Everyone around the graveyard is very, very still. It's an uncomfortably beautiful place, filled with shining marble stones and black-shining mortuaries. It isn't like most graveyards, where the stones inevitably lose their sheen or roots and leaves grow over the the engravings of names and dates - this cemetery shines is alive with old, old magic, and Harry had felt it ring through him as soon as he had crossed over the threshold and into garden.

Because it is a garden, really - it doesn't feel like a graveyard centred around a Muggle church, but a garden that just happens to hold dead people in it. There are black roses and white lilies growing in the hedges, as well as plump, red berries and thick, leafy brambles and assorted hedgerow plants. Between every single grave plot is a bed of well-kept flowers, both magical and mundane, and over each mound grow even more of them.

Lucius Malfoy has been buried maybe five minutes, and already the flowers are moving visibly to blanket the turned earth in the patchwork colour of their different petals, reflecting against the pearly-white colour of Lucius' grave stone. LUCIUS MALFOY, it decrees in a flowing script, 6TH DECEMBER 1954 - 9TH JUNE 1994. LOVED AS A FATHER, AS A HUSBAND, AS A PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY.

Harry knows a lot of people who would dispute the last, but he knows Lucius would have wanted it there - probably stipulated in a document twenty years ago that he wanted that on his gravestone. He looks from the creeping carpet of flowers around at the other mourners. Narcissa is dressed in morning, wearing a high-collared, black dress robe with black gemstones about the neck, and she wears a light black veil over the face and her blonde hair; Draco is wearing traditional robes with so many buttons on they remind Harry of Snape's; Snape himself stands beside Narcissa and, uncharacteristically, allows her to clutch at his arm, even as she cradles Draco with her other. Anyone would think Snape and Lucius had been brothers.

The others around Harry mostly knows - members of the Order, workers from the Ministry. Arthur and Molly stand together in shabby, black robes that they probably haven't worn since the end of the war, and the both of them are as pale as sheets underneath their freckles - Molly's eyes are even red from crying, and her cheeks are slightly shiny from lingering tears. Hermione stands with some of the Slytherins, with Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, but they all follow Hermione's lead and leave Harry to stand on his own, just in front of Sirius and Remus.

A man from the Ministry Harry doesn't remember the name of is talking, but all of the words blend together for him and he finds he can't take any of them in through the haze that weighs him down. He hasn't cried yet: he doesn't think it's set in yet. He and Draco had dropped into their beds laughing together, and the next morning, Snape had woken them up, lingering in their dormitory doorway, watching them. He'd closed the door very slowly behind him, and both Harry and Draco had sat stark upright in their beds, forgetting to be embarrassed about their night clothes or the unkempt state of their hair, and they'd stared at him. Harry had never seen him look as he did then, with visible circles under his eyes, with a bitten-down bruise at the side of his lower lip, so obviously overwrought, and he'd said very quietly, "This morning, Aurors were called into Hogsmeade. There were murders last night, in the village..."

When Harry had looked out of the window on the first floor later that morning, the Dark Mark had still been stark green above town in the sky.

"In ancient times, we often burned our dead, and although Lucius now lies buried beneath us, this flame represents his impact upon us all - warm, and bright, and illuminating." It's Narcissa who flicks her wand in the direction of the hovering, white basin, and it bursts into flames. A sweet, pleasant scent comes up from the incense mingled in with the wood, and Harry stares at the burning wood. They all do, all of the mourners in a circle now, and Narcissa stands with her arms wrapped tightly around Draco - Harry can almost read his wish to be taller, just to be able to comfort his mother better, on his face. Harry's gaze flits to Snape, and he sees in Snape's black, black eyes the reflection of the burning fire.

---

Harry goes home a few days after the funeral. Excused from his final exams, he has no desire at all to be in the castle, and he spends several days alone in his bedroom, hearing Remus or Sirius pace the halls, hearing them speaking quietly together, and hearing the loud, long silences between them even though he knows the both of them are there. They don't knock or try to disturb him in any way, and Remus doesn't come to try to comfort him like he did after Barty Crouch's death. They just let him alone, and Harry is grateful.

He can't stop thinking about it.

How did they kill him? Was it the Killing Curse, or was it something else? Dark magic, a Cutting Curse, even something Muggle - a knife, an axe, or something. Harry hates that he keeps thinking about Lucius Malfoy dead, and that he can't visualize it properly in his mind: what did Lucius look like once he was dead? Was there blood? Were his eyes open? How did he lie on the ground - stiff, or splayed out in blood?

On the fourth day, Harry walks into the kitchen at ten in the morning, and he sits across from Remus at the table. Remus sips at black, black coffee, and perversely he looks quite well-rested - it's three weeks until the full moon, true, but they've all been sleeping a lot, the past few days.

Sirius never even asked if Harry wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place. They all just Flooed straight back to Sirius' flat.

"They won't tell you either, will they?" Harry asks, and as he does he reaches back for a mug from the counter, pouring himself coffee from the antique cafetière that lightly steams on its plate on the table. It's one of the only nice things Remus seems to own, and usually Harry knows Remus would stop him, but he doesn't today. Harry takes a sip of the coffee, finds it rich, bitter, fragrant. He's surprised to find that he actually likes it, and he takes another sip. The mug radiates a wonderful warmth into the palms of his hands and into his fingers: his position mirrors Remus', the way he cradles the black mug in his hands. "What he looked like?"

"No," Remus says softly. "Severus saw. He wouldn't allow Narcissa to identify his body, you know - I thought that quite noble of him. When he came back to the house, there was blood on the cuffs of his robe." Harry's nose is buried in the mug, and whenever he takes in a breath he breathes in the scent of the expensive coffee Sirius buys for the flat, even though Remus tells him not to. Remus speaks in a monotone, his hoarse, husky voice betraying barely any emotion at all, but his eyes are drowned in sorrow.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry asks. He feels like he should be hungry, given that he's eaten nothing but a few biscuits and pieces of candy in the past three days, but he isn't.

"In bed," Remus says softly. His grip on his mug tightens slightly, and his shoulders raise - he's waiting to see if Harry is going to ask why they're sharing Sirius' bedroom now, why the guest bedroom is made up like a guest bedroom again, why Sirius lies in corners of the house wearing Remus' jumpers, and why when he ran out for milk the morning before last, Remus didn't even notice he was wearing Sirius' coat instead of his own.

"I'm going to go and see Narcissa today," Harry says. A fraction of the tension fades away from Remus' shoulders, and his eyes soften. "She shouldn't be alone right now, and Draco and Snape have classes- I know Dromeda will be there, and, God, I bet Narcissa wants to murder Mrs Weasley by now..." Remus' laugh is soft, pained. He nods his head, and he and Remus drink from their steaming mugs at the same time.

---

Narcissa is standing in the kitchen when Harry arrives at Grimmauld Place. The entire house is empty thanks to the early hour of the morning, and although she hears him come in, she doesn't look back at him. She just stands there, her hands clasped loosely before her stomach, her head held high and her aristocratic chin defiantly pointed forwards. Harry moves forwards, slowly, and he stands beside her. He follows her gaze from one cupboard to another, and then he says, "Narcissa, you should sit down." It's not an order - Narcissa Malfoy isn't the sort of woman who's ever taken orders from anybody, Harry expects, and she looks at him, her face a marble mask.

"Hello, Harry," she says softly. Her voice is hoarse from crying, and she takes a step forwards, settling herself down on one of the stools at the island in the middle of the kitchen, and Harry moves across the room, taking a broad, flat pan from the cupboard. He sees Narcissa's eyes widen just a fraction as he sets the pancake pan on the hob, flicking on the gas with a wave of his wand.

"Lucius and I, when we wrote to each other in the beginning, used to exchange recipes," Harry murmurs. "I didn't know anything about anything, and I know he wanted to be kind. The first one he sent me, when I mentioned that at home, I used to do a lot of cooking, was for pancakes without egg or milk in them. He used to say there were your favourite." He sees the change in Narcissa's features, sees the twitch in her cheeks and her mouth, but she doesn't cry. She just looks at him, stares at him, and then she smiles. He gets the feeling this is the first time she has smiled since she heard the news, but it's nonetheless absolutely beatific. "I'll bring you the recipe."

"I have it copied down forty times or more," Narcissa says. Even on the stool, she's the image of Pureblood elegance, straight-backed and with her ankles crossed beneath her. "I can no more cook than I can fly without a broomstick, Harry, though I should imagine the latter would engender less catastrophic results." She watches him as he takes out a whisk for the pancake mix - he's watched Lucius cook in this kitchen before, and he knows where everything is as well as he does in Sirius' kitchen - and he works as best he can, his hands shaking slightly. He doesn't know why it strikes him to do this. Lucius, in the beginning, hadn't been too forthcoming in his letters, but what Harry had found would really make him talk - or, well, write - would be if he started talking about Narcissa, and even though he never really revealed that much, he'd said that Narcissa considered the pancakes the perfect comfort food.

Harry's made them before - he likes them. He guesses Narcissa could do with any comfort right now.

He cooks in silence, with nothing but the sound of sizzling mixture in the pan, and when he finally sets the plate in front of Narcissa, she smiles at it for a few moments. The pancakes can't possibly look like they do when Lucius had done them - they're not perfect circles or stacked in some magical tower, but Narcissa slips from the stool, reaches for Harry, and pulls him into a very slow hug. She wraps her arms tightly around him, pulling him close and burying her nose against the top of his head, cupping his hair, and he lets her.

Narcissa has hugged him before, but never has she hugged him like this, like she needs to, like he's actually offering her some comfort rather than the other way around.

"I'm sorry, Narcissa," Harry says when he draws away, looking at her perfect, marble features - he couldn't hope to guess her age if he didn't already know she was approaching fifty, usually, but she looks aged beyond her years, this week. She just looks exhausted by the world. "I was thinking about stuff I could say to you, but it was all just platitudes, really, and I bet you've heard enough this week." Narcissa's lip twitches, and she gives a nod of her head, letting the side of her fork cut through a pancake before her, messily shaped but still perfectly cooked.

"Molly Weasley is doing her best to keep at my side - while she might be correct in measuring that I perhaps ought not be alone, she neglects to realize I should rather that than her company." Narcissa shakes her head slightly, taking a small bite: her eyes closed, and Harry sees her throat move as she swallows, sees something pass over her face - a shadow of thought, memory, nostalgia. Her smile is soft, dreamy, and she murmurs, "No doubt he is glad that it was him and not I - in a similar position, he might have murdered three or four of his would-be comforters."

"I bet," Harry says quietly. They settle into soft conversation - Narcissa talks about Lucius, about what he used to wear, how he'd act, at a funeral: she doesn't talk as if he isn't dead, exactly, but there's something almost whimsical about it. Hopeful, dreamy - he's never heard Narcissa like this, but he guesses she needs it for the time being, and when Dromeda lets herself into Grimmauld Place and comes into the kitchen, she beams to see Harry. Dromeda looks tired, the heavy lids under her eyes even darker than usual and making her similarity to Bellatrix Lestrange a little more pronounced, but Narcissa doesn't notice as Dromeda leans in, pressing a kiss to her sister's temple and patting her cheek.

"I'll leave you guys," Harry says, smiling at Narcissa, and when he takes a step out into the corridor, Andromeda follows him. She waits until the door closes softly behind them, with a click, and then she looks at Harry seriously. She's still in her Healer's uniform, the front of her robes a little more open than is strictly proper, and when she smiles, it's like her whole face softens. He wonders how long she'll be with Narcissa - probably an hour or so, however long she can stretch her lunch break.

"They said you're back at home now, earlier than the rest of the kids. It's good of you to see Narcissa - all of us, except Molly, have work to do, and- well, Molly and Cissy aren't the best of friends." Dromeda seems to hesitate for a few moments, frowning at Harry with a maternal concern, and then she says, "You keep safe, Harry."

"I will," Harry says. He doesn't make a promise - for some reason, he feels he doesn't want to. "I'll be fine, Drom. I'm just going to Floo back now."

"Alright," Drom says, giving a small nod of her head, and he waits until she goes back into the kitchen. He looks into the living room, where an enchanted rug assiduously takes care of any spare soot that comes out of the fireplace with those that Floo, and then he looks to the front door. He walks slowly forwards, glancing down at himself as he takes his cloak from the rack in the hall - he'd just thrown on some trousers, a collared shirt and one of his jumpers from Molly that morning, putting his cloak overtop.

He thinks about it for a moment or two, and then he goes back to the fireplace in the front room, slipping his green, summer cloak into his bag and then he throws some of the green powder into the fireplace. Saying the words in a clear, enunciated tone, he declares, "Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley," and steps into the flames.

Gringotts Bank isn't busy. In an hour or so, when it picks up for the usual lunch hour, there'll probably be people everywhere, but for the time being, the majority of the tellers are just getting on with paperwork and the like at their desks. "Excuse me," Harry says politely, stepping up to one of the desks as he brushes some soot off his shoulder, and the goblin looks at him seriously over his yellow-tinted spectacles. "Could I exchange some Galleons for Muggle British Sterling, please? I'm not sure about the exchange rate, so if I could just have twenty?" The goblin gives a nod of his head, taking Harry's purse and counting out a Galleon and a small pile of Sickles before handing it back, and then he hands over two crisp, ten pound notes.

Harry never really held any Muggle money when he was a child, but it still fills him with a strange nostalgia, seeing the Queen staring out at him from the paper, but he's stopped short when he turns one of the notes over and doesn't see Florence Nightingale. He frowns, glancing to the teller, but before he can open his mouth, the goblin says, "They changed two years back - that's Charles Dickens. He was a Muggle writer. They change the figures on their currency often."

"Right," Harry says, slightly awkwardly, and he makes his way towards the fireplaces again, murmuring quietly - but clearly - his destination. As soon as he steps into the flat, he listens for Sirius and Remus - he hears a record playing, a Boney M. album, that muffled the sound of his coming in through the Floo, so he doesn't bother to talk to them. He just slips towards the front door and closes the door quietly behind him. He waits for a second on the doorstep, steeling himself - no one has actually gave him a lecture about not going anywhere on his own the past week, simply because everyone's been so focused on any grief he might be feeling, but he knows it's implicit in a lot of what the adults in his life have been saying, and he knows being safe is important, but...

It's Muggle London.

No one's going to recognize him, and it's not as if Death Eaters routinely walk the streets the Muggles tread.

Harry puts his hands in his pockets, adjusting his satchel on his shoulder, and he begins to walk. Sirius' flat is only fifteen minutes from the Leaky Cauldron, but Harry walks in the opposite direction, heading into the centre of town. Lunchtime on a weekday in the centre of London is busy, and when passing through groups of people moving on their break or on shopping trips he has to dodge through or past. He ends up on the high street soon enough, though, and he makes his way down the street, glancing at the different shops. There aren't many people his age, and he notices it when he slips into an amusement arcade on a side street - the place is almost empty, but for a couple in their twenties, both wearing loose-fitting jumpers and bottleglass spectacles who are getting very competitive over a game of air hockey.

"Shouldn't you be in school, lad?" asks a technician in a black polo shirt, frowning at him, and Harry shakes his head.

"Private school, mate. Let out early." The technician takes this immediately, even offering Harry a little grin, and he takes a few steps away, slipping behind a desk with a glass front around it. He changes one of Harry's ten pound notes for coins, and Harry takes some of the fifty pence pieces, taking a try at some of the arcade games. But for the very occasional go on Dudley's games consoles at home, he's never played any video games at all, and the ridiculous freedom of the place hits him hard. There are some pool, snooker and air hockey tables, and then there are a whole load of different arcade machines, grabber machines and the like. Over a half wall at the end of the room are some gambling machines, but Harry has no interest in them anyway.

He takes a fifty pence piece and tries his hand at a huge, black machine labelled with NAMCO on the side, and he recognizes it as something Dudley's played on his computer. He's never really understood the appeal behind videogames, as all he's never experienced of them has been Dudley playing them and then getting angry at either the game or whoever he was playing with, depending on which was most accessible - he's seen Dudley slam his fist through games consoles and snap the discs or cartridges over his knee, but playing them isn't actually stressful or upsetting.

To Harry's utter surprise, he enjoys them.

He plays Pacman, initially, enjoying the simplicity of the game and its focus on reflexes and thinking quickly, and then he plays the other games - games where you shoot at things or fight hand to hand with people, games that are based around puzzles or problem-solving, and he even has a go at a game called DanceMaster, which is actually surprisingly difficult. He likes it, though: he has to stand straight in the middle of the floor and move his feet to hit four arrows, doing it in time with the animation on the screen, and he doesn't just enjoy it - he loves it.

The time he's spent in the amusement arcade, he's always had everything in the back of his head - Lucius dying, what Remus and Sirius are going to say when he gets back, the war, Death Eaters, Voldemort, how the people still at Hogwarts must still be feeling. It had been worse when he'd been playing the shooting games, watching the cartoonish, ridiculous sprays of animated blood explode into the air or dash the floors and walls, and he hated that he'd known the blood was the wrong colour or spattered the wrong way, hated wondering if it had come off Lucius like this or like that when Voldemort had killed him.

But with this? With this stupid DanceMaster?

He doesn't think about anything until the level ends.

It reminds him of the Quidditch games he's played with the Weasleys, not because of the actual process - he steps left, right, left, right, forwards, back, right, right, left, left, and doing this on a broom would throw him hard into the wall of the castle - but because he gets so into it, so focused on the actual game that he forgets about everything. Not just about the war and the people in his life, but about the arcade around him, about what he's wearing - he forgets absolutely everything in his life except the game in front of him, and when he finally takes enough steps wrong that the GAME OVER screen comes up, he's laughing to himself and leaning back against the brace at the back of the machine.

"Oi!" Harry glances back from the machine - his shirt has come untucked from his trousers, and it sticks loosely out from under the hem of the jumper, which has ridden up a little, and he sees the three school boys. They're his age or a little older, maybe, still in their school uniforms of black jumpers, black trousers, blue shirts and striped ties - would he have worn a uniform like that, Harry wonders, if he'd ended up going to Stonewall High? No, he remembers - he'd be wearing those badly dyed pieces of elephant skin he'd seen Aunt Petunia preparing before he'd received his Hogwarts letter. They look smart, though, he thinks, even though their trousers are creased and the knots of their ties are too big and the tails too short: he's kind of missed the Muggle look. "Are you gay or something?"

It's the one in the middle that talks - he's shorter than his two friends, with dirty blond hair and a rather pointy nose, with tanned features and green-flecked brown eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his friends stand behind each of his shoulders as if they're henchmen. The three of them remind Harry of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle for a moment, and he almost laughs before he remembers about Lucius. Guilt hits him, but only lingers for a moment or two.

"Yeah," Harry replies easily, leaning on the brace, casually. He's sweated a little bit, but the activity has made his hair fluff up all around his head, and he can't help but wonder how he looks right now. "No offence though, mate, but I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now." The boy recoils, his eyes widening, and his friends laugh, shoving him and each other playfully, and immediately the similarity to Draco is gone - the shorter boy turns to his friends, laughing with them, before he looks back to Harry.

"You think you're funny?" he asks. There's no undercurrent of threat or obnoxiousness or unpleasantness like there would be with Draco in this situation. This guy is less arrogant, Harry guesses, or maybe just a little more down to earth.

"Yeah," Harry answers, shrugging his shoulders. "Sure." The three of them sort of stare at him, lead by the one in the middle, and then they walk past him, gathering around the tallest one on one of the shooting games, and Harry takes the time now to glance around the room. There are school children all around now, both closer to his age and much younger, gathered around games or chatting in the corners. Most of them have drinks or are eating bits of food from the greasy spoon next door, and he'd not noticed any of them coming in.

He grins a little, putting his hands in his pockets and making his way outside. He feels the sun on his face, and then he steps into the little café, grabbing for himself a burger and eating it quickly, but when he slips to the bathroom before walking home, he hesitates. There's a cigarette machine in the corridor that leads to the toilets, and he doesn't know why it strikes him so hard, the thought of getting a packet of cigarettes, but it does.

He takes a few pound coins, drops them into the machine, and lets it vend a packet of Silk Cut - Aunt Petunia never smoked, of course not, never, but occasionally he'd find an empty packet in the bin, and she always had Silk Cut. He drops the packet in his back pocket, beside his wand, and forgets about them for the time being.

---

"Do you have any idea how irresponsible that was? We were terrified, Harry! You'd left Narcissa's before twelve, and then disappeared from the face of the earth! You could have died, could have been kidnapped, could have- They want you dead. Don't you understand that?" Remus is pale-faced and furious, his hair sticking up in every direction, but none of the words really hit him. He stands up straight, disaffected, with his hads in his pockets. "Well? Aren't you- for fuck's sake, Harry, aren't you going to say anything?"

"People want me dead. I get it. I've got it for the past five years. It's not new. Lucius is dead - that's all that's different." Remus stares at him, seemingly floored by the response, and Harry meets his gaze levelly. "I didn't take a three day cruise, Remus: I took an afternoon off, on my own, safely."

"Where did you go?" Remus asks. Harry shrugs his shoulders. "You're not going to tell me that?" The incredulity in Remus' voice borders on hysterical, and Harry doesn't look away, doesn't shake or turn away from it - Remus looks stressed and upset, and that's bad, but Harry only feels a little bit of guilt. He'd wanted to have that afternoon in the arcade, and he'd taken it - and it had harmed absolutely nobody, with the potential to harm only Harry himself.

"Did you decide to give me the lecture yourself, or did Sirius ask you to?"

"How in the Hell can you-"

"Mix of both?"

"Get out." Harry knew Remus would snap eventually - he's been sleeping well the past few days, but he's not actually any less stressed, and although he's a patient man about some things, he isn't when it comes to stuff he takes this seriously. When it comes to Sirius or Harry being safe, he isn't likely to remain patient for long, and that's what Harry had been counting on.

"All I wanted," Harry responds, and he walks past Remus and into his room, his door shutting with a click behind him. He can hear the ringing silence from outside, and he sees Remus in his mind's eye, stock still and absolutely full of rage where he stands in the middle of the hall. Harry pulls his jumper over his head, throwing it aside and walking slowly into his room, dropping his bag on the floor beside his bed. Taking his wand from his back pocket, he takes a glass bowl from his chest of drawers, tipping out the scattered badges on the dresser surface. The Transfiguration isn't too difficult - he just makes the bowl flatter and wider, and it almost looks like a proper ashtray. He grins to himself, taking out the packet of cigarettes, and he flicks out one of them.

He holds it in his hand, examining the difference between the tan line of the cigarette's base and the white paper of its length, and he experiments with the ways to hold it, trying to decide what feels most natural. Then he decides he doesn't care, and flicks an Incendio at the cigarette's end, glad to live in a magical household, where the Trace can't actually know who it is casting spells.

He watches the orange glow around the cigarette's end with a kind of detached interest. The colour reminds him of the last embers of a fire, and it comforts him, on some level: he drops on his back, draws the cigarette to his mouth, and puts his lips to the base of the filter before he inhales. Harry does it slowly, and the taste is strange, more bitter than he'd expected, but he lets it fill his mouth and touch to the back of his throat. It hurts a little bit, not exactly stinging the walls of his throat, and when he exhales, he lies for a few still moments on the bed, staring up at the green canopy above him.

He glances to the cigarette in his hand, examining it thoughtfully, and then he brings it to his mouth again.

The second time, he coughs so hard he nearly drops the fag, and only narrowly escapes setting his bed on fire.

---

Harry makes bacon sandwiches for tea. He doesn't have the appetite for anything else, so he just makes himself a plate and then puts two aside for Remus and Sirius. They're in the living room, talking quietly, the sound muffled, and when Harry goes in, he's quiet about it, hovering in the doorway. Remus has his long legs awkwardly beneath him on the sofa, holding a half-full wine glass in his hand, and Sirius is sprawled across the other side with his feet in Remus' lap, his glass on the table beside the bottle of wine. Both of them look solemn, and Harry has no wish to sit and talk with them. He goes forwards, putting a plate of sandwiches on the table, and Remus frowns as he looks from the plate to Harry.

"Figured I'd do them as I did mine. Night," is all Harry says, and he goes to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He flicks on the radio, wanting something to distract him, but there's nothing on that's actually interesting - he ends up just leaving it on a radio show about Herbology, which he almost entirely ignores. When that fades into the WWN news bulletin, he glances towards it.

"And representatives of Buttoned Betting, the popular goblin-run bookmakers, were seen in the courts before the Wizengamot early this afternoon. Relations were strained, and many called for exile of those goblins involved on the Triwizard Tournament upset to the new wizarding prison, a call unheard of since 1966, when three goblin terrorists were sentenced to be Kissed, which was highly criticized at the time by the goblin government. As the prison is as-yet unnamed and unbuilt, the six primary suspects in the matter are being held in the Ministry of Magic, and a statement through the Goblin Liasion Office labelled it as "irredeemable" on the part of the Ministry." Harry sighs, turning onto his front and pressing his face into the bedsheets. "Ludo Bagman is scheduled to be in court on the Thursday of this week."

"Fucking great," Harry mutters to the unnecessarily brisk voice of the witch on the radio.

"This series of court appearances is part of a Ministry initiative to crack down on what Dolores Umbridge, head of the Betting And Gambling Commission, declares to be "an unthinkable epidemic, where betting on blood has become the accepted normality", and the Minister for Magic has expressed his support for tighter constrictions upon gambling in Wizarding Britain."

Harry has no idea if that's exactly a work of genius, given that most of the betting shops are run by goblins, but he Cornelius Fudge has never struck him as a particularly intelligent man, and the only heart he seems to have is for people liking him and cronying up to him.

He glances to the window, seeing the night closing in - with the summer moving on, the days are growing longer, and Harry actually hates how long the days are. In Grimmauld Place last summer, there'd been people bustling back and forth constantly, and now Harry knows no one he knows is bustling anywhere. Without something keeping him occupied, he just keeps thinking about Lucius dead, Lucius dying, and what that means - Voldemort must be more confident now, killing people in the middle of Hogsmeade, and killing Karkaroff and Malfoy, two defected Death Eaters, must mean something.

Harry knows that they're lucky that Voldemort has been forced to wait until now to actually start doing something, but it doesn't make the bitter taste in his mouth any sweeter. He hasn't been in the streets of Diagon Alley, but he'd felt the barest twinge of it in Gringotts earlier today, and heard it in the stiff tone of the woman on the radio, and even from Toots on the Herbology Hour. There's a pervading essence in the air of Wizarding Britain, a promise, Harry guesses, that war is coming again.

What will it be like?

He's read about the wars against goblins and whatever, even played historical boardgames with the Slytherin boys based on old wars, but it's not the same. He thinks about the snippets he's heard about in the letters that were written to him a few years back, when people were sending him pictures of his family...

He flicks his wand at the radio, and silence fills his bedroom as he walks across the room and pulls the organiser off the shelf. His letters are neatly organised, and he's allowed many of his relationships by letter to taper off - it doesn't feel right, not opening a Tuesday morning to a letter from Lucius Malfoy. Here Harry is, right at home, and it doesn't feel like it.

He doesn't take out the letters from Lucius - for obvious reasons, the man had never written to him about the war - and instead takes out the sheaf from Augusta Longbottom. She always writes on beautiful parchment with birds embossed in the corners, and her owl flies with so much grace that it often feels like she might have just flown off the parchment. Harry doesn't really read them, just scanning them and picking out certain words.

Past, your mum, Alice, future, Frank, Neville, war, Death Eaters, Gryffindor, Ministry...

Some words just stand out on the page, because she's hesitated over them or spent more time on the cursive letters with their big, old-fashioned loops. He sets aside the sheaf, neatly tying them with ribbon again, and he reaches for the album at the back of the organiser. He'd used to be so focused on adding to the album during and at the end of the year, adding photographs or little things, but he's never really done it this year - he's let it lose its focus in his life, like he has letter-writing. He pages through the thick, green-tinted paper, looking at the photos of his family, his parents, and then at the mixes of things.

Notes and tags from his first Christmas presents, the note (in handwriting he now recognizes as belonging to Albus Dumbledore) that had been attached to his Invisibility Cloak, postcards from the Weasleys and from other people's holidays... He frowns slightly, stopping on a page he'd filled out in his second year, and he reads his handwriting.

"From the secret library I unlocked in the Slytherin Common Room! Found it in the back of the old desk, thought it was cool. I love the snakes." Harry frowns a little, taking up the piece of paper. He vaguely remembers finding it, the way he'd crept into the library in the middle of the night and tried to find something more interesting, but he hadn't spared it any thought since pinning it into the album. There are drawings of skulls and snakes in green ink - little more than doodles, really - except that he recognizes one of the doodles. A snake comes forth out of a skull's open mouth - he's seen the Dark Mark in the sky, and most recently in the paper, and but for a little change here and there, this is it.

He turns the paper over, scanning over the page, and he sees Latin and Greek phrases scribbled down and then scribbled out: he can only make out two words. Anima - soul, life. And then, on the other corner of the page, concateno. That's like- to link, to connect. There are so many words between them, but they're all illegible, and Harry frowns deeply.

This is Voldemort's then, planning the beginnings of the Dark Mark - it makes sense, with how old the parchment is. It'd probably been in that little library since Voldemort had been at Hogwarts, and he must have snuck in to the library, but... Anima. Why would Voldemort need that word in the incantation for the Dark Mark? A connection makes sense for the Dark Mark, given that he uses it to contact his people like a Protean Charm, but why mention a soul or a lifeforce?

Harry glances over to the radio. He'd killed Lucius Malfoy and Igor Karkaroff - they'd had Dark Marks.

Voldemort had killed them together, but it wasn't as if Igor and Lucius were friends. They didn't walk the same paths any more, didn't even talk from what Harry had heard.

Hedwig comes to the window with a fluttering of her wings, and Harry opens it to let her in, taking the letter from her leg. He'd expected something from Hermione or the twins, or one of the Slytherins, but he recognizes, instead, the flowing handwriting of Albus Dumbledore. He leans, putting his nose to Hedwig's, and says, "This about today?" Hedwig makes a soft coo, noncommittal, and he strokes over her feathers.

"Alright," Harry murmurs, and he drops back onto his bed.

Dear Harry,

Remus Flooed me earlier today in something of a conniption, and I felt a responsibility to pen this letter to you. While I appreciate your situation, Harry, and while I understand that in a time of such grief as this, you might wish to take some time to calm, I do beseech you to be safe.

With that in mind, however, I will not demand, as Remus requested I do, that you keep yourself confined to the safety of Sirius' apartment. Please, Harry, keep yourself attentive, and at all times keep your wand to hand, but I will tell you, now, that I have no objection to your traversing Muggle London. Ensure Remus and Sirius know where you are, as much as you feel you can reveal such things.

In the coming year, I fear life will make it difficult for you to relax. Voldemort is rising, and you will need strength for the year to come. Do what you need to do.

Yours,
Albus Dumbledore

Harry lets out a slow breath. He hadn't been holding his breath, not exactly, but for a few seconds he'd not really been breathing properly, frozen as he had been with anxiety, and now it all melts away. He closes his eyes, holding the letter in his right hand as he leans in, pressing his cheek against Hedwig's. She lets out a soft coo of sound, nipping affectionately at his ear.

"Thanks, Hedwig," Harry murmurs, and he sets the envelope on the bed. After a few moments pause, he steps out into the corridor. The apartment is absolutely silent - there's no radio, no breathing, nothing. Remus and Sirius have gone to meet with some of the Order, explains the note on the kitchen table - it's about doing rounds in some of the magical communities, and they're not including the Hogwarts students in the round-up because they're not fully trained yet.

Harry knows it'll probably grate on the twins, but the explanation makes complete sense to him.

Sprawling over the sofa in the living room, Harry takes a cigarette from the box, flicking a match to light and setting the tip of it aflame. He doesn't even smoke most of it - he just watches its soft glow: he should take up making potions over the summer. He wants to see something burn, and he might as well actually be making something as he does it.

"Is that a cigarette?" demands Sirius, and Harry turns his head. Sirius stands alone in the corridor: to answer him, Harry takes a slow, too-deep drag, and blows out a deliberate cloud of smoke. His throat burns, but through sheer willpower, he keeps from coughing. "Gimme one. I'm gasping." Harry laughs, but it's too much for his throat: he coughs instead, and he holds the box out. Taking one of the fags from within, Sirius tries to light it with a wandless gesture, but succeeds only in lightly singeing the end.

Harry hands him a match, and Sirius sighs.

"It's bloody hard, you know, wandless magic. No one ever tells you." He gestures vaguely about the room, but Harry isn't convinced.

"People say that wandless magic is extremely hard, all the time," Harry points out, slightly hoarsely. Sirius scoffs.

"Shows what idiots they are." With a wave of his hand and a flamboyant, "Accio!", a black object comes whizzing through the air from his and Remus' open bedroom door, and with a triumphant grin, he catches it in his hand. Harry laughs again. Sirius sets the ashtray on the coffee table, and Harry looks at it. "Lily got me this, you know, when I had my first cigarette. We don't have them, you see, wizards - me and James tried it at some concert, and he wasn't a fan, but I just really liked it, you know?" Sirius looks at the cigarette in his hands, nostalgically, thoughtfully. "We used to share menthols, me and her. Remus hated them, of course - him and Peter, they never--"

"Where is Remus?" Harry asks. He doesn't want to hear about his mum right now, or his dad, or the good old days - he doesn't know why exactly, but for some reason it feels wrong to be able to hear about them. What nice stories is Draco hearing about Lucius right now, after all?

"He's walking in Godric's Hollow, with Moody and some of the lads," Sirius answers. Reaching out and tipping a little of his ash into the tray, he says, "These're bad for you, you know." Sirius looks tired, Harry thinks: he has the slightest of dark shadows under his eyes, and his lips are dry and chapped, like he's been licking them anxiously through the day. He's dressed in silvery grey robes, and Harry is so used to him wearing Muggle stuff around the house that he almost looks strange.

"So's being a wizard. No one ever tried to kill me when I thought I was a Muggle," Harry says mildly. "Except Dudley, and he wasn't very good at it."

"That's the real problem, isn't it?" Sirius says, in an equally light tone. "Not that they try, but that they're sort of good."

"Mmm." Harry takes the last drag of his cigarette, and he extinguishes the butt in the black tray, trying to blow a ring of smoke and failing miserably. Picking up the ashtray, he examines it: around the edge are words, imprinted in white. "Abyssus abyssum invocat," Harry reads, slowly. "Hell calls Hell?"

"One bad thing leads to another," Sirius explains. "She thought it fit me and James quite well."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, stroking over the white-painted letters in their flowing script. "How are the Order? Given- you know."

"They're flightly, to be honest," Sirius admits. He looks into the middle distance, thoughtful, and then he shakes his head. "Some of them think Lucius deserved to get killed - you know how Moody is - but most of them are really shaken by it. They're upset they lost one of their own, even if it was him, and before the war's really started again."

"Do you think it is starting again, then?" Harry asks. Sirius thinks about the question for a few moments, and then gives a very slow inclination of his head.

"Yeah, but not yet. He's preparing himself. He'll draw himself up, You-Know-Who, get all his followers together, contact beasts and old allies. The war won't start yet." Harry thinks about the prophecies, and he thinks about Voldemort. The sooner Voldemort kills him, if that's what's really prophesied, if that's what'll really sort things out... Well, the sooner he dies, the sooner Voldemort will follow.

"We should end the war before it starts," Harry says, firmly. He meets Sirius' gaze: the older man's eyes are tired, and now they have a deep sadness shining in them, obscured as they are by the soft, grey smoke that rises from the cigarette. Reluctantly, Sirius gives a short nod of his head, and opens his mouth as if to say something, but when the latch of the door opens, he freezes.

Hurriedly, Harry snatches Sirius' cigarette from his hands and extinguishes it in the ashtray, kicking it under the sofa; Sirius mutters a desperate spell to Vanish the smoke from the air and clear away the smell of the smoke. Harry and Sirius must be trying too hard to look casual in the living room, because when Remus looks at them from the doorway, he slowly narrows his eyes.

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing,"

"Nothing," Sirius and Harry say together, and they share a glance. "That is, uh, we were talking about..."

"Dumbledore sent me a letter," Harry says. "Said you'd talked to him, that you were real worried about me, and to chill out a bit."

"Yes," Sirius agrees, nodding his head. Remus' expression remains suspicious as he looks between Harry and Sirius' faces, but evidently, they convince him, because he relaxes slightly. Instead of suspicious, he just looks exhausted, and flicking his wand behind him, Harry sets the kettle onto the hob to boil. When Remus leaves the room to take off his coat and change into some more comfortable clothes, Sirius hisses for him to hide the ashtray in his own room, and Harry rushes to do so.

---

The next day, Harry sits alone in Trafalgar Square, a book settled in his lap. He sits on the edge of one of the monuments, his back resting against one of the Landseer's Lions: some elderly passers-by glare at him, but he just ignores them (at least he's not a tourist) and focuses on the text. It's Advanced Potion Making, which is actually on the Sixth Year reading list rather than his own, but it looks more interesting, and if he does make some of the potions in it, he'd like to play with them over the summer. As he idly pages through the instructions for Felix felicis, Harry wonders if his mum's old textbooks are in her storage locker - Sirius had said that they'd used this same book when he'd been at school, and he can't help but wonder if she doodles in her books, like he does in his.

But then, hadn't he felt guilty just last night for hearing stories about her?

Harry looks up from the book, thinking about Draco. Is he going through Lucius' possessions, like Harry sometimes feels the want to go through that of his parents, or looking through photograph albums? Is he crying? Harry needn't wonder about that. Draco cries like a tap, under the right circumstances, and this is definitely one.

Harry can't really imagine the next year without Lucius Malfoy there, sending him advice in the post or making snide comments when they meet.

"Hey," comes a voice from below him, and Harry glances down. It's the blond boy from the arcade, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder, along this time. "You're the gay guy from Penney's, yeah?"

"Uh huh," Harry answers. He makes no move to get down, instead keeping his gaze on the other boy: he's about the same height as Draco, but he's skinnier, and Harry can see he doesn't have the light muscle that Draco has. He also, from what Harry can tell, hasn't been recently crying. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter." The complete lack of recognition on the other boy's face is enthralling.

"I'm Adrian," the boy says, and he steps closer, reaching up to Harry and offering his right hand. Harry shakes it, remembering when he was eleven years old, and he'd refused Draco's proffered hand - and then taken it again, later the very same evening. "What school do you go to? I've never seen you about London before."

"I go to a private school up North," Harry answers. "I was let out early."

"Why, what'd you do?" Adrian asks.

"Family friend got murdered." Adrian stares at him, his eyes slightly wide. His features are angular, his nose unfortunately pointy, and he has a square jaw that Harry guesses will get squarer in the next few years - his eyes are very deep, Harry notices. He has eyes that look old, even though they're not. "Sorry to be blunt. I'm just not in the mood to dance around it at the moment. Or talk about it," he adds. To his surprise, Adrian nods.

"Makes sense, to be honest, mate. Look, I'm just gonna walk down to Penney's, now - you want to go head-to-head on that dance game?"

"Where're your friends?" Adrian gives a sheepish grin.

"They're in the rugby club. I didn't make the cut." Harry sniggers - and then feels bad.

"No offence," Harry says, "but you don't look like you're made for rugby."

"Oh, no, I tried out for the cheerleading team... 'Cept we don't have a cheerleading team." Harry, to his surprise, laughs. Marking his place, he closes his book and drops it into his bag, and he fall into step with the other boy as they make their way into town. "What're you reading? It looks complicated."

"It's, uh, it's Home Ec," Harry says. When Adrian looks at him in surprise, Harry adds, "We've got a weird teacher for it. He's very strict, gets really particular about stuff, so it's a good idea to study in advance."

"Expects every casserole to be Michelin Star, does he?"

"Yeah," Harry says, smiling to himself as he imagines Severus Snape, dour and brooding, in chef's whites. "You do Home Ec?"

"Nah." Adrian shakes his head. "I do English, Science, Maths, and then for my options I chose Classics, French, German and Economics. I want to go to Cambridge. Oxford would be alright as well, I suppose. Where do you want to go?" It occurs to Harry, in a way it has never occurred to him before, that wizards don't have higher education. Theoretically, he's known this since he was a child, but he'd sort of forgotten about university entirely - he'd been so used to the idea that upon leaving Hogwarts, he'd go directly into work.

Well. When he believed he'd live that long, anyway.

"I don't know," Harry says. "I never really thought about it."

"God, that must be nice," Adrian says, looking rueful. He walks with his hands in his pockets, and unlike Harry, who keeps a careful glance around them whenever they turn a street corner, and is constantly alert, he seems to not have a care in the world. "Seems every chance they get ours are nagging us about UCAS." Harry doesn't know what UCAS is, but he isn't about to ask. Adrian expects him to know, so he'll just pretend he does. They walk in silence for a few minutes, and when they see Penney's at the end of the street, Adrian says, "You really gay?"

"I guess," Harry answers. "I've been with lads more than girls." Adrian looks at him somewhat admiringly.

"Wow. So you've, uh, you know... Had sex?"

"Haven't you?" Harry asks, and a little colour comes to Adrian's tanned cheeks.

"Bet you a quid I'll beat you." He says it a little too hurriedly, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"Alright, but you won't." Adrian runs before Harry into the arcade, and for the longest moment, Harry watches after him. For the first time in weeks, he thinks about Blaise Zabini.

Then he forgets him again, and walks inside.

---

Later, when Harry has won four games in a row, and he and Adrian are both covered in a thin sheen of sweat, they stand outside together. Adrian is breathing heavily, evidently a little more unfit than Harry, who has a glow to his features from the exercise, but isn't more than a little out of breath. Harry almost feels bad for him, and had tried to call for a break after the second game, but Adrian had been competitive, and had insisted they play on.

That's the main difference - the boy is competitive to a fault, even when it's obvious he can't win.

In a way, Harry supposes that draws a parallel between them.

"You gonna be okay?" Harry asks. "You need to go get a drink?" Adrian shakes his head, and Harry leans against the wall, flicking a piece of gum into his mouth. He offers a piece to Adrian, but he refuses it wheezily, and when Adrian's two friends come up the walkway, Harry gives them an easy wave.

"What'd you do to him?" asks the taller one.

"Danced with him," Harry answers. The two of them chuckle, and Adrian waves them off as they mockingly pat his back and coo over him. "I'm gonna head home. See you, guys."

"You live in London?" Adrian asks.

"Yeah."

"You here the summer?"

"Yeah." Adrian smiles at him.

"Cool. That's, uh, that's good." Harry gives the other boys a polite nod, and he walks home three hours before the sun goes down.

---

"What are you doing?" Remus asks. Harry carefully pours Boomslang Skin into the cauldron.

"Baking a cake," Harry replies. Remus waits for him to finish pouring before he slaps the back of Harry's head - lightly - and Harry chuckles. "I figured I'd practice before I went back to the school. We can put Polyjuice aside, for the Order. Just in case." Remus is silent for a few moments, and then his hand alights gently on Harry's shoulder. Harry turns to look at him, and he reads the uncertainty in Remus' face. He'd been upset when Harry had come home, but he'd calmed when Harry told him he'd spent the majority of his day reading in the park.

"You shouldn't have to do that," Remus murmurs.

"Shouldn't have to do a lot of things," Harry points out, putting his hand on top of Remus', and Remus sighs softly. He nods his head, and he passes Harry the stirrer.

It's been nearly two weeks of Harry being free to wander London, alone. Sometimes he'll walk with Remus or Sirius through Muggle London, and they even went out to Manchester one evening, went out to dinner as a family. It's fine, and Harry is glad of it, glad of the intimacy they can have together, of the familial stuff... But a part of him wants to completely isolate himself, walk out to the mountains near Hogwarts or drop himself in the middle of rural Bulgaria. And Sirius and Remus let him have some alone time, sure, but they worry too much to let him completely leave for any length of time.

"Hogwarts lets out today," Sirius murmurs. He's in Harry's windowsill, the window wide open and one of his legs hanging down out of it, his other drawn up to his chest so that he can rest his elbow on his knee. In his right hand he holds a cigarette, ensuring most of the smoke goes out of the window instead of staying in Harry's room. He looks so young like this, Harry thinks - Sirius isn't ancient or anything, no, but when he's relaxed in Harry's window frame, looking vaguely thoughtful, Harry can get a glimpse of the teenager he'd been.

Did Sirius sit like this in the Gryffindor dormitory, as Harry's dad sat on his bed? Did they sneak cigarettes while Remus was out of the house during the war, working?

The idea bites at Harry's relaxed mood, and he runs his hand through his hair.

"Yeah," Harry says. "I'm gonna go to the train station and meet people." Sirius nods his head, taking a slow drag of the cigarette. He'd gone out and bought his own when he realised Harry had begun to smoke, and Sirius does it more often than Harry himself. He likes menthol cigarettes: Harry'd taken a drag of one and nearly gagged at the almost-minty taste clinging to the roof of his mouth, so it's best that they have separate habits. Harry doesn't know how ready he really is to head out. There's going to be a lot of people around, he knows, but he wants to see Fred and George, Hermione, Draco... "I'll probably go out in an hour or so."

Sirius flicks a little of his ash out of the window, and he looks at Harry. His expression is solemn, and it doesn't really fit his facial features. Harry has been so used to Sirius grinning and smiling, even when he was just out of Azkaban and shaking every other second. "Cissy said she wants to have a family dinner next week. Me and you and Remus, Drom, Tonks and Ted, her and Draco..." Harry glances to him. Sirius looks uncertain about it, like he's waiting for Harry to approve and assuming he won't, but Harry nods his head.

"Yeah, that sounds good." There's a short pause, and Harry asks, "She invited Remus, huh?" Sirius looks out of the window, apparently focused on not looking at Harry. His expression is carefully schooled into something neutral, and Harry remembers what a good liar Sirius is. Purebloods learn to be, don't they? Purebloods with families like Sirius', anyway.

"I think Cissy... I think she feels lonely. Purebloods like that, they don't do the big family that the Weasleys have, you know? Even when they do have a lot of kids, family is more of a duty than a love thing. When I was a kid, Harry, I remember big dinners where barely a word would be said at the table. Narcissa's always lived like that; Drom broke out of it, and so did I. I think she kinda wants to embrace the nontraditional right now." Harry nods his head. He can't help but wonder, sometimes, what it is that Sirius thinks of the bits of family he has left, if he wishes he had more of his family to go to. Sirius has only ever criticized his family, from what Harry has heard, but still.

"Then she should invite Snape," Harry says. Sirius' head whips towards him.

"Don't worry: he won't come. But he's more family to her than I am."

"You don't really think that," Sirius says. "You're like-- I'm sorry if you don't like me saying this, Harry, but I think of you like a son - so does Remus. We always have." He looks so nervous about saying it, and Harry lies back on the bed, staring up at his ceiling.

"No, I know," Harry says. "I think of you guys like parents, in a way. I love you and Remus, Sirius, but Snape is like Draco's uncle, in a lot of ways. A weird, aggressively sarcastic uncle that kind of looks like a vampire bat--" Sirius sniggers. "--but an uncle nonetheless." Sirius' lip is curled when Harry looks at him, but after the longest pause, he gives a single nod of his head.

"I'll tell her you said that," Sirius says. The reluctance in his voice is plain, but he says it like it's a promise.

---

Harry stands on Platform 9 3/4, his hands in his pockets. He wears a button-up shirt and some jeans, but overtop of his Muggle clothes he wears a cloak that's buckled at his neck - it's a light, summer cloak, but he'd just grabbed it off the rack before picking up a jacket. He feels kinda weird, standing here on the platform, given that the others standing around are parents or families. Here he is, a teen standing on his own, and he must look really out of place, but nobody talks to him - thank Merlin.

The train comes slowly into the station, and Harry smiles as he sees the kids pressed against the windows, waving at their parents and calling out to their younger siblings; Harry gets onto the train and he stands with the prefects, helping them pull the younger children's cases down onto the platform. Harry's so used to using all the magic he wants back at the flat, and it's funny being out in public, obeying the law.

"Hey, Harry!" Fred says, and he drops his trunk heavily into Harry's arms, making him let out an oof of sound.

"Hey, Fred," Harry replies, and throws the trunk back at him. Fred grins at him, barely seeming shocked by the sudden weight in his arms, and he throws his trunk down the steps to George, who catches it with ease. Bloody Beaters and their stocky builds. Hermione runs up the platform towards them, and Harry steps down, letting her pull him into a tight, bone-breaking hug. Hermione's grin is as wide as Harry's ever seen it, and he takes her trunk from her, setting it down on the platform and turning to wave for Hermione's parents to come over. As Hermione greets her parents, talking away to them at such a speed that Harry can barely understand it, Harry makes light conversation with the twins.

Molly and Arthur Weasley are at the other end of the platform, fussing over Ron and Ginny as they come off the train. They look sheepish and irritated with the attention respectively, and Harry can read in Fred and George's body language that they're inwardly bracing themselves for the attention. "Give us a hand there, would you, Harry?" George says, nodding his head to a separate case holding their brooms and beater's equipment, and Harry arches an eyebrow at him. George's grin is anything but ashamed.

"You transparent bastard," Harry says, but he grabs hold of the bag nonetheless, and follows the twins over to the family. Fred is laughing, shoving Harry in the side and ruffling his hair, holding his trunk on his right shoulder, and Harry can't help but shake his head as he comes over and places the bag on top of Ginny, Ron and George's trunks on the trolley Arthur has ready.

"What are you three laughing about?" Molly asks.

"Harry's been out on the town, Mum. Got a Muggle girl pregnant." The gasp of horror is theatrical, but not feigned, from what Harry can see, and Harry elbows Fred hard enough in the side that he lets out a groan of pain.

"Nobody is pregnant, Molly, and everything is fine." Mrs Weasley slumps with relief, and as she fusses over the reluctant but resigned figures of the twins, Harry turns to the patriarch of the Weasley family.

"I used to say that, you know," Arthur tells him, dreamily. Ginny sniggers, and she looks at Harry, giving him a smile. It's strange - Harry's only gone maybe a month or two without seeing her, since before the murder, but she looks so different. Perhaps it's that her hair is a little longer, or that she's getting more sleep: her face seems fuller, prettier, her eyes seem brighter. He's never noticed her smile being especially nice to look at before. "How are you, Harry?"

"I'm okay, Arthur. I've just been studying a little for next year, reading a bit... It's quiet in London, at the moment, as I'm sure you know. Most people are staying inside." Ginny's brow furrows, and she looks between Harry and Arthur, seeming to take in and be irritated by their serious expressions; Ron's nose is wrinkled, and Harry realizes in the instant how similar the faces they make can be. But Harry isn't exactly speaking in code, so there's hardly any reason for resentment toward him for saying it. "I've been hanging around Muggles a lot."

"You're staying safe?" Arthur prompts, and Harry feels the urge to sigh, but guilt cuts the expression before he can release it.

"Yeah, of course," Harry says, and Arthur nods seriously. He keeps eye contact with Harry for a little longer than he ordinarily would. Arthur isn't showing some unusual sign of ageing, no especially new grey hairs, no new lines in his face, but the worry radiating from him, the quiet comprehension that the world is building once again to some threatening crescendo, is palpable. He's a good man. "George, write me, yeah? I'll come over to Ottery St. Catchpole sometime in the summer, if you want."

"That'd be great," George says, giving a nod, and George pulls him into a hug, with Fred pulling Harry toward him the second after. As he comes closer, Fred leans in slightly, to murmur in Harry's ear.

"We'll Floo you tonight. 1 o'clock."

"Got it," Harry mutters back, and he gives Molly a not-entirely mocking salute that she laughs and returns before Harry heads across the platform. Hermione is talking animatedly, and Peggy and Jon are chattering back to her. They ask a lot of questions, Harry notices, but only about stuff she's already speaking about. They always give Harry the impression of wanting more knowledge rather than being protective over her, and he has to wonder sometimes how difficult it might be for them to parent the way they do. Hermione is smart, of course, but they're so hands-off compared to other parents, like Molly and Arthur, or Narcissa and--

Harry looks around the platform, half-expecting to see the tall, dark-clad figure of Lucius Malfoy cutting through the crowd, but there's no such luck. He sees Narcissa, though, just spying her as she leaves the station with Draco in tow, and Harry feels a sickly feeling in the base of his stomach. The man is dead. Why would he be here?

"Harry?" Hermione looks at him as if she's just said his name a few times.

"Yeah?"

"Dad just asked if you want to come for lunch with us."

"Oh, right," he says, feeling a little embarrassed heat come into his face. What must he look like, staring around the platform, searching for a dead man? Peggy is looking at him with a little worry on her face, but Harry forces a smile. "Yeah, I'd love to, actually. Where is it you two wanted to go?" As Peggy and Jon turn to each other, throwing a few restaurant names out apiece, Harry meets Hermione's slightly worried gaze.

"You okay?" she mouths.

"On the way there," he replies. It is a testament to how different Hermione is to a few years ago, Harry supposes, that rather than immediately shooting a thousand questions at him, she gives a small nod of her head, and then relaxes into the silence.

The restaurant is busy.

Harry sits beside Hermione and across from Peggy in the corner of the room, but the chatter in the room rises and falls in little waves with the lulls of natural conversation; he hears a host of different accents, and by no means is the only language floating over to this corner of the room English. Normally, Harry would enjoy the differences in the way people are speaking, but for now, all the noise seems to needle at him, and he can feel himself tense and stiff in his chair. Hermione is keeping an eye on him, but Harry knows that if he asks her about it, he'll only end up snapping.

What is wrong with him?

He fidgets under the table as he slowly picks at his ravioli, bouncing his right knee quickly in place. Peggy and Jon are talking about what's been happening most recently in their dental practice, updating Hermione on family friends, on conferences and academic events Peggy and Jon have gone to, and even bringing her up to date on a particular soap that Hermione has never mentioned and, from what Harry can guess by her face, never actually had a desire to watch.

"So, are you excited about any of your OWLs in particular?" Peggy asks, seeming to garner the same thing and interrupting Jon, and Hermione glances up from her fork, seeming to think about the question.

"I am," Hermione says. "OWL Defence Against the Dark Arts looks very interesting - we start looking at the theory of non-verbal magic, you know, and while we don't actually start studying it until sixth year, I'm excited to give it a whirl. Ancient Runes becomes so much more active in the way it's taught, too - ooh, and Herbology, and History, actually, and--"

"So, basically, you're excited about everything?" Harry asks mildly, and Hermione stops short, then laughs at herself.

"Yes," she agrees. Harry's grin is small, and it doesn't really do much to cut through the stress and anxiety he can feel, but he's glad to know that there's still a smile ready inside him, even like this. Peggy and Jon have turned to Harry now, however, and Harry can just feel himself coiling tighter and tighter, like the spaghetti around Hermione's fork.

"I'm excited about Potions," Harry says. A part of him, an angry, nasty part of him that he tries to ignore, says, Why are they even asking? They're Muggles, what do they know? What's the point? They might as well be asking an astronaut how his day went. He resists the urge to close his eyes and purse his lips together, instead making eye contact with Jon, and then Peggy, forcing himself to stay in his place. "The work becomes a little more dangerous, particularly looking at new kinds of poisons and the like, but we look at antidotes too, and how the two respond to one another, as well as examining the work of catalysts in time-activated potions. For example, certain medicines would lose their potency if bottled whilst magically active, so one can place a final ingredient in the seal, so that the potion is finished upon opening."

"That sounds really interesting, Harry - I haven't even started looking at fifth year Potions yet! Oh, it sounds great!" There's something about Hermione's genuine, honest excitement that grates on him rather than improving his mood, so Harry doesn't reply, and just offers a small smile before returning his focus to his food. Peggy and Jon keep on talking, asking Hermione questions about this bit of that course and that bit of the other.

What do they know?

Harry's fork makes a thin screeching sound against the surface of his plate, and he flinches. "Sorry," he mutters. The other three return to conversation: Jon is talking animatedly, waving his knife and fork and dripping lasagne on the white tablecloth; the way Peggy sits is too stiff, too unnatural, and Harry thinks of a stupid statue that's in the Slytherin second year corridor.

You've got a knife in your belt.

That thought is positively unbidden, and Harry stops eating, staring down at his ravioli, swimming in its thick, blood-red sauce. Harry has got a knife in his belt, the bronze-hilted dagger he'd bought last year in Hogsmeade, just like he has the comforting weight of his packet of Silk Cut and his wand in his pocket, but that's nothing. He wouldn't actually hurt someone, wouldn't actually kill someone - least of all Jon, or Peggy.

Unless he could do it. Unless he would do it.

"Do you want to get dessert, Harry?" Peggy asks him. Harry feels like he's hearing her voice from the surface while sat the bottom of a swimming pool.

"No, thanks, Peggy. I'm not hungry."

---

"Hey, Harry!" He turns his head as they exit the restaurant: Adrian comes over, grinning and showing off his teth, and although Harry's smile is weak, it's genuine. "I don't suppose you're from that private school of his?"

"That's right," Hermione says, putting out her hand to shake, and she grins at Harry before turning to Adrian. "I'm Hermione. I'm in a different house, but we share classes."

"House? God, how old-fashioned is this place?" Adrian demands, but Harry can read the joke in his face even though his tone is indignant, and Hermione gives a soft chuckle. "I go to school here in London - I met Harry at the arcade. I'm just on my way there now, actually. Do you want to come along?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry says, shaking Jon and Peggy's hands respectively. "The arcade is on the way back to Sirius' place, so I'll walk with him."

"Are you sure you don't want a lift, Harry? " Hermione asks, but Harry just smiles a little, and shakes his head.

"Nah, traffic in London will be ages. You guys should get out onto the motorway before the evening picks up again. I'm used to walking around." After hugging Hermione, Harry walks alongside Adrian, drawing a cigarette out of the packet in his pocket and flicking it alight. He feels Adrian's gaze out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't comment on it, instead glancing around at those on the streets about them. It's starting to get busy again with the evening light, and they walk past crowds of Muggles dresses up for nights on the town.

"So, houses, huh?"

"Yeah. Mine is called Slytherin: our house colours are green and silver. She's a Gryffindor, so she's red and gold."

"You're so bloody posh," Adrian says, shaking his head, and Harry finds himself laughing. The sound is a little more bitter than he really intends, thinking about growing up in Little Whinging in hand-me-down clothes with Dudley breathing down his neck: Harry is anything but posh. "Are there a lot of black girls at your school? I never know how it is in the private places."

"Yeah, a fair few. We've got all kinds of people, really - I've got a friend, Draco, he looks a lot like you. You should see him next to his cousin, who's black: he's very pale, of course, but they've got the same nose and the same ears." Harry taps the base of his cigarette, dropping ash onto the street as they walk toward the arcade, and he feels a slight twinge of guilt - there's blood politics, of course, and there's a worry about class, but he's lucky to live in the wizarding world in a lot of ways. No racism, no sexism... "Pretty accepting of different religions and races, really."

"That's pretty cool! I just go to a normal school - my parents actually wanted me to go to this Hebrew school. We're in the catchment area and stuff, but my grandma kinda put her foot down, said she'd heard too many stories of kids getting beaten up wearing their uniforms, and you should see the place, you know? There's a huge big fence around it, they have to do all these alarms... Drills, in case of terrorists." Adrian doesn't look that upset, merely shaking his head and seeming disappointed, annoyed that this happens, but Harry feels a sickly weight in his belly. "Our rabbi's a pretty relaxed guy, though, so he didn't mind."

"One of the guys in my year, Theo, is Jewish," Harry says. "He's not that religious or anything, I don't think, but he wears a star of David."

"And he's circumcised?" Harry laughs.

"Dunno, haven't checked. I assume so." Do Muggles talk about religion more often than wizards? Maybe. Harry doesn't know what the dominant religion is - the Dursleys had been Church of England, but they'd never done anything with the church or gone to services, except for weddings and funerals, and it hadn't seemed to mean much to them. He hears discussions in classes or on the radio sometimes, and he knows that Theo meets some of the other Jewish kids in school on Friday nights. Most people seem to be atheists. "Are you guys super religious?"

"A little," Adrian says. "We keep the kashrut - that's laws about how we should eat, like not eating pork, and some religious rituals. We're pretty close with our rabbi, and my Uncle Moshe is a rabbi in New York. You?" The violence, intrusive thoughts Harry had been having earlier have faded away, now, but he feels a little antsy nonetheless, and he keeps on walking at speed beside the other boy.

"My parents died when I was a baby, so I never really knew them, but I don't think they were religious." Adrian watches Harry take a drag of the cigarette, and Harry meets his gaze. They're outside Penney's now: the arcade is closed. There's a sign on the door apologizing and saying they'll be open tomorrow. Did Adrian know, Harry wonders? Harry sees the nervousness on his face as he steps out toward the smoking area out the back of the adjoining café. He knew. "I live with my uncles, now, and they're not religious at all."

"They're brothers?" Adrian asks, seeming surprised.

"Partners," Harry replies. He looks Adrian in the face, sees his eyes nervously flitting around Harry, at his cigarette, his fingers, his shoes, his face, his belly. "So, the arcade's closed."

"Yeah," Adrian says, unconvincingly. "Sorry, I forgot." Harry reaches out, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from Adrian's collar, and as soon as he closes a little of the distance between them, Adrian grabs him and pulls him close enough to kiss.

---

It's midnight.

Harry walks along the Hungerford Bridge, a new cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, and his hands in his pockets. It's a warm night, and his clothes are ruffled: Adrian's parents had been out to dinner with some friends, and Adrian's three younger brothers had been out on a trip with the scouts, so Adrian had had the house to himself. And Harry.

Harry grins to himself, and he looks out across the water.

That vicious streak is still in him - when they were in Adrian's room, surrounded by posters for bands Harry's never heard of, Harry had felt it bloom once again, roughly kissed the other boy, thrown him around a little. Not violently, exactly, just... Not tenderly. Harry feels a rush inside himself, even now, and when a guy shoulders him on the bridge, he snaps.

"Oi! Watch where you're going!" The figure, tall and lanky, turns to stare at him. Harry recognizes, after a moment's stare, the spotty face of Stan Shunpike. He grins, showing off some slightly yellow teeth, and Harry wrinkles his nose slightly. "Alright, Stan?" It's unconvincing, and it's certainly not friendly: he turns, starting to walk onwards, but Stan grabs him by the shoulder, throwing him up against the side of the bridge. "Oi!"

But Stan has moved surprisingly quickly, and his wand is pressed right up to Harry's face, the tip of it touching the bottom of his chin. Harry stares at him, searching his wild and excited expression for some kind of answer, but Shunpike gives him none.

"Oh, 'e's gonna be 'appy with me, innit? What'chu walkin' round London on your own for?"

"Who's gonna be happy with you, you dickhead? Let me go." But Stan presses his wand a little tighter against Harry's neck, an obvious threat, and Harry sees the mark on his arm, grey-green in the orange light of summer night. It shifts under Harry's gaze, and Harry feels his breath catch in his throat at the victory he sees in Shunpike's face.

"I'm new, you see," Stan says, whispers. "I was just on my way out to a meeting, but I didn't know you was in town, Potter. 'E's gonna love this." Harry can't go for his wand, but there's a cigarette hanging from his fingers, so he shifts quickly and presses the burning butt into the side of Stan's neck, making him scream and drop his wand. It rolls on the edge of the bridge, falling down into the Thames below, and as Stan drops to try to grab for it, Harry kicks him hard int he ribs.

Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater? That's mad, that's just fucking stupid.

But Harry sees when he rips up Stan's sleeve that the tattoo is right there.

"You bastard," Harry says reaching into his pocket for his wand, but Stan lunges for him, hands clasping around his throat and tightening on the flesh there - the pressure hurts, and Harry can't breathe, can't breathe, as he desperately grabs for his wand. Stan just holds him tighter, and Harry feels the pads of his dirty thumbs in the hollow of his neck, pushing bruises into the pale skin there, feels his vision darkening at the edges, hears his thready pulse jumping in his ears, and he just needs to reach it--

The knife slashes quick over Stan's belly, and he lets out a harsh , choking sound, stumbling backwards from Harry, abruptly letting him go. Harry is bent over, touching his burning neck and heaving in what breaths he can, and he can't believe he did that. Can't believe he used a knife, his knife, can't believe---

Stan lunges again, and it's not a shallow slash this time: Stan all but impales himself on Harry's dagger, and Harry even hears the sudden click of his lowest rib against the metal. Stan's eyes are wide, his face pale, his mouth open; he rips back the knife and he watches Stan fall. There's no feeling inside him, no worry - there's merely the rush of it, mingling with his rush at having been with Adrian.

Harry stares down at Stan, on the ground, and then looks at the knife in his hand.

He needs to get home: he runs.

The next day, the Daily Prophet's headline is DEATH EATER KILLED IN MUGGING BY MUGGLE, and Harry stares at the paper in silence.

"You okay, kid?" Sirius asks as he comes into the kitchen, and Harry presses his lips together, resting his chin on the backs of his hands. He looks down at the Daily Prophet, eyes scanning the headline, and then Sirius meets Harry's gaze, looking serious. Harry takes in a small inhalation: he'd been up much of the night before, thinking for a long time on one thing or another, and he had, for the first time in months, began replying to the letters that had been waiting for him to respond to. He'd written a missive to Amelia Bones, then another to Augusta Longbottom, and at three in the morning he'd been left sitting in the middle of his bed, glancing through his photo albums. "What is it?"

"I wrote Dumbledore last night. There's an Order meeting at 7 this evening." Sirius furrows his brow, staring down at him. Harry feels his own exhaustion weighing him down, as he'd only got an hour or two's sleep, in the end. He'd managed that much only by making use of his Occlumency training, compartmentalizing his thoughts temporarily, just in order to get that fragment of a good night's rest. He'll have to sleep some more before they go out to Grimmauld Place.

"He told you that?"

"No," Harry says. "I told him." A ghost of something unexpected passes over Sirius' face, something like fear, and Harry furrows his brow a little further. Sirius soon warms slightly, though, and he places his hand gently on Harry's shoulder. Sirius' touch is a warm and comforting weight, and he seems to recognize the confusion on Harry's face.

"You looked just like your dad, for a second there," Sirius murmurs. He hesitates a moment, and then says, "The day we joined the Order." Harry inhales, slowly, and Sirius adds, "Sorry."

"It's okay." Sirius draws his hand away, stepping toward the counter and taking the kettle from the stove, pouring some hot water into a cup. The smell of coffee comes richly into the air between them, and when Sirius presses a mug into Harry's hands, he doesn't refuse it. Taking a small sip, he looks back to the paper. Stan Shunpike looks out at him from the page, grinning and holding a violently struggling Bludger in his hands; the article itself talks about how Shunpike's wand had not been recovered, and about how he had been slashed across the belly before he was stabbed. The Shunpike in the photograph is younger and spottier, wearing his Ravenclaw under robe and with a scarf tied around his waist.

He'd been a shit beater, someone had told Harry once, and had only lasted one or two games - maybe Bill Weasley told him, but he can't quite remember. Took more Bludgers to the head than with his bat.

"Did you know him?" Sirius asks. "This Shunpike lad?"

"No, not really," Harry says. "He was the conductor on the Knight Bus."

"They never last long," Sirius says, shaking his head as he heads into the living room. "Most of them end up getting hit by cars."

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

It's a little past six o'clock, and Remus, Sirius and Harry are walking through the streets on their way to Grimmauld Place: they'd wanted to get there early, but there are people from far further afield that need to Floo in, so it hardly makes sense for them to do so. The idea hadn't upset Harry much, but apparently Sirius had heard a lot of (probably untrue) horror stories about people trying to Floo into a place at the same time and getting Splinched together. Harry hadn't minded. It's a warm evening, if a little too humid for his liking, but why should he have a say in how humid it is?

He killed a man last night.

"Harry!" He turns his head, mild surprise showing on his face, and Adrian grins at him. Harry's smile feels cold and forced, and he concentrates to soften the expression.Penney's is just a street away - perhaps he lead them to this route unconsciously.

"Hi, Adrian." When Adrian reaches out his hand, Harry acts instinctively: it's not a handshake, really, because Harry clasps Adrian's hand with both of his own, and holds it a little too closely to his chest. Despite the oppressive warmth of the evening, weighed down by the moisture in the air, the warmth of Adrian's hand between his own is kind of comforting. Adrian leans in slightly, and then he looks at Sirius and Remus over Harry's shoulder. His uncertainty is palpable, and Harry says, "These are my Uncles. Sirius is the guy that can't dress himself, and the normal-looking one is Remus."

Sirius is laughing, his head thrown back, but when Harry lets Adrian go, Remus shakes his hand. He looks a little haggard, as the full moon is fast approaching, but his clothes are in a state of good repair, and Harry can imagine Adrian guessing him as an accountant or a bank clerk - overworked, but respectable. Sirius, of course, could be anything from rich eccentric to rock star, and Harry will have to think up a convincing explanation for him.

"Nice to meet you. Adrian, is it?" Remus asks, pleasantly, as Sirius shakes Adrian's hand very vigorously.

"Yeah, Adrian King," he says. He smiles a little, and flicks his head back, throwing his hair out of his eyes; his hands are in his pockets, but his shoulders are back, and he looks confidently between both of Harry's "uncles". "Me and Harry know each other from the arcade."

"The arcade, yes," Sirius says. "Great place to meet girls." Harry sees the confusion on Adrian's face, but Remus just chuckles and smirks at the other man.

"Do you know what an arcade is, Sirius?" Remus asks mildly, arching an eyebrow, his lip twitching.

"Uh, yeah. I'm great at bowling," Sirius says, and when all three of them laugh at him, his confidence turns quickly to indignation. "What? There's a ball, there's pins--"

"We have an appointment we have to go to, Adrian," Harry says quietly. People walk past them, but the streets aren't really busy, for London - more people are sat down in beer gardens rather than walking through the centre of the city. "It's a family thing. You want to meet up tomorrow, though?"

"Yeah, sure," Adrian says. He hesitates a second, green-brown eyes studying Harry's face, and then says, "Have you- You guys haven't got a phone?" The question takes Harry by surprise, stupidly, why had he never thought of that? Why wouldn't a regular person have a phone in their house?

"Uh--"

"Sirius and I have a strict separation between business and home," Remus says, breaking into the conversation. "We don't have a phone-line, let alone dial-up or a phone. Keeps people from calling us at all hours." It's so smooth that Harry wonders if Remus has practised these lines in front of a mirror or something, but why would he? What Muggles does Remus talk to? "Sorry about that, Adrian."

"Don't worry about it," Adrian says, smiling: there's no suspicion obvious on his face at all. "How does four sound?"

"Yeah, sure. Meet you then," Harry says, and he leads Sirius and Remus back in the direction of Grimmauld Place. For maybe fifteen or twenty minutes as they walk, there's silence between the two of them, but as soon as they step over the threshold of Number 12 and close the door behind them, Sirius explodes. As Remus neatly removes his coat, Sirius bounces from his heels to his toes, running around in circles like an excited hound, and Harry tries to force his expression into neutrality rather than letting the smile break across his face.

"Who was that? He was a Muggle? Have you shagged him? What was that thing with the hands? When did you meet him? What is--" Sirius begins talking so fast that his proper Pureblood enunciation becomes lost in the blurred words, and Harry tunes it out, moving into the dining room. Settled at the dining room table, chatting amiably with Narcissa and Dromeda, is Bill Weasley: both women are watching him with a disturbingly concentrated gaze, and Harry elects not to dwell too much on why that might be. Leaning against a cabinet is Cecilia Hayworth, talking rapidly with Tonks, Ted and Charlie Weasley; she gesticulates wildly, and Ted is interjecting every once in a while. Arthur and Percy Weasley are arguing over a checker board; Mad-Eye Moody stands alone, staring broodily out of a window; Lindon Sartorius is talking very quietly with a man Harry has to take a second before he recognizes.

"Mr Keats," he says, and the man turns. His glassy eyes are soft behind his glasses, but as his gaze turns upon Harry it hardens slightly, as if he's suddenly coming away from a dream in his head. Beside Sartorius, who is skinny but tall, Dorian Keats looks very small: he's the record keeper that had brought news of the prophecy to Harry when it had been given to Lavender Brown last year. "When did you join our ranks?"

"This very week, Mr Potter," Harry had almost forgotten: Keats eternally speaks as if he's in a very posh library, and any word spoken too loudly is likely to get him expelled. His voice is rather high for a man's, but it's not gratingly so, especially not when it's heard in barely a whisper. "Lindon gave my name to Dumbledore. How are you faring?"

"Well, Voldemort hasn't killed me yet." At the name, the room goes abruptly silent, and Harry sees Dumbledore in the doorway from the kitchen. At his shoulder is McGonagall, and at his hip, Flitwick. "We've got twenty minutes to go. No business yet." Harry is almost surprised by the sternness in his voice, and even more surprised by the fact that everybody in the room seems to obey him, returning to their conversations, if a little more quietly than before. Across the room, Dumbledore meets Harry's gaze, and they exchange small nods.

In this moment, Harry feels impossibly old.

"It's good to see you, Mr Keats. We'll talk later." Something passes over Keats' face, an uncertainty or a fear, maybe, but then he nods his head, and Harry walks away from him, approaching Dumbledore. In the round mirror on the wall that he passes, he sees Sirius and Remus only just entering the dining room, and immediately they begin talking with Lindon and Keats. Sirius looks pale, and Harry wonders for a moment if he and Remus were arguing in the stairwell.

"Headmaster," Harry says, nodding his head politely. "I hope you don't think I've overstepped tonight."

"No, Harry, not at all," Dumbledore says, shaking his head slightly to the side; his beard, which had been tucked into his belt, comes loose, and he takes hold of the thick, grey ends and tucks them back into their proper place, where he is unlikely to-- What? Trip? "Your letter, of course, came as something of a surprise, but I merely wish you would tell me what precisely you are worried about, that I might better allay your fears. There are so many things for people to be scared of, in these times..."

Determinedly, Harry says, "I'm not scared, sir. I just have a few important questions to raise, that's all, and I think I have some answers."

"You wish you didn't, eh, Potter?" Flitwick looks up into Harry's eyes, his gaze direct and his expression solemn. It strikes Harry that the question is coming from a place of empathy and understanding, and he nods his head. He's always liked Professor Flitwick, but it's strange to be here: of course, he still feels the need to use the proper titles for his professors, to be respectful, but he also feels like he's being looked at as almost an equal. The sensation is surreal.

"Yes, sir. I'll admit to that." More and more people are suddenly filtering into the room now: Snape has been dragged into the conversation between the other men his age by a delighted Lindon Sartorius, and Moody is already arguing with Sturgis Podmore and some other Aurors Harry doesn't recall the names of. People are beginning to sit down around the table, and Percy's checkers board has been Vanished away. Narcissa Malfoy gets hold of a cushion for Flitwick to sit on, and he enchants it to bring him up to a comfortable level with the table: McGonagall doesn't sit, choosing to stand behind Flitwick's chair, and Moody also stays standing at the side of the room with Kingsley Shacklebolt on his left and Percy Weasley on his right. Around the room, Harry sees faces that are both very familiar and only semi-so - he sees Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones, Hagrid (who is standing in the corner of the room, as he won't fit at the table)... But there are new people too: not just Keats, but people Harry semi-recognizes from other places, or younger members, like Oliver Wood. "Mrs Figg!" Harry says, and he moves to pull out a chair for her: she sits down very slowly, giving him a very warm and kind smile, and Harry politely ignores the smell of Kneazles clinging to her clothes. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm alright now, Harry," she says, nodding her head and placing her handbag neatly in her lap. "I live in Darning-On-Tweed now; one of those little communities with more wizards than Muggles, you know? It's where that nice young man, Oliver Wood is from. Do you know him?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry nods, and Dumbledore clears his throat, causing a hushed silence to spread through the room. Rather than taking a seat at the head of the table, like usual, however, he sits on the right hand, across from Sirius and Remus: the head seat is left empty, and he nods Harry toward it. Surprised and stiff, Harry moves over, moving to stand between the high-backed chair and the long dining table. For a long few moments, there is complete silence, and Harry stares around the room, at everybody's faces - there are forty people in the room, and every single one of them is looking right at Harry, some of them surprised to see him, it seems.

"In his messages to you tonight, Professor Dumbledore probably told you the meeting wasn't being convened by him. For those of you that don't know, or haven't met me before, my name is Harry Potter." A few of the strange faces show their surprise, and Harry shifts his head slightly, making sure his fringe is covering the scar on his forehead. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he is aware of how fast his blood seems to be moving through his veins, how much his heart is beating in his chest, and he does his best to ignore it. "Voldemort killed my parents, but now that he's back, he's concentrated on me again. You've probably read the prophecies I published in the Prophet this year: he has his reasons, I guess, just like I have mine for living. It's not about those prophecies that I want to talk tonight, though..." People flinch at the name, but he won't shy away from it... They'll stop in the end.

"Stan Shunpike was murdered last night on the Hungerford Bridge. His wand hasn't been recovered - the Aurors think it fell into the Thames, yeah? - but they saw the tattoo on his left arm. That's why wizards were called in: it's not exactly normal for a tattoo to move like that in the Muggle word." Kingsley Shacklebolt and Eleanor Guinan are both nodding at his comment about the wand: every person in the room seems rapt, and it's strange for so many people to pay attention to him. Snape is looking right at Harry's face, and when Harry meets his black gaze, he thinks about how he'd used his Occlumency to sleep, and he considers it now, too. The memories of the knife, of the cigarette burn, of Shunpike falling onto the ground, are all neatly filed away, out of reach.

Snape's expression, as ever, remains impassive.

"The Aurors reported it was likely a Muggle mugging gone wrong - they tried to rob him, and when they found he didn't have a wallet with recognizable money on him, they stabbed him and left him for dead." Again, Shacklebolt and Guinan nod. "I think you're wrong." Shacklebolt's expression betrays only a slight curiosity, but Harry sees Guinan bristle, so he goes on: "I think Lockhart's lot killed him. I think they know something that I've just figured out myself."

"You think Lockhart killed Stan Shunpike?" Keats asked, arching his mousy eyebrows. Harry sees that Sirius is watching him very closely, but he looks at Keats himself. Keats says, "I've been attending Lockhart's meeting: he's not mentioned any such thing." Harry thinks back to the meeting he'd witnessed, in by Invisibility Cloak... Had Keats there? Or was he recruited as a double agent later on? It doesn't matter. All that matters is that Harry points blame to a wizard without it being himself.

"How comfortable is Lockhart's half-assembled army with the idea of murder thus far, Mr Keats? You think Lockhart could really tell the group if he killed a man himself, with the group's support?" Keats hesitates, his glassy eyes flickering from left to right as he digests the thought, and then he leans back in his chair, giving a small inclination of his head. You should feel guilty for that. Why don't you? Harry steels his jaw. "Voldemort is a very careful man, wouldn't you guys say? Throughout the First War, he was focused on strategy, patience... He took a lot of time to do everything, particularly to pick out his servants. A lot of those he branded with the Dark Mark are the cream of the crop - some of the highest ranking wizards in society, in positions in the Ministry or with a lot of money and rank. Stan Shunpike was a stupid half-blood that came out of Hogwarts with a NEWT in History of Magic and a handful of shitty OWL scores, and he didn't know the difference between his backside and the spout of a teapot. I don't say this to denigrate him or to speak ill of the dead: I'm saying something that people who knew him in this room could only confirm - Oliver? Charlie? Tonks?"

All three of them look at each other, sharing glances across the room, and then they each look back to Harry.

"He was crap at school," Tonks admits quietly. "He only got that NEWT because he cheated on the exam."

"He was alright on a broom," Oliver says. "But he wasn't great or anything. He was even on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team for half a season, until he took that Bludger to the back of his skull and Madam Pomfrey banned him."

"Charlie," Harry asks, his hands resting on the edge of the table in front of him. "Would you say Stan Shunpike would have anything to offer Voldemort and the Death Eaters?" Charlie drums his burned and scarred fingers on the edge of the table, seeming to consider the question, and then he slowly shakes his head.

"He was the conductor of the Knight Bus, I suppose, but everyone knows no one lasts in that job. You bang your head too many times, or you get caught up in Muggle traffic. He didn't know much about anything, like you said, and I don't think he had any hidden skills... What are you saying? That he wasn't really a Death Eater?" Every head whips in Harry's direction, and he inhales. He could tell them all, he supposes: tell them all that Harry burned him with a cigarette and stabbed him twice with the knife tucked inside his belt... But he's not quite that mad yet.

"No, I think he really was a Death Eater. I think Voldemort is forgetting his patience a little bit, actually: I think he's panicking." There are murmurs throughout the room, and people seem confused, so Harry says, "Voldemort killed two of his own this summer, Igor Karkaroff and Lucius Malfoy." Intentionally, Harry keeps his gaze away from Narcissa. "Why would he do that?"

"Because they betrayed him!" Moody snaps, shambling forwards. "You're just a boy, Potter, what do you-"

"Alastor," Harry says, sharply. Moody actually recoils slightly, his real eye widening slightly, his false one revolving at speed in its socket. "Leave your insults for after the meeting, please. But please, tell the room: how has Voldemort dealt with betrayals in the past? In the First War?"

"He killed them! Just like this, he killed them, left the Dark Mark above their heads."

"Just like this? Really? Lucius and Karkaroff - they died in a way you'd seen before?" Moody's mouth closes. He stares at Harry for a second, and Harry glances around the table, his gaze settling on Snape. "Professor, can you describe for us the state of Karkaroff and Lucius' bodies, please? I'm not doing this for no reason, I swear. This is important." Snape's impassive expression fades for a second, revealing a curled lip and an expression of mild disgust, but then understanding seems to pass through his dark eyes, and he stands to address the room.

"Lucius and Igor were found on their backs, each with blood clinging to their clothes, but they weren't waiting in piles of their own blood. Each had a vicious wound in the centre of their chest, as if attacked by some sort of wolf or bear: teeth had torn through the flesh and bone with an apparent savage ease, and both were almost entirely exsanguinated."

"No blood at all?" Harry asks. He tries to keep the image away from the forefront of his mind: he's imagined it before, of course, but he'd never known for certain how Lucius had looked when he was dead, and now... This isn't the time to think about it. This isn't the time. "In either of them?"

"Only what little remained on their clothes, and that was still wet when we arrived." Harry thinks of Snape having bloodied cuffs after coming away from the bodies - had he reached to check Lucius' pulse, maybe, despite the injuries? Out of pure instinct, and emotion? "Please, Potter, we are all rapt. Do elucidate on your theory for the rest of the class."

"If you'll sit down, sir, I shall." Snape's lip twitches, and he seats himself as gracefully as a prince. Bastard. "A few years ago, I found out I was a Parselmouth, and I ended up accidentally unlocking a library in the Slytherin Common Room that had been forgotten for hundreds of years. Not a foot had stepped inside since the 18th century, from what Lindon Sartorius and Cecilia Hayworth could find..." A pause, and then Harry says, "I knew otherwise, but I chose not to correct them at the time. When exploring the room at night, I found this stuck in the back of an old desk - an old doodle left behind by an old student. Another Parselmouth, it turns out. He actually came to Hogwarts in 1938." He hears McGonagall gasp, her blue eyes wide, her hand over her mouth. Harry pulls the folded piece of paper out of his pocket, pushing it across the table to Dumbledore, who carefully examines it. "At the time, I was just a kid, and I thought it was a cool drawing. A snake coming out of a skull."

"This is Tom Riddle's handwriting, certainly," Dumbledore says quietly, tracing the half-scribbled out words: his well-manicured thumb nail comes to rest on the word that Harry had puzzled over: anima. "You had no idea what you held in your hands."

"None at all, sir." Harry looks around the room, at the pale, uncertain faces. "You see, the way Lucius and Karkaroff died is connected to this piece of paper. There are a few words here that I didn't understand, but they're centred around one that I did know. Anima. Latin for mind, or soul, but not the kind of thing we'd use for animating something in Charms or Transfiguration. This word would be used for something deeper, more powerful. I don't know how, but it's my theory that when Voldemort brands one of his Death Eaters with the Dark Mark, he's creating a link between them."

There's sudden talk all around the room: Moody is grumbling something, the historians are leaning in and speaking conspiratorially, and Narcissa Malfoy looks like she's about to cry: Sirius slams his hand down hard on the table, and silence reigns again.

"I think Voldemort can stay immortal via his servants. As long as some of them are still alive, he can cling on. And if he needs to draw power to himself, if he needs to gain energy quickly... He can cannibalize their life force, their magic, and use it to fuel his own. The lack of blood in Karkaroff and Lucius... Maybe it was symbolic, or maybe it was part of the ritual, but I'm sure Voldemort has already done this with some kind of snake." You should see the guy lately, he wants to say, but he doesn't want to upset anybody in the room any more than he already has: he thinks of Voldemort's shining skin in the vision he'd had last year, his sharpened teeth, the new shape of his jaw... "Professor Dumbledore, you probably know more about this than me."

Harry sits down, and Dumbledore stands, his expression very serious.

"Harry is right," he says, very slowly. Gravity weighs down his every word, and even though Dumbledore is speaking, Harry can feel other people's gazes on him. Molly and Arthur Weasley are holding hands where they sit together, their expressions serious (where are the twins, Ron and Ginny? Did she leave them at home alone, or are they outside?), but Molly keeps looking at Harry as if she's about to murder him by motherhood. "In the past decade, I've devoted some time to piecing together the life of Tom Riddle - that is to say, the life of Voldemort before he took on that name. One of his focuses was on a particular kind of magic that enabled one to embed a piece of one's soul, one's magic, in a physical object... This would imbue the caster with a sort of immortality: he could not truly die, because a tether was keeping him to this world. I found an early experiment of his, a diary he had at school, where he seemed to dip into this magic--

"It was strange to me, I confess, to see that he never attempted to make another. Looking at these scribblings, however, of a younger man, it is quite clear to me that Harry is right. We would have to test the links, but Voldemort may well be tied to his Death Eaters."

"Then we should kill them all, Headmaster?" Snape asks; his tone is slightly sardonic, but his expression is serious. Had Snape killed anyone in the war, Harry wonders? "If it is Death Eaters that allow the Dark Lord his immortality, then those links must be severed."

"There is undoubtedly a way to do this without bloodshed," Dumbledore says.

"Without bloodshed?" Moody demands, his angry gaze now turned on Dumbledore rather than on Harry. "Really? This is war, Albus! You can't really--"

"My husband had that mark!" Narcissa says, voice uncharacteristically sharp with anger. "You think these men incapable of change?"

"I think a Death Eater dead is better than one alive, no matter how much they claim to change."

"How dare you! In my own house-"

"I think you'll find it's my house, Cissy."

"You stay out of this!" Quickly, the room is awash with voices, each trying to speak over the other, and Harry stands from the table, leaving the paper with Dumbledore and leaving the room. The Weasley children aren't out in the corridor; they must have stayed at home, with Fred and George in charge. His hands in his pockets, Harry wanders through the corridors of 12 Grimmauld Place, finally stepping into the library, where the dampening charms block out the distant sounds of yells and shouts in the dining room downstairs. Sirius probably spent a lot of time in here as a child and a teenager, Harry guesses, if his parents yelled as much as he's heard. He walks over to the window, looking down into the street.

Muggle cars are parked along the pavements, but this is a one-way road into a small cul-de-sac, and in the middle of the room some Muggle children are kicking around a football. Through the enchanted window, Harry can't hear a thing, but he imagines that they're laughing and calling to each other as they run back and forth.

Behind him, he hears the door unlatch, then click shut. He doesn't bother to turn, and simply keeps his gaze on the window: the reflection is quite clear, as the evening light outside is warm, but not bright. Dumbledore's thumbs are loosely settled on the sides of his belt. "Couldn't stand all the noise and bother?"

"It did seem a bit too much," Dumbledore admits, and he begins to walk toward the window, but Harry waves him off and gestures to the soft seats of the library. Dumbledore sits down in an old, comfortable armchair, and Harry settles on a small stool. Beside them, the fire crackles into action, immediately sending a pleasant rush of heat into the room, even though it hadn't been especially cold. Dumbledore crosses his legs over each other, revealing that he's wearing socks emblazoned with pink flamingos, and he interlinks his fingers upon his knee. "How long have you known about this, Harry?"

"Not very long," Harry says quietly. "I was thinking from the beginning of the summer, and trying to work it out in my head. Then I was going through some old letters in my albums, and I found that piece of paper. When Stan died..." When I killed him, you mean. "I guess it just slid the last piece into place. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, sir, I guess I was just hoping someone would prove me wrong in the course of explaining, you know?"

"A hope dashed, I'm afraid, my boy." Dumbledore sighs softly, and Harry shakes his head slightly, looking away from him. All those overlapping voices had been impossible to listen to, but now, in the silence of the library, he almost wishes for them. "It's quite alright. They'll calm soon: we have news to take from Mr Keats."

"About Gilderoy Lockhart?" Harry inhales slightly, then looks back to Dumbledore. "Do you think I'm wrong? About him killing Shunpike? I thought it made sense, but if Keats doesn't think so--"

"We can hardly say," Dumbledore says quietly. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes are as piercing as ever, and when he meets Harry's gaze, Harry doesn't allow himself to look away. His Occlumency, he hopes, is sufficient - how easy is wandless, non-verbal Legilimency? Could Snape and Dumbledore possibly do it so easily? "You may be right, in other ways. It may be another Death Eater betraying his master, or even a Muggle. Such a life taken... It's a great shame." Does he know? Does he suspect, even?

Harry has no idea. How could Harry know?

"Do you really think there's a way around--" Harry hesitates, and then says, "What Snape said, sir, about killing them all...?"

"We must find one," Dumbledore says. "Taking a life, Harry, whether that life belongs to a friend or an enemy, a Death Eater or not... It takes its toll not only upon one's mind, one's conscience, but upon one's very life force - upon one's very magic. One of the steps Voldemort must have taken in order to approach this sort of magic was to kill someone. It creates a split in the soul, Harry, damage that can never be undone. There is no greater crime than murder."

"What about letting murders happen?" Harry asks. Dumbledore's gaze flicks to his face, and he says, "If I were to let Voldemort keep going... He'd kill so many more people. The Death Eaters--"

"They're still people, my boy, regardless of their crimes," Dumbledore says quietly. He says this with more sadness than anger, and Harry looks down at the richly patterned carpet of the room, thinking about Stan Shunpike's desperate, wet gasp, the cry he'd let out when Harry's cigarette had sizzled against his skin, the feel of the knife in his hand, hot blood against his fingers...

"Yeah," Harry whispers. "They are."

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Adrian's mouth draws away from Harry's, and Harry groans as he realizes there's a string of saliva collecting their mouths. Adrian lets out a sudden bark of laughter, and they break apart, both wiping their mouths, Adrian with his sleeve and Harry with a handkerchief. Harry leans against the alley wall, pushing the handkerchief back in the pocket of his jeans, and Adrian looks at him from where he leans himself, his back against the fire escape of the next building. "How did your meeting go yesterday?"

"Okay," Harry says, shrugging his shoulders. "We got some stuff done, I guess. It's just to do with Remus and Sirius' business, so it's not anything interesting." When they'd got home last night, Sirius and Remus had apparently been desperate to avoid the topic of Voldemort's soul magic, and instead had each asked him about a thousand questions apiece about who Adrian King might be. Harry had deftly avoided the majority. Now, he turns his head, looking up at the setting sun as the evening gets on. What's going to happen now, he has no idea.

Keats had fed back about Lockhart's plans, which were mostly about arranging times where people could be trained in self-defence and could plan out strategies if Death Eaters attacked Diagon Alley - ways to evacuate people safely, ways to take down Death Eaters, et cetera... People had spit on the idea a lot, but Harry had actually been kind of impressed, even if Lockhart has tried to kill him.

He's not the same man that went into Azkaban, Harry knows.

"Harry?" Adrian pats him on the arm, and Harry turns to him.

"Sorry. I was miles away - what was it you said?"

"I said I'm a Sagittarius," Adrian says, mildly. "I was asking what your sign was."

"You believe in that stuff?" Harry asks, thinking of the Sybil Trelawney impression Tracey Davis had done when she'd made the mistake of mentioning she was an Aries in class.

"No, it's a pretence for conversation between snogging," Adrian answers, and Harry feels himself laugh.

"I'm a Leo, I think." Adrian frowns slightly, his eyebrows lowering.

"A Leo? When's your birthday?"

"The 31st."

"Of July? That's barely two weeks away! Why didn't you say?" Harry shrugs his shoulders helplessly, and Adrian grins at him, leaning against the wall beside him, their shoulders aligned. "Aren't you going to have a party?"

"A party?" Harry repeats. The idea is bizarre - he's never had a birthday party before, and it's never really occurred to him that it might be an option. Remus and Molly had both baked him cakes last year, and he'd blown out candles and unwrapped presents, but a party? What would a party for him even consist of? "Oh, um, no. I-- To be honest, Adrian, I've never had one." He sees the horror pass over Adrian's face, and he's quick to say, "Sirius and Remus aren't against it or anything! It's just that, uh, my other aunt and uncle used to have custody of me. They didn't really, uh, like me much. I never celebrated my birthday until I went to school up North."

"I'm sorry," Adrian says immediately. He says it quickly, but not unfeelingly: Harry doesn't think he imagines the slight anger in his features - anger at these relatives of Harry's Adrian doesn't even know. "That's just so... Shitty."

"Tell me about it." There's a pause between them, and Harry thinks that Adrian is going to bridge the gap and kiss him, but he doesn't: instead, his hand entwines with Harry's, and he leans back against the wall beside him, turning towards the sunset. Adrian's hand is dry and warm in Harry's own, and he doesn't pull away, but settles into the silence between them.

That night, when Harry goes home, he writes to Florean Fortescue, and asks to make a booking. Outside his window, a shooting star falls, and instead of thinking about wishes, he only thinks about death.

"Happy birthday!" Adrian says, and Harry grins at him. The sun is half-shining down, refracting through the light grey drizzle of the afternoon and leaving rainbows to burst across the sky. It's like the weather can't decide what it's going - even with the rain, the day itself is comfortably warm, though the humidity is uncomfortable and stifling. Adrian is dressed in a t-shirt and loose shorts, but sweat makes his hair cling around his scalp, and his skin has a slight sheen to it as he gives Harry a hug. Harry draws away, and he sticks his hands into his pockets, looking at the other boy. "By the way, uh, how old are you?"

"Fifteen," Harry says, shifting his hands in his pockets and feeling the weight of his cigarettes, a pen, his wand, his wallet. Adrian's eyes widen slightly.

"Shit, really?" He blinks a few times, hand going up to draw through his hair, the thickly blond locks giving way as his fingers comb through them. "I'm sixteen in two months, but I thought you were older." Harry raises his eyebrows slightly, glancing down at Adrian's feet and then looking up to meet his gaze again; there's a height difference of almost a foot between them, and when Adrian realizes what he's referring to, he gives Harry a shove. "Oh, shut up. Short people can be older."

"Hear that, Sirius?" Remus asks mildly, seeming pleased with himself as he puts his hands in the pockets of his loosely worn jacket, worn for the rain rather than to stave off the cold. He and Sirius have only just caught up, and Harry chuckles. "You can be shorter than me and older than me."

"I don't want to go for lunch with the kids anymore," Sirius says immediately. "We'll get separate tables. Actually, you guys go to the restaurant - we'll go to that Wetherspoons around the corner." Remus winces, and Sirius laughs quietly. He puts out his hand to shake Adrian's, and Adrian takes it easily, stepping forwards to shake Remus' too, and Harry glances at the restaurant.

Remus had picked it, in the end, as Harry hadn't had any idea about any of the Muggle restaurants in town - it's a small, simple place with narrow windows and stone floors, set inside an old building that reminds Harry of Hogwarts, a little bit. On one wall, there's a mural of a dinner that happened 500 or 600 years ago, a wedding between two families, and their crests are both carved into the stone over the cheerfully roaring fireplace. Despite the fact that the fire is lit, it's by no means too warm inside, and the four of them sit down beside a window, Adrian and Harry on one side of the table, Remus and Sirius on the other.

"Ah, Sirius!" says a female voice, and they look up. She's a tall woman with black hair that comes down to her mid-back, and she kisses Sirius on each of his cheeks. As she sets menus in front of each of them, she says, "Oh, and you must be Remus... And that makes you Harry Potter!"

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry says politely, nodding his head and smiling. The menu in front of him is bound in leather, and beneath an etching of a lion asleep on a rock is the restaurant's name: The Lion's Rest, written in a looping script of gold.

"Such a pleasure to meet you," she says, putting out her hand to shake. "My name is Xiao Chang - you know my niece, Cho?" Harry stands to shake her hand, giving a nod of his head. Her gaze flits to Adrian as she draws her hand back, and she says, "Do you go to school with Harry?"

"No, Mrs Chang, I live here in London. I go to Fairhill." She nods, a knowing look in her eyes as she glances to Harry, and then she claps her hands together, looking at the four of them.

"What can I get you boys to drink?" After they give their orders (Xiao doesn't have a notebook, and seems content to remember each drink off the top of her head), she gives them a warm smile and heads off toward the bar. Adrian leans forwards, looking at Sirius curiously. "You know the owner?"

"Yeah, me and Xiao go way back," Sirius says, grinning. "Her sister went to school with us. She was a few years below us... What house was she, Moony?"

"Jing? Ravenclaw, I think. Maybe Slytherin... No, she was Ravenclaw, remember, she beat James to the Snitch one time, so she must have been on their team for--" Remus seems to come to his senses, and abruptly says, "Lacrosse."

"What's a Snitch?" Adrian asks, but before Harry can say anything, Remus already has a lie on his tongue.

"Stupid public school rules," Remus says dismissively, waving his hand and shaking his head. "Anyway, Xiao didn't have the grades to get in, so her parents sent her to a more normal boarding school. We used to sneak out sometimes, and occasionally we'd take outings out there. It was an all-girls school, so Sirius and James - that was Harry's father, Adrian - used to adore having all of them fuss over them." Sirius grins, looking very pleased with himself, and Harry sniggers. Adrian grins a little, leaning back in his seat.

"How did you get over there? If it was a few hours away?" Harry worries for a second that it's going to be another difficult answer, but Sirius is already laughing.

"I got my motorcycle when I was fifteen or so, so we used to go on that! I'd drive, Remus would be on the back of the bike, and we used to shove James and Peter into the sidecar. James was always short, like Harry here, and Peter was pudgy, but he wasn't very tall, so they fit in quite nicely. We drove all around Scotland, when we had a weekend we could spare. Even got stopped by the police once or twice!" Sirius lets out a bark of laughter, slapping his hand upon his knee, and Remus chuckles quietly, shaking his head. It seems easier for Sirius to talk about Peter than it used to be - he brushes him off as if he's just another friend dead from the war, and it's only when they talk in more detail that he seems to get upset.

"How did that go?" Harry asks sardonically. "I assume you didn't have a license?"

"Oh, Peter used to be excellent with police," Remus says seriously. He has a faraway look in his eyes, as if remembering this specific incident in detail. "You have no idea, Harry, the stuff he got us out of... The first time we got caught it was because Sirius had lost one of the tyres, and we went straight off the road. No serious injuries, but Sirius got knocked out, and none of us knew how to drive. Peter flagged down a police car, and not only got him to drive us all back to the school, but convinced him not to try to contact any of our parents or staff. I can't remember what it was he said - I think he told him Sirius was a cousin of the Duke of York, and that the four of us had evaded his bodyguard."

Sirius laughs, grinning to himself. "It was a good story when I was laid up in the Infirmary the next day. He had my whole genealogy laid out, and he sat in the front with the copper as James and Remus kept quiet in the back with me, making sure I was fine and then keeping me quiet once I was conscious."

Harry looks at Adrian, who meets his gaze, and then the two of them start laughing: even though Harry has no doubt they're not hearing the full story, given how much magic is probably being cut out, it's absolutely ridiculous, and Harry has no idea what idea Adrian must have about how posh they are, even though they definitely come across as quite normal. Adrian doesn't seem to mind, though, and although Harry feels a little on edge, trying to act normal when they have to keep everything secret from a Muggle, it's actually really nice to be sat with both him, and Remus and Sirius.

"Oh, by the way, I got you something," Adrian says, and he pushes a bag across the table to Harry. "Happy birthday." Harry smiles, reaching into the bag and pulling it open. The parcel inside is neatly wrapped in rainbow paper, and Harry carefully opens it up. It's a white t-shirt emblazoned with a very simple text in black: FRANKIE SAYS RELAX.

"Cheers," Harry says, with a grin, and he sets the t-shirt aside. It's almost a shame he can't wear t-shirts at Hogwarts - he'd love to explain it to Draco and the other Slytherin boys.

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"See you later, Adrian!" Harry says, waving as they part ways, and he falls into step between Sirius and Remus as they begin walking toward the Leaky Cauldron. "Thanks for that, Sirius."

"It's okay," Sirius says, grabbing Harry around the shoulder and leaning on him. Harry's getting a little taller now, but Sirius, short as he is, is still two inches or so taller. Given what they keep telling him about his dad, though, Harry is half-worried he's not going to get any closer to Sirius in height, let alone overtake him. "Sorry we couldn't invite him to your party, but at least we had lunch with him." Harry inhales slightly, looking at his watch. It's coming up to five o'clock, and although most people aren't going to arrive until six, they'd decided to go straight to Florean Fortescue's.

Fortescue had been delighted to host a birthday party for Harry, and he'd initially he'd sent out just a few invitations, but Fortescue had insisted if Harry wanted to make a real bonanza out of it, he could, and Sirius had told him he wouldn't come if there weren't at least fifty people. Harry grins a little just thinking about it, but... Why would anybody--?

Dudley had never really had birthday parties. It had always been trips to the zoo or to the rugby or something, given that he'd never had many friends beyond Piers Polkiss and some of the local thugs. What is it going to be like? Any invitation Harry had to a birthday party at primary school was always quickly snatched out of his hand, and given that they're all at boarding school, such things aren't normally worth organising.

"I need to run back to the flat," Sirius says suddenly. "Just realized I forgot something! You guys go on ahead, I'll catch up."

"Right," Remus says, and Sirius runs quickly down the street ahead of them, making a quick left turn into a side street; he's put on a lot of weight in the past year, filling out his face properly again and making sure he's no longer so gaunt, as well as packing on some muscle. Two years ago, straight out of Azkaban, he couldn't have run like that without later collapsing with exhaustion. "How are you feeling about the party?" Remus' smile is soft, and as he speaks, he very gently touches over the back of Harry's hair.

"I feel okay. Excited, but just... Nervous. What if nobody comes?"

"People will come," Remus assures him quietly. There's so much confidence in the words that they genuinely do soothe some of Harry's anxiety away, and he looks forwards. Remus has put on weight in the past year or so too, even if the change isn't as dramatic as the one in Sirius. Snape makes him Wolfsbane every month, and Harry doesn't know where Remus spends his transformations, because he doesn't usually spend them in the flat, but they seem easier on him these years.

"Last night, I was thinking about it... Back after Sirius was pardoned, I was pretty terrible to you," Harry says. He speaks very quietly, but he knows that Remus will pick it up. "I didn't realize at the time, I know, that you were a werewolf, but even after. I don't know, how hard it was for you to be around people who understood, let alone a kid. I know you wouldn't have been able to take care of me."

"I didn't tell you this at the time," Remus says very softly, even more quietly than Harry. "But I did try. I wanted to be in your life, even if all I could do was visit a few times a month, when the moon was at its weakest. But Albus wouldn't tell me where you lived immediately, and he said he'd write to your Aunt and Uncle, to ask. They destroyed every letter he sent them." There's a heavy pit in Harry's stomach, and he can feel his blood run cold with a distant fury.

Remus stops walking, puts his hands on Harry's shoulders - even if he overpasses Sirius, Harry knows, he'll never be as tall as the lanky figure of Remus Lupin. Remus looks seriously at Harry with his tired, grey eyes, and says, "I want you to understand, Harry, that everything Sirius and I do, everything, is always done with you in mind. Even the stupid things - especially the stupid things, at times. What Sirius did, when he went after Peter, it was insane, and ill-conceived, and he was mad at the time, but as much as it was about revenge, it was about protecting you. And when I gave up, after Dumbledore's third letter to the Dursleys was burned... I suppose I convinced myself that if they were so opposed, not even knowing that I was a werewolf, it was best for you. I'm sorry. I wish I could go back, Harry, and make everything the way it should be - make it so Peter and James and Lily are telling you their own stories instead of me and Sirius telling them, but I can't. All Sirius and I can do now is love you as best we can."

Harry throws his arms around Remus, and they hug tightly.

The walk to Fortescue's isn't a long one - they move through the Leaky Cauldron, which is beginning to get busy with parents on their school shopping trips, and then they move through the wall in the back alley. Harry leads the way, with Remus slightly behind him, and he takes hold of the door to the shop, hearing the bell tinkle above their heads as they step over the threshold. Looking around the room, though, it is completely empty - there aren't yet any decorations up, and no one has arrived for the party, but there isn't even a sign of Fortescue himself.

"Mr Fortescue?" Harry asks. "Are you there?"

There's a sudden bang from above their heads, and Harry looks up to see hundreds of balloons released, hovering a few feet above his and Remus' heads as confetti and streamers rain down from above: once Harry looks around the room again, he sees that every seat in the restaurant is filled, and there's a loud shout of, "SURPRISE!" All Harry can feel is the huge grin on his face as a flash catches his eye. He looks to see Sirius on his knees, the camera in his hands, and he feels himself laugh.

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"So what we did was write everyone on your guest list and told them to come an hour and twenty minutes earlier, so they could surprise you," Sirius explains over a chocolate sundae, and Harry laughs, looking down at his own banana split. "The camera I found in the attic a few days back. I used to take a lot of photos back at Hogwarts, thought I'd take it up again."

"Thanks, Sirius," Harry says quietly. Setting his spoon down, he begins to walk around the room again, talking to different people; from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, the Weird Sisters sing about escapades with ghouls, and some people are even dancing. Most of the people in Harry's year are here, even though Harry privately had worried people would think he was too old for a birthday party in an ice cream parlour, and most everyone greets him warmly. "Mrs Longbottom! How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm very well, thank you," Augusta says, beaming. Next to her, Neville sits, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Neville, happy birthday for yesterday," Harry says, giving him a grin, and Neville smiles warmly. "Did you like the gloves?" Harry had been worried that Neville would feel overshadowed, coming to a party so close to his own birthday, but Neville doesn’t seem to mind at all.

"Oh, they're great, Harry. Our Venomous Tentacula is teething at home, and they're really helping." Neville is a different boy when he smiles: most of the time he looks so uncertain, and a little bit sad. Harry just wishes he could get him to smile more often... And part of the problem is maybe that his grandmother is the only person he's talking to at Harry's birthday party. "Uh, Neville, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones are actually having a conversation about Herbology with Hermione over there - maybe you could go and sort it out? Hermione's smart, but she doesn't know plants like you do." Neville looks to Augusta for permission, and she gives him an airy nod: immediately, Neville all but sprints across the room.

"Call me Augusta, Harry," she says immediately, and Harry grins at her. "That Tentacula is a dastardly thing, I can tell you. It's good that Neville loves his plants so much, but it doesn't often feel like they love him back." Harry laughs.

"Yeah, I get what you mean. I think he's kind of drawn to the worst of them, though."

"Like a moth to a flame," Augusta says, shaking her head, and she looks across the room, smiling fondly. Susan and Hannah hadn't been discussing anything of the sort, but from across the room Harry can see that Neville is talking animatedly and almost confidently about his subject, and all three girls are being very attentive. "You're very good for him, you know, Harry. Thank you, for inviting us."

"I couldn't imagine a birthday party without both of you here, Ma'am. You've taught me half of what I know."

"Pish-posh," she says immediately, but Harry can tell she's very flattered. "You go on now, and have a good birthday. I'm going to go chat to Healer Tonks." Harry smiles, stepping past Augusta as she goes to Andromeda and Ted. In the corner of the room, talking quietly with Theodore Nott and staying very close to his mother, is Draco. Both him and Narcissa are dressed in mourning black, and Harry had sent the invitation out of politeness, not expecting them to come. When she sees him, though, Narcissa smiles very sweetly, and she puts out her arms to pull Harry into a hug.

"Thank you, Harry," she murmurs against the top of his head. "It's best he has excuses to go out." Harry looks to Draco as Narcissa draws away, and he offers the other boy a small smile, which Draco weakly returns. Harry's never seem him look so bad, even when he's been confined to the Infirmary or to bed with sickness. Draco is not just pale, but pallid, his eyes red from lack of sleep and too much crying, and his normally healthy, pink lips are dry and chapped. Theo is talking to him very gently, more so even than usual, and Harry joins the conversation for a good twenty minutes before he keeps going around and saying his hellos.

It's then that Florean Fortescue brings out the cake, which Harry hadn't asked for (Remus and Sirius at work once more), and Harry stands in the middle of the room, frozen, as everyone sings him a loud "Happy Birthday", which Augusta Longbottom turns into a rendition of, "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow" at the end. Harry stares at the fifteen candles on the ice cream cake, which depicts a basilisk most of the way through eating a lion, and Harry grins.

Sirius photographs him as he blows out the candles, and Fortescue delightedly begins cutting pieces out and handing them around to people - Harry hadn't known before last week that Fortescue and his wife had both been Slytherins when they were at Hogwarts fifty years ago, and the old man seems to take a lot of delight in the design on the cake.

"Photographs!" Sirius demands, clapping his hands together as he lets his camera hang around his neck. "You eat your cake, you lot - Harry, come outside with me and Moony, and we'll do some photos with just you before we do a big group one."

"Oh, Sirius," Harry groans, but Sirius is already dragging him by the sleeve of his jacket, chattering away, mostly to Remus, about it being Harry's only fifteenth birthday and they can't really let it go past without some pictures. Harry reaches out dramatically to Hermione and the twins as Sirius drags him outside, and they each give him a cheerful wave. Harry lets Remus position him in front of Fortescue's, facing the parlour with the street behind him, rolling his eyes as Remus "fixes" his hair by messing it up even more and does his best to ruffle his lapels. Remus then runs back to Sirius, and as Harry poses, he can see all the faces at the windows, watching.

There's a distant pop, and Harry tilts his head, wondering where it had come from - there's an enchantment preventing Apparition right onto the main streets of Diagon Alley, in case of Splinching or Apparating directly into the course of a cart or something, so it can't be that. Then he sees Sirius' eyes widen as the camera drops from his hands and thumps by its straps, with a flash, against his chest; he sees Remus drop limply to the ground as a stream of red light hits him right in the chest, and he whirls on his feet as if in slow motion, grabbing for his wand.

There are too many of them.

He's aware immediately that there are far too many of them for him to fight them off - behind him, Harry hears Sirius yell and then go silent, but he can't afford to turn around as he hears them step on his every side, surrounding him in a dark-robed circle. Death Eaters. Each of them wears a silver mask to hide his face, and their robes come right down over their shoes, but there are nearly thirty of them, and Harry can hear them laughing and talking to each other.

From the crowd in front of him, out steps Voldemort.

Harry's never actually faced this man. He's heard of him in so many different contexts, been told terrible stories about him, and even inhabited his own head, for a fleeting time, but he's never had Voldemort right in front of him. As he feels the slight pressure on his Occlumency shields (because the pressure, the threat, was never supposed to be this close), he is struck by the thought that he always imagined Voldemort would be taller.

Voldemort stands at six feet tall, but the image Harry had in his head had been positively cartoonish, he realizes how - he'd thought of him as being maybe seven or eight feet, with white, scaly limbs.

Voldemort is six feet tall, and his eyes are red, with snake-like pupils: he has no hair, and he has the face of someone who used to be handsome, and doesn't care that times have changed. His jaw is a strange shape, and his nose is half the size it should be, collapsed into the skull like the snout of some snake-man; he wears a robe of deepest black with a high collar. It's a battle robe, hugging close to his legs and his arms, with the skirt flowing only around his knees and showing the enchanted leggings that tuck right into his dragonhide boots.

For some reason, Harry had also thought Voldemort would be barefoot.

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last, sir," Harry says, loudly enough that it cuts through the talk of the Death Eaters and leaves all of them abruptly silent. They're staring at him, all of them, and even behind their masks, Harry is certain many of their mouths are open. How many of them has Harry met? How many of them write him polite letters? How many of them have children at the very party behind him? Voldemort's expression shows mild amusement, his wand held at an angle out from his side; Harry copies his position. "I've heard so much about you, but I feared we'd never meet face to face."

"He mocks you, my lord!" says a masked woman with a sudden desperation, her hood down and her black hair coming out from behind her mask in a thickly curled cascade, but before she can continue, Voldemort holds up his other hand in a graceful push to silence. His fingers are smooth as marble, and his fingernails are long and polished to a shine: even as he quiets the woman, who Harry immediately knows as Bellatrix Lestrange, he keeps his gaze on Harry.

"We have, of course, met before, Harry. I hope I can call you Harry?" Voldemort's voice is high in pitch and almost ethereal, with magic seemingly woven into every word. Although he speaks at a normal volume, it seems to ring through Diagon Alley, and Harry feels like he could be heard thirty miles away. "Or have you forgotten?"

"And what should I call you, sir? I've heard you don't like your name being bandied about." Harry feels every hair on his body standing on end, and although he can feel the fear running cold in his blood and down the length of his spine, he keeps his voice as cold and calm as he can. He thinks of Lucius Malfoy's voice in a crisis, collected and cool, and he does his best to replicate it. Voldemort takes a step to the left, and Harry immediately mirrors him, taking a step to the right. Voldemort's mouth, which is nearly lipless and the same colour as the rest of his face, quirks into something almost like a smile.

"You're confident," Voldemort says, and he chuckles. "Don't you know, Harry, that you are about to die?"

"I hear that a lot," Harry admits. "It's stopped giving me too much pause."

"You've never heard it from me."

"Well, you know what they say, sir. Actions speak louder than words. Didn't go too well for you the last time, did it?" Harry hears many of the Death Eaters gasp or let out quiet exclamations, horrified that he would provoke their "lord" in such a way. Voldemort's eyes flash, and Harry dodges to the side as he flicks a sickly-green spell in his direction: he gets to his feet and now him and Voldemort are both standing, facing each other with their wands raised.

"You won't win this duel, Harry," Voldemort whispers.

"It doesn't matter," Harry replies. "You won't win this war." Voldemort's lips twist into a snarl, and the spell moves too quickly for Harry this time. He's already dodging, but he can read the spell on Voldemort's mouth, and when it hits Harry in the chest, it's not as cold as he thought it would be. Avada Kedavra feels like sudden warmth that tingles on the skin, and the sensation lasts less than a second, because Harry's vision has already faded to black, and the last thing he is aware of is the sensation of falling.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Harry is standing in a broad, white room. It is made of stone, and it is lightly furnished, but all of the colours are wrong: it seems unnaturally white. That colour should be black, he thinks, and this should be green. Where is he? He feels cold. No, he doesn't. He feels warm. What does cold feel like? This is the Slytherin Common Room.

Harry looks down at his feet, and it feels difficult just to turn his head, as if his joints need oiling: beneath him, in sickly shades of off-white, he looks down at a rug that should be in Slytherin colours. How strange. There is a grind of stone, and Harry looks up, seeing the portrait door open at the edge of the room.

Outside, in the corridor, it is neither white nor brightly lit: it is an expanse of black.

Go through the door, something tells him. Laughter rings in the room around him, ghostly and ethereal. A boy's laugh, but it's high.

"No," Harry says. His tongue is heavy.

Go, it tells him again, and he feels a shove against his back, making him stumble. It's a wrong touch, a sickly touch, a thousand times worse than a ghost walking through him, and Harry turns abruptly, his arm shooting out, but there's nothing for him to grab at. The laughter rings around the room again, and he reaches for the wand at his side, but it isn't there.

He is hot. He is cold. He is unarmed, and he is at risk.

Although his feet feel weighted down, he turns slowly in the centre of the room, eyes searching for whatever it is, and the laughter continues, continues. He looks to the mantelpiece, looks at the cream-coloured snake carved into it, and he grins. His teeth feel bloody. "Open," Harry hisses, the Parseltongue ringing through the room like a cold draught, and he hears the thing cry with horror as the wall moves just like it did when Harry was twelve, this time showing a long tunnel that leads up to the surface instead of an empty library. At the end of the tunnel, he sees light, real light, and colours.

Harry begins to run, and behind him, the ghostly thing screams its loss and its rage.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Harry awakes to smoke and screams. Crowds of people are running around him, and he ignores them all. He scrambles from the floor, wand in his hand, and looks wildly around. The conductor of the Hogwarts Express is barking orders, his Scottish accent carrying in the streets, and people are obeying him, moving to the sides of the street and leaving the two black-robed bodies in the middle of the street. Harry runs forwards, pulling the mask off the first one and letting his fingers go to his pulse. He recognizes the man's face - he's a Nott, one of Theo's older uncles, well into his seventies. He hasn't a heartbeat, and when Harry leans back, he can see the mixture of blood and pink tissue soaking through the fabric of his robes; he'd hit the cobblestone much too hard to be pulled back up.

Harry hops over Nott's body and leans over the other one. This one is groaning, and when Harry pulls off his mask, he recognizes his face exactly. "Hi there, Marcus," he says, catching the wand from his hand as Flint tries to raise it up. "Twisted your ankle there, have you?" Flint lets out a moan of pain, looking at Harry with fear in his eyes, but when Harry pulls up the hem of his robes to have a look at the ankle, he realizes there's nothing he can do to get Flint moving right now.

Flint's kneecap is yellow and bloody and as far down as Flint's left leg goes, because Flint has Splinched himself and lost the rest of it.

"Healer!" Harry yells over his shoulder. He looks up, and he sees Andromeda Tonks coming at speed from Fortescue's, fighting through the Aurors trying to keep her back. "Healer Tonks, here, please. This is Marcus Flint: he's eighteen, he's Death Eater scum, and he's Splinched himself." As Dromeda gets to work on the leg, Harry leans right into Flint's ugly, troll-like face, and looks into his eyes. Flint looks terrified of him, and Harry says in a very slow, deliberate voice, "When you're in a Ministry cell tonight, awaiting trial, I want you to think about how I let you live. Do you know why I let you live, Flint?" Flint is breathing heavily, staring up at him. "Because it'll be more entertaining for me when Voldemort comes back and kills you himself." The tiny bit of colour left in Flint's face drains away, and Harry watches his head drop back onto the stone. "He's fainted, Drom. Too much pain."

"Righto, Harry," Andromeda says, focusing on the leg, and Harry stands. Aurors are beginning to arrive on scene, and Harry searches for Sirius. A Mediwizard is looking over Remus on a table that had been displaying cauldrons half an hour ago: he is limp, but the Mediwizard is calm and working carefully. Sirius is quite conscious and nervously standing next to him.

"Sirius!" Harry says, and Sirius turns to stare at him. His blue eyes are wide, and then he grabs for Harry clutching him tightly.

"He used the Killing Curse," Sirius says, putting his hands on Harry's hair, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. "How are you... You're alive, you're alive, but he--"

"Give me your camera," Harry says, cutting through Sirius' desperate talk. "I know you're shaken right now, but give it to me." Harry's order is clean and sharp, and it overrides Sirius' horror and cut-through grief: he pulls the camera from around his neck, and Harry makes his way over to the body of Canton Nott. The camera flashes as he takes a photograph of the old man's head surrounded in a cloud of sickly pink fluid, and Drom leans back so he can take a photo of the struggling Flint, too. His leg is looking better already.

"Potter!" says a voice, and Harry turns. Mad-Eye Moody limps towards him, giving him a once-over. "They said you were dead."

"I think I was. I got back up again." Harry speaks cleanly and sharply, and he immediately asks, “What can I do to help?" Just as Harry takes his death in his stride, as much as he can in the moment, Moody follows suit.

"Get into Fortescue's, have Tonks and Arthur Weasley take control in there. I need everyone sat down, and I need them all ready to give statements to us. That's an official declaration of the Dark Lord's return – you got pictures?"

"Of Nott and Flint here. None of the other Death Eaters, though." Moody clucks his tongue, but then he nods. He limps off, and Harry makes his way over to Fortescue's, but he sees the conductor talking with Dawn Hadworth, from the secondhand shop, and he stops with them.

"You guys are with Lockhart, right?" Harry asks. Immediately, Dawn's brown eyes widen, and the conductor looks at Harry with surprise. "You're doing a really good job keeping people calm. Sir—"

"My name's Billy," the conductor interrupts him. "Billy O'Neill."

"You should co-ordinate with Auror Moody, get everyone to give statements to him. This is a declaration of war – I think, anyway. We need to make sure the Ministry and the presses can't deny this."

"You were dead," Dawn says quietly. Does she have children, Harry wonders? He guesses so. "I saw the curse hit you."

"It hit me the first time too, Ma'am, I'm pretty sure of that." He doesn't have time to walk her through it, and he turns toward the ice cream parlour, making his way in. Immediately, he is best by voices, people yelling that no one will let them out of the parlour, and he jumps on top of a chair to address them all. Outside, the yells begin to die down, and everyone is anxious, but quiet.

Happy fucking birthday, Harry thinks to himself, bitterly, and he forces himself to keep his mind on business. He can feel sorry for himself later - right now, he needs to keep everyone else safe and on track.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

At the head of the table in the empty Grimmauld Place, Severus Snape hits alone, staring into the middle distance.

Severus had been there, at the Dark Lord's right hand, as he'd cast the curse: he had been powerless, unable to do a thing. He'd believed there would be only a meeting today, and had not known of the plan to accost Potter on the very day of his birthday, arriving in Diagon Alley, and he couldn't have reported it to Dumbledore, couldn't have done a thing.

When the Dark Lord had cast his spell, the green light had hit Potter soundly, and as his killer threw back his unnatural head and laughed, Severus had stood stock still, staring at the crumpling form of Harry Potter, as his fellows had Apparated from about him. He had acted once only a few were left, flicking his wand at Nott's head and softening the bone before tripping him with a Hex that had also caught Flint, making him yell out as he tried to Apparate himself. With little satisfaction, Severus had turned on his heel and Apparated back to Malfoy Manor, where the Dark Lord was already crowing his victory.

The Death Eaters had been dismissed but minutes later, and Severus had returned to Grimmauld Place, where soon the Order of the Phoenix would alight, broken with grief.

Severus feels that any moment he may well vomit: what had been the point, he wonders, in killing Nott? There had been no pleasure in it, and he could never kill every other Death Eater himself. There are too many, and he will be too easy to suspect: what chance has he, he wonders, to convince the Order of the necessity of it? If the Dark Lord is truly to be defeated, they must sever every last link he has...

The dead form of Harry Potter tumbling to the ground like a rag doll flits across Severus' mind, mocking him, taunting him, and he allows himself a second's weakness. He drops his forehead slowly down onto his hands, closing his eyes, and he wonders what he is to do. What are any of them to do, how that Potter is dead? The Order of the Phoenix might have been upset by Lucius' murder, but Potter had been more than a boy: he had been a symbol to them.

He's dead now, like Lucius, like Lily, like every connection Severus has ever dared to have, and he half-expects Albus will declare the war lost at once.

In the entrance hall, he hears the door slam open, hears the angry footsteps in the hall. Who is it first? Narcissa? Black and Lupin? Shacklebolt?

Severus stares, his lips slightly parted, as Potter walks into the room. It must be a trick, a Boggart, a ghost - Potter walks clumsily, and he drops to his knees before a wide vase and does precisely what Severus feels like doing: he grips the sides of it and retches. There's a spatter as his lunch hits the bottom of the vase, and Severus slowly stands.

He couldn't have done it. He couldn't have survived the curse... And yet he had, the first time. Albus had called it Lily's protection, and told Severus such a thing could never be replicated, but he must have been wrong. Potter is standing there, vomiting, and Severus feels euphoria soar within him, suddenly.  Potter retches and retches, coughing, and then he looks at Severus, not moving from his kneeling position on the carpet.

"I had been informed," Severus says in a measured tone, as Potter meets his gaze, "that you were dead."

"People keep getting informed that," Potter says. He doesn't look like his father. Everyone tells Potter so, but Severus knows the face of James Potter better than his own, even after all these years, and he doesn't have that man's face, not like he has Lily's eyes. He's too thin, and his features don't carry enough cruelty in them. The hair is the same, perhaps, but arrogance doesn't shine from his pores as it did from his father's, even when he's being so stupid as to talk back to the Dark Lord himself.  "It's not true."

"So I see," Severus says. Over the years, Potter has formed a rapport of sorts with him, and Severus wonders if he ought ever should have allowed it, but Potter has such an irritating wit to him... It does remind Severus of Lily, yes, but most of all, it reminds him that Potter is his own self, a vibrant soul that still shines, even though Lily's is gone. In the moment he had first realized that, he had hated himself anew for letting her die, for killing her in the way that he did by betraying the prophecy to the Dark Lord. But that had not been new. "Were you dead?"

"I think so," Potter says. He stares down into the vase' sickly contents, his expression blank. "The Killing Curse feels warm, when it hits you, and it tingles on the skin. We can add that to the text books." He lets out a short, crazed laugh, and there is a short pause. "I was in a white room, like a white version of the Common Room. There was something else in there with me, a poltergeist or... Or something. It kept laughing, pushing me to this black hole." Potter's eyes move as if he's searching his own memories, and Severus is rapt as he listens. This is not any normal after-death experience, after all - the Killing Curse had hit him. He had most certainly died. "I managed to beat it, I ran back to the life. I-- I think if I hadn't, whatever it was... I get the feeling if I hadn't beaten it, it would have come back in my body. I think it was Voldemort, somehow."

Severus stares at the boy, this stupid, stupid boy who has faced Dementors, a basilisk, and now twice, the Dark Lord himself, and come out not only alive, but with a sarcastic comment waiting on his tongue.

He is saved from having to say anything by the sound of a commotion in the entrance hall, Order members now arriving in their dozens, and Severus knows he doesn't imagine the fatigue and reluctance on Potter's face as he stands and begins answering the hundreds of questions from the rest of the Order. Severus, for his part, is grateful that nobody's attention falls to him.

Nobody except Narcissa, who comes directly to him and falls into his arms. Severus allows the older woman her moment of desperate weakness, lets her clutch onto the fabric of Severus' robes and bury her face against his shoulder. Severus is not Lucius, he knows. He does not love Narcissa, and he is not broad or comforting or poetic or charming: he is a thin, ugly man with nothing but words that are too true and cut too deeply, but all that matters in this moment, to Narcissa, is that she can hold on tightly to him. He is uncomfortable, moreso even than he had been at Lucius' funeral, where at least he had the distraction of his own grief, but he does his best.

Gently, as gently as he is capable, he pats Narcissa's back, and murmurs quietly, "We all yet live."

"For how long?" Narcissa asks, but she doesn't want an answer from him. She lets her words linger in the air, and then she collects herself. She stands straight, raises her chin, schools her expression into the perfect, Pureblood mask of neutrality. As he looks into Narcissa's eyes, he thinks, You miss him. Narcissa's eyes reply what he knew they would, what they always do, You miss him too.

Together, they turn to Potter, and Severus wonders when Dumbledore will arrive, so that he might feedback what information he can to him.

EARLIER THAT DAY

It's a clear day, the skies above blue and cloudless, and there isn't so much as a whisper of wind. The mountains that overlook Hogsmeade tower over the hillside path that looks down over the village, and there is the soft sound of birdsong in the distance.

Evan Rosier stands alone, looking carefully around. According to Death Eater sources, Gilderoy Lockhart's troupe are holed up somewhere in the vicinity of Hogsmeade, so he has to take care, but he hunted boar as a child, on the grounds of the Rosier Manor in the North of England, and he hears even the slightest movements in the distance. It would be impossible for someone like Lockhart to take him by surprise; his senses are too carefully cultivated.

That aside, Lockhart is not Evan's current priority.

Making his steps carefully, Evan ensures he doesn't brush any undergrowth as he moves. He's using an old-fashioned hunting charm that keeps him hovering six or seven inches above the ground: it makes a platform around the hunter's feet, allowing him to move as he ordinarily would without worrying about leaving tracks or stepping on twigs. Silence is of the utmost importance, given what he is searching for.

He is not, alas, in his lord's graces, but his lord has trusted him with this particular task, and it is one in which Evan excels. Moving slowly through the thicket and woods upon the hillside, he searches carefully for evidence. Last year, the Acromantula that had for so long inhabited the Forbidden Forest had fled, moving away from the Hogwarts grounds and instead moving out into the magical woods of this small mountain range. The Forbidden Forest is kept within the Hogwarts grounds, an invisible barrier protecting the land from outside attack, but these forests are deeper and thicker, and have much nastier beasts within.

Ever more so, with the sudden emigration of the Hogwarts Acromantula.

Evan remembers the last war well, and they had alliances with giants, with werewolves - he had even heard rumours, just before the war had come to its abrupt close, that the Dark Lord was cultivating the interest of an actual dragon, speaking to it with the power of his Parseltongue. The Acromantula had been impossible to reach, buried as they were within the Forbidden Forest, but now they are in the mountains outside of the castle, where the forests are unfenced and unwarded... Well, they would most certainly be valuable.

"My lord," Evan had said, softly. "You would have me kill myself in this manner?" He had dropped his knees, dropped to the cool, stone floor of Malfoy Manor's ballroom, and bowed his head: "My apologies, my lord, if I have so displeased you, allow me to die here. I will land the blow myself, I offer only my humblest sorrow at having displeased you." His lord arched a naked brow, leaning back upon his throne, and Evan had spied the flicker of his serpent's tongue upon his lower lip, tasting the air, tasting for Evan's loyalty, perhaps.

"You shall not kill yourself, Evan," he had whispered. "When you discover evidence of the Acromantula's nests - the slightest bit of webbing that might lead to their king - return here, to me. We shall assemble a party, and I shall meet the spider king myself. Acromantula are strange beasts, but with the correct coaxing, we might make them our allies. I ask only of your tracking ability." The Dark Lord had stood, coming forwards, and Evan had bowed his head, his lips upon the leather toe of the tight boots fastened about his lord's feet: he had been so, so grateful. The mudblooded scum of the world, the blood traitors, think of the Dark Lord as some idle king, dressed as the traitor Dumbledore, with long skirts and wide sleeves, but for as long as Evan has known him, served him, the Dark Lord has dressed as a duellist, with leather clasps and robes designed for quick movement.

When the Dark Lord had gently cupped Evan's jaw, forcing him to meet his lord's red gaze, Evan had felt rushing excitement, adoration, and felt as he had at only seventeen, when he had first kneeled at this man's glorious feet.

Evan smiles as he ducks beneath a willow branch, feeling its weeping leaves brush his hair as he passes. He has reached the edge of a wide gully, carpeted thickly on its every side. Fifty feet below, he sees a stream winding through the dirt. Thanks to lacking rain, it is depleted, but in the winters, Evan imagines it is a powerful, white-washed river. He looks up to its mouth, where the stream comes from a crack in the grey-washed stone. Some twenty feet above that crack, however, is a cave mouth. He cannot see within, but webbing coats the area of stone around it as heavily as moss, and even as he watches, a brown monster of a spider, as large as a horse, slips within.

Excellent.

Turning on his heel, he makes his way as fast as he can back to the path. He shouldn't like to Apparate directly from here, where his magic might be tracked; better to do so nearer the village, where the evidence of his Apparition will blend in with the ghosts of other such spells. As he slips beneath a yew's wide umbrella, however, he hears the sudden crack of a branch, and he freezes at the noise as a rabbit might. Evan's very breaths are silent, and he hugs the trunk of the yew, listening carefully. These woods are heavy with magic, and any manner of beastie might have thought to track him, so it is vital he is quiet, that it might reveal itself.

There is another tell-tale crack, and Evan stiffens as he hears the underbrush give way, but then the offender passes him by at speed: a young boar, out in the woods despite the late hour of the morning, and Evan almost laughs to himself as he hear its clumsy rush down the hillside. Shaking his head, he takes a step out from the yew, and he feels his Hunter's Stealth charm give way. He loses his balance, his feet hitting the actual ground suddenly, and he stares down at his feet, taken quite by surprise.

What--

"Hello, Evan," says a smooth, theatrical voice. Evan looks up, staring at the face of Gilderoy Lockhart. He looks older than he did when Evan last saw him; Lockhart's hair is longer, tied at the back of his neck, like Lucius Malfoy's was at school, but much thicker, curlier. The wound Evan had given him some months ago has scarred, he sees: the mark runs in purple-pink over the left side of Lockhart's jaw, and he feels his lip twitch in satisfaction. As Lockhart purrs, "How good to see you!", arrogant even now, Evan grasps hold of his wand.

"You're looking well," says a voice to his left, and Evan's head whips toward it. Sara-Dean Smith is dressed in rider's robes, her hair hanging straight and loose about her youthful features.

"He is, isn't he?" says a third voice.

"Better than Chad, anyway." Two older women Evan doesn't know stand together, arm in arm, wands raised. How could they have done this? How could they all have come toward him like this, so silently? Evan raises his wand higher, but he knows already, feeling the oppressive magic of an anti-Apparation ward upon his skin, that it is too late.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

"How can you possibly jump to the idea that this might mean war?" Molly snaps out, her tone so sharp that Kingsley actually recoils on the other side of the table, his eyes widening slightly. "It was terrorism, yes, but we can't jump to war. War means battles, it means the deaths of our children... The start of the last war was that skirmish on Henry's Walk, down in Cornwall, don't any of you remember? I remember! Arthur and I were actually there, which is more than I can say for you, Mad-Eye, or for you, Kingsley! And you, Hestia, you hadn't even passed your Auror training yet!" Harry watches her slap her hands upon the table, feeling his eyes sting with tiredness.

"This is unusual for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Kingsley admits, his tone smooth and low and calm. "He would usually send his Death Eaters to kill somebody, but Harry is not a usual case. Harry, whether he means to be or not, is a symbol for the wizarding world: he ended the last war, and the intention was likely that he would begin this one."

"There hasn't been enough preparation on his part," Narcissa argues, keenly. Harry wonders where Draco is - in his room, perhaps? Or is he somewhere else entirely, somewhere away from Grimmauld Place, where he cannot attempt to eavesdrop? Hermione had stayed with her parents, immediately insisting they go home. "The last war, the Dark Lord spent years slowly accumulating resources, alliances, planting his men in the Ministry... Why would he jump so abruptly to a war?"

"Because people remember the first war," Cecilia Hayworth snaps, irritably; Harry can see the offence on Narcissa's face, from her angry eyes to her pointed nose, and he wonders if she's calling Cecilia a Mudblood in her head. "There are people already out there who will flock to his side, who would have considered Harry's death a signal that the war was over before it even began. He's meant to be dead."

"Cheers, Celia," Harry says. It's the first time he's spoken as everyone in the room has argued and argued, but before anyone can retort a hushed silence rings through the room. Dumbledore is here, with Flitwick at his side - McGonagall is nowhere to be seen. "Took you long enough. What, had something better to do?" Snape's hand moves so fast Harry can barely see it: the slap upside his head stings, and he lets out a hiss of pain... But even he would admit it was deserved.

"Have we been debating?" Dumbledore asks, his tone quiet and kind. "What are the sides, hmm? Was this a declaration of war, or not?" Harry turns his head slightly. Since Harry had taken a seat at the table, Snape had stood at his elbow, and now, Harry meets his gaze. Snape's expression is grim.

"It doesn't matter," Harry says quietly, while the hush is still in place. "I know this doesn't match with what he's done historically, but Celia is right. I am meant to be dead, and this was supposed to be a power play. We can argue what precisely started the second war after it's definitely over; this isn't the time to pro-actively write our history books." Harry stands up from his chair, flicking it under the table, and then says, "We break the connection with Voldemort's followers, we kill the man himself. That's the goal: everything else is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" Arthur asks. He looks positively betrayed, and Harry feels the guilt pit in his belly. "Harry, if this is war, it's war. There are no easy goals. Haven't you given a thought to how many people that You-Know-Who will kill?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I have. But as for action... There's nothing we can do but fight." He slips out of the room, into the kitchen. He is unsurprised to see Sirius and Remus have followed him, and when Dumbledore steps inside a moment or two later, Harry says, "I've got something to talk to you about, sir. We'll want Professor Snape and Moody, too."

Dumbledore's expression is serious, but he gives a small nod of his head, and the six of them meet upstairs in one of the drawing rooms, where the windows are wide, and look down on the streets of Muggles below.

"What is it, Potter?" Mad-Eye asks. "Something about when you went down?" Harry nods his head. Sirius is pacing the room, unable to remain still, and Mad-Eye leans back against the unlit fireplace; Dumbledore, Remus and Snape all stand together, Snape looking cartoonishly short between Remus' lanky form and Dumbledore's tall, colourful one.

Harry sighs, and relates what he had felt after the Killing Curse had hit him, explaining in as much detail as he can the strange, sickly room, the odd feelings it gave him, even the laugh of the shade. Sirius, his expression horrified, sinks into one of the chairs at the side of the room, and Remus walks over to him, his hand gently resting on Sirius' back. As he explains everything that had happened, however, every single one of them remains silent, not interrupting Harry at all.

"And then, somewhere between running down the corridor and reaching the end, I woke up. My mouth tasted stale, but my heart was beating and my lungs were working, so I just threw myself into working. Got photographs of the Death Eaters, let people see I was up and about... What do you think it means, Headmaster? Was it just a dream?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore says, in a measured tone. His blue eyes have a faraway look in them, glassy, as if he is working out some complex calculation inside his head.

"Given the Dark Lord's connection with his servants," Snape says quietly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, "It would not surprise me to learn that he somehow left a piece of himself in you, Potter. It would explain the connection that necessitated your Occlumency training, would it not?"

"I wonder, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs, thoughtful. "I wonder, are you still a Parselmouth?" Harry looks around the room, seeing that there is a snake carved into the mirror, and he stares at it a moment, imagining its coils moving, its head shifting.

"Am I?" he whispers. He hears his own hissing clearly, and meets Dumbledore's gaze. The glassy look is gone now, replaced with a sharp attention.

"Curious. You retain your ability to speak Parseltongue, and yet I would wager your connection with Voldemort himself is severed. Can you still feel him?" Harry shakes his head. He feels the strange levity to his every Occlumency shield, and he had even searched for Voldemort inside his mind earlier, trying to get hold of the link between them, but it had been gone entirely. He had only his memories of being in Voldemort's head.

"What does that mean, then? That I'm not a Parselmouth because of Voldemort?"

"Parselmouths have been known to occur randomly," Snape says musingly, with a great disinterest. "Young Nymphadora is a Metamorphagus, and yet there is no history of such abilities in the Black line."

Dumbledore nods, and then adds, "Or when you defeated Voldemort's shade... It is possible you somehow digested what was left of it. Unsavoury, perhaps, but not a conscious action on your part. Magic has a set of rules it is bound by, such as those that support a Life Debt, and it works, at times, in ways we do not expect." Harry flicks his hand toward the fire, muttering an Incendio. Nothing happens; he feels a slight strain inside himself, but no actual magic.

"Mmm, shame I couldn't have a bit of his wandless magic," he says, and takes his wand to light the fire. As he drops to his knees below the fire, adding some coals to the grate, he listens to Dumbledore behind him.

"The way in which one places fragments of one's soul within an object... It is a rarely tested magic, and is usually performed only once. Perhaps Voldemort wished for more tethers to this world, but felt he ought have some added stability. In placing fragments of his soul alongside living souls, he might have believed he was making the process more stable, more sustainable. The placement of this fragment within you, Harry, may have been quite incidental, a matter of his magic working reflexively to protect him, just as yours did this afternoon."

"So," Harry asks, "If we cast the Killing Curse on a Death Eater, we might save them from Voldemort's influence without actually killing them?" Mad-Eye barks out a laugh.

"The boy's onto something!" Mad-Eye slaps his broad hand upon his wooden thigh, then takes a sip from his hip flask. Fred had once managed to pickpocket it last year, and had informed Harry and George that it smelled of nothing, but tasted like gin.

"Harry." Dumbledore's tone is stern, deeply reproachful, and Harry meets his gaze. "This is no matter to joke about."

"I'm not joking," Harry says, voice hard. "Sir, what other way do we have to break the connection?"

"Yours was a special case," Dumbledore says quietly. "Harry, Voldemort has likely bound his soul with that of his followers, ensuring they cannot be parted. The Killing Curse would only kill."

"So we're back to our previous solution of killing all the Death Eaters, then?"

"That is not a solution."

"Harry," Dumbledore speaks in a very gentle tone, "Murder-"

"Yes, yes, I know. It's terrible, it's terrible - but what if it's just me? What if I kill them? Sir, there's no other solution: we need those Death Eaters dead before we can kill Voldemort. How can you be okay with me killing him, but not the rest of them? They've killed people too. They've revelled in it." Dumbledore's expression is just sad, and Harry feels so impatient - why can't he just understand? "Sir, he Apparated into Diagon Alley, shot a Killing Curse at my head. He could have done that to dozens of people, to hundreds... Do you want that blood on your hands?" Desperately, he adds, "Do you want it on mine?"

Dumbledore's hand alights on Harry's shoulder, very gently, but before he can speak, there's a stiff knock, and the door opens. Cecilia steps inside, and hands two papers to Snape, which he takes, looking cursorily over them. She slips from the room without a word, closing the door behind her, and Mad-Eye limps up behind Snape to get a better look at the Prophet and Gazette respectively.

Harry can read the headlines from here: BOY-WHO-LIVED IMMUNE TO DEATH? is quite expected, but the other one makes him frown. ROSIER STRUNG UP.

"This morning," Snape says, seeming mildly amused, "It would seem that Mr Rosier had a run-in with Lockhart and his band of merry men. They replaced the sign on the old tavern on Helga’s Square, The Hanged Man, with his corpse. How very poetic."

"If you were right before, Harry," Remus begins, and Harry looks to him. Sirius is leaning his head on Remus' hip, Remus' arm around his shoulder. "About Lockhart, I mean, ordering the death of Shunpike... There's no need for you to step in. Lockhart's troupe is becoming surprisingly competent."

"There are at least thirty Death Eaters, the worst of the worst, crazy people-- You think they have a chance against them?"

"A better chance than you, Harry," Sirius says, his tone soft, and Harry sighs. He'd wanted to make everyone think with Shunpike, just think that if someone had killed him, maybe more wouldn't matter... And what the bloody Hell does Lockhart know? Rosier was a personal case, they didn't kill him because he was a Death Eater.

"If I might suggest, Albus," Snape says, "Potter ought be sent to his bed. Look at the boy: he barely stands." Harry opens his mouth on instinct, ready to argue, but he realizes, in that moment, that Snape is right: he's swaying on his feet, and feels fit to faint with lack of food and sleep. Closing his mouth with a quiet click, he wipes his hand over his face. All he feels as he passes Snape by is mild gratitude, and he lets it overpower his more complex emotions.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Severus sits beside the fire, feeling its pleasant heat against the side of his leg. The door opens, and Lupin enters, looking mildly harried; he and Black had followed Potter from the room, but now, Black doesn't seem to be returning with him. "Where is he?" Severus asks. He needn't do so. Potter is safe in this house, certainly, and yet a part of him still bleeding with guilt thinks, but you must know where he is! You must be vigilant!

"On a sofa in the library," Lupin murmurs. "I left the room to get him a blanket, but when I came back, he was always asleep. Sirius is out, too, in the armchair next to him." Some watch dog, Severus thinks, bitterly, but he voices neither the thought nor the pun. "What I said about Lockhart... Do you think I'm right? Alastor, Albus...?" Lupin has turned from Severus now, speaking to the other men in the room: Severus is, as always, the outsider, within the very room, and yet somehow without.

"Harry's theory as to Shunpike makes some sense," Moody says lowly; even though his normal eye rests on Lupin and Dumbledore, his magic one retains its gaze on Severus the entire time. Where else might it roam, after all? "On the Knight Bus, you meet Muggles, sure enough. He's had his issues with 'em, and Arthur Weasley'll tell you he's been written up a time or two, so he can definitely hold his own, like. But how would Lockhart figure all this out, even with his advising council of biddies?"

"The file clerk, Dorian--" Lupin becomes.

"Dorian Keats had no connection with Lockhart's troupe before I requested he ingratiate himself," Dumbledore says, patiently. Does he lie like that when people test him on Severus, Severus wonders? So simply, so easily? It had been Severus who had caught Keats, after all, coming down to Hogsmeade one evening after a meeting up the mountain. Of course Keats would be taken in by a man like Lockhart: even at school, Keats had been shy but serious, easily led astray by attractive men.

Severus has made his errors, but at least his mistakes were lead by ego rather than lust. And Lockhart, at that - a dunce if ever there was one!

"Lockhart needs no knowledge of Voldemort's link to his followers in order to take offence to them," Dumbledore muses. "Shunpike might have personally offended them, just as Rosier did."

"I'm going back to Sirius and Harry," Lupin says, and Dumbledore nods his head. Moody follows the werewolf from the room, and when Dumbledore closes the door behind them, Severus sits very still in his chair beside the fire, and feels trapped.

"I didn't know," he says immediately. Dumbledore's eyes are forget-me-not blue, but they are icier than Lucius' ever were, despite the flint-like colour to Lucius' own. "Albus, you must believe me... I had no idea we were to be summoned, let alone to such a purpose! I would never, never--" Albus' wizened hand rises, his fingers together, the palm flat, and Severus feels his tongue still in his mouth. Does Dumbledore hate him, Severus wonders? Despise him? He surely must, for all of Severus' sins, but Severus only wishes he would show it. He is well-used to people hating him, but it is those that keep it hidden he cannot trust.

"Worry not, Severus. You cannot know everything." Severus wishes he did. Severus wishes he had known, wishes he could have done something, even if it were to cast Fiendfyre on their troupe as soon as they were all gathered together at Malfoy Manor - a way to kill them all, and the Dark Lord, all at once!

At least Severus would be dead, then.

"Recount the summoning to me, Severus. Spare no detail." Severus sighs, puts his head in his hands, and sighs a second time, longer, harder. He thinks of Black and Lupin, watching over their charge in the library as he sleeps on the sofa, finally free of his connection to this monster Severus remains shackled to, and all of his own fault.

"I felt the first twinge only minutes before the actual pull," Severus murmurs quietly. "This was some time past seven, as I had to remove my cauldron from the boil..." The rest of the tale slips from his tongue with ease, but he knows it gives no idea as to the Dark Lord’s own thoughts, but that he thought to kill Potter. And when, Severus wonders, will the summoning come, when he wishes to punish his followers for the boy’s survival?

Soon, no doubt.

After that night, life moves at so fast a pace it seems to pass Harry by in a blur.

The next morning, he wakes in his own bed at Sirius' apartment on Argyle Street, staring up at the canopy of his bed. Sun is shining in through the windows, brightly and warmly, and leaving a patch of Harry's leg hotter than the rest of him. He shifts forwards, going for the window and pushing it open. Immediately, a snowy figure alights on the sill: Hedwig, with a pack of letters tied about her left ankle, and a mouse dangling from her mouth.

"That for me?" With a seeming relish, she takes the thing into her mouth, beginning to loudly and bloodily chew it, and Harry laughs. It's very early, still, the London streets outside not yet having reached a bustle, and Harry takes off his clothes from the night previous, which are cold and stained with sweat. He remembers no dreams, having fallen into a very deep and sound unconsciousness, and he glances through the stack of envelopes. He recognizes the tight, fancy handwriting of Augusta Longbottom, the curt script of Amelia Bones, and then handwriting he doesn't recognize.

"Mr. Harry Potter," the letter declares, with a sense of class. The handwriting is in a nice, feminine hand, with curled edges to the letters as if the writer might once have been a calligrapher, and he sets the other post aside, splitting open the envelope and drawing out the letter itself. He scans directly from the Dear Harry to the end before he reads it, and now he sees her signature, it all makes sense: "With love, Narcissa."

For the first time, Harry is abruptly aware that he has never received a letter written by Narcissa. Although he has been received dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more, letters from the Malfoys, signed "Lucius & Narcissa", or "Mr and Mrs Malfoy," or "Your friends, the Malfoys," at Christmas time, they'd always been written in Lucius' attractive, authoritative handwriting. Harry thinks of the two of them sat by their fire place, talking quietly and with genteel manners over glasses of wine as Lucius writes his letters of an evening, perhaps with Narcissa's feet in his lap, and noting down Narcissa's thoughts in equal measure with his, mingled together like the convergence of two streams.

What must it feel like for her now he's gone, Harry thinks, when for so long her and Lucius had been two halves of something as much as they were separate pieces?

He feels slightly sick, and sets the letter aside. He'll read the body of it later.

When he goes out into the kitchen, flicking on the pot to boil on the hob, and he leans into the hall: Sirius' coat is missing from the coatrack, his business shoes missing from the neat lines of shoes beside the door, but Remus' coat and shoes are still there. Harry takes out two mugs, pouring himself a cup of coffee and making a cup of tea for Remus. He takes it sweet, way too sweet for Harry's liking, but Remus has a disgusting sweet tooth. He holds both of the mugs, knocking on Remus and Sirius' bedroom door with his elbow.

"Come in," Remus calls, and Harry flicks the door open, coming inside. Sitting straight-backed on a stool beside the window, Remus is bent over an architect's desk, and Harry places the new mug of steaming tea beside the empty one on the windowsill. Remus smiles at him, softly, and Harry leans over his shoulder, looking at the parchment page upon the desk. Remus is working with watercolours on the large square of canvas, and Harry sees the tall figure of a woman with braided red hair, in the process of being transformed into some sort of huge bird.

"I didn't know you painted," Harry murmurs. He'd seen the desk in the corner of the room, while dropping something into Sirius or Remus, or walking past when the door was open, but he'd never realized Remus was actually good. The woman is wearing a white chiffon woven with flowers and blooms, her head thrown back, her mouth open as it turns black and morphs into a beak, feathers falling on the ground around her feet. "Is this a curse?"

"Yes," Remus says, quietly. "This is Blodeuwedd - she's one of the figures in the Mabinogi."

"That's the Welsh mythology, right?" Remus nods his head, glancing over the tortured figure of the woman in the woods.

"Peter used to tell us stories around the fireplace at night. His mother died when he was a child, so it was just his dad that raised him. He was very strict - very strict - and Peter... When we met him, he was an absolute wreck. He'd get so nervous just saying hello that he'd stammer for twenty minutes before he could get the word out, and he could barely spit out a spell. It wasn't until we were fifteen or so that he was able to cast incantations like the rest of us, and by then he'd just started to cast non-verbally." Remus shakes his head slightly, chuckles, and murmurs, "He actually did better on his charms exams than any of us." He seems genuinely fond as he reminisces, and Harry doesn't speak up to interrupt him. He never does, when Sirius or Remus do this about Pettigrew. "Anyway... The first time he ever managed to talk to the three of us in paragraphs, with a stammer that was sort of manageable, he told us a story. It was a little mangled - his first language was Welsh, of course - but it was a good story. Blodeuwedd tried to kill her husband so she could be with her lover, so some magicians cursed her. They turned her into an owl. The bird all of the others shun."

"Are they all from Welsh stories?" Harry asks, reaching for the next page and bringing it down. The canvas is transparent, with block text appearing in line with Blodeuwedd's calves: "And poor Blodeuwedd cried, and cried: "Gwydion! You-- You-- You--," but she never finished her curse, for the spell overtook her, and her words became "Hoo! Hoo!" as she was transformed.

"This is for a book?" Harry says, feeling the surprise show on his face, and Remus leans forwards, pulling forwards a box that leans against the wall. He pulls out three little books, each with painted watercolour illustrations. Harry had assumed that the painting of Blodeuwedd was unfinished, but none of the illustrations are magically animated. They're Muggle books: Matholwch's Cauldron, Rhiannon Fair and the last book, which is darker than the others: The Warlock's Hairy Heart. "This is a wizarding story." He says it quietly, drawing his fingers over the dark, shadowy image of the wizard's heart, with hair growing from the muscled tendons. In a little gold medal at the corner of the cover, it declares, CARNEGIE PRIZE WINNER, 1994. Harry traces over the looping text at the base of the cover that declares, Written and illustrated, with love, by R.J. Lupin.

"It's the first one I published. Celia Hayworth, she saw a painting of mine that I'd done for Minerva McGonagall. Put me in touch with a Muggle publishing house, run by a Squib she knows from back in Ireland... You didn't think I just lived on Sirius' money, did you?" Remus expression is teasing, and Harry feels stupid at the way his tongue freezes in his mouth, the way he goes entirely silent for a moment or two. Remus breaks the momentary silence with his laughter, chuckling as he takes the books back and neatly sets them aside. "It's alright, Harry. You don't think of these things." What is that supposed to mean? Harry wants to demand, but he doesn't holding his tongue a few seconds more: Remus isn't having a go at him, after all.

Harry hears the front door open, and he leans back on the bed, watching the door. When Sirius enters, Harry feels his mouth fall open.

Sirius is wearing a traditional business robe, a sort of tunic with loose sleeves, a high collar and a flowing skirt, a vest tightly fastened over top. The vest is black and embroidered in gold with vines and flowers, and the chain of his watch blends in with it very artfully. Gold shines at the hems of his skirt and sleeves, too, and around his neck, Sirius wears a chain of silver with a silver W emblazoned on a sort of medal.

"I didn't know we'd be getting the costume, too," Remus says, dryly.

"Shut up, Moony," Sirius says, sharply, and he walks past the both of them, going to a chest of drawers and rifling through it. Harry sees the hurt that flashes over Remus' face, but Sirius just ignores him entirely, rummaging until he finds a stack of papers, muttering to himself as he sorts through them. "You want to come with us?"

"I think it's best that I don't," Remus says, delicately. "I wouldn't want to undermine your message." Sirius turns, opening his mouth, his brows furrowed, but then he hesitates, and he sighs softly.

"What's going on?" Harry asks.

"This morning, I reclaimed the Black seat on the Wizengamot," Sirius says, flicking his wand in the direction of the hall. A box flies into the room, gliding neatly to place itself upon Remus' lap, and Harry looks inside as he opens up the box, seeing the plum-coloured fabric. "Hereditary seats aren't common any more: most of the families that had them, the Ancient ones, have died off or given up their seats."

"Do the Potters have a seat?" Harry asks, more out of curiosity than any wish to get onto the Wizengamot, and Sirius distractedly shakes his head as he looks through the papers in his hands. He's stiff as a board, but his hands are shaking slightly, and Harry watches him very carefully. He's never seen Sirius like this, so abruptly driven and throwing himself into something like politics... Harry's surprised.

"No," Sirius mutters. "Your granddad, and your great aunt Martha, they had some seats for services to the wizarding world, but they were lifetime seats..."

"I never knew you were interested in politics," Harry says, softly.

Sirius lets out a sudden snarl of sound, throwing the papers aside, and Harry feels himself flinch back; beside him, Remus is utterly unmoved, and silently waves his wand, beginning to draw up the papers again. Sirius stands in the middle of the room, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted, and Harry is reminded of a trapped animal. "I'm not," Sirius says finally, with bitterness sticking to the words. "But Narcissa is taking up the Malfoy mantel, and I... Nobody else can do it, Harry. And if Voldemort is back, then we have to. You don't understand, you couldn't understand, what it was like, during the war. He infiltrated everything, everything! The papers, the Ministry, everything from the local post office to the Essex Quidditch Team. We need to act as much as he does."

Remus hands the papers over, and then says, "If you're looking for your birth certificate, it's in the documents drawer in the kitchen. Same place as mine and Harry's." Remus' voice is measured and quiet, his dark eyes soulful. Sirius closes his eyes for a moment or two, mutters something that is close to an apology, and then leaves the room. "Go with him, Harry. Grimmauld Place is where the action is today anyway."

Remus is right.

A half hour or so later, when Harry crosses the threshold into Grimmauld Place, the whole building is bustling, a flurry of owls coming in and out of the window in the hall. Many of them bear Ministry crests on the harnesses around their chests, and others are broad-winged owls with bright plumages or shining eyes: well-bred owls, used by the upper classes. One of them stops short, tiredly alighting on Harry's shoulder, and he strokes her chest gently.

Hedone is an eagle owl, named for a Greek goddess of pleasure, and according to Lucius, he'd received her when he was ten or so. For being thirty years old, she doesn't look very old, though she's very muscular, and subsequently something of a weight on Harry's shoulder. Sirius stalks past, opening a door to the drawing room: Harry only needs to the see the flurry of documents on the air inside to be put off, and he makes his way up the stairs. He stops at one of the doors, and knocks.

"Come in." The reply is terse, and Harry pushes the door open. Immediately, Hedone takes off from Harry's shoulder and drops into bed with Draco instead. The other boy is lying in bed, only wearing a set of pyjama bottoms and tangled in his shirts, his head on the pillow. Harry sees no evidence of a book or something to do, but he can tell from Draco's expression that he's been awake and thinking for a while. Hedone drops her weight upon Draco's neck, flapping her wings and nipping playfully at his ears, and Draco's laughs are soft and slightly hoarse, as if he's unused to laughing.

Draco's room is sparsely decorated. He had told Harry once, in a fit of pique, that he didn't really believe in excess - rich, coming from a boy with silver-plated door knobs - but now that he sees Draco's bedroom, he really believes it. Several blankets are neatly folded on the table beside his chair, and there's a painting of a Greek temple above his writing desk, but other than that, there are no posters, no toys, no messy things about the place. There are framed photographs of his parents on his desk, a few books, and that's all. "You know, if I told people you were a minimalist, they wouldn't believe me."

Draco says nothing, just smiling slightly and shifting in his bed. It's a king-sized mattress, and Draco looks tiny in the middle of it; the older they get, the more Draco seems to take after Narcissa. Both Narcissa and Lucius always struck Harry as unusually tall, but Draco is willowy and thin like his mother is, with wider hips and a dancer's form, soft edges and high cheek bones. A fleeting thought runs through his head, and Harry wonders if Draco regrets that more, now that his father is dead.

"How're you keeping?"

"I don't think I am," Draco says. He doesn't look at Harry; instead, his icy-blue eyes stare into the space before him, searching the clouded thoughts that Harry can't see. "Mother can... She used to study Occlumency, a kind of mind magic. She can do that. She can just... Just keep going. I can't do that."

"Occlumency isn't so hard," Harry murmurs quietly. He comes further into the room, settling himself on the edge of Draco's bed: he makes sure the distance between them is still enough, not wanting to touch the other boy without his permission. Not when he's like this. "I could teach you, or Professor Snape..." Draco minutely shakes his head. "Do you want to talk? I imagine talking to Narcissa is hard right now."

"It just feels so unfair," Draco murmurs. "She keeps asking me to tell her how I feel, but how can I do that to her, Harry? She's mourning too. And Severus... He says the same, but Father once said to me, he once said he almost thought of Severus as like a son to him. Can you imagine that? There's only six years between them." Severus. Harry looks down at Draco, watching him with a quiet care, and he decides not to speak. The silence draws on, for a little while, but then Draco continues, "I never thought he'd-- Perhaps this is stupid, but I never thought my parents would die, either of them. I always thought that somehow, I'd die before they did. That's selfish, isn't it?"

"Nah," Harry says, shaking his head vehemently. "It's not selfish, mate. People don't exactly think about this stuff, as a rule." Draco brings his knees up, closer to his chest. He looks pale, and pallid, and around his eyes there's the pink puffiness that's been raised there with a lack of sleep and too much crying. Harry guesses Draco isn't getting much to eat, either, and he crawls forwards, slowly lying down in mirror to Draco. Hedone, cruelly dislodged from her place on the other pillow, flaps over to the windowsill, and Harry meets Draco's gaze as he puts his head on the pillow. "What you have to think about, I guess, is that he really loved you, you know? And even though he's gone, you got to know him for fifteen years, right? Fifteen years of love. That's a lot." Draco's face crumples, and Harry sees the shine of the tears on his cheeks, staining the pillow. "Draco... Lucius wouldn't have wanted you to just stay in bed forever."

"The last time I left my bed was your birthday party," Draco says, meeting Harry's gaze. His eyes shine. "And look what happened there. You could have died too, Harry, I could have lost-- I could have lost you too. Or Mother." Draco's fear shows in his voice, which comes with a tremulous note to it, and Harry feels an aching melancholy settle in his belly. What can he possibly do? What could he possibly say? "The only death I ever knew was my grandfather, and I was too young to really understand it." And, Harry thinks, Lucius probably killed Abraxas anyway, according to Augusta Longbottom, Mad-Eye Moody and four or five other people.

Harry stays lying down with Draco, watching his face, and he says quietly, "It'll stop feeling this raw, soon. It won't stop, but it will hurt less." He thinks, anyway. He hopes, anyway.

"Will you stay here? For a while?" There's so much desperation in Draco's voice, cracking it up the middle, that Harry feels a pang inside himself, and he slowly nods his head.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Draco takes several hours to fall asleep that time. The next time, a few days later, it takes him an hour. The seventh time, two weeks later, Harry walks into Grimmauld Place, and Draco isn't in his bedroom. Harry finds him in the small gymnasium, practising a complex wizarding acrobatics that Harry could never hope to attempt: he watches Draco move on bars high above his head, the muscles in his legs stark and corded under the fabric of his leggings, his expression focused and his gaze solid. Harry is awed as he watches Draco swing and jump and shift, and even when he messes up a twist in the air, and falls, Harry finds himself utterly spellbound.

Wizarding sports are often complex and violent, but wizarding dances and athletics never fail to amaze him - and throughout it all, Draco doesn't seem to even notice his existence. His single-minded concentration, his focus, is actually good to see.

When Harry walks down the stairs an hour or so later, he walks into a flurry of messenger birds, and Harry opens the drawing room door to allow the dozen of them inside. Sirius and Narcissa are each sat at different desks, writing letters in flowing scripts of green ink, and the owls neatly place their envelopes and rolled up parchments in boxes that say INCOMING. The two of them have been going into the Ministry every single day since they started doing their work there two weeks ago, with Sirius working at least six to eight hours in the Wizengamot every day. Every day, he seems to gain a little more traction, understanding it a little better; he's getting less irritable at home, too, and some nights, he and Remus will sit in the living room with a bottle of wine between them, Sirius talking about his day as Remus paints. Blodeuwedd was finished three days ago, and sent off to a delighted publisher: now, he is beginning work on The Fountain Of Fair Fortune.

Harry closes the door, and walks into the dining room. Lindon Sartorius is engaged in a tense game of chess with Dedalus Diggle, who has gone so far as to take off his top hat to better concentrate. Fred and George are playing Exploding Snap with Ted Tonks, Dorian Keats and Sturgis Podmore, and all five of them have the same inhuman concentration as the chess-players, or as Draco upstairs, and Harry lacks the heart to disturb them. He keeps walking, into the kitchen, where he finds Arthur Weasley hurriedly eating toast over the sink.

The Weasley patriarch looks more tired than Harry has ever seen him, seeming ready to drop on his feet, and Harry watches him. It's nearing seven o'clock, and the Order Of The Phoenix is meeting at 7:30. From Arthur's harried expression and pallid features, Harry would guess he hasn't eaten since he left the Burrow that morning, and he frowns slightly. In fourteen days, there has been an unprecedented number of attacks and strange coincidences across the Wizarding World: cases of arson, sabotage (such as grindylows being released in less than six Muggle swimming pools), graffiti in most of the main wizarding villages, and even people's pets going missing and being somehow violently returned. There haven't been any cases of murder yet, but Harry knows they'll come, and from what he's heard from Sirius, the Ministry is tense.

"It's been a harsh fortnight, Harry," Arthur says, brushing crumbs from his collar and into the sink, clapping his hands together to get rid of the last of it. "There's been stuff I've not seen in thirty years, all released at once, left in Muggle charity shops or village halls, the sort of nasty magic you'd never even have heard of. And this, this is just the start of it - this isn't even practice. This is a warm-up for the practice."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, leaning against the counter and watching the taller man for a moment. "What's the atmosphere like in the Ministry?"

"I think Fudge'll resign soon," Arthur says, immediately, as if he's desperate to talk about it, and hasn't really been given the chance. Judging by the terse nature of Molly Weasley's letters in the past few weeks, she'd rather pretend none of this is happening, and as stupid as it is, Harry can't really blame her. Arthur looks to Harry, and then looks past him, to the door. "Sirius, and Nar- Narcissa. They're trying to work things out. But today..." Arthur shakes his head, and Harry frowns.

"What? Today, what?"

"Men in black robes and silver masks were seen in Calais, in the magical port, and then in The Gold District of Paris. A crew of them were also seen in Mars, the all-magical town outside Lyon, a group of them on the Swiss equivalent of Diagon Alley - I can't pronounce the name - and a contingent was in Ireland too, in Galway City. The entrance to their magical is on the canal, very subtle, but there were four of them hanging around the Spanish Arch. The Treoiracha - a bit like Irish Aurors - didn't know what to do with themselves. They weren't even doing anything, just in their masks, having loud conversations, but keeping them vague enough about magic that the Treoiracha couldn't step in. They never realized they were Death Eaters until after they'd left."

"Public appearances, then," Harry murmurs. "Raise the awareness that Voldemort's back." Arthur flinches, and then slowly nods his head. Harry curls his lip, and he makes his way out of the kitchen, stepping into the dining room. It's beginning to fill up now, with all of the members of the Order, but nobody looks their best: even Mundungus Fletcher looks twitchy and exhausted, hanging off to the side of the room with his filthy knees drawn up to his chest. Harry steps into Narcissa and Sirius' office, and stares at Narcissa; Sirius is leaning in at her side, and the two of them are talking into the speaker of an old-fashioned telephone, the sort of thing Harry expects as popular in the '20s. It's in rapid French, and Harry doesn't catch too much of it, but both Sirius and Narcissa seem to relax a little some way into the conversation, each letting out breaths of air, and when Narcissa puts the receiver down, she slumps in her chair.

"Who was that?" Harry asks.

"Lucius' uncle Guillaume," Narcissa says, softly. "The Richelieus have already started their own information network, and are already lobbying the French government to have the Death Eaters declared a terrorist group, so that they may not appear in public."

"Frank's family, yeah?"

"Yes, Francois' grandparents," Narcissa confirms, and she pulls herself to stand. Narcissa is the only person in the house that doesn't look tired, but Harry wonders how many minutes she spends in front of her mirror in the morning, carefully creating a politician's face, with no imperfections at all. "Are you coming to the meeting?"

"For the first hour, and then Sirius is going to catch me up," Harry says. "I've got to meet a friend." Narcissa frowns slightly, glancing between Sirius and Harry, but Sirius' expression is calculatedly blank, and he just gives a nod of his head. The meeting is full of information, and half of it seems to just be people listing horrible events and happenings and linking them back to the Death Eaters.

"My source within the Death Eaters," Dumbledore says, quietly, "Tells me that Lord Voldemort wishes to sow the seeds of chaos across the United Kingdom: he has no desire to appear himself yet. These appearances by the Death Eaters and these strange occurrences, they're beacon calls to those who might wish to follow him again, and warnings to those who might not. He is angry that his attempt on Mr Potter's life was unsuccessful, and he has wish to draw together what power he might in the meantime." He lets these words hang in the air, and then says, quietly, "Let us break for a few moments. Then, we'll begin discussing our further plans - Narcissa and Sirius tell me they're bringing a bill before the Wizengamot at midnight tonight."

Harry stands from the table, going to the corridor, and he pulls on his cloak.

"Going somewhere, Potter?"

"I have a meeting, Professor Snape," Harry says, quietly. Snape is dressed as he ever is, his hair tied back behind his neck, and on the side of his jaw there's a thick cloud of bruising, but everybody has bruises these days. A lank lock of hair is a little too short to be tied back with the rest, and it follows the line of Snape's stark temple and sallow cheekbone, framing his face in a way that looks almost posed, as if he's readying himself for a Muggle photograph. "I'll be within earshot of the house."

Snape watches him for a long few seconds, his black eyes concentrated on Harry's face, and then he gives a nod of his head, and he walks off down the corridor. Harry opens the front door, buckling his cloak closed as he steps out onto the doorstep, and then he moves out into the street. There's a light wind in the street, and he makes his way to the grassy embankment across from the house.

"Adrian," he says, and when Adrian waves from a bench, standing up and throwing his arms around Harry. Harry hugs the other boy back, tightly.

"Where've you been? Seems like you've dropped off the face of the Earth!"

"Something's been... Happening, that's all. Let's talk."

"Hey, Severus!" He turns on the stair, arching a dark eyebrow. Cecilia Hayworth is dressed in a leather overcoat coloured in an obnoxious hot pink, her elbows leant upon the bannister as she looks up at him. Her expression is serious, and Severus feels his eyes flit around the surrounding area of the hall, seeking out the lanky form of Lindon Sartorius, and not finding it. "I just wanted to ask, uh, teaching. McGonagall said you've been over to Eala Dubh, right?"

"The Irish magical school," Severus says, "Yes. I taught there for a term in 1986." He finishes his sentence, and watches her. She furrows her brow, leaning forwards slightly: he appends nothing to the statement. What is it, Severus wonders, that she expects him to say? For a term, he had traded places with their Potions Mistress at the time, Orla Delaney, primarily in order that they could exchange certain recipes and techniques within their respective infirmaries.

Impatiently, she asks, "How was it?"

"It was fine," Severus answers, mildly. "We may soon be at war, Ms Hayworth: this chit-chat seems misplaced."

"I've accepted a teaching position there, as their History of Magic teacher passed away a few months ago. Do you have any advice?" Advice? Severus rarely finds himself asked for advice from anyone not under his care at Hogwarts; it strikes him as strange, and surreal, to be so asked for help from an adult.

"No," he decides, and he makes his way up the stairs. The carpet, which is threaded with silver and shines in the candlelight, leads him easily on his journey; he takes another flight of stairs, and then another, before pushing aside a bookcase and revealing the door to yet another. These stairs are tight, made of stone and uncarpeted, and the soles of his dragonhide boots make not the barest of sounds as he makes his way up them, because he has long since taken to enchanting his boots and robes to silence. The staircase leads him out onto a wide balcony, with rows of plants growing neatly in small allotted casements. The runs are made of white marble, each the size of a coffin, and Severus reaches out, drawing his fingers over the lilac leaves of a Lightning Lily. He is rewarded with a tingle of electricity that plays over his palm, and he allows himself the smallest of smiles as he walks on. He comes to a stop at the edge of the roof garden, scanning the ground far below. The garden is enchanted, meaning it cannot be seen from outside the house itself, but Potter isn't looking up anyway: Severus sees his hand reach for those of the other boy's, and he feels a furrow deepen between his brows. He doesn't recognize the boy at all, but he is most certainly of a Hogwarts age...

A Muggle, then.

Severus lets out the smallest of sighs, allowing himself this small weakness in the isolation of the Grimmauld Place garden, laying his head in his palm: the love affairs of teenage boys are hardly to be analysed in detail, but it seems Potter engages only with those that will bring the greatest danger on him. First Zabini, with his arachnid mother keen with a bottle of poison at the slightest disagreement, and now a Muggle boy...

He hears steps in the stairwell, and he stands up straight, turning to the flower beside him. It is a tall rose, taller than Severus himself, and when he offers it his palm, it leans in and softly nuzzles the skin as a loyal dog. Severus has a Kissing Rose at home, a gift from several Christmases ago, but this one is much taller and broader than his. The Kissing Rose is used in some love potions, as well as Tinctures of Fidelity, but as a plant it is as gentle and affectionate as a puppy, laying soft touches and kisses upon anyone who comes close. They had always been a favourite of Lucius', and Severus remembers that when Lucius had left Hogwarts, at the end of Severus' first year, the most vibrant of the Kissing Roses in Greenhouse 3 had pined itself near to death, until Narcissa had taken up its care.

By all accounts, she read the plant the letters Lucius sent her twice a week, and it had flourished once more.

"Severus," Narcissa says. She stands framed in the archway like a painting, her hands clasped in front of her black mourning robes. Severus turns his gaze to meet hers. "That bruise..." Severus resists the urge to reach up and trace the blossom of bruises on the side of his jaw, instead keeping his own hands at his sides as he moves toward Narcissa. "The Dark Lord was angry with you?"

"No," Severus assures her, quietly. With a flick of his wand, the door to the stairwell clicks closed behind her, eliminating any potential for eavesdropping. Narcissa is the only one in the house, after all, who knows of his engagement with the Dark Lord, barring Albus himself, and it would not do for his espionage to be known to the rest of the Order. "It was Bella who was angry with me. The Dark Lord merely felt it amusing that I should keep the marks." He sees the conflicting emotions pass over Narcissa's face, the desperate wish to ask after her sister, the desire to demand that Severus never return there, the fear, the uncertainty... "Bellatrix took offence to a comment of mine as to Hogwarts' protections. Azkaban has taken what little patience she had away from her... She is more brash, now, and impulsive, even with such time as she has had to recover."

"The Dark Lord," Narcissa whispers. "He is displeased with her?"

"On the contrary," Severus replies, mildly. "She is, as ever, his favourite." The thought occurs to Severus that were he saying these words twenty years ago, they would likely be overlaid with jealousy, as if the favour of the Dark Lord was in any way desirable, and a twinge of self-loathing affects him to turn away from Narcissa. He picks up some gloves and a pruning shear, beginning to work upon some of the neglected flowers of the garden. Severus is neither a skilled Herbologist nor a gardener, but Narcissa hasn't the time to labour over these flowers, and no visitors to the house know anything about plants. "I don't believe he will kill her, Narcissa - and you know I would not lie to spare your feelings."

"You give me your word?"

"I do."

"Does she talk of me?" Severus hesitates, but Narcissa's gaze is severe, and while he could easily lie to her (it would not be the first vow he has broken), he does not.

"She does. She labels you a blood traitor, as she does Andromeda. Such things ought not surprise you."

"They don't," Narcissa says in the softest of voices. She slowly seats herself amongst some of the fruit trees, and at her proximity they burst in flowers, each leaning towards her and offering her pretty blossoms and sweet fruits from their young bows. In selecting the saplings for the garden, Lucius had chosen only the gentlest and most affectionate of plants, no doubt making up for the slaughter of his peacocks at Malfoy Manor, and the loss of his hunting dogs. In their friendship, Severus had witnessed Lucius take dozens of lives, but with children or animals, he absolutely melted, as a glacier in a hot bath.

The pain is dull, and Severus feels it behind the bone of his sternum.

Breaking the momentary silence, Narcissa says, "I don't know how Draco is to perform at school, Severus. He takes to his bed day after day, he speaks little, even to myself. He and Lucius, they shared a bond that I never..." She trails off, despondently, and then says, "Draco and I have a close bond, of course, but he and Lucius always spoke so much upon their feelings. Draco and I always spoke more of things, and people, and history. He feels so deeply! What sort of mother am I, that he does not tell me of his grief?"

"Have you asked him?" Severus asks. The ensuing silence speaks more on the matter than Narcissa's mouth might have, and Severus sees no need to break it. The past few weeks have flickered by at such a rate that Severus has found himself very rarely permitted a moment's peace: he has been called the Dark Lord no less than three times in the past fortnight alone, and there have been a barrage of staff meetings as they have reinforced the castle wards, increased the security of Hogwarts, and most crucially, hand-delivered Hogwarts letters to Muggleborn students by hand, that they might know of the situation they are entering into. Just last night, Severus had overheard Arthur and William Weasley speaking on the subject of the Granger girl's parents, who she has convinced to immigrate.

"I will ask him," Narcissa says, softly. Severus removes his gloves, laying them aside, and he stands beside her, watching her carefully. "We have to be strong."

"Yes," he agrees. His eyes close suddenly, his face crumpling, and he lets out a short sound of pain as incandescent heat flares in his left arm, sending a venomous thread through his every vein.

"He calls for you?" Severus inclines his head, and he moves past her, making his way fast down the four sets of stairs and out into the street. Potter is just coming back toward the house, his lips red and bruised, his eyes wet, and Severus forces his expression into impassiveness as he turns on his heel and Disapparates with a soft, near-silent pop.

Malfoy Manor, for nearly forty years, had been like Eden. Stepping upon the grounds, one felt like they were being transported to a legendary arboretum: sparing no expense, Lucius had hired a good many Herbologists to spend time in his expansive gardens, encouraging ancient trees to grow anew, and in the fields abounded flowers that no longer grew anywhere else. Lucius had done it partially for appearances, making his own home something of a wildlife preserve, but Severus knows that, in equal measure, it pleased him to be able to walk among plants that flourished under his hands in a way they did under no one else's. Lucius had always been a vain man, caring most of all for the appearance of his own power, but his paternity was always genuine, when he decided to offer it.

Once, as one walked up the main path from the edge of the grounds, one walked beneath an archway of silver aspen and weeping willows, and beneath one's tread, flowers bloomed in the marks of one's footsteps. Now, Severus' booted feet meet grey dirt, unable to support even a weed, and around him spans miles of nought but wasteland. No trees grow, no flowers bloom, and although scant patches of grass are holding on, he knows that they too will soon die away. Severus walks past the silver bandstand that had hosted Lucius' aviary, now spattered with the stains of blood: Bellatrix had made short work of Lucius' flock, making toys of the doves and targets of the peacocks. The Malfoy horses had been whipped into a frenzy, made to run about a single field until they inevitably stumbled, trampling each other or breaking their own necks: Bellatrix's harsh laughter had mingled with their screams and whinnies, and Lucius' dogs (he had always claimed they were for hunting, though Severus had never seen him so much as trap a rabbit) had been starved until they tore each other apart.

In the courtyard before the Manor itself, there is a tall statue in the midst of a beautiful, complex fountain. When it had been made, some centuries ago, it depicted some Malfoy ancestor kneeling as a dryad laid a blessing upon his head.

Now, the dryad is headless, and the fountain does not run.

It is dark inside Malfoy Manor. Severus' eyes easily adjust to the dimness of it, and he stalks with his head held high into the central hall of Malfoy Manor. He feels the gazes of his comrades upon him as he makes his way in, his expression haughtily neutral, and he takes his seat at the Dark Lord's left hand. Across from him, at the Dark Lord's right hand, is Bellatrix: she stares him down, her lip curled, and Severus offers her a small, pleasant smile. He finds himself wondering, vaguely, what it might take to affect Andromeda to look at him this way at an order meeting - but no, Dromeda looks less and less like Bellatrix Lestrange as each day passes by. The woman is a bean sidhe thirsty for blood, and Severus must wonder when their lord will allow her to go out and kill as she so desperately desires to.

Why else, after all, spend such time on eliminating every pet of Lucius Malfoy's, and hexing every pansy on the grounds of his family home into submission?

"Severus..." He turns his head, meeting the red gaze of his lord; the smile is replaced with a serious expression of careful attention; the Dark Lord looks Severus in the eyes, unblinking. In the past months, his inhuman form has been moderated somewhat, with his most snakelike features melting away. As he is now, he looks as he did when Severus first knelt before him, in the spring of '77: his jaw is now square and handsomely cut, his nose slowly growing to be more human as each day passes, and although his irises are a bloody red, his eyes are slowly changing shape, the pupil receding into a circular shape, and the eyes themselves less reptilian.

"Yes, my lord?" Severus asks. They sit at a long dining table intended for a banquet, the twenty-five other members of Lord Voldemort's inner circle straining to hear what might be said at the table's head, but Severus pays no heed to the others.

"We worried we might miss you. What were you doing?"

"I was gardening, my lord." Bellatrix scoffs, and Severus arches an eyebrow at her. She has some parody of the Midas touch in her, Severus thinks. He remembers when they were yet at school, and Rodolphus Lestrange, in his courtship of Bella, had attempted some florid description of impregnation, hoping to woo her. An elder Slytherin - Roswell - had taken the letter from him and laughed, declaring that Bellatrix Black's womb was no doubt as shrivelled and barren as the banks of the Styx, and that he might do better to put his seed within a corpse.

Roswell died that year - a terrible accident. His body had looked terribly dramatic sprawled beneath the Hogwarts staircases.

"What were you gardening, Severus? Flowers?" Her tone is derisive, as if the thought of flowers is one offensive to the ear, and he arches an eyebrow. "Oh, maybe you were watering a tree?"

"Bella," Severus says, very patiently, "Your tone would imply you have doubts as to the existence of gardens. Is that the case?" Soft chuckles and titters ripple through the chamber, but at a withering look from Bellatrix, every single mouth clicks closed. Looking around the room, it is hardly a surprise that Bellatrix is so irritable - as an Azkaban escapee, she cannot even walk the streets in daylight, but there are lesser Death Eaters who can, because they are not as proud as she is of her service. Severus has caught her twice now with her hands around the neck of Gideon Gibbon, a linesman for the European train service, each time motivated by the fact that he did not boast of his involvement with the Dark Lord as she did, after the war.

"Bella, Severus," the Dark Lord speaks softly, in the voice of a father bemused at his children's squabbles; there is an undertone of steel to his words, and immediately Severus leans back in his chair, turning his gaze to the Dark Lord and only to him. "With the death of Evan Rosier, we have neglected a crucial alliance. Who here will seek out the den of the Acromantula?"

"We'll do it, my lord!" says the deep voice of Alecto Carrow, and immediately, her brother begins to nod beside her.

"Yes, my lord! We hunted with Evan as children." The Dark Lord seems to appraise the Carrows and their eagerness for the job, and then he gives a small inclination of his head.

"Very well. Alecto, Amycus: seek out their nest, and return to us with their location. Of course, it is crucial we send a contingent." There's a secrecy to the Dark Lord's smile that Severus files away, to mention to Albus. He seems to feel amusement about the Acromantula, and why, Severus could not venture a guess. "Now, on the matter of Lockhart's group of ne'er-do-wells, it is--" The double doors of the hall burst open, and the room is abruptly quiet. The silence rings from one stone wall to another, and Severus immediately moves to stand, turning on his heel to face the shaking form of Maximilian Caine.

He's little more than a child himself, having left Hogwarts that very year, and with high grades on his NEWTs - but not as a result of magical ability. Every year, Severus has sat with the other four heads, and they had discussed whether it was fair to allow Maxie to continue his schooling, given that the boy was barely more than a squib. Young Maxie - and it is difficult to think of him with any other name, so small and shy a creature as he is - has flourished academically only once he had reached his NEWTs, and could study subjects that required no practical magic at all.

"Mr Caine," Severus says, his lip curling. "How dare you interrupt us? Come, with me--"

"No, no, Severus," Lord Voldemort whispers. His fingers dance over the fabric of Severus' robe, gesturing for him to sit down. Anger flares in the other man's eyes, but his expression is kind, and this is the reason Severus had wished to usher the boy from the room: the Dark Lord's response is unpredictable, and he may well elect to torture Caine here and now. "If Maxie has interrupted us, he surely has reason."

Caine stumbles forwards, shaking like a leaf, and the Dark Lord's lips, which are beginning to look more pink and plump with every day that passes, quirk into a small smile. He gestures Caine to come closer, closer, until the Dark Lord grasps at his robe, pulling him closer and forcing him to sit on the arm of the Dark Lord's throne-like chair, a parody of a boy on a father's knee.

"I-- I do have reason, my lord, I'm so sorry, I would never have... I'm so sorry, I--" Lord Voldemort's holly wand is in his right hand, flicking from side to side as he plays with the length of it, and the silence in the room is so great that barely any man in the room is even breathing. Every single Death Eater, even Bellatrix, is utterly silent as they look to their lord and to Maxie, who lacks a Dark Mark, and is little more than a pet.

"Please, Maxie. Don't beat around the bush so: tell us!"

"The Wizengamot has called an urgent meeting. They're meeting tonight, at midnight, and... And my relatives have just received their summons: the meeting has been called by Narcissa Malfoy and Sirius Black."

"And the motion?" the Dark Lord asks in a whisper. Caine bites down on his lip.

"That if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named doesn't turn himself in by September 5th, with his followers or without, that the Ministry will declare a state of emergency, with the potential to be followed by a declaration of war." Bellatrix gasps, her eyes wide, and she isn't the only one: shocked sounds and intakes of breath echo around the chamber, and Caine is staring resolutely at his own knees. Not one of them dares look at the Dark Lord directly; even Severus himself looks at him with care, from the corner of his eye.

Lord Voldemort's expression is impassive for a long few moments, and then he smiles, his fingers tracing the line of Caine's spine as if the boy is a Kneazle or a cat. Caine shivers, but doesn't dare to recoil away from the Dark Lord's touch: he's a lanky boy, tall and thin, but he looks small balanced on the arm of the chair as he is. The Dark Lord's smile shows teeth and is almost handsome, although the expression makes Severus feel a twinge of fear, deep within himself, behind the shadows of his Occlumency shields.

"What a pleasure it will be," Lord Voldemort whispers, his voice resonant within the room and bouncing from wall to wall to ceiling, "To face opponents who know the value of strategy. Disperse! Those of you with political links in the Ministry Magic, go forth. See what influence you might have against this motion, and put it into effect. None of you carry votes in the chamber yourself?"

"Canton did," says Huw Selwyn, quietly. "But only he, my lord. He and--" Selwyn seems to remember himself (to mention Lucius at a time like this!), and says quickly, "Only he."

"And you feared me, Maxie," the Dark Lord murmurs, pulling Caine to face him, and he cups Caine's cheeks in his white hands, his fingers drawn over the clean-shaven, fear-flushed skin. "Such important news, and you brought it here to me, risking my... Temper." Severus sees the relief in Maxie's every feature, in the loosening of his shoulders and the shift of his position, and as the Dark Lord draws his thumb over Caine's cheek, Caine has the enchanted smile of a boy in love on his features. "You are each dismissed. Bar you, Maxie."

There are grinds and whines of wood on stone as everybody stands to leave, but Severus hesitates. He waits, his hands behind his back and his form to attention as he waits for the others to leave, and he says, "My lord, if I might ask a query of you... Lockhart. What is to be done about him? I know he cannot truly undercut us, but with his attack on Rosier--"

"And what is it you suggest, Severus?" the Dark Lord asks, seeming amused at this seeming grasp for power. "Or is this another request that I hand command of my lieutenants to you, as opposed to Bellatrix?" This is stupid of him. This is oh-so-stupid of Severus, to go to such a risk, to argue with Lord Voldemort - and for what? To spare Maximilian Caine the man's undivided attention, that he knows not to flee from?

"With the deepest of respect, my lord, Azkaban has left Bella unstable. My mind, however, remains--"

"I will retain Bellatrix, Severus. Until she sees fit as to disobey me, I see no reason to distrust her." Severus allows some small bit of betrayal, of sadness, to show in his face; both are artfully constructed.

"You would distrust me, my lord?"

"Not at all," is the easy reply. But Severus' gambit, it seems, has worked; the Dark Lord pushes Caine from his knee like a disobedient dog. "Leave me, both of you. I would be alone."

"Yes, my lord," Severus and Caine say as one, and they each leave. Severus carefully closes the doors behind them, and he turns to look at Caine, who is standing there, hypnotized.

"Professor Snape," Caine asks, in a whisper. Caine bites his lip, worries it beneath his rather prominent front teeth.

"Yes, Caine?"

"I really thought he would kill me," Caine says. "But I felt that— I thought if I waited until the meeting was over, and he discovered I had not interrupted..." Caine is talking more to himself than to Severus himself, so Severus says nothing: he turns on his heel, and he makes his way from the grounds, Apparating home, to Hogwarts.

He thinks of Caine in Malfoy Manor, sleeping in the bedroom that the Dark Lord has taken for himself, though whether he sleeps, Severus does not know. He knows that Caine sleeps, likely at the foot of the bed, or on the chaise long in the bedroom, but as for Lord Voldemort himself... Such things can hardly be guessed at. Severus would never have believed it, that of the four Caine children, Maximilian would be the one supplicating himself at the Dark Lord's feet...

"Severus?" Filius Flitwick stands in the entrance hall, a dozen rolled-up posters in his arms. "Are you quite alright? You look rather ill."

"I've just seen an animal on the road. Injured, you know, Muggle cars..."

"Did you put it out of its misery?" Filius asks, one of his white, bushy eyebrows raising. "It's only cruel to do otherwise, Severus, if the thing couldn't be saved." There is a second's pause, and Severus gives a small nod of his head.

"Yes, of course I did. Have you need of assistance, Filius?"

"With these? Oh, no, no. They're for Georgina!"

"Who is that?"

"The new accountant," Filius says, and he grins like a fiend. "She's a wonderful girl, Severus."

"I'm going to go to my quarters now, Filius," Severus says, mildly, "And pretend we haven't had this conversation."

"Very well, very well!" Severus begins to walk down toward the dungeons, and he thinks of Caine. When he reaches his quarters, he pours himself a cup of coffee, takes his cauldron off the boil, and promptly vomits into his sink.

Did you put it out of its misery? It's only cruel to do otherwise, Severus...

With a sudden crash and a shatter of glass, the goblet hits the point where the wall meets the ceiling. Crystalline pieces of glass rain down, and Harry turns away, waving a wand and focusing once more on Conjuring, feeling the magic run through him and understand as best it can his deep intent: a plate, this time, broad and white, with some messy detailing around its rim. Conjuration is one of the most difficult schools of magic under the umbrella of Transfiguration, and to be sure, it's difficult to Conjure into existence a plate that looks as delicate and satisfying to break as the expensive china in the Black display cases around the house, but...

That's hardly an option.

Harry hurls the plate at the wall with a scream, hears the crash of ceramic coming apart and dropping in messy pieces to the ground: although he throws each and every plate and glass and bowl with all the force he can muster, it doesn't take away the feeling inside him. The clawing, desperate fury, as real to him as the wetness of the tears on his cheeks, and it just isn't enough, isn't enough. With a flick of his wand, he sends the cheap old table - the Silenced anteroom's only remaining furnishing - crashing hard into the wall, scratching the green wallpaper. One of the legs crunches under the force, and Harry's smile is savage more than satisfied.

With a soft click, he hears the door open, and he whirls on his heel. Draco opens the door, steps neatly inside, and closes it behind him; with a calm, collected expression, he neatly examines the room's state of destruction, shards of glass and pot and china littering the ground, one of the window panes shattered and letting a rush of heated air into the room, the wallpaper coming off the walls in some places - but really, there's probably arsenic in the dye anyway - and now, the table, half-destroyed and standing pathetically low at one corner.

Draco arches one silver eyebrow. "Having some problems, Harry?"

"Fuck off," Harry says immediately. He mutters a Reparo under his breath, making a neat loop in the air with his wand, and the table comes back together, the leg straightening as if invisibly set.

"This is my home, you know," Draco says, in a mild and airy tone. "It's hardly pleasant to tell me to fuck off in my own home."

"Fuck. Off." Harry enunciates the fricative sounds in each of the words, drawing out the f, and Draco watches him. His icy eyes (he has his father's eyes, the thought comes, unbidden) are clouded with thought, and he looks Harry up and down as if Harry is a particularly complex Arithmancy equation.

"What's wrong?" Draco asks, softer now. Harry hurls the table at the wall again, but Draco doesn't so much as flinch, taking a step back and neatly leaning back against the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his left foot flat against the wood. "Nobody can hear you, you know."

"I know. This room is Silenced."

"I just came looking for you. Couldn’t find you."

"I was in here."

"Yes." Harry feels stupid, now. The bare satisfaction that the violence and magic was offering him is fading away, replaced with feelings of embarrassment at Draco catching him being so emotional, and he just wants Draco to get out, get out, get out.

"What's wrong?" Draco repeats.

"Oh, what isn't wrong? For fuck's sake, Draco!" Harry snaps, turning on his heel and walking right up to the other boy. He hates that Draco is taller than him, hates it, hates that he's inherited Narcissa and Lucius' height: he looks up into Draco's face, into his pointy chin and pointy nose and pale cheeks and strong forehead, whatever the fuck that means, and he says, "What haven't I got to be angry about, huh? Voldemort--" Draco flinches, and satisfaction flares inside Harry: that nasty, raging beast that had told him to come in here in the first place purrs its delight, "is back. Your father is dead. More and more people are going to die. And me, what can I do? I can't go out far, because Voldemort will come looking for me! I can't go out for a broom ride, or a walk in London, and not because anybody will stop me, but because it'd be irresponsible of me. I have to choose my own fucking isolation." Harry lets out an irritable groan, swings away from Draco, and he begins to furiously pace the room. He thinks of Adrian King in the little park across from Grimmauld Place, thinks of his hands in Harry's hair and his mouth on Harry's mouth, their legs close on the park bench.

"The school year's gonna start soon," Harry murmurs. "This... It's gonna have to sto."

"I'll ring you," Adrian whispers in his ear, his mouth drawing over Harry's skin; even in the dark light of the park, dimly lit by the street lamp some twenty feet away, Harry shudders.

"N-no. No outside phonecalls, I'm afraid, except from family."

"I'll say you're my cousin."

"There's a list of accepted numbers."

"I'll email, then."

"No Internet."

"You guys are really in the past, huh? Fine, I'll write." Harry stares at Adrian's face, stares right into his eyes, feels his mouth open, feels it close. "What? You don't have a postal address?"

No, Harry wants to say, We don't have a postal address, and the place is Unplottable, and I can't even tell you to send it to Harry Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because you're a Muggle and you don't know I'm a wizard!

"I don't think it's a good idea," Harry says instead. Adrian pulls away from him, stares into his eyes. Hurt flashes across his features, and then anger.

"Don't you? What, I'm not good enough to send letters to your posh school, huh?"

"No, it's not that--"

"You have a boyfriend?"

"What? No, I--" The accusations hit him in the face, and he's flushing, overwhelmed, unsure what to respond with, how to get the other man to just calm down, and understand... But how can Harry make him understand? How can he tell him why without telling him why?

"No excuses. Tell me why." Harry flounders.

"It's not safe," he says finally, which is the best lie he can grasp hold of when put on the spot. "It's complicated, I'm sorry, it's complicated... But it's not safe. I can't."

"Not safe? What, are you in the bloody Mafia?"

"You can't write me, Adrian, I'm sorry."

"So when you go, you go."

"I--"

"Then why not go now?" Adrian stands, runs his hand through his thick, blond hair, and begins to walk away.

"Adrian!" Harry calls after him. "Adrian, you can't--" But he doesn't run after him. He doesn't give chase; after a long few moments of sitting on the bench, Harry walks into Grimmauld Place again, finds an empty room in the house, and feels the tears sting hot on his cheeks. Then, he conjures a plate.

"The Dark Lord has been a worry of yours for some years now; my father--" Draco hesitates, almost seeming to choke on the words. The words cut through Harry’s reverie like a knife. "That was months ago. Something has triggered this now, something tonight."

"Fuck off," Harry retorts, and Draco's features crumple. Harry doesn't know why he ever let himself believe Adrian and Draco looked at all alike - Draco's features are delicate and his skin is pale, like he's been painted in watercolours. Adrian looks handsome, touchable, real. Out-of-reach. Harry conjures a plate and throws it, but the monster isn't satisfied by smashing plates any more, now: Pin him against the wall. Go on, do it. You've got the knife in your pocket, haven't you? We can do him like we did Stan the man!

"Wanton destruction doesn't strike me as productive," Draco says. His tone is so mild and even that it actually angers Harry, actually frustrates him even more.

"What would you know?"

"Only what my father taught me." Harry is stopped short by that, and Draco seems to take it as a cue to continue. "When I was angry or frustrated, he made me exercise. It teaches self-control, discipline. You can't allow yourself to just smash things."

"Angry or frustrated, huh?" Harry asks, bitterly. "That explains the muscle he had on his arms."

"You're not angry at my father. Let us not pretend you are," Draco whispers. He says it so softly Harry has to turn to check he really said it at all. Draco has shifted his position slightly, his arms still crossed over his chest, but his stance less confident somehow. "What is it, Harry? Girl trouble?"

"Something like that," Harry says. Something changes in Draco's expression, as if he hadn't expected his first guess to be accurate. Recoiling the barest bit, he looks Harry up and down, blinking his blue eyes slowly as he examines Harry's form.

"I'll leave you to it," Draco says suddenly, and before Harry can respond he has opened the door and slammed it shut, no doubt disappearing to his room - or, Harry supposes sardonically, if he is "angry" or "frustrated", perhaps to the gymnasium. Harry wipes his cheeks with the sleeves of his robe, and then he leaves the room, making his way downstairs and returning to the dining room. His own anger bleeds away like water down the drain, leaving him feeling rather tired, and pensive. Gone are the violent thoughts and the desire for destruction: now Harry just feels slightly empty.

 Despite the forty minutes Harry had been gone, the meeting is only just finishing, although Sirius and Narcissa have already left. People filter past him, and Harry sits down in between Cecilia Hayworth and Hestia Jones, waving for Mundungus Fletcher to deal him into their game of cards. With Ted Tonks and Sturgis Podmore, there are six players in all, and although Mundungus Fletcher runs a masterful sleight of hand, Harry is far too used to counting cards for him to get away with it.

Used to the ways of the Slytherin common room, it feels slightly strange to be playing a game without betting money or secrets or even candy, and Harry plays as if on autopilot, barely registering when he wins or loses a hand. At ten o'clock, Andromeda Tonks comes over, putting her hand gently on Hestia's shoulder and murmuring something in her ear. Hestia winces, then she nods, rummaging through the deep pockets of her silver overcoat until she finds a vial of a grey potion. She tilts her head back, putting a droplet of it in each of her eyes, and then another on her tongue.

"What's that?" Harry asks, half-expecting someone to tell him off for doing so, but Hestia just shrugs her shoulders.

"Sturgis and I are accountants, but you know that I used to be an Auror?"

"Mrs Weasley's mentioned it."

"Had to retire in '82. Got Cursed. The potion staves off the worst of it - blindness, muteness, paralysis. The main things. I can't run, though."

"You can't run?"

"Can't run, can't exercise. Can't get too angry or too happy." Hestia lays an ace down on the table surface, drawing a soft "Bollocks." out of Ted. "Too much exertion activates its latent effects. I don't know the ins and outs of it, but the potions I take work by convincing the Curse I'm not still alive. If my heart rate goes up, though, it gets a sudden reminder, and begins shutting down whatever it can reach."

"That's awful," Harry murmurs.

"It's a nasty one, Potter," Mad-Eye murmurs. He sits watching their game, clasping hold of his walking stick, his wooden leg stuck out from beneath him. "One of Bartemius Crouch's little inventions."

"Bartemius Crouch?" Harry repeats.

"Not Barty," Ted murmurs. He is squinting at his cards, his glasses pushed up onto the top of his head. "Barty was a good man. No, his son, Bartemius."

"No, I know you don't mean Barty Crouch," Harry murmurs. "Bartemius Junior looked right mad when I saw him, at any rate." There's a pause: five and a half sets of eyes suddenly land on Harry, and he freezes, holding his cards up to his chest like a shield. He looks between each of them, and asks, "What? What did I say?"

"Bartemius Crouch is dead," Mad-Eye says, slowly.

"No, he isn't. Not unless there's many other Death Eaters called Bartemius walking around."

"What are you talking about, Harry?" Hestia asks.

"A few years ago, I had a vision, a little before Voldemort began to return to his full power - one of the Death Eaters was telling him Bartemius Crouch was requesting an audience from his sickbed, and Voldemort said Bartemius could see him when he was capable of standing on his own two feet. Unless you mean he's died since then, which I feel like I'd have heard about."

"Barty Crouch died in Azkaban," Mad-Eye says, squinting with his good eye; the other revolves rapidly in its socket, as if to put across Mad-Eye's fury. "His mother died of grief soon after. That was back in the '80s. I saw the body."

The door opens, and in walks Remus, his hair mussed and his expression a bit wild.

"You never heard of Polyjuice, Mad-Eye?" Harry asks, and he drops his cards, standing from the table. He feels Mad-Eye's magical gaze on his back, and then he hears a bark of laughter behind him, but Harry doesn't turn around. He looks at Remus carefully, frowning slightly, and then he reaches out, very gently touching one of his arms. "Shall we, uh, go for a walk, Moony?" Remus is already loping from the room by virtue of his long legs, and Harry follows him. Harry turns and walks up the stairs, heading up a few of the flights; the bookshelf that covers the final flight has already been pushed aside, and so he leads Remus up to the roof garden.

As they'd been cleaning Grimmauld Place, Harry had enjoyed spending time in the garden. Rarely did he actually do anything; usually, Harry would sit on the balcony, sometimes beside Draco, sometimes alone, and speak to Lucius as he worked on his plants. The garden had taken very little time to flourish, and it had been Harry who had suggested the Lightning Lilies, which flare and tingle beneath his fingers as he strokes over their wide petals. He sees that the Choral Bushes have been pruned, and he takes away the clippings from beneath them, sweeping them together to Vanish.

As he does all this, Remus paces up and down the garden's marble floor, which is ineffectual, as the garden is only ten feet or so wide, and perhaps twenty feet across - with Remus' long legs, there isn't all that much to pace.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks.

"No," Remus says immediately. Harry walks to the edge of the roof garden's balcony, pulling himself up onto the wall and sitting on it, his back facing the city of London behind him. "It's not-- It's not really your concern." Harry swings his legs slightly beneath him, watching the other man anxiously run his hands through his hair, and he waits. Remus, at his very core, is a talkative man: as much as he keeps stuff bottled up, it's genuinely in his nature to talk through his feelings and make them clear to everybody around him, to voice his opinions. "I was speaking to Albus."

"What did Albus have to say?" Harry asks, evenly. For the barest second, Harry forgets who Remus could possibly mean, and then he realizes. It's strage, calling the headmaster by his first name, but it's not as if he'll be doing it to the old man's face, and it seems to keep Remus on track.

"He-- During the First War, I was a spy," Remus murmurs. His eyes are always moving as he seems to search the middle distance for some answers, as if some life-changing idea is going to spring to him, fully-formed, from the ether. "Well... I was an informant. Werewolves in Britain, they can't get work, nobody will offer us lodgings... We tend to be poor, forced to move often from place to place. That means werewolves band together, sometimes, and there was a werewolf--" Remus bites his lip. "I shouldn't tell you this. Harry, you're a child, I'll tell Sirius."

"Did he ask you to spy for him again?" Harry asks, keeping his gaze on Remus' eyes, but they widen, and the older man shakes his head.

"No, no, he'd never do that," Remus says. Harry feels that strange tiredness in him, of that emotional lack no that he has tired himself out throwing plates and screaming at the walls, and he wonders if Remus would feel any benefit from the same thing. "No. He was merely informing me on the situation."

"What is the situation?"

"Fenrir Greyback has been gathering contacts within the lycanthrope community. He's a terrifying man, Harry, a terrifying... Barely a man." Remus speaks in a whisper, so that Harry has to strain to hear him. "And nobody else in the Order is a werewolf: they have no window into that group. But me, me, I could. I did it before: I've no family to speak of, and to help the Order." Harry frowns at Remus, furrowing his brow slightly, and he takes in what the other man says with some scepticism. "It would mean I'd have to leave the flat, of course, I couldn't-- They'd smell it on me, if I was living comfortably. Know I was out of place."

Harry says, very quietly, "So what you're suggesting is that you quit your job, go back to your clothes, and go back to not eating, or sleeping at night. Abandoning Sirius. Let me guess - Wolfsbane is quite expensive, so you wouldn't be able to have that either, would you? What, you all just run around in packs?" Remus is staring at Harry, his mouth slightly open. "Remus, everything you just said sounds completely insane."

"But- but I--"

"No family, seriously? What, me and Sirius are just roommates, are we?"

"Of course not! But this is important."

"Why can't Dumbledore pick someone who's already in with the pack? You're not the only trustworthy werewolf in the world." Remus seems lost, opening his mouth, closing it again. "Remus, it doesn't have to be you. It shouldn't be you. You're happy now, aren't you? Painting, living with Sirius?"

"Of course I am, but this isn't about me, Harry," Remus says, half-desperately. He steps closer, no longer pacing but staying still in one spot. He looks down at Harry, his hazel eyes full of pain, his pale lips parted. "This is something I can offer the Order, something I can genuinely do to help."

"How many hexes do you know?" Harry asks, softly. Remus' brow furrows. "It's over a hundred, right? Do you really think the only help you can give the Order is without your wand, howling at the moon? I know what that transformation does to you, Remus. I might not know where you and Sirius disappear off to every month after you take your potion, but it puts the most horrendous of pressures on your body, rips you apart and builds you up again as something monstrous, and I know that in the past two years, you've actually put on weight. You look like someone who won't snap in half at the next wind, you look... Not healthy. But like you have something to live for, except for more bloody pain. Do you really want to give that up? Do you really think you deserve to?"

The shadow that passes over Remus' face sinks deep inside Harry, and all at once, the monster reels and roars. Harry feels like going out of here and ripping apart the Werewolf Registration office himself, feels like murdering everybody who ever read Lycanthropy: A New Plague, feels like going right up to Voldemort and punching him in the alabaster throat. He doesn't do any of those things: he pushes himself off the edge of the balcony wall, throws his arms around Remus, and wraps him in a hug.

Remus seems surprised at it, but he hugs Harry's back, leans his chin into Harry's chair, holds him tightly.

War.

And it hasn't even fucking started yet.

Above them, the thick grey clouds in the sky are forced along by a light wind, and moonlight comes brightly down onto the roof garden. It's a half-moon, thick and white and luminescent, and under its rays, the Choral Bushes begin to sing. It's a soft song, eerie and high, without words, and Harry and Remus listen to it for a long, long time, before they silently go down the stairs to wait for the result from the Ministry of Magic.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

"YOU-KNOW-WHO ORDERED TO SURRENDER!" Arthur Weasley reads from the Daily Prophet to an absolutely rapt dining room. Arthur begins to read the statement itself, and Harry feels himself tune out. Cornelius Fudge's stumbling style is immediately recognizable, and it's a good job the Daily Prophet decided to give it a headline, as he knows Fudge would never have bothered to give a simple summary. In short, Narcissa and Sirius’ motion in the Wizengamot has been voted through: if Lord Voldemort doesn’t surrender his wand (a symbolic gesture, Harry supposes) to the Ministry of Magic before midnight of September 5th, 1995, the Ministry will declare a State Of Emergency.

It’s better, he guesses, than declaring a “State of War, but Civil War, but not exactly, it’s actually hard to describe.”

At 2:04AM, the door opens, and in walk Narcissa and Sirius: immediately, the Order members gathered burst into applause. Narcissa looks exhausted, her eyes darkly lidded, and Sirius looks irritable enough to kill a man, but at the claps and few cheers, the two of them grin.

Well. Narcissa smiles politely, anyway.

As Dumbledore moves to leave, Harry follows him out into the hall, and he says, "Headmaster, if I might have a moment of your time?" Dumbledore seems surprised, his blue eyes turning on Harry with a seeming perplexity shining in them for a moment, and then they are just shining for no reason at all. "I'll walk you back to Hogwarts, if that's okay." A soft smile crosses Dumbledore's expression, and he gives a nod of his head. They step out onto the balcony, and Harry offers Dumbledore his arm: the older man takes it graciously, even though Harry is nearly a foot shorter than him, and Harry closes his eyes as he feels the familiar tight tube sensation of Apparition.

"You, of course, will begin to learn Apparition in your sixth year," Dumbledore says conversationally.

"It's a weird sensation," Harry admits. "I almost prefer portkeys, I have to admit. Is that on any of our syllabi?"

"Oh, no," Dumbledore says, shaking his head. "Portkeys are rather complicated magic that require an understanding of both Charms and Arithmancy, and, ah, truth be told, Harry..." Dumbledore reaches up and taps the side of his long, prominent nose, which seems crooked, as if it has been broken several times before. "The Board of Governors would rather we not spread it around too much." Harry chuckles. "I've always found, however, that there is a certain trick to it..."

Hogsmeade is brightly lit by the moon.

Although London had been cloudy, the sky above Hogsmeade is completely clear, and Harry matches Dumbledore's slow, easy gait as they begin to walk up the hill toward the castle. Dumbledore's robes, the skirt of which is down nearly to his toe, are a periwinkle blue, and silver embroidery of the constellations shines in the light as they move. Harry has to wonder where Dumbledore gets these wonderful, magical robes: they don't feel like dress robes, despite the incredible intricacy of them, and nor do they ever make someone feel like Dumbledore is an especially superior person. If anything, they add to his demeanour of a kindly old man, with their subtle charm. The monster inside him growls, but Harry ignores it. Dumbledore is no more an enemy than Hedwig is.

"What would you like to speak with me about, Harry?"

"Our policy on spies, sir," Harry says.

"Perhaps a muffling charm would be appropriate."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, and he watches Dumbledore's easy wand movement. He feels the slight sphere of magic around them, and he reaches out, passing his fingers through the invisible ward: there is no real physical sensation, except for the slight, internal brush of his magic against the miniature ward, but Harry frowns slightly. He is reminded of television static. "I was talking to Remus a few hours ago. He seemed to think he should go back to spying on the werewolves."

"If Remus has come to that decision," Dumbledore says slowly, shaking his head slightly. "I will accept him as a volunteer."

"No, you won't," Harry says. "Sir... I have to admit, I'm quite surprised at you. I don't know what you said to him, under the guise of "informing him about the situation," but whatever it was, it's not on. He said you'd never ask him to volunteer, and that much is true, I'm sure, but there's something to be said for implying you desperately need someone for a job and have nobody except him to do it. Remus came away thinking of quitting his job, leaving the flat. And—Well. You know about the nature of his and Sirius' relationship."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Harry."

"Well, Professor, I'm sure you do," Harry challenges, and he sees Dumbledore softly sigh. Just outside of the Hogwarts gates, he turns to examine Harry, and for a second puts one of his old, wizened hands on Harry's shoulder. The touch is featherlight, and doesn’t last for long.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs quietly. "This war... It has come upon us all at once, hasn't it? Let me speak honestly with you." The gates open wide, and as they begin to walk up the hill, the gates slowly close behind them with a creak. "Sacrifices must be made, Harry. As Voldemort spreads his influence, we must be there to meet him: just as we have done our best to place our allies in Ireland, in France, and in other exiled communities, we must not forget the werewolves. So often forgotten by our society, they are vulnerable to Voldemort's manipulations in a way so few others are. It is essential we know what promises might be made to them, where they might strike... We know already that Remus can be trusted, and that he has performed most admirably at this work before."

"So admirably my parents believed he might have been a traitor," Harry points out. "Have you never wondered about that?" Dumbledore frowns, slightly, turning to Harry with concern on his face.

"You believe Remus to be a traitor? After all he has done for you?"

"No, Headmaster," Harry says. "I believe that whatever that situation was, whatever it was like being part of Voldemort's werewolf cabal, he had to get so into it he even convinced his best friends that he was going dark. That he was enjoying it. Can you imagine what it must be like in Remus' head? If he didn't get into that role, he was as good as dead, and could no longer feedback to the Order: he got so into it that his friends couldn't trust him anymore, and trusted a real Death Eater. Pettigrew. With the greatest of respect, sir, I don't feel it's ethical to send Remus back to a situation like that, especially not when he's the healthiest he's been in years. If he survives this war, Headmaster, only to drop dead of a heart attack or organ failure, what will you say to Sirius? What will you say to me?" Something deep in Dumbledore's eyes seems to change, and he seems to soften slightly. Harry wishes for a moment that he was some kind of Legilimens, that he could know what the old man was thinking, what he was going to say next.

"I think we might dispense with the titles, my boy." Harry blinks. Of all things, he wasn’t expecting that.

"Sorry?"

"Albus will do," the old man says kindly, and he looks up the length of the hill. Silhouetted by a backdrop of stars, the castle looks beautiful, and Harry is glad there is only two weeks between him and his return to its halls.

"I confess to you, Harry, I never thought on this matter from that particular perspective," Dumbledore says quietly, his voice shaking with age. He doesn't seem frail at all, not to Harry, but for the barest few moments, Albus Dumbledore seems slightly vulnerable. "Do you talk on these matters often at home?"

"No," Harry says. "Remus talks sometimes, and I listen, but we don't talk about the War. Sirius and Remus both just talk about the before, and the after. Never about the War itself."

"Does that not frustrate you?" Dumbledore asks: the monster gnashes its teeth, says yes, yes, yes!

"No," Harry decides. "I can't get angry at them. Not for that." He puts his hands in his pockets, watching as Dumbledore waves his hands and the gate to the courtyard (usually open wide at all hours of the day) allows them through. The doors to the entrance hall require no such instruction: as soon as the gate closes behind them, those doors open, seemingly beckoning them into the welcoming coolness of the castle. The magic of Hogwarts seems to settle on Harry's skin as soon as they step inside, and at a clatter, he turns his head. Momentarily, Dumbledore dispels the ward around them.

"Argus," he says, pleadingly. "Go to bed, my friend." Judging by Dumbledore's rather desperate tone, and by the way Filch jumps a mile, they have had this discussion a few times before.

"This statue 'as to be polished!" Filch says irritably. "Headmaster, I can't bloody well leave it - I'm halfway through!" Filch seems positively indignant at the thought, and Harry stares. The statue of the first Headmaster of Hogwarts, who nobody knows the name of, seems to glisten in the light. The bottom half of it positively shimmers, no doubt as a result of the carefully crafted goblin's gold, and the upper half is dull and thick with grime, as Harry has always known it.

"It looks incredible, Mr Filch," Harry says. "I had no idea it looked like that underneath."

"You saying I don't do my job right?" Filch demands immediately, whirling on Harry, and Harry gives him a look.

"Do you think I'm that stupid?"

"You rude little-- Headmaster, he--"

"Harry paid you a compliment, Argus." The Headmaster says, patiently. Loudly grumbling about disrespect, Filch takes up his bucket and his scrubber, irritably disappearing through the slightly ajar door into the great hall, and Harry sighs. It never seems to go well, even if he's as nice to Filch as it's within his power to be. Dumbledore reapplies their muffling charm, and Harry gives a longing look at Mrs Norris, who daintily passes them by. "She does look very soft, doesn't she?" Harry glances at Dumbledore, and then grins.

"I like cats. Theo Nott has one - Winston, his name is. Sometimes I wake up lying on him instead of my pillow."

"I'm terribly allergic to them," Dumbledore admits, as if telling Harry an embarrassing childhood secret. "Mrs Norris was once so kind as to allow me to scratch her ears, and my hand promptly coloured with hives. A rather dramatic overreaction of my immune system, Madam Pomfey declared it to be."

"You're a bit unlucky, really, aren't you--" Harry hesitates, and then says, "Albus. That's weird. Are you sure about this?"

"We are speaking as equals, Harry. It is only appropriate. In the school itself, of course, my title would fit, but... Well. I fear you are more man than boy, as these days pass us by. You would truly stop Remus from volunteering?"

"It's not that," Harry says, shaking his head. "It's just that it's a lot to ask him to sacrifice, and for something any werewolf could do. Remus is a huge asset as a duellist, sir, and as someone who can be called on to lead in a crisis. Sending him off to live in poverty, it… It rankles with me a lot. I think Remus has had enough hardship in his life, and to pile more on strikes me as unjust."

"War is not just, Harry."

"But you can be. Sir, I wasn't even there, and I know what you did. You played on his low self-esteem, his stupid Gryffindor rashness, and his overpowering feeling that he owes you something - and don't get me wrong, I appreciate that you're the reason he came to Hogwarts in the first place, and I'm so glad. I'm so grateful. But he's not a pawn in a chess game, sir. You can't ask him to do something like this, even if you ask him without asking him."

"Do you really think that's fair, Harry?" Dumbledore asks. His tone is even, but Harry doesn't believe he completely imagines the undercurrent of hurt.

"This isn't a confrontation, sir. I'm not angry, and I don't believe that I have any control over you, but I'm just saying something that I know a lot of people wouldn't say to you, because they respect you too much, or admire too much. Albus, to be completely honest, I can't be certain that I can trust you. I know you're trying to do the best for all of us, and leading the Order must be difficult; I know that sacrifices must be made... But not by him. This is the first time in his entire life, in nearly forty years, that he can lie down in a bed next to someone he loves, and know for certain that he's safe, and stable, and that the rug isn't going to be pulled out from under him if someone discovers his condition. Do you understand what I mean? Do you understand why Remus, specifically, means so much to me right now?"

"I do," Dumbledore murmurs as they come down the corridor to his office. "Ah, here is Severus." Harry meets Snape's gaze, but Snape seems to know immediately there is a ward around them, and immediately walks some way down the hall, politely turning his back. Harry looks at Snape's thin shoulders under the fabric of his cloak, at his stiff, straight form. "The professors at Hogwarts... You're not going to be sending them anywhere, are you? To do some stupid, risky thing?"

"Why would you think that, Harry?" Dumbledore asks, in so innocent a tone that Harry has to question if he has accidentally hit a vein.

"The people here have greater responsibilities than war. The children need to know the staff are united in protecting them, that none of them are going missing or... We need them here. The children, they should feel safe. And the prefects, maybe..." Harry feels Dumbledore's intense gaze upon him before he sees it, and he meets Dumbledore's eyes. He Occludes, of course, but he has no idea whether Dumbledore is a Legilimens, or even if Harry would feel it if he were.

"The children?" Dumbledore repeats.

"You think I'm wrong?"

"You speak of the students in the third person, Harry, as if you aren't one of them." He's right, Harry realizes. He'd even been thinking of Hermione, Draco, Ron - the twins, even, about to go into their sixth year - as much as the first and second years, but himself? He's a student, of course, but a child? He doesn't feel much like a child these days. Harry looks to Snape, and he presses his lips together.

"You should dispel the charm. He must have been waiting for you: it's probably important. Albus-- That's so strange, are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Thank you," Harry says, genuinely. "And when I said--" Harry puts his hand on his forehead, and sighs. "I didn't mean I didn't trust you. I know that's what I said, but that's not... I just meant..."

"I know," Dumbledore murmurs. "Thank you for being so honest. The year ahead will be difficult for us all, particularly upon you. I want you to feel I'm taking your opinions into account: regardless of whether you trust me, I want you to understand that I trust you, Harry. To do what is right." Dumbledore dispels the charm. "Severus, how kind of you to visit. The three of us will just go into my office."

"May I use your Floo, Albus?" Harry says, and he has to feel an inward note of delight at the way Snape's head whips to look at him.

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore says, cheerily, and tells the statue outside his office, "Blackjacks."

At around twenty past two in the morning, Severus hears the alarm he'd set begin to ring, and he looks up from his book. The book, a gift that Christmas from Lucius, is all about alternative trends in brewing. The chapter Severus had been reading is about a new American school of thought that utilizes a cauldron made into a sort of square, with four connecting troughs, with the potion moving around the square's four corners on a current. It all strikes Severus as rather modern, but the actual implications of such simple changes to the existing constructs are interesting ones, even if other chapters within the book are nothing more than nonsense.

Severus flicks to the front of the book: the cover page is full of signatures, with all of the major contributors having signed the page at Lucius' request, and Severus turns over the page, examining the inscription on the page Lucius had inserted into the book.

Dear Severus,

I know all those little autographs will strike you as rather tawdry, but rest assured in some years this book will be worth rather something, particularly as Mr Diamond has died in the months between his signing this and my Christmas gift to you.

Take from it what you can, and if it offers you nothing, sell it on.

With all my love,

Lucius

The vast majority of the books that Lucius has bought Severus over the past few years have been near-perfect purchases, and Severus knows if he looks through each of them, the letter within will advise him to sell on the book if it isn't to his tastes, expensive as so many of them are...

But Severus doesn't.

He never does.

Standing, he sets the book upon his table and summons his socks and boots, pulling each on once more. From the counter, Severus’ cat watches him with a hard stare, as if to express objection to his leaving his quarters so late at night. Fantôme lets out a sudden, sharp sound that sounds less like a miaow and more like a feline curse word, and Severus ignores it, picking up his cloak and sweeping from the room.

Fantôme will occasionally follow him as he makes his rounds of the castle at night, particularly during the summer time, and she follows him now: in stark comparison to Severus himself, who is a line of black except for the whiteness of his face and hands and collar, Fantôme is a cloud of thick white fur, with only a black nose and black socks seeming to form around her paws.

Another gift from Lucius. Fantôme is nearly nine now, but Kneazles can easily live for thirty or forty years.

Severus begins to make his way up the spiral staircase that leads into the upper halls of the school, and Fantôme falls away from him; she prefers to linger in the dark corridors of the dungeons or out in the grounds, finding the occasional rat or mouse. She is positively mythical among the children, as she refuses to allow any of them to touch her, and it never occurs to any of them that the staff may have pets.

Severus’ favourite of the Slytherin theories is that Fantôme is, in fact, the Animagus form of Albus Dumbledore. It rather upsets the old man that any of the children could believe him so unpleasant.

The walk up to the Headmaster’s office puts no strain at all on Severus, so used as he is to roaming the halls of Hogwarts at any hour, and he ascends yet another staircase into the corridor the Headmaster’s office joins onto: the movements of the main staircases make Severus feel uncertain and slightly dizzy, no matter how much he studies their regular schedules, and he prefers to use the narrower, lesser used stairwells in the corners of shadowed halls.

Albus often says, with a chuckle, that it adds to Severus’ mystique: Severus resents this commentary too much to respond to it with anything more than an arched eyebrow.

As he steps into the hallway, he sees that Albus is not alone, and even from here he feels the shimmer of magic that makes up a muffling charm on the air. Politely, he turns his back on Albus and Potter, taking some steps down the corridor and facing the other direction. He can read lips well enough, and he shouldn’t like some accusation from Albus that he is being less than fair. He hears through the haze of magic the sound of the boy speaking, and then Albus, but what the words are, he cannot make out.

There’s a lingering buzzing in his ears, and he presses his thin lips together: there is a certain irony in Albus using Severus’ own spells against him.

“Severus, how kind of you to visit,” Albus says, and Severus turns to walk closer, meeting the older man’s gaze before looking to Potter. There’s some redness around his eyes, mostly faded, and Severus is certain his “meeting” did not go well. A Muggle – what did the boy expect? “The three of us will just go into my office.” Severus gives an inclination of his head, opening his mouth to speak, but—

“May I use your Floo, Albus?” Severus feels his head shift rapidly to the side, leaving him staring at Potter. He feels the surprise obvious on his face, in the wideness of his eyes, and he soon schools his expression back to neutrality, but it is too late. He looks at the back of Albus’ head as he walks toward the statute, and Severus feels himself fall into step beside Potter.

“Of course, of course,” he says. “Blackjacks.” Severus stands beside Potter on the stair, feeling the stone grind as they each rise toward the Headmaster’s office, and Severus cannot resist examining the boy when his face is turned away. Potter looks to have lost some weight over the course of the summer, but he is not alone. Draco is looking thinner by the day, despite exercising with a certain furious passion, and the only children retaining their usual appetites are the Weasleys.

“It’s good to see you, Professor,” Potter says, as if they hadn’t passed each other in the hall not a few hours ago, and Severus frowns at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I am quite well, Potter,” Severus responds, wondering what could be wrong with the boy now, to prompt such a strange and pointed question. As they enter the office, Albus calls something vague over his shoulder and disappears through the door into his quarters, leaving Severus and Potter alone: this only prompts more suspicion on Severus’ part.

“Someone was pruning the garden,” Potter says. Ah. “I cleaned up the trimmings, but I assume…?”

“Yes,” Severus says.

“The bushes were singing earlier, when the moon came out. They seemed quite relieved.” Ought it touch him, Severus wonders, to hear the boy speak thus? Is he merely saying what he believes Severus wishes to hear, or making small-talk? Potter has a great many notions about him, and it is often difficult to predict what his motivations may be, as simple a boy as he often seems.

Potter walks away from him slightly, standing in the path of the fire, and as he looks around the room, Severus is surprised to feel an unfamiliar emotion in his chest: a twinge of fear. There is a greater change in the boy’s face, it seems to him, than a loss of weight: there are more lines, more definitions in the bone, than Severus has ever seen in the boy. Potter looks like a man, older and wiser, somehow, than he has seemed to Severus in times past. He is barely fifteen, and yet looks ready to command greater magics…

The fear is strange to him.

Potter does not resemble the Death Eater youth Severus had admired at the boy’s age: even looking back, Severus knows those boys has never seemed older to him, but only more mature, more powerful. Potter seems to abruptly be all three, and Severus feels the fear mingle with anger in his belly.

What right has Albus, after all, to craft this child into a weapon of war, older beyond his years?

“You and the Headmaster have been arguing?” Potter’s green gaze turns to Severus. His mother had never looked that old, not in all the years she lived.

“How did you know?”

“He offers himself as Albus to his genuine critics,” Severus says, his tone airy to distract from the fact that he is sharing a secret of sorts. “Whether it is a manipulation or a genuine measure of respect, I could not tell you.” Fawkes, that bastard bird, lets out a disapproving caw, but Severus ignores it, flicking his hair from his eyes.

Potter is giving Severus an appraising look, as if he has never heard an adult criticize Albus Dumbledore before – which, of course, is quite ridiculous. In all his life, Severus has never known a man to criticize Albus more than Lucius Malfoy had.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Potter murmurs quietly, a slight smile appearing on his face. He stands up straight, his hands in his pockets, and the glass of his spectacles glint in the light of the fire. “Yes, we were. Just about, you know… Ethics, war. Teleology.”

“Do you know what teleology is, Potter?”

“Yes, thank you,” Potter replies mildly, but he grins, showing his teeth: it is plain to Severus that his question has neither offended nor hit a weak spot. Potter is not as prideful as his father, not anywhere close. “Teleology: the idea that stuff should be looked at by like, the purpose it serves. Instead of, for example, what caused it to happen.”

Not the cleanest of definitions, but it is comprehensible enough, and Severus gives a small inclination of his head.

Potter seems to be hesitating for a moment, and then he says, “Lucius, he said to me once that Hogwarts used to have literature on its syllabus.”

“Yes,” Severus answers.

There’s a pause between them, until Potter asks, “Why did you stop teaching that?”

“Many of the non-practical courses were felt to be a waste of time, in the lead up to the First War,” Severus answers delicately. It is strange, to speak of such things outside of the Hogwarts staff room, and with so astute a listener. “I studied English Literature in my first and second years, on Saturday mornings, with Professor Desmond Hastings.”

“He retired?”

“He was murdered in the summer of my third year.” Potter stares at him, his lips parted, and Severus adds, “He had been petitioning the Board of Governors to allow the addition of Muggle literature to the syllabus. Wilde, Woolf, Dickens and Shelley, to name but a few of the Muggle authors he admired, despite being a Pureblood himself. Hogwarts has a great variety in its schooling through the epochs, of course: Albus has OWLs in Philosophy and in Musical Theory, not to mention a NEWT in Ancient Greek.”

“Severus has an OWL in German,” Albus says proudly from the corner of the room. Severus purses his lips.

“Yes,” Severus says, reluctantly. Potter has a faraway look in his eyes, as if an entirely new world has been opened up to him.

“Your German teacher… He was murdered too?”

“Frau Heinrich? She, to my awareness, has a retirement home in the Swiss Alps,” Severus replies, and Harry laughs.

“How come you didn’t replace the teachers in subjects like that? Literature and German or, uh, Musical Theory?”

“It has been tried,” Albus murmurs. “We have been planning a revitalization for several years now, returning more non-practical options to our syllabus, but in recent years, priorities have changed. Perhaps when the war is through, we will return to our plans.”

“Perhaps,” Severus echoes, with little faith. Potter takes a little Floo Power from the embellished pot upon the mantel, and he yells an address on Argyle Street before disappearing into the green flames. Severus turns to Albus, who is leaning on his desk, his hands neatly clasped before him. “What was he here for?” Severus asks, arching an eyebrow at the older man. “I had grasped you were in disagreement.”

“We were speaking on the subject of spies,” Albus says mildly. “He was concerned for you, actually.” Severus feels some of the blood drain from his features, and he stares at Albus, positively astonished and with alarm ringing through his shaking voice.

“You didn’t—”

“No, my boy, of course I didn’t,” Albus interrupts him, raising a hand. “You must have trust in me.”

“Must I?”

“He worries that if you or another of the staff is lost in some mission for the Order of the Phoenix, the children will feel less safe within these walls.” Severus steps toward the fire, feeling its warmth in the room, even as his brow slightly furrows.

“The children?” he repeats, tasting the oddity of the phrasing on his tongue. Albus has a tendency to paraphrase or even quote those he speaks with, and Severus doesn’t imagine he would have designed this sentence without Potter’s own words in mind. “He doesn’t think of himself as one of them?”

“It would seem not,” Albus says. The old man looks more and more tired, as each day passes them by. A part of Severus that he hates, that he is ashamed of, feels sympathy. The rest of him feels only a vague satisfaction. “I confess, Severus, I worry for him, and yet…”

“And yet?” Severus asks, slowly. Albus’ gaze is faraway, his eyes full of thought, and he slowly shakes his head, his long hair shifting behind his shoulders, his left hand slowly stroking the thick whiteness of his beard.

“He seems strong,” Albus murmurs. “Even with his falling at the hands of Lord Voldemort—” Severus prevents himself from flinching, but his distaste must show, as a knowing look shows on Albus face, “he seems to be unerring. He was asking that I display more feeling in my actions.”

“Really? The great Albus Dumbledore, show more sympathy? I had no idea such things were possible.”

“Sarcasm suits you ill, Severus,” Albus says, his tone cold and his gaze stern.

“A pity nothing suits me better, then.” He has learned to stand his ground when Albus attempts to scold at him, stupid as it seems, and he feels the urge to pace the room come swiftly to him. He looks into the fire and forces himself to stay still in his place. “The Wizengamot were called to vote this evening, it seems.”

“The vote passed some minutes ago,” Albus says. He slowly makes his way around his desk, settling himself into his chair with an exaggerated difficulty, and Severus feels powerless, as he always does in this office.

“The Dark Lord called us to meet,” Severus says quietly. “We were interrupted by young Maxie Caine, who of course saw his family members called to the Wizengamot chamber.” Albus is examining the papers scattered on his desk, looking over the various papers Severus is certain he has no interest in, and Severus sets his jaw. “Albus.” The old man looks up at Severus over the half-moon of his glasses, and Severus says, “It has gone too far. You must do something.”

“What do you suggest I do, Severus?” Albus asks quietly, and he is watching Severus in that appraising way Severus hates most, as if Albus is seeing Severus portray emotions for the very first time, and it is a fascination for him. “Would you have me whisk the boy away, and against his will?” Severus clenches his fists as his sides, his lips pressed tightly together: he often shows his true emotions with Albus, in a way he could never with the artifice of himself he keeps to hand when he is in the presence of the Dark Lord.

“He is nothing but a toy at the Dark Lord’s hand,” Severus says. He can see it before him now, see Caine thrown between each of the Dark Lord’s servants at the barest step out of place, see him laid over the Dark Lord’s lap as little more than an ill-kept dog. “He thinks he might be permitted a Dark Mark, be permitted to truly serve him, but he shall not, Albus! He can hardly be convinced to… If the Order were to capture him, allow him to listen to reason—”

“Why should we capture him, Severus? As you say, he is not a true servant. He is not even permitted to attend the meetings of the Inner Circle, is he?” Albus can be so shrewd, when it suits him

“What does that matter?” Severus demands, wheeling on the headmaster and staring him in the face. “This is for the boy’s safety, Albus, not for the information he might offer.”

“Then he should come to me,” Albus says. “And ask for my help.”

“Ask for your—” Severus stops himself, stares into the ether. “What could he ask you for? The boy’s a Squib, Albus!” He spits the word, spits it and hates himself for doing it. “What could be hope for? An apprenticeship beneath Filch?”

“You seem attached to the boy.”

“I’m not attached to the boy!” He feels his rage in his belly and in the back of his throat, burning inside him like some fire desperate to be unleashed, and he says, desperately, feverishly, “Albus, how can you believe it is anything but our fault? Each year we let him return, each year, we let him sit in classes he had no hope of learning from, and here he is so desperate for acknowledgement that he has fallen at the foot of the Dark Lord himself. There is no place for him in the world of magic, but he has spent so long here he couldn’t function outside it – no other Squib would have him! Don’t you feel responsible?” It is the most Severus has spoken uninterrupted in months, and he feels the weight of Albus’ gaze upon him like a heavy winter cloak.

Severus waits for two long moments, and then says softly, “You saved me, Albus.” He hates to admit it. The knowledge is like a bitter weight in his lungs and on his conscience: Albus saved Severus, and Severus never asked for it, never. He asked that Albus save Lily – and Albus hadn’t. But save him?

Severus Snape has never desired to be saved.

“There is too much at risk, Severus,” Albus says softly. “He does not leave Malfoy Manor except to return to his family home, and I fear that may change too, soon enough. He seems to visit his family less and less.”

“Why should he?” Severus asks. “Even the Dark Lord’s cruelties are peppered with the occasional affectionate word. He hardly receives such kindness among his family. Great wizards and witches, every one of them.”

“If you can take Maxie Caine away from Voldemort’s influence, Severus, I might help you find him lodgings. But there is a limit—” Severus stops listening. He stops listening to Albus’ well-reasoned excuses and kindly corrections, is numb to it all, and he turns away from Albus. It all washes over him, Albus’ quiet words, until Albus says, “And what of Malfoy Junior?”

“What of him?” Severus asks. “He grieves for his father. In recent weeks, he seems to have improved on that front: he has returned to his gymnastics, and he seems to be completing his schoolwork.” There it is, then: Maxie Caine has already been left by the wayside. What does a boy like that matter to Albus Dumbledore?

“You don’t think he may follow in his father’s footsteps?” Albus asks, and Severus watches him for a long few moments.

“What criticisms did Potter lay at your doorstep, Albus?” Severus’ tone is soft and cold and stiff. “Has he yet realized the kind of man you are?”

“Is that all, Severus?” Albus asks, and Severus says nothing more: he sweeps from the room, going quickly down the stairs from the man’s office and out into the hall. His footfalls make absolutely no sound at all on the stone floor, and he almost resents the silence of it, despite its being a result of his own charms.

It is nearly three in the morning, now, and Severus knows he will not sleep the night through.

“Severus!” Arm-in-arm-in-arm, Severus is met with Poppy, Minerva and Pomona. Pomona is red in the face, Minerva is giggling every few seconds, and between them, Poppy is swaying with a grin on her face. “What’s wrong?” Pomona asks immediately, and she stumbles forwards, reaching for his hand. Pomona’s hands are clean, but her fingernails are filthy, and yet Severus doesn’t whip his hand back away from her.

“You were in Albus’ office, hmm?” Minerva asks. She nods her head very sagely, squinting slightly. Her glasses are askew.

“The Three Broomsticks closed,” Poppy says miserably. “Rozzie walked us up to the castle.We’re going to the staff room.”

“The staff room?” Severus repeats. Minerva stumbles forwards and puts her hand on Severus’ shoulder, looking down into his eyes. It hardly seems fair that she gets to be both taller and drunker than him, does it?

“We have six bottles of firewhiskey stashed behind the loose brick under the noticeboard,” Poppy whispers, and then makes shushing movements with her fingers. “Come get drunk with us!” Severus looks between Pomona, clutching hold of Severus’ hand as if it is one of her plant leaves, and to Minerva, who is leaning heavily on his shoulder.

He really should say no. The three of them are more than drunk enough, and it is doubtless that Severus ought be the responsible adult here and put the three of them to bed.

“Very well,” he says mildly, and he lets them lead him to the staff room like a black-clad horse to water.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

There is a pain in his head. The pulsing is deep and painful, vibrating through his body and making his head ache whenever it pulses, and it takes Severus some long seconds to realize that slow, rhythmic pain as the sound of his own pounding heart.

“Hangover cure,” he says, and he feels like he has spent the last night gargling pieces of broken glass.

“Sleep,” Poppy replies, her voice muffled against the soft armchair she is tightly hugging. A groan comes from the corner of the room, and Severus blearily looks through half-closed eyes to see Minerva sprawled over Pomona’s belly, the two of them still completely unconscious.

“Fair,” Severus grinds out, and he closes his eyes tightly, tips his head back, and ignores the dryness in his mouth. This, he muses, was extremely irresponsible of him… But what does it matter?

He hears the door of the staff room open, hears the soft, “Oh my,” of Filius Flitwick, and then hears the door close.

Despite the aching pain in his head, Severus manages a smile.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are delighted to welcome you back for your fifth year of schooling here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is a very important year, as it will conclude with your OWL exams. Just to confirm, you are currently enrolled for the following O.W.L. exams:

• Defence Against The Dark Arts*
• Herbology*
• Potions*
• Transfiguration*
• Charms*
• History of Magic*
• Astronomy*
• Care of Magical Creatures
• Ancient Runes

*Classes which are compulsory at Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft & Wizardry.

If you believe you will have some difficulty in any of these classes or if you require more information about your exams, please contact your head of house, who will be able to advise you further. This year you will meet with your head of house to discuss potential career prospects; this meeting will occur some time in October.

I am pleased to inform you that you have also been rewarded the honour of Slytherin House prefect. Please find enclosed your Prefect Badge, which you should fasten to your robes when you arrive at Kings Cross Station for the Hogwarts Express: your prefect duties will be outlined to you in the prefects car on the Hogwarts Express. We are certain you will perform your duties with pride, and will take the responsivities incumbent seriously. Congratulations, Mr Potter!

Yours,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Staring down at the page, Harry smiles slightly, and he takes up the silver badge from the envelope. The black P isn’t so big, and out of curiosity he fastens the badge to the front of his light robes, looking at his reflection in the window and looking at the way the polished badge reflects the light.

Hogwarts Prefect, him.

Harry turns over the page, quickly scanning the supplies list: he has everything he needs to hand. The Potions supplies aren’t altered any, and there’s been no change at all in the equipment needed for Astronomy or Herbology – apparently, at N.E.W.T. level one needs to purchase some more specialized equipment, but at O.W.L. level, the previous equipment is sufficient.

“Harry,” Remus asks, appearing in the open doorway, and Harry glances back from his desk. He watches Remus’ gaze flit over the pile of post on his desk before returning to Harry’s face. “What time would you like to…?” The question is posed very cautiously, as if he’s worried Harry’s going to take several hours, and Harry’s lip twitches.

“I’m actually finished, Remus. None of this needs replying to until later this evening. Let me just grab my shoes.” Remus sags in relief, and Harry stands up from his writing desk, leaving his Hogwarts letter on the wooden surface. Remus stops short, however, staring at the badge on Harry’s robes, his eyes wide.

“You didn’t,” he says, excitedly.

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, and Remus lopes suddenly forwards, throwing his arms around Harry and hugging him tightly, and Harry laughs into Remus’ chest as he lets the man pull him close.

“That’s great! Congratulations, I’m so proud of you— Sirius! Sirius!”

“What?”

“Come here!”

“I’m eating toast!” comes the yell from down the corridor, and Remus rolls his eyes.

“Fuck your bloody toast!” he snaps back, and Harry laughs, leaning into Remus’ side as Sirius comes into the room, his robe front mottled with crumbs and his expression confused. “Look! Notice anything different?” Sirius looks between Harry and Remus very slowly, his brows furrowed over his deep-set, handsome eyes.

“Well, he’s not any talle—” Sirius’ eyes land on the badge, and he howls. “You bastard! He’s a traitor, Moony, a traitor!” Despite the language he’s using, Sirius looks anything but displeased, and he runs up and throws his arms around both Harry and Remus. Harry feels red blood flush through his cheeks, embarrassed at how enthusiastic the both of them are, and yet he just can’t keep the wide grin from his face.

“Prefect Potter,” Remus says delightedly, patting Harry on the back.

“Prefect Potter,” Sirius echoes delightedly, patting himself on the chest and wiping away the crumbs. “What a weasel you are. Were you expecting it?”

“No,” Harry says. “No, not at all. I feel really good about it, though.”

Once Harry has his shoes on, the three of them Floo over to Grimmauld Place, and Harry waves off Sirius and Remus as they split off into Sirius and Narcissa’s office. It’s been a few days since Harry’s trip to Hogwarts with the headmaster, and he can’t help but feel a little strange about it. Remus has calmed down extensively, and no longer seems ready to run off with the werewolf cabal… Harry truly feels as if he’s been taken seriously, like an adult, and he wonders if it’s strange that it’s such a surprise to him.

Harry thinks of Adrian King, and for a moment, his good mood fades away.

“Is that a badge I see on your chest, Mr Potter?” comes a crow from the top of the stairs, and Harry looks up, meeting Draco’s eyes. There’s no anger in Draco’s voice at all, but a low triumph, and Harry grins up at him.

“There is indeed, Mr Malfoy,” Harry calls back, and Draco stands up straight on the landing of the stairs, giving Harry an exaggerated salute before sliding down the bannister with a surprising grace, landing on his feet at the base of the stairs.

“Well done, Harry,” Draco says. “I wondered who it would be – a toss-up between you and Theo, I thought.”

“Do you think he’ll be upset?”

“No,” Draco assures him, shaking his head as they walk together into the dining room. “He might not be able to take points off anybody, but people treat him like a prefect with or without the badge.” Harry chuckles, and he looks around the dining room as they enter. Hermione is sat at the dining room table, her nose buried in a heavy, leather-bound book, and Ginny and Ron Weasley are engaged in a game of chess.

“Is Mrs Weasley here?” Harry asks, and Ginny glances up from the game.

“No, her and Dad are both in the Ministry today, so she asked us to stay here – the twins are about somewhere. Mum’s at a job interview.” Hermione abruptly looks up from her book, her lips parting as she leans forwards.

“A job interview? I didn’t realize that!”

“She’s applying for the Magical Law Enforcement office,” Ron says, his tone very serious. “She says she’s been feeling the empty nest now that the last of us is at Hogwarts and that she wanted to keep busy, but it’s all to do with the war, it seems like.”

“So what, your mother’s going to be an Auror?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow. Harry keeps an eye on him, wondering what offensive thing he’s about to say next, but Draco just finishes, “Isn’t she a bit old? I thought Auror applicants had to be under the age of thirty five.”

“She isn’t applying to be an Auror, you prat,” Ginny says, shaking her head and giving Draco a dirty look. “She’s applying to work in their office as an investigator. She has to go through files, talk with victims, take statements, stuff like that.”

“So your mum is going to help the war effort by becoming a secretary?” Draco asks.

“What are you doing, Draco?” Hermione asks archly. “Going to take on You-Know-Who himself?” Harry sniggers.

“Shut up, Granger,” is the muttered reply as Draco walks away and into the kitchen, and Harry looks between Ron and Hermione, letting his grin show as he looks between the silver shining badges pinned on Ron’s thick, red jumper, and on Hermione’s black cardigan.

“So,” Harry says mildly. “You’re my colleagues, then?” Hermione gasps, and abruptly throws herself from her chair, all of her weight landing on Harry’s shoulders as she wraps herself around his neck, and Harry laughs, lifting her off the ground a little and swinging her around.

“Oh, Harry, that’s so brilliant! I’m so glad – isn’t this great, Ron? Harry’s a prefect too!”

“Yeah,” Ron says, not entirely convincingly, as Harry drops Hermione back onto the ground. Neither Ginny nor Ron look especially pleased about the situation, and in the back of his mind Harry feels the slightest bit of confusion. Ginny is giving Hermione a look that borders on jealousy, but why, Harry has no idea. And Ron?

Well. Ron seems positively foul-tempered.

“How are you?” Harry asks as he sits at the table beside Hermione, and Hermione lets out a low, half-breathed laugh, waving her hand at the stack of books. None of them are on the syllabus, of course, but obviously Hermione feels they need to be read, and Harry chuckles as he sits down beside her. “How are your parents?”

“Oh, settling in, settling in. The Kiwi government was actually really nice about it, honestly – I spoke with their Minister for Magic, actually. I couldn’t believe it, I mean, I wrote her, but to actually meet with me and my parents!” As she speaks, Hermione’s gaze is distant, as if she’s still blown away by it, and Harry’s smile is soft and fond. “They’ve been given a visa for three years… I mean, they’ve wanted to move to New Zealand for a long time, you know? They were always thinking they might move out there after I finished school, and they were so worried about leaving me alone in the UK, and Ron just said to my dad, “Well, is she a witch, or isn’t she?”, and pointed out that going to New Zealand is as easy for breathing for us, I mean, there’s no worry about flights or anything!”

Harry looks to Ron, who has a small smile on his face as he looks down at the chess board between himself and Ginny: Ron, it seems, is winning by a landslide, and Ginny looks very irritable about the fact indeed, especially now that Harry is actually watching the game, and she has an audience to lose in front of.

“It wasn’t much,” Ron mutters. “But it’s better they move out while they still can, before a lot more people do. Dad said that during the First War hundreds and hundreds of people left Britain, and our censuses are still feeling the loss.”

“It won’t get that bad again,” Hermione says. She doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, keeping her gaze on her books, and her voice shakes slightly. “It can’t get that bad again. The First War lasted eleven years.” Harry reaches out, gently puts his hand over hers, just for a second.

“You’re right,” Harry murmurs. He thinks of Stan Shunpike on the bridge, and Canton Nott with his brains dashed on the pavement, and of Evan Rosier strung up by Gilderoy Lockhart. He thinks of a war that lasts eleven years, long enough for a whole set of new children to come through their entire Hogwarts career, and he presses his lips together. “It won’t get that bad again, Hermione.”

“Have you noticed,” Ginny starts, her tone slightly shrill, as if suddenly struck with desperation, “that we’ve always called it the First War? Even in textbooks, it was always the First War, even though everybody thought that they knew You-Know-Who was dead. The First War. Like we always knew there’d be a second one.”

“Even World War I used to be the Great War,” Hermione murmurs. “Until the second one started, anyway.” There’s a tension in the room, settling on each of their shoulders like a heavy blanket, and Harry wants to stand up and say, No, no, we’re not going to think about this anymore, we’re not going to talk about this! All of you are too young to have to worry about this!

Instead, he says, “This was always coming. Everybody knew it, everyone. Even those who believed Voldemort was really dead – they knew it would come from somewhere. But it won’t be the same. This war, if it becomes that… It’ll be short, and bloody, but it will end with as little hardship as possible.”

“How do you know?” says Ron. It’s not said with any especial hostility or anger, or as if he’s challenging Harry, but with genuine askance in his voice and painted on his face.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies. “But we need goals.” The door opens, and Cecilia walks past the four of them, moving into the kitchen. She returns a few moments later with a teapot and a cup, sitting at the table beside Ron, and she looks between the four of them, a little smile on her face.

“How are you four this morning?” They each respond, offering quiet, muted responses, and Cecilia chuckles into her mug.

“God, you lot are dour. Cheer up, ye’ll be back at Hogwarts soon, so.”

“What are you teaching us first this year, Celia?” Harry asks, and Cecilia glances up from her tea, apparently surprised. Her eyes move between each of their four faces, as if looking for some sign of a joke.

“Oh, well, I’m not, lad. Did nobody tell you? I’ve accepted a position at Scoil Eala Dubh in Kerry, I’m not teaching at Hogwarts this year.”

“What?” Ron asks, turning his head and staring at her. “You’re leaving? Why?”

“Circumstances demanded it,” Celia says vaguely, waving her hand.

“Don’t they speak Irish at Scoil Eala Dubh?” Ginny says, arching an eybrow, and Celia lets out a short laugh.

“This accent isn’t for show, you know, I’m from Cork.”

“I thought people didn’t speak Irish in most places,” Hermione says, leaning forwards, and Cecilia shakes her head.

“Irish magicals all speak Irish,” Celia replies, shaking her head slightly. This is a good distraction from the conversation they’d been having, so Harry leans forwards, showing as much interest as the others, despite feeling, he suspects, a little less. “It’s not a boarding school, anyway. I teach every day from nine until six, and then go home. Monday to Friday, with a half-day of teaching on Saturdays.”

“And you only teach in Irish?” Ron asks. “That’s mad.”

“English isn’t banned or anything,” Celia murmurs, seemingly amused. “But it’s a foreign language, like French. The Irish magical community is completely separate from the Muggle community, so Irish always stayed as the dominant tongue. You’ll find the same in some small Welsh or Breton communities.”

“We’ll miss you,” Hermione says, and Cecilia beams at her, looking at Hermione with fondness on her face. Hermione adores Celia, Harry knows, and it’s nice to see the two of them get on so well – they have a lot in common, he guesses. Both Muggleborn, both massive bookworms… Both with dark-haired best friends who have a proclivity for trouble.

“Lindon and I won’t be far off,” Celia says, her lips still quirked up into a smile. “We’re renting a farm outside of Hogsmeade – nothing big, just a little homestead and some land.”

“A farm?” Ron asks, and sniggers. “What would a man like Sartorius know about living on a farm?”

“He doesn’t know the front end of a duck from the arse end of a chicken,” Ginny agrees, and the two of them descend into laughter.

“Yes, well,” Celia agrees. “That’s all true. Thankfully, we’re not working the land.”

“Do you know who we’ve got for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Celia?” Harry asks, willing to change the subject to something other than Lindon Sartorius’ shortcomings, and Cecilia drums her painted nails upon the table, humming.

“Yeah, it came up last night – I was talking to Minerva McGonagall last night when I was on patrol in Hogsmeade. Professor Dumbledore told all the staff yesterday – except Snape, of course, he’s in Dusseldorf ‘til tonight – and it’s a man called Gideon Gibbon.”

“What do you make of him?” Cecilia opens her mouth, and then freezes, considering the question. It’s like she tastes her own answer on her tongue, and chooses to rethink it. Settling her cup slowly down on the table beside her, she says in a very measured tone, “He worked for a long time in the Office For The Removal of Jinxes, Hexes and Curses.”  She pauses.

“Go on,” Harry says. Ginny and Ron have all but abandoned their game now, looking between Celia and Harry with rapt expressions. Celia meets Harry’s gaze, and Harry adds, “There’s something there, something you think is a problem.”

“He’s not a very nice man,” Celia murmurs. “Lindon could tell you more.”

“He’s not here, though,” Harry points out. The door to the kitchen opens, and this time, with the door left ajar for some long moments, the scent of something baking comes through and into the dining room. It’s a sweet, spicy note upon the air, heavy and pleasantly cloying, and although Draco is delicately drying his pale hands on a clean cloth, there are one or two dots of some pale mixture on his rolled-up sleeves. Around his neck and tied tightly at his waist is his father’s pressed black apron: it fits him better than Harry would ever have guessed.

Cecilia’s hands move slowly to her mug, cupping it between her hands: Harry watches as she swirls it three times, and then sets it upside-down on a coaster to drain. Cecilia Hayworth, reading tea leaves?

Harry would never have guessed it.

“Mr Gibbon believes very strongly in blood purity. He started at Hogwarts in the latter half of the war, and I think the ideology very much crystalized in his head – he believes quite firmly in a complete separation of magical people and mundane ones.”

“Lots of people are blood purists, Celia. What’s different about him?” It’s strange, to see Celia so reluctant to talk openly about something: she’s usually so open to talking about anything at all, and Harry wonders if he’s doing the right thing by teasing the answer out of her. Celia exhales.

“Gideon Gibbon, as well as believing in the crucial importance of blood purity, is very keen on the traditional family unit. A mother, a father, and a child – several children, if possible, although for the best raising one should have no more than four. Mr Gibbon believes that although Muggleborns are the greatest threat to wizarding society, being as they are outsiders, the greatest threat from within are those who are homogenital. Homogenital progenitors, according to Mr Gibbon, should be treated in St Mungo’s for their condition; these people create a rift within the family unit, and if allowed to progress unimpeded, will destroy family life as we know it. Those who do not respond to treatment should be put to death, for society’s sake as much as their own.”

“Put to death?” Hermione repeats. “You can’t be serious. He thinks we should kill people for being gay?”

“Only if they don’t respond to treatment… What sort of treatment is that?” Harry asks. “Does that exist?”

“St Mungo’s won’t do it,” Cecilia says. “Gibbon has put papers before the St Mungo’s Board of Directors two or three times in the past decade, but has been rejected point-blank every single time. You have to go to fringe practitioners.”

“How does it work?”

“One healer got an Azkaban sentence,” Celia says, and she spits the word “healer” as if it’s a curse, despite retaining her quiet, unemotional tone, “He was killed in the Lockhart breakout. They were using the Cruciatus Curse.”

“Right, I get it. Send your son to be Crucioed until he can’t look at another man without flinching any more, let alone think about being in bed with him.”

“Harry!” Ron says. “Steady on, mate. You don’t need to be so graphic about it. Still, though, death… That’s a bit bloody harsh, innit?”

“It’s not a common belief,” Draco says. He’s still on the other side of the room, ridiculously far away and hovering beside the kitchen door, as if scared to come further inside. “Most blood purists merely believe such proclivities should be kept private: execution or torture are far outside the realm of normal belief.”

“It’s horrible,” Ginny says, shaking her head. “I mean— Not that it should be a big public thing or anything – that sort of thing is for the bedroom, it’s private, but to kill somebody?” That sort of thing is for the bedroom, Harry repeats in his mind. It’s private. He looks to Ron, hears in his head again, You don’t have to be so graphic about it.

“Why does it have to be about sex?” Harry asks. “You don’t think a man could love another man?” Ginny stares at him, blinking owlishly. Ron looks uncomfortable at the very question.

“Well, that’s not— that’s not how it works, mate,” Ron says. “Love, marriage, they happen between a man and a woman, like. There’s two halves of a whole there – it’s like a fetish, it’s all sex, like. You couldn’t have a real relationship, could you?”

“Couldn’t you?” Harry echoes, half-distracted. The kitchen door clicks as Draco disappears into the other room once more. “Was he a Death Eater?”

“He was too young,” Celia says. “I don’t think he ever joined the Death Eaters.”

“What about now? Do you think he’s a Death Eater now?”

“I— I don’t know.” She doesn’t know. Harry believes that. The doors open, and Lindon immediately throws himself on top of Cecilia, the first of the small group of Order members to come into the room. They’d been on patrol in Hogsmeade, and have just been relieved, but they need to feedback before going about their days.

Gideon Gibbon… Perhaps he is a Death Eater, now. Harry doesn’t know who he would ask to discover whether he is or is not.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Are you absolutely insane?” Severus hisses, and he slams his travelling cloak down on one of the plush chairs Albus keeps for visitors in his office, pacing the floor distractedly. Of course Albus had chosen to make this absolutely ass-minded decision while Severus was in Dusseldorf, attempting to procure some sort of security for the Order in Germany, and he would dare—

“So I am told,” Albus says softly. Severus had not even been told, had not even been given a note: he had merely met Gibbon in the entrance hall, having just Flooed in.

“I’m not joking, Albus!” Severus snaps, feeling the rage burning in his throat and in his belly as he whirls on the old man. He’s almost yelling, he can hear himself – it has been decades since Severus has lost his temper like this, since he has truly raised his voice. “This isn’t something you can sweep off with your charm and ageing dignity! How could you? How could you be so stupid?”

“If you have quite finished bandying insults in my direction, Severus—”

“No, no, Albus, I have not finished!” his voice cracks in the middle, so loud and desperate are his words, and he feels his fingers run through his hair. “I don’t— I simply do not understand, Albus, how you could risk the children in this way. Quirrell was one thing, for he had no desire to harm children, but Gibbon, Albus, he—” Severus’ steam is leaving him: instead of anger, he feels abruptly powerless, and obscenely fatigued. Very slowly, he sinks into the chair across from Albus’ desk, his body turned away from the old man and leaned against the arm of the seat. “Albus,” Severus whispers. “He murders chi— He… The things he believes in, the extent of his cruelty, you might as well have hired—”

So many thoughts are running through his mind he cannot give them voice, and Severus closes his mouth, closes his eyes, presses his face into his hands and lets out a long exhalation as he attempts to draw himself back under his own control. His racing ideas must be quelled, and he must reach some sort of calm.

Severus does not know how many minutes it takes him, but when he looks up, Albus is watching him. His expression is carefully schooled into something resembling neutrality, but the bird, that bastard phoenix, is settled upon the arm of Albus’ arm, and it only chooses to go to him when it feels Albus is in need of comfort. If it would not reveal an element of Severus’ own careful analysis to the old man, Severus would openly scoff.

“Gideon Gibbon revels in seeking out and torturing Muggles, Albus. Children especially. He is an extremist in every sense of the word; even Lucius believed he ought be kept on a tight leash within the Ministry. And you would allow this man to teach the children of Hogwarts? What possessed you to appoint him, Albus?” Severus feels humiliated, feels the extent of his vulnerability in every fibre of his being. He so hates to lose control before Albus, of all people, who so carefully takes note of such things, to be utilized at his leisure. He ought not have betrayed his emotions so clearly, ought not have come to the headmaster’s office when he was so surprised, before he had controlled himself.

“When was Gibbon made a Death Eater, Severus?” Albus asks softly.

“Very soon after the Dark Lord’s return to Britain,” Severus says quietly. “Bartemius Crouch suggested him to the Inner Circle, and the Dark Lord delighted in the thought.”

“So he has been a Death Eater for some time more than six months?”

“Yes,” Severus answers.

“Is he well-viewed within Voldemort’s Inner Circle?”

“Stop it,” Severus says. It is a weakness of him, but he has already shown so much weakness tonight. “Albus, tell me why.”

“There is a lot of pressure on you, my boy,” Albus says, looking at Severus with his blue eyes shining with kindness, and yet Severus knows, knows, that Albus feels as much revulsion for Severus as he does any Death Eater. “With Gibbon’s presence here at Hogwarts, you will no longer be a unique target.”

“But I am a target we can control. Albus, Gibbon roaming the castle—”

“He will be carefully observed, Severus,” Albus murmurs. “We might feed riskier information to Lord Voldemort through Mr Gibbon, and protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, Albus!” Severus snaps. “I will now be under greater scrutiny: not only will I have the worry that a child might write to his or her parent with some analysis of my behaviour that might displease the Dark Lord, but now there is a Death Eater beside me at breakfast, at dinner, a true Death Eater.”

“Lord Voldemort—”

“Albus!” Severus hears the plaintive note in his voice, and he hates himself.

“—will trust you more now, Severus. That we should appoint Gibbon should be the truest test of the Death Eater anonymity: he will know you have revealed nothing to us.”

“Is this a punishment?” Severus asks. “Every year, you refuse me an appointment to position of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and you refuse me my resignation, and now even a Death Eat—”

“Severus,” Albus says, his tone abruptly hard as steel, Severus has crossed a line in speaking so openly, and he shuts his mouth with a soft click, turning his face away from Albus. The very thought of Gibbon being in the castle makes him feel sick to his stomach, but the thought of the man around the children…

He stands, taking up his travelling cloak.

“You won’t do anything foolish, I hope,” Albus murmurs.

“Spare me your hypocrisy,” Severus retorts, and he sweeps from the room. He is not a good man. By no means would Severus ever convince himself he is a good man in any sense of the world: as a Death Eater, he tortured men and enjoyed it, tore to pieces those who made his life hard at Hogwarts, and imagined others with the faces of James Potter and Sirius Black. Severus had been feared even among some of the older Death Eaters for his ability in a torture chamber, and yet he had never preyed upon children.

Gibbon delights in such things, and to take him into the school…

The only reason for his work in Curses, Jinxes and Hexes is so he might enjoy the spread of their effect before he dispels the magic. He is a sadist of the highest order, a monster, and he hasn’t grown to regret, or change, as Severus did.

He is standing outside Severus’ office.

“You were in such a rush when you passed me by!” Gibbon says, smiling warmly. He has rounded cheeks that make him look younger than he is, like some parody of a cherub. He proffers a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey in his left hand, and says, “The caretaker, Filch, directed me here. A Squib, is he?”

“Yes,” Severus says, and allows Gibbon to follow him into his office, although every fibre of his being tells him to kill the man. Severus could. He killed Canton Nott not a month ago, and no one had ever suspected – an accident in the Hall of Staircases, perhaps. It has happened before: it will happen again.

But no. The timing would be far too suspicious.

“Tut tut,” Gibbon says cheerfully as he enters, closing the door behind him. “Well, we have to do something with them, I suppose! Would hardly do to throw them among the Muggles, deficient as they are. Killing them, I often think, would be kinder.”

Severus says nothing, but merely inclines his head as he opens a cupboard for glasses. He “rummages” for longer than he truly needs to, desperately avoiding eye contact with Gibbon’s bright eyes, avoiding looking at his cherubic features and warm smile. Severus has tortured and killed, still delights in it when he can turn his talents upon a fellow Death Eater, but he could never look so beatific as he did such things, never.

Gibbon scares him, Severus realizes. The thought hits him with all the force of a train.

“I beg your pardon?” Severus asks, realizing Gibbon is looking at him expectantly.

“Do you enjoy it? Being Head of House?” Gibbon repeats, still charming. So charming.

“I do,” Severus says. “To offer support to the betters of our society is, of course, a great honour. In any of the other houses, of course, Mudbloods would be among our stock, but Slytherin House has no such trouble.” A lie, a lie, a lie, a lie. Severus has more lies stored within him than he has buttons on his robes. He speaks smoothly, clawing back the control he had let slip with Dumbledore, and he gives Gibbon a sly half-smile. “What a delight it is to have a co-worker who knows the truth of the world.”

Beaming, Gibbon begins pouring firewhiskey into each of their glasses, and when Severus drinks, he drinks more than he ought.

He sits at a table, his thronelike chair high behind him, and he slowly looks about the room, unblinking. Malfoy Manor’s main hall is dark, dimly lit only by the dying candles that rest upon the dining table, and although a fire flares in the hearth, it is silent, and he feels no heat from it.

To his right hand sits Hermione, her gaze blank as she stares forwards, and to his left sits Draco Malfoy. He looks down the length of the table, sees friend after friend and ally after ally seated in dining chairs. There are dozens at his table, and the hall seems to stretch on forever to accommodate them. Everyone sits in the same position, back straight, gaze forwards, hands spread flat on the mahogany table – everyone except Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, for Narcissa’s hand rests on top of Lucius’.

Lucius’ eyes are sunken in, the skin sallow and wrinkled on his face, and Harry can see his skull plainly through the greying, shrunken flesh. On the table, there is a goblet, and Harry takes it, sipping from the red liquid within, and then he leans in, gently tilting Hermione’s chin towards him and pressing his mouth to hers.

Wine (if wine it is) slips from his mouth to hers, and he feels her swallow. Satisfaction reigns: Harry steps on to Percy Weasley.

This is different.

He grabs hold of Percy by his curled red hair, pulls his head back hard, and Percy’s gasping moan is stopped short when Harry crushes their mouths together; wine runs over Percy’s teeth and tongue, but more drips down his lips, leaving him gasping under Harry’s hand.

Blaise kisses Harry soundly; George doesn’t spill a drop; the lips of Lindon Sartorius barely ghost over Harry’s own, but they taste like peppermint and honey. Mouths meeting blend into a strange, mingled mix of memories, forceful or soft, biting or gentle, pleasant or painful. Harry’s lips never meet those of Severus Snape’s: their eyes meet over the table, and Harry feels the wine drain slowly from his mouth although he does not swallow. He stares, hypnotized, when Snape’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“My lord,” says a voice, and Harry turns his head. The goblet remains clasped in his left hand, and two hands rest slowly over Harry’s own.

“I’m not your lord,” Harry says. His voice echoes. Draco’s eyes shine.

“May I?” Draco asks, his voice silky. Harry takes a slow sip of the goblet (it never empties, why does it never empty? Can all be infinite?), but it is Draco that closes the gap between them. His mouth presses to Harry’s, and Harry gives him all the wine he has, but Draco’s mouth remains on Harry’s, his lips hot and urgent, his tongue licking its way into his mouth, and Harry gasps.

The goblet tumbles to the ground with a metallic clatter, and Draco kisses him ever harder, his hands around Harry’s throat, his pale lips stained with wine.

“Slake his thirst,” begins the chant from the table, and Draco’s mouth becomes rougher and rougher. He is drinking of Harry now, not of the wine, and the chant comes louder and louder, ringing in Harry’s ears: “Slake his thirst! Slake his thirst! Slake his thirst!”

Harry wakes in a cold sweat, filthy and wet from his head to his toe, and he looks at the clock. Three minutes past five. Sighing, he pulls himself out of bed, opens the curtains, and looks outside. It’s the very first day of autumn, but the sky is dark with thick, grey clouds, so dense that barely any sunshine comes through.

Harry frowns. There were no storms forecast for today, and yet…

Harry looks to his Hogwarts robes laid out over his desk, and his fully packed trunk. He needs to shower, needs to get dressed. He can think about his dreams later on.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

With a thunderclap, the black heavens open, and rain begins pouring down in heavy drops, splattering on Harry’s shoulders and his hair as he takes hold of a first year’s trunk and passes it up to Josiah Shaw, a burly Hufflepuff prefect in the sixth year. Anthony Goldstein then levitates it into the shelving unit put aside for the luggage.

“Let first years onto the train first, please!” Harry calls over the bustle of the station, and he is glad to step away from the platform and back under the roof of the station. “Smith, did you hear me?” Harry grabs Zachariah Smith by the back of the robes, pulling him back, and he makes a polite gesture to the three shy girls moving cautiously through the crowd. They each give him grateful smiles and uncertain glances to Smith, and hop up onto the train.

“Who died and put you in charge, Potter?” Smith asks, getting closer so that they’re nose to nose, and Harry lets out a derisive sound.

“I did,” Harry retorts, and he shoves Smith away. He wishes he could take points off already, but points can’t be given or taken away until the hourglasses are primed during the opening speech of the year, according to the short manual of rules he’d received in the post a few days before. “Hey, hey. Are you alright?” He catches a desperate-looking girl by the shoulders: she has blonde hair that is feather-like around her head, and she is looking hurriedly from one side of the station to the other.

“My sister, I’ve lost my sister!” she says, bouncing on her heels. “I only stepped away for a second, and then she was gone, and I—”

“What’s your sister’s name?” Harry asks, cutting through before the little girl can work herself up any more.

“Daphne!” Keeping his hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, Harry puts his wand to his throat and murmurs Sonorus. He puts on the most officious tone he can muster, deepening his voice a little, and straightening his back; despite her embarrassment, the little girl laughs.

“Can Daphne Greengrass please come to the lost and found? We are at the righthand side of the platform, below the green lamp. I repeat: can Daphne Greengrass please come—” Harry laughs as Daphne shoves him hard in the chest, and he watches as she grabs hold of her sister, pulling her close. Dispelling the charm, Harry says, “You must be Astoria.”

“Hi,” she says; although no longer panicked, she now seems positively shy, and her hand tremors as Harry shakes it.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he says quietly. “I’m in the same year as your sister.”

“More’s the pity,” Daphne says, but her lips quirk up at the sides, and she ducks her head to try to hide her smile. “Come on, Astoria. Would you like to sit with me and Tracey, or shall we go and find a first year carriage for you?”

“Uh—” Harry turns away, letting the Greengrass sisters step up onto the train, and he can’t help but find himself a little amused. Daphne is such a severe girl, and seeing her become so tender around her sister is strange to him. And yet Harry can’t shake the idea that if things were different, if the world wasn’t on the very cusp of war, perhaps she might not be so tender. Perhaps Astoria Greengrass would not have been so upset or so lost or so very distressed.

Above them, there’s another clash of thunder, and although most of the children moving through the station barely seem to notice, Harry sees a dozen adults, most of them parents, flinch and look around them, searching for an enemy which isn’t there.

“What does it say, Cecilia?” Harry had asked when they’d walked into the kitchen together; Celia had been moving with her head down, her gaze focused on the inside of her teacup.

“Do you put much stock in divination, Harry?”

“I do if you do.”

“There’s a crown here. That’s nobility, or success.” Harry had caught a glimpse of the cup, and he had seen nothing but black blobs of tea leaves clinging to the sides of the ceramic.

“For you?” he’d asked. She had shaken her head.

“For you.”

“What else?”

“Somebody’s going to die. Somebody important.”

“Important to whom?” Harry has asked. “To me?”

“You’re asking the right questions,” Cecilia had murmured, and she’d flicked on the tap, rinsing the mug under the stream of water. On the side, cooling down on a wire rack, were a series of neatly-made and dusted scones: Draco had worked at them carefully that afternoon, though Harry had already known they wouldn’t be the same as his father’s, much as Draco would try. “You should have taken Divination as a subject.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Harry had murmured. “It’d drive me mad: I’d see omens everywhere.”

“Yes,” Celia had agreed immediately. “You probably would.”

“Mr Potter,” says a voice behind him, and he turns, looking into the strong features of Billy O’Neill, the conductor of the Hogwarts Express. His uniform, bright red with golden trimmings to match the Express itself (it had been commissioned by a British alumnus some century before), gives him the air of a military sergeant, and yet the way he looks at Harry makes him feel strange, as if he’s looking to Harry for orders.

“Hi there, Mr O’Neill,” Harry says, giving him a nod of his head, and when O’Neill presses an envelope into Harry’s hand, subtly, Harry quickly tucks the page into his inside pocket. “How are you feeling?”

“Tense,” O’Neill admits immediately. He stands straight beside Harry, his hands neatly behind his back, his chin high and his shoulders squared. Harry scans the platform as they stand together, unable to keep his gaze still, and O’Neill continues, “I don’t remember a day like this in all my life, Mr Potter, and I’ve been the conductor of this train for near twenty-five years. The driver, Sam, in forty years there’s never been a day like this, and her da said he’d never had a day like it neither.” People are looking at Harry as they pass him by, and Harry sees the mix of fear, uncertainty and admiration in their eyes, and he can only imagine what they’re saying to each other about him and his ill-fated “duel” with Voldemort in Diagon Alley.

“It doesn’t bode well,” Harry murmurs. “But I don’t want to freak anybody out, either: Aurors will be keeping an eye on the train’s progress, so we’ll be safe, I think.”

“We’ve always had a beacon on the train, just in case. Sam’s a first-rate wizard, of course, but you know…” I’m a Squib, Harry finishes for him in his own head. O’Neill’s name had come up at one or two meetings in Grimmauld Place, and while Harry hadn’t shared his knowledge of O’Neill’s leanings with Lockhart, he’d been passed over as someone to introduce to the Order of the Phoenix.

“I know,” Harry says. “I’ll see you, Mr O’Neill. Good luck.”

“You too, Mr Potter. You stay safe, now.” O’Neill begins to call over the crowd, his brogue carrying on the air and cutting through a lot of the English voices, louder and more powerful. Definitely something like an army sergeant.

The prefect carriage isn’t difficult to find. Harry sits down beside Tracey Davis, the other Slytherin prefect, and looks around the room: with twenty-four prefects in all, the prefects are awarded an entire carriage to themselves at the end of the train, with a long table they can each sit around.

The Head Girl – a beautiful Gryffindor girl with long tresses of flaming red hair – chairs the meeting, and it’s obvious to Harry how very nervous she is, but the Head Boy keeps giving her encouraging nods as she speaks. They’re given the password for the Prefect’s Bathroom – aloe vera – and given information about that year’s weekly prefect meetings, which are to be held on Thursday evenings.

It’s simple stuff, standard, and much of the meeting seems to be a rehash of the information in the prefect’s manual, established verbally for the sake of clarity, and Harry loses a little interest, choosing to glance around the table and examine his fellow prefects. Ravenclaw have selected Cho Chang and Anthony Goldstein; Hufflepuff have Hannah Abbott and Ernie McMillan.

“And as for rounds, we’ll establish a schedule this Thursday. New Prefects, we’d like you to do rounds of the castle for an hour in the earlier evening, just after common room curfew. We like to have at least two prefects on for each hour, but there’s less pressure on you, as you’re still getting the hang of it.”

“Are we doing rounds on the train?” Harry asks.

Patricia Simpson, the Head Girl, blinks at him. “Um,” she says, her cheeks flushing red, and she hesitates before saying, “Er, well, we usually leave that up to personal choice, you know.”

“You don’t think there’s a more pressing need to keep an eye out this year?” Harry asks, his tone blunt. Patricia’s gaze flits from his eyes up to the scar on his forehead, and Harry clenches his fist under the table.

“Um, ah, well, I— That is to say, I, um, I think—” The red flush slowly drains from Patricia’s face, her flesh paling, and she sits heavily down in her seat. Harry turns his head to the side, exchanging a withering look with Tracey Davis, and then he stands up.

“Excuse me, then,” he says, and he walks out into the corridor. He begins to move up and down the train, checking on individual carriages and speaking with people in each of the cars. There’s a little anxiety among some of the older students, and Harry can see that many of them are stiff and uncertain, but the younger students seem a little less aware of what’s going on.

“Hi, Harry! How’re you?” Dennis Creevey asks excitedly, and Harry gives him a wan smile; he’s been walking up and down the train for several hours now, and it’s beginning to take its toll. Excitedly, Dennis bounces from his place on the carpet, and Harry looks between him and Beth Wei, who are heavily involved in a game of cards. Artemis Henderson and Ned Buttress are both fast asleep in the corner of the carriage, and another second year Harry doesn’t recognize is watching the card game with a rapt expression.

“I’m great, Dennis. You guys okay in here?”

“Mmm,” Beth Wei says, pushing her glasses further up her nose and looking up at Harry. “You look good. I heard you died.”

“Yes, well, I got up again,” Harry says. “Call for a prefect if you need anything.” He slides the door closed. He stops in one of the connecting carriages, looking outside of the window. Water comes down the windows in thick, fat drops, and even though they’re several hours of London now, a set of black clouds seems to track the Express through the English countryside.

“Have we reached Scotland yet?” comes a voice from behind him, and Harry glances back. Draco comes slowly to stand beside him, looking out of the window, and Harry shakes his head.

“We’re nearly at the border,” Harry answers, and Draco looks at him, examining him carefully. Harry thinks of the dream, thinks of Draco’s mouth on his and Draco’s hands around his throat, and most of all, thinks of the chant: Slake his thirst. Slake his thirst. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Draco murmurs. “Apparently you made Patricia Simpson faint.”

“Oh, I didn’t make her faint,” Harry mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to keep the scowl off his face. “She faints at the barest stimuli – Fred was saying she was fainting every day during her O.W.L.s. I don’t know how she’s supposed to be Head Girl if she loses consciousness at the first harsh word.”

“You look tired.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” Harry admits. “I was up late, and then I had a nightmare. Was awake much earlier than I wanted to be.”

“Come sit down for a bit. You need to eat something, Harry.” Draco is looking at Harry with a lot of care, as if he’s worried Harry might snap at him for daring to say so, but he’s right, and Harry knows it. With a reluctant nod of his head, he follows Draco to the compartment he’d taken a while back: Theodore is reading a book in a script Harry doesn’t recognize, and Blaise is looking studiously out of the window. Hermione is sat on the floor, reading her own book.

“Glad to see everybody’s feeling cheery and chatty today,” Harry says dryly, and when Theo silently presses a cauldron cake into Harry’s hand, he sits down and begins to eat it. He looks at Blaise’s finely chiselled features, but Blaise barely seems to notice Harry’s there. “Sorry about the prefect thing, Theo. Were you surprised?”

“Not really,” Theo says mildly, turning a page in the book – he’s reading it, Harry realizes, from right to left. He supposes it’s Hebrew. “I wrote a letter to Professor Snape in May, saying that if I was in considerations for the role of prefects, I would prefer to be removed from the list.” Harry and Draco share a look, and then both chuckle.

Theo looks up, glancing between the two of them. “What?”

“Nothing,” Draco says, amused. “Go back to your studying.” Harry sits back, taking small bites of his cauldron cake, and when Hermione leans back against his knees, he relaxes a little more. Lightning flashes across the sky with such force that they all shift in their seats, but despite the storm outside, Harry is able to close his eyes for a few moments. Just a few moments – just to let him rest his eyes for a little while.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Something must be done,” Severus says. The balcony they stand on is enchanted, and the rain that comes down from the grey skies is gently persuaded to change its direction, leaving them dry where they stand.

“We cannot move to do anything out of the ordinary,” Albus says quietly. “We have placed a group of Order members in Hogsmeade, as well as having Aurors stationed outside the gates and some patrolling the road between the castle and the village. Severus, this is intended only to scare the children.”

“And if anybody is killed tonight, Albus? Will that scare the children?” Despite himself, he knows that Albus is right, and he looks out over the grounds. Mud runs in brown rivers down the hilly path that winds down to Hogwarts house, and the lake’s surface is choppy and black. Severus and Gibbon had each been instructed to remain at Hogwarts that evening, so as to not arouse suspicion, but there will be an attack today… And yet, where?

In Hogsmeade? In Diagon Alley? In both?

“How are you getting on with Professor Gibbon?” Albus asks, in a delicate tone. Severus looks down at his own hands, which are rested on the balcony’s edge wall. It had been Albus who had suggested Severus spend less time coming directly to his office, and yet here Severus feels much more exposed, despite the lacking visibility of the day, and the fact that Gibbon had left the castle to perform some “errands” in the village. It is barely one o’clock in the afternoon, and yet Severus could easily believe it was midnight, it is so very dark.

“He thinks of us as bosom friends, it would seem,” Severus replies. Gibbon has come to his office twice merely to socialize, and it is to Gibbon’s liking that they walk back to Hogwarts together on the occasions that they are summoned by the Dark Lord. Gibbon’s cheer chills Severus to his very bones, and the casual way he views their summons worries him for more reasons than one. “Just this morning, as we returned form the Dark Lord, he was denigrating Maxie Caine to me.”

There is a pause. Severus takes the smallest amount of petty satisfaction in it.

“Oh?” Albus says.

“Yes, yes,” Severus says, turning his head. “According to Professor Gibbon, Albus, Maxie Caine is an enemy among us. Being as he is, of course, a homosexual.” Albus’ mouth tightens slightly, and Severus returns Albus’ discomfort with a savage smile, showing his yellowed teeth. “Oh, yes. Would you like to know what he said to me? He said, Severus, these deviants are becoming bolder in recent years: they must be stopped. One propositioned me, in the very middle of Red Stockings, on Fargo Alley! I say, Severus, what would you do? If one of these disgusting little creatures offered you his member?”

“And what did you say?” Severus gives a shrug. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, wearing this papery disguise to go unnoticed among the Death Eaters, as if he belongs there. He is nothing Gideon Gibbon could admire: he is a Half-Blood, is he not? And an Irishman, and a homogenital. Stupid word, created by men who know little of the English language.

“I said, “Oh, I don’t know, Gideon. Put it in my mouth?” Severus bites out.

“Severus,” Albus scolds, but there is no shock in his voice: he knows better than to show shock when Severus is frustrated. “Do not be so crass.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Severus murmurs, looking out over the grounds. Hagrid is holding a lantern high above his head, barking orders to the reluctant herd of Thestrals to come for their dinner. Through the mist of rain, he is but a brown blob far beneath them, and Severus cannot make out the majority of his words before they are swept away by the wind. “I changed the subject. He thinks Caine is a corrupting influence, that he encourages steadfast Pureblood men to lose their sense.”

“Caine is bedding the other Death Eaters?”

“Bedding implies he’s taking something of an active role,” Severus murmurs. “Bartemius has taken a shining to Caine, and Caine would hardly be in a position to refuse if he wished to.”

“Does he wish to?” Albus asks, but what does it matter? Caine can’t be saved: Severus knows that. He always did. “Perhaps you ought take the boy under your own wing.”

“What?” Severus turns his head, staring at the old man, but Albus is intentionally looking out over the grounds, so that he need not meet Severus’ searching eyes. “My apologies, Albus, it did not occur to me that the best way to keep young Caine from the abuses of my fellows might be to abuse him myself!”

“I was hardly suggesting—”

“I know exactly what you were suggesting,” Severus hisses. “You think I might soften myself, is that it? Show some vulnerability, allow myself to be romanced? Caine is a child, and you would have me charm him into my bed.”

“For the boy’s sake, Severus, if not your own.”

“Don’t make this about sacrifice.” What is it that runs through that old man’s head? Severus’ skin crawls at the very thought of Caine turning his lovestruck gaze on Severus himself, at the idea of acting possessively with the other Death Eaters – an act certain to end in his own demise, as the Dark Lord makes it perfectly clear who Caine belongs to.

“Severus,” Albus says quietly. He is standing before Severus all of a sudden, and he places his hands upon Severus’ shoulders, very gently. Severus feels hemmed in by the sudden touch, and he stiffens, but he does not pull away. “I did not mean to insult you. You are trying your best, my boy, and I cannot fault you for that. I was referring to your educating the boy, Severus, not mounting a seduction of him.”

Severus feels shame mount within him, and much to his chagrin, he feels a flush of slight blood come into his cheeks, tinging the white skin red.

“You are too sensitive, I think, to Gibbon’s prejudices,” says Albus softly, and when he draws his hands away, Severus is torn between relief and a wish that the contact would continue. “Just because he thinks you a monster doesn’t mean you are one.”

“I am one,” Severus retorts, without any real malice in his tone. “I must prepare for the Slytherins.” He sweeps from the balcony and into the castle, making his way quickly down toward the dungeons: he can be grateful, at least, that Gibbon seems to lack any real knowledge of many of the shortcuts within the castle’s walls, and is so many floors above his head.

And tonight…

Severus only wishes he knew what would happen tonight.

“Harry,” says a soft voice. Harry tries to lean away from it, wants to stay in his bed, but the voice has a hand, and the hand is cold, and it is patting him on the cheek. He lets out a soft grumble of sound, trying to push the hand away, but the hand becomes more insistent, pressing harder against his skin. “Harry.”

Harry blinks open his eyes, and he looks into the eyes of Blaise Zabini. Blaise is very close to him, his dark eyes full of worry, and Harry realizes with a sinking sensation that his own hands are clasped around Blaise’s wrists.

“We’re coming into the village, Harry,” Blaise murmurs. “You need to wake up.” Harry glances around the compartment, which is empty of anybody else, and he sees that all of Theo and Hermione’s books are gone, likely having been packed away into their trunks.

“Oh,” Harry murmurs. “Sorry.” Blaise gives an inclination of his head and then draws away: Harry feels a distinct urge to grab at his wrists and keep him close, pull him closer, even, but he doesn’t. He just stands, taking his cloak out of his trunk and pulling it on over his head. The cloak had been a gift from Augusta Longbottom that year, and Harry knows it will soon become his favourite garment: the cloak is made of a shimmering silver wool with black trimmings, and it is enchanted with a warming charm and another for impermeability. Rain doesn’t so much as splash the thing. Buckling the cloak at his neck and drawing the hood over his head and looking at his reflection in the train window.

He looks ready. He feels himself stiff in front of the makeshift mirror, feels the tension he’d forgotten in sleep flood back to his form. He remembers Cecilia’s prediction, and the dream he’d had last night, and he thinks about the storm above their heads, still pounding on the roof of the train.

Harry sets his jaw, and makes his way off the train.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“First years, follow Mr Hagrid, please!” Harry calls over the pounding rain and gently nudging the youngest children in the direction of Hagrid’s huge, towering form. Hagrid shoots him a smile that Harry can barely see through the mist of the rain, and Harry returns it. “Don’t wander off, guys! Stick with your prefects and get into the carriages as soon as you can!” Harry flicks his wand into his hand, and he throws a few lantern charms into the air. They hover above the students and lead a simple path toward the carriages, easier to follow in the dark, impenetrable grey of the lashing storm.

“Who died and put you in charge, Potter?” comes the voice of Zachariah Smith, and Harry shoves the other boy away from him.

“I did! Get the Hell away from me, Smith, and be glad I can’t dock points yet!” There’s a rumble of thunder above their heads, and a few of the children, mostly second years, wince and let out noises of shock. Smith disappears into the dark, and Harry looks to the kids.

“Don’t worry, it’s just the storm,” Harry calls to them. “Off you go, into the carriages. You guys stick together!”

It’s slow-going. As well as the rain, there’s a thick fog in the air, and it’s difficult to see a few feet in front of one’s face – every now and then, Harry hears one student colliding with another, followed by sounds of pain and apology. When everyone is off the train, Harry hops on, doing a quick scan of each of the carriages, and he picks up a forgotten Hufflepuff scarf and a copy of Miranda Goshawk’s Book of Spells, Grade III, but nothing else, thankfully, and no students. The Hufflepuff scarf, he notes with a grim satisfaction, is labelled, “Z. Smith.”

He releases Hedwig from her cage, allowing her to settle on Harry’s shoulder (taking advantage of the charm on his cloak, apparently), and he sets his trunk to levitate behind him.

“Professor Flitwick,” Harry says as he steps off the train. He can barely see the old man through the haze of fog, and then there’s a sudden burst of visibility.

“There you are, Potter. You’re the last of the prefects. You can just catch the last carriage there.”

“No, I thought I’d walk up behind the carriages with one of the staff, sir. Picked up some lost things from the train.” The old man smiles at him, looking a little surprised.

“Ah, top thinking!” Flitwick says, and he takes the scarf and book both from Harry’s hands, enchanting them smaller and slipping them into his coat pocket. As they begin to walk, the very last of the carriages starts off ahead of them. “Have you seen a thestral before, Potter?” Flitwick had noticed, it seems, how Harry’s gaze had focused on the strange, skeletal beasts that tow the carriages, and he slowly shakes his head.

“I’ve seen sketches,” he says. “Luna speaks pretty highly of them – uh, Luna L—”

“I know Miss Lovegood very well,” Flitwick says, a touch regretfully, and he glances back over the village as a flash of lightning illuminates the sky. It isn’t grey, Harry realizes in the sudden burst of light, but a deep purple, like a burn salve reducing in a cauldron. “Feeling the chill?”

“Not so much,” Harry says. “I got this cloak for my birthday, and it’s helping. Plus the owl, of course.” Hedwig nips at Harry’s temple, and he chuckles, reaching up to stroke the side of her neck. Even as he walks alongside Flitwick, however, he cannot shake the tension coiled within him, and the knowledge, the certain knowledge, that something is just about to happen.

“Ah, the owl: truly an excellent scarf for the ages.” Flitwick smiles, glancing around them. “I admit, Potter, I didn’t expect to have you as a prefect.”

“You expected Theo Nott?” Harry asks, and Flitwick coughs delicately, hiding the sound behind his hand. Harry laughs. “Yeah, he expected it too, apparently – wrote Professor Snape to say he’d like to be removed from considerations, if he was on the list.” Flitwick’s laugh is soft and low, and although his voice is quite high and positively squeaky, his laugh is a rumbling sound that seems to come from deep within his throat. A silence spans between them for a few long moments, until something snaps between them: as one, Flitwick and Harry whirl on their feet, their wands raised.

The fox, soaked through from the rain, stares at them, horror struck, before shooting off the path and into the woods.

“Nervous, Potter?”

“No more than you, Professor.” Harry stares down into Flitwick’s eyes for a few seconds: the two of them share a stance, both with squared shoulders and their wands ready at their sides. As the two of them turn back to the castle, continuing the climb up to the gates. “I was sure something was going to happen. I felt it in my bones – the rain, the tension in the air.”

“I’m not ashamed to tell you, Potter, I felt exactly the same.” Flitwick sighs, shaking his head slightly. The gates open to let Harry and Flitwick in, and then close behind them with a clunk of iron on iron. “Sometimes in times of war, our instincts are wrong. We get worked up over things that aren’t there, we see clues where there aren’t any. I’m one hundred and twelve years old, Potter, and I still get these things wrong.”

“It’s not that I wanted something to happen,” Harry murmurs. “But I can still feel the tension in my chest, you know? Like I’ve been winding up a spinning top and then put it back in a drawer.”

“An astonishingly apt analogy,” Flitwick says, and he glances up at Harry. “What are you thinking you’ll do when you leave Hogwarts?”

“Uh,” Harry says, the question taking him by surprise. Hedwig shifts upon his shoulder, leaning the pleasant heat of her body against the side of his ear. “Well, I hadn’t given it too much thought. I know a snake sanctuary that’d be glad to hire me, and I— well, I think Mr Ollivander implied he’d offer me an apprenticeship once, but I’m not sure.”

“Oh, don’t listen to Garrick,” Flitwick says dismissively, waving his hand. “Nobody understands a word he says: he’s been that way since school. Listen, Potter, perhaps you should consider a career in writing.”

“Writing?” Harry repeats.

“Yes, yes. You write a lot of letters, don’t you? There’s a positive tornado around you at breakfast every morning – you can’t write that many letters without having a little panache to your style. You could write for the Prophet, of course, but you could be a novelist, a poet, perhaps even a biographer.” On one level, Harry is aware that Flitwick has changed the subject to distract him, but on another, there’s a deep warmth in his chest, a bubble of gratitude. He has never considered that writing may be an actual career path before, and the thought strikes him with all the suddenness of a bolt of lightning. Remus writes children’s stories – Harry could do that, couldn’t he? Write?

“Thank you, Professor Flitwick,” Harry says, very genuinely. The carriages are beginning to stop now, and let the students out. They each run quickly into the courtyard, many of them holding their cloaks above their heads to keep from getting wet. Harry lingers with Flitwick, unpacking the trunks from the backs of the carriages and setting them aside in a neat pile beneath the eaves of one of the maintenance sheds, where the worst of the rain is kept from them. Hedwig flies off toward the owlery amidst a cloud of other owls (she’d probably been waiting for that), and when they’re finally done, Harry and Flitwick stop in the courtyard. Through the open doors of the entrance hall, he can see the new first years gathered, waiting to go into the Great Hall for their sorting. Looking at them – there are around forty in all, Harry realizes with astonishment, nearly double the number of students in his own year – Harry cannot help a sense of vague pride in his chest. Perhaps it’s silly of him, but the idea he may be looking at some of the new Slytherins for the year delights him.

“We’ll go in with them,” Flitwick murmurs, leading the way into the courtyard. “That way we won’t disrupt the proceedings or distract at all.”

“Makes sense,” Harry says. “Thanks, Professor Flitwick, for letting me help tonight. I guess I needed some way to—” There’s a rumble on the air, much more powerful than thunder, and it shakes the very floor they’re standing on: a few loose tiles come down from the castle roof, shattering on the ground around them, and in the entrance hall the first years all tighten together, letting out yells and screams of shock as the very floor shakes below them.

Harry turns and stares down the hill, where the soft lights of the village are usually visible in the distance. Even through the fog, Harry can see no soft lights: smoke is billowing up and into the sky, and the flames are very high.

Hogsmeade is burning.

“Professor Flitwick,” Harry says, but Flitwick is already moving.

“First Years, into the Great Hall!” Flitwick orders, and Harry follows after him, ushering the children into the next room as Flitwick throws open the doors and makes his way inside. “We need wands in the village, now! Staff, to our even split! Students, stay seated!” Nobody disobeys, but it occurs to Harry that they may not be able to.

“I need another table,” Harry mutters under his breath, and with a pop, two stone tables appear in the space between the long tables and the front wall, with twenty or so spaces on each. Sometimes, Harry thinks slightly deliriously, he loves magic more than he can say. “First Years, sit down!” he says, splitting the children off onto each side.

The staff mobilize in a way Harry is astonished by: while Albus, McGonagall and Snape stand neatly behind the table, the rest of the staff seem to split in a way that’s almost choreographed. Delaney, Sinistra, Burbage and Babbling all come away from the staff table, walking in a march toward Flitwick: Vector, Sprout, Hagrid and Pomfrey all stay seated, although they each look stiff.

“Hogsmeade is under attack,” calls Albus’ voice over the babble of the students, and everybody goes silent as Flitwick and his staff move into the entrance hall. “To keep everybody safe, we will remain here in the Great Hall.” Harry sees Snape murmur something to McGonagall, and immediately she transforms into a cat midleap, streaking from the hall at such a speed Harry would never have guessed it was her.

“What if we want to stand and fight, Professor Dumbledore?” Harry looks to Cedric Diggory, who has stood up at the table. “I’m seventeen, sir. I’ve the right.”

“You do, Mr Diggory,” Albus says, the sound of his voice ringing in the room. He flicks his hand, and then says, “Those of you who are of age, it is your right to go down to the village if you so choose. Those of you who are not, the castle will know. Do not try to leave your tables.” Sure enough, the younger students can’t move: Harry can see Ernie Macmillan doing his best to fight the magic keeping him tethered to the Hufflepuff table.

Twenty or so students stand up from each of the tables – mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, severa; Ravenclaws, and two seventh year Slytherins: Rebekah Amstell and Abraham Hamish, holding hands as they stand from the table, with matching prefect badges upon the robes.

Harry slips from the hall.

He takes a corridor to the left – it leads to a passageway out onto the grounds, closer to the gates – and he feels a hand tight on the back of his robes, flinging him against a wall. Snape is not a tall man, but in this moment Harry feels Snape towers over him, and he squares his shoulders, looking defiant.

“The castle didn’t stop me,” Harry says immediately. “You can’t—”

“The castle didn’t stop you because you weren’t sat down,” Snape growls.

“You can’t stop me from going!”

“I believe you will find that I can.”

“But you can’t, sir, I need to be down there, I need to—”

“You need to be safe. You could be killed, Potter, do you—”

“I’ve already been killed! What does it matter?”

“Potter!”

“Sir!” Silence reigns between them, and Harry feels himself breathing heavily as he stares into the eyes of his Head of House. He feels desperate to go out and into the village, cannot bare to think of sitting up in the castle with everybody else. “Sir, you don’t understand. If I stay here, and somebody dies, and I might have—”

“There are much more competent wizards than you in the village, Potter,” Snape snaps, fury radiating from him. “You arrogant little child – and what do you think will happen, Potter, if you are killed? What will happen, when the entire country views you as a figurehead?” Harry hesitates. But he isn’t a figure head, he isn’t – he’s an actual person, a person who can fight. “And to take your ridiculous exercise to its extreme, what if the castle is attacked, and—”

“They won’t attack the castle,” Harry says.

“And how, pray, do you know that?” Snape asks.

“I feel it in your gut.”

“Oh, well, if Harry Potter’s famous gut has such tremendous Divining powers, we—”

“I’m going.”

“Do you think you’re special, Potter? Do you truly think—”

“Yes!” Harry nearly yells. “Yes, I do think I’m special, okay? And sure, I’m arrogant and a figurehead and whatever else! I’m all of those things, and I’m a terrible person, and I’m going.” Harry begins to walk down the corridor, his stride fast, and to his surprise, he doesn’t hear Snape yell after him, or grab him by the back of his robes, or hex him.

He begins running down toward the Hogwarts gates, and he doesn’t look back.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“I’m going,” the boy says again, and Severus wishes he could just knock the idiot child out and be done with it. Does he not understand? Does he not truly understand the gravity of this situation, understand how much he means to the Order of the Phoenix? Severus remembers the frustration and desperation he had felt two years ago when the Dementors had descended upon Hogwarts and, once more, the boy had thrown himself out into the fray – for a Slytherin, the boy lacks entirely the most basic sense of self-preservation. Severus is about to say, “I cannot let you go, Potter. Come, speak with the Headmaster,” because Albus, Albus, he knows, could convince him!

And then he sees Gibbon out of the corner of his eye. Gibbon stands at the end of the corridor, leaning in from the wall to hide himself, and Severus must make his decision in a heartbeat. Either Potter runs down this corridor, alone, and out into the potential death of whatever horror the Dark Lord has wrought upon Hogsmeade… Or he remains here, in an isolated hall, between no one but Severus and Gibbon himself.

“Do you think you’re special, Potter?” Severus demands, and he lets venom drip from his every word. “Do you truly think—”

The levee breaks.

Even as Potter retorts his desperate bile, he is making his way down the corridor, and Severus watches him go, watches him until he disappears from sight and he is alone – or so Gibbon thinks. Immediately, the gravity of his split-second decision hits Severus hard, and he does his best to fold away the suspicion that his decision is the wrong one, and that Potter will return to Hogwarts tonight cold and stiff on a stretcher.

Severus remains facing the end of the corridor, carefully schooling his expression into a smug one, his lips quirked at the very edges, his eyes dark; turning on his heel, he begins to return to the entrance hall.

“Severus,” Gibbon says, and Severus lets his eyes widen slightly, surprise showing on his features. The true tell that Severus is surprised, of course, is when his features betray nothing at all – unless he isn’t. He treads a dangerous line in what he can and cannot show, and he wonders if he will ever be able to act on emotion without it betraying him.

“Gideon,” Severus says mildly. “You were present…?”

“Oh, yes,” Gibbon says, bouncing upon his heels. His rounded cheeks are pink with excitement, and his thick lips are parted to show his grinning smile. “Artfully done, Severus, artfully!”

“Gideon,” Severus murmurs, “we might easily be overheard.” Severus leans in, lowering his voice slightly, and adds, “The boy didn’t need much of a push. I merely needed to seem as if I was offering some token protest – in case he survives.” Severus lets out a short chuckle, hiding it behind his hand, and turns to the Great Hall. “Shall we?”

Gibbon’s expression is admiring, and Severus feels his skin crawl as he steps into the Great Hall once again, Gibbon at his side. But a moment after, Minerva returns to the Hall, now in her human form once more, with Georgina Howlett (Howlett is their new accountant, as of that July), Argus Filch and Sybil Trelawney rounded up with her. While Howlett and Filch immediately move toward the staff table of their own accord, Howlett sitting with Pomona and Filch taking a seat on his own, his cat clutched to his breast, Trelawney hesitates. She all but clings to Minerva, her arms wrapped soundly around Minerva’s right, and Severus suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. The woman predicts death at every opportunity, but as soon as it seems to actually loom, she panics.

With all of their staff accounted for, however, Severus performs a quick headcount of his Slytherins, and then of Filius’ Ravenclaws. He is missing three – Amstell, Hamish and Potter – and Ravenclaw is a half-dozen or so down.

“Everybody accounted for?” Minerva asks crisply. Trelawney is gone from her side, now seated between Rolanda and Poppy at the top table, and Severus gives a nod of his head. Gibbon is speaking animatedly to a group of Ravenclaws, but at least he is far away from Severus himself. “Where’s Potter?” Severus turns his head, feigning a count of the first years so that his face is turned away from the majority of the room.

“He’s taken the passageway behind the portrait of the Silver Priestess, down toward the gate.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“I tried,” Severus says, and he lets a little of the genuine misery he is feeling bleed into his words; enough so that Minerva relents.

“He’s a capable lad: he can protect himself,” Minerva says, obviously intending to reassure Severus on some level, and it irritates him more than it ought. He moves slowly away, looking to the doors. As he and Minerva shut the doors of the Great Hall and set about weaving protective spells through the wood, Severus has the fleeting thought that if he had spelled Gibbon fast enough, he might have passed it off as the work of Potter… But no, why should Potter suspect Gibbon of anything?

And what if Gibbon had done nothing? What if Gibbon had merely walked the two of them back to the Great Hall, and Severus has allowed Potter to enter the fray in Hogsmeade – whatever it might entail – for no reason at all beyond foolishness?

It serves him not to dwell on the thought.

“Children, you may now move freely about the Hall,” Albus calls over the room. “We have gently pushed the castle to temporarily swap the armoury with a rather lovely set of bathrooms, so take to your left if you have need of the washroom.” Albus speaks cheerfully, warmth shining in his features and in the gentle movements of his hands, and when he smiles at the children it seems truly genuine. Most of the children move to stand, and Albus spells the tables to separate into individual ones, chairs replacing the long stone benches and more chairs appearing around the four fireplaces in the room.

Were this an ordinary year, by now the children would recently have returned to their dormitories, and Severus would be listening in the entrance of the Slytherin common area as one of the Fifth Year prefects – likely Potter – delivers a welcoming speech to the new Slytherins. The thought strikes Severus with a force quite unexpected: he doesn’t feel an especial emotional attachment to the idea, but the break in this routine, one that he has been so used to for nearly twenty years, is strange and disorienting.

“Professor Snape.” Severus turns his head, looking at Nott. Over the summer, the boy has grown like a beanpole, and Severus is abruptly struck at the fact that he must look up into Nott’s face rather than down into it. They grow up so fast, a voice chimes in the back of his head, sounding suspiciously like Albus, and Severus must work to suppress a grimace.

“Yes, Mr Nott?”

“May I have permission to use my wand, sir? Magic in the Great Hall, I am aware, is prohibited during meal times, but under extenuating circumstances…”

“You may, Mr Nott,” Severus says. Nott’s focus upon the rules is an interesting one, and Severus puts out his hand. Nott’s smile is soft as he places his book in Severus’ hand and sets about very neatly rolling up his sleeves and buttoning them at his elbow. Severus scans the book: Severus cannot speak much Hebrew, but he can parse out the word Kabbalah. “Prescribed reading by your rabbi?”

“By my mother,” Nott answers, taking the book back and folding it under his arm now that his sleeves are quite bare. Severus takes a neat step back and watches Nott weave his spellwork. For a Fifth Year – and particularly a Fifth Year at the beginning of his schooling – Nott’s Transfiguration is truly without par. Severus would be inclined to call the boy a prodigy if he didn’t know how much study Nott devoted time to. The rug he Conjures is wide and formed of a wine-red material: it settles to the corner of the room in a perfect circle, silver threads running through its edges and forming a spider’s web upon its surface.

Even from his place several feet away, Severus can feel the Warming Charm Nott embeds in the carpet’s fibres, and he watches as Nott gathers each of the new First Years, none of them yet awarded a house, and gets them to gather on the carpet. They sit cross-legged, and Severus is reminded of a day where he snuck down into Cokeworth Town and peeked in the window of one of Lily’s classes, listening attentively to her literacy teacher from her place upon the floor.

“Aren’t we a bit old for stories?” asks a boy with thick, auburn curls and watery eyes.

“No, never,” Nott says, smiling at the boy. He has a natural air with children. Severus does not envy him. “For what are stories but lessons wrapped in words?”

Severus turns away, leaving Nott to his story-telling in the corner of the room; already members of the other houses are showing interest and walking closer to Nott, hovering on the edge of the rug or dragging over chairs to listen and watch as he speaks.

Dear Professor Snape, the boy had written him last summer.

I am aware that during the summer of Fourth Year, Heads of Houses take into consideration what students they might like to take up the prefect roles. I am writing this letter to request that, if I am in consideration for the role of Slytherin prefect, that I be removed; my O.W.L.s are very important to me, and I don’t believe I would be entirely happy juggling both the duties of my studies and my prefect ones.

My apologies for any inconvenience caused: I assure you I would not pen this letter if I did not think it necessary on my part.

Many thanks,
Theodore Nott.

When Severus had received the letter, he had laughed. That had been in May – things had seemed so much easier then.

“Professor,” says a small voice, and Severus looks to the small, round form of Elizabeth Wei. As ever, she is flanked by by Edward Buttress and Artemis Henderson: never in the past year has Severus seen one without the other two in tow. Hufflepuffs.

“Ms Wei?” Severus asks, arching an eyebrow. He stands very straight, his hands neatly folded behind his back; Wei looks to Buttress, who looks to Henderson. Henderson looks to Wei before meeting Severus’ eyes herself.

“Do you think anybody is going to die tonight, sir?”

“I can no more predict such a thing as that than Professor Trelawney could, Henderson.” Severus’ tone is sharper than he had intended, but a few of the older Hufflepuffs let out shocked laughs at hearing one teacher so soundly criticize another. “Professor Flitwick is perfectly capable.”

“He killed Death Eaters during the war, didn’t he?” asks Buttress.

“Many people did,” Severus says, and gives an inclination of his head.

“Is it Death Eaters this time?” Wei asks, her eyes wide behind her glasses. She has the same glasses as Potter, Severus thinks: thin-rimmed, circular lenses.

“I don’t know,” he says. It is Death Eaters, he cannot say.

“What do you think?” Wei presses, and Severus curls his lip.

“I think it rather stupid to ask a man standing before you what precisely is happening three miles away.” More laughter from the Hufflepuffs assembled, but this time Wei recoils slightly away from him: it makes him angry. Anger flares in his chest, and he wishes he could dock points from her for flinching so, but where would the sense be in that? For the barest moment, Severus wishes he was Minerva, or Albus, or Lucius – someone better with people than Severus himself, and then he hates that thought, and hates himself for thinking it.

“All of you are safe,” he says, sharply: he barks the assurance like an order. “You are always safe within these walls.” The ornate clock on the wall reaches nine o’clock, and chimes the hour. Severus turns away from the children, meets Gibbon’s delighted gaze at the staff table, and wonders if he is lying about their safety, or not.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Sitting on the edge of the raised platform the staff table stands on, Severus surveys the room.

The lights are dimmed, the candles and partially extinguished fires bathing the room in a soporific, orange glow, and arranged in neat rows, on silver frames, are dozens upon dozens of little beds. Most of the children are fast asleep now, but some are still holding on. A few of the prefects are doing rounds between beds, speaking quietly to children. Nott, at this very moment, is speaking quietly to a second year with tear-streaked cheeks.

If Potter dies, perhaps Nott will be convinced to take up his mantle.

Trelawney has a conjured moon above her head, and seems to be using it to lull a group of Ravenclaw Divination students to sleep; even from here, Trelawney’s tones seem hypnotizing. Seated upon a bed that creaks beneath his immense weight, Hagrid speaks quietly to the Weasley girl, who is tucked up in the bed next to him. Across the room, spread over Ronald Weasley’s lap like a second blanket is Hagrid’s Great Dane. It is impossible to decide which of the two are snoring louder.

“Argus,” Severus says lowly. The shadow beside him freezes. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a passage out from the armoury,” Filch says, uncertainly standing in his place. Mrs Norris winds continuously around his legs, showing his nerves even more than Filch does himself, and Severus presses his lips together. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

“There’s no sense me bein’ here, cooped up with you and the kiddies!” Filch dislikes people. Filch dislikes crowds. Filch dislikes most things, actually – he and Severus usually get on rather well.

“There is every sense in it,” Severus points out, not especially patiently. “As you lack the capability to defend yourself if we come under attack. Take a bed, Argus. Sleep.” It is the order in Severus’ tone that turns the tide: Filch has always respected Severus, despite his youth amongst the staff, and he stands down immediately. Severus watches as Filch takes a cot aside from the others, letting Mrs Norris curl upon his chest.

He thinks of Fantôme down in the dungeons – what is she doing at this time of night, Severus wonders? Victimizing some rat or mouse? A toad, perhaps?

“Severus, Poppy,” Minerva whispers as she moves past, and Severus stands from his seat on the stage to follow her. The doors of the Great Hall slowly open, allowing them past, and Severus allows Poppy to take his hand, if only to squeeze it tightly between her own. Albus comes in from the courtyard with Pomona at his side, and Severus carefully pulls the door shut behind him.

“It’s over, then?” Poppy asks, anxiously. Her grip is so tight on Severus’ hand that he feels one or two of his bones will break at any moment, but that’s hardly of the most immediate concern.

“Yes,” Albus says. Severus reads the pale lines of his face as easily as he might read a passage in a book.

“Somebody died.” he says quietly, voicing what Albus either cannot, or does not wish to. Minerva looks wide-eyed from Severus to Albus, her hand rising to her mouth.

“Albus—”

“Severus is quite correct, Minerva,” Albus murmurs quietly. “Poppy, if you will go to the infirmary and prepare to take some of our own – the majority of patients will be directed to St Mungo’s, of course, but our students and staff will be Portkeyed directly here. Minerva, if you will accompany me down to the gates; Pomona and Severus will take command here in the Great Hall. The children can sleep here tonight.”

“Who died, Albus?” Poppy demands, and Albus sighs. His eyes are shining, Severus notices, and he stares as a tear forms at the edge of Albus’ eye, sliding down the side of his crooked, pointed nose.

“Who died?” Severus repeats, and the question feels like frost on his tongue.

“You cannot be serious, Potter. Get back to the castle, now!” Flitwick snaps at him, but Harry doesn’t so much as flinch away: he stands his ground, his chin raised, his voice steady. It’s no longer raining, and the clouds are swiftly clearing above their head: above them, full moon brightly shines.

“I’ve cleared it with Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick, I—”

“Don’t you lie to me!” Flitwick bellows, his voice an abruptly low rumble, and his eyes flare with anger. “You’ve no more cleared this with Severus than you’ve convinced him to dye his hair pink.” But they’re already moving, and the gates of the castle have closed behind them: it’s too late to send Harry back. He’d waited as Flitwick had given instructions to the staff and the students, splitting them into groups of three to split out into the village, and he’d only run up to meet Flitwick’s stride when they’d begun to set off down the hill. Frustrated, Flitwick says, “You’ll be with me, Potter, and you’ll stay with me. Do you understand?”

Harry smells smoke, forcing its way into his nostrils and making his lungs ache and sting as he breathes in. The air is a haze of white and grey, the fog mixing with the smoke from the fires down in the village. “Yes, sir. Will you take points off me for cursing this time around?”

“Still bitter about that, Potter?” Flitwick lets out a short, barked laugh: Harry wonders how he thinks of the battle with the Dementors two years ago, if he thinks of it at all. “You’re a duellist, aren’t you?”

“I’m on the way there,” Harry says, and Flitwick gives a nod of his head. They’re entering the village, now, on the path into the main square, and Harry can see that the majority of the smoke is coming in thick billows from the Three Broomsticks, thick flames obvious within the wreckage. Its windows are shattered and strewn over the cobbled stone, and Harry frowns, his brows furrowing deeply. Professor Sinistra stands with her shoulders against those of Professor Burbage: as Burbage casts spells to extinguish the flames, Sinistra faces outwards, ready to fight anybody they see. Is it strange, Harry wonders, that nobody is attacking them, or— “Stupefy!” he says sharply, and the shadow that had been moving from behind the well crumples in a heap on the floor.

The silver mask shines in the light.

“Good reflexes, Potter,” Flitwick says, and he pulls the mask quickly off the Death Eater’s head, letting her hit the ground. Harry doesn’t recognize the woman’s face, but Flitwick pauses for a second, staring, before flicking his wand at the mask and saying a few charms under his breath. He drops the mask on the Death Eater’s chest, and she disappears with a glow of blue light.

“To the Magical Law Enforcement offices?” Flitwick gives a nod of his head. Lights are on in all the village windows, and he hears people screaming further off into the village, but he stops himself from running off: the streets around them are suspiciously empty, although Harry can see people moving in the houses closest to them.

“This girl wasn’t important,” Flitwick murmurs. “There’ll be more important people around us – Death Eaters who can actually fight.” Harry’s blood feels hot under his skin, and he can feel every pound of his heart as a tingle in the tips of his fingers. He squeezes the hilt of his wand, and his left hand goes to the blade hidden between the folds of his robes: he’d taken the one imbibed with basilisk venom, goblin-made with a bone handle.

“What now?” Harry asks, fingering the hilt of the blade and wondering if he’ll have to use it. Part of him – the part of him that killed Stan Shunpike and wants blood on his hands – relishes the thought.

“Follow me,” Flitwick says. Flitwick is light of step, and Harry does his best to mimic him, keeping close to Flitwick as they walk down one of the paths and further into the village. Harry can hear yells and bangs in the distance, and as they move forwards, they come closer. They come to an embankment that that marks the end of the village’s territory: just outside Hogsmeade, in the children’s park before the woods, Cedric Diggory is duelling with a Death Eater. Two girls in Gryffindor robes already lie sprawled on the ground, and Harry doesn’t wait for Flitwick’s cue: he lunges forwards.

“Expelliarmus!” he mutters under his breath, but the Death Eater hears him and turns his head, flicking a sickly yellow spell back in Harry’s direction: Harry dodges. He is breathing heavily as he comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Cedric, and they naturally match their footing together as they face the Death Eater.

“Oh ho ho,” he crows, his voice rich and yet cracked, as if it’s gone unused for a long time. “What’s this? You two have fought together before!”

“Expelliarmus,” Harry tries again. “Stupefy! Rictusempra!” He throws off spells in quick succession, but each is deflected, and the Death Eater’s laugh rings loudly over the park. Where is Flitwick? Up in the village, there’s a sudden bang, followed by a burst of sparks that lights up the sky, and more smoke. Shit.

“You need to learn silent casting, young man! Struggling with it, are you?” the man asks, and he laughs again. Harry feels his hand tighten on his wand, but Cedric moves his wand in a complicated spell, letting out a volley of spells at once, going through a rainbow of several, and Harry joins him, whispering his spells as best he can: it is surprisingly easy to sink into rhythm with Cedric, to step as he steps, to mirror him.

It doesn’t make any difference: the other man is stronger than both of them, and he disappears with a sound like a whip crack. Harry immediately turns to the girls, and he realizes suddenly that only one of them is wearing Gryffindor robes: the other is Cho Chang, who’d only just turned 17 a few days back, and there is so much blood soaked into the fabric of her robes that they’ve been stained red.

“You can’t heal her,” Harry says immediately. “Apparate with her to St Mungo’s.” Cedric, his face pale in the dim light, puts his arms under Cho’s limp form and carefully lifts her off the ground: he turns on his heel and he too disappears from sight – his Apparition sounds like a car backfiring. He searches uselessly around him, but it’s not use: Flitwick is gone, probably further into the village.

Harry bends over the girl left: the Gryffindor, Angelina Johnson. He checks her pulse and she is breathing, but she’s knocked out cold. Rennervate has no effect at all, but she’s breathing evenly and with a normal heartbeat. Up in the village, there’s boom and the sound of grinding stone, but Harry can’t just leave her here, and he doesn’t even know how to cast a spell for a stretcher to levitate her without harming her. He puts his arms underneath her, but before he even tries to lift her he knows he won’t have the strength to carry her far: Johnson is a Quidditch player, tall and built with muscle, and Harry isn’t an especially strong boy.

A scream from behind him and a shower of sparks: he has to do something. He focuses on the ground in front of him and conjures a length of wood that is long and flat, about an inch thick, and he pushes Angelina’s prone form onto the platform. It isn’t well-conjured – in places, the wood is dappled and bleached, lacking colour, but it’s solid enough.

“Wingardium leviosa,” he whispers, focusing on the wood beneath her, and she levitates slowly into the air. But now, where to put her? He can’t possibly take her into the village…

“Oi! Boy!” says a hiss to his left, and he turns. Aberforth, the barman from the Hog’s Head, is holding a lantern aloft, and he gestures for Harry to follow him; keeping his hand on his wand even as relief bursts through him, Harry does. The last time he’d seen Aberforth, he’d been smirking: he isn’t smirking now. His blue eyes are dark with thought, and Harry thinks he spies a mar of blood on his filthy beard. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Can’t tell,” Harry says. “Can’t wake her up, anyway. Haven’t they attacked the Hog’s Head?”

“They bloody tried,” the old man retorts, shaking his head. “They were pathetic excuses for wizards when they were at Hogwarts – wearing masks and poncing about hasn’t made ‘em better at it.” The doors of the Hog’s Head open when they come close enough, and Harry levitates Angelina’s body through the door: the Hog’s head is swarming with people, and he spies the tell-tale red hair of Arthur Weasley inside. It’s good to know some members of the Order are around, at least. “You’re too young to be out here.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Harry asks archly. “Deny me a drink when it’s all over?” Now, Aberforth does smirk.

“You find injured, Potter, you get ‘em out of the fray, bring ‘em back here. We’ll see what we can do.” There’s a yell behind them, and Harry doesn’t stop to thank Aberforth: he turns on his heel and runs into the middle of the village. The yelling continues, ragged and desperate, and Harry stares, stopped short: a man Harry recognizes vaguely from the village is sprawled out on the ground, ripped from his ribs down to his crotch. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, his hands bloodily grappling with his own intestines and organs, as if he’s trying to stuff them back into himself. A beam of white light hits the man square between the eyes, and he stops mid-scream, his mouth still open, his hands abruptly still.

Harry whirls on the man who’d thrown the spell.

“You’re a little’un,” the Death Eater says. He has a thick accent – from Birmingham, it sounds like – and Harry stares at him: he’s a huge man, towering with broad shoulders, and his silver mask has been crafted to resemble the skull of some sort of sharp-toothed thing. The Death Eater steps forward toward him: Harry is frozen in his place, sick with the awareness that he’s standing in the dead man’s blood. “You scared?” the Brummie asks, seeming to take pleasure in the thought. “I like it when they’re scared – but not loud.” He clucks his tongue, nodding his head to the man on the ground. “He was too loud.”

“Right,” Harry says, and he raises his wand.

“You think you can go toe-to-toe with me?” the Brummie asks, and laughs.

“Maybe not toe-to-toe, but I’ll take my chances wand-to-wand,” Harry retorts; the Brummie is moving with slow, careful steps to his left, so Harry mimics him and moves to the right. They circle each other, and Harry is fully aware that they’re in an alleyway of Hogsmeade, surrounded by the backs of buildings on all sides, with no windows where somebody might see Harry go down. There’s a squelch underfoot, but Harry doesn’t look to see what part of the unfortunate soul he’s stood on.

The Brummie moves suddenly to cast, and Harry dodges, stumbling forwards: he’s closed the gap between them too much, and the other man lifts Harry by the front of his robes. Harry lets out a harsh gasp, losing his grip on his wand and feeling it drop.

“What now, little man?” the Brummie asks, and Harry can hear the sound of his breathing inside the mask. He tries to kick his feet, but the Brummie just shoves him up against one of the alley walls, and the blow he lands against the Brummie’s chest feels like kicking steel.  “Can’t go wand-to-wand any more… What should I do with you? Break your neck? Strangle you?” That chuckle again, low in the man’s throat, and he comes in closer, so close that even through the mask, Harry can smell his breath – firewhiskey mingled together with the scent of sweat and blood.

Harry slowly moves his left hand down to his side, feeling for the hilt in his robes. “Is this really what he ordered you to do? Go around, set some things on fire and murder a few villagers? Please.”

“Ah ah ah,” the Death Eater says mildly. “The Dark Lord has us do as we pleases: he said go out to Hogsmeade, have a good time, and leave a signature when you’re done. I don’t know about you, lad, but I’m having a grand old time. Wonder how many teeth I can pull outta you before you stop screaming?”

“I’m already missing one in the back,” Harry says. “Maybe teeth won’t be so satisfying.”

“Oh, you’re funny,” the Brummie says. “I might ‘ave to keep you. I’d have to get rid of them specs, though – very unbecoming.”

“And the scar?”

“Scar?” The Brummie’s chin shifts up, his eyes no doubt squinting in the dark at the mark on Harry’s forehead, barely visible in the ill-lit night. Harry hears the Brummie’s sudden intake of breath, and in that moment he lunges: the knife punches through the thick flesh of the Brummie’s neck and Harry keeps on dragging it through, even as the knife catches on something hard inside the skin.

The Brummie’s scream dies on his tongue, turning into a bloody burble, and his grip loosens on Harry’s robes, letting him drop to the ground. He rips the knife back, and the Brummie’s hand goes to his throat, pressing tightly to the rip in his flesh and trying to hold it closed. He staggers toward Harry, but Harry dodges out of his way. It’s taking too long, part of Harry screams, frustrated and snarling. End it, end it, end it! The Brummie is on his back now, both hands pressed to his neck as he takes in feeble, shaking breaths, and Harry picks up the Brummie’s wand from the ground, unable to spy his own under the light from the moon.

“Please,” the Brummie says, the words coming out wet and rasping. “You’re Harry Potter, you can’t—” Harry brings his heel down hard on the Brummie’s neck: the man’s right hand crunches under the sudden pressure, and the sharpness of the dragonhide opens up the wound a little more: the blood comes forwards in a little swell, and after a few more moments, the Brummie stops moving. Harry feels a grim sense of satisfaction.

Harry turns to look around for his wand, frowning. “Lumos,” he says, trying to imagine the feel of his wand in his hand as he says the spell: his wand tip illuminates, and Harry stares at his wand: it rests in the midst of the dead villager’s organs, and Harry grimaces as he leans to pick it up. His knife he wipes on the Brummie’s robe skirt before putting it back in his hilt: he realizes with the light from his wand that the Death Eater’s wound is turning black at the edges, likely from the corrosive element in the Basilisk Venom – he didn’t need to bring his foot down like that.

But you liked it, says the voice. So what’s the harm?

Harry puts the Brummie’s wand in his pocket and looks to the villager: the man is dead, and it would take too much difficulty and too much mess to move him. He can’t linger and do something more about the poor man right now can he?

Harry runs on, and he nearly runs into the path of a spell, just managing to dodge it: it hits the old well with a shattering of stone, and Harry whirls on the figure who’d cast it. “Accio shoes!” he snaps, and the Death Eater lets out a yell as his feet are pulled out from under him: his head collides with the cobbles with a sickening thunk, and Harry turns away, shaking his head.

“Potter!” says Flitwick, staring at him. “When you told me you were on your way to being a duellist, what did you think that meant? That you were absolutely mad?”

“He’s unconscious, isn’t he? He’s out of the fight, sir, that’s the important thing!”

“Come on,” Flitwick says. “When you went after Diggory, I had to run the other way – there was a group of them all together, passing this poor Squib girl between them. That’s the last of the Death Eaters, I think: we need to get everybody all together. The Aurors are mobilized.”

“Everyone’s in the Hog’s Head,” Harry says, and Flitwick looks to him, then gives a small nod.

“Yes, of course, with Rosmerta’s… I haven’t seen her, you know, and she’s a fearsome woman in a duel. She’s probably at the defences there. Come on.” They move into the square, and Harry sees the navy blue robes the Aurors wear as their uniform. Several of them keep disappearing and then reappearing with soft blue glows, Portkeying prisoners to the Magical Law Enforcement Offices, Harry would guess.

“Professor Flitwick!” Kingsley Shacklebolt immediately comes toward them, his deep eyes landing on Harry with apparent concern. “You injured, Potter?”

“No, sir. It’s not my blood,” Harry says, a little shakily. “In the alley behind the secondhand shop, there’s a man hit with a disembowling curse, and—” There is a sudden flare of white light that burns so brightly it hurts Harry’s eyes, and he feels his scream tear in his throat more than he hears it: the pain is sudden and all encompassing, heat biting over his skin and grabbing at his hair, but it doesn’t last long.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Black is locked in the Wizengamot chamber, according to the missive Lupin had sent Severus this morning, and Lupin himself is abed, barely able to walk, let alone Apparate into the castle. This transformation was a hard one, so his missive had said, but Severus had hardly cared to think too much on the topic.

Dawn is breaking, and pale light streams in through the wide windows of the infirmary, which are slightly open to accommodate the breeze. The infirmary is silent, except for the quiet murmuring of Rebekah Amstell, who has been sat with the body of Abraham Hamish since she carried him up to the castle last night.

Severus sits beside Potter’s bed: the boy is laid on his back, still except for the even rise and fall of his chest. The burns on his face have all healed, but a white bandage is wound tightly around his head, keeping his eyes protected from the light. On the next bed, Filius lies in a similarly prone state, his eyes closed; although comatose, one could believe he was sleeping.

Setting aside his book, Severus stands. The doors open, and Severus meets the gaze of Hamish’s mother. He gestures to the curtained area of the infirmary, and immediately Hamish rushes through the curtain, and he hears her speak in a not-German language to Amstell, hears both women cry.

The Hogwarts infirmary had been full of patients last night: Severus had assisted Poppy in the simpler disenchantments and healing, fixing broken bones and healing heavy bruises, but now Filius and Harry are the only ones left in the room.

Everyone except Hamish, and Hamish is dead.

Potter abruptly stiffens on the bed, and Severus can see the thought cross over his face as he tries to ascertain where he is. “You’re in the Hogwarts infirmary,” Severus says, stepping closer to the bed and reaching out, pressing his thumb to the inside of Potter’s wrist and feeling for his pulse. A little fast, now that he’s suddenly awake, but not unusually so. “It is the second of September: you’ve been unconscious for perhaps five hours.”

“We were talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Potter says. The burns on his lips had been rather extreme – the boy’s own saliva had steamed from his open mouth – but they seem to be well-healed now. “Bright light.”

“An enchanted flare,” Severus says, feeling Potter’s forehead with the back of his hand even as he casts a diagnostic charm over him. “Quite illegal, but I am sure one of your foes has several stocked away. It would seem the Death Eaters attacked, demobilized, and then attacked once more once the Auror forces were gathered in the village’s square. The flare landed at your feet.”

“Kingsley?”

“Was released from St Mungo’s two hours previous,” Severus answers dryly. “Most of the damage you and Filius received was due to the blast to your faces; Auror Shacklebolt was primarily hit in his side.”

“I can’t see,” Potter says. His voice is small, and for the first time his resolve shakes: Severus hears the fear in his voice, and he presses his lips together, staring down at Potter’s stiff form.

“You aren’t blind, Potter,” Severus says quietly. “Your spectacles were forced against your eyes by the force of the explosion, and we were forced to put a special ointment under your eyelids, which will heal your eyes, but amplifies your sensitivity to light twelvefold.”

“Heal my eyes? So, I won’t need glasses anymore?”

“Don’t be stupid, Potter,” Severus growls, and he sees Potter’s lips quirk into a small smile. It is a good sign, he thinks, that Potter can show his usual sarcastic humour. Obviously the skirmish hasn’t scarred him too much. “You know—”

“I know how visual impairments are healed, Professor,” Potter says, chuckling slightly. “They have to regrow the nerves behind the eyes, whereas this is an injury to the eye itself. Sorry.” The diagnostic charms have returned nothing out of the ordinary, which is a good sign. When Potter and Filius had been transported into the Infirmary, both had suffered heavy burns, and it was necessary to daub balms for the injuries onto their faces, their necks – all of the skin that was exposed. “What happened? After the flare?”

“A battle ensued,” Severus says. He turns to look at Filius as the older man sits up in bed, his eyes serious as they regard Severus. “It was naught but a display of power, it seems. Many injuries were suffered among the Aurors, some quite severe. I was remanded as an assistant to Poppy this evening: we made sure the students and staff were all healed of their injuries, except for Aodh Delaney, who is currently in St Mungo’s.”

“What happened to him?” Flitwick asks, and Severus leans back in his seat. He had seen Delaney, a portly man some way into his seventies, babbling like a fish as Poppy had tried to parse out what curse had hit him, and she had had to transfer him to St Mungo’s.

“Some sort of curse upon his mental faculties,” Severus answers. In Delaney’s status, he had recognized nothing, but he would guess it as the result of some of Crouch’s spellwork, which is ever-creative and deeply affecting. “Ms Chang has been healed of her injuries, Mr Potter – Mr Diggory advised that I pass that on. And Ms Johnson is hale and hearty.”

“Is anybody dead?” Potter asks. Were he another child, Severus might have called over Poppy and had her answer him, but Potter is barely a child now, and is less and less one with each passing day.

“Yes,” Severus says simply. “Abraham Hamish is some beds away from you: he will be buried later today.” Severus has scarcely believed it when he had seen Hamish limp and still in his fiancée’s arms, and when he had seen the truth of the situation in Amstell’s face, he had felt genuine shock. Hamish had always excelled at jinxes and hexes, and had received Os in his Defence classes since he arrived at Hogwarts.

(“It was the Killing Curse,” Amstell had told him quietly as she had come through the gates. “At least it was clean… I have to stay with him.”

“Ms Amstell, a Portkey—”

“I have to carry him, sir. It’s forbidden to transport the dead like that.”)

Severus looks to Filius, and he breathes in slowly. “A few members of the village were killed during the fracas. John Caster, the smith’s son, was killed. Anita South, who worked in Zonko’s Joke Shop, succumbed to her injuries some hours ago. And— I’m sorry, Filius.”

“What?” Filius asks, his white brows furrowing. Severus thinks of the single tear that had run down Albus’ cheek, and the way Minerva and Poppy had immediately clutched at each other. Poppy had let out a sob such as Severus had never heard – they had been school mates, in the very same dormitory – and Minerva’s blue eyes had been swimming with tears. Pomona’s head had been down… Well. Severus had never been especially close to her, but he had seen the deepness of the friendships she formed with many of the staff in the school.

“Rosmerta Whittington, the proprietor—”

“No,” Filius says, his voice heavy with sudden emotion, his eyes wide.

“— of the Three Broomsticks is dead. She was killed by shrapnel from an explosion inside the main part of the tavern.” Filius’ face is in his hands, shock painted on his every feature. Potter is silent for a long few moments.

“The shrapnel was on the outside, sir,” Potter murmurs. “The glass was on the grass – I thought it was weird. A Death Eater broke in and set the explosive, I guess. What about Death Eaters? Did we capture any? Are any dead?”

“Rickard Mulciber is dead,” Severus says. Who killed him is as yet to be determined: Severus had seen the body, and blackness was heavy in Mulciber’s open wounds, where acid had bitten and burned away at the flesh. Whatever curse had been used must have been very dark in nature, and was likely performed by another Death Eater nursing a grudge. “Filius apprehended Marina Dake, and I believe it was you, Mr Potter, who knocked Gordon Twain’s skull on the cobbles.”

“I Summoned his shoes,” Potter says. Severus stares at the boy: it’s hardly a usual way to go about a duel, but his ingenuity is to be commended. Not by Severus, however. Filius shifts in the bed, his expression distracted, and he pulls on his clothes – Severus makes no move to stop him.

“Are you going, Filius?” Poppy asks as she comes into the infirmary, and Filius nods his head before pulling the curtains closed. “Severus, you ought go to bed for a time.” Severus stands, readying himself to leave; Minerva can easily be trusted to keep Potter from moving about while his eyes are still bandaged, and Severus steps out into the corridor.

“Professor Snape!” a voice calls him back, and Severus looks to Amstell. The girl’s skin is abnormally pale, and she looks at him with her lips slightly parted. “I wished to ask… Abraham was very fond of you. We’d like for you to come to the funeral.”

“Of course,” Severus murmurs. He feels stiff and uncomfortable in this situation, a girl about to cry in front of him, and he supposes he ought offer some word of comfort… But none spring to mind. “You and Mrs Hamish ought support one another,” he advises quietly. Amstell nods, and Severus moves again down the corridor, desperate to be alone.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Madame Pomfrey?” Harry asks.

“I’m afraid Madame Pomfrey’s in need of rest, Mr Potter,” says a voice to his left. Her voice is just as distinctive as Snape’s, albeit with a very different accent, and he turns his head toward her as he pushes himself up to sit in bed. “I’m told you eluded capture as you ran into the village.”

“I felt like I needed to be down there,” Harry murmurs quietly. He wonders about his robes, where they’re set aside, and what had happened to the knife at his waist, or the Brummie’s wand – Mulciber’s. “I know everyone else was of age, but I’ve already gone head to head with Voldemort, Ma’am. If he sees me as an adult, I think I have the right to act like one.” There’s a long pause, and he wishes he could see McGonagall’s expression, or hear some nod to whatever it is she’s feeling.

“A curious logic you have there, Potter,” McGonagall murmurs: she sounds sad.

“I’m sorry about Madam Rosmerta,” Harry says softly. “Professor Snape just said.”

“She was a very good friend,” McGonagall says. Her voice shakes slightly, and for the first time it occurs to Harry that she really is old. She’s seen a lot of friends die, Harry would wager – more friends than Harry’s had. Harry feels an ache in his chest at the thought, and he knots his hand in the sheet. What can he possibly say?

“Will you tell me about her?” Harry asks quietly. “I’ve spoken to her once or twice, but I never knew her well.”

“Yes,” McGonagall says, surprise in her tone. “Yes, I’d… I’d like to, Potter. Let’s see… She and Poppy came to school in the same year, of course: that was in ’57. She was a good girl – she and Poppy were both Ravenclaws…” Harry sits back against the wall, and he listens as McGonagall talks, listens as she tells story after story.

“When people die,” Augusta Longbottom had written him once, “the best we can do, as wizards and witches, is tell stories about them. Talk about them as they were alive, and share the very essence of what they were as they lived and breathed and loved. In that way, we can keep some of the magic that was in them alive.”

McGonagall sounds tired, and full of grief, but as she talks on, a little of that seems to alleviate. Harry thinks of Rosmerta as he’d last seen her, laughing as Sirius had flirted with her over the bar. She’d been a brightly smiling woman, joyful.

It’s sad that she’s gone, and he feels himself turn to steel inside.

Voldemort needs to be defeated, and for that, the Death Eaters have to die too. And the responsibility, as he sees it (ha!), falls a lot on his shoulders. He reaches up, adjusts the bandages over his eyes, and listens more intently to McGonagall’s story about Rosmerta falling in the lake in her sixth year.

For the time being, listening is all he can do.

Harry has never, in all his years at Hogwarts, had an occasion to talk so much with a member of the staff. Even Remus he never spoke to for so long at a time, and it’s strange how comfortable he is. They talk about a lot of things – about Madam Rosmerta, about the staff at Hogwarts and the classes that’ve been taught here, and McGonagall even tells Harry stories about his father when he was at school.

They don’t speak about the funeral, or the looming threat of the Ministry’s declaration on the 5th, or about the war in general. Talking about the present or the future seems strangely off-limits, and Harry finds himself asking question after question about the past of Hogwarts, and of Hogsmeade. He even relates a few of the stories Sirius and Remus have told him, or fills in some of the gaps McGonagall doesn’t know, and hearing her laugh is calming, even though he cannot see her.

Madam Pomfrey returns to the hospital wing at noon. Harry and Professor McGonagall are just finishing their lunch as they talk about how Augusta Longbottom had exploded after receiving her O.W.L. results, considering them unacceptable and demanding a retake of her Charms examination.

“I’ll let you go in a minute, Mr Potter!” Pomfrey says quietly, somewhere to his left. “I’ll take those bandages off, and I’ll put a tint on your glasses, just for the rest of the day. That way your eyes can have a little extra rest, alright? They’ll be quite sensitive to light.”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry says, nodding his head in her vague direction, and he hears the regular clack of her shoes on the linoleum floor as she walks into her office. “Thank you for sitting with me, Professor McGonagall. For talking with me.”

“Oh, any of us would have done it, Mr Potter,” McGonagall says quietly. There’s a note to her voice Harry can’t quite identify – a sort of strange heaviness. He wishes he could see her face. “Even Severus is fond of you, boy, and he roundly despises most of the student body.” Harry laughs. “I merely thought I’d spare you Pomona’s ramblings about her greenhouse.” Harry feels a touch to his right hand, feels McGonagall clasp Harry’s hand between her own two: her skin is warm to the touch, and he feels the heavy lines on her palms and the wrinkled skin of her fingers.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be told something very serious?” Harry asks softly.

“You can’t do that again, Potter,” McGonagall says, very quietly. “You could have been killed – and you very nearly were. If those Healers hadn’t been so close to you, and if the Aurors hadn’t managed to end the skirmish so quickly after that flare landed, you easily could have lost your life.” McGonagall sighs, her hands gripping tightly at his for a moment before she says, “You’re a very capable young wizard, Potter, astonishingly so – for your age. But you aren’t battling other Fifth Years: these are hardened wizards.”

Harry thinks of Mulciber pinning up against the wall of the barn, about the sheer luck that had let Harry stab him. He thinks about how he’d not even been able to transport Angelina Johnson’s limp body without a struggle, and not been able to carry it, even.

“You’re right,” Harry murmurs quietly. “Professor Snape was in the middle of telling me I wasn’t special, and I was agreeing with him as I left. But I couldn’t sit there and do nothing: if I’d stayed up here, I think I’d have gone mad.”

“We weren’t doing nothing,” McGonagall says simply. “Potter, we will soon be at war: I have no doubt about that. And what you have to understand is that war isn’t merely battles and blood. There are the children here: they must be protected, and comforted. There are classes to teach, gardens to grow, songs to sing, even.”

“What do you think of people who kill during war?” Harry asks. The question comes out in little more than a whisper, and he hears McGonagall’s slow inhalation.

“You won’t have to kill anyone, Potter,” McGonagall says, uttering her promise under her breath, as if more to herself than to Harry – too late. “You don’t think we’d force you to—”

“I don’t think that,” Harry interrupts her, and he squeezes her hand in his before drawing his hand back, clasping his over his stomach. He stares into the darkness of his bandages, and he sees the faces of Stan Shunpike and the skull-like mask of Rickard Mulciber, hovering in the blackness. “But if it comes to it. Professor Flitwick killed people in the last war, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” McGonagall says, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, he did.”

“Thank you, Minerva,” comes Pomfrey’s voice. Harry hears her pick up something from the bedside table beside him – his glasses – and swish her wand, murmuring some spells that Harry can’t quite make out. They’re Greek, not Latin, and his Greek is awful.

“Goodbye, Potter,” McGonagall says, and he hears her swiftly leave.

“I need you to close your eyes, Potter,” Pomfrey murmurs, and under the bandages, Harry does. As she slowly unwinds them from around his face, Harry can feel the light of the infirmary even through his eyelids, and it’s so bright he cannot believe it. He lets out a short grunt of pain, gritting his teeth as the last of the bandages is pulled away: even with his eyes tightly shut, light seems to burn through his eyelids, and Pomfrey swiftly slides his glasses on over his nose. “Give it a moment. You’ll adjust.”

It takes more than a moment. Harry stays frozen in his place, his fingers fisted tightly in the fabric of his crisp bedsheets for a long few moments as the pain slowly recedes with prickly complaints, and he no longer has to screw up his entire face. He stays in his place for another twenty minutes or so, and finally he risks opening his eyes.

His vision is slightly blurry initially, and at the sting of bright light he feels tears come to his eyes, wetting the irises and mingling with the ointment lingering there.

“Professor Snape said you had to put ointment on the inside of my eyelids,” Harry manages to spit out through gritted teeth as he blinks furiously, trying to work his way through the pain. “But you had to do more than that, didn’t you?”

“Much of the right eye was gone, and the left was ruptured. We had to do rather a bit to grow them back, I’m afraid,” Pomfrey says lowly, and Harry feels the light get interrupted as she leans in front of him. He sees her through the haze of his own tears, making out the shape of her face and her silver hair.

“You’re not wearing your habit,” Harry says.

“It’s not a habit, Potter, it’s a nursing cap: I’m hardly a nun,” Pomfrey mutters, her left hand touching his cheek, and he tries not to wince as she waves her wand at his face. Non-verbally, this time – she probably knows the diagnostic charms backwards. “You need to learn silent casting, young man,” that Death Eater had said to him: non-verbal magic is on the syllabus in Sixth Year, but Harry doesn’t really feel he’s able to wait. He needs to begin studying now. 

As he looks at Pomfrey, the tears recede a little, and she comes more clearly into focus: there’s a little sensitivity in his eyes, particularly if he turns his head towards the light, but it’s manageable. He realizes now that Pomfrey has shut all the blinds in the infirmary, preventing the September sun from idling into the room, and he feels ridiculous for having thought it was so bright. The tints in his glasses leave the room tinged a dark red and devoid of any other colour, and he looks at Pomfrey for a few long moments. Her hair is loosely tied at the nape of her neck, but several curls run away and hang about her head, framing her face. Pomfrey’s eyes, he sees now, are puffy and slightly darker in colour than the rest of her face: she’s probably cried a lot today.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, as he tries not to think about how Madam Pomfrey and Madam Rosmerta went to school together. “For keeping me here, and not sending me to St Mungo’s.”

“Aye, well,” Pomfrey says quietly: she looks at Harry with a soft fondness on her face, a slight smile catching on her lips. “As I explained to the lovely healers from St Mungo’s, I have a rather special relationship with your medical history, Mr Potter – you’re in and out of my infirmary like a Jack in the Box. Now, I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

She closes the curtains behind her, and Harry pulls off the familiar blue pyjamas of the Hospital Wing, exchanging them for the clean set of robes the house elves must have pulled out of his trunk. If someone had his knife and Mulciber’s wand, surely they’d have told him? Surely someone would have confronted him about the murder already? Frowning, he takes up his wand from the side and pulls on his dragonhide ankle boots, coming out into the Hospital Wing proper.

“Come back up in three days,” Pomfrey says lightly, “And I’ll take the tint off your glasses.” Harry gives a nod of his head.

“Madam Pomfrey—” Harry hesitates, but Pomfrey looks at him seriously, her eyebrows raised. “Yesterday, on the field… I didn’t know anything. And most of all I was aware that I didn’t know how to heal a thing: I couldn’t even conjure a stretcher for Angelina Johnson. I brought her to the Hog’s Head on a piece of wood I’d conjured and levitated. I’m— I’m quite comfortable using magic creatively to solve problems, but I’d rather have the right spells in the first place.”

“You’re asking me to tutor you?” Pomfrey asks. Her tone is slightly stiff, her hands clasped in front of her: without her nurse’s cap, she seems half out-of-uniform, and he feels like he’s somehow caught her off-guard.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Harry says immediately. “I’m sorry, Madam Pomfrey: you’re grieving, and I shouldn’t—”

“No,” Pomfrey says sharply, cutting through him. “No, Potter, no… You were right to ask. You want to know battlefield medicine? I can teach you.” Harry stares at her, surprised to have her say “yes” so easily, and she says, crisply, “Come along here on Sunday morning. Eight o’clock on the dot.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry says, giving a polite nod of his head, and he heads out of the infirmary. It is more difficult than he thought. There are wide windows in the fourth floor corridor, and Harry lets out a sharp sound of pain, screwing his eyes shut and grasping for the bannister of the stairs.

It is not feasible for him to go down the Hall of Staircases – he’ll dash himself on the floor doing that. Blindly, he feels his way down the hall and toward the passage that leads toward the Gryffindor tower.

“Potter? What on earth are you doing?” Harry frowns, turning his head. It’s a male voice, deep, with one of the clipped English accents Harry has come to accept as relatively ubiquitous amongst Purebloods.

“Sorry, I don’t recognize your voice,” he says, turning his head toward it. “Madam Pomfrey just grew me some new eyes, but they’re a bit more light-sensitive than I expected. I’m going down to the Slytherin Common Room.”

“Well, they would be, if they’re new, you dolt,” says the voice, and Harry feels the form of a taller man come closer to him. “Take my arm, I’ll lead you there.” Harry does, settling his hand on the other man’s proffered forearm, and he lets him lead him toward the stairs. “I’m Gideon Gibbon: I’m your new Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher.”

“Ah,” Harry says, lightly. He thinks of Gibbon in his mind: a large man with a thick sheaf of straw-blond hair receding on the top of his squared skull, small ears and rounded, red cheeks. “You were robbed last night, Professor Gibbon.”

“Sorry?”

“Professor Dumbledore likes to introduce his new staff with some panache. He might even have asked you to make a speech.”

“He didn’t mention my making a speech!”

“All the more reason to make you give one,” Harry says, and he chuckles. When Gibbon stops, Harry stops too, and it occurs to Harry how easy it would be for Gibbon to kill him like this, if the man were so inclined. Cecilia had said she didn’t think he was a Death Eater, but what does that mean, these days? Harry hadn’t thought a relative of Theodore’s could be a Death Eater, but Canton Nott had been an uncle of his. But then, what idiot would think to murder Harry in the middle of Hogwarts? “What house were you in, Professor?”

“I was in Ravenclaw, my boy,” Gibbon says. His voice is cheery and warm, and he reminds Harry a little of Horace Slughorn; something in the musical lilt to his voice. Harry feels the staircase move beneath them, and even as they shift, he feels the light eat a little less at his eyes. “And you’re a Slytherin?”

“That’s right. The Common Room is in the dungeons.”

“Oh, I know where it is,” Gibbon says cheerily.

“Had a lot of occasion to visit when you were at Hogwarts?”

“New professors are apprised of the locations of all the Common Rooms.”

“The Ravenclaw tower is nice, of course,” Harry says in a light tone intended to draw a response. “But your library doesn’t have the view ours does.”

“Library?” Gibbon repeats, and Harry hears the confusion in his voice. “Ravenclaw is the only house with its own library.” There’s a little defensiveness in his voice: strange, to think how house pride can linger so through the years. Harry wonders if he’ll be just as proud of Slytherin when he’s into his thirties.

“Not anymore.” They step onto another staircase, and Harry feels the smoothness of the marble beneath his feet; this is the staircase with the missing step. He steps nimbly over the gap as they make their way down. “Just three days left.”

“Three days?” Gibbon repeats.

“Before we declare a state of emergency,” Harry says. He speaks very casually, and as he takes to the landing at the base of the staircases, he forces his eyes open. His eyes flare with pain, but they adjust quickly, and Harry realizes that the tint to his glasses is dark enough that from this angle, Gibbon can’t see whether his eyes are open or not. Gibbon has a tight frown on his face, and Harry says, “Unless you think Voldemort will surrender himself, sir?” There’s the mildest of flinches, a momentary curl of Gibbon’s lip, but there’s no way he can judge if they’re due to fear or shock or anger.

“I hardly think so,” Gibbon says. “It would never be so easy.”

“No, never.” Gibbon leads Harry into the entrance hall, and toward the dungeons: as soon as they take the stairs into the sweet, blessed dank of the castle basement, Harry lets out a short sigh of relief. The torchlight is so dim in comparison to the sunlight outside, and he gently draws his hand away from Gibbon’s arm. “Thank you, sir, for the escort. Are you excited to begin teaching?”

“Oh, yes,” Gibbon says. “I have much to teach you, I think, Mr Potter.”

“Oh, Professor Gibbon,” Harry says mildly, grinning a little and facing the other man. “You should never underestimate the ability of your students to teach you things to.” Gibbon’s brows furrow, and Harry reaches out, pressing his palm to the dungeon wall and beginning to make his way deeper into the winding corridors. He walks for five minutes or so, taking the lesser used passages, when he freezes in his place, hearing a shift behind him.

“Who’s that?”

“Just me,” murmurs a soft voice in the darkness: his eyes aren’t hurting any more, but with the tints over his eyes Harry’s vision is hugely depleted, and he doesn’t want to risk taking them off or looking over them.

“Blaise,” Harry says, and he feels the other boy suddenly in his space, feels Blaise’s hands pin Harry’s wrists above his head: Harry is stuck back against the cool wall of the dungeon, and Blaise’s mouth is right up against Harry’s. The heat of Blaise’s body against his own makes Harry sigh despite himself, and he smells the familiar sweetness of Del Rio on the air. “I don’t think—”

“No, no, listen to me,” Blaise murmurs softly. Blaise has always been, as Harry has seen him, a nocturnal creature: much of the day and the early evening he dozes like a cat, even in his classes, but at night he tends to come to life. It’s barely one o’clock in the afternoon, and it’s strange to see him so active. “I’ve been thinking of what you said to me: you don’t want to be Elton John. I asked a Ravenclaw Half-blood, and I—”

“You researched Elton John for me? I’m flattered,” Harry says softly.

“Listen,” Blaise hisses, desperation in his voice, and Harry lets his mouth close. “I don’t wish to keep you back, or to make you ashamed. I only want to touch you, feel you… What you want, you won’t get at Hogwarts.”

Harry thinks of the Death Eaters, of Voldemort, of the war – isn’t it so strange, that Blaise is so concerned with petty things like this? Like sex, like love? “You don’t have the foggiest idea of what I want, Blaise.” Harry mutters.

“Don’t I?” Blaise surges at him, and Blaise’s mouth is on Harry’s own, his lips unusually dry and chapped, his tongue fighting its way against Harry’s own, and Blaise bites at Harry’s lower lip, hard enough to draw blood: Harry hears the moan five seconds before he realizes it came from his own mouth. “You want pain. You want blood, and bruises, and a distraction from war. Enter Blaise Zabini.” Blaise’s fingers are already making short work of Harry’s robes, undoing the fastenings with lightning-quick fingers, and Harry hates that the other boy is right.

Harry feels his blood run hot, feels the anger buried inside him bubble quick to the surface, and here is his opportunity to let it all unleash. Blaise’s teeth are on his neck and his nails are digging hard into Harry’s hips as Harry’s pushed back into an empty classroom, and Harry lets himself forget about everything, about everything, as the door slams shut.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Harry returns to the Common Room on shaky legs, his robe collar buttoned up tightly to his neck. The Common Room is thankfully very dim, lit only by soft candlelight, and Harry walks in alone; Blaise is to follow in ten minutes or so, separately. The new First Years, who will be sorted this evening according to McGonagall, are absent, and it’s strange how empty the Common Room seems to be without new children in September.

Draco is lying on his bed, a book in his lap, when Harry enters their bedroom, but Harry doesn’t immediately greet him: he rushes to the freshly-laundered robes on his bed. They’ve been cleaned, but scorch marks are evident on their front: the robes are absolutely ruined, although Harry’s prefect badge is in perfect condition. Folded amongst the fabric is Mulciber’s wand and Harry’s knife and holster: he feels himself relax as he places them subtly into his bedside table, out of Draco’s sight.

There’s a charred envelope in amongst them – the letter Billy O’Neill had handed to him yesterday. He sets that in the drawer too.

Thinking of letters—

Harry throws the robes messily into the wastepaper bin in the corner of the room, reaching into his trunk and pulling out his letter organiser, an enchanted box that holds far more shelves than it ever could without magic.

“Busy?” Draco asks lazily.

“Mmm,” Harry replies, and he sorts through the labels for the name Malfoy, Lucius, pulling it out and beginning to page through the folder. Each page spread is the same: on the left is a copy of Harry’s letter, and on the right, the letter Lucius had sent him in return, neatly organised in chronological order. He has too many letters in his files to not organise them this way, and he searches for a particular letter.

12th October, 1994

Dear Harry,

I will, of course, pass on your regards to Narcissa; she had been rather delighted with the flowers for her birthday, of course, and assures me she will send you a thank-you note post-haste. For your Charms homework, if you haven’t already completed your essay, I might recommend you take in Gardenia Vesper’s book, Wardens And Guards, which examines in great detail not only the practical magic surrounding magical sentience, but also the philosophy and ethics. You will find that next year, with your O.W.L. in the subject, that you’ll need to think about these things more and more.

As for the Tournament, Narcissa and I have the greatest faith in your success, as do all of the trespassers in this chaotic new home of ours. I might recommend you take up some better exercise regime in the next few weeks, however, and keep to it – if you would only join the Quidditch team like Draco, you might not be so awfully thin and waifish. Even Molly Weasley agrees with me on the subject.

If you shall sidestep my advice and care once more, however, you might take up another form of exercise or sport. Draco is a gymnast, as I am sure you are aware, and although he practises little at Hogwarts, he could no doubt take you through some beginning moves and stretches; what I would recommend is that you take up a similar regime to my own.

Often at Malfoy Manor I would take bracing walks through the grounds and the surrounding area, often with my dogs at my heels, and Narcissa and I would sometimes take occasion to ride. Whilst there are no horses at Hogwarts, you might take to walking through the grounds with that flat-faced monster in miniature Ms Granger labels a cat, although I would advise you strongly to remain out of the Forbidden Forest. Your safety is paramount, even in the pursuit of better health.

A swim could do you no harm, but failing this and each of my other suggestions, I have attached diagrams of the exercises I myself perform to keep myself hale and hearty. Narcissa has (in very bad taste, I might add), appended an image of herself to one of the diagrams, but I assure you the exercise is quite useful even without a witch perched upon one’s shoulders.

I must end this letter, I fear, as I believe I hear the sound of Andromeda coming in through the front door – she announces herself so very loudly – and it is best I supervise, lest she and Narcissa quarrel, or worse, work together to some common goal.

With our love and affection,
Lucius & Narcissa Malfoy

Harry had never taken his advice about taking up any proper exercise. He’d gone for a few swims in the end, with Krum and on his own, and he still has the swimsuit in his trunk, ready to go.

Harry sets the letter aside, instead examining the attached diagrams, which Lucius had sketched out and lightly animated. He smiles a little at the drawing of a cross-legged Narcissa on the back of the diagram doing what Muggles would call a push-up: the self-portrait, drawn in green-ink and with a much more defined style than Lucius’ sketches, hides her mouth behind her hand and giggles as she’s lifted and dropped with each movement. The exercises are simple enough, and Harry recalls when he had first examined them how much leisure time Narcissa and Lucius could possibly have – Lucius had seemed to have at least a dozen hobbies for every day of the week, and even now, Harry finds himself wondering what Narcissa could possibly have done with all her time before she’d taken up Lucius’ mantel at the Ministry of Magic.

“Is that from my father?” Draco asks. There’s no light ease to his voice now: Draco is sat up straight on the bed, and staring at the spread of Harry’s folder, and at the pages in his hand, written on fancy letter paper.

“Yeah,” Harry says, and a freeze seems to spread across his chest, sinking down into his belly. How could he have been so selfish, passing so easily through Lucius’ letters in full view of Draco? A long silence passes between them: the monster inside Harry says, No, they’re yours, they’re private correspondence! He has no right to ask for them! But Draco would never ask for them, would he? Even to read his father’s words, hear his voice, one last time, he would never ask.

Harry breaks the sudden quiet to say, “Would you like to read them?” His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

“You needn’t to do that,” Draco says immediately. Harry can see that it pains him to say it, the force of upper class etiquette holding him back from doing something inappropriate, but Harry shakes his head slowly, making a duplicate of Lucius’ diagrams and sliding the original back into the folder.

“I don’t need to,” Harry agrees, and he closes the folder before holding it out to the other boy. Draco stands slowly from the bed, taking the folder and stroking over its green card surface. LUCIUS MALFOY is printed neatly at the top of the folder in block capitals, and in the bottom left hand corner Harry had printed his birthday and his address: Malfoy Manor, Bottlesford, Wiltshire. “I’d like them back, if it’s alright, but you have just as much right to read them as me, I—”

Draco’s arms are around Harry’s neck, the lightly muscled weight of his body hitting Harry hard in the chest and punching out a sharp exhalation; Harry doesn’t draw away or complain, though, settling his arms around Draco’s shoulders and hugging the other boy back. His grip is a little painful – Harry has new marks across his own shoulders from Blaise’s nails – but he needs this, Harry thinks, he needs it.

“Thank you,” Draco whispers. “I’m so— Harry, I’m very grateful to have you.” Harry thinks of Draco lying in his bed after Lucius’ funeral, barely dressed and staring blankly into space day after day; he thinks of the way the sight had made him ache.

“I’m grateful to have you too,” Harry murmurs back. Behind them, several people walk past the open door of their dormitory, heading toward the Common Room’s entrance, and Harry frowns as he and Draco break apart. “Where are they going?”

“To the funeral,” Draco says softly. As he says it, he clutches Lucius’ letters tightly to his chest. “Abraham Hamish is being buried down in the village.”

“I didn’t know there was a Jewish cemetery there,” Harry murmurs.

“The synagogue is a little way outside of the village, but there is a cemetery,” says Theodore from the doorway. He looks tired: there are dark circles tracked under his eyes, and Harry doubts he’s had any sleep since the night before last. He wears plain black robes, and pinned into his hair is a skullcap: a yarmulke, Theo had once told him.  “I just asked Blaise, and he readily acquiesced: I’m told there’ll be no classes tomorrow. Given that, I believe we four should spend the evening getting unwholesomely drunk.”

Harry glances to Draco, who shares the glance, and they look back to Theo.

“Yes, alright,” Draco says. Harry thinks of Blaise, who he’d left with bruises marking him from his neck down to his left hip, and he gives a short nod of his head.

“I know a stash of firewhiskey,” Harry says, thinking of his father’s cache up on the seventh floor.

“Very good,” Theo says softly, and he sweeps from the room. Draco closes his curtains when he returns with the letters. He already expects to cry, it seems, and Harry can’t really blame him. Setting aside the exercise instructions for now, he sits down on the edge of his bed, thinking. He’ll see Madam Pomfrey on Saturday, and he’ll start learning some mediwizardry from her; he’ll start doing Lucius’ exercises in the mornings, and he’ll get stronger; he needs to start learning how to do non-verbal magic now.

There’s so much to do that it’s daunting, and he kicks himself for not having started doing this earlier, for not having the bloody forethought. How much time has he wasted doing stupid, nonsense things, when he could have been getting ready?

He drops back onto the bed, sighing, and then reaches up into the drawer on his bedside table.

The envelope Billy O’Neill had given him is a little blackened at its edges, but Harry opens it up and sees that the letter within, at least, is undamaged. Harry looks at the familiar, looping handwriting and sets his jaw as he begins to read.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Harry keeps to the back passages as he makes his way up to the seventh floor, using the barely used corridors that are thick with cobwebs or caked with dust: these are the halls with no windows to shine brightly into them, and they are the least painful to traverse. He had tried using Lumos at first, but the light from his wand had been much too bright to be comfortable with, even when he held his wand as far away from his face as possible.

So Harry holds the candlestick the Malfoys had sent him for Christmas in his first year, a candle lighting his way: he’d worry about looking ridiculous, but by the time he has climbed up to the attic corridors of the seventh floor, he hasn’t seen a single soul, and he’s only seen one or two cats.

The little round room in the Gryffindor tower is precisely as Harry had left it last year, and Harry is grateful for the red stained glass in place of the normal window panes. The stained glass is very thick, and despite the sun outside, the light that comes through and into the room is nowhere near as overpowering as Harry had expected it to be.

The crates of firewhiskey still rest in the corner of the room, and Harry kneels down despite the filthy floor, picking up three bottles and placing them gently into his bag. There are easily thirty bottles left, and Harry wonders why Sirius and his dad would have left them here after leaving Hogwarts, or the chess set.

Harry looks at the chess set for a long few moments: if Sirius had left it here, it must not have meant too much to him, especially not if his parents gave it to him, but still… Muttering a few cleaning spells, Harry siphons off the worst of the dust and filth and sets the pieces back into their case. The board clips into place upon the wooden box to form a lid, and Harry can’t help but admire the design.

Slinging his bag back over his shoulder and holding the chess board over his arm, he begins the slow journey back down to the dungeons – taking these winding passageways slows the journey considerably, and it had taken him well over an hour to reach the seventh floor.

The letter Lockhart had sent him had been short, but Harry had

Mr Harry J. Potter,

I need to speak with you, and urgently.

Of course, as a treacherous Azkaban escapee, former recipient of an Order of Merlin Third Class, et cetera, et cetera, I see why you might not wish to leave the safety of the castle and make yourself vulnerable, particularly not in these trying times: I would suggest that you send a letter to Billy O’Neill advising a time when you would be available to meet, and I will come into Hogwarts.

Do not ask after how I would do so, but I would meet you on the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower, and we might speak there.

Regards,

Gilderoy Lockhart

Meeting with Lockhart is positively suicidal, even within the bounds of Hogwarts, and Harry doesn’t know how the man could possibly get through the wards to meet him on the Astronomy Tower, and yet…

He knows he needs to.

When he gets back to the Common Room, he’ll pen a response.

Albus’ hair is very thin and soft, and Severus takes care as he places the skullcap against it, sliding a hairpin through the thin swathes of silver hair to keep it in place. He can see the mottled skin of Albus’ scalp through the thinning hair on the top of his head, no longer as thick and plentiful as that of his beard, and he ensures the circle of black silk is settled securely. Being so close to Albus is very strange, seeing his own thin fingers touch Albus’ hair, his skin, to pin on a headpiece Albus would struggle to pin on himself: it is a level of intimacy Severus would expect to be afforded between a father and son, perhaps, and the thought greatly disturbs him. He is glad to draw back his hands and step away from behind Albus’ chair, creating a much more comfortable distance between them.

Wearing robes of a dark grey, with silver shining at his waist and sleeves only, he has never seen Albus look so very muted. The effect of the kippah adds to the sense of dourness, of wrongness, so different to Albus’ numerous colourful hats and headpieces, so simple. Severus’ own skullcap, pressed into his hands by Theodore Nott that morning, fades into his dark hair, which is tied at the nape of his neck. One or two thin strands of greasy hair have evaded the capture of the black hairband, and when he catches himself in the mirrored surface of some strange device in Albus’ office, he is reminded of how much younger he looks when he ties back his hair.

“We should go,” Severus says, turning away from his own reflection, and Albus rises from the chair. They Floo into the village, coming from the fireplace in Honeydukes (Albus refuses to enter the Hog’s Head under any circumstances), and Severus allows Albus to take his arm, the two of them walking together through the cool, clear air of the village. The sun is shining wanly from the grey skies, and although the light is bright, there is no heat in it.

The two of them wait at the gates of Hogsmeade for the children to come down, and Severus thinks of the way he holds out his arm, the way that Albus threads his own through it. It is only proper, he knows, for a man to offer support to another his senior, man or woman, but Albus does not need support, any more than he truly needed Severus to pin the cap to his head. Albus is as yet strong, and healthy, despite his age: this act of weakness, however mild, unsettles Severus to the extreme, and he wonders how terribly Albus must foresee times changing if he truly feels the need to act so.

Unless he really is feeling so unwell…

But Severus doesn’t want to think about that, and won’t.

The children come down from the hill slowly and in orderly lines, dressed in plain black robes without their house haberdashery or ribbons. Many of the students Severus recognizes from the Jewish study group that Amstell is heading this year, but others are merely from Slytherin house, primarily Hamish’s year mates. When was the last time Severus saw a group of his Slytherins so muted and sad, dressed in their plain robes with their heads bowed?

Never. Never have his Slytherins faced grief like this, an attack on one of their very own… Is this a failing of the Dark Lord’s, at the very beginning of his new war, Severus wonders? Has he tripped up without even realizing? It had been so easy to draw Slytherins to the Dark Lord’s company in the first year, Severus recalls: so many Slytherins, disenfranchised and in desperate need of power, of recognition, had been swayed by the Dark Lord’s Pureblooded rhetoric.

And then Severus himself, who had been drawn by the promise of power alone. Power, and magic he could never hope to discuss alone, the freedom to explore such powers that were out of his grasp…

For good reason, he discovered. But books can be filled with any man’s regrets.

Albus takes to the left of the children, and Aurora to the right: Severus brings up the rear, ensuring the children are surrounded on each side by a member of staff ready to fall into step should some attack hit upon them, although Severus already knows no such attack will come. Of the crowd, a few of them are a little older, and walk with their hands in their pockets, no doubt with their palms tightly grasped at the handles of their wands – just in case.

If bringing down Malfoy Manor that very hour, with Fiendfyre, would end it all for them, Severus would. He thinks on the idea, of holding the Dark Lord tightly to him as inescapable flames lick high about them, thinks of the screams that would no doubt come highly from that monstrous throat…

But he would not die. What would the point be, if he would return not years later? What is the point of anything?

“Professor,” murmurs a voice, and Severus looks to the pale faces of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, each of whom look very solemn indeed. Crabbe’s lips are bitten red with bruises, and Goyle’s eyes seem dry and red. Hamish had tutored them in several subjects when they had first come to Hogwarts, at Severus’ behest, he knows: had they truly looked upon him so fondly?

“We haven’t them hats, sir,” Goyle mutters, his step solid upon the path as they move forwards. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle will ever be graceful, but the two are each sure-footed, and Severus is certain either could stand firmly planted in the midst of a hurricane if it became necessary for them. They fall into step on either side of him, towering over him with their broad, tall bodies. “We need ‘em, don’t we? For the funeral.”

“Abe, he said you can’t even go in temple without one on!” Goyle says, anxiously. “But we want to be there, sir, we don’t want to wait outside—”

“Would they make us wait outside? Where could—”

“For such occasions as these,” Severus says quietly, cutting through each of their anxieties, “there will be a container of kippot for visitors to the synagogue. The Rabbi knows not every mourner will be Jewish, Mr Crabbe, Mr Goyle: nobody will attempt to deny you, or indeed any of us, entry on the basis that we are gentile.”

“I’ll be real gentle, sir, I promise,” Crabbe promises immediately. His expression is utterly earnest: were the situation not so heavily tragic, Severus might find it amusing. He doesn’t. There is not even the barest flare of humour in his chest. If anything, Crabbe’s well-meaning stupidity but compounds the grief and the anger he feels at losing one of his own to something so thoughtless as the Dark Lord’s rise to power – something he, himself, contributed to. Something he assisted, and is as responsible for as any other Death Eater with worse crimes upon his back.

“I know, Mr Crabbe,” Severus whispers. He looks slowly between Crabbe and Goyle both, and he wonders if there is something he could say – some comfort he might give them, or some encouragement. Nothing comes to mind. After a few minutes, a natural gap forms between them, and the two lads return to the group of students moving forward – Severus is permitted his isolation until they arrive at the synagogue’s grounds. The gates open slowly, and there are mourners present already – Hamish’s family members, members of his congregation, family friends… It isn’t as large a crowd as Severus had expected, and he wonders how many more mourners might have attended were they not under the threat of war.

Perhaps none. Perhaps he is merely cynical. Perhaps he has seen too many funerals in too few years.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Will you be a pallbearer, sir?” Nott whispers as he crosses the threshold of the synagogue. The white stone of the archway seems to radiate a sense of comfort, and Severus wonders if it is magic or the echo of other people’s faith. “We need just one more – they can’t be family.”

“Yes,” Severus says. He can say nothing else.

There is no sign of Amstell, nor of Hamish’s mother or grandparents, nor of his several siblings. Severus recognizes other faces in the crowd as they take seats on the cushioned benches: he sees Nott’s parents, who are hand-in-hand, and who watch their son as he walks around the room, helping non-Jews place kippot on their heads, talking quietly to the Jewish second years, letting elderly members of the congregation hold his hands and whisper things to him – thanks, perhaps, or assurances that he is doing very well.

There are no tear tracks on Nott’s face. It is not merely the work of a glamour, either: Severus knows Nott’s type, who will throw themselves into whatever work arises from a friend’s death, who will care for every person who crosses their path. He wonders when the grief will hit, and when Nott will sob openly in the midst of a History of Magic class, or let out an explosive snap of temper at a crowded meal. He hopes for when, and not for if.

Severus has met the Rabbi Michaels in passing several times over the past few years: if he sees Severus in Hogsmeade, he will speak to him at length about his affection for the students of Hogwarts that attend his services, and tell him which children speak highly of him. Michaels fills Severus with an overwhelming discomfort, and has since he met the man when he returned to Hogwarts to teach – Michaels seems to genuinely like every person he meets, Severus included, and Severus has no choice but to assume the man is somehow insane.

Michaels is solemn, now, and the younger rabbi (Severus has either forgotten his name or never deigned to learn it) is leading in Hamish’s family, and Rebekah Amstell. They join the front row of the congregation, and the service begins.

Severus hates funerals.

He stands at the back of the room, against the back wall, and he listens intently: he listens as people talk of Hamish’s strengths and virtues, and say prayers, and talk about faith. Severus has no virtues, and has no faith: he says no prayers.

The sound of Hebrew washes over him as the congregation begins to pray together, and Severus takes a cursory glance over the students, but each and every one of them is silent, with his head bowed – even those who have never heard a religious word in their life, let alone a Hebrew one.

Hamish’s body doesn’t weigh enough for Severus’ liking. The other young men carrying the coffin, made of a plain and sweet-smelling wood, stoop to let it fall on Severus’ shoulder as it does on their own, and Severus’ mind is awash with thoughts of how thin Hamish had always been, how light upon his feet.

The thought sickens him as they stop at Nott’s quiet command. They start walking again… And then stop. Seven times they stop as they move across the grass, and Severus hates funerals. He hates atheist funerals, and he hates Christian funerals, and he hates Jewish funerals, Hindu funerals, Sikh funerals – he hates memorials, and despises burials, and wishes he has not seen so many of them, in such diversity, and en masse.

How many funerals has he been the cause of?

Too many.

More Hebrew. The musical sound of the language, with its lilting ups and downs and sung notes mixed with its throaty sounds, seems strangely at odds with a time of grief, and mourning. It runs over the top of Severus’ head like an unfamiliar breeze, and he stares into the middle distance as Amstell drops a handful of black soil upon the coffin’s plain lid. Specks of dirt cling to her fingers and cake around the engagement ring on her finger – the only jewellery she still wears. Hamish’s mother drops soil on the coffin, then each of his three surviving grandparents, and then other mourners, one after another after another.

The soil is thick and damp and heavy in his palm, and he tips it slowly onto the pile of dirt that nearly hides the coffin’s top, now. He stares at his hand, at the mulch that clings to the slight webbing between his fingers and palms, and seems very obvious under his cut-short nails.

Minerva and Filius are waiting on the street to escort the children back to the school, and Severus is the first to leave the synagogue’s cemetery grounds. “How was it?” Filius asks, looking up at Severus.

“It was a funeral,” Severus replies. Minerva reaches out, her fingers ghosting over the fabric at Severus’ shoulder, touching over the seam there. “And another tomorrow.”

“Another tomorrow,” Minerva echoes, squeezing his arm, and Severus passes she and Filius by. The skies are turning a bleached pink in the distance, the grey folded in with the strange burst of colour, and Severus walks into the village itself. He steps into the public park in the centre of the village, where there are still singe marks from the duelling the night before. Peach-coloured light filters in through the old trees, which are starting to change colour with the season. Severus stands amongst them.

For the first time – since yesterday, he has not permitted himself to do so – he thinks of Abraham Hamish’s face. When the boy had come to Hogwarts, he had been round-faced and red-cheeked, with one of those cherubic faces that curse an adolescent with youth lesser than his years. As the years had passed, his cheekbones had become more prominent and his jaw had defined itself; seemingly overnight, some time last year, he was a man. Hamish’s eyes had been a dull green, flecked with blues and blacks; his eyebrows had been thin and arched at harsh angles; he had a strong jaw and a tendency to a stern expression. He had always kept his black hair short, and despite being only a few inches long it had settled in thick waves around his head, glossy and healthy. Severus thinks of how Hamish had looked when dead, his eyes duller than ever before, his stern jaw slack and open, his skin pallid and spattered with blood.

“He was so very young,” Albus says softly. He stands between a gooseberry bush and an ancient maple tree, his hands clasped loosely before him, his eyes soft where they land on Severus’ face. He didn’t need to seek Severus out in the park – he could easily have walked up to the castle with the children, allowed Severus to make his own way back.

“Even the oldest are far too young,” Severus replies. They walk up to the castle together, in silence, with a space of several feet between them, and Severus is grateful Albus feels no need to continue the appearance of frailty.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Dinner that evening is muted.

Severus sits between Minerva and Filius, as usual, and he is grateful for the distance from Gibbon. Even with the return of Aodh Delaney, who had limped slowly into the Great Hall to the loud cheers of the sixteen Alchemy students and the absolute silence of everybody else, has failed to raise the cheer of those in the room. The children speak quietly and seriously to one another, and even the Weasley twins seem strangely quiet. As a result of Rosmerta’s funeral tomorrow, classes are cancelled once again, and Severus knows many more students will likely attend her funeral, and many of those across wizarding Britain. Filius and Minerva are both silent themselves on either side of him, staring into space: for several minutes now, Minerva has been silently stirring her soup, which is now quite cold.

Severus will not attend the funeral. There will only be a skeleton staff remaining in the castle, as far more of the staff will walk down to the village – Severus knows he, Charity and Aurora will remain present, as well as Filch, and Delaney will undoubtedly be confined to his quarters for the next day or so.

Letting his gaze flit over the room, Severus’ eyes land on Potter: even with the ridiculous, dark lenses of his spectacles, the boy looks melancholic and distracted. He hadn’t put his name on the register of those attending Rosmerta’s funeral, Severus had noticed, and he barely speaks to the young men on either side of him. Earlier that evening, Severus had observed Blaise Zabini carefully removing a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey from behind a loose brick in the corridor near his office, and he had heard the tell-tale clink of Potter’s satchel as he had entered the Great Hall, but it is not the day for Severus to crack down on underage drinking.

He’ll merely have to patrol the Slytherin rooms later this evening, and check individually on the students – but given the circumstances, it is perhaps best he does so anyway. He feels his lips turn down at the sides at a twinge of pain in his arm, distant and aching; not a call, not yet, but a warning that the call is soon to come.

“I’ll retire to bed, Minerva,” Severus murmurs quietly. “I feel a migraine make itself known.” Minerva’s fingers brush Severus’ arm, and he sees a flash of fear in her face, or uncertainty, that he doesn’t quite understand. What, he wonders? Does she now worry that any ex-student leaving her sight will fall to their death?

“Yes, a good idea. Good night, Severus.” He stands from the table, slinks from the room, and he is aware of the eyes of students on his back – mostly of his Slytherins, who desire any distraction in these trying times. The walk down to his quarters calms him some, the cool air settling on his skin, and as he slips into his quarters, Fantôme weaves herself around his legs, doing her best to trip him as he walks. Despite her best attempts, Severus’ robe hems are too well-charmed for her white hairs to cling to the black fabric, and he moves swiftly into his bedroom, removing from the back of his wardrobe a set of different robes (lacking the personal tailoring his own have) and his mask. He doubts he will need it – the masks are only utilized before those the Dark Lord mistrusts, or when Death Eaters are to appear in public, but Severus likes to be prepared.

Fantôme hops up onto his bed, and she drops onto her back, baring her soft belly to the night air. “This is a deceit you’ve attempted before,” Severus says to her, darkly. She stares up at him, her silvery eyes wide and innocent: he scowls at her, picks up a small cushion from the chaise long against the wall, and presses it against her stomach. Immediately, Fantôme’s display of softness and peace evaporates, and she viciously paws at the pillow with her claws ripping into the black silk, tearing it soundly to ribbons before his eyes.

Unable to entirely suppress an affectionate smile, Severus tickles the tips of her whiskers as he passes her by, stepping into his lounge and Flooing to the Hog’s Head, his Death Eater uniform shrunken into his pocket.

“A gillywater, please, Aberforth,” Severus says as he enters, and Aberforth immediately takes a bottle from the shelf behind him and pores Severus a tall glass. Gillywater is a favourite tipple of Filius’, and Severus only appreciates it at times such as these because it is so very weak. He feels the tingle of magic at the back of his tongue and the ghost of gills on the inside of his throat, but the alcohol itself is at an extremely low percentage.

He nurses the drink for some time, comfortable in the silence of the room: it is not until forty minutes later that he feels the heat as his mark flares to life, and then he pushes the glass aside, leaving the Hog’s Head via the doors and Apparating on his heel.

He is the first to enter the hall of Malfoy Manor, and he arches an eyebrow at Bartemius Crouch, who has Maxie Caine pinned against the wall, Caine’s legs tightly about Crouch’s waist, his head tipped back, a silent moan twisting his lips. The pose is positively indecent, and when Caine sees him, his eyes widen and he tries to struggle out of Crouch’s grip, but Crouch grabs him by the chin and holds him still in his place. Jealousy flares in Crouch’s eyes as he bares his teeth at Severus, a dog’s impulse to bite at the hand threatening his meal, and then returns his teeth to Caine’s neck. Rolling his eyes very obviously, Severus nimbly steps past the pair, and enters the grand hall with Caine’s moan rising on the air behind him.

“What games children play, my lord,” Severus says dispassionately, and the Dark Lord’s chuckle echoes against the wide walls and high ceilings. His chin weighted lightly upon the heel of his hand, the Dark Lord smiles softly at Severus, and Severus takes the jug of wine from the table, pouring himself and his master a glass apiece. The Dark Lord looks different than he has in recent weeks: he seems much younger, at a glance, and more handsome, his skin clear and soft, his features plainly human. He’s positively unrecognizable compared to the state he had been in at the time of his return, but Severus knows better than to say so. Is this what he’d looked like at school?

Lucius had met the Dark Lord when he was but a child, still little more than a babe in arms, and he had told Severus once how handsome he had been in his youth, how different he had come to look as the years had passed, as the war had taken its toll: the magic he must do, they had theorized, to lose his very features in such a way…

“Not everybody can be as high-minded as you, Severus,” the Dark Lord says mildly, taking the glass of wine Severus offers him and inhaling its aroma. In the dim light of the room, the thick, red liquid is as blood: the Dark Lord favours dessert wines, when it suits him, and although the wine is too sweet for Severus’ liking, wine is wine is wine. “I do not begrudge my servants their baser pleasures.”

“If my lord does not object, I shall begrudge them all the same.” The Dark Lord’s laugh echoes in the room. His voice is still supernaturally high, ethereal in the way it sounds, but it no longer sounds so entirely inhuman. It seems more grounded, somehow, as if he has come down to a lower plane.

“Do you miss Lucius, Severus?” the Dark Lord asks, and Severus turns to look at him, letting surprise show on his face, his eyes a little wider, his eyebrows raising. A beat passes.

“Yes, my lord, undoubtedly. He and I were close associates, as you have long been aware, and it was he who brought me before you, when I was but seventeen. Of course, his absence weighs upon my mind… And yet no more than his betrayal. Lucius might as well have been dead to me, my lord, from the very moment he ignored your call to his side.” The Dark Lord’s eyes, red and shining in the dimness of the room, and Severus wonders if he has chosen well, to mingle truth with deceit in this way. The Dark Lord should not like him to mourn a traitor’s passing, but were Severus to deny it, the Dark Lord would undoubtedly punish him for lying.

“Close associates,” the Dark Lord repeats, mildly. Severus frowns slightly, tilting his head slightly.

“My lord?” he asks: the confusion that bleeds onto his features is completely genuine.

“You share Bartemius’ predilections, do you not? And without Lucius…” Humiliation flares hot inside him, and even Severus’ most concentrated efforts couldn’t stop the flush that heats his pale features and reddens his cheeks. He turns his head away, not meeting the Dark Lord’s gaze, and he clenches his fists at his sides, feeling the sickly heat of embarrassment burn under his skin, pricking at his pride and making shame flourish inside him.

“I don’t deny my predilections, my lord, but I had never fostered— I would never have… I am—" It is will within Severus’ power to take a moment’s silence and formulate a proper sentence, but he knows it will not satisfy his master in the same way. The Dark Lord relishes humiliating his servants in their turns: it was stupid of him to imagine he might escape such a thing, when he has gone unembarrassed for so long. “You shame me, my lord.”

“Not at all,” comes the airy response. Severus stares at the Dark Lord’s index finger, tracing lazy circles about the rim of his wine glass, and for a few moments does not meet the other man’s gaze. Severus’ mouth is dry, his jaw clenched tightly, and he wishes he could turn on his heel and leave. “I merely worry as to what you might do without some base urge to satisfy.” Worry! As if the Dark Lord worries for such things.

“I have self-control, my lord,” Severus says, and he feels the slightest twinge of fear within him, of uncertainty. Is this the beginning of some new, stranger humiliation? Will the Dark Lord prescribe some sort of sexual debasement to him amongst his orders, merely to see Severus hang his head and hide his face?

“In spades, I see,” the Dark Lord agrees. Behind him, Severus begins to hear others of his servants filter in, but he stands very still, one hand behind his back, his wineglass still clutched before his chest. He meets the Dark Lord’s gaze, sees the way the Dark Lord’s lips are twitched into some parody of a smile: the majority of the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord himself, have long-thought of Severus Snape as a prude, afraid of sex and its intimacies, uncertain. Not virginal, as that would paint too much of a target on his back and make him the subject of interrogation, but discomforted by sex at the very least. And as for his predilections, as the Dark Lord labels them… “Do sit beside me, Severus.”

“Yes, my lord,” Severus assents, and he takes his seat at the Dark Lord’s left-hand side. Despite the saccharine sweetness of the dessert wine, he drains his glass – he does not miss the amused way the Dark Lord’s gaze rests upon him. The Dark Lord is wrong, of course, as he so often is. Severus Snape no more fears sex than he fears the monsters beneath his bed – he merely suppresses his appetites for such things, as he suppresses his appetites for most things.

Bellatrix sits at the Dark Lord’s right hand, and as he sinks into a seat beside her, Crouch meets Severus’ gaze. His dark eyes burn with something difficult to place, and Severus arches a silent eyebrow at the other man in question – surely, he cannot be so protective of Caine already? Particularly not as Caine does not, and cannot, belong to Crouch: he is the Dark Lord’s toy alone, even if the Dark Lord does not descend to such human depravities as sex. As others filter into the room, Caine brings out another bottle of wine, uncorking it and setting it into the middle of the table to breathe. Crouch pulls Caine soundly into his lap, and Severus does not miss the subtle turn of Caine’s head, the slight shift of his body, even as he settles upon Crouch’s thighs: already, Caine has grown uncomfortable with Crouch’s treatment of him, and what can be done for the boy? Absolutely naught.

“Let us begin,” the Dark Lord says lightly, and he leans forwards, looking at each of his servants. Gibbon is sat some way down the table, for which Severus is grateful, but he has no doubt the man is greedy to ascend the ranks and move closer to his master at the table… Severus listens intently to the words spoken at the table, and the way in which they are delivered, looking closely for cues to annoyance, desperation, delight, pleasure. This is his concern whether he reports to the Dark Lord or to Albus Dumbledore, after all: Severus is an observer, searching for the subtlest clues in other people’s façades with the knowledge that his own is firmly in place.

It is crucial that they reach for influence within the Ministry: immediately, the convicts amongst the group become restless. Bellatrix taps her well-manicured fingers upon the table top, her lips pressed tightly together; Beauregard Goyle’s own fingernails are bitten down to the quick, and a few of the other Azkaban escapees fidget in their places. It is unfortunate to have lost Gibbon’s influence in the Ministry, but what of the other departments?

“For how much longer will your Auror training last, Dixon?” Dixon Jugson’s eyes widen at being addressed directly by the Dark Lord: the boy is nearing twenty one, now, and has the wide eyes and bandy legs of a young deer. Caine looks at Jugson with unmitigated detestation, and it is hardly any surprise, when they are so similar in age.

“Eight months, sir!” he barks out. “Eight months.” The Dark Lord clucks his tongue, seeming thoughtful as he examines Jugson from his head to his chest, as if he might measure the man’s magic that way. “And as for the Aurors’ corruption?”

“Difficult, my lord,” Selwyn says quietly. “The majority of the Auror force either joined during the previous war, or were prompted to join by its effects: many are the relatives of those we have killed.” Severus might wince, were he able: Selwyn is so plain-speaking, despite the Dark Lord’s capacity for temper, and Severus cannot believe he has survived for so long with so little tact. “We might have luck amongst the newest trainees, however: Jugson’s classmates and, indeed, underclassmen.”

“But they are without influence,” the Dark Lord says, his lip curling. “We are to wait eight months before young Dixon might assist our efforts within the Aurors’ office, Huw: is it truly your suggestion that we merely cultivate a further pool of the useless?” Jugson flinches: Huw Selwyn merely stares at the Dark Lord, surprise on his face.

“I’ve taken to Esther Fairbanks,” Macnair breaks in, smoothly: he will take any chance to talk of his escapades with one woman or another, it seems. “She’s an accountant, and her father was killed by an Auror in the last war. Her sympathies—”

“You think an accountant isn’t useless, Macnair?” Bellatrix asks shrilly. “What will she do for our cause? Our expenses? Ha!”

“I’m sorry, Bella,” Severus says silkily. “Did you have a better suggestion? Have you cultivated many connections in the Ministry of Magic – perhaps by post, under an alternate persona?” Macnair shoots Severus a grateful look he neither desires nor deserves: before Bellatrix can stand, the Dark Lord gestures for her to stay seated.

“We shall speak later on Ms Fairbanks, Walden,” the Dark Lord murmurs lightly. Impatience shows in his stiff form, and Severus remains silent. He has no idea as to what the Dark Lord might have planned for him, but he is not so stupid as to outwardly request punishment, as it would be to continue to show cheek – the Dark Lord wants results, and in this venture Severus can offer none.

“As you know, I have been brewing Polyjuice,” Crouch says, smugly. Caine’s head is laid upon his shoulder, Crouch’s hand tightened in his hair, but nobody pays it any heed (bar Gibbon, of course, who is mildly scandalized). “From next month – the 20th of October, I should say – I can provide enough Polyjuice for three members of our order to perform work at the Ministry of Magic, assuming a rough shift of ten hours per day. They ought study their targets in advance, of course, that they might entirely duplicate their mannerisms, their persons…”

“And which three of our order will they be, Barty?” Severus asks: here, he and Crouch might work in perfect harmony to calm the Dark Lord’s irritation. “Yourself, of course, and who else?”

“That would be our lord’s decision,” Crouch says immediately. Ruffled feathers are slightly smoothed: the Dark Lord relaxes by an infinitesimal fraction, and were Severus and Crouch Muggles, and unsubtle, perhaps they might have high-fived, or something equally obnoxious. They merely make eye contact for the most fleeting of moments, and then return their gazes to their master.

“Bartemius should certainly lead the party…” the Dark Lord murmurs, deliberating as he looks about the room. Bellatrix is near bouncing in her seat, but even she ought know she would be inappropriate for such an assignment: the woman wouldn’t last a day feigning even the bitterest of workers in the Ministry, and would likely murder a baker’s dozen of Ministry workers at the slightest sign of frustration. “Yes, I think so. Bartemius, Beauregard, and perhaps Augustus.” Rookwood, who had been staring melancholically into the ether, looks up.

“Me, my lord?” Rookwood asks, seemingly astonished. “I would be honoured.”

“Yes,” the Dark Lord says, apparently in agreement. “Select your quarries, gentlemen, and we shall have a meeting on Thursday to determine where you might best fit. We might examine other pressure points – such a shame about Stanley and that Muggle… The Daily Prophet. Have any of you come across any sensitivities, any weak points?”

“They have an opening for a copy editor. I thought I might apply.” Silence rings in the room: everybody, Severus included, stare at Caine. Caine is sitting up in Crouch’s lap now, his knees pressed tightly together, his hands clasped in his lap, and despite the attention he looks earnestly in the Dark Lord’s direction. “I had the highest mark on a History of Magic N.E.W.T. in forty years, my lord, and the Prophet looks for high scores in History – and I—” He is cut off by Crouch’s laughter.  With Crouch’s invitation, the others in the room begin to laugh at Caine’s expense as well, and only Severus and the Dark Lord remain silent. Caine looks fit to melt into a puddle, his eyes wet at their edges as he hangs his head.

The Dark Lord holds up a finger for silence, and immediately the laughter is cut short. “And what, Maxie, would you do were you accosted by an Auror, or a member of the Order of the Phoenix, without a wand? Wave your History certificate at them?” The Dark Lord leans forwards, grasps at Caine’s chin and forces his head up. The tears on Caine’s cheeks glint in the dim candlelight, and the Dark Lord whispers, “Would you cry at them, Maxie?”

Caine is breathing heavily, and Severus can see he is fit to lose his temper. He looks desperately into the Dark Lord’s eyes, aching for some sign of empathy, and he adds, “They wouldn’t realize, they’d never know. I could just—”

“Selwyn, you have a dog, don’t you?” the Dark Lord interrupts.

“It is my wife’s dog, my lord, the animal isn’t mine,” Selwyn says reluctantly. “A French poodle.” There are a few snickers at the table, but Severus keeps his gaze on the Dark Lord’s hand. He grasps tightly at Caine’s chin, so tightly that his skin is white under the Dark Lord’s grip, and his long thumb nail is pressing tight enough to the flesh that it threatens to break the skin.

“Very well,” the Dark Lord murmurs. “I will permit you to submit yourself to the Daily Prophet, Maxie, but do make sure to include the poodle’s application with your own.” Caine releases a sob at the unfairness of it all, and now the Dark Lord does draw blood: he nicks at Caine’s open mouth with a nail, cutting the flesh just inside his lip, and when Caine hangs his head, blood drips down over his chin. Caine sighs, softly, and says nothing more for the rest of the meeting. Idiot boy, Severus thinks to himself. The meeting returns to its established agenda.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

He catches Caine out on the grounds. He does not know what compels him: perhaps a mix of sympathy and rebellion. The skies are misty, and Caine sits on the remnants of what had once been a bench, and is now little more than a pile of unpolished stones. “You did not truly believe, I hope, that such an obscene suggestion would be met with approval?”

“You don’t understand,” Caine snaps, running his hands through his hair. “The way they treat me—”

“You think of yourself as their equal,” Severus says mildly. “You are not, Caine. You are a Squib: many of our compatriots would have you dead for that sin alone.” Caine lets out a sound of frustration, standing from the bench and pacing, his shoes squelching in the mud. Severus thinks of Abraham Hamish, his student, who he had failed, and allowed to die at the Death Eaters’ hand. “You ought count yourself lucky.”

“Lucky? Lucky, am I? I’m a pet.”

“What are you telling me, Caine? That you are unhappy with the Dark Lord’s affection? That you would betray that affection?” Severus demands, sharply, and Caine flinches away. There’s a softness in his eyes: Severus realizes, with a sinking sensation, that Caine fosters more than a lust for power. The loyalty to his master, to some extent, is real. A shame, truly.

“No: don’t twist my words. I don’t like… Them.”

“Them,” Severus repeats, and he laughs: the sound is nasty, even to Severus’ own ears. Caine stares at Severus like he has never seen him laugh before: he likely never has. “You idiot child. If you say Crouch, say so.”

“Alright! Fine. Crouch.”

“You’ve bored of him so quickly?”

“You don’t know what it’s like for men like me,” Caine mutters, clenching his fists at his sides. “I just want… And the Dark Lord— He encouraged me. Said I ought keep everybody happy. Suggested I touch him.” Caine clenches his jaw, stares out over the bleak, barren fields about Malfoy Manor – or at least, stares out over what he can, in the dark. “He barely ever releases me. If I could only leave—”

“You cannot leave,” Severus snaps. “Do stop with this obsession of coulds and can’ts and wishes, you stupid child. Do what is within your power, and stop dreaming of that which is not.”

“Easy for you—”

“In the space of three minutes,” Severus says darkly, “You have told me I do not understand, and that I do not know what it is like for men like you. Would you really like to add a third such offence to my memory?”

“Why not?” Caine spits. He looks at Severus now, his lip twisted. “You can’t take points off me anymore, can’t glare at me for being a Squib, can’t do anything!” He looks so very young, Severus thinks, nothing like Hamish. Why is it that Severus feels a need to draw a connection between the two?

“I can do much worse things than take points and glare, Caine,” Severus says, his voice dropping to a whisper. He darkens his stare, taking a further step into Caine’s space, and he sees the way Caine pales, his tear-stained cheeks turning to marble in the cool night air. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Caine mutters. He looks at Severus’ chin instead of into his eyes, as if it might save him from Severus’ temper: perhaps this works for Crouch. “What did you come over here for? Just to rub it in I can’t do anything?”

“I planned to suggest something you might do, actually,” Severus says. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Caine.” The order is crisp and clean, and it seems to hit Caine hard. He stands up a little straighter, his watery eyes focused on Severus, and although his bloodied lip quivers, his stained chin trembling, he doesn’t flinch away. “Order subscriptions to the Prophet, the Gazette, Witch Weekly, Wizard’s Staff… Analyse them.”

“Analyse them?” Caine repeats. “For what?”

“Signs of sympathy,” Severus says. “You have the highest History of Magic marks in forty years – surely you know how to detect bias in a source? You might examine the work of each writer and look at the way they use language when speaking of Death Eater movements, or Pureblood ideas, and extrapolate any biases they may hold. I would edit a report, but you could submit it to the Dark Lord.” Caine stares at him, struck dumb, his ripped lip gaping like that of a hooked fish. He looks like Hamish, perhaps. He has hazel eyes, so different to Hamish’s eyes, and chestnut hair. His face has a girlish softness to it, and he has a prominent nose, slightly overlarge front teeth… Hamish and Caine look nothing alike.

“You’d edit it? Submit it in your name?” Severus scoffs.

“I would examine it, and ensure you had thought through your analyses. I have no wish to plagiarize your war reports, boy.”

“Then why?” Caine demands. “Why help me?” The boy seems to hesitate for a second, his tongue touching over the bloody mark on his lower lip, and he looks Severus up and down. Severus’ instinct is to smack the child, to whirl away and rescind his offer, to spit. He merely withstands the look. “Would you— Would you want me to—”

“No.” Caine looks at Severus, steps slightly closer, reaches out for Severus’ cheek: Severus catches him tightly by the wrist, twists it behind his back. Caine lets out a cry of pain, freezing in Severus’ grip, and he takes advantage of the position, putting his lips directly against the shell of Caine’s ear. “I have no wish to cavort with a student.”

“I’m not your student any more. If you want—” Caine takes on a breathy voice that he must imagine is very attractive, and Severus wrinkles his nose.

“You are wishing I desire you in the hope that I might assuage Crouch’s attentions,” Severus snaps, cutting through Caine’s lacking attempts at reasoned seduction: Caine’s silence belies the truth in what Severus says, and he releases the boy. Caine straightens slowly, stroking his forearm.  “I do not, and shall not. I shall give you a month, Caine, to pick out a few potential candidates for approach.”

“Yes, Professor Snape.” Caine seems to hesitate, for the longest time, and then says, “Why are you helping me?”

“You are a resource,” Severus says cleanly. “You oughtn’t be wasted merely because you are a Squib. You have an education: we ought make use of it.” Caine’s face crumples: perhaps he expected some confession of affection, or rebellion, or the like. Severus walks away.

Why are you helping me? The words repeat in his head as he walks back toward the front of the Manor. Why are you helping me? Why not? That’s not an answer. Need it be? Yes. Why are you helping me? Because I can. Isn’t that enough? No.

Crouch moves fast. Not so fast that Severus does not realize what is happening, but fast enough that he cannot respond to defend himself, and Severus’ head smacks overly hard against the stone of the Manor’s outer wall. Crouch’s hands are against Severus’ shoulders, his body right up against Severus’ own.

“What are you doing?” Crouch asks softly.

“Surely you aren’t jealous, Bartemius?” Severus asks, looking up into the other man’s eyes. Crouch’s eyes are a deep brown, and they are full of madness.

“Jealous?” Crouch repeats, and he lets out a breathy little laugh: his fingers clutch at Severus’ shoulders, stroking over the black fabric of his robes. “No, no, no, I know how to share my toys, particularly toys that aren’t my own.” This much is debatable, but Severus knows better than to say so. “But you… You’ve never shown an interest, hmm? And yet here you are, walking with the boy under the light of the moon…”

“It’s a moonless night.”

“Still!” Crouch snaps, his voice shaking with the sudden force of his emotion, and Severus thinks of Hamish’s slack features, of Caine’s tear-streaked ones. Why are you helping me? The question echoes in Severus’ hair like the clang of a bell. Why are you helping me? Did you put it out of its misery? It’s only cruel to do otherwise, Severus. Perhaps you ought take the boy under your wing. Why are you helping me? Save him… But he can’t be saved. Voices wash over each other, mingling, echoing. Severus wishes for the sound of Hebrew again: a glorious language, one that he can’t understand. “Can it be you feel sorry for him?”

“Sorry for him? Ha. Hardly.” You hope that I will assuage Crouch’s affections. I will not. The heels of Crouch’s hands are against Severus’ chest now, and even through the fabric of Severus’ robe, he can feel the dry heat of them. “What is it, Barty? Isn’t the boy enough for you?” Sarcasm drips from Severus’ every word. It might have been like this at Hogwarts, were Severus and Barty closer in age, were Barty a year older, even two years older.

“He’s a boy,” Crouch murmurs. “Aren’t you lonely?” Severus thinks of the Dark Lord’s questions that day – had he known this was coming? Perhaps. It is impossible to predict his patterns, even when he is in the best of moods.

“Not lonely enough to ache for your company, Bartemius,” Severus murmurs.

“Really? I’ve always thought of myself as quite handsome.” Put him out of its misery. Take the boy under your wing. Save him. Severus does not kiss the other man so much as he bites. Crouch moans at the pain, at Severus’ teeth, and Severus feels him tense as Severus grasps at the sides of Crouch’s neck, kissing him as hard as he knows how. Crouch is dazed when Severus releases him, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.

“And what would my new bosom friend, Gideon, think?” Severus whispers, and kisses Crouch’s chin, keeping his hands tight at Crouch’s neck so that the other man cannot lean and turn it into a proper kiss. “If he thought I carried such perversions as you?”

“He wouldn’t mind,” Crouch says, and when Severus bites at the side of his jaw, he leans greedily into it.

“Wouldn’t he? I think he would.” A bite: this one leaves a mark, though it doesn’t draw blood. If Severus could get away with it, he would rip out Crouch’s throat with his mouth right here. “If he knew I were a degenerate like you, Barty…” Crouch gasps as Severus allows his hands to roam lower, and then Severus releases him entirely, stepping cleanly away. “Why, he might no longer invite me for tea.”

“What is this?” Crouch demands. He is flushed with exertion, excitement, and his breathing is heavy. He is handsome, like this. It hardly matters: if Crouch were the ugliest man in the world, Severus would still be here. “Some extended tease?”

“Think of it as a promise: a collateral, if you will.”

“Collateral?” Severus takes a step away from Crouch, and smiles. He looks vicious when he smiles, he knows.

“You might share well, Barty, but I do not, and will not.” Crouch’s mad, mad eyes shine with understanding, and he reaches out for Severus: but no, not tonight. Severus is already moving down the hill, so that he might Apparate back to Hogsmeade.

Harry comes into the Common Room with an idea in his head of precisely what his letter will contain, but he is distracted.

“Harry?” asks Daphne Greengrass. She has been waiting for him, he sees from the way she immediately stands from the sofa, her hands loosely clasped in front of her stomach, her stare intent. “I wondered if you might take a walk with me.”

“Sure,” Harry murmurs, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Pansy and Tracey titter together, and they ignore the way Daphne lets out a sharp, “Shhh,.” in their direction, directing them to hush; Harry merely needs a moment to drop his bag into his dormitory, and he is ready to go.

Daphne Greengrass is a tall, willowy girl. She looks like she’s stepped out of one of the children’s stories Remus illustrates: she seems like she’s grounded in a different reality to the one Harry lives in, and while she seems to have normal interests – chess, fashion, art – there’s something airy about her. She’s very pretty, with clear, pale skin and silvery-blonde hair that comes away from her face in thick, feathery waves, and her eyes are a burnished hazel.

She’s going to a model when she leaves Hogwarts. Harry knows it like he knows the sky is blue.

When they leave the Common Room, walking through the dungeon corridors at a slow, leisurely pace, she takes his arm: he lets her. He feels like they should be walking out on the grounds, at least (and perhaps as if she should be holding a parasol), but with his eyes the way they are, it’s not really feasible.

Daphne wears boots made of a black suede, with a tall heel at the back, and there’s a quiet clop as they walk along. They each know the corridors well, even with Harry’s lacking sight, and they simply move aimlessly through the sprawl of basement hallways, passing by portraits and alcoves lit by torches Harry can’t stand to look at.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, after they’ve walked for fifteen minutes in complete silence. Daphne’s expression is distracted, her lips pressed tightly together. She turns to look at him, the features of her face shadowed in the relative darkness, and momentarily, she hesitates.

“Everybody’s at the funeral today,” Daphne says quietly.

“Yes,” Harry agrees. He waits, patiently, and he feels Daphne’s arm slightly tighten on his own.

“What do you know about the Death Eaters, Harry?” That question is unexpected. Harry is grateful for the dark lenses over his eyes, as he knows they’ll hide the way his eyes widen, and he does his best to otherwise keep his expression neutral. He thinks of Stan Shunpike, and Rickard Mulciber.

“They’re Voldemort’s followers—”

“Don’t call him that.” Daphne’s voice is sudden and sharp and severe, and Harry resists the urge to argue.

“They’re his followers, anyway. They wear masks to keep anonymous: they’re loyal to him. Or to the ability to be violent, anyway.” A short pause. “Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater.”

“Was,” Daphne says quietly. “He wasn’t, in the end, was he?”

“Not at all.” Daphne comes to a stop, taking her arm away from Harry’s and stepping into a wide alcove in the stone. There are darkened windows of stained glass on the walls, but judging by the lacking light that comes through them, the lake is on the other side. She sits down on a leather chaise long pressed against the wall, her hands neatly clasped on her knees: Harry watches the way she takes her plump lower lip under the bite of her upper teeth, worrying the pink flesh. He thinks of Blaise Zabini’s teeth dragging over his neck, deep enough to nearly draw blood. He turns away, murmurs a quiet incantation, a bubble of warded silence forming around the little alcove – it has to be tethered to walls or doorframes, and isn’t as strong a spell as others, but it should be decent enough for their purposes. “What is it, Daphne? Your mother?”

“I couldn’t speak of this to Pansy,” Daphne murmurs. “Nor even Tracey – a half-blood she might be, but her father has pure blood, and thus… It isn’t that I believe they are untrustworthy. Merely that they might have loyalties I myself could not adhere to.” It surprises Harry to hear Daphne Greengrass, a girl of double meanings and quiet intention, speak so clearly, and least of all to him – they’re not close friends, like Harry and Draco or Harry and Hermione, or like Theo and Blaise.

“Sometimes it’s better to have a more distant friend’s perspective,” Harry says quietly. He goes to the window, turning his head away slightly and leaning back against the green and red glass, his shoulders upon the cool of it, his eyes facing away from the comparative bright. He watches Daphne, grateful for the light behind him, that makes her so much easier to see even with the dark red of his lenses half-blinding him to detail. “Is it your mother?”

“She does not outright say, of course, that she would be seduced, nor my father.” Daphne whispers the words, and despite her distracted state, she sits with a very straight back and a very proper posture, her upset showing only in her face. “But yet I know, as surely as anything, that were the Dark Lord to ask after her aid, or his, that they might readily kneel at his feet.”

“And what problem would that be?” Harry asks. Daphne’s eyes flicker up to meet his, her gaze surprised, and Harry says, “You don’t think I’d assume you’d be on my side in this war, just because we’re in the same house? You have no obligation.”

“You wouldn’t hate me?”

“Of course I would,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, on the battlefield.” Daphne’s lips part, her eyes widening, and she recoils the slightest bit… It surprises her, Harry guesses, how bluntly he speaks, but the actual sentiment can’t possibly take her aback. Even as Harry says it, though, he doesn’t know if it’s true. He knows Daphne, has known her year by year, and the idea of murdering her, like he did Mulciber, or Shunpike… No. “I can’t afford to see the grey area in this, Daphne. Voldemort—”

“Don’t.”

“No, I will. Voldemort killed me this summer. He killed my parents – he would kill every one of my friends, and more.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at her: shame seems to radiate from her every pore, but there’s more than that. He sees fear. “You’re a Pure-blood family. What are you worried about, that he’ll hurt you? That he’ll hurt your family?”

“My sister,” Daphne whispers. Her voice, usually strong and serene, seems half-cracked. “She’s so young, a child… I’ve heard the stories. Of things that happened in the war, to girls, boys. Easy victims.” Harry’s brow furrows. He stares down at her, takes a step forwards: her hazel eyes are watery.

“And what are you suggesting here?” Harry asks, softly. “That I convince your parents not to join him?”

“I want you to protect my sister,” Daphne says. She looks intently up at Harry’s face, standing up, and she grasps for Harry’s hands, holding them tightly between her own. Tears roll down her cheeks, but her wide eyes are focused and furious. “If you protect her, I will do anything. I cannot trust, any more, that our blood status ought protect us, or the green ribbons on our robes: if you can keep her safe, I will— I will spy. I will join the Dark Lord myself—”

“No,” Harry murmurs, thinking of the Dark Mark on Daphne’s skin, thinking of killing her. Could he do that? “I can’t promise to protect your sister, I’m not… What do you think I am, some kind of war general? Daphne, I don’t know any more magic than you do.” Even as he talks, he can see she isn’t listening.

“I’ll do anything, then, anything, I’ll—” Daphne breathes in, desperately, and her lips drop down to Harry’s mouth. Hesitantly, her right hand goes to the fastening of her robe at the left side, and he grasps for the hand and stops her. She lets out a desperate sob, drops her head against his shoulder, and not knowing what to do, he lets her. He puts his arms around her, one of his hands on her back, and with his chin against her hair, he stares into the darkness.

“I’ll—” He opens his mouth, closes it, tries to think of what can possibly be done, what he can do. “Your parents haven’t sworn themselves in?”

“No,” Daphne says, sniffling slightly as she pulls away, obviously trying to contain herself. Her porcelain nose is red from crying. “But I fear it will come soon, that someone must approach them… I don’t wish to betray my parents, Harry, and I should love to be neutral entirely, but my sister.”

“What do you want? For me to kidnap you and your sister both?”

“Could you?” The question is so sudden, and so laden with hope, that it hits Harry like an arrow.

“You’re at Hogwarts. You’re safe here.”

“But come Christmas—”

“Come Christmas,” Harry breaks in, holding both of her hands very tightly. “I’ll kidnap you and your sister both, if it comes to it.”

“And in return?” Daphne asks. Her breath hitches in her throat. “What would you ask of me?” Harry breathes in slowly through his nose, pressing his lips together. Daphne’s hands are freezing cold between his own, like those of a statue, and he suppresses the urge to sigh – she’d only misconstrue it.

“We don’t know that this is how things will go. But if we have to… I don’t want her at risk any more than you do. She’s innocent – she’s a child.” He releases her hands, and he takes a step away. He thinks of Gilderoy Lockhart’s letter, which he’d planned to write just a few minutes ago, the words all a jumble in his head. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Daphne murmurs. Harry dispels the silencing enchantment, stepping out into the corridor and walking away: he waits, to see if he hears Daphne follow after him. She doesn’t. He walks back to the Common Room alone: he imagines Daphne Greengrass sinking back down onto the chaise long and sitting in the silence of the corridor.

When he gets back to the Common Room, writing the letter to Lockhart is the last thing he feels ready to do.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Harry barely drinks that night.

He has been drunk in the past: he’s played drinking games with the others, in the past year, and never gotten especially drunk, but now… Harry feels the slight hum of whiskey in his belly, heating his throat from its very base, and he looks about the room. Cross-legged upon the ground, leaning against each other, Greg and Vince sit, staring into space. Draco and Theo talk very quietly and seriously together: Theo has a book of Arithmancy open in his lap, and they talk at length about the subject. Theodore is slurring his words a little, but his maths seems accurate enough, and Draco looks like he’s genuinely loving the conversation. Blaise, for his part, is sprawled on the ground between Draco and Harry’s respective beds, Winston the cat sitting on his chest and staring soulfully down into his eyes.

As distracted as he is, Harry can’t think much on Lockhart’s letter, nor on Daphne and Astoria: he sits on the carpet, back against the far wall, and watches the other boys get drunker and drunker. He sets his glass down, still half-full.

He thinks of Lockhart meeting him in the castle…

But no. No, the idea is stupid, risky: they could easily be caught, and what would happen then? What if Lockhart planned to offer something helpful, and he was killed, or captured?

Harry stands up, taking his satchel from the side: his Invisibility Cloak is safely inside, and there’s a dagger in the bag as well as the one on his belt.

“I’m going to go sit in the library for a while,” he says, and he moves too quickly for any of them to ask him questions. Under the Invisibility Cloak, he moves slowly through the Hogwarts corridors, casting a silencing charm on the soles of his shoes to keep from making too much noise, and then he goes out into the grounds.

It’s a decently warm night, although the sky is misty, and very little light comes down from the sky above: Harry is grateful. Keeping the Cloak fastened at his neck, the hood down over his head, he presses his body through the little opening at the base of the Whomping Willow, and he doesn’t bother to cast Lumos as he moves through the tight corridor. He feels his way through the darkness, and he does the same in the Shrieking Shack, climbing out of a window on the ground floor. He’s grateful for the misty skies now, as he walks toward the village and slides in through a gap in the fencing: even with the red lenses over his eyes and the cloak over his face, he knows that if the sun hadn’t yet set, or even if the moon was full, his eyes would be very sensitive indeed.

He does his best not to rush up the hill out of the village. He takes the walk slowly: there is a temptation to run up the hill and into the mountains at speed, but even with the silencing charm on his shoes, the Cloak would flap, and he could potentially be seen speeding past.

The walk up to the mountain is very slow, particularly in the thick haze of darkness, with barely any light to guide him. The lack of visibility is obscene, and he cannot exactly use Lumos to light the way – not unless he wants Hogsmeade to be awash with rumours of a Will-o’-the-Wisp traversing the mountain pathways in the dead of night. What time is it? Midnight? Later?

Harry doesn’t know.

The clearing outside the cave is lit by the scant light from above, and Harry moves slowly toward the opening, stepping carefully over the threshold. The candles that light the way are dimmed in their lanterns, and Harry walks carefully inside. Glancing around, he examines the little entrance hall, and then steps through the archway, into the corridor that opens out onto the rest of the cave.

There are no doors.

Lockhart is surrounded by powerful witches, but it seems like they hadn’t seen the point in forcing the network of carpeted, wallpapered caves to have doors or windows. Instead, neatly carved archways serve the difference between one “room” and the next, and corridors separate off into different passageways. The corridors are dimly lit by soft-burning lamps, and Harry then reaches archways that have bead curtains or swathes of fabric hanging down before him. Peering through a set of silvery bead curtains, he sees a chair with a yellow set of women’s robes laid over it, and he steps to the next archway.

The curtains are a royal red, with golden trimmings and golden rope hanging for when they’re to be held shut: this is Lockhart’s bedroom, Harry knows for certain. He slides carefully between the papered rock wall and the hanging fabric, and he enters an extremely dark room.

Upon a table, a candle flickers weakly, burnt down to its very wick and emitting very little light. It takes Harry a few moments to adjust to the darkness – the thick curtains let through none of the lamplight from the corridor at all – and he looks around.

The first thought that strikes him is that there are no mirrors.

There are photographs of Lockhart upon the walls, and even a portrait of him: the portrait Lockhart is sleeping soundly in an old armchair, his head lolled back, his golden hair flopping down over his eyes. But no mirrors. Nowhere Lockhart can see his real-life self, in this very moment – what a strange thought. Perhaps he has a compact now.

The furniture in the room is scant: a dining table that has been made makeshift into a desk, an old armchair, and a cot that is right up against the wall. Harry whispers a spell, making the candle remount its wax, and the dying light brightens. Harry looks down at the cot, and he sees Gilderoy Lockhart sprawled upon his belly, his left arm hanging down from the bed. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of white sleeping trousers like the Muggles have, and his hair – much longer than in the portrait – cascades over his shoulders in waves.

He looks so young. Lockhart isn’t far past thirty, Harry doesn’t think, but with his face half-hidden by his hair, and slack, he looks like he’s barely more than a teenager. He looks different to the portrait of Lockhart sleeping on the wall, very different indeed.

Harry pulls the cloak slowly from his shoulders, and sets his satchel upon the ground. Reaching inside, he pulls out a knife – the knife he’d bought in Hogsmeade last year. He creeps slowly forwards, gently pulling Lockhart’s hair out of the way of his face, and yeah, he looks older now. Harry can see the shiny pink scar on his jawline, where some curse must have opened up Lockhart’s skin.

Harry reaches out, takes Lockhart’s wand from the ground where it lies beneath the bed, and places it in an inside pocket. Then, he takes the knife to Lockhart’s neck, pressing the blade closely against his skin.

Lockhart’s eyes open. His eyes are forget-me-not blue, bright and shining in the candlelight.

“Don’t yell for help, and don’t struggle. This knife is imbibed with Basilisk venom,” Harry says smoothly: it is a complete lie. That knife is still in his satchel. “If it breaks the skin, you will die very fast, and it’ll hurt.”

“Basilisk venom, hmm? Well, I suppose it’d kill me,” Lockhart says, his chin pressed against the side of his mattress, and he makes no attempt to push Harry away or lean away from the bite of the knife. Harry had forgotten the sound of his voice, so musical, so theatrical – Lockhart has the voice of an actor, Harry thinks, like someone made for the stage. “Can I do anything for you, Harry?” Scowling, Harry peers down at Lockhart’s idiotic face.

 “Isn’t the man with the knife meant to have the upper hand?” he asks, frustrated, but Lockhart doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I believe you do,” Lockhart says smoothly. “Me being on my belly and all that.”  Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Harry pulls back the knife, and stares down at Lockhart. Lockhart grins, and he shows all of his handsome, white teeth.

“You’re such a bloody twat,” Harry mutters, and he stands up from the bed, settling in the middle of the room upon his feet, dropping the knife into his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. “I can say that outright, now, you’re not one of my bloody teachers.”

“Yes, well, anything nasty you should have liked to say was given to me threefold in the staffroom, I’m sure,” Lockhart replies mildly. He sits up, reaching for the bedpost and pulling on a silken dressing gown in the Ravenclaw colours, tying it up in front of his belly. He just keeps on smiling, showing his teeth with his eyes bright and cheery. “Why, I expected to hear back from you! Didn’t expect a home visit.” Lockhart claps his hands together, and something changes in his eyes, hardening. “How did you get past the Fidelius Charm? When Dawn and Billy mentioned you, why, I couldn’t fathom…”

“I was here one night, when you brought some of your people in. You need to ward the area around the cave entrance, I think.”

“Bollocks,” Lockhart says, furrowing his brow. “That never occurred to the old noggin. Were you invisible? Used a charm?”

“An enchanted cloak,” Harry answers, and slips the cloak into his bag. Lockhart stands before him, wearing his socks but no shoes, the blue material of his dressing gown shimmering a little in the candlelight. His hands are in his pockets, his elbows out.

Lockhart looks about the room, and then says in a good-natured tone, “You have my wand, I believe.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees.

“I can’t light the other lights. Unless you prefer a chat in the dark?” Frowning, Harry sweeps his wand around the room. Lanterns come to life, hanging from natural breaks in the rock upon the ceiling, or they hover against the walls. He feels like he could be out in the sun, the light is abruptly so bright, and he lets out a sharp sound of pain, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and dropping to his knees.

Immediately, he feels Lockhart come close to him, and before he can move away, he feels Lockhart’s hands upon his face. Cupping the sides of his temples, the sides of his hands pressed against the wire frames of Harry’s glasses, he creates a blessed darkness around the red lenses of his spectacles, and Harry exhales.

“Now, now, that’s all fine,” Lockhart mutters. “Got you in that flashbang, didn’t they? Augustine Nielsen caught one the other day too – he’s one of our Aurors, and he wears squared-off spectacles. Come on, now, dim the lights – you can do it without looking.” Harry waves his wand, muttering the spell under his breath, and Lockhart very slowly takes his hands away. Harry blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the softer light – it’s more like it is in the corridor, now, and Harry can’t think how he could have been so stupid, bringing all the lights up to their full brightness.

Lockhart sits back upon his heels, a soft smile still on his lips.

“There you are. Shall we have a cup of tea?”

“Has someone hit you in the head?” Harry asks, and Lockhart chuckles, looking away from Harry. Fondly, he glances around the room, and then drops back gracelessly upon his backside.

“Yes, perhaps you would think so. We haven’t seen each other properly in three years, hmm? Since you called that big snake out in the Chamber of Secrets, and I fled… Why, they caught me before I’d even escaped the castle. And well, I did deserve it, didn’t I? I’d never killed anybody, that much is true, but I’d stolen so many lives nonetheless…” A shadow of regret passes over Lockhart’s face, and he slowly shakes his head. “And Azkaban made me aware, I think. I’d always pushed away my regrets. Always, always: Bonnie tells me the Muggles call it compartmentalizing! What do you think of that?”

Harry stares resolutely at Lockhart’s beatific features, and he says absolutely nothing. Lockhart has a lot of rhetorical questions amongst his vocal flourishes, and Harry isn’t going to try to answer a single one.

“Well,” Lockhart murmurs softly, putting his chin on his hand. “Then we came out here, and we were all justice. I was… Well, I was a little bad, after Azkaban. I was full of anger! Chad led the way.” Lockhart’s lips become downturned. “Yes, Chad, he controlled everything, and then when I felt a little better, we stopped being quite so monstrous. Isn’t it odd, how things turn out? And then… You. You and that prophecy, well. With You-Know-Who on the way back, I supposed it seemed rather foolish to keep trying to kill you. Chad had a whole list, you know.”

Lockhart doesn’t seem confused, exactly, but Harry wonders what’s wrong with him for him to speak so frankly to him, to Harry. It’s the middle of the night, and Harry has snuck into his bedroom with a knife to his throat: how can be so calm and cheery?

“Did you expect this? Did you somehow predict me coming?” Lockhart stands up, tapping Harry upon the shoulder. Slowly, he stands, and he looks at Lockhart’s desk: now, in the lamplight, he can see what is on the desk. There is a sheaf of hand-drawn maps in the corner, and some pages of notes from a book called The New Mediwizard, but in the very middle of the oak surface are a set of tarot cards. He looks at the painted surfaces of the six cards on the table, scanning them. “These don’t mean anything to me. I don’t study Divination.”

“I did rather well in Divination at school,” Lockhart says softly, dragging his thumb over a card labelled ACE OF WANDS. “The cards predicted a dark visitor tonight, but to trust in him – that he would speak of that which will change my life.” Divination, it is Harry’s instinct to say, is mostly bollocks.

He doesn’t say that.

“Right,” Harry says, slowly. “But I could have been about to kill you, for all you knew.”

“You wouldn’t have killed me,” Lockhart says, all quiet confidence, and he reaches up, combing through his hair with his fingers and then pulling it up into a loose, messy bun above his head. “I should tell you why I asked that we meet… Come, let’s go into the kitchen. We’ll have a cup of tea.” Harry stares up at Lockhart, and his strange features in the dim light. Can he possibly trust this man? He’s absolutely mad.

Reaching into his robes, he takes Lockhart’s wand, and hands it to him. Beaming, Lockhart leads the way out into the corridor.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Lockhart can’t boil a kettle for his life. First, he overfills the kettle, making water splash over the floor, but he doesn’t pour enough of it out: water bubbles over and onto the hob, and steam comes away from the kettle in clouds. The tea itself is very weak, and has far too much milk in it – milk, by the by, that Harry specifically said he didn’t want.

Harry sets the cup down on the table, and he sits on a dining chair. Lockhart leans against the kitchen counter that has been neatly fastened against the plain rock wall, his bare feet dangling down, a mug of hot cocoa steaming between his own hands. He stares off into the distance, seeming lost in his own thoughts.

“You asked to see me,” Harry reminds him, after several moments have passed.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I did.” Lockhart smiles, as if abruptly reminded that he is alive, and he cups his steaming mug between his palms. He looks at Harry, and once again Harry sees that strange hardness come into his eyes again, even though the smile stays on his face. “Who killed Stanley Shunpike?”

“A Muggle, wasn’t it?” Harry replies, narrowing his eyes slightly. “The papers said it was a mugging.”

“I’ve been told – on reasonable account – that it was me,” Lockhart says. His tone remains very casual, and his smile remains on his face: his eyes remain cold, and staring. He does not blink.

“Mr Dorian Keats shares information on both sides, I assume.”

“That’s rather how spies work,” Lockhart murmurs. “Isn’t it?” He drinks from the mug in his hands, and then sets the cocoa aside, looking right at Harry. He hesitates for a long moment, and then says, “He tells me that the Death Eaters… They must be killed for You-Know-Who to be defeated. Is that true?”

“Has he told everyone that?” Harry asks.

“No, Dorian reports directly to me,” Lockhart says, in a heartbeat. Harry never thought the man could look so serious, but he does now, his wand hanging loosely from the pocket of his dressing gown, his hands clasped in his lap. “So it is true?”

“It is,” Harry murmurs quietly. There’s a pause between them, a tense pause. Harry does not know what it is precisely that prompts him to do it – perhaps the fact that Lockhart has trusted him with so much tonight, despite the way Harry had come in. “I killed Stan Shunpike.” Surprise shows on Lockhart’s face, and he stares at Harry: Harry feels a sort of weight lifting from his shoulders, feels something clear in his chest. Not a respite from guilt, certainly – the guilt over killing Shunpike is still there, even if it lessons as each day passes him by.

“You?” Lockhart asks. His eyes rest on Harry, examining him carefully. He looks Harry up and down, as if looking for the new parts of him that make him a murderer, as if trying to see where it is that Harry has changed since he was a child in Lockhart’s classroom, disagreeing with his useless lessons and calling him a bastard. “I killed Evan Rosier.”

“I killed Rickard Mulciber,” Harry says, the name sliding easily from his tongue, and Lockhart laughs.

“You’re making this a competition,” he says, shaking his head and looking at Harry fondly, as if he is being somehow incorrigible. “Well done.”

“Well done?”

“He didn’t have a neck, did he? It was burned quite away… Was that your Basilisk knife, was it?” Lockhart taps his fingers upon his own palms, seeming to think. “How old are you? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” Harry says. Lockhart’s brow furrows.

“Fifteen…” Lockhart slips from the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve killed others?”

“Just them.” Lockhart presses his lips together, pacing in the kitchen, his forget-me-not eyes tracking from the left and to the right. With a wave of his wand, a notebook flies into the room, and he begins to take down notes with a fast-moving left hand, his quill fashioned after a peacock feather. “I know all of the Death Eaters who were inmates with me in Azkaban,” Lockhart says: when he snaps his fingers, a noticeboard on the wall tilts, dropping pages that show names and faces – Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Fenrir Greyback… “We’ll kill them.”

“You want to be part of this war,” Harry says quietly. “Don’t you, you want your own forces, trained…?”

“You don’t know what it’s like for a lot of these people,” Lockhart says quietly. He presses his lips together, his quill momentarily freezing on the notepad in his hands. He draws his thumb over the soft pieces of green feather, and then says, “The werewolves, especially, you know… They must go to the Ministry each month, you know. They are placed in compounds with silver bars on every side, and so penned in, the wolves fight. They are unable to control themselves – and those few that might afford Wolfsbane… You know, Harry, it isn’t difficult for an employer to surmise their condition. And Squibs, Squibs! They’re treated so awfully. Those that try to get work in the wizarding world – they simply can’t hide it.” The injustice of it all seems to affect Lockhart heavily: a little pinkness comes to his cheeks, and he seems genuinely distressed, genuinely angry. “These are the people who loved my books most, you know. Such unlikely adventures…”

Lockhart brings the pages to his chest, holding them tightly there.

“The plan,” Lockhart murmurs, looking back to Harry. “is for me and the girls – Jacqueline, Bonnie, Sara-Dean – we’ll kill some of the Death Eaters. If it needs to be done, it will be done: I’ll explain the situation. Our teams… We’re teaching people defensive magic and defensive tactics, teaching Squibs first-aid with enchanted objects and potions, offering food and places to stay to werewolves. I’m not raising an army, Harry.”

“Why?” Harry asks. Lockhart is very silent, his notepad against his chest, his peacock quill held loosely in his hands. “Why do this?”

“Those lives I stole…” Lockhart looks at Harry. His eyes look sad. “We must make it back somehow, mustn’t we? If these people see me as a leader, then I shall be a leader. It is the least I could possibly do.”

Harry wants to ask a thousand questions. It occurs to him that he wants to ask for Lockhart’s whole story – why did he start Obliviating people in the first place? Why did these women decide to break him out? Was he sad when Chad Arnett died? What was it like in Azkaban?

There are too many questions for him to pick only one.

“So you’re suggesting that we form an alliance. That you kill Death Eaters, play the part I feigned to the Order to make me look more innocent, and that… What? What do I do?”

“You defeat You-Know-Who. Or lead the war, or act as a figurehead, or keep people’s spirits high…” Lockhart says, and then seems to regret it. “What do you want to do?”

“Kill Death Eaters with my bare hands, until there’s none left.” Lockhart considers this for a long moment.

“Are you sure? To kill people… It’s a hard decision.”

“I’ve already made it,” Harry points out. “Shunpike, Mulciber. I stabbed them both, felt them bleed over my hands.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.” Lockhart chuckles, softly. “I’ll write to you.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than you coming here, or me coming into Hogwarts…” Lockhart looks down at Harry, stares down at him. “I am sorry. For what I would have done to you, for treating you as I did in my classes – and I knew absolutely nothing. Do you know that, that I knew nothing?”

“I had my suspicions.” Lockhart grins.

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

He’s on something, Harry is certain. As he slips further into the dungeons, he pulls the Invisibility Cloak off of his shoulders and folds it into his bag. Lockhart must have been on some sort of drug to make his divination easier, or perhaps he’s caught some sort of mould from being in that cave, but it couldn’t possibly have been that easy.

Lockhart can’t possibly have a plan.

A thin, bony hand settles on Harry’s shoulder, and grasps him by the fabric of his robes. He’s all but lifted from his feet as he’s thrown into Snape’s office, and he nearly falls flat on his face, only just pulling himself out of the stumble.

“Oh, good,” Harry says. “You’re awake.”

“Who performed the Fidelius Charm for Gilderoy Lockhart?” Snape demands. Dropping into the chair in front of Snape’s desk, Harry lets out a soft sigh.

“Let me get the lies straight in my head before I start answering questions,” he mutters, and Snape crosses his arms tightly over his chest, a fierce look on his face.

Severus’ head will not stop thrumming with sound. He slowly exits the woods of Hogsmeade, taking the path into town: his head is slightly bowed, his gaze concentrated not on his surroundings, but instead upon his own shoes. They are made of deepest black dragonhide, and they make neither a sound nor a footstep on the ground: no one ever comments on how suspicious this might make him, for no one ever suspects he is a spy. Many Hogsmeade villagers have commented to Severus in the past on this eccentricity of his, as if he might break out in a smile and invite them over for tea, as other Hogwarts staff would, as if he might make friends.

Severus Snape does not have friends.

Severus Snape has dragonhide shoes of deepest black, and they shine in the light, the hide curved around his thin feet. He will concentrate on his shoes, and he will not pay attention to the swarming voices in his head, each crying out for attention – this is a dangerous game he is to play with Bartemius Crouch, and for what? So that Crouch might leave Caine alone for a week or two?

Severus knows well that he will not be able to hold Crouch’s eye. He is not a handsome man, nor a charming one – Crouch has merely decided he desires some sort of enigma, and he will soon become bored with what little Severus has to offer, in his double meanings and sarcastic speech. Crouch wishes to be worshiped, and Severus is not about to do that – even were he to pretend, the Dark Lord would become suspicious.

The Dark Lord will be suspicious anyway – but no, the conversation they had about Severus’ predilections. He might easily be assumed to be following the Dark Lord’s insult as an order, a guideline to follow. That is a small boon, Severus supposes, and will cover his tracks when it comes to Caine.

“Professor Snape,” an elderly voice says, and Severus suppresses the deep-seated desire to turn on his heel and walk away, as he might do with one of the students if he had so much to think about. Unfortunately, adult society has never allowed his disinterest in human contact to truly flourish.

He turns his head.

Rabbi Michaels stands with his hands loosely clasped in front of his chest. He wears a dark robe that has been fashioned after a Muggle style of the late 19th century: it is double breasted, with pockets, tight sleeves, and a vest that looks similar to a waistcoat, though the skirt is normal in its design. 

“Rabbi,” Severus says cautiously. The Rabbi Michaels is watching him, his face aged and wrinkled with a great many lines, his eyes a brown so light it seems almost yellow in the evening torchlight.

“You don’t wish to speak right now,” he says softly. “My apologies: I shall leave you be.” He reaches out, and when he touches Severus’ left hand hand, Severus feels the lack of callouses on the other man’s hands – he has soft hands, even in his old age. Severus is too surprised and uncertain to pull away, and the rabbi holds his hand only for a few long seconds before he says, “It will all be fine in the end, my boy. Whether you believe in God, whether you believe He has a plan for us, or not… The universe balances itself out. All will be well: sacrifices may be made to reach this equilibrium, but all will be well.” The old man releases Severus’ hand, and Severus says nothing as he watches the old man move slowly away, his neck bent, his knees slightly unsteady, in the direction of the Cauldron’s Wax.

Severus stares at his own hand, feeling the lingering warmth of the other man’s hand on his own skin: Severus has bony fingers, scarred palms and bad circulation, and his hands are eternally cold. Banal and ridiculous as they might have been, the rabbi’s words ring through his head, and overpower his mind’s latent desire to repeat key phrases again, and again, and again. For that, at least, he is grateful.

Tonight, he will rest early, he thinks. His bed calls to him with the song of a siren, and he is desperate to lay down flat on the most remotely plush service – even the heather plants are looking unfortunately comfortable, down here in the village.

And yet—

Severus frowns. The frown deepens, twisting his mouth: he feels his brows knit together as they lower, and he stares with a sudden, grim understanding up the path out of Hogsmeade – the path that leads into the mountains. Completely silent, he sees the slow press of invisible boots upon the slightly damp path, pressing against the grass or soil for a moment and then coming away, leaving new prints in their wake: nobody, as of late, is using the path up into the mountains, as the Acromantula are settling into their new home and growing bolder with each passing day. There is no tell-tale shimmer from a Disillusionment charm – Severus can see that this is the work of an Invisibility Cloak, and he abandons the thought of his bed entirely.

Potter.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Severus bides his time before he grabs the boy, following after him with a Disillusionment charm in place upon his own head. He had waited in the clearing, methodically ripping part of his skirt hem into pieces to keep from going absolutely mad, and then the boy had appeared as invisibly as he’d disappeared, and Severus had followed him to the Shrieking Shack’s broken fence, then returned to his own quarters via the Floo in the Hog’s Head – a private connection, fortunately, that can only be utilized by himself.

He had waited in the corridor, taking the time to calm himself.

His father had been prone to rages of apoplectic proportions, throwing dishes and plates – either at the walls or at Severus and Mother – and Severus has always been deeply aware of the tendency in himself, and has tried to stray away from it.

“Severus,” Lucius had once murmured to him, disapproval dripping from his words like venom. He had come to meet Severus at King’s Cross station, that Severus might stay with he and Narcissa for the summer as he approached a summer placement in an apothecary in Bottlesford, near Malfoy Manor. Lucius had touched his shoulders, his jaw, examining him as if searching for damage, and yet ignoring the new cut on the side of his face – a gift from James Potter. “Rage is so unbecoming, my friend, and so undignified. If you wish to truly hurt someone, you ought remain cold as ice as you do so.”

Cold as ice. Severus can be cold.

He grabs Potter by the shoulders and hauls him like a barrel, all but throwing the boy into his office: the boy stumbles, but seems otherwise unruffled as Severus sweeps away from him. He clenches and unclenches his fists, feeling himself entirely unable to be calm – how can he be calm? The boy is not merely foolhardy, or stupid – he is absolutely insane! “Oh, good,” Potter says. “You’re awake.”

“Who performed the Fidelius Charm for Gilderoy Lockhart?” Severus snaps out. It is best he ask this question first: any other question will lead to his positively losing his head.

“Let me get the lies straight in my head before I start answering questions,” the boy says. Severus stares directly at him, and he crosses his arms over his chest, in order that they not be free for other things – such as strangling.

“He said I sounded like a factory man, said it was for the best that I’m studying Potions, as I’ll be just great for stirring a vat in a Sleekeazy’s potion manufactorum. Said he might be able to convince his father to give me a job if I kiss up to him a bit!”

“You are pacing. This is not what I meant by cold.”

“Well, what would you do!?”

“Thank him gracefully for his offer and perhaps mildly suggest that unlike him, you do not need to rely on nepotism to succeed.” Severus had paused, his jaw set, his stare aimed forwards: for the barest few seconds, he had stopped his pacing of Lucius’ aviary, and had slowly turned to face the older man.

“That’s rather good,” he had said, reluctantly. Lucius, quietly cooing at the dove on his hand, had merely nodded his head. Thinking back, Lucius had been so very young – he had very little of the muscle he put on in the years to come, and although he was broad, he was also rather lithe. Severus had often thought he resembled the birds he so adored: ready to take flight at any moment. “Let me teach you a spell to take care of that cut, shall I? You’ve enough scars without us marring your face a little more.”

“Professor?” Severus is sitting down. When had that happened? He feels slightly faint, his head spinning a little more than it ought, and he presses his lips together. Tipping his head back, Severus searches for any sign of poison within his body: a rather subtle, but complex piece of wandless magic that allows one to search for defects within themselves. All seems well… He must merely be overtired – it would not be the first time he has worked himself to exhaustion. He leans his chin forwards again. Potter is looking down at him, his eyebrows lowered, his expression betraying a mix of worry and confusion.

“In the storage cabinet to the left of the door. Third shelf, fourth bottle from the left: it is contained within a volumetric flask, and has a lilac colour.” Potter moves immediately, opening up the cupboard and looking for the bottle in question. Leaning forwards, Severus catches his reflection in the glass face of his grandfather clock: he looks rather pallid, but not especially more than usual.

“Here,” Potter says. Now, at least, he appears cowed instead of giving himself over to the cheek he seems so determined to display in Severus’ presence. Severus takes the flask, carefully pouring a measure of its contents into a Conjured glass, and knocks the substance back in one smooth movement. “What is it?”

Severus hands the glass to him. Potter takes it, and he brings it to his nose, as any good Potioneer would. Severus watches the way his nostrils flare as he inhales. It occurs to him that Potter’s nostrils flare in exactly the same way Lily’s had used to, but he is too busy to feel melancholy, and dismisses the emotion as soon as it arrives. The potion is already beginning to take effect, dancing over his skin and making him feel replenished from the bottom of his very soul – Liquid Sleep lasts only for a short time, three hours at most, and can be very dangerous if ingested too often, but it is a valuable stopgap when needs be. Already, the insatiable chatter of overlapping memories and voices are entirely quiet, and he no longer feels so irrationally close to the edge.

“Smells of elderberries,” Potter says. “Elderberries and something coppery, a tang… Some kind of blood?”

“Not blood,” Severus corrects cleanly.

“Is it actual copper? Oh, it’s brewed in a copper cauldron?” Potter frowns, scrunching up his nose – Lily had never done that, but he had seen the experience once or twice on the face of James Potter, when he had been concentrated on a particularly awful Hex or, later on, on Lily herself. “Restorative potions are brewed in copper cauldrons.” He sees the thoughts cross over the boy’s face as he tries to puzzle out the conundrum, and he wonders if the boy would be so studious without the thread of the Dark Lord looming over his head.

What a thought.

“It is far beyond NEWT level, Potter, though I am reluctantly impressed you deduced so much,” Severus mutters, taking the glass back and Vanishing it into the ether; the flask he stoppers, and returns to its cupboard. “Liquid Sleep is the rather unimaginative name for the potion – supremely difficult to brew, and subsequently very rare. For a very short time, it offers the user the sensation of a good night’s rest, although it will quickly poison you if you become in any way reliant on it.”

“You must think I’m insane,” Potter says as Severus sinks slowly into the chair behind his desk; Potter hops up onto the desk himself, precociously and without care for the disrespect of it all. Severus finds, with the bliss of a faux night’s sleep between his ears, that he does not care enough to disallow it.

“I do indeed think that,” Severus agrees, in a mild tone. “You crept into Hogsmeade in the middle of the night, disappeared into a place occluded from discovery alone, and now you return and tell me, Severus Snape, that you plan to lie directly to me. Do you consider that to be a remotely intelligent idea, Potter?”

“I’ve lied to you before,” Potter points out.

“Is this your way of calming my ire, Potter? It isn’t effective.” Potter puts his chin onto his hand, staring into space for a moment.

“Do you have a Pensieve?” he asks quietly. “I think I’d rather show you what happened rather than explain it – I’m worried I’d miss something.” Severus keeps his expression perfectly neutral, his gaze on the boy’s face. There is something in Potter’s expression that is unfathomable, his eyes deep with something Severus has never seen.

“The Headmaster has a Pensieve, but he is asleep, Potter,” Severus says quietly. “Are you truly worried you would miss something? Or did something different happen, something you cannot voice?” Lockhart is potentially still completely mad, and alone with him and his cabal of witches, any number of pains could have befallen the boy.

Potter sighs.

“Theo was so sad,” he says. “About Abraham Hamish. And you know that Draco is… Well, he’s getting better, I guess. I just… I suppose I don’t know what I’m doing. What I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You are supposed to be getting an education,” Severus says.

“Those are Albus’ words, not yours,” Potter says. Severus lets his expression show the wry smile that comes to his lips. It has been a long time since he has felt so well-rested, so completely calm and unstressed: the effects of the potion are so subtle, and yet he wishes he could never be rid of them.

“Very well, then,” Severus says, looking up at the boy, perched on his desk like some wayward animal. “Then to quote Albus once more, I shall ask a question of you: what do you want to do?”

“Kill Death Eaters,” Potter says immediately. He says it as if he has said it before, as if he has practised the answer in the mirror, perhaps – and maybe he has. Maybe he truly believes this is what he wants, what he needs to do.

“You do not want to kill Death Eaters,” Severus says, very softly indeed, so softly that Potter cranes forwards on Severus’ desk to hear him. “Potter, you don’t know the first thing about killing.”

“What if I did?” Potter asks.

“What if you did? What do you mean? What if someone were to teach you?”

“No,” Potter says. “What if I was already a murderer? What if it didn’t matter that I might kill more people? You wouldn’t have to worry about me being innocent, you know.” He looks so old. It strikes Severus the more that he looks at the boy’s strange, youthful features, so full as they are with adult purpose, and it is so much worse than Maxie Caine’s powerless machinations, so much worse.

“My worry is not your innocence,” Severus says. “The weight of someone else’s soul against your own, a debt that you owe to the very world for changing its balance… It is impossible to repay, much as you might try. Even killing only Death Eaters.”

“All the Death Eaters have to die,” Potter says. He doesn’t look at Severus, but instead looks across the room, his eyes staring at, but not truly seeing, the contents of Severus’ office bookshelf. His voice is full of grim purpose: Severus thinks of himself at Potter’s age, so fascinated by the allure of the Death Eaters, the power they must wield with the Dark Lord to teach and command them. How wrong he had been… And what if Potter is wrong now?

“Their elimination hardly falls to you,” Severus says.

“Then who does it fall to? Albus won’t do it.” Albus is probably thinking I will do it, Severus considers saying, but it would be cruel to do so – to both himself, and to Potter. Potter is looking at him, and he says again, “What if I did?”

“What if you—?”

“What if I killed someone?” This is a grim hypothetical. He is meant to be angrily interrogating the boy about Lockhart, not listening to his teenage, desperate fantasies of murder. What is Severus supposed to say? What comfort or guidance can he possibly offer? He— “What if I killed Stan Shunpike?”

Severus freezes.

Potter’s expression is completely serious: there is not even the barest hint of irony or dark humour in his tone or in his pale features, and Severus is very glad at this moment that he took the Liquid Sleep. He wouldn’t lose his temper at this, even sleep deprived, but he certainly couldn’t remain calm in the face of such a confession as this – and a confession it most certainly is.

“Let us see. If you would explain to me how such a hypothetical situation might have arisen?” Severus speaks very delicately, leaning forwards in his seat. His fingers steeple themselves together in his lap, and Potter looks resolutely down at his own.

“Hypothetically, uh, I would’ve been walking home. I walked a lot around London this summer, on my own, and no one really stopped me… I know I shouldn’t’ve, but I just needed the space. I’d been at someone else’s house—”

“The Muggle boy?” Potter’s eyes go abruptly wide, and he stares Severus in the face, as if it is completely unthinkable that Severus might have grasped so simple a detail of the boy’s private life – so private that he wears it on his sleeve. But perhaps Severus is being unfair: if Potter has kept a murder entirely secret, there may well be more complex issues hidden beneath that idiotic mess of dark curls.

“Yeah. So I was walking back from Adrian’s, um, and I was on the bridge. Saw Stan, and he sort of… He said he was on the way to a meeting, and wouldn’t he be pleased? And I was like, who’s he? And so Stan grabbed me, but I had a fag in my hand, so I burned him with it – he dropped his wand, and it rolled right into off the bridge and down into the Thames.”

“Shunpike was stabbed,” Severus says. There is a beat’s worth of a pause, and then Potter reaches into robes, unbuckles a strap, and places a sheath on the desk. Severus takes the knife from its leather encasement, examining it: it is a six inch dagger, well-made, well-balanced. “Do you have other blades, Potter?” Potter hesitates, then slowly reaches into his satchel, removing another blade.

“You have to be careful,” he says.

“I shall endeavour not to drive it through my own thigh,” Severus says, and Potter shakes his head, his expression supremely grave.

“No, I mean… I killed the Basilisk with this. It’s goblin-made: it imbibed the venom.” Severus does not bother to control his expression: he lets his eyes widen as he stares at the boy, the shock hitting him hard in the chest. So not only has the boy killed a man, but he has been carrying a knife imbibed with one of the most corrosive—

It clicks into place.

“Rickard Mulciber died of heavy damage to his neck, caused by some manner of acid, we believed. Would I be correct in attributing his death to this knife of yours?” Potter nods. “Tell me the rest of Shunpike’s story, first.”

“I pulled out that knife and stabbed him.” Potter stands awkwardly in front of Severus’ desk for a second. “That’s the rest of the story.” Severus represses the urge to laugh: it would be tonally inappropriate, and would perhaps give Potter an overtly accurate representation of Severus’ feelings on the subject of murdering Death Eaters.

“Very well: tell me what happened with Mulciber.”

“Well, I went down into the village, and I was so… Crap. I never realized how crap I was, but I couldn’t do anything – and I mean, I’m okay in a duel, I suppose, but I didn’t know any of the basic healing charms, and I couldn’t even conjure a stretcher for Angelina Johnson. I couldn’t do any of the magic that was actually necessary… And then Mulciber, we were fighting – I lost my wand, and he was so big, he lifted me right off the ground and pinned me up against one of the walls. I stabbed him in the neck – my knife was the only thing I could reach.” Potter breathes in, moving to sit down on Severus’ desk once more, and then he says, very quietly, “He said I couldn’t kill him. You’re Harry Potter, he said. You can’t.”

“What did you say in response to that?” Severus asks.

“I didn’t say anything. I just stamped on his neck until he wasn’t talking anymore.Didn’t realize how much effect the venom would have at the time.” The sheer brutality of it is difficult to imagine alongside Severus’ image of Potter within his own mind: the boy is what Pomona might absently describe as “plucky”, and Severus can easily imagine him in unlikely, but ultimately harmless scrapes, even having seen him in proper duels or under threat. The idea of the boy killing a grown man in cold blood, with knives, with magic, or even with his own hands (or feet, as the case may be), is entirely incongruous with the idea Severus has built up in his own head.

“Do you feel guilty?” Severus asks.

“No,” Potter murmurs. Pressing his lips together, he seems to consider his question before he poses it: “Does that make me a bad person?”

“Perhaps,” Severus says. “As much as Albus may disagree, morals are a matter of opinion. Do you believe it is justified to kill Death Eaters, if the end goal of defeating the Dark Lord is to be reached?”

“Yes,” Potter says. “Have you ever killed a man?”

“Yes,” Severus says.

A long silence spans between them. Potter does not look away from him, instead keeping his gaze directly on Severus’ face, and under his scrutiny, Severus feels genuinely uncomfortable. What is it, he wonders, about Potter’s gaze? It is not merely the guilt of Lily’s death, which Severus knows himself to be responsible – there is such a deep intensity in it, so very focused, so full of emotion. Severus considers asking if Albus knows, but he knows immediately that Albus does not know – the boy is obviously a more accomplished Occlumens than Severus had given him credit for.

“Lucius said to me, a few days before he died,” Potter begins. He stops. Opens his mouth: closes it again.

“If you are worried that I shall be upset at the mention of my deceased friend, I might assure you I have a stronger constitution than you believe of me, Potter.”

“It seems stupid.”

“You have told me much stupider things tonight, I should wager.”

“He said you say that I’m stupid a lot, but you don’t really mean it. That I’m not stupid, that I just think I’m more important than I am. In the scheme of things, I mean. He said, um, “If you stop holding the world on your shoulders, it won’t shatter,” or something like that.” Severus cannot quite parse out what precisely the boy is trying to engender in saying this, so he takes a moment to think over what has been said.

“I do not believe you to be stupid. Foolhardy, undoubtedly. Prone to unwise decisions; lacking strategy; your manner—”

“I don’t need a laundry list of my character flaws right now,” Potter interrupts him. “I need— I need mentorship. Lockhart, he was trying to… I don’t know, he was high on mushrooms or something, and I think he was really trying to be a mentor, or whatever, but he’s insane.”

“You believe you require mentorship in the act of murder?”

“When you say it like that,” Potter says, rather accusatively, “It sounds very stupid. But I just need— I don’t think I can deal with this on my own, and I actually think it would probably be worse if I did, and you don’t trust Albus.”

“What does my relationship with Albus have to do with this?” Severus asks, immediately. “Do you distrust him?” The thought alarms him, but Potter doesn’t seem especially angry about Dumbledore’s tendencies.

“No,” Potter replies, shaking his head. “I just… Look, Albus is kind of thinking of me as a kid. And I know I am a kid, but I’ve also lost my ability to be a kid. I kind of have to be more now. Madam Pomfrey is going to start teaching me some mediwizardry, and I’m going to start exercising, getting more fit, and I— Could you just teach me how to be less shit?”

“Potter, you are no more a “shit” wizard than the moon is made of pastry,” Severus says tiredly. It occurs to Severus that this is the longest conversation he has ever had with any student, let alone Potter; this is probably the longest conversation he’s had with somebody other than Albus in quite some time. “You are fifteen. You have yet to complete your O.W.L.s.”

“But you could help me,” Potter repeats. “You wouldn’t tell Albus.” Wouldn’t I? How many sides must I take in this war?

“And in what way would this benefit me?” Severus asks, crossing his arms over his chest once more and leaning back in his seat. “Why, Potter, should I assist you?” Potter shrugs his shoulders, crossing his own arms over his chest and mimicking Severus’ haughty look.

“I’ll grade your first and second year essays.” Severus laughs. It has long been his policy not to laugh in front of students, in case they misunderstand the dynamic between Severus and the irritating children around him, but this is too good not to see the humour in: Severus’ teeth are bared, and he is aware that he looks savage when he laughs. There is something savage in the smile Potter has on his own face. “Shake on it?”

Severus’ palm presses against Potter’s, his own handshake firm, and he wonders if this is the greatest mistake he shall make of the year, or if things will get worse.

“I have more stuff I should tell you,” Potter says. “About tonight. And about— Lockhart.” Severus slowly nods his head: when Potter begins to talk, he listens intently. Severus is accustomed to listening when others speak, taking in what he can and analysing their every word, but there is very rarely an occasion when he is alone with another person who is speaking only for himself to hear. The thought is strange, and Potter is so young, and yet not young.

But if Severus helps him, will he not have a better chance of surviving? Undoubtedly.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Severus lies in his bed, on his back, his gaze upon the ceiling. Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten as the sun threatens to rise, and he knows he will only be able to snatch a few scant hours of sleep before he is forced to rise. The Liquid Sleep is beginning to wear off, now, and he feels the desperate need for rest settle into his very bones, his flesh, his skin, once more.

He thinks of what Potter had told him about his meeting with Lockhart – about how Lockhart had acted, how open he’d been. Lockhart, a student of divination… The thought is strange to Severus, and not at all a comforting one. Diviners are often dangerous: they can become so confident about the future, whether they are good at the magic or not.

Where do his loyalties lie? He reports to the Dark Lord, but means it not; he reports to Albus Dumbledore, but feels shackled by his bonds; and now, Potter. He is not a leader, of course, but Severus is to keep his secrets, and to aid him in further deception – and why? Because there is no better alternative.

Were Albus to think of the boy as a murderer, even of Death Eaters… Severus shudders to think of how cold Albus might become. Even Potter ought not see that side of his Headmaster.

And then Caine: had Severus really agreed to edit his war reports? Where will he have the time? Even if he makes Potter go through the first through third year assignments, Severus will be in desperate need of a Time Turner, if only to sleep!

And Crouch, says a sneaky voice in the back of his mind, sultry and dark, what will we do about him?

Severus stares at his ceiling. “Fantôme,” he says. His own voice sounds hoarse from lack of sleep and overuse. The cat appears beside him, steps neatly upon his chest, and digs her claws deeply into his flesh as she makes herself comfortable. She settles with her well-padded backside upon Severus’ shoulder, her tail forming a sort of scarf beneath his chin, and her whiskers pressed ticklishly into his navel.

It is perhaps the most uncomfortable position she has ever chosen to lie in, and with the weight of her body and the softness of her fur as a blanket, he is asleep within moments.

Bartemius Crouch follows him even in his dreams.

Harry’s arms ache. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders and his upper arms eke out vague protest even though he’s now sitting completely still in his chair, and every now and then an infinitesimal will make a warm pain ache through the tired muscle. Harry doesn’t like push-ups. He fucking hates push-ups.

“Prefect Potter, you take the patrol on the Astronomy corridor.” Harry glances up, rather surprised. The patrol on the Astronomy corridor, he knows, is usually left to seventh year prefects – students will often be irritated if caught by a prefect, as the Astronomy Tower is a perfect place for a snog or something more. Harry knows of several prefects being hexed in the moment of being caught, either out of petty revenge or because someone was shocked by the interruption and acted instinctively. Simpson’s trying to keep her face calm, but Harry can see her hand is tightly interlocked with that of Hadley Wessex – her boyfriend, and the Head Boy.

“Really? Me? A fifth year?” Harry grins, showing his teeth. There’s a sudden, tense silence in the room as everyone considers what Harry might be about to say.

“You think you can’t handle a s-stray hex?” Simpson says. Her upper lip is quivering – how they could possibly have picked her as Head Girl, he really can’t conceive of. Maybe by the end of the year, she’ll be halfway to leadership.

“But that’s not the point, is it, Prefect Simpson?” Leaning forwards, Harry puts his chin upon his folded hands. He feels a sort of savagery within himself, just under the surface, itching to get out at such a minor provocation. “I’m only a fifth year, and you’ve given me a seventh year patrol. That either means you admire my skill – which I doubt, as you’ve never seen me in a duel – or that this is a punishment for ignoring your—” Harry delicately clears his throat. “— authority on the Hogwarts Express.” Silence reigns.

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Wessex says: he gets to his feet. Hadley Wessex is a Hufflepuff with eyes like mercury and an accent so posh it sounds like he has Galleons stuffed between his lips. “What sort of accusation are you making?”

“Oh, was it your idea?” Harry pulls an exaggerated frown. “That’s such a shame. For a second, Prefect Simpson, I was really rooting for you.”

“Control your man!” Wessex says, turning to Hannah Graydon. Graydon, who has a face that’s been bashed a few too many times by Bludgers, raises her abused eyebrows.

“Control him? Why? What he’s saying is true, isn’t it? We’ve never given that patrol to anyone less than a sixth year, even when we’re down six prefects, let alone down two.” Harry glances around the prefects’ table – a lot of them look uncomfortable or just plain uncertain. Ron looks vaguely constipated; Hermione looks furious, but it seems like she’s holding herself back from saying anything, likely because she feels it will be too swear-y for mixed company. Cho Chang’s lips are pressed tightly together, and he imagines she’s wishing Cedric was here. “He doesn’t care if you’re trying to punish him, but you might as well admit to it.”

“We’re not punishing anybody,” Simpson says. She has to concentrate not to stutter. “We’re just— Well, Prefect Potter is competent. You’re the top of your Defence class, aren’t you?”

“Why are Gryffindors like this?” Harry asks, loudly, directing the question to Tracey Davis, Hannah Graydon and the only other Slytherin prefect there: Guy Sanderson. For obvious reasons, Rebekah Amstell hasn’t yet returned to Hogwarts, and Harry isn’t certain if Abraham Hamish will be replaced as prefect. “They come up with a plan they obviously think is very clever, despite being rather heavy-handed, and then they won’t admit to it. No wonder these people don’t become politicians.” Sanderson and Davis laugh; Graydon sniggers. A few of the Ravenclaws have to hold back their own chuckles, although Harry is now receiving glares from every Hufflepuff in the room, and Simpson’s pretty features have turned red.

“I’ll take the patrol,” Harry says, standing from his seat.

“The meeting is not over!” Simpson snaps, and she actually stamps her foot.

“It is for me!” Harry calls over his shoulder, and he kicks the door shut behind him as he stalks down the corridor, his cloak thrown loosely over his shoulder. It is early afternoon, and in twenty minutes, he has his last class of the week (barring Astronomy tomorrow night) – Gideon Gibbon for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Thus far, his classes this week have been… Hard. OWL classes have been promised to him as much more challenging than anything he’d have done before, and even with the reading he’d done over the summer, the promises have shown to be completely true. The magical theory is much more complex than anything he’s faced before, and every new piece of theory has accompanying philosophy and ethics they need to comprehend as well. The exams are going to be horrible, he knows already.

Potions is the only class he’s felt on board with thus far, and that’s only because he’s practised a few of the potions at home – as for the theory? He worries he’s never going to be able to wrap his head around it.

And this is just OWL stuff – he’ll need much higher grade magic if he wants to actually survive this war, if he actually wants to go head to head with Voldemort. Why did it have to happen like this? Why couldn’t someone just take him away to some secret room and give him a time turner, let him have a decade to prepare rather than this desperate urgency?

“Why aren’t you in the Prefects weekly meeting?” Snape actually looks casual. Leaning one shoulder on the frame of his office door, his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised, he looks like a completely normal person – just for a second.

“Hello, Professor Snape,” Harry says mildly. “Would you believe we finished early?” This year, the Slytherins had drawn the long straw, and subsequently, the Prefect meeting room is down in the dungeons, only two corridors away from Snape’s office.

“Inside.”

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“And then I just left,” Harry finishes.

“Simpson is undoubtedly going to lodge a complaint about you,” Snape says dryly. He doesn’t seem too upset about it, though.

“We’re already down two Slytherin prefects. It’s not like she’s in a position to get me kicked off.”

“You’re quite correct,” Snape agrees. Harry sits in the hard-backed chair across from his desk, but Snape remains standing, pacing the room with his arms still crossed. He’s thinking deeply about something, it seems to Harry, and he knows better than to ask what it might be.

“Are you going to replace Abraham?” Harry asks. Snape glances at him. “Not right away! I don’t mean that – I just meant like, what’s the protocol for something like this?”

“Prefects have died before,” Snape says quietly. “Ordinarily, the faculty wait for the end of the term, and then assign a new prefect in the next one, if still required. In this case, however… Perhaps Albus will elect to waive that usual delay and appoint a new Seventh Year prefect during the half term. It depends if Ms Amstell resumes her post.”

“You think she’d quit?” Harry asks. Snape’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and the distant look in his eyes deepens. “You don’t think she’s going to come back to Hogwarts at all.”

“Ms Amstell could easily complete her NEWTs on private study,” Snape murmurs. He speaks very quietly, but in the absolute silence of his office, Harry only has to strain a little to hear him. “You will not find it in your textbooks, Potter, but this is how it begins. A few individuals drop away from their classes, perhaps change to another school – Eala Dubh, or Beauxbatons. Businesses may begin to close in Diagon Alley, particularly those that might have had a difficult quarter in the current climate. Fewer people, for example, are going out to play Quidditch in these trying times.”

Harry watches the older man carefully: Snape is using his teaching voice, the voice he ordinarily uses for extended lectures on a particular element of potions preparation or usage. It doesn’t feel fake at all, though, but almost hypnotizing – Snape has a way of presenting information in ways that’s easy to listen to, even if it’s a complex concept. Sometimes, Harry wishes Potions involved a few more theory lectures, and a little less practical work.

“And people leave the country, right?” Harry asks. “I heard the towns like Godric’s Hollow, Ottery St. Catchpole – they used to have a lot more wizards and witches. But loads of them left.”

“The majority were killed,” Snape says. As he says it, he looks directly at Harry, meeting his eyes. A silence passes between them.

“Are you looking for me to flinch?” Harry asks. “I know people died, sir. My parents were some of the victims.” Snape watches him for a few moments more, studying Harry’s face as if he’s a complicated experiment, or perhaps a dense passage in a book.

“You have a class on the hour, do you not? You ought make your way there. After dinner this evening, return here. We shall begin your… Mentorship.”

“What do I say it’s about?” Harry asks, pulling himself up out of the chair and shouldering his bag. His prefect badge shines in the soft light of Snape’s office, and Harry looks down at it for a moment. Is it worth it? Is it worth the hassle from Simpson and Wessex? What does he want to be a prefect for anyway?

Snape artfully shrugs his shoulders. When he waves his hand in a gesture that strikes Harry as airy and strangely familiar, the position of his hand and wrist slightly mismatched with Snape’s general demeanour, he seems just as aware of the misstep as Harry himself. He freezes in place, his expression remaining completely blank, but were he someone else, someone without so much self-discipline, maybe his lips would part, maybe his brow would furrow.

“It is your decision, Mr Potter.” Harry thinks about asking what exactly Snape is thinking, who that wrist flick reminded him of, but he keeps his tongue still.

“See you after dinner,” Harry says, and he leaves the room. He has to take a few shortcuts up to Gideon Gibbon’s classroom, but he makes it within time – there are two or three minutes before the current classes will let out, and although all of his fellow fifth years ought have a free period, he doesn’t see any of them in the corridor yet. On a stone bench carved with the Hogwarts insignia, he sees an abandoned copy of the Daily Prophet.

TODAY: YOU-KNOW-WHO’S INTERNMENT OR DECLARATION OF STATE OF EMERGENCY, declares the headline. It isn’t exactly catchy, but Harry supposes there are only so many news stories that can be boiled down to a snappy title page. He glances over the first paragraph – the Ministry of Magic is going to declare their decision at 7:30 tonight. Everyone will still be at dinner…

“What the Hell was that, mate?” Ron Weasley asks. Hermione comes rushing up behind him, her lips pressed together, her eyes focused on Harry. “She was uh, Hermione what did you call it? Apocalyptic?”

“Apoplectic,” Hermione supplies. “Absolutely furious, but um, well. Whenever she tried to talk, she just began to stammer.”

“My two main nemeses this year,” Harry mutters, half-under his breath. “Lord Voldemort and Patricia Simpson, Hogwarts Head Girl.”

“Are you quite ready to enter the classroom?” asks Gibbon from behind them, the door abruptly open. His tone icy, he glares between Ron and Hermione, and adds, “Or are you going to stand about in the corridors, procrastinating your lesson time?”

“It’s five to, Professor Gibbon,” Harry says quietly. “No one else is here yet.” This seems to strike the older man hard, his lips pressing tightly together, his eyes full of fury too-soon doused.

“Inside,” Gibbon barks, and he whirls on his feet, making his way into the classroom. Glancing to Ron and Hermione, who look about as perplexed as Harry does, they make their way inside. Harry sits at the very front of the class, removing his textbook and a notebook from his bag and setting them on the desk; Hermione sits beside him. In true Ron fashion, Ron takes a seat at the very back of the class, as close to the door as possible, and when Seamus and Dean come in, they sit beside him. Gibbon is writing rapidly on a wide blackboard with a piece of chalk, and Harry watches him murmur under his breath. Hovering beside him is a leather journal, a dictaquill quickly moving over the page in a quick, looping scrawl. At this angle, and from so far away, he can neither hear what Gibbon is saying nor read the notes, and he feels curiosity flare inside him.

Gibbon is a portly man, tall with broad shoulders, and he has thick, blond hair that is beginning to recede on the very top of his head. His face is quite red, particularly his cheeks, but it isn’t from anger – he has a naturally flushed pallor to him, and Harry would guess he’s simply thin-skinned.  He looks to be in his fifties (though who can really tell, with wizards?) but his robes are tailored in an old-fashioned style, with a white cravat thick about his neck, prominently white cuffs, and even spats that show when he takes a quick step forwards and the skirt of his robe shifts and displays his shoes.

Tracey Davis is the last to enter the room, and she does a quick glance over the others before pulling the door shut and taking a seat beside Pansy. Harry doesn’t know what it is – perhaps the Slytherins take note of what Harry is doing, and then the Gryffindors do the same, or maybe the charged energy in the room isn’t something he’s imagining, but is something they all feel. Either way, everybody sits in absolute silence, the only sounds Gibbon’s soft murmurings, the quiet grind of chalk on chalkboard, and the scratch of his quill on parchment.

Taking a pause to underline his name with a dramatic movement, Gibbon turns to face the silent room, and he steps out of the way of the blackboard. Harry looks at the board’s dark-green surface, reading what Gibbon has written in chalk capitals, and he begins to note it down.

PROFESSOR G. GIBBON

TERM ONE SYLLABUS:

• PRACTICAL JINXES & MINOR HEXES
• COUNTER-JINXES AND DEFENSIVE CHARMS
• MAJOR HEXES (THEORY)
• SHIELD CHARMS (THEORY, HISTORY, PRACTICE)

TERM TWO SYLLABUS:

• THE PHILOSOPHY OF INTENT
• CURSES & THEIR HISTORY
  • LYCANTHROPY & VAMPIRISM
  • DAY-TO-DAY CURSES
• CURSE REVERSAL
• MINOR CURSES (PRACTICAL)
• MAJOR CURSES (THEORY, PRACTICAL)

As everyone begins to take notes, Gibbon walks into the room, making his way slowly down the rows, glancing over each of their shoulders. “For twenty three years,” he says, “I have worked in the Ministry Office for the Removal of Jinxes, Hexes and Curses. For ten years, I was the director of the department. I actually planned to retire this year, but you know how convincing your headmaster can be.” When he faces the class, giving a warm smile, a few people laugh. The coldness Harry had seen in the other man a moment ago has completely evaporated – and what had been the problem, anyway?

Had it been that he’d said Voldemort’s name? That he’d been so flippant? That must have been it, and yet Gibbon now seems so charming, and so calm. What is Gibbon’s game? His posh, clipped tones ring through the room, and Harry watches him carefully.

“Who here can define Dark Magic for me?” Harry hears a few robes rustle as hands go up – Hermione’s shoots up, as does Draco’s, Pansy’s… And Vincent Crabbe’s. Even Gibbon seems surprised by this.

“Mr Crabbe, isn’t it? Tell us.”

“If it’s made to hurt people, and isn’t for anything else, it’s dark,” he says quietly, but not so quietly it’s hard to understand him. “If the spell is made just to hurt people, or kill ‘em, that’s dark.” Gibbon gives a slow nod of his head. On his desk, behind him, Harry can see his quill making a few notes.

“And the Dark Arts… Are they inherently wrong? Mr… I’m sorry, your name?”

“Dean Thomas, Professor Gibbon.”

“Mr Thomas!”

“It depends on how you use them. Like Crabbe said, it’s kind of about intent – if you used the Dark Arts just to hurt people, most would say that’s wrong, but if you’re using them for something else, there’s no moral problem.” Gibbon gives a slow nod of his head, his hands in his pockets as he stands straight.

“Can you give me an example, Mr Thomas?” Gibbon asks. Dean pauses for a second.

“Uh, for example, the Reductor curse – we learned it in third year. You could use it to hurt people, or you could use it in a construction job, or in demolition. There’s no dark intent there at all.”

“And yet it’s classified as a curse – why is that? Ms…?”

“Granger, sir,” Hermione says. She’s bouncing in her seat, leaning right forwards to give her answer. “Reducto, from the Latin, means “reduce”, or “bring down”. While it can be used innocently, it’s best designed for harm, because of how powerful it can be without putting too much energy into it.”

“And if I use a simple levitation charm, say, to drop somebody off a cliff… Would that be Dark Magic?” Harry can’t help but roll his eyes, and Gibbon’s gaze lands on him, intent. “You find that funny, Mr Potter?”

“It’s just that it’s an old idea,” Harry says. “A cliché. I hear that question asked a hundred times a week by second and third years.” In how many letters from Lucius, Harry wonders, had the man outlined the difference between Dark Magic and the rest? In how many letters from Molly, or Augusta, or Andromeda, had he been lectured about the importance of magical intent? “Of course that’s not Dark Magic. Dark Magic is magic that was created with a particular purpose in mind, and that purpose being to maim or to kill. It doesn’t mean that the spells in question can’t be used to good intent – it’s about their original creation. Having a blanket taboo on Dark Magic eliminates the bulk of those spells’ use, but if you’re creative enough, any piece of magic can be put to any purpose.”

“Any piece of magic for any purpose, you say?” Gibbon asks. He raises his eyebrows, letting out a soft whistle of sound. “Not something I often hear from young men, and not something I’d expect from you, Mr Potter. What about the Unforgiveables? You think they could be used to good purpose?”

“Sure,” Harry says. “But it doesn’t mean they should be legalized – they’re called the Unforgiveables because of what they’re primarily intended for, and they should be kept criminal.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Gibbon murmurs. “But I’m so curious. What, good purpose, pray, do you think the Imperius Curse might be put to?”

“Someone’s about to throw themselves from the Astronomy Tower,” Harry says. “Using the Imperius Curse, I force them to step back from the edge, and then I call for help.” Gibbon’s eyes narrow slightly, and Harry regrets sitting at the front of the class – he can feel the stares of every one of his classmates boring into his back.

“And the Cruciatus? What good deed can a curse intended only to torture be used for?”

“The Cruciatus Curse can cause permanent nerve damage, burst blood vessels and even cause aneurysms in its victims,” Harry says. He thinks of Neville Longbottom, sat in the desk behind him, and he presses his lips together for a moment before he says, “The only way Healers can help the victims of these curses, I’m afraid, is to study them. I’d bet you a Galleon there’s a department dedicated to their study in the Department of Mysteries if any of us could ever prove it.”

“And what of the last?” Gibbon asks in a whisper. He seems almost hypnotized, his gaze locked with Harry’s, as if he’s forgotten there are other students in the room. “You just told me, Mr Potter, that you would use the Imperius Curse to pull someone from the brink of suicide – so what possible justification could there be for the Killing Curse?”

“There are two answers I could give to that, Professor Gibbon,” Harry says. He thinks of the Ministry announcement to come tonight, and Abraham Hamish, Madam Rosmerta… Lucius Malfoy. “I’ll give the one people expect, first. If killing somebody does the rest of the world a net good – if that person is evil, and odious, and murderous, and brings only harm into the world, then I guess it would be justifiable to use the Killing Curse on them. On Lord V—”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Gibbon corrects, sharply.

“For example,” Harry continues, refusing to use the stupid epithet, “He’d be a pretty worthy candidate.”

“And the second answer?” Gibbon asks. His eyes are a watery brown, like the muddy mist that dredges up when you step through a pond. Harry’s mouth is dry from talking, and he wishes he carried a flask of water in his bag like some of the other boys do, from class to class.

“If someone’s going to die anyway,” Harry starts. He says it a little quietly, not able to convince himself to speak any louder. “If— If you were prisoners, for example, and you knew all you had to look forward to was torture – if the other person was bleeding, wheezing through cracked ribs, and you couldn’t escape, you couldn’t help them any other way… It doesn’t hurt, you know. It’s very quick, but you feel warmth where the spell hits, and a little tingling… It doesn’t hurt. If I had to die again, that’s how I’d choose to go.” He’s never been in a room so utterly silent. He can’t even hear anyone breathing, or hear the rustle of robes – even in Snape’s most frigid classrooms, you can hear the crackle of fire beneath the cauldrons, the bubble of potions or the snikt of a knife through ingredients. Even Gibbon’s dictaquill has taken a break.

“Mr Potter makes an excellent few points,” Gibbon says suddenly: the spell is broken. Suddenly, Harry can hear people breathing, hear people shifting in their seats or moving their books around. “Whether you agree with him on the individual elements is unimportant – the fact is that he can create arguments to justify the use of the darkest spells known to us as wizards and witches. The Dark Arts, you see, is a misleading title, and as Mr Potter has wisely pointed out, primarily a legal one intended to steer students in the correct direction…” Gibbon keeps talking, and Harry looks back to his notebook, taking down everything the professor says. It’s easier, somehow, to focus on taking the class down in writing, and lets him escape thinking about the implications in detail until later.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

When the class comes to an end, Harry feels relief. He stands up, packing away his books and his notes, which are written in a journal with a charm for drying ink – no blotting. What a luxury. There isn’t the usual chatter as everyone gets up to leave – the Gryffindors and Slytherins alike are quietly pensive, thinking over what Gibbon had talked about.

It had primarily been an introduction to the philosophical theory surrounding Defence Against The Dark Arts, with Gibbon mostly lecturing them and occasionally getting someone to answer a few questions.

Harry is aware of some of the others staring at him; Neville gives him a wide berth, and Theodore looks directly at him, his expression a mix of what could be disagreement, and maybe… Pity?

Looking down at the spine of his journal, Harry takes up his bag by the strap and pulls it over his shoulder. Outside the window, it’s cloudy and grey, and Harry breathes in slowly – there are a few hours to go until dinner, and this is his last class of the day.

In the quiet of the moment, he feels the slight ache in his arms, reminded of it by the weight of the bag… He has a few hours. He could go for a jog, maybe, like Lucius had suggested once upon a time…

“Potter?” Harry looks up. Gibbon is watching him, his expression showing a little concern. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, fine, sir. Just thinking.” Gibbon gives a slow nod of his head, seeming to approve.

“You’ve a lot to face this year… I was going to ask if you’d like any extra tutelage in Defence. I would have to put aside the hours, but—”

“Oh, thanks, Professor Gibbon,” Harry says, already shaking his head apologetically. He needs an excuse, something— “I’m actually studying with my godfather already. I’ll come to you if I need any help, but I wouldn’t want you to put aside your time for me!” He smiles, politely, and before Gibbon can say anything more, he leaves the classroom and makes his way swiftly down to the dungeons.

The Common Room isn’t busy – most of the years have classes at this time – and Harry moves through easily, dropping his bag at the foot of his bed and rummaging through his wardrobe for his trainers and a light robe intended for exercise.

“Harry,” comes a voice from behind him, and Harry turns. Draco is frowning at him from the doorway, and Harry frowns back, standing up and looking at the other boy. “The— What you said about the Killing Curse… It was so… Specific. You don’t really think…?”

Sighing, Harry takes a step across the room, reaching for the folder of his and Lucius’ letters. He has to page through the letters, but then he settles on a particular one, and glances over the flowing script. It was one of the rare letters signed from Lucius alone, without mention of Narcissa.

“Think, Harry, always of context. No morality is universal to every man, and even our stoutest morals might be challenged in a particular situation.

When I was your age, a friend of my father’s, a Mr Wessex, told me a story. I was as yet young, just out of school, and we had begun a discussion about the Dark Arts and their classification. He had been stationed somewhere abroad (I know not where, for he never let it slip) and was made a prisoner of war. Having pilfered a wand from the guard, but under a heavy Apparition ward, it was crucial he make his escape.

Another wizard was locked in the very same dungeon as he. The other wizard, having been kept prisoner for several months (whereas this fellow had been captured only that week) had endured extensive tortures. Several of his ribs were cracked, and he was missing many of his fingernails; his kneecaps had been shattered, and he lay wheezing on a straw bed, barely able to so much as drink. One of his eyes had been removed, and the other was cloudy with blood.

“I can heal you,” Wessex said to him. “Then together, we—”

“No,” groaned the poor soul, between tortured breaths. “You aren’t a healer: with me slowing your retreat, you shall never escape. Leave me here, only…”

“Only?”

“Do not leave me alive.” For several days and nights, Wessex was tortured by the very thought. Could he kill a man? He was an intelligence agent, and had only ever been in practice duels – he had never seen battle, and never even seen an animal die, let alone a person. “Use the killing curse,” the man whispered in the dark, through cracked teeth and a bloodied tongue. “It will be quick.”

On the third night, they took the man for “questioning” once more. Wessex heard his cries, his begging for mercy, become less and less comprehensible, until he heard only frantic gurgling through blood, and then the fellow was deposited once more in the cold cellar, quite unconscious. What information he had, Wessex desperately wished to know, but the fellow was unconscious and the guard was lax – this was his chance to escape, he thought, as he stood over the man with his wand in hand.

That very evening, under the moonlit sky, he stole from the dungeon and fled into the hills, making it home within a week or so. He gave word of the other prisoner, but no one knew who he might be.

“And the poor fellow,” I asked him, when he related the tale. “Do you know what they did when they discovered him dead?”

“They didn’t,” Wessex whispered to me. Never had I seen a man’s face tell of such regret. “I couldn’t do it. I shudder to think of it, at times, Mr Malfoy. The guilt eats away at me when I try to sleep sometimes. The guilt eats and eats.”

Again, I reiterate. Much as we might wish it otherwise, our morality is an everchanging beast, changing from one situation to the next. Take care, Harry, that you do not follow absolutism to your doom: showing mercy sometimes means to let a fellow die.”

Harry finishes reading that section of the letter, which had been prompted by a discussion about a man who had been prosecuted in a manslaughter case some years back. Draco stands in the middle of the room, and a little colour seems to have returned to his face, where before he was extraordinarily pale.

“Not a personal example or anything,” Harry murmurs. “Just something Lucius said that stuck with me.”

“I didn’t mean to accuse you,” Draco says. He sighs, putting his hand up to his forehead and rubbing over his hair. “Or— Anything else. It merely seemed so vivid, so visceral… Of course you’d have no reason to get into such a situation.” Harry says nothing to that, and sets the letter down, beginning to change into his exercise robes. “With the announcement to come tonight, I suppose I just feel a pressing anxiety.”

“Declaring a state of emergency is the first step,” Harry says quietly, pulling his robes on over his head. “Everything will be better with this.”

“You’re sure?” Draco asks.

“Not in the least.” Draco chuckles. “Where are you going?”

“Just for a jog,” Harry answers, leaning down and unfastening his dragonhide boots, exchanging them instead for his trainers. Draco nods his head, reaching for a book from the shelf – Harry feels the barest hint of relief that he doesn’t reach immediately for the letters. There’s no sense in Draco forming some kind of obsession. “You want to come?”

“No, I watched you performing your morning exercises, and that’s all about I can stomach to witness,” Draco says dryly.

“I’ll get better at it!” Harry says, a little defensively. “I’d like to see you do a push-up!”

Setting the book down on the bed, Draco gets slowly to his knees, putting his hands flat on the ground. Rather than stretching out his body to do a push-up, he throws his weight forwards and, balancing carefully on his hands, performs a perfect handstand that he holds for a long few seconds, his robes bunching about his crotch rather than falling down and revealing all.  

“That’s not a push-up,” Harry mutters, and Draco laughs, standing back up. “How did you get into that, anyway? Gymnastics?”

“Mother does gymnastics,” Draco says. He says it with a soft smile on his face, looking off into the distance. “See you later, Harry.”

“See you,” Harry murmurs, and he takes off for his jog.

Harry’s soles pound hard against the wet, mulchy ground, and Harry feels the slight burn in the back of his throat, the beat of his heart, and the twinge of his thighs and calves as they work. He thinks of Gideon Gibbon – maybe a Death Eater, maybe not – and how cold he is, and yet how charming. He’d been at such ease in the classroom.

And maybe Harry shouldn’t have answered so freely. Maybe he should have held back. The way Neville Longbottom had looked at him… Had what he’d said been so bad, been so wrong?

“No morality is universal,” Lucius had said, but what the Hell is that supposed to mean? Lucius was a Death Eater himself. What was he meant to know about morality? What is Harry meant to know? He’s a murderer. Gritting his teeth, he raises his chin and straightens his back a little, trying his best to improve his stance as the diagrams had displayed. He imagines Lucius in front of him, imagines what he’d say.

“Is this where we are, now? Making imaginary friends of dead men?” Lucius stands in Harry’s mind’s eye with his arms crossed over his chest, one of his eyebrows artfully raised. These are difficult times, Harry would say, if this was real. Are you gonna begrudge me some imaginary friends? Lucius smiles. Thinking about it makes something twist in his belly, a sudden burst of guilt and stabbing regret. “Oh, stop that,” Lucius says. Raising his hand and airily waving it to the side, he says, “There’s no point in wailing over it.”

Harry slips on a wet patch of dirt, and he curses as he lands hard in the mulch and the wetness, feeling mud cake his thighs and arse, spattering over his arms. He grunts, pulling himself to his feet, and he comes to the bank of the lake, dropping his outer robe to the side and diving into the water.

It’s freezing, and he feels it bite against his flesh as he drags his nails over the mud caking his skin, pulling its brown stickiness away from him. His eyes are still sensitive and slightly raw, and Harry comes to the beach once more, taking up his robe and washing it in the water, just enough to pull the mud away from the cloth. Muttering a quiet spell, he sees steam rise from the robe itself, but he doesn’t put it on just yet, instead sitting down on a cool stone and feeling the mildness of the sun on his shoulders, letting himself dry out naturally in the sun.

“Y’alright there, Harry?” comes a voice from behind him, and Harry turns to look at Hagrid as he comes over, Fang at his side. The dog dashes forward, pressing his snout against Harry’s knees and his hands, and Harry feels himself smile as he drags his fingernails over the dog’s fur, feeling him slobber and whine with delight.

“Yeah, Hagrid, I’m fine,” Harry says quietly. “Trying to get some exercise, but I slipped in the mud.”

“Exercise? What for?”

“Lucius always said—” Something changes in Hagrid’s face, a darkening of his features, and Harry feels a burst of guilt in the lower part of his belly, feels himself lean back slightly on the rock. Of course Hagrid wouldn’t look favourably on Malfoy Senior – the man had been a monster to people like Hagrid all his life, and yet… “I need to be more physically fit, and stronger. It’s about discipline. We’re not all as strong as you are, you know, Hagrid?” Hagrid smiles, a little bit weakly, awkwardly. He stands with his hands loosely clasped in front of his belly, and Harry slowly gets to his feet, moving closer with Fang at his side. “I didn’t get the chance to say, but I’m sorry about Madame Rosmerta. You knew her really well, right?”

“She was a good lass,” Hagrid says quietly, his hands loosely in his pockets, and Harry walks alongside him as they meander in the direction of Hagrid’s hut. Harry’s wet under robe clings uncomfortably to his skin, but he doesn’t pay it any heed, pushing his damp hair back from his face and patting Fang’s flank as they move. “Never had a bad word to say about nobody. I remember when she first came to Hogwarts – her and Poppy, you know, they was as thick as thieves. Always playing about together, learning new spells, dancing…” Hagrid’s massive hand pats gently (for Hagrid, anyway, it winds Harry slightly) against Harry’s shoulders, and he says, “Thank you, Harry. Means a lot.”

Harry leans against the fence around Hagrid’s yard, looking out over the green shrubs that are sprouting up from the ground – Hagrid’s pumpkin plants, preparing to bear fruit for the end of October.

“You ready for the declaration tonight?” Harry asks quietly, and Hagrid sighs, patting back his mane of thick, dark hair. He opens the hut door so that Fang can throw himself up into the house, and he sits heavily down on the stone steps – Harry hears their quiet groan of protest at his weight.

“I don’t know what it’ll change, if I’m honest, Harry,” Hagrid says resignedly. “Other than everything, o’course.” Harry nods, hanging his robe against the fence, and he pulls himself up onto the wood frame, settling down to sit in place. “Depends on if You-Know-Who, if he… If he does anything.”

He’ll do something. Harry is certain of that – even if Voldemort doesn’t appear in public anywhere, there’ll be some kind of response to the state of things, some kind of explosion or big event… Or maybe there won’t be. Maybe Voldemort will let the dread build, let people really grow to live in fear as the Ministry of Magic confirms he’s a threat, without confirming it himself.

 “You want a cuppa tea there, Harry?”

“Yeah, Hagrid,” Harry murmurs. “Yeah, I’d love that, thanks.”

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

It is toward the end of dinner that the owl comes into the room. Beating its mighty, broad wings, it comes forward and drops its pink envelope into Albus’ hand. Harry is not the only person anxiously looking up toward the staff table as Albus’ ancient blue eyes survey the text, his expression unchanging. As the finished dessert plates vanish, leaving people with just their drinks and a few hangers-on who eat more slowly than the others, an uncomfortably tense silence begins to gather in the air, charging it like air pressure builds up before a storm.

With an apparent moment of hesitant reluctance, Albus stands from his place at the table, holding the pink parchment in his left hand as he moves toward his mahogany lectern. Harry’s gaze flits to Snape, whose hands are loosely interlinked in front of him; to Pomfrey, who is nervously tapping her carefully-maintained fingernails against the wood of the table; to McGonagall, whose thin lips are drawn into a tight, taut line.

“Here, children, I bring to you this missive from the Ministry of Magic,” Albus says, his voice carrying around the room and cutting through the desperate tension, the uncertainty.

“From the desk of the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. It is with great regret that I should send out this message, but needs must. I hereby declare that unless He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the known dark wizard responsible for the many deaths in the First Wizarding War, turns in his wand and his surrender to this office before midnight this evening, the Ministry of Magic will enter a State of Emergency.

“Failing special allowance from the Department of Magical Transportation, international Floos will hereby be suspended. Failing special allowance from the Department of Magical Transportation, international Apparition and Portkey usage will hereby be suspended. Failing special allowance from the Department of Magical Transportation, magical transport by boat, horse or fast-train will hereby be suspended. The sport known as Muggle-baiting – punishable by a minimum of one year in the prison Azkaban, will hereby be punished by a minimum of ten years. Assaults, battery or public breaches of the peace intended to incite fear that are linked to the terrorist group known as the “Death Eaters” will carry the punishment of the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Gasps sound through the room, and even Harry leans forward in his seat, surprised. Albus continues.

“Any individual found to be carrying the tattoo known as the Dark Mark on his left arm, diagrammed here as a snake through a skull, will be given the penalty of the Dementor’s Kiss. Any individual found to cast the spell that creates an insignia of the Dark Mark in the sky or on the ground will be given the Dementor’s Kiss. Any individual whose behaviours have been noted as suspicious, perhaps in connection with the terrorist group known as the “Death Eaters,” will be remanded in custody of the state, under threat of the Dementor’s Kiss. At borders and checks throughout the country, citizens must submit to having their left arms checked for this mark, and to have their possessions searched; checks may also be instituted at random on wizarding streets or in wizarding establishments. Any citizen that resists these checks will be remanded in the custody of the state.

“To He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, know this. We, the magical peoples of Britain, made up of England, Wales and Scotland, as well as surrounding islands, will not bow to your secondary attempt at a reign of terror. The magical peoples of Britain are strong, and just, and noble, and we shall defy you at every turn. You would do well to place yourself under our remand before midnight tonight, or face the full weight of the British magical state upon your shoulders. Your followers will be sent to the Kiss, your properties will be destroyed, and we shall see you put to death at the will of the British people.

“To the citizens of magical Britain, fear not. We shall not bend, we shall not break, and we shall not weaken in the face of this adversity. The Dark Lord was defeated once, and so he shall be defeated a second time, and dashed in ashes to the annals of history.

“Yours, in loyal service to you, my citizens,
Cornelius Fudge,
Minister for Magic.”

The silence in the room is so thick that one could cut it with a knife. Harry sits in his place at the dinner table, his chin pressed against his hands, and he stares into the ether as he thinks through the speech he’s just heard, the statement Fudge had released, in absolute shock. Around him, the other Slytherins are equally still and quiet, their eyes wide, their lips parted; even Crabbe and Goyle have an active light of comprehension and horror in their eyes, and cannot quite slip into their usual, gormless state.

The right to free travel – suspended. And there’s one line, one line that clings thick to the sides of Harry’s skull even as it bounces around his head – Any individual whose behaviours have been noted as suspicious…

That could mean anyone, doing anything. That gives the Aurors free reign to remand almost anybody in custody… And what then?

“Jesus Christ,” whispers Tracey Davies.

“And then some,” Draco whispers back.

Looking up to the podium, Harry can see Albus’ conflicted expression, see the sad way he looks out over the crowd of terrified children and teenagers, everybody utterly silent, and most of all Harry feels for the First Years, some of them just months into the wizarding world as a whole, and to see it like this… It’s more than a shame. It’s a damned tragedy.

And who has caused this, but Voldemort himself?

“You are dismissed,” Albus says, waving one hand. “Each of you may return to your dormitories.” Harry stands up, calling for the First Years to follow him and to step into an orderly line, and he leads them out before the rest of the Slytherins can follow suit, bringing them down the stairs and toward the Slytherin common room. Normally, First Years are brightly chattering after dinner is through, asking one another questions or posing questions to the Prefects beside them… But not now. All these children have grown up in the wizarding world, and every single one of them looks frightened and uncertain. Harry glances to the back of the group, where Theo Nott is herding the children from the other side, despite the lack of a badge shining on his breast.

“Pro—” Harry stops for just a second, feeling the words like dust in his mouth, and he wonders for a second if Snape had chosen them just to scorn him. “Pro patria mori.” The stone doors grind open, and the children file into the room, leaving Harry and Theo standing cold in the corridor, waiting for the rest of the Slytherin table to follow them down. The movement of the students had been sluggish and uncertain, and it had been plain to Harry that most of them had been unwilling to leave the bright warmth of the Great Hall in exchange for the damp, foreboding cold of the dungeons, where anything could be lurking in the shadows.

Theo’s hand touches Harry’s shoulder, and it is all Harry can do not to flinch as he looks at the other boy. For just a second, he has a vision of Theodore in twenty, thirty years from now, as a rabbi or a teacher himself, and yet when he looks at Theo now, all he sees is a boy. A quiet, serious boy, but a boy nonetheless.

Theodore’s expression is grim, but set. “I’ll look after the children tonight. I think…” He trails off, momentarily, staring into the ether. “War stories. I don’t care for them, but best that we put thoughts of victory in their minds. I find myself uneasy. Even in response to a threat such as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a draft in the coming years.”

“It won’t last years,” Harry promises, putting his hand over Theo’s own and feeling the chill of the other boy’s skin, feeling the slight sheen of sweat that has gathered on the back of his hand. “Theo, look at me…” Theo’s eyes are shining, and if they weren’t so determined, maybe Harry would be able to make out the fear in them. “By next September, he’ll be dead. I promise you.”

“We oughtn’t make promises we can’t keep, Harry,” Theo murmurs.

“I’m not,” Harry says. “I’ll kill him – I’ll kill them all. And those kids are going to be safe, you hear me?” Theodore looks at him, his eyes uncertain behind the glass of his spectacles, and then he gives a very slow nod.

“I’m a man of faith, Harry,” Theo murmurs. “My faith can extend to you.” Theo slowly moves away, stepping into the doorway, and Harry looks as the other Fifth Years begin to come down toward the common room, leading the younger students with the Seventh Years bringing up the rear.

“I’m heading to Snape’s office,” Harry murmurs in Draco’s ear, and Draco gives a slow nod of his head.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Will you be long?”

“No more than an hour,” Harry replies, and he slips off down the corridor, moving through the darkened halls with no difficulty at all. Five years in this castle, particularly with the aid of the Marauder’s Map, has left him comfortable in its winding halls, and he takes a few lesser used corridors to bring him to Snape’s office, the door of which is slightly ajar.

Snape is leaning against his desk, and he is slowly patting the thick, white fur of a great beast of a cat Harry has often seen in the dungeons, but has never been able to find out the name or the owner of.

“You’re kidding,” he says softly. “That thing is yours?”

“Her name is Fantôme,” Snape murmurs. “Are you ready to begin?” Harry nods his head. “Close the door.”

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

As the children stand to filter out of the room, Severus remains seated. All of the staff do, each one of them sitting very still in their seats – even Filch isn’t throwing himself into his usual, desperate rush to leave the company of the other staffs, and instead slumps in his seat, staring at his own filthy hands.

When the last Hufflepuff slowly shuffles from the room, some ten minutes later, Severus draws his thumb over his own thin, lower lip, and looks at the others. Every single member of staff is silent, staring into space or looking desperately at one another, none of them certain what to say, what they can do.

“That was unexpected,” Filius says, finally. His squeaky voice is grave. “I know people in the Wizengamot – this, these measures… They aren’t what was discussed.” Severus presses his lips together, feeling the thin lips thin even further, and he adjusts the set of his cuffs beneath his robes. Even Gibbon looks alarmed, his watery eyes wide, and Severus slowly inhales.

“Any gathering place, that missive said,” Poppy says, leaning forward. Albus catches her eye, and gives a grave nod of his head.

“Of course, there would be no reason at all for the Ministry of Magic to believe we had Death Eaters amidst our students or staff,” Albus murmurs, and Severus keeps his expression completely neutral, feeling some of the other staff turn to glance at him. “And I should want to protect the privacy of those within Hogwarts…”

“We aren’t outside the law, Albus,” Severus says, his tone steady. “To resist Aurors would only compound the issue.”

“And what would you suggest, Severus?” Minerva demands, her voice quavering. “To allow the Aurors to line the children up in rows, examining their arms in turn?”

“We have no reason to believe it will come to that,” Severus says, his tone delicate. “To utilise their powers of interrogation in the street will display the Ministry’s power, will show that they do not fear another rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but to utilise them here? It would open them up to much criticism, to strike fear into the hearts of children.”

“And what of the older students?” Pomona asks softly. “What if— If You-Know-Who were to use these policies to his advantage – to recruit Sixth and Seventh Years…” Severus feels a cool weight within himself as he thinks of the first time he was courted as one of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters – he didn’t take the Mark until he was nineteen, but certainly, he had been seventeen when first the suggestion had been floated toward him by Lucius, and some of his classmates were undoubtedly recruited whilst they were as yet at Hogwarts. He thinks of Maxie Caine, and he slowly inhales.

“Let us see how these new policies will unfold,” Albus murmurs, his expression a mask of quiet concern. Severus stands from the table, and Minerva reaches for his arm.

“You’re going? You don’t wish to speak further?”

“I have an appointment,” Severus murmurs quietly. “A meeting with a student. My apologies – perhaps we ought put this on the agenda for the next staff meeting, tomorrow night?” There are murmurs of agreement around the table, quiet and reserved, and Severus walks ahead of the others that move to leave, feeling the weight of his own robes feel heavy upon his shoulders. Tabling the matter for later won’t fix anything. Hogwarts is still part of the Ministry of Magic’s purview, still bound by British law, and yet… Severus knows that if he thinks too much on the issue at hand, for now, that a migraine will make itself known within his skull, and so he pushes it aside.

He is grateful when Fantôme rushes to meet him, and he begins to draw his fingers slowly through the thick, white cloud of her lovely fur, feeling the warmth of her body. Her gaze is grave, and while Severus could not possibly know what exactly she knows and how deep that knowledge is, it is plain that on some level, she is aware that something has happened.

There will be no leaving the castle now. Severus will have to make his appearances in some areas, just to assail suspicion, but there is certainly no way that he can take casual jaunts to Diagon Alley or to Hogsmeade, not when there is the possibility of having his sleeve ripped up…

This is why the Dark Marks had never been common knowledge. They were secret, they were intended to reveal one Death Eater to another, and Severus knows from a thousand attempts that the Mark cannot be hidden, once it brands the flesh. There is no glamour, no charm, that can hide it – Severus has even tried to paint over it with Muggle lipstick and foundation, a trick he had a Gryffindor girl show Lily when she had been considering a tattoo, but the Dark Mark coils and wriggles out from beneath such attempts to paint over it.

It is alive, in a way.

“You’re kidding,” Potter says from the doorway, and Severus blinks, surprised at the answer to his own internal statement, but Potter’s eyes, their green colour bared once more now that the tint in his glasses is gone, are focused upon Fantôme, and not on Severus himself. “That thing is yours?”

“Her name is Fantôme,” Severus says softly, gesturing for Potter to close the door. “Are you ready to begin?”

“With that new Ministry order…” Potter says, pushing the door closed, and locking it with a muttered word – that will be where they shall start, Severus things. Silent casting is vital. “Professor, that’s— It’s fascism.”

“Yes,” Severus agrees. “You seem surprised.”

“I always thought it started little by little,” Potter says, slowly shaking his head. “Not all at once. And forgive me, but… Well. Fudge doesn’t strike me as a dictator.”

“Fudge will be dead before the week is out,” Severus murmurs. “His death was writ in stone as soon as he put his name to a threat against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Mark my words, Potter: it is not Fudge that spearheads this proclamation. It will be another member of the Wizengamot, someone with a lot of power. The next Minister for Magic, I would wager, will be an ex-Auror themselves.”

“Eleanor Guinan?” Potter suggests, and Severus gives a slow nod of his head, considering it. Guinan is a hard woman, strict and focused upon her work, and she is already in a position of command – Severus wouldn’t be surprised if she were in the running for Minister for Magic.

“A natural choice,” Severus murmurs. “But no, we’ll see somebody older, somebody who fought in the First War. I would place my money on Rufus Scrimageour, were I a betting man.” Potter nods his head, raising his chin and stiffening his jaw, and for just a second, he is the very image of his father. Shorter, but with the same determination in his eyes, the same grim understanding of the war at hand— Severus pushes down the revulsion that burns in his chest. “We will start with non-verbal magic. Something you ought master as soon as possible.”

“Non-verbal…” Potter repeats. “One of the Death Eaters commented on it. That I couldn’t cast non-verbally.”

“You have willpower,” Severus reminds him, gesturing for Fantôme to leave them be, and she ignores him, settling down on Severus’ desk with her four paws neatly tucked beneath her body, as if she is but a freshly-baked loaf of bread. Severus resists the urge to roll his eyes as he moves away from her. “Non-verbal magic is about the intent of a spell, and you, Potter, have intent in spades.”

“Peter Pettigrew could cast non-verbally,” Potter says. “Couldn’t he?”

“A curious example,” Severus murmurs, arching an eyebrow as he goes to one of his cupboards, drawing a single owl feather from a jar. “But yes, so he could. He had to. He used to stammer quite awfully as a boy, and any attempt at saying an incantation aloud would spell doom for all in his vicinity. Muggles would have diagnosed him with an anxiety disorder, I should expect.”

“What did wizards diagnose him with?” Potter asks.

“Cowardice.” Potter’s expression darkens for a moment, and he looks at the feather as Severus sets it down upon the ground before him. “This world is magical, Potter, not perfect.”

“You’d never think it, to talk to any of the Purebloods,” Potter mutters, and Severus doesn’t believe he imagines the slight bitterness in his tone. There, then – he is nothing like his father. “They think the magical world is nothing short of perfect, when everywhere you look, there’s holes in logic, there’s… It makes no sense, anything we do. And they never seem to think about it.”

“They don’t know any better,” Severus murmurs. “In my time at Hogwarts, I must have had a half-dozen screaming matches with Lucius on the very subject, triggered by everything from our trade policy to the fact that wizards don’t wear trousers.”

“I can’t imagine you screaming,” Potter murmurs. He is looking at Severus with a strange warmth in his eyes – something almost like affection – and it makes Severus stiffen in discomfort. “Or him.” Grief shines in his eyes alongside the warmth, and Severus feels his own grief coiled within him like some great snake… But for once, it is almost comfortable to talk.

“Mostly it was me screaming,” Severus admits. “Lucius would ordinarily remain calm and collected, and distinctly sarcastic.” Potter laughs.

“Sounds like me and you.” Severus’ lips part, and he looks down at the young man, feeling his lungs like weights in his chest, feeling the oddity it is to breathe. Potter seems to realise what he’s said, and he looks down to the feather, setting his jaw and furrowing his brows. “Okay, take me through his. Do I just say the incantation in my head, or—”

“No,” Severus murmurs, leaning back against the desk. “I’ll assign you some reading, but in the mean time… Perform the spell as you ordinarily would. I want you to consider the way that it feels, the spell itself – try to be aware of the magic as it is channelled through your wand, the way that this specific energy feels.” Potter stares at him as if Severus is speaking in the tongue of the Sumerians. “Just do it,” Severus presses, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and Potter looks to the feather.

Slowly, deliberately, he swishes and flicks the length of holly in his hands, and he says, “Wingardium leviosa!” The feather slowly rises into the air, and Severus can see the pinched look upon Potter’s face, as if he is struggling to swallow something especially bitter.

“Are you alright?” Severus asks, dispassionately.

“I don’t feel anything,” Potter says. “It’s just… It’s just magic, it all feels the same.” Severus stares at him, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s like— I get what you’re saying, but it’s like you’re glaring at me for not being able to tell one shade of blue from another one, and I’m only seeing in black and white.”

“Come here,” Severus instructs, and Potter does, letting the feather drop slowly to the ground. Fantôme takes the opportunity as it is offered, and leaps from the desk to bat it about the floor. Severus drags up the cuff of his right robe sleeve, bearing his bare arm to the air. Potter stares down at it, at the expanse of sallow, scarred skin, and Severus says, “Grasp my forearm.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.” Potter hesitates, but then draws up his own robe sleeve – not so stupid as he looks – and obeys. Potter’s flesh is warm to the touch, and Severus can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the surface, feel the blood slowly moving in his veins. Severus is aware of how much the boy is growing into a man – his arms, mercifully, are not so skinny as once they were, when he was still resting at the leisure of his aunt and uncle. Severus’ own arms, of course, are thin beneath the muscle of them, and Potter’s hand could almost close about Severus’ wrist— “I’m going to use Legilimency to show you what I mean,” Severus says quietly. “I will form a momentary mental link between us, so that you can see through my eyes, feel as I feel, and I will levitate the feather.”

“Will it hurt?” Potter asks, his green eyes full of innocence. Severus stares at him.

“What? Why would it hurt?”

“I don’t know, it sounds weird, it sounds like something that could hurt.”

“It’s not going to hurt,” Severus snaps, and Potter laughs, his innocence fading, and Severus feels a flush of burning blood make itself known in his cheeks – the boy had deceived him. Severus smacks him upside the head with his free hand, but Potter only laughs harder, his grip momentarily loosening on Severus’ arm. “Do not joke with me. We are not friends.”

“We’re allies,” Potter says placatingly. “Yes, I know, I know.” His eyes defocus for just a moment, staring into the middle distance, and then he looks directly at Severus, his grip tightening on Severus’ arm. “Okay, I’ve relaxed my shields a little… Go.”

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Snape smells better than one would think. Underneath the chemical tint of the potions he works on, which have a bitter tang that reminds Harry of the dentist, there is the rich scent of dark coffee, bitter and all-encompassing, and the scent of ink.

It’s weird, to be so close to him, to be touching him – Snape has always come across as the least human of the staff at Hogwarts, the least physically there. Sometimes, even Professor Binns seems more grounded in the physical realm than Snape himself, who can move without making a sound, who always exudes a dangerous energy. And here Harry is, holding tight to his arm and feeling how cold Snape is. Merlin, the guy must have the circulation of a dead snake.

“Ready?” Snape asks, quietly, and Harry nods his head. “Legilimens.”

It’s a weird sensation.

Suddenly, it’s like the two of them are underwater, the world around them seeming thick and liquid-heavy, his vision swimming, and Harry coughs, feeling like he can’t breathe, but the discomfort passes. He is aware of Snape’s fingers, scarred and long and bony, gripping against the meat of his forearm, and he is aware of the way he grips at Snape’s own arm, how cool he is to the touch—

“Wingardium leviosa,” Snape says, and Harry sees the shift of his wand from the corner of his eye, sees Fantôme sailing through the air like a cloud, away from the point of Snape’s wand: closing his eyes to distract himself from the sight, he feels the way energy coils in the air at the base of Snape’s wrist, and it’s—

“Oh, shit,” Harry says, and it really is like seeing the world in colour for the first time. He feels the charm, feels its sweet, airy coil against Snape’s palm, feels its easy, featherlight nature, and he feels the spell itself, as if an invisible finger is pushing the feather up and into the air, like a teacher helping a ballerina hold a pose.

“You see?” Snape murmurs, his voice low and sonorous, and Harry shivers.

“Yeah, yeah, I see.” All at once, the water vision fades away, and Severus breaks the contact, drawing his sleeve back down his arm. Harry sways a little on his feet, but he grabs hold of the sensation of the charm, and he turns to the feather. “Wingardium leviosa,” he says, and this time… Yeah. Yeah, he almost feels it, the way that the charm feels, but—

“It will get easier,” Snape murmurs quietly. “To be aware of magic as an entity is a difficult thing, but I felt it would be the easiest mechanism for you to comprehend non-verbal magic. Want to try it?”

Harry nods, and he lets the feather slowly move to the ground.

Pointing his wand at the feather, he concentrates on the way his wand swishes and flicks through the air, trying to take hold of that sensation – airy, graceful – and thinks hard, Wingardium Leviosa! The feather is still for a second, but then is nudged awkwardly from the ground. It only lasts for a moment, but Harry exhales in relief, feeling himself grin.

“Okay, you have to admit,” Harry says. “For a Fifth Year, first try at non-verbal magic, and I—”

“I will be impressed when you defeat the Dark Lord,” Snape says primly. “And not before.”

“I’ve already done that,” Harry points out, and Snape scoffs.

“If he gets back up, Potter, it doesn’t count.” For a second, Harry stares at the other man, and then Snape’s lip – almost imperceptibly – gives a twitch of good humour. Harry grins.

“Thank you,” he says, genuinely. “For this. I know it must be… Hard. To have to think about me and about what Dumbledore needs at once— but it means a lot.” Snape draws himself up to his full – though not prodigious – height, and he shifts the way his robes settle on his body. He’s uncomfortable, Harry realises, with being thanked – but then, what isn’t Snape uncomfortable with?

“Try again,” Snape instructs.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Hey,” Draco says as Harry steps into their dormitory. “What did he say?”

“Not much,” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders, and he kicks his boots off. Draco is already in bed, curled comfortably under his covers in a pair of blue pyjamas, and although the candles are still lit, Harry can see that Draco is just on the cusp of falling to sleep, his eyes half-closing. “We started non-verbal magic.”

“Really?” Draco asks, his enthusiasm coming through despite his obvious fatigue. Harry blows out two out of three of the candles, and he moves forward, hovering at the side of Draco’s bed for a second. Draco is smiling faintly, his eyes glinting from the candle on his bedside table. “You know, Harry, if you survive to your OWLs, you’ll definitely get Os if you do everything non-verbally.” Harry laughs, quietly, and he blows out the candle.

Sliding into his own bed, he lies on his side, and he feels the strange ache in his arm, from doing new magic – always a pleasant ache, always something that makes him feel like he’s really making progress.

Really, seeing magic like this… It isn’t so different to learning the Patronus Charm.

He is still smiling in satisfaction as he feels himself drift off to sleep.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

“Severus, before you go in,” Bartemius murmurs, and Severus exhales as Barty crowds him back against the wall, his hands on either side of Severus’ face. He glances to the corridor, feeling himself stiffen, but Gibbon has already made his way into the hall, and Severus sets his jaw.

“You are too bold,” Severus whispers, curling his lip. “Were you a Gryffindor?”

“I merely wanted to say,” Barty murmurs, his breath devastatingly hot against Severus’ lips, and Severus despises himself for the way he wants to surge into it, for the way he wants to catch Barty’s mouth in his own. How many times has he dreamt of him, in the past days? Every morning, he wakes with the shadow of Crouch looming over him, until Severus is free and away from his bed, and can occupy his mind with work instead. Stupid. Stupid. For years, he has comfortably rested in his celibacy, and Crouch has shattered his turn away from sexual appetites like glass, and to what end? That Maxie Caine might submit a press report without Barty touching him? “I’m ready when you are.”

Severus forces himself to chuckle, darkly. “Wait until the meeting is over, Barty,” he advises, and he ducks under the other man’s head, slipping into the hall.

The Dark Lord’s gaze rests on Severus for just a moment, and he smiles, the expression showing a parody of warmth. His hair is growing back, Severus sees, coming thick from his scalp where for so long it was bald and slightly scaly…

“Having a tete-a-tete of your own, were you, Severus, Bartemius?” the Dark Lord asks, his voice an amused purr, and Severus delicately coughs against his wrist.

“Remarkable indeed, my lord, that a man should require assistance on the finer points of brewing at his age,” Severus replies archly, and a few of the Death Eaters titter as Barty laughs, the sound intentionally ugly. When he shows his teeth, however, his face is nothing but handsome – darkly handsome, but handsome nonetheless.

“Severus thinks much of his ego, my lord,” Barty says, sliding back into a seat. “He should proclaim himself a master, but will balk at a student.” More laughter, but no more than Severus had garnered: the two of them have equal status amidst the Inner Circle, and are certainly high in the Dark Lord’s estimations – high enough that their bickering only makes his inhuman lips quirk into a smirk instead of a snarl.

“Come come, children,” he says snidely. “To business.”

And Merlin, Severus thinks. What business it is.