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General Author's Note- This will be my first full-length Harry Potter fic... so cut me some slack on plot and such. Characterization has always been my strong suit, not action. I realize the way I portray Harry is a little... unique. But it's the way I've always written him, and the way my mind feels he should be down the road. For a deeper look into his state of mind, read my fic "Trauma"; it will explain it a bit more in depth than I will take the time to do in the exposition of this fic. And be forewarned, this fic will include slash. Specifically, Harry/Draco. In that order. Other pairings will include Ron/Hermione because I love them, and maybe Sirius/Remus, as I'm not as of yet sure how much of a role they'll play here. If you dont like it, tough. Go read something else. If you want to flame me, just take a look at my profile. That should explain things. For those of you left, please enjoy. ^_^
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Author's note on the title- If you're not musically inclined, it's still easy enough to explain. A Minor is a specific key that music is played in, just like B Minor or F Major, for example. The key affects what sharps or flats you play (black keys on a piano). The difference between a Major and Minor key comes in the sound- Major keys sound normal and resolved to the ear, while a Minor comes off as darker or sorrowful. Most beginner piano music is written in C Major, where you play exclusively on the white keys. This is common, run-of-the-mill. In A Minor, you still play exclusively on the white keys, but the underlying chords are different.
*waves arms* And here's the actual point of the title!
C Major is the "common" key signature. A Minor is its complete opposite, learned much later in your piano experience. Thus, the title explains that this fic itself is a movement through a darkness and sorrow it takes time to learn in your life, as in the summary. This is the opposite of the common, yet it is played exactly the same.
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Adagio



There was a deep chill in the air that morning.
The thought nagged at the back of his mind like a vague itch, like the remaining pain from the scratch on his forearm. The cold didn't bother him, not so much. It woke him up as he ran along the side of the road, in the mist of the summer morning when no one was around to see.
He had done a lot of running that summer. The burning along his calves was a familiar and calming feeling, one he knew best from clenching the broomstick with only his ankles, leaning forward to grasp for the Snitch at those long-ago Quidditch practices, Oliver's remembered voice shouting encouragement. He missed Oliver. After he graduated, things had never been the same. Quidditch was Quidditch, but he missed Oliver.
He missed those days.
He ran for hours. He got up at four every morning and came back in time to make the Dursleys breakfast. When he was younger, he never could have handled this much exertion. He had been little, small, pale and weak from living in a cupboard. Hogwarts and Quidditch had changed all that. As had puberty. He was taller than Uncle Vernon now. And strong. And fast.
And he was more out of place here than ever.
It had only been last week that Dudley had managed to coerce some girl from his school over to "tutor" him. She hadn't been a pretty girl, only a little more than plain, but she had been more than Dudley had ever gotten near him before. As the silent witness to every last one of his cousin's failed attempts at conquest of the fairer sex, he was growing expert enough to predict how long each visit would last. That one had lasted much longer than he had expected, but only because she had taken on the same shine in her eyes that Ginny had when they had first met. She'd followed him into the kitchen like a lost puppy, much to his cousins displeasure.
He'd missed three days worth of meals for that one.
She hadn't been the only girl to do so, either. Of course, that wasn't the only thing that had nettled his relatives this summer. Not one thing could ever be enough, not for them. No, there was the fact that he was in fact taller than Uncle Vernon. That he was smarter. That he was faster and stronger and undoubtedly more powerful than the man could ever hope to be. That Aunt Petunia couldnt look at him without seeing his father.
He'd heard them talking late one night, when he had snuck out of his room to get a drink. Her voice had been panicked, broken.
I only met him once, Vernon, and he was just like Lily- that same look, that same look like they were set so far apart from us- Vernon, they were monstrous! And hes just the same, hes just the same, and hes grown up to be worse! He looks just like James, James with Lily's ways, and Im so afraid-
Aunt Petunia was afraid of him. Uncle Vernon blustered and threatened because he was helpless. He was seventeen now. Vernon wasnt the only man in the house anymore. The old man couldnt intimidate him anymore.
He was an adult wizard. He was nearly graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He wasn't going to be pushed around anymore.
The pavement felt good beneath his sneakers, still and silent, the slight sheen of sweat that trickled along his nose slickening the nosepads of his glasses until the rims dug into his cheeks. One hand lifted automatically to push them back, with those fingertips made delicate by long practice, darting through the night air over and over in desperate chase of that dancing golden ball. His hands were rough and calloused, but fingers long, smooth, and nearly unmarked.
His touch drifted up to press lightly against the scar that was now a constant ache, a continual burning, one he had grown to ignore. It was that bolt of jagged flesh that had marked him, for life or for death. Years ago, he would have felt safer, knowing he was going back to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to his professors and his friends. But now the thought only twisted his stomach. He was going back.
Back to where Voldemort could find him.
Back to where Voldemort could find those he held most dear.
When he was at the Dursleys, the only one he had to protect was himself. He didn't care about them. It wasn't as though they would lose sleep over his untimely death. They would more likely celebrate the new freedom his murder would give them... that was, if Voldemort let them live.
But at Hogwarts... it was different. There... there was Ron. And Hermione. And Neville, and Seamus, and Ginny. Fred and George had graduated, so they would be safer. But all those who were left... Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall, and all the others... And Sirius, who would give his life for him in an instant. And Remus Lupin. Even Snape.
Not even Draco Malfoy would survive.
That thought brought a surge of bitterness to his throat, and he increased his pace, gritting his teeth as he forced his calves to pump faster. Not even Malfoy. Not even the haughty son of the most loathsome Death Eater in existence would survive this. Because the moment he tripped up his beloved father's plans, Lucius would be the first to end his wretched life. And Malfoy had to know it. If he didn't, he was a fool.
Malfoy was many things. Odious. Arrogant. Conceited. Cowardly. But stupid he wasn't. Draco Malfoy was no fool.
And maybe that was why he didn't understand Malfoy. All his life, he had fought to live. It was all he had left, his life. His own life, and that of his friends. But for Malfoy to know he was nothing but a pawn to his own family, that his only "friends" were the sons of his fathers "colleagues"...
Harry had been raised with death.
Malfoy had been raised with murder.
The sun was peeping through the low bank of clouds just as Harry jogged into the Dursleyss driveway. He stopped in front of the door, stretching quickly. Once he had worked through his cool-down drills, he pulled the front door open, stripping his t-shirt off and heading for the downstairs bathroom to take a quick shower. The complaints would be horrendous if he smelled like sweat when making breakfast... the idea of "exercise" was anathema in the Dursley house, after all.
The shower was quick to heat up, and Harry stripped the rest of his workout clothes off, peeling them gingerly off his sweaty skin and dropping them carelessly on the tile floor. He caught a quick glance of himself in Aunt Petunias ornamented mirror, then sighed.
He wasn't that same little boy who had left this place all those years ago.
The glasses that had seemed owlish and oversized then were the size of fashionable sunglasses against his eyes, the eyes that were darker and haunted with anger and fear. They'd been bright and innocent once. Before they had seen death. Before they had been forced to grow up.
The scar was still as prominent as it ever had been. Damaged tissue grew with age, but unlike a regular cut, this one would never fade, never heal. It would always be there, reminding him that his mother had died so that he could live. It would always be there to remind him why he had to go on living.
He couldn't let that sacrifice be in vain.
His face was thinner now, his hair longer. Not much longer, but long enough to flip when he moved his head too sharply. And just as unruly as always, no matter how many times a day he took a comb to it. His shoulders were broader. His arms were muscled. His chest was more defined. His legs were long and trim. He wasn't a little boy anymore.
He had never been a little boy, not in mind. He had been naive, yes. A little dense. But never had he been innocent. And never would he be. But as his body had matured, so had his outlook. He'd never been a baby, but he was older now than he had ever been.
Harry pulled his glasses off and set them on the edge of the sink, arching one leg over the wall of the tub and stepping gingerly in. The fall of water assaulted him immediately, and he winced, letting himself adjust to the heat for a few seconds before looking for soap. Aunt Petunia would complain if she noticed, but things like that didn't matter to him this late in the summer. The Weasleys hadn't been able to take him for half the summer like last year... and he was both grateful for and annoyed by that. On one hand, it was more time at the Dursleys. On the other, though, it was more time the Weasleys were safe from his presence. And he would suffer any indignity for them. For the Weasleys, for the Grangers, for Hagrid, for Sirius.
Anyone outside of them was out of luck, as far as he was concerned. Those were the people who had cared for him, who had sacrificed for him, who would give anything for him. He owed nothing to anyone else.
Harry sighed, the hot water pouring along the contours of his back, puddling around his feet. He was off to Diagon Alley tomorrow, thank whatever God there was. It brought him closer to those he wanted to protect... but it also took him somewhere he was welcome. Somewhere he didnt feel like a leper. Like a burden.
He wanted to be back with Ron and Hermione, to watch Ron blushing like a tomato every time she said something nice, to watch her struggling to hide her developing feelings. He wanted to be back in Transfiguration class, trying desperately to comprehend the latest spell tweak. He wouldnt even mind listening to Snape pick at him for hours upon end. He wanted to tease Neville. He wanted to sneak around in his Invisibility Cloak. He wanted to be eleven again. God, how he wanted to be eleven again. He wanted to shout insults at Malfoy and snipe at him during class and maybe get up the nerve to shove him in the hallway. He just wanted to be safe at Hogwarts again.
He just wanted to-
Suddenly, white-hot pain exploded between his eyes, burning through the bridge of his nose, stabbing through his forehead and digging deep into his brain-
And all fell to Hell.