Chapter Seven of 'Inter Vivos'- Strength
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Chapter Seven-Strength
Harry just stood gazing at the Firebolt for long moments, his hands moving slowly up and down the shaft of the broom. His heart and his lungs both seemed small; it was hard to breathe, to feel his heart beating.
Someone had sent him another broom to replace his lost Nimbus. It was a Christmas gift. It was like the gifts he had received from Hagrid, from Dumbledore, from the Weasleys. It had given him back the skies, and possibly the Quidditch team, if Oliver Wood and McGonagall would agree to let him rejoin the team so late in the year.
It was a gift he would always keep safe.
He had just started to lift his wand so he could cast protective charms on it when he felt someone tugging on the bristles. He whirled around. Hermione faltered when she saw the expression on his face, but she continued to pull on the broom.
“Harry,” she said grimly, “it could be from Sirius Black. It could be a trap. Remember the way Quirrell hexed your broom and tried to make you fall off in first year? Well, Black’s a Death Eater, too! Maybe he’s just taking the easier route this time!”
She was almost in tears, but Harry didn’t care. No one was taking his broom away to test it for hexes. He might not get it back again. Someone might decide to take it; he didn’t think McGonagall, who he was sure Hermione intended to give the broom to, always kept her office locked. Or Seamus might find out that the broom was Harry’s and destroy it.
“No,” Harry said, in a voice that made Hermione take a step back. “I don’t care. It’s mine.”
“Harry-”
“I’ll test it for Dark Arts spells myself,” Harry said. He almost added, I know someone who can do that, but then remembered that Hermione and Ron had never known how much Professor Snape had helped him last year. And he hadn’t told them what Snape had said about his parents, either. He wanted to have the knowledge in private for a little while. “I’ll find the books. I’ll ask Professor Lupin.” There. That would do. Ron and Hermione knew he was receiving lessons from Lupin in the Patronus Charm.
Hermione leaned forwards, her hands clasped in front of her. “But, Harry,” she said, speaking so fast Harry almost heard babble, “you might miss something. It might be dangerous. It really needs to be taken away and tested extensively, maybe destroyed if-”
The next moment, she shrieked and clapped a hand to her cheek. Ron, who had been watching them both in alarm, jumped back. “Harry, did you just hex her?” he demanded.
“It was a Stinging Hex,” Harry said, and turned away, cradling the broom in both hands as he carried it to the bed. “That’s all. A little spark.”
Ron’s voice was angry. “Mate, I can’t believe you’d do that over a broom.”
“It’s mine,” said Harry, and climbed into the bed, and hugged the broom.
Ron and Hermione argued with him, or tried. Harry lay there and pretended not to listen until they went away. Then he opened his eyes and stroked the broom’s bristles softly, admiringly.
At the moment, he really didn’t care if Sirius Black was a Death Eater. He had done the thing that had made Harry feel the best since Seamus had destroyed the Invisibility Cloak and his other things. He could almost have showed up and tried to kill him, for that. At the very least, Harry would have listened if he wanted to talk.
Wings fluttered above him. Harry sat up. If Hermione had found McGonagall and had her send him a letter saying that he had to give up the broom, Harry wouldn’t read it.
But it was an owl from the twins, who Mrs. Weasley had demanded spend the Christmas holidays at home because she wanted to keep them from playing any pranks at Hogwarts as long as she could. Harry opened the envelope, and a piece of many-times-folded parchment fell out. Harry picked it up, but it was blank.
He blinked, and read the twins’ letter.
Happy Christmas, Harry!
We thought and thought about what to get you for a present for Christmas, and finally we hit the perfect thing. This is a map we found during our first year in Hogwarts. It shows the secret tunnels in the school and the people walking around.
Harry glanced doubtfully at the parchment, wondering if the twins had found a way to play tricks under Mrs. Weasley’s nose after all.
Now we’re giving it to you. We think you need it more than us. You tap the map with your wand and say, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” to activate it. When you’re done, tap it with your wand and say, “Mischief managed,” and the map goes away again. Try it!
Gred and Forge (we have to go, Mum’s after us for turning one of the gnomes in the back garden into a spider and trying to send it to Ron).
Harry spent some time staring at the “map,” and wondering if he wanted to trust the twins. But then he shrugged lightly, placed his broom carefully under the bed and out of the way, and tapped his wand on the parchment. “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” he whispered.
Before his dazzled eyes, lines raced across the map. Harry bent over it eagerly, watching as it became the corridors, and corners, and tunnels, and rooms of Hogwarts. In each place a person was, there was a small dot with the person’s name beside it. It was rather empty right now, but Harry could only imagine how full it would be when everyone came back from Christmas holidays.
He would have to write an enthusiastic letter to the twins, he decided. But later. For now, his eyes focused on the dot labeled Severus Snape in the dungeons, and he retrieved the broom. He was sure Snape would demand some payment, but Harry was perfectly willing to scrub some cauldrons or skin some snakes.
He needed to know about Dark Arts spells.
*
“And I have another Christmas gift for you, Draco.”
Draco looked up and arranged his face into a pleased smile. Really, he wanted to be left alone to read the book of wizarding history that his mum had got him, but one smiled when Lucius said something like this.
His father lounged in a large, comfortable chair near the fireplace in the Manor’s grandest drawing room. Draco liked the room’s arched ceilings and bluish-green carpet so thick it felt like grass, but he didn’t like the way Lucius seemed to reorient all those things so that they pointed to him. It was a subtle trick, and one that he had said Draco would need to learn in order to gain respect in the future. Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to learn it.
Lucius sipped from a glass of smoky wine and gave Draco a narrow smile in return. “I have commenced proceedings to have the beast who bit you executed.”
Draco started. Since he had been home, he had almost forgotten about the wound. There was no Pansy Parkinson to pat him on the shoulder and coo at him about it, and there was no Potter to annoy and make guilty.
Not that that last worked out too well, Draco had to admit. He thought Potter would scramble after him apologizing for the rest of term. Instead, it seemed as though Potter looked at him now and then, and felt sorry, and then dismissed him. He certainly hadn’t paid any attention to Draco in the last few days before Christmas, when he was furiously brooding on something else.
Draco had to worry that maybe the glances he’d thought were Potter’s attention weren’t. He dropped them so easily. Maybe Potter had just looked across the room sometimes, and seen Draco in the way of his eyes, and suffered little twinges of guilt. But they weren’t big enough to make him try and be friends with Draco again.
“Are you not pleased?”
Lucius’s voice had become dangerous. Draco started for a different reason and immediately looked at his father and widened his smile into the smirk that Lucius would expect of him.
“Of course, Father,” he said. “Very.” He paused a moment, to give the impression of thinking over a delicate situation, and then said, “I assume that all the objections have been dealt with, and the giant oaf won’t be able to save his pet?”
Lucius laughed. “Indeed! Otherwise, I would have presented you with this gift considerably sooner.” He waved a hand. “Oh, the idiot will try some appeals, doubtless, and so will Dumbledore. But I have studied the laws carefully. The appeals will fail in time. The beast should be executed no later than May or June.” He nodded his head and leaned forwards. “And if it is after the school year, I promise, we will make a special expedition to Hogwarts so that you may see the savage creature die.”
“I’d like that, Father, thank you.” Draco knew the words were empty when he said them, but he’d said emptier, and Lucius had never noticed.
Lucius leaned back in his chair and smirked at him in return. Then he noticed his glass was empty and tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. A house-elf appeared a moment later, pouring out more smoky wine with a subdued air.
Draco winced. He had recognized the house-elf with one glance. It seemed that the day in the library had made it impossible for him to forget Dobby.
One of the elf’s ears was missing. He had long scars up and down his shoulders and arms, and Draco shuddered; he knew house-elves could heal themselves from almost any abuse, so he wasn’t sure what had caused that. His left eye was covered with a weepy yellow film. Draco curled his lip as it dripped on the carpet.
Luckily, of all his gestures, that was the one Lucius chose to see and interpret. He smiled again and put his hand on Dobby’s head, turning him forcefully around to face Draco. Dobby whimpered, but didn’t protest his rough treatment.
“Yes, Draco,” said Lucius, shaking the elf slightly. “See the fate of those who defy me. This elf helped Harry Potter, or attempted to help him, during that small debacle last year.” He clucked his tongue. “He is sorry, aren’t you?”
“Dobby is sorry,” said the elf, but in a dull voice that carried no conviction.
Draco stared at him, and felt his stomach turn over. And he thought of his father’s offer to get the hippogriff that bit him executed, and it did the same thing.
His father was-cruel.
Oh, he’d known that before; it was one reason he was so careful about the way he reacted to Lucius. But Lucius had never touched Draco that way. He just spoke to him, words that sliced Draco apart inside. He had accepted that it was his father’s way of showing love and trying to make sure he was strong enough to go out and face the world of Mudbloods and half-bloods.
But here he was hurting creatures and animals who couldn’t fight back.
Draco felt a strained tension pulling tighter in his stomach as his father dismissed Dobby and began talking about something different, something connected with the Black inheritance Draco could possibly have through his mother. He didn’t like seeing Dobby hurt, even though he didn’t really know why.
And he felt like he had to do something about it, but he didn’t know what.
*
“What kind of Dark Arts spell do you think might be on it?” Severus asked, clinging to his patience with dozens of small, tiny hooks of self-interest. Think of what your relationship with the boy will become if you can make him trust you. Think of what he will decide when it is your instruction, and not the werewolf’s, that saves his life. As Severus had suspected, Lupin was a poor Defense teacher, giving the students instruction mostly in facing magical creatures, and not in identifying the spells and curses that could most easily hurt them.
On the other hand, perhaps he feels a kinship with those creatures he shows the students. Severus felt a small smile tugging at his lips. That was a fine piece of wit. Too bad that, due to Dumbledore’s instructions not to reveal that Lupin was a werewolf, he would not get to share it.
Perhaps he should get Filius drunk. The Charms professor was vicious when filled with alcohol, apt to appreciate any jokes that Severus wanted to make.
“A curse to break the broom in midair?” Potter offered at last.
Severus turned back to the boy in front of him. Potter had one hand resting lightly on the Firebolt where it lay on the table in Severus’s office. He seemed unwilling to let go of it for a moment. Severus felt a brief stab of regret. If he had been wise, he would have offered the boy not only advice but also gifts, to replace the ones he had lost. However, if he did it now, it would seem he was merely imitating Black, or whoever had sent this broom.
“And how would you detect such a spell?” Severus asked.
Potter straightened his shoulders and glared. “I don’t know. Someone has removed most of the books on detecting specific curses from the library.”
Severus kept his face impassive, but that was news to him, though he remembered Dumbledore doing something similar when he was a student, to “keep the children safe.” He would have to find out if that was the case again, or simply Madam Pince acting on some strange, book-protecting impulse of her own.
“I will show you a general detection spell,” Severus said. “When once cast, it must be refined with the name of the spell you wish to detect.” He drew his wand and waved it in a long, slow arc above the Firebolt. Potter watched his motions with furiously attentive eyes.
Severus restrained the impulse to chuckle. Lupin had accosted him again twice in the two weeks since Christmas, trying to demand that Severus tell the boy that the wolf had good reasons for concealing the truth from him. Apparently Potter had not been back for anything but a Patronus lesson in that time, and then he had avoided eye contact with Lupin.
Remarkably similar to your behavior during your schooldays, trying to force someone else to do your defiance and dirty work for you, Severus had told Lupin, and the wolf had left in a rage.
It was pleasant, however, not only to hurt the werewolf, but also to have a student who was as keen to learn as Potter was. Draco’s interest in Potions came from a natural talent for it; he would have tried to learn more even if it were Slughorn teaching the subject, Severus knew. He returned his attention to the spell as he slowly and clearly enunciated the syllables.
“Deprehendo ancipitis!”
The broom began to glow, a fuzzy line of blue, boiling light connecting it and the tip of Severus’s wand. Potter sucked in a breath. “Does that mean it’s cursed?” he whispered.
“No,” Severus said, teeth half-gritted as he resisted the tug of the incomplete spell. It wanted to be said, which was the main disadvantage of two-part magic; Severus had seen it destroy some competent wizards when they became distracted by an enemy and unable to finish the incantation. “Only that it awaits the spell we wish to detect. Deprehendo abrumpo!”
The line of blue light and the invisible tension building in Severus both snapped at the same time. Potter’s face cleared as the last traces of blue dissipated. “So that means that it’s not cursed?”
“It is not cursed with the particular spell that would cause it to break apart in midair,” Severus said. “There may be other Dark hexes on it. The Deprehendo spell can find only one at a time.”
Potter nodded, not even complaining about the amount of work the detection of other curses would involve, which was most unlike a Potter. Then he took up his wand. “How do I find another spell?” he asked.
“You must know the incantation of the one you wish to detect,” Severus said. “Abrumpo is that of the spell that could destroy the broom. Thus the Curse Detection Spell, though powerful, is considered rather useless by some, because it requires extensive knowledge of curses.”
Potter’s eyes shot to him. His breath caught, and for a long, cynical moment, Severus wondered if the boy would pass out on the floor. But then he shook his head and spoke with only a slight hitch in his speech. “That means I’d have to learn Dark Arts, doesn’t it?”
“Are you afraid, Potter?” Severus added the most delicate trace of a sneer to his voice. If anything would goad a Gryffindor to continue study of the Dark Arts, it was the accusation of cowardice.
And then he remembered, as he saw Potter’s eyes go hard, that this student was not entirely a Gryffindor, and he could have called himself a fool.
“I’m trying to decide if I want to have Dark Arts in my head,” Potter said. “Voldemort is there already. And-other people.” He bit his lip, as though Severus had tried to force his way into his mind through Legilimency and he’d felt it. “It contaminates people, doesn’t it?”
“The Dark Arts?” Severus overcame his surprise that he was having this particular discussion with this particular student and forced himself to speak evenly. “No more than the knowledge of other atrocities does. Do you feel lessened, or dirtied, because you know that Voldemort killed your parents? Because you know that Finnigan’s malice drove him to destroy your possessions?”
Potter looked down at the floor and said nothing for long moments. Then he muttered, “I don’t have to use it.”
“No,” Severus agreed. “Though many wizards do, because the thought of having all that power within them is too tempting.”
Potter looked up at him, blinking, and then laughed. Severus started. That was still not something he heard Potter do often.
“Why would anyone want power?” Potter asked simply.
Severus said nothing. He suspected this was one of the grounds on which the gap between Potter and himself was too wide to cross.
“All right.” Potter stood with his wand out in front of him, the way he had when he faced Draco in the Dueling Club last year. “Teach me.”
*
Harry woke up that Friday morning fed up with the prickling tension that gathered at the base of his spine. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and sometimes nodding as he made up his mind.
He’d had too many arguments lately, with everyone except Snape. There was the argument with Ron and Hermione over the Firebolt, which was only partially resolved. Hermione seemed soothed that he was getting “Lupin’s” help with detecting Dark curses on the broom, but she still wanted him not to use it for a few months. And Ron, caught awkwardly between his best friends because of the Stinging Hex Harry had used on Hermione, sometimes nodded along.
Things were still tense with Lupin. Harry thought he could forgive him now, though. So Lupin had lied to him. It was nothing more than a lot of other adults in his life had done. And Lupin was a lot nicer than the Dursleys. Harry wasn’t going to trust him, except when it came to studying the Patronus Charm, but he could forgive him.
And there was Malfoy.
Harry sucked thoughtfully at his lip. He doubted that Ron and Hermione would approve of the bargain he wanted to make with Malfoy. On the other hand, he saw no choice but to make it if he was going to save Buckbeak’s life. Lucius Malfoy had started the proceedings to get Buckbeak executed, and Harry thought Draco was the only one who could persuade his father to change his mind.
If Draco did that, then Harry was willing to be his friend.
Harry heard the sounds of the other boys moving around then, and so he got up and got ready for the day.
*
Draco was surprised to see Potter looking at him thoughtfully in Potions class that morning. Since Christmas holidays, Potter hadn’t bothered paying attention to him at all, and so Draco had taken the bandage off his arm; under it, his wound from the hippogriff was long-healed. He’d also almost given up on thoughts of what he could do to get Potter to accept him again. His irritation with himself wouldn’t let him think of anything new, and his pride asked why he had to be the one to give in. Hadn’t he already said enough when he let Potter know why he’d insulted the hippogriff?
But now Potter was looking at him.
Draco lingered outside Potions, and sure enough, Potter caught him up. The Weasel stared at Potter with small, hard eyes, but the know-it-all swept past them as if they weren’t worth her time.
“It’s all right, Ron,” Potter said calmly. His voice shook a little, but not enough that Draco thought Weasley would notice. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Weasley snorted softly, but turned away. Potter’s friends did seem a bit more eager to abandon him lately, Draco thought. He had the impression there’d been some sort of argument.
He hoped not, though, a moment later. He couldn’t stand it if Potter was just seeking him out as a second-best replacement for one set of lost friends.
“Listen, Malfoy,” Potter said, tugging them into a small alcove and casting the privacy ward that Draco had taught him last year. Draco felt a small flame of hope. Potter had remembered the spell, then, not rejected it in revulsion because it was a Slytherin who taught it to him. Maybe there was a reason to hope. “I know that your father’s planning to execute Buckbeak.”
Draco felt his spine go stiff, his face chill. At least Potter blinked.
“I have no interest in saving the wretched creature’s life,” Draco said. He knew he was at least half-lying, but Potter didn’t need to know that. Draco’s speculations about cruelty and morality since Christmas were just that, his. He turned his back and started to raise his wand to counteract the privacy ward.
“It’s not only that,” said Potter, and caught his arm. Draco looked down. Potter’s hand rested right where the hippogriff scar was. Potter saw it a moment later, and he swallowed a little, but he didn’t take his hand away. He even leaned nearer, and Draco suffered a brief moment of dizziness. He didn’t know why, but having Potter this close and paying this much attention-civil attention, even-affected him as if he were falling off a broom.
He hated the weakness, but he didn’t see that he could do anything about it. Potter had always affected him that way.
“I know you got injured because you wanted my attention,” Potter began.
“I didn’t,” Draco said automatically, and then flushed when Potter shook his head.
“I heard you say it,” Potter said. Luckily, he didn’t waste time taunting Draco about it. “Listen. I’m willing to be your friend again. It was your fault you got hurt, but knowing why you did it…” He trailed off, then took a deep breath and went on. “Listen, I’ve never had anyone try to be my friend as hard as you did. Even Ron and Hermione just sort of fell into it, and I think Ron wanted to be my friend at first because I was the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m willing to give you a chance.”
Draco eyed him skeptically, keeping the excitement rising in his stomach at bay as best he could. “And what do you want in return?”
Potter flushed this time. He looked at the floor and mumbled something.
“Well?” Draco wished he could slap Potter’s hand away and stand tall and strong, the way his father would, but he doubted Potter would understand. And besides, the thought of being like Lucius now caused a slow swirl of dread to roll around in his stomach.
“I want you to talk to your father about calling off the execution on Buckbeak,” Potter said quietly.
“So there is a price.” Draco hadn’t realized his own voice could sound so bitter.
“Yeah, there is.” Potter looked up at him almost candidly. “But I’ll still be your friend, even after that.”
Draco stood there in silence for a long time, trying to decide if he thought Potter’s offer was insulting or not. On the one hand, he really would have wanted to be wanted for himself, and not because he could do something for Potter.
On the other hand, he’d probably done too much to Potter for the other boy to just accept him now. And Potter must have waited to see some sign from Draco that he still cared about their friendship. Instead, Draco had kept on trying to guilt Potter before Christmas, even though he’d seen it didn’t work, and he hadn’t looked at him since then.
And this was a way to relieve at least part of the cruelty Draco had decided he hated so much.
“All right,” he said, and Potter’s face softened and shone in a way that made Draco embarrassed for him. Honestly, who smiled that much? “But you have to do something else for me.”
“Anything,” Potter said eagerly.
“You need to help me get up the courage and come up with a way to confront my father,” Draco said harshly. “And I’m going to need Professor Snape’s help, too, not just yours.”
Potter didn’t even hesitate, but clasped his hand.
*
“Come in, Harry.”
Harry wondered for a moment how Professor Lupin had known it was him, but then decided he probably had detection spells on his door, or maybe Harry always knocked in a particular way and Lupin had noticed. Aunt Petunia had always been able to tell when it was Harry and not Dudley moving around on the stairs or in the kitchen.
Though that’s only because Dudley is enormously fat, Harry thought, as he opened the office door, and breaks things if he even tries to get his own breakfast.
Lupin looked up and gave Harry a faint smile. There were always a few days every few weeks when he looked pale and worn. Harry sometimes wondered if he was sick, like a girl who had lived briefly on Privet Drive and had had leukemia, but he didn’t ask. He knew Lupin would only lie about it.
“Ah, Harry,” he said. “Are you here for your next lesson in the Patronus Charm? Your last one was very good. You almost managed to produce a full one.”
“Hi, Professor,” Harry said, and shut the door behind him, leaning against it. “I wanted to say that I’m used to people keeping secrets from me, so I think I can like you again.”
Lupin took a deep breath and leaned forwards, his eyes bright and intent and his nose twitching for some reason. “Do you understand the reasons I kept the secrets, Harry?” he asked yearningly. “Why I couldn’t explain to you, even though I wanted to?”
“No,” Harry said. “Because you didn’t explain the reasons, you just said they were there.” Honestly, adults are stupid. And they always want more than I want to give them. Even Snape was like that, with the way that he kept pushing Harry to come for extra time practicing the Dark Arts lessons and the way he sometimes asked “casual” questions about how Harry was doing in other classes and his life before Hogwarts. Harry thought they got along pretty well as it was. He didn’t know why Snape wanted more.
“I still can’t explain all of them,” said Lupin quietly. “Lives depend on my keeping these secrets.”
Harry nodded politely, pretending to believe that. If that was the case, Lupin never would have admitted the truth when Harry confronted him.
“But I can tell you that I wanted you to have a childhood.” Lupin looked at him with that same longing expression, which made Harry feel both pleased and a bit uncomfortable. It was the way Aunt Petunia sometimes looked at Dudley just before she exclaimed to one of her friends that “her little Dudders was growing up so fast.” “I wanted you to be an ordinary boy for a bit longer. I know you’ve done remarkable things, but you should have the chance to be normal, too. Don’t you want that?”
Harry choked, because that was one of his own innermost desires. But he didn’t see any way to make it come true. Normal children didn’t grow up in cupboards, and they didn’t defeat Dark Lords. Maybe, when he’d made Voldemort go away forever, he could be normal, but he didn’t think he could now.
But he knew the expression Lupin was using to look at him. It was the one adults always used when they thought they knew better, when they’d made some proclamation and just wanted you to agree. So Harry did. “Yes, Professor.”
“Oh, good.” Lupin stood up, came around the desk, and extended his hand. Harry shook it. “So, if you want, you can ask me questions about your parents, Harry. Just-not big ones. But I’ll be happy to tell you what Lily’s favorite food was, or what subjects James liked in school.”
Harry looked up at Lupin for long seconds in silence, the man’s hand clasped in his. Lupin looked so earnest. He had always looked like that, Harry thought, from the first day they met on the train.
And he was offering knowledge that Harry hadn’t had before. And he wanted Harry to be normal, which was nice.
But he was still lying. And he still wouldn’t always tell the truth. And he wanted Harry to be normal by pretending, which was a game Harry despised. No matter how much he pretended when he was a child that he was going to wake up tomorrow and be gone from the Dursleys’, he knew it wouldn’t come true.
And no matter how much he pretended to be a hero when he was younger, he never would have done it if he knew what the reality would be like.
So Harry could like him, and listen to him, and learn from him. But he couldn’t trust him, just the same way he couldn’t really trust Snape. Harry wouldn’t trust any adults because they wouldn’t trust him.
So it’s the same thing I decided before I came here.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now, what about the Patronus Charm?”
Lupin beamed, and went to fetch the trunk with the boggart in it. Harry drew his wand and began chanting the incantation to himself, ready to cast it the moment the boggart appeared.
And as soon as the lesson was done, he would use the map and find Ron and Hermione. He had a few apologies to make to them, too, and some things to tell them.
*
“I do not quite understand the purpose of this meeting,” Severus said, and kept his voice cold and smooth, the fold of his arms easy and forbidding rather than defensive. Heaven forbid that these…children begin to think that they could corral or work around him. “Mr. Potter, what exactly is it that you desire of Mr. Malfoy?”
Potter was the one who took a step forwards, with Draco following him, almost sheltering in his shadow. Severus did not allow his frown to form, but he was concerned. Draco could not be allowed to spend the rest of his life hiding behind someone else.
“I want him to convince his father to stop Buckbeak’s execution,” Potter said.
“And what is it that you desire of Potter, Draco?” Severus let his voice become softer when he looked at his favorite student. He knew the boy needed help at the moment, not scolding, though Severus would have liked to take him aside privately and question him as to what he hoped to gain.
“Inspiration,” Draco said flatly. “He’s fought monsters before. I need him to teach me how.” His face became a little more child-like, a little more desperate, as he looked at Severus. Severus had to approve. No matter how much the stoic, enduring look might fit Potter, it did not work for Draco. “And I need your help too, Professor. I don’t think I control my emotions very well, though my father’s tried to teach me how. I need you to show me. You’re a good actor. If I can’t fool Lucius-” He swallowed, a nervous little bob of his throat. “I don’t want to think about what will happen.”
“What will he do to you for asking if you can’t fool him?” Potter asked.
Yes, do let him know, Draco, Severus urged the boy silently as he turned to face Potter. Let him realize he is not the only one who faces danger, and that he is asking you to take a great risk for small hope of reward.
“For starters,” Draco said flatly, “he’ll abuse other people. I’ve seen him do it with the house-elves now. And I don’t want to see that anymore.” He closed his eyes and shivered. “Then he’ll write me letters. I know that might not seem like much,” he hurried on, though, so far as Severus could see, Potter’s face was intent and listening, and he had made no move to interrupt. “But the letters insult me and cut me apart. No one can hurt you like family.” His voice was inexpressibly bitter.
“Yes,” Potter said quietly, “I know. I know that.”
Severus glanced at him, eyes narrowing. He had not thought about his suspicions concerning the Muggles in some time, but now, seeing the shadows carved like axes into Potter’s face, he wondered if he should have.
“And then he’ll probably do his best to crush any ambition I have out of existence,” Draco finished. “I don’t want that. I want to be free of him. I want to control him for a change. I want to win.”
Only strict self-control kept Severus from tipping his head back and laughing aloud.
Yes, Draco! That is the way. Let me ease you out of the poisoned air that Lucius has you breathing. Let me see you use your talent for Potions in new and unexpected ways, instead of putting it aside to do the politics that you have no gift for. Let me see you free. And if I must have Potter’s help to do that, it is a price I am willing to pay.
“Very well,” Severus said, making both boys startle and turn to him. He reckoned they had almost forgotten his presence in their intense communion with one another. “I will help you. But I require something from you in turn.”
Draco nodded, as much to say, “Of course.” Potter tensed and drew himself up as if Severus were a second basilisk he had to face.
“I require you,” and Severus pointed a finger at Draco, “to study my lessons as hard as you have ever studied Potions. And I require you,” and when he pointed to Potter, the boy scowled at him, defiant as ever, “to improve your marks in Potions. You have made a beginning. Go further.”
“With you criticizing me all the time and Slytherins interrupting my potions?” Potter demanded.
“Yes,” Severus said, locking eyes with the boy and not looking away, “with all that.”
Potter puffed his cheeks out until Severus thought he might float off the ground with all the air he was holding in. Then he nodded and said, “All right. Let’s get started, then.”
*
Draco lay in bed that night shivering over and over again.
He felt as though he’d been caught in a white-water river and tumbled head over heels, slamming into rocks as he went. He was still cold and shocked, dazzled and awed.
His life had the potential to change. He could be free, he could be powerful in his own right, if he wanted to. He could be more than just Lucius’s son, or the heir to the Malfoy fortune, which his father had tried to teach him was enough.
He could be a respected Potions brewer. He could be an inventor. He could be Professor Snape’s prize student, which he had never known, until he saw the gentleness in Snape’s eyes, that he was.
He could be Harry Potter’s friend.
But in the meantime, he had a price to pay.
He would be a spy in the Malfoy household. No one had asked that of him, but of course he had to do it. If Lucius came up with another plot to hurt Potter or Potter’s friends like the diary, then Draco would have to tell him.
He would be Harry Potter’s friend back, and that would be harder than simply accepting the gifts he was offered passively.
He would be the Dark Lord’s enemy.
Chills swept up and down Draco’s body, but he took a deep breath and managed to remind himself that most of the things he was afraid of were far in the future. He had a smaller goal to deal with before then.
Carefully, he began to go over all the advice about acting, facial expression, and tone of voice that Professor Snape had given him for that evening.
*
Harry couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t unusual, given his nightmares this summer and the way he needed to keep waking up in the night and checking so that he could be sure the protective charms had held and no one had tried to burn his Firebolt or the map. But he had thought he would sleep better tonight, given the conversation with Ron and Hermione where he’d apologized and all three of them, for once, had talked about Quidditch.
He couldn’t, though, so he sat up, lit his wand, made sure the bed-curtains were drawn so his light wouldn’t disturb the other boys-though it was all Seamus deserved-and looked idly at the map. Snape was still in his office, and Harry snorted inwardly. Probably trying to create some horrible poison to work on Lupin, this time. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Lupin was right about one thing: Snape hated him. Harry didn’t think he would ever find out why, of course, because that was one of the things that no one bothered to tell him.
Dumbledore was still in the office, too. Harry watched his dot thoughtfully. He had a fit of longing, sometimes, to go to the Headmaster and ask whether what Remus said was true, and his mother had really wanted to give him to the Dursleys if Black couldn’t look after him. Why? Didn’t his mother know what Aunt Petunia was like? Or Harry wanted to ask about his parents and what they had been like.
But something had stopped him all along, and since Professor Lupin had confirmed the truth Snape told him, Harry knew what it was. Dumbledore was involved in putting him at the Dursleys. He knew about the Potters’ will. So he must have known about Sirius Black, too, and the way he’d betrayed Harry’s family.
But he’d never bothered to tell Harry. Harry couldn’t trust him, either, though he would have liked to. Dumbledore was like the grandfather he never had.
Sometimes.
Harry leaned back against the pillows and let his gaze wander at will across the map. A surprising number of people were still awake: some Slytherins probably plotting nasty things, Ravenclaws studying, and-
Harry froze. Then he sat up rapidly, breath shaking his lungs, eyes fixed on a dot just outside Gryffindor Tower as he read the name by it again and again.
Sirius Black.
He was pacing outside the entrance to the common room.
And so many emotions rushed and roared through Harry then: the anger at the betrayal of his parents, the wonder when he thought that the Firebolt might have been sent by Sirius Black, the painful longing that had sprung up when Professor Lupin admitted Black would have been his godfather and would have raised him if he hadn’t been insane.
And then he remembered a fact.
The Dark Arts spells Professor Snape had taught him.
Harry didn’t hesitate, because he thought he would decide better if he did, and he didn’t want to decide better. Instead, he cast a spell Malfoy had shown him last year to muffle his footsteps, and then he was racing down silently from the third-year boys’ bedroom, and towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.
Chapter 8.