Update: IF, Book 1, Chapter 4
The next bit ;)
Title: If
Author: Arachne002 with (my Pillocks) pinknightfaerie and butterbean3
Genre: AU Adventure-Romance
Rating: G - R overall
Pairings: Many: We can’t tell you just yet. (H/D down the track)
Summary: What if Harry Potter was sorted into Slytherin?
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Silliness, Slash, Smut, Violence, WIP, etc.
Disclaimer: J K Rowling owns the characters, settings and various plot devices: we plan to borrow them for our own nefarious purposes but intend no offence and make no money.
A/N: in books and chapters . . . we might never finish but we’ll have fun trying . . . promise no cliff-hangers in case we stop writing.
After lunch - which was remarkable only for Longbottom waving and smiling at Harry across the Hall and Harry waving back - the Slytherins had their first Transfiguration class; it was a double. They sat in a bright room with windows showing blue sky and clouds closing in from the east and watched while Professor McGonagall turned her desk into a pig and back again.
“That was awfully good,” whispered Daphne rather loudly, “I think I’m going to like this class.”
“Me too,” said Blaise and Harry at the same time.
Draco could tell that McGonagall had heard them but she wisely chose to turn a deaf ear.
They scratched notes on theory for half the session and then tried to Transfigure matchsticks into needles: none of them made much progress, although Daphne’s matchstick looked slightly metallic and pointy by the time the bell rang for the end of the school day.
McGonagall didn’t smile and she didn’t glare. She seemed strict, fair and meticulous but every so often she turned towards Harry with a slight frown of disappointment- Harry didn’t notice and Draco didn’t say anything. Draco remembered that she was Head of Gryffindor and understood that she must feel a little let down to see the Boy-Who-Lived in any House that wasn’t hers. She stepped precisely through the classroom, “a little less flair with the wand, Miss Parkinson . . . better.”
Draco thought he might be feeling a bit sorry for her, especially since Uncle Severus didn’t seem pleased to have Harry in Slytherin at all. Then Harry’s matchstick crumbled into ashes for the third time. “Mister Potter, curb your enthusiasm.” And Draco laughed. Harry laughed too and McGonagall turned towards Greg to correct his pronunciation of the spell.
* * *
After classes Pansy, Daphne, Vin and Teddy decided to go for a walk around the lake; the weather was mild still and the other first year Slytherins lounged on the grass by the sundial while their more energetic friends set off to try and see the giant squid.
Harry seemed tired lying back with his eyes closed. Even wearing the bulky robes he looked painfully thin and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He looked peaceful though.
A group of Hufflepuffs were lazing a few yards away and Draco saw Ron Weasley sitting in the fountain courtyard with Longbottom and another boy. The clouds he’d watched through the window in Transfiguration were lower now and dark-edged, he hoped the weather would hold until Pansy and the others came back from their walk. He hoped Mother would write back soon and tell him she was proud of him: she might be away; he would have to be patient.
“What are you thinking?” Harry had rolled onto his stomach and was talking right into Draco’s ear.
“Wondering when Mother will write back.”
“It must be nice having a mother.” Harry didn’t sound jealous just sad.
Draco played with a grass stem and said nothing; Greg sat up suddenly: “Maybe you can visit in the holidays, Harry. I have a brilliant dog, Rufus, and we’re not so far from Salisbury . . . have you been there.”
“I haven’t been anywhere much, Greg. I went to the zoo once. I’d like to visit your family. Salisbury’s where Stonehenge is, yeah? I’d like to see that.”
“We call it the Giants’ Dance.” Said Draco, “It’s very old magic; even the Dark Lord never worked it out . . . that’s what Father says . . .”
“Who’s the Dark Lord?” Harry sat up and brushed grass seeds out of his hair.
“You know,” said Greg quietly, “Him; the one who left you with that.” He gestured at Harry’s forehead.
“Oh, Him: Voldemort. I don’t really want to think about him - I’m glad he’s dead.” Harry sounded quite fierce and didn’t notice that his friends flinched as he said the name. “Hagrid told me about how he killed my parents, and how he was a Slytherin when he was at school. I thought they died in a car crash . . . that’s weird isn’t it? Do you think I was just a loose end? Why would anyone try to kill a baby?”
A swirl of leaves blew up around them for a moment then dropped to the grass in slow motion one by one. Draco watched them fall.
Millie patted Harry’s shoulder, “He’s gone now, Harry. You shouldn’t worry about why things happened like they did . . . Mummy says he was ‘charming but a little too intense’.”
“Your mother talks to you about the Dark Lord?” Blaise seemed horrified. “My folks send me out of the room whenever anyone mentions him.”
“Same . . . Most of the time,” muttered Draco.
“Me too,” added Greg, “but Father seems to think he had some good ideas.”
“She said he was very handsome and . . . debonair . . . and he could talk to snakes.” Millie was still patting Harry’s shoulder. “I think she had a bit of a crush on him. That’s sad really.”
A shadow happened then, between the sun and the clouds; “Potter, I have to talk to you.”
It was Marcus Flint the fifth year Quidditch captain.
“I’m here,” said Harry, patting Millie back.
“What do you want him for?” Draco stood up and felt small and insignificant; Flint was taller than some of the seventh years and towered over him.
“Professor Snape told me to talk to Potter about Quidditch . . . it seems that there was an incident in your Flying class this morning.” Flint was grinning but Draco couldn’t tell if it was a friendly grin or a malicious one.
“First years can’t play Quidditch, so what do you really want?” Draco moved in front of Harry who was still sitting on the grass. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“It wasn’t Harry’s fault,” squeaked Millie, hugging Harry; “he was being . . . er . . . helpful . . .”
“First years don’t play Quidditch usually . . . but that’s only because they’re not good enough most of the time. It’s not a written rule or anything . . . at least I don’t think so.” Flint sat down. “We need a Seeker for the team - Terry Higgs graduated last year and we’re a bit thin on talent right now. Apparently Hooch was quite impressed.”
“What?” Harry sounded very confused.
“You’re obviously a bit dim, Potter, but Hooch told Snape that you fly like a dream and the Professor told me to talk to you because ‘we have a tradition to uphold, Mister Flint, and Gryffindor will win the Cup this year over my dead body’”, Marcus did a rather good impersonation. The younger Slytherins laughed. “Mind you he was grinding his teeth at the time - I can’t do that bit . . . so, Harry, I’ll show you the ropes on Saturday, nine o’clock or so at the pitch; you can bring your friends if you like.” He stood up and held out his large hand, Harry stood up too, “Call me Marcus, Harry, it looks like we’re going to be team mates.”
Harry’s small hand disappeared in the large paw. “I don’t even know how to play . . . I don’t know anything.”
“Hence Saturday morning, Harry.” Flint turned on his heel with a small wave.
“That was very strange,” said Blaise.
“I can’t believe you’re going to play Quidditch, Harry.” Greg sounded pleased as well as astonished.
Draco smothered the ugly envious coil of emotion in his stomach and thumped Harry on the back.
And it started to rain in hard slow drops.
* * *
Harry wrote a letter to Hagrid before dinner when they’d all gone back to the Slytherin common room and dried off, and he showed it to Draco because “I’ve never written a letter before; is this all right?”
Hi Hagrid,
I hope you’re well.
I wonder if you think I’m bad because I’m in Slytherin because you told me that stuff about Him - the one you can’t say - and bad wizards and my parents were in Gryffindor and He killed them and I wanted them to be proud of me but the Hat said stuff and I was confused.
I want to visit. Is that OK? Can I bring a friend? Marcus Flint said I have to learn about Quidditch because Madam Hooch told Professor Snape about something I did in Flying this morning except I didn’t mean to and Professor Snape told Marcus to talk to me because their Seeker graduated at the end of last year and Marcus seems quite nice but big. What do you think about that?
Is Saturday afternoon all right? I’m going to send Hedwig with this.
Harry Potter
Harry watched while Draco read the letter.
“It’s fine, Harry, not great literature and . . .” he paused then started again, “it’s fine, Harry, people don’t really need to breathe very much when they’re reading. We’ll go up now and send it.” Draco folded the letter and passed it back to his friend; “We’ll have to hurry, dinner’s in ten minutes.”
They were late anyway and everyone looked at them when they walked into the Hall together. Longbottom waved again and the Weasley smacked his shoulder hard; the frizzy girl frowned at them over her book. The staff table was half empty; Quirrell wasn’t there, nor Dumbledore, nor McGonagall, nor Hooch; Uncle Severus wasn’t there either.
“Where have you been?” Daphne was bouncing again, “Marcus was looking for you and then he left, Harry, and . . . “
“We were sending a letter.” Draco scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate, “What did he want?”
“Nothing really,” said Teddy. “He left this for Harry.” Teddy held out a battered book: Quidditch Through the Ages.
“Thanks, Teddy.” Harry opened the book and read all through dinner with his plate untouched in front of him.
* * *
Breakfast brought owls and Thor dropped a letter into Draco’s lap just missing his scrambled eggs. He slid his nail under the seal.
Dear Draco,
We’re more proud of you than we can say. Severus owled us on Sunday night with the news but we were waiting to hear from our boy.
You seem a little taken with the Potter boy; we hope you’ll be a good influence on him. I knew his mother at school, she was a few years younger than me; clever but Muggle-born and all that, and in the wrong House . . . very sound with Charms and Arithmancy, quite good at Potions too. James Potter was a poseur of the worst kind - but talented and from a very good family. Lily Evans would have been a fool to turn him down.
Perhaps you can bring Harry home over Christmas; we’d love to meet him.
Is the Yorkshire girl a Greengrass? They’re a very old and respected family despite their liberal political tendencies; I think the boys attended Beauxbatons in my time and they kept the girls at home with tutors - they remain very old-fashioned in some ways. They have interests worth quite a few million galleons in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. We have to forgive a little impurity from time to time, Draco. I think the mother might be a writer of some kind - Neesie Goyle says she’s very good company. They go shopping. I don’t know the woman personally.
Hooch is an excellent instructor: make sure you pay attention. Yes she was a superior Chaser in her time and lucky that Dumbledore offered her a position at Hogwarts when she started to slow down. The Gremlins haven’t found another Chaser to match her in twenty years. Don’t even think about professional Quidditch, Draco - there’s no future in it.
Severus has ISSUES, darling. Don’t worry about it.
You should have floated your feather on the first attempt; Master Ignatius would be very disappointed, poor, dear man. You should write to him.
I’ll write again soon. Celia says hello. Lucius is visiting the Minister tonight - I hate to imagine his mood tomorrow.
Make us proud everyday, my darling boy.
Narcissa Malfoy
“I have a letter, Draco.” Hedwig had landed on the table with her tail in the butter just behind Pansy’s Sooty Owl.
“Show me,” Draco tucked his own letter into his pocket.
Dear Harry,
I think I might have made you worry about things that don’t matter so much . . . Ho . . . re . . . ust . . . ses . . . n’t . . . ey . . . . .
Sorry, Fang dribbled on this bit: Houses are just Houses, aren’t they?
Come and see me on Saturday afternoon. Your Dad was a top Quidditch player: he could have Chased for England. You’re built right for a Seeker, Harry. Flint’s all right but not very creative. You’ll do.
Dumbledore said you should bring your friends here if you want to.
Hagrid
“This letter is covered in dog spit!” Draco dropped the offending missive quickly.
“He talked to Dumbledore first.” Seven jugs of pumpkin juice exploded along the table to a chorus of dismayed disgust and who-did-that? “He talked to Dumbledore, Draco, before he said I could come and see him. I thought he liked me.”
“I think he does like you, Harry, and at least he didn’t lie about talking to the Headmaster,” Draco said and thought about the careful omissions and implications in his pocket. “Can I come with you on Saturday?”
“I don’t know if I want to see him anymore.” Pumpkin juice was spewing over the other House tables now.
Draco wondered if he should talk to Harry about the accidental magic but decided against it. “Of course you do; so can I come?”
“You’re right, he’s just being honest. It must be hard for him. Maybe I do still want to go and I want to meet Fang.” Harry grinned, “I thought you might not want to and I have to see Marcus first thing Saturday . . . I’d really like you to come with me, Draco.”
Professor Sinistra stood up, waved her wand so that all the tables were clean again, and sat down saying something to Flitwick who shook his head and seemed unconcerned.
Vinny threw a corner of toast at Harry and hit Pansy.
“Oops!”
“Look at this!” Blaise was waving a newspaper under their noses; “Look at it! Gringotts is supposed to be secure!”
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
‘ But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,’ said a Gringotts’ spokesgoblin this afternoon.
“The 31st? That was my birthday,” exclaimed Harry. “I was there with Hagrid to get money for my school things. Do you think someone was trying to break in while we were there? We went to another vault and Hagrid took something - he was being all mysterious and wouldn’t say what it was. I wonder . . .”
“Shh!” Hissed Pansy. “The Gryffindors are looking at us.”
The frizzy girl had her nose buried in The Daily Prophet but the boy with dreadlocks was glaring at them along with a few others. Longbottom waved at Draco, who didn’t wave back. Ron Weasley was watching them too and pretending not to.
“I think Hagrid brought something special and secret back here, and on Saturday when I see him I’m going to find out what it was.” Harry arranged his toast in triangles on his plate.
“Father says the Prophet is a propagandist rag.” Draco sniffed, “are you going to eat that or play with it, Harry?”
* * *
Draco was writing an essay for History of Magic and Greg was snoring in one of the armchairs beside him when Harry got in from detention on Thursday night.
“That was long, Harry. Was Filch horrible?”
“Yeah, I had to scrub the whole east second floor corridor on my hands and knees and Peeves kept dropping by for the first hour and ‘helping’ until the Baron told him off and made him go away. Then the Baron told me off as well and said I was a disgrace to Slytherin.” Harry threw himself into another chair. “It wasn’t all bad though; Filch only came to check on me three times and I talked to the portraits . . . did you know that Roger the Rubicund went to school here in the early 1500s and invented a spell when he was only in third year and . . .”
“Harry, you’re raving. Are you telling me you’re this late because you were talking to someone called Roger the Rubicund?” Draco felt slighted; he wanted Harry to talk to him not to some painted persona whose real self had died hundreds of years ago.
“It’s a nickname, he’s Sir Roger someone; and no, Draco, I didn’t only talk to him. I met Hildegard Skeel and a boy called Shepherd - well he was a shepherd in the picture and he said he didn’t have another name - and a man with a black dog who wouldn’t tell me his name but he told me that I could come and see him again . . .”
“I think you should get to bed, Harry.”
“I couldn’t sleep, now, Draco. Those picture people are amazing: they don’t mind talking to me at all.”
“What’s amazing about that? They must be bored to sobs and we - real Draco and Greg and Pansy and the rest - don’t mind talking to you either, you know?”
“I know . . . it’s so different.”
That night Draco dreamed again that he was alone in a small dark place and then there was a flash of green light and he woke up. He could hear Vin snoring softly and Harry muttering in his sleep; he dozed off and didn’t remember his dream in the morning.
* * *
Next day Harry didn’t say anything about the portraits or detention or Peeves and the Bloody Baron. He seemed rather subdued and just shrugged when Pansy asked if he was all right. Draco supposed that he was embarrassed or tired and left him to his thoughts.
They had Potions first and started lining up in the corridor behind the Gryffindors who seemed to be arguing loudly about something. Harry was trailing behind and Draco was beginning to worry about him. The Frizzy girl was telling Weasley to mind his own business and leave people alone and the red-haired boy was glaring at her, “I’m just saying there must be something wrong with Potter or else he’d be in . . .”, he broke off abruptly as the Slytherins approached.
“Are you talking to us, Weasley?” Daphne was standing with her hands on her hips and the light of battle in her hazel eyes. “Or are you just exercising your mouth?”
Draco thought the frizzy girl might be trying not to laugh because she was biting her lip and looking at the floor.
“Why would we be talking to you, then?” asked a boy with a strong Irish lilt to his voice. “Do you always barge into private conversations like that?”
Daphne snorted and held her ground. “Right: a private conversation in the Potions corridor at the top of your voice?”
“I can say what I want where I want,” blustered Weasley, “I don’t need permission from you lot.” He was angry and flushed with indignation.
Draco stepped up beside Daphne, “Don’t talk to her like that, Weasley, who do you think you are?”
“Well, we all know who you are, Malfoy; and how Daddy’s on the School Board and has the ear of the Minister. But, guess what? We don’t care.” The redhead pulled his wand from his sleeve and pointed it at Draco.
“Stop it!” Harry had just come up to the group and he looked very pale.
The Weasley opened his mouth to say more but no sound emerged; Daphne put her hand to her throat and looked suddenly frightened. Draco tried to reassure her and found that his voice had disappeared too.
“Stop it!” Shouted Harry again against the silence as the classroom door slammed open and Uncle Severus stepped out with a sneer of contempt on his thin lips.
“What is going on here?” He demanded, and several people tried to tell him what was going on but couldn’t. “Fighting in the corridors, Mister Weasley? Put up your wand.” He turned, “and . . . of course . . . you’re right in the middle of it all, Mister Potter.”
Harry was standing with his hands held out in front of him and his breath coming in short gasps. Suddenly all the tension left his body and his knees buckled, Draco caught him just before his head hit the stone floor.
“He didn’t mean it, Unc . . . Professor Snape. It was an accident.” He had his voice again; Pansy and Millie rushed forward and knelt on the floor beside him; Blaise, Vin, and Greg looked shocked beyond reaction and Teddy was twisting his hands together. Daphne was still glaring at the Gryffindors, who were looking at the floor and at each other, but her hands were shaking and Draco heard her whisper, “Is Harry all right?”
“He’s all right, Daphne.” Draco whispered back and held onto Harry who seemed to be unconscious.
Longbottom looked at the Potions Master, “W . . . we started it, Sir.” Weasley opened his mouth again and the Irish boy pulled him back and shushed him.
“Thank you, Mister Longbottom. Did you have something to add, Mister Weasley?”
“Yes, Professor,” the boy shook off his friend’s restraining hand; “Potter did something - a hex - and we lost our voices.”
“I see.” Snape looked down at Harry, “And did any of you hear this hex?”
Vin raised his hand, “Sir, Harry didn’t hex anyone, he didn’t have his wand out or anything.”
“Did you lose your voice too, Mister Crabbe?”
“I think we all did, Professor,” said Daphne.
“Well, Mister Weasley, it seems rather unlikely that Potter would hex his friends, does it not? Perhaps you are letting your imagination run away with you.”
“But he did something, Professor! He said something and then we couldn’t talk.” Weasley was turning red with frustration, “I know he did something.”
“That’s enough. Stay where you are, Mister Malfoy,” snarled the Professor, and his voice was colder than melting snow by the gates of the Manor. “The rest of you get back to your common rooms and stay there. You can give me thirty inches on brewing the Inclemens potion tomorrow morning in lieu of your lesson: Chapter 5.”
“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” said the girl with blonde plaits, pouting and looking at her friends.
“But today is Friday, Miss Brown.”
And the Gryffindors, defeated and bewildered, walked away along the dim passage; “At least he didn’t take points,” said someone.
“Don’t tempt me, Mister Thomas.”
The Slytherins were turning in the opposite direction slowly and shuffling, they were not quite ready to leave.
“Professor . . .?” Daphne gestured towards Draco and Harry, “Professor Snape, is Harry . . .?”
“A bloody thorn in our sides, yes indeed . . . like father like son;” less than a whisper and Draco thought that only he caught the words. “Potter will be fine, Miss Greengrass; hurry along, all of you.”
When they’d disappeared around the first corner, Snape turned to Draco again, “Did you hide the wand, Draco? I’m not a fool, you know; that boy is trouble and he’ll bring you nothing but grief . . . it might have been better for all of us if he’d . . .” He rubbed his left arm absently through his sleeve. “Move out of the way.”
Draco wanted to defend Harry and he wanted his godfather to reassure him not frighten him more. “What . . . what are you going to do to him, Professor?”
“We’re taking him to the Infirmary.” Uncle Severus gathered Harry’s small limp body into his arms and set off towards the stairway. “Follow, Draco.”
“It wasn’t Harry’s fault, Professor,” said Draco loudly and followed.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey was starched and prim and even more frightening than Professor McGonagall. She turned down the covers on a white-painted cot so that Uncle Severus could lay Harry down; “Not even the end of the first week, Severus?” She started to remove the small Slytherin’s robes and then stopped and frowned at Draco. “Why is this boy here?”
“I want to stay with Harry.” Draco thought his voice sounded smaller than usual.
“They are . . . friends.” Snape seemed uncomfortable with the word. “The Potter boy collapsed and naturally Draco is worried about him.”
“Collapsed, Severus? A healthy boy doesn’t just collapse for no reason.”
“Draco, go and sit over there.”
Draco went over there and sat. He could still see and hear everything; grownups were very odd sometimes.
“Poppy, I can’t deal with this now. Heal the wretched boy and send him back to the Dorm when he’s well. Let Draco stay. I have to talk to Albus.”
“Severus . . .”
“I’m in no mood for sympathy, Poppy. The boy’s a menace; he’s defiant - arrogant like James . . . selfish like James - and he has no self control: he’s endangering other students - my students.”
“Go and talk to the Headmaster, Severus, I’ll send them back in an hour or so I expect.”
Draco relaxed in his chair by the Infirmary door; an hour or so sounded reassuring. He wondered if he should tell the Matron about Harry’s accidental magic . . . it happened all the time with young children; he remembered Dobby having to clean some spectacular food art from the nursery walls years ago. Harry should have grown out of it like the rest of them long before he’d got his Hogwarts letter. Maybe he should tell her . . .
Severus Snape turned with a practised swirl of black robes and left the room without another word to Madam Pomfrey or Draco.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey let Draco sit by Harry’s bedside after she’d done whatever needed to be done; she’d grumbled and tut-tutted all the while until her small charge was tucked under the covers in faded hospital pyjamas.
Later, she brought in a tray with sandwiches and pumpkin juice.
“Why isn’t he waking up?”
“He needs some rest, Mister Malfoy, and you need to eat lunch.”
Draco fell asleep in the chair and woke up when it was dark. He’d missed a whole day of classes.
Someone was standing beside him with her hand on his arm - Madam Pomfrey, “Into bed with you, Mister Malfoy; you’ll be staying the night. I’ve already spoken to your Head of House.”
Then he was curling into a soft pillow and there was a small nightlight and quiet breathing somewhere nearby. There was something he had to tell her . . .
“Goodnight, Harry,” he whispered.
Title: If
Author: Arachne002 with (my Pillocks) pinknightfaerie and butterbean3
Genre: AU Adventure-Romance
Rating: G - R overall
Pairings: Many: We can’t tell you just yet. (H/D down the track)
Summary: What if Harry Potter was sorted into Slytherin?
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Silliness, Slash, Smut, Violence, WIP, etc.
Disclaimer: J K Rowling owns the characters, settings and various plot devices: we plan to borrow them for our own nefarious purposes but intend no offence and make no money.
A/N: in books and chapters . . . we might never finish but we’ll have fun trying . . . promise no cliff-hangers in case we stop writing.
After lunch - which was remarkable only for Longbottom waving and smiling at Harry across the Hall and Harry waving back - the Slytherins had their first Transfiguration class; it was a double. They sat in a bright room with windows showing blue sky and clouds closing in from the east and watched while Professor McGonagall turned her desk into a pig and back again.
“That was awfully good,” whispered Daphne rather loudly, “I think I’m going to like this class.”
“Me too,” said Blaise and Harry at the same time.
Draco could tell that McGonagall had heard them but she wisely chose to turn a deaf ear.
They scratched notes on theory for half the session and then tried to Transfigure matchsticks into needles: none of them made much progress, although Daphne’s matchstick looked slightly metallic and pointy by the time the bell rang for the end of the school day.
McGonagall didn’t smile and she didn’t glare. She seemed strict, fair and meticulous but every so often she turned towards Harry with a slight frown of disappointment- Harry didn’t notice and Draco didn’t say anything. Draco remembered that she was Head of Gryffindor and understood that she must feel a little let down to see the Boy-Who-Lived in any House that wasn’t hers. She stepped precisely through the classroom, “a little less flair with the wand, Miss Parkinson . . . better.”
Draco thought he might be feeling a bit sorry for her, especially since Uncle Severus didn’t seem pleased to have Harry in Slytherin at all. Then Harry’s matchstick crumbled into ashes for the third time. “Mister Potter, curb your enthusiasm.” And Draco laughed. Harry laughed too and McGonagall turned towards Greg to correct his pronunciation of the spell.
* * *
After classes Pansy, Daphne, Vin and Teddy decided to go for a walk around the lake; the weather was mild still and the other first year Slytherins lounged on the grass by the sundial while their more energetic friends set off to try and see the giant squid.
Harry seemed tired lying back with his eyes closed. Even wearing the bulky robes he looked painfully thin and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He looked peaceful though.
A group of Hufflepuffs were lazing a few yards away and Draco saw Ron Weasley sitting in the fountain courtyard with Longbottom and another boy. The clouds he’d watched through the window in Transfiguration were lower now and dark-edged, he hoped the weather would hold until Pansy and the others came back from their walk. He hoped Mother would write back soon and tell him she was proud of him: she might be away; he would have to be patient.
“What are you thinking?” Harry had rolled onto his stomach and was talking right into Draco’s ear.
“Wondering when Mother will write back.”
“It must be nice having a mother.” Harry didn’t sound jealous just sad.
Draco played with a grass stem and said nothing; Greg sat up suddenly: “Maybe you can visit in the holidays, Harry. I have a brilliant dog, Rufus, and we’re not so far from Salisbury . . . have you been there.”
“I haven’t been anywhere much, Greg. I went to the zoo once. I’d like to visit your family. Salisbury’s where Stonehenge is, yeah? I’d like to see that.”
“We call it the Giants’ Dance.” Said Draco, “It’s very old magic; even the Dark Lord never worked it out . . . that’s what Father says . . .”
“Who’s the Dark Lord?” Harry sat up and brushed grass seeds out of his hair.
“You know,” said Greg quietly, “Him; the one who left you with that.” He gestured at Harry’s forehead.
“Oh, Him: Voldemort. I don’t really want to think about him - I’m glad he’s dead.” Harry sounded quite fierce and didn’t notice that his friends flinched as he said the name. “Hagrid told me about how he killed my parents, and how he was a Slytherin when he was at school. I thought they died in a car crash . . . that’s weird isn’t it? Do you think I was just a loose end? Why would anyone try to kill a baby?”
A swirl of leaves blew up around them for a moment then dropped to the grass in slow motion one by one. Draco watched them fall.
Millie patted Harry’s shoulder, “He’s gone now, Harry. You shouldn’t worry about why things happened like they did . . . Mummy says he was ‘charming but a little too intense’.”
“Your mother talks to you about the Dark Lord?” Blaise seemed horrified. “My folks send me out of the room whenever anyone mentions him.”
“Same . . . Most of the time,” muttered Draco.
“Me too,” added Greg, “but Father seems to think he had some good ideas.”
“She said he was very handsome and . . . debonair . . . and he could talk to snakes.” Millie was still patting Harry’s shoulder. “I think she had a bit of a crush on him. That’s sad really.”
A shadow happened then, between the sun and the clouds; “Potter, I have to talk to you.”
It was Marcus Flint the fifth year Quidditch captain.
“I’m here,” said Harry, patting Millie back.
“What do you want him for?” Draco stood up and felt small and insignificant; Flint was taller than some of the seventh years and towered over him.
“Professor Snape told me to talk to Potter about Quidditch . . . it seems that there was an incident in your Flying class this morning.” Flint was grinning but Draco couldn’t tell if it was a friendly grin or a malicious one.
“First years can’t play Quidditch, so what do you really want?” Draco moved in front of Harry who was still sitting on the grass. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“It wasn’t Harry’s fault,” squeaked Millie, hugging Harry; “he was being . . . er . . . helpful . . .”
“First years don’t play Quidditch usually . . . but that’s only because they’re not good enough most of the time. It’s not a written rule or anything . . . at least I don’t think so.” Flint sat down. “We need a Seeker for the team - Terry Higgs graduated last year and we’re a bit thin on talent right now. Apparently Hooch was quite impressed.”
“What?” Harry sounded very confused.
“You’re obviously a bit dim, Potter, but Hooch told Snape that you fly like a dream and the Professor told me to talk to you because ‘we have a tradition to uphold, Mister Flint, and Gryffindor will win the Cup this year over my dead body’”, Marcus did a rather good impersonation. The younger Slytherins laughed. “Mind you he was grinding his teeth at the time - I can’t do that bit . . . so, Harry, I’ll show you the ropes on Saturday, nine o’clock or so at the pitch; you can bring your friends if you like.” He stood up and held out his large hand, Harry stood up too, “Call me Marcus, Harry, it looks like we’re going to be team mates.”
Harry’s small hand disappeared in the large paw. “I don’t even know how to play . . . I don’t know anything.”
“Hence Saturday morning, Harry.” Flint turned on his heel with a small wave.
“That was very strange,” said Blaise.
“I can’t believe you’re going to play Quidditch, Harry.” Greg sounded pleased as well as astonished.
Draco smothered the ugly envious coil of emotion in his stomach and thumped Harry on the back.
And it started to rain in hard slow drops.
* * *
Harry wrote a letter to Hagrid before dinner when they’d all gone back to the Slytherin common room and dried off, and he showed it to Draco because “I’ve never written a letter before; is this all right?”
Hi Hagrid,
I hope you’re well.
I wonder if you think I’m bad because I’m in Slytherin because you told me that stuff about Him - the one you can’t say - and bad wizards and my parents were in Gryffindor and He killed them and I wanted them to be proud of me but the Hat said stuff and I was confused.
I want to visit. Is that OK? Can I bring a friend? Marcus Flint said I have to learn about Quidditch because Madam Hooch told Professor Snape about something I did in Flying this morning except I didn’t mean to and Professor Snape told Marcus to talk to me because their Seeker graduated at the end of last year and Marcus seems quite nice but big. What do you think about that?
Is Saturday afternoon all right? I’m going to send Hedwig with this.
Harry Potter
Harry watched while Draco read the letter.
“It’s fine, Harry, not great literature and . . .” he paused then started again, “it’s fine, Harry, people don’t really need to breathe very much when they’re reading. We’ll go up now and send it.” Draco folded the letter and passed it back to his friend; “We’ll have to hurry, dinner’s in ten minutes.”
They were late anyway and everyone looked at them when they walked into the Hall together. Longbottom waved again and the Weasley smacked his shoulder hard; the frizzy girl frowned at them over her book. The staff table was half empty; Quirrell wasn’t there, nor Dumbledore, nor McGonagall, nor Hooch; Uncle Severus wasn’t there either.
“Where have you been?” Daphne was bouncing again, “Marcus was looking for you and then he left, Harry, and . . . “
“We were sending a letter.” Draco scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate, “What did he want?”
“Nothing really,” said Teddy. “He left this for Harry.” Teddy held out a battered book: Quidditch Through the Ages.
“Thanks, Teddy.” Harry opened the book and read all through dinner with his plate untouched in front of him.
* * *
Breakfast brought owls and Thor dropped a letter into Draco’s lap just missing his scrambled eggs. He slid his nail under the seal.
Dear Draco,
We’re more proud of you than we can say. Severus owled us on Sunday night with the news but we were waiting to hear from our boy.
You seem a little taken with the Potter boy; we hope you’ll be a good influence on him. I knew his mother at school, she was a few years younger than me; clever but Muggle-born and all that, and in the wrong House . . . very sound with Charms and Arithmancy, quite good at Potions too. James Potter was a poseur of the worst kind - but talented and from a very good family. Lily Evans would have been a fool to turn him down.
Perhaps you can bring Harry home over Christmas; we’d love to meet him.
Is the Yorkshire girl a Greengrass? They’re a very old and respected family despite their liberal political tendencies; I think the boys attended Beauxbatons in my time and they kept the girls at home with tutors - they remain very old-fashioned in some ways. They have interests worth quite a few million galleons in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. We have to forgive a little impurity from time to time, Draco. I think the mother might be a writer of some kind - Neesie Goyle says she’s very good company. They go shopping. I don’t know the woman personally.
Hooch is an excellent instructor: make sure you pay attention. Yes she was a superior Chaser in her time and lucky that Dumbledore offered her a position at Hogwarts when she started to slow down. The Gremlins haven’t found another Chaser to match her in twenty years. Don’t even think about professional Quidditch, Draco - there’s no future in it.
Severus has ISSUES, darling. Don’t worry about it.
You should have floated your feather on the first attempt; Master Ignatius would be very disappointed, poor, dear man. You should write to him.
I’ll write again soon. Celia says hello. Lucius is visiting the Minister tonight - I hate to imagine his mood tomorrow.
Make us proud everyday, my darling boy.
Narcissa Malfoy
“I have a letter, Draco.” Hedwig had landed on the table with her tail in the butter just behind Pansy’s Sooty Owl.
“Show me,” Draco tucked his own letter into his pocket.
Dear Harry,
I think I might have made you worry about things that don’t matter so much . . . Ho . . . re . . . ust . . . ses . . . n’t . . . ey . . . . .
Sorry, Fang dribbled on this bit: Houses are just Houses, aren’t they?
Come and see me on Saturday afternoon. Your Dad was a top Quidditch player: he could have Chased for England. You’re built right for a Seeker, Harry. Flint’s all right but not very creative. You’ll do.
Dumbledore said you should bring your friends here if you want to.
Hagrid
“This letter is covered in dog spit!” Draco dropped the offending missive quickly.
“He talked to Dumbledore first.” Seven jugs of pumpkin juice exploded along the table to a chorus of dismayed disgust and who-did-that? “He talked to Dumbledore, Draco, before he said I could come and see him. I thought he liked me.”
“I think he does like you, Harry, and at least he didn’t lie about talking to the Headmaster,” Draco said and thought about the careful omissions and implications in his pocket. “Can I come with you on Saturday?”
“I don’t know if I want to see him anymore.” Pumpkin juice was spewing over the other House tables now.
Draco wondered if he should talk to Harry about the accidental magic but decided against it. “Of course you do; so can I come?”
“You’re right, he’s just being honest. It must be hard for him. Maybe I do still want to go and I want to meet Fang.” Harry grinned, “I thought you might not want to and I have to see Marcus first thing Saturday . . . I’d really like you to come with me, Draco.”
Professor Sinistra stood up, waved her wand so that all the tables were clean again, and sat down saying something to Flitwick who shook his head and seemed unconcerned.
Vinny threw a corner of toast at Harry and hit Pansy.
“Oops!”
“Look at this!” Blaise was waving a newspaper under their noses; “Look at it! Gringotts is supposed to be secure!”
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
‘ But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,’ said a Gringotts’ spokesgoblin this afternoon.
“The 31st? That was my birthday,” exclaimed Harry. “I was there with Hagrid to get money for my school things. Do you think someone was trying to break in while we were there? We went to another vault and Hagrid took something - he was being all mysterious and wouldn’t say what it was. I wonder . . .”
“Shh!” Hissed Pansy. “The Gryffindors are looking at us.”
The frizzy girl had her nose buried in The Daily Prophet but the boy with dreadlocks was glaring at them along with a few others. Longbottom waved at Draco, who didn’t wave back. Ron Weasley was watching them too and pretending not to.
“I think Hagrid brought something special and secret back here, and on Saturday when I see him I’m going to find out what it was.” Harry arranged his toast in triangles on his plate.
“Father says the Prophet is a propagandist rag.” Draco sniffed, “are you going to eat that or play with it, Harry?”
* * *
Draco was writing an essay for History of Magic and Greg was snoring in one of the armchairs beside him when Harry got in from detention on Thursday night.
“That was long, Harry. Was Filch horrible?”
“Yeah, I had to scrub the whole east second floor corridor on my hands and knees and Peeves kept dropping by for the first hour and ‘helping’ until the Baron told him off and made him go away. Then the Baron told me off as well and said I was a disgrace to Slytherin.” Harry threw himself into another chair. “It wasn’t all bad though; Filch only came to check on me three times and I talked to the portraits . . . did you know that Roger the Rubicund went to school here in the early 1500s and invented a spell when he was only in third year and . . .”
“Harry, you’re raving. Are you telling me you’re this late because you were talking to someone called Roger the Rubicund?” Draco felt slighted; he wanted Harry to talk to him not to some painted persona whose real self had died hundreds of years ago.
“It’s a nickname, he’s Sir Roger someone; and no, Draco, I didn’t only talk to him. I met Hildegard Skeel and a boy called Shepherd - well he was a shepherd in the picture and he said he didn’t have another name - and a man with a black dog who wouldn’t tell me his name but he told me that I could come and see him again . . .”
“I think you should get to bed, Harry.”
“I couldn’t sleep, now, Draco. Those picture people are amazing: they don’t mind talking to me at all.”
“What’s amazing about that? They must be bored to sobs and we - real Draco and Greg and Pansy and the rest - don’t mind talking to you either, you know?”
“I know . . . it’s so different.”
That night Draco dreamed again that he was alone in a small dark place and then there was a flash of green light and he woke up. He could hear Vin snoring softly and Harry muttering in his sleep; he dozed off and didn’t remember his dream in the morning.
* * *
Next day Harry didn’t say anything about the portraits or detention or Peeves and the Bloody Baron. He seemed rather subdued and just shrugged when Pansy asked if he was all right. Draco supposed that he was embarrassed or tired and left him to his thoughts.
They had Potions first and started lining up in the corridor behind the Gryffindors who seemed to be arguing loudly about something. Harry was trailing behind and Draco was beginning to worry about him. The Frizzy girl was telling Weasley to mind his own business and leave people alone and the red-haired boy was glaring at her, “I’m just saying there must be something wrong with Potter or else he’d be in . . .”, he broke off abruptly as the Slytherins approached.
“Are you talking to us, Weasley?” Daphne was standing with her hands on her hips and the light of battle in her hazel eyes. “Or are you just exercising your mouth?”
Draco thought the frizzy girl might be trying not to laugh because she was biting her lip and looking at the floor.
“Why would we be talking to you, then?” asked a boy with a strong Irish lilt to his voice. “Do you always barge into private conversations like that?”
Daphne snorted and held her ground. “Right: a private conversation in the Potions corridor at the top of your voice?”
“I can say what I want where I want,” blustered Weasley, “I don’t need permission from you lot.” He was angry and flushed with indignation.
Draco stepped up beside Daphne, “Don’t talk to her like that, Weasley, who do you think you are?”
“Well, we all know who you are, Malfoy; and how Daddy’s on the School Board and has the ear of the Minister. But, guess what? We don’t care.” The redhead pulled his wand from his sleeve and pointed it at Draco.
“Stop it!” Harry had just come up to the group and he looked very pale.
The Weasley opened his mouth to say more but no sound emerged; Daphne put her hand to her throat and looked suddenly frightened. Draco tried to reassure her and found that his voice had disappeared too.
“Stop it!” Shouted Harry again against the silence as the classroom door slammed open and Uncle Severus stepped out with a sneer of contempt on his thin lips.
“What is going on here?” He demanded, and several people tried to tell him what was going on but couldn’t. “Fighting in the corridors, Mister Weasley? Put up your wand.” He turned, “and . . . of course . . . you’re right in the middle of it all, Mister Potter.”
Harry was standing with his hands held out in front of him and his breath coming in short gasps. Suddenly all the tension left his body and his knees buckled, Draco caught him just before his head hit the stone floor.
“He didn’t mean it, Unc . . . Professor Snape. It was an accident.” He had his voice again; Pansy and Millie rushed forward and knelt on the floor beside him; Blaise, Vin, and Greg looked shocked beyond reaction and Teddy was twisting his hands together. Daphne was still glaring at the Gryffindors, who were looking at the floor and at each other, but her hands were shaking and Draco heard her whisper, “Is Harry all right?”
“He’s all right, Daphne.” Draco whispered back and held onto Harry who seemed to be unconscious.
Longbottom looked at the Potions Master, “W . . . we started it, Sir.” Weasley opened his mouth again and the Irish boy pulled him back and shushed him.
“Thank you, Mister Longbottom. Did you have something to add, Mister Weasley?”
“Yes, Professor,” the boy shook off his friend’s restraining hand; “Potter did something - a hex - and we lost our voices.”
“I see.” Snape looked down at Harry, “And did any of you hear this hex?”
Vin raised his hand, “Sir, Harry didn’t hex anyone, he didn’t have his wand out or anything.”
“Did you lose your voice too, Mister Crabbe?”
“I think we all did, Professor,” said Daphne.
“Well, Mister Weasley, it seems rather unlikely that Potter would hex his friends, does it not? Perhaps you are letting your imagination run away with you.”
“But he did something, Professor! He said something and then we couldn’t talk.” Weasley was turning red with frustration, “I know he did something.”
“That’s enough. Stay where you are, Mister Malfoy,” snarled the Professor, and his voice was colder than melting snow by the gates of the Manor. “The rest of you get back to your common rooms and stay there. You can give me thirty inches on brewing the Inclemens potion tomorrow morning in lieu of your lesson: Chapter 5.”
“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” said the girl with blonde plaits, pouting and looking at her friends.
“But today is Friday, Miss Brown.”
And the Gryffindors, defeated and bewildered, walked away along the dim passage; “At least he didn’t take points,” said someone.
“Don’t tempt me, Mister Thomas.”
The Slytherins were turning in the opposite direction slowly and shuffling, they were not quite ready to leave.
“Professor . . .?” Daphne gestured towards Draco and Harry, “Professor Snape, is Harry . . .?”
“A bloody thorn in our sides, yes indeed . . . like father like son;” less than a whisper and Draco thought that only he caught the words. “Potter will be fine, Miss Greengrass; hurry along, all of you.”
When they’d disappeared around the first corner, Snape turned to Draco again, “Did you hide the wand, Draco? I’m not a fool, you know; that boy is trouble and he’ll bring you nothing but grief . . . it might have been better for all of us if he’d . . .” He rubbed his left arm absently through his sleeve. “Move out of the way.”
Draco wanted to defend Harry and he wanted his godfather to reassure him not frighten him more. “What . . . what are you going to do to him, Professor?”
“We’re taking him to the Infirmary.” Uncle Severus gathered Harry’s small limp body into his arms and set off towards the stairway. “Follow, Draco.”
“It wasn’t Harry’s fault, Professor,” said Draco loudly and followed.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey was starched and prim and even more frightening than Professor McGonagall. She turned down the covers on a white-painted cot so that Uncle Severus could lay Harry down; “Not even the end of the first week, Severus?” She started to remove the small Slytherin’s robes and then stopped and frowned at Draco. “Why is this boy here?”
“I want to stay with Harry.” Draco thought his voice sounded smaller than usual.
“They are . . . friends.” Snape seemed uncomfortable with the word. “The Potter boy collapsed and naturally Draco is worried about him.”
“Collapsed, Severus? A healthy boy doesn’t just collapse for no reason.”
“Draco, go and sit over there.”
Draco went over there and sat. He could still see and hear everything; grownups were very odd sometimes.
“Poppy, I can’t deal with this now. Heal the wretched boy and send him back to the Dorm when he’s well. Let Draco stay. I have to talk to Albus.”
“Severus . . .”
“I’m in no mood for sympathy, Poppy. The boy’s a menace; he’s defiant - arrogant like James . . . selfish like James - and he has no self control: he’s endangering other students - my students.”
“Go and talk to the Headmaster, Severus, I’ll send them back in an hour or so I expect.”
Draco relaxed in his chair by the Infirmary door; an hour or so sounded reassuring. He wondered if he should tell the Matron about Harry’s accidental magic . . . it happened all the time with young children; he remembered Dobby having to clean some spectacular food art from the nursery walls years ago. Harry should have grown out of it like the rest of them long before he’d got his Hogwarts letter. Maybe he should tell her . . .
Severus Snape turned with a practised swirl of black robes and left the room without another word to Madam Pomfrey or Draco.
* * *
Madam Pomfrey let Draco sit by Harry’s bedside after she’d done whatever needed to be done; she’d grumbled and tut-tutted all the while until her small charge was tucked under the covers in faded hospital pyjamas.
Later, she brought in a tray with sandwiches and pumpkin juice.
“Why isn’t he waking up?”
“He needs some rest, Mister Malfoy, and you need to eat lunch.”
Draco fell asleep in the chair and woke up when it was dark. He’d missed a whole day of classes.
Someone was standing beside him with her hand on his arm - Madam Pomfrey, “Into bed with you, Mister Malfoy; you’ll be staying the night. I’ve already spoken to your Head of House.”
Then he was curling into a soft pillow and there was a small nightlight and quiet breathing somewhere nearby. There was something he had to tell her . . .
“Goodnight, Harry,” he whispered.