IF, Book 1, Chapter 6, G rated
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.
This chapter is rated G
A/N: Mistake: Flint is meant to be in 6th year!!! Now he's in 5th - *shrug*
Lunch was a little difficult - a lot difficult really; everyone was whispering and looking at Harry. Clearly the Gryffindors had been talking. The Hufflepuff first years were almost sitting in each others’ laps in their anxiety. Draco sneered at them but couldn’t blame them.
Professor McGonagall was glaring at the Headmaster and jabbing her finger at a pile of yellowed parchment; she seemed more than a little angry.
“. . . not in more than a hundred years, Albus, I’ve spoken to . . . I’ll let that be . . . Severus knows better . . . horribly unstable and . . . And you know the Ministry is just waiting . . . me; sorry for the boy, but . . . James was . . . more blood on your hands . . .”
“Minerva,” Dumbledore sipped his tea and his blue eyes looked darker than usual; “. . . need your support in this and you have to understand that . . . could never have . . . Filius, could I trouble you for the . . .”
Draco couldn’t hear everything - he couldn’t hear very much at all - Hooch was hissing something under her breath at Quirrell who was trying to hide behind a bread roll; Uncle Severus was staring at his salad with a particularly venomous curl to his lips and little Professor Flitwick seemed to be trying, without much success, to calm them all.
“Did something happen while I was . . . away?” Harry was leaning close; “Why’re they all arguing like that?”
“Who knows? Mother says that people are ‘often ridiculous’; she was talking about McNair at the time, I think, but it could be . . .”
“Do you think it’s because I did that . . . I didn’t mean to upset everyone.” The walls quivered on the edge of Draco’s sight and a small blue phial materialised at Harry’s elbow.
“I think its time to take your potion, Harry.” Daphne smiled and tapped Harry’s hand. Her eyes were wide and wary and she was looking at the teachers - she was frightened too, and Draco didn’t like that because Daphne was meant to be brave: Harry wanted her to come with them on their quest to find Salazar’s legendary book.
Harry picked up the little glass bottle but didn’t drink it straight away; he was frowning at the staff table and chewing his lip.
Dumbledore set his china cup in its saucer with a flourish, “. . . what you want? . . . a better time to talk about this, Minerva.”
“So, Harry, when do you think you’ll be able to fly?” Vin had a book propped against his plate and there were greasy butter stains spreading through one corner. “Marcus said that Quidditch practice starts on Thursday and he’s been snarling at everyone about Pomfrey not letting him visit you yesterday.”
Uncle Severus folded his napkin, cast a contemptuous look at McGonagall, and stood up tall and dark and buttoned all the way to his narrow collar, and left the Hall with his robes swirling around his booted ankles.
The Gryffindors were laughing about something; the boy with dreadlocks was whispering to one of the older Weasleys and Longbottom was staring at his plate with his fingers tapping on the table.
“Soon, Vin,” Harry watched the Potions Master until the door closed behind him; “Madam Pomfrey said I could fly soon . . . but only when she says it’s okay. And I need to get my wand back from Professor Snape.”
There was a sudden angry scrape of wood on stone and a flurry of movement at the Gryffindor table.
“I suppose you know the answer to that that too?” It was Ron Weasley, on his feet and glaring at the frizzy girl; “You know everything, don’t you? I suppose you read it in Hogwarts: A History. Maybe you should look at what’s happening around you instead of sucking up to the teachers.”
The girl glared back and a few people sniggered at her discomfort. She gathered her books and pushed them into her bag; “I am looking at what’s happening, Ronald.” She hurried out of the Hall and Draco noticed that no-one went after her.
“Maybe Granger should have been in Ravenclaw.” Greg drained his pumpkin juice and lifted Vin’s book from the butter dish; “I heard McGonagall telling Sprout that Granger’s the brightest Muggle-born Witch to be at Hogwarts since Lily Ev . . .” He stopped and looked uncomfortable.
“So, what’re we doing this afternoon?” Pansy interrupted the awkward silence; “We should finish that walk around the lake before the weather gets nasty again.”
“We’re going to see the mons . . . Hagrid,” said Draco in a rush because Harry was shaking again and the blue potion was spilling out of the phial onto the tablecloth and the dishes were rattling and cracking in front of them.
“Here, Harry,” Daphne retrieved the tiny bottle and held it out.
Draco watched Harry drink the potion and looked away. He remembered dinner at the Manor one evening last summer when Father closed his fingers around his glass and it broke in his hand, snapping into splinters, and the wine spattered and some blood too onto the white damask before Mother sent him to his room.
“Let’s go.” Said Blaise and he tugged at Draco’s elbow.
* * *
Hagrid lived in a shingle-roofed hut with a single blackened chimney sticking out of it. It was set well past the smooth sweep of grass and the greenhouses where the ground suddenly broke into rocky interruptions and tree roots to catch unwary feet; where the dark eaves of the forest waited only yards away. There was a garden and a path of rough slabs set into the dirt and a water barrel with a lazy bend of guttering dripping into it.
The Slytherins walked as far as the edge of the garden together but Blaise said that Draco should go on with Harry and the rest of them would find somewhere to sit for a while and enjoy the warm afternoon:
“And finish our reading for McGonagall because she’ll turn us into toads or something if we don’t,” added Teddy, only half faking an anxious look.
“And finish our walk,” said Pansy at the same time.
Harry knocked on the door.
“Harry!” The monster stood on the step with his black hair hanging around his face and his teeth white against the nest of beard somewhere a long way above them. “I’ve bin waitin’ for yeh, thought yeh might visit today; come in . . . come in an’ I’ll make tea.”
“This is Draco, Hagrid, my best friend.” Harry smiled at the huge man and pulled Draco over the step into the hut.
“Draco is it?” muttered the monster turning to look at them again with his small bright eyes flickering under heavy brows. “Friends are yeh?” There was a sooty kettle on a hook in the fireplace. “You’d be Lucius’ son I’d guess?”
“Yes, Hagrid;” Harry’s eyes were shining with his hand still tangled into Draco’s sleeve. “I met him in Diagon Alley on my birthday in the robe shop. I told you.”
“Did you know Father when he was at school, Hagrid?” Draco asked with careful courtesy, removing Harry’s hand and smoothing his robe. He looked about him at the faded red and gold cushions thrown onto a couch in the corner of the room and the tangles of garlic and bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters.
“Aye, lad; I knew Lucius - ‘cept o’ course he didn’t wan’ ter know me, proud as he was and bein’ a Pureblood an’ all - I was the Groundskeeper then, same as now.” The monster set a blue-patterned teapot on the table and three cups next to it.
“Where’s Fang, Hagrid?” asked Harry who had been looking around too with wide eyes, “I always wanted a . . . Aunt Petunia doesn’t like . . .”
“Wanted a dog did yeh, Harry?”
“I’d like to meet Fang too,” Draco sat at the scrubbed table next to Harry, “We keep all kinds of interesting dogs at the Manor.”
“I reckon yeh do . . .” the Groundskeeper nodded and poured hot water into the teapot; he opened a door beside the shabby dresser. “Fang, come;” he called and left the door hanging on its creaking hinge and sat down. “He’ll be here . . . aroun’ somewhere . . .”
* * *
Fang was a big black dog with a broad honest head and a tail that whipped against Draco’s legs where he sat at the table in the monster’s hut and a red tongue. He sat beside the boys while they drank their tea and tried not to break their teeth on Hagrid’s scones; he slobbered into Draco’s lap and turned soulful eyes on him. Draco fed him scones. The boarhound curled onto Harry’s feet with a contented sigh and snored and kicked one hind leg in his dog-dreams.
“I thought you might be disappointed with me, Hagrid, because I wasn’t Sorted into Gryffindor.” Harry sipped his tea and Draco sipped too.
“What were yeh thinkin’, Harry? I’d never be disappointed in James’s boy . . . I picked yeh up outa that rubble when yeh were just a baby; Dumbledore trusted me ta do it.” The monster wiped away a tear.
At that moment the sugar bowl cracked neatly in two and a drift of white crystals spilled over the table; immediately a potion appeared at Harry’s elbow.
“So . . . Did you know my mother too?” Draco tried to distract Hagrid; he thought that tea shouldn’t taste like tar smelled on the hot summer evenings when Father took them driving in a sleek Muggle car with silver-spoked wheels churning the miles and the low sun stretching red fingers across the evening. And he thought that Harry shouldn’t have those dark smudges under his bright eyes.
“What’s tha’ then, Harry?” A huge finger with dirt under the nail touched the blue phial carefully.
“It’s . . . Madam Pomfrey says . . . I thought Professor Dumbledore might have told you.” Harry looked at Draco.
“Haven’t talked to Dumbledore since the night o’ the Sortin’ Feast; he sent me a message that yeh wouldn’ be comin’ to see me yesterday but tha’s all.”
“Harry needs to take this so that he doesn’t get sick again.” Draco spoke up, “Madam Pomfrey thinks he needs a mild calming potion to . . . er . . . help him relax.”
“Yeah, Hagrid, because I wasn’t sleeping very well.” Added Harry staring hard at the two halves of the broken sugar bowl which suddenly sprang together and became whole - the sugar was still on the table. “Ooh!”
“Which one o’ yeh did tha’? Where’s yer wand?” Hagrid picked up the mended crockery and examined it; “Tha’s a good bit o’ repair work.”
Draco whispered, “Drink the potion, Harry, before something else happens.”
“But that was . . .” Harry started to whisper back . . .
“Yeh’ve bin practisin’ spells at home have yeh, Draco?”
Draco elbowed Harry in the ribs, “Yes, Hagrid, with my tutor, Ignatius. I had my wand under the table and did it quickly when you were looking the other way.” He wondered why Hagrid hadn’t said anything when the bowl had broken in the first place.
Harry drank the potion and glared at Draco who wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t want Hagrid to know what Harry was doing - after all he’d find out soon enough with half the school talking about it.
“Harry said that you and he were at Gringotts on the day of the break-in. Do you know what the robbers were after, Hagrid?” He decided that this might be a good topic to stop Harry from sulking and distract the Groundskeeper.
His diversion worked even better than he’d expected; Hagrid nearly dropped the sugar bowl and suddenly looked rather shifty; Harry sat up straighter in his chair. “Yeah, Hagrid, I was going to ask you what you thought about that too.”
“No idea, lads . . . I only know what I read in the Prophet, same as everyone else.” Hagrid stood up and started to clear the table; “Yeh should be gettin’ back ta yer friends now, an’ I’ve got work ta do.”
“That was interesting,” said Draco, when they were walking back up the slope, “Hagrid definitely knows something. You were right, Harry.”
* * *
After they’d climbed the interminable stairs to the Owlery to see Thor, Hedwig and Blaise’s owl, Isolde, Draco, Harry, Blaise and Daphne went to visit Shepherd.
Draco stood in the dim corridor and watched Harry and the boy with the sheep talking quietly. He had an odd feeling about that, maybe Harry really did like Shepherd more than he liked Draco; they seemed somehow alike - even though the painted boy was a few years older than they were, maybe fourteen or so. It was something about the expression in their eyes when they thought no-one else was looking . . . something shared and sad.
Blaise and Daphne were chatting with Sir Roger and leaving Harry alone; the thin-faced woman was missing from her frame. Draco turned away and found that the poet was looking at him with a half-smile on his saturnine features.
“Hello, er . . . Poet; hello Cul,” the black dog wagged its tail. It had an unkempt shaggy coat nothing like Fang’s smooth short hair.
“Is Harry well now, Draco Malfoy?” The dark man moved a little and his candle flickered; “We were all . . . concerned when the Baron told us what had happened but then you came here at the whim of the Castle and we knew that Harry had found a friend. Friends are precious - a reminder that we might be loved for who we are instead of what we are.”
“I’m not sure if he’s completely ‘well’,” said Draco; he wasn’t sure about this man either. How could he trust someone who had a name but wouldn’t share it? “He’s better than he was I think. Anyway, Harry has lots of friends.”
“You shouldn’t be jealous, Draco.”
“I’m not jealous; I have lots of friends too.” Draco looked over his shoulder and saw that Harry was touching Shepherd’s bare painted foot with one small grubby hand.
“You should not be jealous of Shepherd,” said the Poet and rested his own hand on Cul’s head. ”They’re alike; Shepherd can help Harry to understand.”
“I’m not jealous of a picture.” Draco protested and wondered how he’d been so obvious that a painting could read his thoughts. Daphne was laughing at something Sir Roger had said and Blaise was scribbling on a scrap of parchment. Maybe the portrait was telling them about the spell he’d invented in third year. “What do you mean? Shepherd was a Muggle, Harry’s a Wizard. What does Harry have to understand?”
“Perhaps Harry will tell you about it when he does. Come Cul.” And the Poet walked out of his picture with the black dog at his heel before Draco could say anything more.
* * *
Ron Weasley tripped Harry with a quick hex when the Slytherins were passing a group of Gryffindors on the way to dinner. There was a sudden quiet and then, “I heard you were going to be playing Quidditch this year, Potter. Did you think no-one would notice that Dumbledore was bending the rules for the Boy-Who-Lived? What does it feel like to be a Slytherin, freak?”
“Shut it, Weasley.” Greg had his wand out;
“Leave it, Ron.” Longbottom had his hand on the Weasley’s arm.
Harry was sitting on the floor and his face was so white that Draco thought he was going to faint again. “W . . . what did you say?”
“I asked you,” Weasley pushed Longbottom away, “what it feels like to be a traitor to everything your parents fought and died for, Potter; and still have the Headmaster eating out of your hand.”
Draco’s robes whipped around his legs as though a blast of hot wind had found its way into the foyer and three potion phials appeared on the marble step where Harry’s hand had reached to break his fall. Daphne and Blaise were crouched beside Harry and a suit of armour by the doors melted into a gleaming puddle; a Hufflepuff girl ran down the corridor screaming for Professor Sprout and one of the Ravenclaw prefects drew his wand and pointed it at Harry.
There was a chill at Draco’s shoulder and he looked around to see the Bloody Baron drifting towards Harry, and then his wand was in his hand and at the red-haired boy’s throat. “Get away from him. Leave him alone, Weasley. Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t, Draco.” Pansy was hanging onto his arm and there were tears on her face; she was nearly as pale as Harry and some of the Gryffindors were trying to pull their friend away.
The Baron seemed to be whispering in Harry’s ear and trying to comfort him. How funny, thought Draco, he disembowelled his enemies and stuck their heads on pikes and now he thinks he’s everyone’s favourite uncle . . . time was all slow and sticky and he could see every freckle on the Weasley’s face.
Another suit of armour melted onto the floor with a hissing noise.
“Put up your wands.” Professor McGonagall rushed into the foyer: “Expelliarmus!”
Draco’s wand flew out of his hand and he saw that Greg’s wand and Weasley’s too were in the Professor’s hand, and the wand that the Ravenclaw had been holding a moment ago.
“Forty points from Slytherin!” McGonagall looked at the wands in her hand; “twenty points from Gryffindor, and twenty points from Ravenclaw. Slytherins stay here; the rest of you get out of my sight before I do something I might regret. Detention tomorrow night, Mister Weasley.” Vin and Teddy sniggered.
Longbottom and another boy dragged Weasley into the Hall and everyone else followed them until only the Slytherin first years and a grim-faced Professor McGonagall were left looking at one another.
The three little blue bottles on the step shattered and Draco found that he was shaking and Pansy had collapsed into a small heap on the floor beside him with her face in her hands. Blaise and Daphne had their arms around Harry; the stained glass window over the outer doors pulsed once and exploded into a thousand fragments.
“These childish outbursts have to stop, Mister Potter.” McGonagall sounded strangely calm; she moved carefully with her wand still in her right hand. “Can you stop, Harry?”
Harry buried his face in Daphne’s angular shoulder and started to cry. Draco thought he was going to throw up. Millie sat down beside Pansy and cried too.
Then Dumbledore’s deputy looked at Draco through her square-framed spectacles; “Maybe you, all of you, should go back to your Dorm; I’ll arrange dinner for you and send Professor Snape down straightaway. Can you manage, Mister Malfoy?”
“We can manage, Professor. Thank you.” Draco helped Daphne and Blaise lift Harry to his feet and they half-guided, half-carried him towards the dark steps leading to the dungeons. The others followed.
* * *
Uncle Severus was thin-lipped where he stood in front of his first year class; he’d told them just what he thought about losing forty House points but seemed uncertain how to continue when Pansy and Millie were still crying and Harry was asleep with his untidy head in Draco’s lap and Daphne was looking at her Head of House as though he’d failed her. Blaise was walking up and down and frowning.
The Potions Master sighed, “Tell me what happened, Mister Nott.”
Teddy jumped and swallowed hard. “Weasley tripped Harry . . . we were just walking past them, Professor . . . and he said Harry was a traitor for being in Slytherin, I think. Stuff started happening then; the armour glowed and melted and some of the Gryffindors were trying to stop Weasley. I’m not sure.”
“Harry was upset, Professor,” Millie raised her tear-stained face, “he was just walking along with us . . . that Weasley boy . . .”
“Go on, Mister Nott.”
“You can’t blame Harry for this, Professor!” Daphne stood up and her short straight fringe fell over her eyes, “It’s not his fault that some people blame him because the Hat put him here instead of Gryffindor.” She stopped on a sharp inhaled breath.
“Mister Nott?” The Professor rubbed his left arm and frowned at them.
“Well, the armour melted, Sir, and a Ravenclaw prefect pulled out his wand and pointed it at Harry. Weasley said some more stuff, or maybe that was before; Longbottom was trying to stop him. And then Draco . . . or Greg might have . . .” Teddy shuffled closer to Harry and reached out as though to touch him. ”I don’t really know what happened, Sir. Professor McGonagall came then and she took points and told the others to go away; she told us to come down here.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Professor.” Greg was glaring at the fireplace. “Draco didn’t do anything wrong. Harry’s one of us, Draco was trying to protect him.”
“Indeed,” Uncle Severus touched his buttoned collar with an odd uncertain gesture. “And what were you trying to do, Mister Goyle?” Greg rolled his eyes; “I’ll speak with Professor McGonagall again. Mister Malfoy, if Potter wakes up before I get back make sure he drinks this.” The Professor held out a phial filled with a smoky grey liquid.
“What is it?”
“It is something that will help, Draco, until we can sort out this damnable mess. Eat your dinner.”
* * *
They didn’t get their wands back on Monday morning. Professor Sprout made them prune the Venomous Tentaculas and they all had bitten fingers by the end of the lesson. The Ravenclaws refused to talk to them. Harry was more than half asleep because Uncle Severus had come into the common room before breakfast and left another grey potion. Draco kept trying to explain what they were doing but Harry just smiled and nodded and fell off the end of the bench.
“Leave him be, Mister Malfoy,” Sprout was rushing back and forth through the greenhouse and healing the bites on Terry Boot’s shoulder on her way; “You have my permission to let him copy your notes.”
Harry slept all through History of Magic but so did Vin and Greg.
Binns was beyond boring. Draco thought that he might have been quite interested in Goblin politics except that the ghost was droning on and on in a slightly querulous monotone . . .
Professor Flitwick explained the theory behind levitation charms and gave them a mini quiz on last week’s lessons: Blaise, Daphne and Draco took turns writing Harry’s answers with a charmed quill so that it would look like Harry’s writing. The tiny Professor looked over at them once at twice and grinned at Draco; “Very good, Mister Malfoy.”
Quirrell gave them a quiz too, and caught them writing Harry’s answers for him four times but said nothing; so they handed the muddy parchment to the Professor at the end of the lesson. “Do you take off marks for blots, Professor Quirrell?” asked Daphne with a little smile that might crumble into desperation at any moment.
“I never take m . . . marks for b . . . blots, Miss Greengrass.”
Draco almost liked the man.
They ate lunch in the Slytherin common room; Draco kept thinking that Harry might have to go back to the Infirmary because he was barely conscious and kept falling asleep in his food.
Potions was brewing a simple wart removal decoction. Weasley seemed to have learned his lesson for now because he didn’t say a word. Granger tried to ask a question about unicorn blood and Uncle Severus took five points from Gryffindor. Just as Draco was adding the chopped celery to his bubbling potion Harry slid onto the floor before anyone could catch him.
“Take him back to your rooms Mister Malfoy, Mister Crabbe. Mister Longbottom, your potion seems to be congealed on the bottom of your cauldron. Start again.”
* * *
“Mum said there’d be school days I’d want to forget,” Greg sharpened his quill with a small knife, “would today be one of those?”
“Read your History notes - er, my History notes, Greg, and I won’t tell Professor Binns that you slept through his fascinating lecture on the Goblin Wars.” Pansy pushed Harry into a more comfortable position on the couch beside her.
“He can’t play when he’s doped up like this.” Marcus tore the practice timetable off the notice board and shredded it. Another fifth year patted the Quidditch Captain on his broad shoulder and made sympathetic noises.
“There are more important things in the world than Quidditch,” said Millie; she was painting her nails and Oddment was playing with Daphne’s quill and biting it, she swatted him with her Charms homework; then he stole Draco’s quill and took it under the couch and growled.
“Really, Mills?” drawled Blaise, folding his Potions notes carefully. “Name them.”
“Food.” Said Greg with a smirk and turned back to his own notes;
“Charms.” Said Vin and Teddy together from where they were levitating one of the second years a foot or so in the air with much hilarity on all sides.
“Potions?” Pansy was scribbling notes in the margin of her text book.
“Harry.” Said Daphne.
“Harry.” Echoed Draco before he could think, retrieving his quill from Oddment.
Professor Snape walked in just then with two wands in his hand and a thunderstorm on his brow. “Take these.” He tossed Draco’s wand at him and Greg’s. He tugged a bottle from his capacious pocket. “I’ve been working on it.” He glared at Daphne and handed the potion to Draco. “Give him this before you go to bed tonight.” He tugged another wand from his sleeve and gave it to Pansy; “And this before classes tomorrow if he’s conscious.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Are we eating here or in the Hall, Professor?” Greg twirled his wand between his fingers.
“Here, Mister Goyle. You can take on the small-minded masses tomorrow. Mister Malfoy, you owe me thirty inches on Inclemens by Wednesday.”
“What about Harry?”
“I’ll talk to Mister Potter when he’s functional, Mister Malfoy.”
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.
This chapter is rated G
A/N: Mistake: Flint is meant to be in 6th year!!! Now he's in 5th - *shrug*
Lunch was a little difficult - a lot difficult really; everyone was whispering and looking at Harry. Clearly the Gryffindors had been talking. The Hufflepuff first years were almost sitting in each others’ laps in their anxiety. Draco sneered at them but couldn’t blame them.
Professor McGonagall was glaring at the Headmaster and jabbing her finger at a pile of yellowed parchment; she seemed more than a little angry.
“. . . not in more than a hundred years, Albus, I’ve spoken to . . . I’ll let that be . . . Severus knows better . . . horribly unstable and . . . And you know the Ministry is just waiting . . . me; sorry for the boy, but . . . James was . . . more blood on your hands . . .”
“Minerva,” Dumbledore sipped his tea and his blue eyes looked darker than usual; “. . . need your support in this and you have to understand that . . . could never have . . . Filius, could I trouble you for the . . .”
Draco couldn’t hear everything - he couldn’t hear very much at all - Hooch was hissing something under her breath at Quirrell who was trying to hide behind a bread roll; Uncle Severus was staring at his salad with a particularly venomous curl to his lips and little Professor Flitwick seemed to be trying, without much success, to calm them all.
“Did something happen while I was . . . away?” Harry was leaning close; “Why’re they all arguing like that?”
“Who knows? Mother says that people are ‘often ridiculous’; she was talking about McNair at the time, I think, but it could be . . .”
“Do you think it’s because I did that . . . I didn’t mean to upset everyone.” The walls quivered on the edge of Draco’s sight and a small blue phial materialised at Harry’s elbow.
“I think its time to take your potion, Harry.” Daphne smiled and tapped Harry’s hand. Her eyes were wide and wary and she was looking at the teachers - she was frightened too, and Draco didn’t like that because Daphne was meant to be brave: Harry wanted her to come with them on their quest to find Salazar’s legendary book.
Harry picked up the little glass bottle but didn’t drink it straight away; he was frowning at the staff table and chewing his lip.
Dumbledore set his china cup in its saucer with a flourish, “. . . what you want? . . . a better time to talk about this, Minerva.”
“So, Harry, when do you think you’ll be able to fly?” Vin had a book propped against his plate and there were greasy butter stains spreading through one corner. “Marcus said that Quidditch practice starts on Thursday and he’s been snarling at everyone about Pomfrey not letting him visit you yesterday.”
Uncle Severus folded his napkin, cast a contemptuous look at McGonagall, and stood up tall and dark and buttoned all the way to his narrow collar, and left the Hall with his robes swirling around his booted ankles.
The Gryffindors were laughing about something; the boy with dreadlocks was whispering to one of the older Weasleys and Longbottom was staring at his plate with his fingers tapping on the table.
“Soon, Vin,” Harry watched the Potions Master until the door closed behind him; “Madam Pomfrey said I could fly soon . . . but only when she says it’s okay. And I need to get my wand back from Professor Snape.”
There was a sudden angry scrape of wood on stone and a flurry of movement at the Gryffindor table.
“I suppose you know the answer to that that too?” It was Ron Weasley, on his feet and glaring at the frizzy girl; “You know everything, don’t you? I suppose you read it in Hogwarts: A History. Maybe you should look at what’s happening around you instead of sucking up to the teachers.”
The girl glared back and a few people sniggered at her discomfort. She gathered her books and pushed them into her bag; “I am looking at what’s happening, Ronald.” She hurried out of the Hall and Draco noticed that no-one went after her.
“Maybe Granger should have been in Ravenclaw.” Greg drained his pumpkin juice and lifted Vin’s book from the butter dish; “I heard McGonagall telling Sprout that Granger’s the brightest Muggle-born Witch to be at Hogwarts since Lily Ev . . .” He stopped and looked uncomfortable.
“So, what’re we doing this afternoon?” Pansy interrupted the awkward silence; “We should finish that walk around the lake before the weather gets nasty again.”
“We’re going to see the mons . . . Hagrid,” said Draco in a rush because Harry was shaking again and the blue potion was spilling out of the phial onto the tablecloth and the dishes were rattling and cracking in front of them.
“Here, Harry,” Daphne retrieved the tiny bottle and held it out.
Draco watched Harry drink the potion and looked away. He remembered dinner at the Manor one evening last summer when Father closed his fingers around his glass and it broke in his hand, snapping into splinters, and the wine spattered and some blood too onto the white damask before Mother sent him to his room.
“Let’s go.” Said Blaise and he tugged at Draco’s elbow.
* * *
Hagrid lived in a shingle-roofed hut with a single blackened chimney sticking out of it. It was set well past the smooth sweep of grass and the greenhouses where the ground suddenly broke into rocky interruptions and tree roots to catch unwary feet; where the dark eaves of the forest waited only yards away. There was a garden and a path of rough slabs set into the dirt and a water barrel with a lazy bend of guttering dripping into it.
The Slytherins walked as far as the edge of the garden together but Blaise said that Draco should go on with Harry and the rest of them would find somewhere to sit for a while and enjoy the warm afternoon:
“And finish our reading for McGonagall because she’ll turn us into toads or something if we don’t,” added Teddy, only half faking an anxious look.
“And finish our walk,” said Pansy at the same time.
Harry knocked on the door.
“Harry!” The monster stood on the step with his black hair hanging around his face and his teeth white against the nest of beard somewhere a long way above them. “I’ve bin waitin’ for yeh, thought yeh might visit today; come in . . . come in an’ I’ll make tea.”
“This is Draco, Hagrid, my best friend.” Harry smiled at the huge man and pulled Draco over the step into the hut.
“Draco is it?” muttered the monster turning to look at them again with his small bright eyes flickering under heavy brows. “Friends are yeh?” There was a sooty kettle on a hook in the fireplace. “You’d be Lucius’ son I’d guess?”
“Yes, Hagrid;” Harry’s eyes were shining with his hand still tangled into Draco’s sleeve. “I met him in Diagon Alley on my birthday in the robe shop. I told you.”
“Did you know Father when he was at school, Hagrid?” Draco asked with careful courtesy, removing Harry’s hand and smoothing his robe. He looked about him at the faded red and gold cushions thrown onto a couch in the corner of the room and the tangles of garlic and bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters.
“Aye, lad; I knew Lucius - ‘cept o’ course he didn’t wan’ ter know me, proud as he was and bein’ a Pureblood an’ all - I was the Groundskeeper then, same as now.” The monster set a blue-patterned teapot on the table and three cups next to it.
“Where’s Fang, Hagrid?” asked Harry who had been looking around too with wide eyes, “I always wanted a . . . Aunt Petunia doesn’t like . . .”
“Wanted a dog did yeh, Harry?”
“I’d like to meet Fang too,” Draco sat at the scrubbed table next to Harry, “We keep all kinds of interesting dogs at the Manor.”
“I reckon yeh do . . .” the Groundskeeper nodded and poured hot water into the teapot; he opened a door beside the shabby dresser. “Fang, come;” he called and left the door hanging on its creaking hinge and sat down. “He’ll be here . . . aroun’ somewhere . . .”
* * *
Fang was a big black dog with a broad honest head and a tail that whipped against Draco’s legs where he sat at the table in the monster’s hut and a red tongue. He sat beside the boys while they drank their tea and tried not to break their teeth on Hagrid’s scones; he slobbered into Draco’s lap and turned soulful eyes on him. Draco fed him scones. The boarhound curled onto Harry’s feet with a contented sigh and snored and kicked one hind leg in his dog-dreams.
“I thought you might be disappointed with me, Hagrid, because I wasn’t Sorted into Gryffindor.” Harry sipped his tea and Draco sipped too.
“What were yeh thinkin’, Harry? I’d never be disappointed in James’s boy . . . I picked yeh up outa that rubble when yeh were just a baby; Dumbledore trusted me ta do it.” The monster wiped away a tear.
At that moment the sugar bowl cracked neatly in two and a drift of white crystals spilled over the table; immediately a potion appeared at Harry’s elbow.
“So . . . Did you know my mother too?” Draco tried to distract Hagrid; he thought that tea shouldn’t taste like tar smelled on the hot summer evenings when Father took them driving in a sleek Muggle car with silver-spoked wheels churning the miles and the low sun stretching red fingers across the evening. And he thought that Harry shouldn’t have those dark smudges under his bright eyes.
“What’s tha’ then, Harry?” A huge finger with dirt under the nail touched the blue phial carefully.
“It’s . . . Madam Pomfrey says . . . I thought Professor Dumbledore might have told you.” Harry looked at Draco.
“Haven’t talked to Dumbledore since the night o’ the Sortin’ Feast; he sent me a message that yeh wouldn’ be comin’ to see me yesterday but tha’s all.”
“Harry needs to take this so that he doesn’t get sick again.” Draco spoke up, “Madam Pomfrey thinks he needs a mild calming potion to . . . er . . . help him relax.”
“Yeah, Hagrid, because I wasn’t sleeping very well.” Added Harry staring hard at the two halves of the broken sugar bowl which suddenly sprang together and became whole - the sugar was still on the table. “Ooh!”
“Which one o’ yeh did tha’? Where’s yer wand?” Hagrid picked up the mended crockery and examined it; “Tha’s a good bit o’ repair work.”
Draco whispered, “Drink the potion, Harry, before something else happens.”
“But that was . . .” Harry started to whisper back . . .
“Yeh’ve bin practisin’ spells at home have yeh, Draco?”
Draco elbowed Harry in the ribs, “Yes, Hagrid, with my tutor, Ignatius. I had my wand under the table and did it quickly when you were looking the other way.” He wondered why Hagrid hadn’t said anything when the bowl had broken in the first place.
Harry drank the potion and glared at Draco who wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t want Hagrid to know what Harry was doing - after all he’d find out soon enough with half the school talking about it.
“Harry said that you and he were at Gringotts on the day of the break-in. Do you know what the robbers were after, Hagrid?” He decided that this might be a good topic to stop Harry from sulking and distract the Groundskeeper.
His diversion worked even better than he’d expected; Hagrid nearly dropped the sugar bowl and suddenly looked rather shifty; Harry sat up straighter in his chair. “Yeah, Hagrid, I was going to ask you what you thought about that too.”
“No idea, lads . . . I only know what I read in the Prophet, same as everyone else.” Hagrid stood up and started to clear the table; “Yeh should be gettin’ back ta yer friends now, an’ I’ve got work ta do.”
“That was interesting,” said Draco, when they were walking back up the slope, “Hagrid definitely knows something. You were right, Harry.”
* * *
After they’d climbed the interminable stairs to the Owlery to see Thor, Hedwig and Blaise’s owl, Isolde, Draco, Harry, Blaise and Daphne went to visit Shepherd.
Draco stood in the dim corridor and watched Harry and the boy with the sheep talking quietly. He had an odd feeling about that, maybe Harry really did like Shepherd more than he liked Draco; they seemed somehow alike - even though the painted boy was a few years older than they were, maybe fourteen or so. It was something about the expression in their eyes when they thought no-one else was looking . . . something shared and sad.
Blaise and Daphne were chatting with Sir Roger and leaving Harry alone; the thin-faced woman was missing from her frame. Draco turned away and found that the poet was looking at him with a half-smile on his saturnine features.
“Hello, er . . . Poet; hello Cul,” the black dog wagged its tail. It had an unkempt shaggy coat nothing like Fang’s smooth short hair.
“Is Harry well now, Draco Malfoy?” The dark man moved a little and his candle flickered; “We were all . . . concerned when the Baron told us what had happened but then you came here at the whim of the Castle and we knew that Harry had found a friend. Friends are precious - a reminder that we might be loved for who we are instead of what we are.”
“I’m not sure if he’s completely ‘well’,” said Draco; he wasn’t sure about this man either. How could he trust someone who had a name but wouldn’t share it? “He’s better than he was I think. Anyway, Harry has lots of friends.”
“You shouldn’t be jealous, Draco.”
“I’m not jealous; I have lots of friends too.” Draco looked over his shoulder and saw that Harry was touching Shepherd’s bare painted foot with one small grubby hand.
“You should not be jealous of Shepherd,” said the Poet and rested his own hand on Cul’s head. ”They’re alike; Shepherd can help Harry to understand.”
“I’m not jealous of a picture.” Draco protested and wondered how he’d been so obvious that a painting could read his thoughts. Daphne was laughing at something Sir Roger had said and Blaise was scribbling on a scrap of parchment. Maybe the portrait was telling them about the spell he’d invented in third year. “What do you mean? Shepherd was a Muggle, Harry’s a Wizard. What does Harry have to understand?”
“Perhaps Harry will tell you about it when he does. Come Cul.” And the Poet walked out of his picture with the black dog at his heel before Draco could say anything more.
* * *
Ron Weasley tripped Harry with a quick hex when the Slytherins were passing a group of Gryffindors on the way to dinner. There was a sudden quiet and then, “I heard you were going to be playing Quidditch this year, Potter. Did you think no-one would notice that Dumbledore was bending the rules for the Boy-Who-Lived? What does it feel like to be a Slytherin, freak?”
“Shut it, Weasley.” Greg had his wand out;
“Leave it, Ron.” Longbottom had his hand on the Weasley’s arm.
Harry was sitting on the floor and his face was so white that Draco thought he was going to faint again. “W . . . what did you say?”
“I asked you,” Weasley pushed Longbottom away, “what it feels like to be a traitor to everything your parents fought and died for, Potter; and still have the Headmaster eating out of your hand.”
Draco’s robes whipped around his legs as though a blast of hot wind had found its way into the foyer and three potion phials appeared on the marble step where Harry’s hand had reached to break his fall. Daphne and Blaise were crouched beside Harry and a suit of armour by the doors melted into a gleaming puddle; a Hufflepuff girl ran down the corridor screaming for Professor Sprout and one of the Ravenclaw prefects drew his wand and pointed it at Harry.
There was a chill at Draco’s shoulder and he looked around to see the Bloody Baron drifting towards Harry, and then his wand was in his hand and at the red-haired boy’s throat. “Get away from him. Leave him alone, Weasley. Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t, Draco.” Pansy was hanging onto his arm and there were tears on her face; she was nearly as pale as Harry and some of the Gryffindors were trying to pull their friend away.
The Baron seemed to be whispering in Harry’s ear and trying to comfort him. How funny, thought Draco, he disembowelled his enemies and stuck their heads on pikes and now he thinks he’s everyone’s favourite uncle . . . time was all slow and sticky and he could see every freckle on the Weasley’s face.
Another suit of armour melted onto the floor with a hissing noise.
“Put up your wands.” Professor McGonagall rushed into the foyer: “Expelliarmus!”
Draco’s wand flew out of his hand and he saw that Greg’s wand and Weasley’s too were in the Professor’s hand, and the wand that the Ravenclaw had been holding a moment ago.
“Forty points from Slytherin!” McGonagall looked at the wands in her hand; “twenty points from Gryffindor, and twenty points from Ravenclaw. Slytherins stay here; the rest of you get out of my sight before I do something I might regret. Detention tomorrow night, Mister Weasley.” Vin and Teddy sniggered.
Longbottom and another boy dragged Weasley into the Hall and everyone else followed them until only the Slytherin first years and a grim-faced Professor McGonagall were left looking at one another.
The three little blue bottles on the step shattered and Draco found that he was shaking and Pansy had collapsed into a small heap on the floor beside him with her face in her hands. Blaise and Daphne had their arms around Harry; the stained glass window over the outer doors pulsed once and exploded into a thousand fragments.
“These childish outbursts have to stop, Mister Potter.” McGonagall sounded strangely calm; she moved carefully with her wand still in her right hand. “Can you stop, Harry?”
Harry buried his face in Daphne’s angular shoulder and started to cry. Draco thought he was going to throw up. Millie sat down beside Pansy and cried too.
Then Dumbledore’s deputy looked at Draco through her square-framed spectacles; “Maybe you, all of you, should go back to your Dorm; I’ll arrange dinner for you and send Professor Snape down straightaway. Can you manage, Mister Malfoy?”
“We can manage, Professor. Thank you.” Draco helped Daphne and Blaise lift Harry to his feet and they half-guided, half-carried him towards the dark steps leading to the dungeons. The others followed.
* * *
Uncle Severus was thin-lipped where he stood in front of his first year class; he’d told them just what he thought about losing forty House points but seemed uncertain how to continue when Pansy and Millie were still crying and Harry was asleep with his untidy head in Draco’s lap and Daphne was looking at her Head of House as though he’d failed her. Blaise was walking up and down and frowning.
The Potions Master sighed, “Tell me what happened, Mister Nott.”
Teddy jumped and swallowed hard. “Weasley tripped Harry . . . we were just walking past them, Professor . . . and he said Harry was a traitor for being in Slytherin, I think. Stuff started happening then; the armour glowed and melted and some of the Gryffindors were trying to stop Weasley. I’m not sure.”
“Harry was upset, Professor,” Millie raised her tear-stained face, “he was just walking along with us . . . that Weasley boy . . .”
“Go on, Mister Nott.”
“You can’t blame Harry for this, Professor!” Daphne stood up and her short straight fringe fell over her eyes, “It’s not his fault that some people blame him because the Hat put him here instead of Gryffindor.” She stopped on a sharp inhaled breath.
“Mister Nott?” The Professor rubbed his left arm and frowned at them.
“Well, the armour melted, Sir, and a Ravenclaw prefect pulled out his wand and pointed it at Harry. Weasley said some more stuff, or maybe that was before; Longbottom was trying to stop him. And then Draco . . . or Greg might have . . .” Teddy shuffled closer to Harry and reached out as though to touch him. ”I don’t really know what happened, Sir. Professor McGonagall came then and she took points and told the others to go away; she told us to come down here.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Professor.” Greg was glaring at the fireplace. “Draco didn’t do anything wrong. Harry’s one of us, Draco was trying to protect him.”
“Indeed,” Uncle Severus touched his buttoned collar with an odd uncertain gesture. “And what were you trying to do, Mister Goyle?” Greg rolled his eyes; “I’ll speak with Professor McGonagall again. Mister Malfoy, if Potter wakes up before I get back make sure he drinks this.” The Professor held out a phial filled with a smoky grey liquid.
“What is it?”
“It is something that will help, Draco, until we can sort out this damnable mess. Eat your dinner.”
* * *
They didn’t get their wands back on Monday morning. Professor Sprout made them prune the Venomous Tentaculas and they all had bitten fingers by the end of the lesson. The Ravenclaws refused to talk to them. Harry was more than half asleep because Uncle Severus had come into the common room before breakfast and left another grey potion. Draco kept trying to explain what they were doing but Harry just smiled and nodded and fell off the end of the bench.
“Leave him be, Mister Malfoy,” Sprout was rushing back and forth through the greenhouse and healing the bites on Terry Boot’s shoulder on her way; “You have my permission to let him copy your notes.”
Harry slept all through History of Magic but so did Vin and Greg.
Binns was beyond boring. Draco thought that he might have been quite interested in Goblin politics except that the ghost was droning on and on in a slightly querulous monotone . . .
Professor Flitwick explained the theory behind levitation charms and gave them a mini quiz on last week’s lessons: Blaise, Daphne and Draco took turns writing Harry’s answers with a charmed quill so that it would look like Harry’s writing. The tiny Professor looked over at them once at twice and grinned at Draco; “Very good, Mister Malfoy.”
Quirrell gave them a quiz too, and caught them writing Harry’s answers for him four times but said nothing; so they handed the muddy parchment to the Professor at the end of the lesson. “Do you take off marks for blots, Professor Quirrell?” asked Daphne with a little smile that might crumble into desperation at any moment.
“I never take m . . . marks for b . . . blots, Miss Greengrass.”
Draco almost liked the man.
They ate lunch in the Slytherin common room; Draco kept thinking that Harry might have to go back to the Infirmary because he was barely conscious and kept falling asleep in his food.
Potions was brewing a simple wart removal decoction. Weasley seemed to have learned his lesson for now because he didn’t say a word. Granger tried to ask a question about unicorn blood and Uncle Severus took five points from Gryffindor. Just as Draco was adding the chopped celery to his bubbling potion Harry slid onto the floor before anyone could catch him.
“Take him back to your rooms Mister Malfoy, Mister Crabbe. Mister Longbottom, your potion seems to be congealed on the bottom of your cauldron. Start again.”
* * *
“Mum said there’d be school days I’d want to forget,” Greg sharpened his quill with a small knife, “would today be one of those?”
“Read your History notes - er, my History notes, Greg, and I won’t tell Professor Binns that you slept through his fascinating lecture on the Goblin Wars.” Pansy pushed Harry into a more comfortable position on the couch beside her.
“He can’t play when he’s doped up like this.” Marcus tore the practice timetable off the notice board and shredded it. Another fifth year patted the Quidditch Captain on his broad shoulder and made sympathetic noises.
“There are more important things in the world than Quidditch,” said Millie; she was painting her nails and Oddment was playing with Daphne’s quill and biting it, she swatted him with her Charms homework; then he stole Draco’s quill and took it under the couch and growled.
“Really, Mills?” drawled Blaise, folding his Potions notes carefully. “Name them.”
“Food.” Said Greg with a smirk and turned back to his own notes;
“Charms.” Said Vin and Teddy together from where they were levitating one of the second years a foot or so in the air with much hilarity on all sides.
“Potions?” Pansy was scribbling notes in the margin of her text book.
“Harry.” Said Daphne.
“Harry.” Echoed Draco before he could think, retrieving his quill from Oddment.
Professor Snape walked in just then with two wands in his hand and a thunderstorm on his brow. “Take these.” He tossed Draco’s wand at him and Greg’s. He tugged a bottle from his capacious pocket. “I’ve been working on it.” He glared at Daphne and handed the potion to Draco. “Give him this before you go to bed tonight.” He tugged another wand from his sleeve and gave it to Pansy; “And this before classes tomorrow if he’s conscious.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Are we eating here or in the Hall, Professor?” Greg twirled his wand between his fingers.
“Here, Mister Goyle. You can take on the small-minded masses tomorrow. Mister Malfoy, you owe me thirty inches on Inclemens by Wednesday.”
“What about Harry?”
“I’ll talk to Mister Potter when he’s functional, Mister Malfoy.”