Malfoy was acting strangely.
It started at the Welcoming Feast. Harry had tried not to seek out that head of coiffed, blonde hair but, to his credit, he wasn’t the only one watching the Slytherin table when the uproar began. Although, "uproar" was possibly an overstatement, considering the absolute silence that reigned through the entire ordeal.
When Dumbledore had barely uttered the first sentence of his speech and before the banquet was served or the Sorting Ceremony begun, half the Slytherin table stood and filed out of the Great Hall. They consisted mostly of older students, some Harry recognized and others he didn’t, performing a taciturn march away from the proceedings. This alone sparked a host of whispers from the other tables, but the most notable figure was Malfoy, whom Harry spotted sitting amidst a confused gaggle of lower years. He arose a touch later than the others, expression grim, and, when he did, a passing Slytherin laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat.
After that, he did not move for the entire feast. Harry snuck quick glances at him for the duration: He was always in the same position with his head lowered, shoulders thrown back, hands in his lap. He did not eat and, more importantly, he did not speak to anyone. He simply sat, empty stare anchored to the table until everyone was dismissed to their dorms two hours later.
Since then, Malfoy had only come to a handful of dinners, but his temperament grew more and more despicable. Wherever he appeared, everyone knew to be wary. Quiet and tense, Malfoy would go about his business until some small event occurred and, although they were often so incidental as to be easily forgotten, they never failed to pivot him over the edge. Harry heard from Ron that he’d hexed a Hufflepuff girl with boils in plain view of everyone for accidentally stepping on his foot and Padma, in tears, mentioned that he had sabotaged her potion because she’d correctly answered a question in class. Her potion had overflowed all over, melting her desk, the stone floor, her partner’s school books, and had burned her legs pretty badly. Potions classes were cancelled for the rest of that afternoon and Padma had been laid up in the Hospital Wing for several days.
Still, Malfoy being a horrid person wasn’t surprising to Harry. However, he’d been dumbfounded to witness Malfoy attacking a member of his own house. Dinner had begun in earnest and the Slytherin table was sparse as it usually was when Dumbledore was around. Desserts had just popped into existence on the tables when one of the fourth year Slytherin boys approached Malfoy’s solitary spot. He spoke calmly, posture straight, and though Harry couldn’t hear what he said, it was evidently enough to cause Malfoy to stand, abandoning his food. His expression betrayed nothing, but in a flash he’d grabbed the boy by the lapels of his robe and shoved him against the table. The thumping sound of his back connecting with the wood and the clamour of a metal plate crashing to the floor drew the attention of the teachers; the room became hushed enough for everyone to hear Malfoy snarl, “And why would I care about what you think, Mudblood lover?”
He’d left quickly after that, but the impression he left behind was undeniable: If he’d been bad before, it was nothing compared to now.
Harry had to wonder where he was off to during all the times he didn’t show up to meals, or skived off classes. He’d spot Malfoy skulking around in random alcoves, reading from a book with no title, or lounging in a hallway, eyes following other students with a calculated gleam.
However, the strangest of changes in Malfoy was this: after five years of targeted antagonism, he seemed to be avoiding Harry altogether.
It was eerie -- the silence that followed Harry’s answers in class, the lack of jeers whenever he was asked to demonstrate something for a teacher. No snide remarks about Quidditch, no snickers whenever he walked by. It would be a relief if it weren’t so disturbing… If Malfoy had given up the taunts, then that certainly meant something was up. And Harry? He intended to find out what it was, despite Malfoy’s efforts to hide it.
He’d even gone so far as to ask Dumbledore about it, when he’d finally gotten to speak to him weeks back.
“Professor?”
The older man’s eyebrows rose as he peered at Harry from behind his spectacles. “Yes, Harry?”
“I don’t suppose you think Malfoy is acting… dodgy, do you?”
Dumbledore threaded his fingers together atop his desk. “I daresay he always has, but there isn’t much he can do from Azkaban.”
Harry frowned. It was long past the time where the senile act worked on him. “You know what I mean.”
His spectacles flashed as he shifted in his seat. “Ah, you are referring to young Draco, I presume?”
“I think he may have finally joined up with Voldemort. He’s always been a snobbish--” he wanted to say ‘arsehole’, but thought better of it in front of the Headmaster, “--prat. But it’s gone beyond.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well-- I mean, you’ve seen it, right? He’s always off to the Hospital Wing for something or other. He can’t be sick that often. Especially with the way he pretended his tiny injury was a mortal wound in third year--!”
“Well, he is only sixteen, Harry. We must allow children to be children, if they wish.”
He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “I don’t think ‘childlike’ is the word I would use to describe him; he’s got to be up to something. I can feel it.”
“Harry.” The way his name fluttered out of the old man’s mouth was tender, as if he required soft handling. “I understand that, in light of… all that has transpired, you may feel as if danger lurks in every corner.”
He was talking about Sirius. Bellatrix. Voldemort. The possession. Harry’s stomach turned over and he choked out through a throat clenched tight: “Well, yeah. Because it is.”
“These are, indeed, dark times, Harry,” the Headmaster affirmed with a sigh. “But, still, it is no time to jump at shadows. There is no evidence to suggest that Mr. Malfoy is operating for Voldemort’s sinister purposes.”
“What, so you’re just going to let him go off on Muggleborns? How long until he really hurts someone? What more evidence do you need?”
“Professor Snape is charged with Mr. Malfoy’s care. You have no need to worry in that quarter.”
Harry’s lips twisted; he very much doubted Snape’s capacity for ‘care’, but he sensed that this was a topic that Dumbledore had delegated. “Right.”
“Now,” the Headmaster tilted his head downward, surveying Harry, “Is there something else on your mind?”
Plenty. Where to even start? “Professor McGonagall mentioned that I didn’t meet the requirement for Potions. Is there, uhm…?” He faltered. To be honest, it was difficult to parce what he even wanted. Escaping Snape’s tutelage was a blessing in and of itself. However, McGonagall had made it clear: You couldn’t even dream to enter the Auror career without a N.E.W.T. in Potions and... if he couldn’t be an Auror, then what else could he possibly want to be?
Ron had made a habit of reminding him that special exceptions could be made for Harry’s case, considering his… reputation. But Harry would rather eat slugs than barter entry with his popularity.
Dumbledore didn’t appear even remotely concerned. “The matter has been handled,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “Professor Snape has agreed to let you into his N.E.W.T. course.”
“He--” Harry stumbled over his own words. “He what?”
“Potter.” Snape’s voice, brimming with impatience, boomed in the periphery, forcing its way into his attention. All at once, Harry’s eyes focused and the Headmaster’s office melted away into a grim palette of black and green, damp and dark. It was no longer weeks prior, it was now, and Harry very hastily gathered that Snape had addressed him once or twice before… if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.
Snape loomed over his desk in a manner all too familiar for the boy. He looked up at the man, replying with a sudden “Sir?”
The professor’s gaze was black, piercing, and his mouth was wound taut in a thin, displeased line. “How many lionfish spines have you put in your potion?”
Right. Too familiar. His stomach clenched; Harry knew what was coming. Although this was a more specialized class, teeming with older years, Harry had a feeling that Snape’s custom of public humiliation was still his go-to method of chastisement. Schooling his expression into something more neutral, Harry responded with a raised chin, “None, sir.”
“And what time is it?”
“After ten, sir.”
Snape seemed to revel in this answer, despite his cutting reply. “Oh? After ten? Is that truly the best you can do?”
At this juncture, he should’ve been able to help it. He was sixteen and he knew mouthing off wouldn’t get him anywhere good. Yet all the same, his retort burst from him, incredulous and unbidden. “Who am I, Father Time?”
The irritation on the professor’s face grew by degrees. He let the silence linger, thick and tense, mingling with the already oppressive atmosphere of the classroom. His reply, when it came, was desert dry. “Hilarious.” Then, he addressed the room at large: “Since most of you have reached the frozen stage, gather around.”
Harry’s gaze darted around as several of the N.E.W.T. students did as they were told. Hermione, who Snape had purposely separated from him on the first day of class and onward, offered Harry a sympathetic frown. Many of the others Harry didn’t know, or didn’t care about, seeing as half the class consisted of Slytherins. By now, they were well used to these combative exchanges between him and Snape, but those from other houses seemed to be a mix of confused and wary.
Once everyone arrived, Snape’s guillotine eyes made a significant swipe down the length of his nose to the work table, where he slid his wand with precise strokes to the very edge of Harry’s cauldron. “Unum Vinculum.”
Harry could only watch in horror as the professor’s spell took effect, his potion losing its previous frothy swirl, beginning to clump and curdle. Within seconds, it had crusted to the bottom of his cauldron, a goopy, cyan monstrosity which bubbled like molasses.
The professor had destroyed his potion. In full view of everyone. Before, he’d always been shifty about it by ‘accidentally’ dropping his potion at the end of class, or simply refusing to give him a grade due to ‘sloppy craftsmanship’.
But now… Here he was. Humiliating Harry as always, but without an ounce of shame enough to hide the evidence. He glared down at his ruined potion, anger boiling in his lungs, trying to bubble up as a shout. Every time he thought he had finally reached the pinnacle of Snape’s antagonism, the man managed to find new ways to outdo himself.
He clung to propriety by a thin thread. “How am I supposed to finish my potion now?” Harry uttered between clenched teeth. Then, he tacked on a pejorative, “Sir? ”
“You won’t,” was Snape’s immediate response. “Clear out your cauldron and start over.”
Start over? Start over?! After what he just did?! “I won’t be able to finish!” Harry seethed.
Snape stared at him for longer than Harry felt comfortable before he raised his voice to the whole class. “Who can inform Mr. Potter how long his potion must simmer before adding the lionfish spines?”
Harry hadn’t seen anyone lift their hands, but Snape’s head made a slight turn, eyes directed toward something over Harry’s shoulder. Seconds later, he heard a voice, quiet, but confident: “Five minutes for the first half. Then the second half after ten more minutes of simmering, sir.”
“Correct. Five points to Slytherin. And, how long has it been since you started your potion?”
Harry dared a glance behind him. He didn’t spot the girl until she answered with a prompt, “Thirty minutes, sir,” but it dawned on him rather swiftly how odd she looked among the throng of Slytherins. Visibly older than the other sixth years, she stood above them with a straightened back, her dark blonde curls sitting demure over her shoulders. Her expression was neutral, wide-set eyes trained on the Professor. She was wearing school robes, but an odd thought struck Harry still: It was rather unfair to be set up against someone who was so clearly a teacher’s aide. Yet, indicated by the points Snape had just given out, she couldn’t have been.
Stranger still, the other Slytherins didn’t seem all that pleased. Even Malfoy, who would always find himself preening at the idea of Slytherin gathering points, had a decidedly sour look on his face.
She caught him staring. He watched as she shifted in place, shoulders rolling back. A little louder, she added: “He should be handling his Valerian petals at this point.”
“Indeed.” Snape’s eyes snapped back to Harry. “In fact, every one of your classmates has minced their Valerian petals, in preparation of their potion’s thaw. Curious, that yours should still be wholly attached to the stem.”
He didn’t bother looking down at his work table, instead letting his gaze unfocus at some middle distance between two Ravenclaws. This wasn’t about instruction, it was about making Harry lose his nerve, making him regret ever daring to enter Snape’s classroom. Dumbledore had said it himself: one outburst, one negative incident, and no amount of string pulling would get him back in this class. Clearly, he had said much the same to Snape himself.
When Harry did not react, Snape continued, voice smooth and deadly, a venom that seeped into his ears, “A month of lessons, and yet you have not retained a syllable, have you? Still you insist on attending this class, when you are beneath your peers.”
The muscles in Harry’s jaw were so tight that it physically hurt him to hold back. His throat burned with words unsaid, his whole body rigid as it resisted an urge (one that sang and pulsed against his frame) to punch Snape in his oily, disgusting face.
“You are wasting precious time, Potter, and valuable resources, by taking up space at this worktable.”
Hermione spoke up, her hand raised at the elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see her expression was resolute, bordering on bleak. “Um, sir, I know that--”
“Ten points from Gryffindor.” Snape’s interruption was curt; he didn’t even deign to look in her direction.
Harry’s bubble of control was getting dangerously close to bursting. The greasy git could say what he wanted to Harry, but going after his friends? He knew he was venturing into perilous territory, but he finally looked Snape dead in the eye. What did it matter if the man could see all the hatred stewing in his mind? Hands clenched against his knees hard enough to make his fingers ache, Harry felt compelled to make this strangled inquiry: “Why? ”
He couldn’t be certain what he meant by asking it, but it was the question that was weighing most heavily behind his temples, thumping with an incessant rhythm. There was something in Snape’s expression that insinuated that he knew what Harry meant, but still, that haughty smirk crossed his face and he answered, looming over the tabletop: “That’s ten more points from Gryffindor.” A dramatic pause. He was enjoying this. “For speaking out of turn.”
He felt it, then. The fury frothing over. He was ready; his mouth was poised on a biting remark, but something stopped him.
Something he didn’t expect.
That voice again. The Slytherin girl. He was used to Slytherins jeering and goading Snape on, but not this. She only spoke one word, but it was one that was both beseeching and consolatory. “Professor.”
“What?” Snape barked, gaze whipped in her direction.
No points taken for that interruption, Harry couldn’t help but notice.
When Harry looked back at her, her eyes flickered from Snape to the hourglass at the front of the room. “I’d estimate we only have two more minutes to add the petals to our mixtures in the proper manner before they curdle,” she announced, hands clasped behind her back. “I would like to return to my workstation, please.”
Snape straightened, his displeasure plain. He, too, cast his eyes to the hourglass and, perhaps after witnessing something Harry couldn’t quite understand himself, drew in a measured breath. “Very well. Return to your potions, all of you.”
The man’s baleful glower fell briefly on Harry as the students dispersed, but he said nothing more, returning to the front of the room. It was only a miniscule solace; his potion was still destroyed. Though he did make the effort to unwind himself from his chair and begin his brewing anew, it was in vain. His potion did not reach a stable point where he could turn it in for grading and Snape’s virulent stare as he disposed of Harry’s work was something he felt would haunt him for hours more.
Hermione caught the end of his robe moments after he’d exited the classroom to begin his long slog out of the dungeons. “Harry, wait. I’m sorry. I thought I could help, but I suppose I should know by now--” she paused, shaking her head. “Nevermind. I’m really happy you kept your head. But, really, you ought to--”
He shirked away from her at the mention of what he ‘ought’ to do. “Make my excuses to Ron,” he said, abruptly stopping in place.
She deflated, and soon after her voice gasped out in a soft whine. “Harry.”
“Not-- ” That came out way harsher than he intended. Taking a breath, he finished, “... now.”
If there was anything to be said about Hermione, it was that she had the good sense to know when not to push. The corners of her lips upturned in a sad smile and she nodded, only taking a second longer to look him over before departing.
The other students had long since filed past them, leaving Harry as the solitary figure in the corridor. He sighed before rubbing his eyes vigorously in some paltry, half-hearted attempt at clawing them out. Arms whipping back to his sides with a frustrated swing, he looked first one way, toward the stairs that led up, and then the other, where the hall descended further into darkness. He’d never ventured very far into the dungeons, except when he’d followed Malfoy around as one of his cronies in second year.
Before he’d made a conscious decision, he was already walking further down the hall.
His hands were still wound into fists, and it hurt, so he made a concerted effort to flex his fingers. Focusing on his breathing, as he often did while playing Quidditch, helped to calm him somewhat. The air was cooler in the dungeons, but also stagnant, which made the echoes of his footsteps reverberate with a chaotic, thunderous clamor against the walls.
The longer he walked, the more tension began to seep out of his muscles, though his mind did not quiet. His rage followed closely behind him, dragged along by the memory that he continued to revisit -- the dungeon scene with all its trappings; Snape smug and self assured. What he wouldn’t give to spit in the man’s face, to put him down just as he’d done to Harry for so many years. Hermione’s words clanged around in his mind, I’m really happy you kept your head, adding to the cacophony already taking place, and he snorted aloud at the irony of it. He really hadn’t at all.
Harry had told Dumbledore that he was mature enough to handle Potions class without causing trouble. If that didn’t hold true…
“Something else, Harry?” Dumbledore had asked when they last met. “You look troubled, still.”
“You said-- that you made a mistake. Last year. That you should have told me more, instead of less.”
Harry regretted bringing it up when the older man’s expression plummeted into sorrow within an instant. “I have been as open to you as I could reasonably be these last few months, have I not?”
“N-no, of course-- I didn’t mean--” Harry stammered. “I only wanted to say, you can’t really tell me everything because I’m not really… You know, just because I’m the Boy Who Lived doesn’t mean I’m… involved.”
Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, his white eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. “What do you mean, exactly?”
Harry rallied, sitting up a little straighter. “I mean… I want to be part of the Order. Not-- not just as-- you know, a banner to be waved for them, but a real, actual member. I’m not a child any longer; you saw it yourself. If there’s something I can contribute, then I want to.”
“Oh, Harry,” the Headmaster gingerly chided him. “You already do.”
A frustrated sigh near exploded from his lungs. “Professor, next year I come of age, and there’s no guarantee I’ll even make it that far. If I’m to survive, I don’t need more school and theory. I need practical experience. I won’t get that at Hogwarts.”
Dumbledore’s salmon-colored robe glittered as he leaned forward in his seat. “On that point, I have to disagree. Hogwarts will not teach you how to fight, but it will give you the skills to live.”
“Well, I’m not quitting school,” Harry conceded. “I just think there’s more I could be doing. If things turn out…” Badly , he thought, but didn’t voice. “Then-- I don’t want any regrets.”
The Headmaster had graced him with a worried stare for a while after that. Ultimately, he’d had another meeting after Harry, which interrupted them, but the substance of their conversation lingered around Harry’s mind in the weeks after. He had meant what he said; he knew he was ready for more. Trudging around to classes and chatting with friends as if nothing had changed was… stifling. He felt buried under the weight of this ‘normal life’ act.
Harry closed his eyes with a sigh, pivoting his neck back and forth to stretch out the tense, sore muscles there. How long would Dumbledore make him wait? A few months? A year? Or two? Or, perhaps, until it was altogether too late? The thought made him feel sick.
The promise of something coming had made it possible to plod through Snape’s hellish lessons… through most of his schooling, really, but the longer he was forced the wait, the more his hope waned. It was getting exponentially more difficult to not go barmy from the pressure of it all.
For what it was worth, what he’d received that morning was a good sign, definitely, but it didn’t necessarily mean...
Voices up ahead made his thoughts skitter to a halt, and he slowed his pace to a crawl as well. Though he knew that this was the realm of Slytherins, he hadn’t expected to run into anyone so soon. Impulse had him straining his ears and, although he wasn’t especially interested in doing so, he managed to catch a snippet of the conversation he’d wandered into.
“That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won’t work on me.”
That voice… It was the same girl from class, the one who’d interrupted Snape.
A menacing sneer echoed down the corridor: One that commanded Harry’s attention, ignited his interest anew. “Look, Mudblood, if you think you’re safe just because Snape likes you--”
“Safe?” the word blurted from her, carried on a harsh laugh. “Whatever would make me think that?”
There was a long moment where Harry heard nothing at all, and when he chanced a glance down the corridor, all he saw was Malfoy standing with his shoulders squared. Although Harry couldn’t see his face, he could only imagine the dour countenance he’d witnessed so many times gracing those ignoble features.
“If that’s all,” was the girl’s bored dismissal as she hiked her bag’s strap higher on her shoulder. “I’ll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do.”
There was a snarled reply following her pronouncement, which Harry didn’t catch, and then the noise of someone walking away. The dull clack of heels on stone was approaching fast. A spike of panic struck him; he froze in place, hoping the gloomy corridor would conceal his identity.
The girl walked past him without a word, her blonde hair flowing behind her and catching the faint torchlight. It wasn’t long until she disappeared down the corridor, and moments after that, Harry heard the sound of a second pair of footsteps marching off in the opposite direction. That was a blessing in and of itself; Harry didn’t think he could handle a run-in with Malfoy. Harry steeled himself until he could no longer hear the sound of footsteps, and hurried himself in the direction he came from.
His mind was whirring. As he walked further along, he tried not to look back at the place the pair had once stood and now abandoned. He couldn’t say for certain what any of that was about, but none of it boded well.
His head hurt. Now that he had been sufficiently distracted from his rage, and the pressure of holding in a scream had subsided, Harry felt exhausted. And, truth be told, worried. More than ever, he understood how important it was to protect his friends.
They were all that he had.
“Blimey, Harry. I always get lost in the dungeons past Potions,” Ron said, after Harry told both him and Hermione everything that had happened. They were sat by the fire in the common room, Hermione doing homework, and Harry and Ron pretending to do so.
“You’d think after six years of attendance you’d know your way around,” Hermione piped in, rather imperious, her quill flourishing at the end of a sentence.
Ron shot her a look, but seconds later glanced up, offering a hapless shrug in Harry’s direction. “Why’re you in Potions, anyway, Harry? I know Dumbledore pulled a favor and all, but--”
“No buts, really,” Hermione interjected. “It’s because he needs the class, Ron. For Auror training?”
The boy scowled. “All I meant is it’s not really necessary… Best thing to ever happen to you was getting that E. No reason to subject yourself to that torture. It’s not like the Ministry’s going to say no to Harry Potter when he says he wants to become an Auror.”
Cringing, Harry commented, “I want to get in because I earned it, not because I’m some Wizard Saint.”
“I’m just saying,” Ron quietly groused, ducking his head down into his essay.
“I know,” he replied, scratching the back of his head. “It’s just--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ron dismissed. “Couldn’t be any worse than dealing with Snape, is all--”
“I think he gets your point,” Hermione sighed as she lifted her head to look at Harry. “Though, Professor Snape did seem to be going out of his way to target you...”
Ron sat up, scoffing. “When isn’t he targeting Harry?”
Well, he certainly had a point there, but… “Pretty sure he doubly has it out for me, now that Dumbledore’s forced him to break his own rules.”
Hermione hesitated before speaking. “Maybe,” she acknowledged. “He seemed to be trying to goad you, though.”
“Again...” Ron interjected, “What else is new?”
Harry sighed. “Yeah, I think you’re right. I mean, he destroyed my potion in front of everyone.”
“The Professor is normally a mite more subtle, yes,” Hermione observed, a crease in her brow. “But honestly, Harry, all he did was perform the charm you were meant to do fifteen minutes prior.”
That made his hand pause in the middle of a Snitch he was doodling. “... Really?”
“The fact that you don’t know that is concerning.”
“Well-- I, I knew that there was a charm. I just…” he faltered. “... didn’t, er, look it up.”
There it came, that tone of voice both he and Ron abhorred -- a mother’s brand of disappointment, borne on a sigh that said a great deal more than the single word she uttered: “Harry...”
“I know,” he cut in, irritated. “You don't have to tell me.”
“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Hermione retorted, tones even. “But sixth year is different. There’s a stricter need for self guidance. You may have been able to skirt by before, but not doing the assigned readings, or practices, before class -- it can make the difference between passing and failing. It’s like uni, Harry.”
He'd heard all this before… last year. Then, it had all been “Harry you'll have to take school work more seriously now that we're in fifth year” and “your O.W.L.s are crucial to determining what your marketable job skills will be”. All true, of course, but-- she just didn't understand.
“Right,” was all he said, eyes averted and frown in place, hoping she would drop it.
“Come on, Hermione, lay off,” Ron charged in to defend him. “He does one thing wrong, and you completely lose your head.”
“I'm only trying to help,” she countered with a huff, noticeably ruffled.
“How's it helpful to prod at him like that? Especially after what happened last--” cutting himself off abruptly, Ron offered Harry an apologetic look.
Hermione threaded her fingers together, eyes downcast, and there was a half minute of lull in their conversation before Harry spoke. “It's okay. You don't have to tiptoe around me. And… I know you're trying to help, Hermione. You tried to do that in class, too. So… thanks. And, erm, sorry.”
Her smile dismissed him; there was no need to apologize. Moments later, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don't suppose Snape was really making that scene as a teaching moment, anyway.” With a tilt of her head, she looked down at her essay again, her voice growing more remote. “Even if he was flaunting the lesson to you.”
“You’re dangerously close to saying he has a point, ‘Mione,” Ron warned.
Although Hermione shot him a glare, she didn’t dignify that accusation with a response. More or less, she was focused on Harry -- though he couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. “Like I said earlier, Professor Snape was definitely going… above and beyond to draw a response from you.”
“Well… There was a condition to my receiving special treatment to get in his class.”
“Let me guess,” Ron balked; though, in seconds, Hermione beat him to the punch.
“So he’s trying to force you to make a problem of yourself?” she questioned, incredulous. “That’s… Maybe you should tell the Headmaster about this.”
“Looks like I’ll get a chance to, when I meet with him tonight.” Harry brandished a small note from his pocket and waved it in front of them.
“What, really? Lemme see,” Ron demanded. Harry passed him the small, wrinkled parchment, and his eyebrows rose. “Bit short, isn't it? And after curfew?”
Hermione proffered a patient hand to Ron and, when he was done hemming and hawing over it, she looked it over as well. “What do you suppose he wants to meet with you for, Harry?”
“I mean, last time I talked to him, I… asked to be in the Order.”
“Aren't you already?” Ron pointed out. “Sort of?”
“Yeah, but-- I'm tired of being sort of a part of everything. I think he might make me a full member.”
Their reaction was a bit underwhelming. Hermione’s lips were pursed, as they usually were when she was thinking, and Ron full-on groaned, saying, “Too bad my mum would box my ears if I even thought about it.”
Harry’s expression was halfway between a smile and a grimace. “I'm not so sure she won't do the same to me, when she finds out.”
“Oh, she definitely will,” he agreed. “I don't envy you in that, but--! A full Order member! How do you suppose they'll swing that?”
Hermione finally spoke. “With some difficulty, I imagine. You're not licensed to Apparate, and I would think that your schooling, and your identity really, would pose some problems.”
He… hadn't really thought about any of that. Feeling a bit put out, Harry replied, “Well, I'm sure Dumbledore's got it sorted. He knows what he's doing.”
“‘Course he does,” Ron concurred, leaning back on the couch. “Though, d’you think Dumbledore will take care of Malfoy if he knows about how the prat’s running his gob?”
He couldn’t hold back a grimace. “Maybe? I mean, he all but told me to drop it the last time I brought him up. Said Snape’s taking care of it.”
“Pff, I’ll bet he is,” was Ron’s derisive rejoinder. “Taking care to make sure that Malfoy becomes a proper little Death Eater. If you ask me, Snape’s probably taught him a thing or two about how to ‘take care’ of Mugg--”
“Ronald!” Hermione reprimanded in a sharp whisper. “You shouldn’t talk about a Professor like that, especially so loudly.”
Ron dismissed her with a wave of his arm. “Well, it's true --”
“Anyway,” Hermione interjected with more force this time, gazing pointedly in Harry’s direction. “It might be wise to inform the Headmaster, at least, that you witnessed him threatening a student. Who was it again?”
He shrugged in response. “I’ve seen her around classes, but not really er… talked. She’s a... Slytherin, actually.”
“Slytherin?” Ron questioned. “But you said Draco called her… y’know.” Perhaps out of habit, his eyes swooped to Hermione, albeit briefly, as if he wanted to gauge her reaction. Hermione, however, didn’t seem to react at all. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry, though distant, expression pensive.
“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “Malfoy’s on a rampage, though, so who knows?”
“I don’t know much about her,” Hermione finally said. “I mean, there’s rumors. I don’t know how true they are, though.”
When he spoke, it was with an abashed curiosity. Considering how many untrue stories about him were in relentless circulation, it felt odd to be engaging with hearsay. “Rumors?” Harry murmured, expectant.
“Well,” Hermione shifted in her seat, her discomfort pronounced. “I don’t know anyone from her house, so I can’t say for certain. Padma said she heard from a friend of hers in Ravenclaw about that girl being suspended. I couldn’t say for what reason. Just that she’s been gone for a couple of years.”
Ron let out a long whistle, arms crossing.
“I didn't know you could be suspended at Hogwarts,” Harry admitted.
Ron piped up. “Yeah, it's not exactly common. It's usually only when someone's done something that should get them expelled, but their rich Mummy and Daddy complained to the Board.”
Considering her run in with Malfoy, it didn’t seem likely, but there was no way to be certain. “Well, she is Slytherin. So you never know.”
“If she's Slytherin, then we definitely know,” Ron balked. “Their whole deal is weaseling out of trouble for the shit things they do.”
Harry couldn't argue with that, but yet another scandalized whisper came from Hermione: “Ron! ”
“Well,” Harry interrupted, in an effort to preemptively distract them from an argument. “I just wondered, since she seemed to come out of nowhere. Curious as to what happened.”
“I mean, it’s hard to know. She apparently left school around the time the Triwizard Tournament was starting, so…” The smile on her face was meek as she offered Harry a hapless shrug.
“So a lot was going on,” Harry finished for her. “It’s strange; what year is she, even?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “It’s difficult to tell.”
“Who cares?” Ron groused, his exhaustion with the conversation clear. “That stuff about Malfoy is way more important.”
“Right,” Harry concurred, acknowledging that they’d veered from the point. “Thing is, if Dumbledore won’t do anything about Malfoy… Then what?”
Hermione shared a significant look with Ron. There was a moment of disquiet between them, a symptom of a lack of clear direction. When she finally addressed Harry, the crestfallen way in which she spoke belied the optimism she tried to convey. “It’s possible that Dumbledore really does have the matter in hand.”
“I just think he’s barmy for trusting Snape at all,” Ron remarked.
Harry couldn’t help but agree. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” he said, gripping the note stashed away in his pocket.
The halls of Hogwarts were quiet, except for the sound of Harry’s energetic jogging. Just before curfew, there weren’t many students milling about, but, somewhere along the path to the Headmaster’s office, he’d finally allowed his excitement to surface (a feeling he’d denied himself for the greater portion of the day). After weeks of hearing nothing from Dumbledore, he had been summoned. And that mention of his invisibility cloak? Quite mysterious.
The object in question was stashed away in his school bag, which banged against his thigh with each of his footfalls. He'd hardly looked at it in ages, and it’d been gathering dust at the bottom of his trunk, considering he had been on his best behavior the last month. Running through the halls, he felt more free than he had since school began.
When he arrived at the entrance to the Headmaster’s office, he was breathing hard from sprinting up the stairs. Harry gasped the password he’d used two weeks prior, watching the gryphon statue, eager.
It didn’t budge.
Harry leaned his palms against his knees, craning his neck to stare at the entrance. Blowing out puffs of air, he slowly got his breathing under control. Then, enunciating as clearly as he could, he recited again: “Jubilant Jellies.”
… Nothing.
Perplexed, Harry stood up straight, arms falling against his sides. Considering Dumbledore hadn’t given him another password, he’d assumed… He took the rumpled note from his pocket to examine it.
Bring your cloak. - A.D.
It was ten, almost exactly, and here he was, fully prepared. So… What was he meant to do? Guess the password? Just the thought of that was daunting; wizards had such an absurd amount of different sweets that Harry could spend the rest of his life listing them.
He scuffed his feet at the entrance for several minutes, hands shoved deep in his pockets, with a vain hope that Dumbledore would divine his arrival and let him up. However, nothing. The statue merely stared at him, silent and mocking. Harry grimaced.
Walking right up to the broad wing of the gryphon, Harry sighed. He began to repeatedly check the time with a mumbled Tempus, the incantation uttered with an increasing anxiety as the minutes ticked past.
10:05... 10:07... 10:12...
By the time fifteen minutes had come and gone, and he’d circled the width of the hall twenty times, Harry was properly fed up with waiting, not to mention jittery, considering it was now after hours. The torches nearby had dimmed and sputtered out while he’d been standing there, leaving him with nothing but the dull moonlight that sat prim and unimpressive in the windows nearby.
The castle was old and creaked and groaned often when it settled in at night, but Harry’s ears, more accustomed to illicit forays after hours, were attuned to the sudden presence of footsteps… ones that were approaching, and quickly. The clack of low heels likely signaled Professor Sprout, who tended to be more understanding, but could also be Professor Sinistra, who was decidedly less so.
Harry experienced a moment of panic before he remembered he had his Invisibility Cloak with him. Unstuffing it from his bag with haste, he pulled it over top his head, taking care to hunch to conceal his feet. Instinct had him back into the alcove, beneath the gryphon’s wing, his eyes on sharp watch of the corridor for any movement. The hall fell into an eerie quiet -- peculiarly, he could no longer hear the footsteps -- and then… There! It was too dark to pinpoint any of the passing professor’s defining features, but they appeared to be walking carefully along, wand-light held aloft. As their form receded, Harry blew out a relieved exhale, and refocused himself on the problem of getting into the Headmaster’s office. While his cloak was handy, he’d rather not spend the rest of the night dodging curfew patrols.
It wasn’t like Dumbledore to overlook a detail like this. And, too, since he knew Harry was coming, he should have at least been reminded when Harry failed to appear. So, what was this about? As much as the Daily Prophet liked to paint Dumbledore as a senile old coot, Harry knew that just wasn’t true. Something else was going on.
For one, the whole way this had come about was dodgy. Just this one small note delivered to him at breakfast that very morning. He had no guarantees it had even come from the Headmaster. Harry realized with an unpleasant twist of his insides that the clues that had brought him here were pretty slim. Considering it was just signed “A.D.”, anyone could really have written it, even a student. Seemed a bit odd for Dumbledore to ask him to bring his cloak like that, too. If the note was written by someone else, then that reference was entirely lost, instead becoming a warning about chilly weather.
Mindful not to make a sound, he looked at the note once more, angling it toward the scant moonlight, though he needn’t have bothered -- as he looked down at the words, they started to glow with blue light. Harry’s hand shook from the awkward angle he was holding, but the glow trailed behind, sluggish and smoke-like.
Well. That was…something. Harry waved the paper this way and that, and the glow persisted. The patrolling teacher had long since passed, and Harry chanced stepping back out of the shadow of the statue to examine further. Pulling the cloak off himself, he inspected the note for possible clues. It did seem to be Dumbledore’s handwriting, if Harry’s memory served… Though as he was squinting at the note, he realized-- It wasn’t glowing any longer.
Harry stood still, eyes darting between the paper in one hand, his cloak in the other. He draped the cloak back over his head, raising the note up, and sure enough, the words began to glow again.
With a small, intrigued smile, Harry donned the cloak once more. Even though he’d been a part of this world for five years, magic never ceased to amaze. If anything, this at least confirmed that it was Dumbledore who sent the message; not many people knew his invisibility cloak existed, much less how to attune magic to react to it.
Well, if Dumbledore had taken the time to delineate a hidden magic that reacted to his cloak... That meant there had to be other hidden things as well, right? Perhaps in the note itself? It seemed a good starting place as any and, with a determined gleam in his eye, Harry traced his wand along the edge of the note, muttering: “Revelio! ”
He’d expected new words to scrawl themselves on his note. Instead, he was caught off guard when, out of the corner of his eye, something else flashed bright blue. When he turned to look, he took a step back. Out of the gryphon statue protruded a ghostly duplicate, whose neck was stretched outward in Harry’s direction. The head of it flailed around disturbingly, its feathered breast heaving with breath and its beak stretching wide as it opened and closed. It massive wings shivered and unfurled, but despite its frenetic movement, not a sound could be heard; no rustle of feathers nor screech from its throat.
Hary brandished his wand at it and, as he lifted it up to chin level, the ethereal gryphon ceased its frantic thrashing, instead staring straight ahead at him. But-- that… couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be looking at him; after all, he was invisible.
Though, perhaps it had seen him don the cloak, and simply knew where he had last been standing. Carefully skimming the bottom of the cloak along the ground, Harry moved off to one side, not taking his eyes off the spectre before him. Strangely, though… It didn’t take its eyes off him either.
His breath caught. The gryphon’s gaze was unblinking and trained directly on him. How… how was it able to see him? There were plenty of times he had hidden from the school ghosts, and none of them had been able to sense him. This was… another thing entirely.
It opened its beak between small, precise movements of its body, performing a soundless articulation. The ghost gryphon tilted its head one way, then the other; its curious entreaty was reminiscent of when Buckbeak used to squawk and chirp at him, asking for food.
“Well,” Harry grumbled, “I don’t have any food.”
The animal pulled back with a proud lift of its head, as if it had understood what he said. Then, it offered a prolonged, muted screech, before looking, expectantly, at Harry.
“You have no voice,” he noted. “Is it… a silencing charm?”
Harry stepped back again as the gryphon suddenly reared up on its haunches, beating its wings once before resuming its previous position.
“Right, er…” he glanced down the hallway. If he lifted the charm, the animal would probably be noisy. At the same time, though, the prospect of allowing it to struggle in silence was… uncomfortable, in the least. Beside that, even if it did cause a ruckus, Harry still had his cloak.
He stepped up closer to the apparition, cautious. When he was a mere few feet away, Harry raised his wand, uttering the words, “Finite Incantatem.”
The gryphon released a test squawk. No sound emerged.
Harry frowned. He was certain he’d done it right; Finite was a fairly routine spell to use in classes where student errors were common. But… A snatch of memory caught at the frayed edges of his thought. When the patrolling professor had passed earlier, directly by his hiding spot, the sound of their footsteps had ceased entirely. Professor Flitwick once mentioned something about silencing charms being placed on an area, instead of a single subject... Could that be it, then? He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what it was called. Hermione would know.
Well, nevermind what Hermione would know.
He looked around, having no idea how to identify where the area actually was, if that was the case. Did he need to know how big it was? Was there a special thing he had to do for area spells? Thus far, all his teachers had pretty well glossed over the subject.
Well, considering it was only a Finite charm and it wouldn’t hurt to try, Harry lifted his wand again, modifying his wand movement to encompass the floor all around him and saying the incantation very clearly:
“Finite Incantatem! ”
He heard a rustle like leaves, and the click of hard talons on the stone floor. Harry lifted his head and the gryphon looked down at him, expelling a low trill.
His face split into a smile. He had done it! “I can hear you,” he whispered, his elation creeping into his voice.
“And I you,” the gryphon responded, a deep, human voice emanating from its opened beak.
Taken aback, Harry stared. “You… can talk?”
“A little,” was its enigmatic reply. “I bear a message from Albus Dumbledore.”
A bit mystified, Harry did not say anything. The gryphon continued: “It is a question. You must answer to gain entry.”
Its voice was serene, but powerful. The resonant tones seemed to reach down into some part of Harry that he couldn’t define. “Let’s have it, then,” he ordered, not sure what to think.
The gryphon lifted itself to a more refined, proud stance, its neck stretched with regal posture. “Which is your greatest regret? Failure to preserve what you love, or inability to avenge what you have lost?”
Of all the things Harry might have been expecting… that was definitely not it. His jubilation of a few moments before vanished. That phrase… failure to preserve … Harry’s thoughts careened to Sirius -- the memory settled with a chill, as it always had, to the back of his neck. His godfather’s daring. The green light. The collapse. The veil.
Most days, he could get by not thinking about it. It was easier to breathe if he didn’t consider what he’d witnessed and the horrifying missteps which had led up to it. Still, now that the floodgates had opened, Harry couldn’t help the tears that sprung into his eyes, nor the swell of fury in his heart. It had been one person, one wand, one spell, which had taken his hopes away. His brighter future, which he had yearned for since as long as he could remember, was eclipsed by the shadow of a single act of murder.
Life was cruel. He knew that well enough already. But even surrounded by the death and destruction she had caused, he hadn’t been able to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. In light of that, his own weakness seemed cruelest of all.
Using a voice hoarse with emotion, Harry growled, “To avenge what I have lost.”
The ethereal gryphon inclined its head, and it seemed to glow brighter before saying, “So be it. You may proceed.”
Harry took in a stabilizing breath. The ghostly vision vanished, leaving only the still, stone version behind. In a moment, the staircase began to spiral upward. He did not waste time; he stood on the uppermost step, impatient to reach the office.
When he threw open the door, Dumbledore was sitting at his desk. The Headmaster appeared as if he was about to say something, but Harry cut him off with an accusatory point of his finger, “What the hell was that just now?!”
“Harry…”
“I thought,” he spat, embittered, “that you wanted to be more ‘honest and open’ with me. Isn’t that what you said?”
“It is,” the older man wheezed, leaning forward in his chair. “Please… sit down.”
Frustrated, Harry did so, his clenched fists resting on the caps of his knees. Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, his spectacles shining in the light from the fireplace.
“I understand why you may feel upset, Harry. However, you did request to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and therefore you were given the test that all members before you have taken.”
At that, his ire quieted into bewilderment. “A test? How…? I mean, not everyone has an Invisibility Cloak.”
Dumbledore chuckled, despite the tension in the atmosphere. “I would venture to say that no one does.” He cleared his throat. “However, the test is tailored to the applicant.”
“I didn’t know that the Order had an audition,” was Harry’s grumpy reply. “You’d think I would’ve done enough already to recommend me.”
“Not an audition,” the Headmaster clarified, “but… an analysis.”
He huffed. “What, were you just watching me this whole time?”
“No. Only listening.”
A significant moment of time passed where Harry waited and Dumbledore, as always, watched. “... Well? ”
Dumbledore’s head canted. “Hm?”
“Did I pass, or what?”
“I have not decided.”
Dumbledore’s words smacked him back against his seat with all the brutality of a bludger. Harry’s reply came out as more of a whine than he would’ve liked. “Why?”
“Truthfully?” the Headmaster prompted.
“Yes?” What else? He’d had enough of lies!
“As the leader of the Order,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I would like nothing more than to utilize your talents. You displayed remarkable instinct and ingenuity, qualities which are invaluable to our cause. As an educator, I can take pride in your ability to tackle problems which do not have altogether straightforward solutions.”
The praise was a little… Harry didn’t quite know how to react. The urge to stammer out some bit of gratitude was automatic, but Dumbledore allowed no room to speak.
“However,” Dumbledore sighed. “As someone tasked with your well-being, the decision is not so clear-cut.”
The man stood up from behind his desk to meander around to the front of it. His robes were a muted purple, with shining silver moons scattered throughout. For Dumbledore, it was positively understated.
“It is my opinion that, while you may possess the skills of an Order member, you do not possess the temperament of one.”
Another blow, this one perhaps stinging more considering the delicate way in which it was said. Harry’s jaw clenched as he stared at Dumbledore’s shoulder. “I… did what you said. I haven’t caused any trouble in Potions.”
“That is not what I am referring to,” the Headmaster explained, mild. “Rather, the question that was posed to you regarding your regrets.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “That--!? How can you say that was wrong, when you want me to kill Voldemort?”
“It is not a matter of what you do, but rather why you do it.”
“Because Voldemort’s an evil prick who murders people, that’s why! What other reason do you want?!”
“Harry, calm yourself,” came Dumbledore’s mellow admonishment. “I do not mean to imply that the very purpose for which the Order was created is wrong. You, however, are easily controlled by your emotions, which can only work to your detriment.”
In an instant, Harry deflated. “Then… what you mean is: I failed the test. I’m not… going to be an Order member.”
“Not exactly,” the Headmaster corrected. “As I said, I have yet to decide.”
“You just said yourself I’m not ready,” Harry complained, eyes drifting to the rug.
“True enough.” Dumbledore’s voice was distracted; he seemed to be deep in contemplation, since his next word was spoken more to himself. “Though...”
Noticing the opening, Harry went on the offensive. “Please, sir,” he entreated, looking up at the other man. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just please, let me try.”
Dumbledore sighed, squinting at the fire in the grate before his gaze returned to Harry. “Whatever it takes. I’d counsel you to remember that you said so yourself.”
“I mean it,” Harry declared, firm. “Whatever you ask me to do, I’ll do it.”
“Very well.” The older man’s robes swished as he stepped up to the fireplace mantel, his wrinkled hand grasping a palm full of Floo powder.
“Severus,” he pronounced with clarity, tossing the powder into the grate. “If you’d be so kind as to join me in my office.”