birthday?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were hinting that you'd like your presents tonight instead of waiting until morning."

"You're just sore that I'm waiting until your real birthday to give you your present."

"As is Dad, I presume," said Draco with an arch look towards Snape.

As hints went, that one was so blatant that Harry almost felt like cringing. Snape, however, just curled his lips in a smile that somehow looked sly and mysterious all at once.

"You'll just have to wait and wonder, won't you? But you won't be alone. Harry won't be getting a present tonight, either. I plan to celebrate his birthday on the correct day."

"Hey, after midnight it is the thirty-first. Ron and Hermione usually send me things then, and I'd open them late at night." Harry glanced over at the charmed box on the table. "I don't know about this year, though. I suppose there might be a delay in the post."

"No doubt," said Snape, his hair swaying as he nodded. "And while you are correct about when the thirty-first commences, midnight isn't conducive to the birthday plans I have in mind."

Oh. Plans. Harry wasn't sure why that should touch him so much. After all, Snape wasn't the kind of father who would fail to mark his birthday. Still, Harry felt almost like he'd just been tucked between a pair of warm, soft, fuzzy blankets.

Draco, on the other hand, was looking a little bit sour. No wonder, too. He was seventeen already, but Snape hadn't done a thing to recognise Draco's passage into the adult world. Not his fault, of course, considering the way Draco had changed his birthday to a date already past. Still, though, Harry couldn't blame Draco for feeling a little left out.

But maybe Snape was intending to wait until Draco's original birth date rolled around. That made a kind of sense, Harry supposed.

"So, plans," said Draco suddenly, his voice full of forced cheer. "Do tell, Severus."

Harry appreciated the effort, he really did. That was brotherly love right there, that Draco wasn't going to let his own jealousy or disappointment ruin Harry's birthday.

"I thought we'd go somewhere together for dinner."

"Sounds good." Harry almost made a joke then, about going back to the fancy seafood restaurant, but with Draco feeling a bit put out already . . . no, better not.

Draco's thoughts, though, seemed to be leaning in the same direction. "Let's avoid any restaurant that could be termed merveilleuse," he said, slanting Harry a droll glance.

"How about Draco picks?" suggested Harry, feeling really quite bad by then that he hadn't already given Draco a birthday present. So what if he'd sort of assumed they'd do any celebrating on Draco's original birth date? Clearly, that had been the wrong way to go about things. Draco had turned seventeen already, and neither his father nor brother had done anything special to mark the occasion.

Just the thought of it left Harry feeling like a bit of a heel.

"Actually, my plans are already rather well set," said Snape, tucking a long strand of hair back behind an ear. "Not to worry. I doubt you'll be disappointed."

Harry smiled and nodded, but he still felt bad for Draco, even if the other boy had brought this all on himself. "How about a game of Wizard's Scrabble, to pass the time, then?"

"We didn't bring it--"

"Accio Wizard's Scrabble," said Snape, flicking his wand. "I brought it back, the last time I stopped by the castle."

"I really am too knackered."

"Your E's can be worth five points, then," said Harry. "But no slang allowed. Not from anybody."

"Oh, very well . . ."

Draco's voice sounded long-suffering, but that was just for show. Harry could tell. As soon as the game really got underway, he became as competitive and focussed as ever. No wonder, though; this time, Snape wasn't holding back at all, and he really did have a vocabulary that could put most dictionaries to shame.

When a slight vibration in Harry's pocket told him that midnight was fast approaching, he pulled his wand out and whispered at it in Parseltongue, then grinned. "Charmed it to sort of . . . buzz, at two minutes to midnight."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

Snape cast a special sort of time-spell then, one that made a ghostly clock appear and hover in the air. At first, the hands didn't appear to be moving at all, but then the minute hand inched over a tiny bit.

"Eleven fifty-nine," said Harry, almost holding his breath.

"Well, I'm for bed now--"

Harry punched his brother in the shoulder to stop him from joking about.

"Ow, that smarts! No presents for you, not after that."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew how many times I had birthdays with no presents," chided Harry. For once, though, it didn't hurt to think on such memories. Those days seemed so distant, now. Like they didn't matter, any longer.

Or not as much, anyway.

Harry returned his attention to the clock, almost holding his breath. And then, finally, the minute hand moved once more, shifting over to rest beneath the hour hand as the clock read precisely twelve.

At that same instant, a low noise, rather like a gong, began to echo in the room. One . . . two . . . three . . . Grinning, Harry counted the sounds until the gong had rung twelve times, all the while watching his father carefully, looking for any sign of a burden lifting.

Snape just stared back, impassive, though humour was lurking somewhere in his dark eyes.

Finally, the gong stopped, so Harry asked. "Did you feel it?"

"Yes, some two days past."

Harry gaped. "What?" Then, he thought he understood. "Draco, did you slip some of your special shampoo into the one I usually use?"

"Yes, and I also hexed your Firebolt to throw you, and I hid all your socks inside a garden gnome!" Draco crossed his arms and glared.

"Draco's aging potion doesn't act topically, Harry. You would have to drink it for it to have any effect."

"Harry, have you been drinking my shampoo again?" asked Draco in a syrupy voice.

"Well, what was I to think?" Harry rounded on his father. "Are you serious? You felt your burden lift a couple of days ago? I was seventeen already, and didn't know it?"

"Apparently." Snape shrugged. "All I can say for certain is that I did feel the burden lift."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Another shrug, but that one wasn't careless. Somehow, it looked . . . fatherly. "Perhaps I wanted you to enjoy every last moment of your childhood, such as it ever was."

"Thanks," said Harry softly. "But how . . . why?"

"You accelerated personal time in order to break out of that Petrificus, several months ago. I told you at the time that you'd likely made yourself a couple of days older."

"Oh, yeah . . ." Harry's brow furrowed. "Oh, no. The prophecy . . . Er, do you suppose my birthday's actually changed? What if I'm not the one who was born as the seventh month died, any longer?"

For a moment, it was like the whole world seemed to open up before him. What if it was true? What if he'd somehow been set free--

What if there was nobody left who could stop Voldemort at all?

"I consulted your adoption certificate when I felt the burden lift," said Snape, shaking his head. "Your birth date hasn't changed, likely because what you did to age yourself was born of instinct, rather than intent."

"Not formalised magic," added Draco.

"Oh." Harry sat down, frowning, not sure whether to be upset or relieved. "For a second I thought . . . well, you know. I'd kind of rather there wasn't a prophecy about me."

"The Dark Lord isn't going to leave you alone, though," said Draco. "You'd still have to fight him, Harry. He'd come after you even if your birthday had changed."

"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat. "I guess I meant, I'd rather there not be a Voldemort at all."

"You aren't thinking of . . . er . . . sticking yourself, are you?"

"No," said Harry, though on some level it wasn't true. He had been feeling like scratching, at least. Trust Draco to wonder over it. His brother didn't bring it up constantly, like he used to, but Harry could do without him mentioning it at all. No point in fighting about it, though, and ruining his birthday, so Harry tried his best to think of something else. "So, that's it, then. Seventeen, finally. I thought I'd feel . . . I don't know. Different, somehow."

"I expected that, too," said Draco. "But, no."

"Wait until you have a son who comes of age," said Snape wryly. "Or two, in quick succession. You'll feel all you could wish, I wager."

Harry quickly glanced up. "What was it like? The burden lifting?"

Snape tilted his head to one side as he considered that. "Odd sensation. A cessation of formal responsibility for you. Legal responsibility. But no less of a bond, if that's what concerns you."

Harry shook his head. "No, that's all settled. It wasn't magic that made you my father, after all. I understand."

"No, it wasn't." Snape's eyes took on a softer look than usual, for just a moment. That one moment was enough, though. "Though I still maintain that you'll understand still more when you yourself become a father."

"Can't really imagine that," said Harry slowly.

"No-one your age should be able to imagine it."

Maybe so, but Harry had meant something different. Sometimes it seemed to him like his future was so tied into that awful prophecy, that he had no other future. Plus, of course, there was his constant awareness that dark powers or no, he was no match for Voldemort. How could he hope to be the one who survived?

"So, who's for cake and presents?" asked Draco brightly, just as if he knew Harry was getting mired in dark thoughts. "I owled-ordered you a really nice one."

"Present?"

"Cake, from the most renowned pastry chef on the Continent."

Harry frowned. "You made an owl fly all the way from France?"

"Vienna, actually." Draco shrugged. "That's in Austria."

"I know it's in Austria! Awful long way for an owl . . ."

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even sense Snape leaning towards him, not until a hand settled onto his shoulder. "You're missing Hedwig, I suspect."

"Yeah, she'd love it here. All these open fields, probably running wild with mice and such."

"But you understand why she's best left in Scotland?"

Harry gave his father a weak smile. "Yeah, of course. Can't have her flying around here, attracting attention, especially since your concealment spells mean that people walking alongside your property might see her vanishing and reappearing every time she crosses the wards."

"A pity she can't be relied on to stay in bounds, the way you and Draco do when out flying."

"It's all right." said Harry, sighing a little. "I've got Sals . . . but you're right. I do miss her. Even if it got really old hearing Sals complain about her."

Harry hadn't noticed, but Draco had been busy while he and Snape had been talking. "Voilà," said the other the boy, making an elegant gesture toward the living room.

Harry's eyes went wide when he looked. Three squarish boxes wrapped in brilliant silver paper surrounded the fanciest cake he'd ever seen. The sides were iced in gold, and a replica of Hogwarts occupied about half the top surface. The castle was executed in painstaking detail, its tallest spires standing perhaps ten full inches above the lake that occupied the rest of the cake top.

"Brilliant," murmured Harry, grinning.

"Look closer," said Draco.

Harry bent over the cake, and that was when he saw it. There was a tiny figure swimming in the lake. Ripples fanned out from the swimmer as it made its way across the blue icing. Peering even more closely, Harry noticed that the swimmer was doing the Australian crawl. As he watched, though, it flipped over and began executing a perfect backstroke, instead.

The swimmer was wearing maroon-and-gold trunks, he noticed with delight.

"Bloody brilliant," Harry finally said, pulling back a little. "Shame to eat it, really."

"The castle's liquorice-flavoured," said Draco. "I have to see Severus' face when he tastes it."

Harry thought that liquorice icing sounded hideous, but he did want to see what their father thought of it. "I'll just go get a knife, then--"

Draco raised an eyebrow, and then his wand. "Shouldn't we light the candles, first? And sing to you? That is what Muggles do, I'm told. I have it on good authority."

"Candles?"

Even as Harry asked that, though, thin ones were rising up from the spires of the miniature Hogwarts. Others appeared in the lake, popping up on islands that hadn't been there the moment before. One word from Draco, and they were lit.

"Rhiannon taught me the tune, and I taught it to Severus," said Draco. "Ready?"

Harry grinned and rubbed his hands as his father and brother sang him the Happy Birthday song. When it was over, he blew out all the candles with a single breath. He was a little bit surprised, actually, that they didn't re-light. Seemed like the kind of thing a wizarding cake would do. But of course, this had been baked by some famous chef, not by Fred and George . . .

Draco had his head tilted curiously to the side. "Did you make a wish, really?"

Harry nodded. "But I'm not telling what. If I do, it won't come true."

"Making a wish seems a strange custom for people without magic."

"Perhaps in a world devoid of wizardry, people need wishes all the more," said Snape, lifting his wand to summon plates and utensils.

Liquorice icing, Harry found out, wasn't bad at all. But then, he'd also thought that a paint-flavoured jelly bean had been pretty good.

"Presents, now," said Draco, reaching out from his position on the couch to push them over towards Harry, who was sitting in a chair to the side of the table.

"You didn't have to get me so many," murmured Harry, a little embarrassed. "Really, the cake alone would have been enough. It was wonderful."

"Harry James Potter," said Draco sternly, "it's your seventeenth birthday. Wizards celebrate the event properly. In pureblood circles, that means three gifts from a brother or sister."

"Is that why you got me three? To be proper?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, I got you three because I was learning to count."

"Draco," chided Snape.

"Oh, fine. I got you three because you're my brother past, present, and future. If you don't open them soon, I'm going to suspect you don't feel the same way--"

"Prat." Harry grinned as he said it, though.

He started with the smallest box first. It contained a small pin such as one might wear on the collar of a cloak. The image on the pin matched the special crest Snape had made for him. Half-Slytherin, half-Gryffindor . . . except instead of being executed in small stitches, the emblem on the pin was formed out of tiny glittering stones.

Gemstones, probably. Harry swallowed, thinking about what Ron would say if he caught Harry sporting emeralds and rubies, even little ones. Not that the crest pin was ostentatious. Harry actually thought it in very good taste. But still . . .

"Thanks, Draco."

The other boy merely shrugged.

Harry's next present was a box of chocolate snitches. "Filled with Ogden's finest," said Draco in an undertone. "Which is even more potent with chocolate, so don't eat more than two at once, I'd say. Well, unless you want to wake up dazed and confused, and possibly in bed with someone whose name you can't quite recall--"

Harry looked away, biting his lip a little, but not because he was embarrassed. Well, perhaps he was a tiny bit embarrassed. But mostly, he was wishing that he could be like other people, and get drunk off his head just for the fun of it. No chance of that for him, though, not until Voldemort was dead and gone. Harry had to be on guard all the time. Or at least, better than that.

"All right, that's enough teasing your brother," said Snape, his dark eyes looking a little concerned when Harry glanced his way. Feeling uncomfortable, he quickly focussed his attention on the largest box, instead. Strangely enough, it contained the smallest present of all. Well, in one sense. In another sense, it was just about the biggest--and best--present that Harry could imagine getting from Draco.

There was nothing in the box but a small, small, rolled scroll. When Harry smoothed it out and read the embossed gold script, his eyebrows shot up so far into his hairline that they practically felt airborne.

Harry James Potter is hereby entitled to one free, deluxe broomstick maintenance-and-cleaning service. Upon his request and at no charge to him, the spells on his Firebolt will be reapplied, reinforced, and upgraded to XL standard. Optional name service is fully included.

----- At your service since 1695, Quidditch Brooms Internationale

At the bottom, written in dark green ink, was a note in Draco's hand: To Harry, upon his coming-of-age, with love and respect from your brother, Draco Snape.

"Wow," he said, so astonished that for a moment, he didn't know what else he could possibly say. From anyone else, a gift like this would be thoughtful, but from Draco, it was almost overwhelming. Helping Harry spiff up his Firebolt, after all, was only going to make Harry a better Seeker, next year, which would hurt Slytherin's chances!

"Yes, you should sound awed," said Draco, a little loftily. "I can't tell you how close I came to getting you a new cloak, instead. A nice one, mind."

"I'm awed, all right."

"Well, when I humiliate you in the first Quidditch match of the year, you won't be able to say it was because of my superior broom. Though of course you can decline their spell service, if you wish. I wasn't sure how comfortable you would be with the idea, to be honest."

"Um . . ." Harry glanced down at the parchment again. Sort of a wizarding gift-certificate, wasn't it? "Who exactly is this Quidditch Brooms Internationale? I've never heard of them."

"Developers of the Firebolt and Firebolt XL. The inventors, really. You can trust them to know what they're doing and do a fine job. Though as I said, you don't have to let them work on the spells if you'd rather not."

Harry nodded. He'd think about that later. "What's this optional name service?"

"Oh, you can have a name etched into the handle, though it only appears when the broom isn't in the air. You wouldn't want it to affect performance, certainly."

"Right . . . so, Harry Potter, in case it's stolen?" Come to think of it, though, having his name on the broom might make it more likely to be stolen. Well, perhaps not while he was at Hogwarts, but afterwards? People did seem to want a piece of him.

"If you like, though I thought you might want to use it as some sort of . . . well, like a dedication to Sirius Black. He gave you the broom to begin with, didn't he?"

"Yeah," said Harry, a little thickly. He tried not to think about Sirius often, because doing that always led to the same place. What would Sirius think of everything that had happened? Harry adopted by Snape, Harry calling the man Dad?

"A most thoughtful present, Draco." said Snape. Harry wondered for a moment if the man had sensed his morose thoughts and was trying to distract him. Then he wondered if maybe he was as vain as Draco had once said. Not everything was about him, after all.

Draco almost preened, even as he corrected his father. "Presents. Plural."

"Yes. You did well."

Well? Harry chanced a glance at his father. "You don't mind, about the broom? I . . . it was good, in a way, to see Slytherin win the Quidditch Cup, last year, but once I'm playing again, I pretty much have to do my best for Gryffindor--"

"You wouldn’t be who you are if you didn’t feel that way, of course," murmured Snape. "And as for the rest? Quidditch is well and good, and I would prefer to see Slytherin win, but family does come first, as I've said to you before."

That's true, he had. "Thanks again, Draco. For the cake and the presents both."

"Now, what sort of brother would fail to celebrate your coming-of-age?" asked Draco.

The irony in that wasn't lost on Harry. Or on Snape either, apparently. "You made it rather difficult to celebrate yours," the man said, his voice holding just a hint of sternness.

"So you decided not to." Draco shrugged, but the motion looked a little stiff, to Harry.

"Short of using a time-turner, we couldn't celebrate on the right day," said Harry. "So I thought I'd stick to the day I knew about. I'm sure Dad has just the same idea in mind."

"Is that so, Severus?" Draco's eyes glittered. "Since presents might be involved I'm loath to say Dad, you'll notice."

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" asked Snape.

"Sure," muttered Draco. Harry heard it, though, so no doubt their father did, as well.

Snape didn't let on. "Now, as it's quite late, I intend to seek my bed. I suggest that the two of you do the same."

Harry yawned, more as a way to keep Draco from saying more, than because he was really that tired. "Yeah, I'm knackered. Definitely, time for bed."

He was relieved when Draco merely turned on a heel and went into their bedroom.

Snape turned to look at him, a glimmer of a smile lurking in his dark eyes. "We'll celebrate again, tomorrow evening, as I said."

"Sounds good." Harry glanced behind him at the half-closed door, and lowered his voice to a whisper, stepping closer to his father as he spoke. "About Draco, though, I really think waiting any longer is probably cruel. I mean, I didn't think much about it before, but you probably did."

"I suggest you leave your brother and his birthday angst to me," answered Snape quietly. "Good night, Harry."

"'Night, Dad."

Draco started scoffing as soon as Harry came in and shut their door. "Waiting any longer is cruel, is it? How about skipping my birthday completely?"

"I wouldn't do that--"

"Dad would. Ha. In fact, Dad has. He's decided that the logical consequence for my aging myself like that is to miss the birthday I skipped over."

"Oh, he has not. He's just waiting until the right day, I'm sure."

Draco's gaze snapped up. "Did he say that to you?"

"No, but--"

"Well, I don't care," announced Draco, in a tone that said loud and clear that he cared a great deal. "Showing magic to Rhiannon was worth it, even if I miss the most important birthday I'll ever have. Not that it could be very important, anyway, seeing as I was disowned!"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Seventeen years . . . I should be inheriting family heirlooms, but that won't happen now, will it?"

"Oh." Harry finished changing for bed and slid between the sheets. What would his birthday have been like if his parents had lived? Would he have got some heirlooms tonight, or possibly tomorrow? Things passed down from Potters from generations back?

Not much point in wondering that, now.

"Good night, then," said Draco stiffly, sounding rather annoyed, still.

"Good night . . ." Harry yawned and wiggled his fingers a little, hissing the spell that would extinguish the lights. "But don’t worry, Draco. Dad won't skip your birthday completely. I'm sure of it."

"Oh, he'd never do anything unpleasant to me," said Draco, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Like Venetimorica, for example? The man made me eat poison, and you think he'd be reluctant to use my birthday to make a point?"

"He didn't make you, really. He persuaded you that it was the best thing to do."

"Like he'll be persuading you, in a few days, to shelve whatever you might have got me," muttered Draco.

Something Marsha had said sparked to life in Harry's memory, then. "I think you must be feeling guilty, eh? You were thinking only of yourself when you used that potion, but now, I think you're realising that you hurt Dad, and you feel bad about it."

"Please. I didn't hurt him."

"Oh, like Slytherins will always show you when you have? Not what you told me, is it?"

"Harry . . ." Draco sighed. "I wouldn't change what I did. Rhiannon was worth it. I wanted her to know I was a wizard. At the time I felt like I couldn't wait ten more seconds, though looking back . . . I suppose I could have put it off until I came of age the usual way."

Harry yawned and nodded, though in the dark, Draco couldn't possibly have seen it.

"But I don’t feel guilty," added Draco quickly. "Not a whit."

Sure, thought Harry, but he didn't fool himself that there was much point in arguing about it. "Yeah, well . . . think about talking to Dad, anyway."

"To say what?" asked Draco in a lofty voice. "That I'm sorry? That I know I hurt him?"

"Maybe just that you didn't mean to."

The bedclothes rustled as Draco turned to face the wall, his voice a bit muffled, like he was burrowing into his blankets. "Oh, grow up, why don't you?"

But I have, thought Harry. I'm seventeen now. All grown-up . . . but not too old to need a father.

He actually couldn't imagine being that old, ever. And that was strange, wasn't it? Not so very long ago, he hadn't been able to imagine having a father, at all.

Or a brother. "Good night, Draco," murmured Harry into the dark. "And thanks again for the presents. They really were brilliant. Especially the last one."

The other boy's answer was a long while in coming. "Well, you'll need it, won't you? You may be half-Gryffindor, but you are my brother, so I suppose I wouldn't want to humiliate you too thoroughly every time our houses compete."

"Very good of you to think of it," said Harry, holding in his laughter. He felt a little less amused when he remembered that bit about pureblood customs dictating three gifts from a brother. A slight twinge of annoyance tickled his spine as he realised that his father really could have let him know. Well, nothing for it; he'd have to figure out a couple more presents.

Little did Harry know it, but all too soon, gifts and celebrations and birthdays would be the very least of his worries.
The End.


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