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It is a great surprise when Albus receives Sirius' Patronus.
Sirius has been off tracking down the Death Eaters that have been particularly active in Muggle London, mostly those like Bellatrix Lestrange and Walden Macnair. It makes Albus nervous to have all of his Order members out of the protection of Headquarters or the school. But he knows he cannot have a tight rein on them just to keep them safe. For one, they would rebel. And a large majority of them work best when they are able to decide for themselves.
The war has not been treating them kindly. There have been many casualties during the small battles when the Death Eaters – and sometimes, Voldemort himself – chose to make their move. Albus does not know what Voldemort is doing when he is not attacking Muggles or the Order, but he can only imagine the worst-case scenario. How could he not when he knows that Voldemort is looking for Harry just as surely as Albus is? And Tom has always been one to overachieve, to see how far things can go. But he does not comprehend the dangers that magic can represent as well.
Albus is alone in his study with Fawkes, and he swipes a finger down the red and gold plumage of the bird. It is then when Sirius' gargantuan dog bursts through the castle wall and illuminates the office with a silver pulse of light.
Albus lowers his hand and approaches the dog with bated breath, hoping it is only good news that comes to him. The dog opens its muzzle, and speaks with Sirius' voice.
"I've found Harry, but come quickly – my dear cousin is here as well."
The dog gives one last bark and dissipates, small silver sparks drifting down to fall on the carpeted office floor.
Albus straightens, hardly daring to believe what he has heard. It has been nineteen years since he has last seen the boy. Having this dangled in his face, proof that Harry is safe these years past, and after it has been so long – Albus feels as if his lost hope has been restored. And Sirius, on patrol in a Muggle sector, has succeeded at last.
As soon as he is able, he is sending his own Patronus to the Headquarters in a request for whatever Order members are there to join them. He is then Flooing to the Three Broomsticks so he can Apparate to Sirius, and hopefully, Harry.
.::.::.
Sirius cannot believe his eyes. He'd grown so used to being disappointed that having one of the rumours holding true is surreal.
It is like he has gone back in time to when James Potter was an adult, only the woman on his arm is not Lily. And there are subtle differences between this James Potter, and the James that Sirius knew when they were growing up.
For example, this James has a different smile, and he is a little shorter than Sirius remembers. His features are a little softer, but still chiselled enough to give him that slight edge that made him popular with the ladies. And lastly, this James has green eyes, their vibrancy unhindered by spectacles, and overflowing with life and love and experiences Sirius can only imagine. It is this last detail Sirius notices that tells him he is not looking into the past. That this is the son of James and Lily Potter.
Harry.
Sirius hardly notices that Harry is walking hand in hand with a woman; his eyes are only on the godson he thought he had lost. He walks a short distance behind them in his Animagus form, trotting down the street after them. He thinks Harry has seen him out of the corner of his eye, and he catches sight of that smile once more. It is warm and friendly, and it makes Sirius think that even though he has never spoken to Harry, he knows him so well that it hardly matters.
It is when Harry and his friend round the corner that things take a drastic turn. There is a scream and a cackle that makes Sirius growl and revert to his human form, whipping out his wand as he runs after the pair.
He is just in time to see Bellatrix begin firing off curses at random, and Harry shoving the girl into an alley. She stumbles as she is pushed, catching herself on the wall of a nearby building. Bella's next spell almost catches Harry on the ear, and in Sirius' imagination, he can smell the singed strands. The pole that Harry is carrying drops to the ground with a clatter, the plastic singing against the stone of the walkway.
"Stupefy!" Sirius roars, the jet of red light leaving his wand like a phoenix bursting into flame. Harry throws himself to the side just in time, but the spell misses Bellatrix as well. She laughs once she sees him.
"Oh, this is just perfect!" she coos. She sounds as if she wants to dance on tiptoe. "I can kill my dear cousin and capture Harry Potter for the Dark Lord at the same time!"
"You're not getting anyone!" Sirius snarls, and throws another hex her way. She dances away, her black robes swirling about her ankles and her hair whipping around her shoulders. Her maniacal eyes light upon Harry, sprawled on the ground. He is wearing a twisted expression, like he has never seen anything like her.
It is at this point when their suspicions are solidified about Harry's lack of magical training. It's not as if the Dursleys would ever allow him to learn such a thing; they would not be about to let Harry know about his magical background, let alone learn it. Sirius' heartbeat quickens, his breath short as he sends off a quick plea for help to Albus. He cannot hope to protect both Harry and the girl, not alone, and not when he is faced with Bella.
Bella takes advantage of Sirius' distraction, choosing to fire off spell after curse at Harry, and he tries to get out of their path as best he can. Bella is obviously getting frustrated, and that is when she sees that the girl is slowly making her way out of the protection of the alley. She throws an evil smile in Harry's direction and says, "Say goodbye, Potter."
Sirius' wand is just as fast as Bella's, and he has a shield in place in front of the girl before Bella's hex has even left her wand. The girl squeaks, and ignores Harry's warnings to stay away. She shakes her head adamantly, and despite her looks, Sirius is reminded of Lily as she runs over to where Harry is beginning to get back to his feet.
Sirius tries to keep Bellatrix focused on him, though he is not doing a very good job. Bella is just as crafty as he remembers, firing spells off at random at Harry as the girl tries to tug him away. Harry shields her with his body, and Sirius can't quite make out what he is saying to her.
Sirius spins to evade a jet of light, his eyes taken off the pair for only a moment. But it is that moment that changes everything.
Sirius is just in time to see the arrival of another Death Eater behind Bella. His stomach lurches and he is now frantic. The feeling grows worse when Bella fires off a curse at the couple, on the heels of the one she had just previously sent to Sirius. It is a sickly green colour, and Sirius is just in time to see it fly through the air. He knows whatever he does now would be too late. The Unforgivable is set to hit Harry in the chest.
It is at the last moment when the girl is able to get in front of Harry, as she has been trying to do from the beginning. The spell strikes her just above her breast, and she goes slack abruptly, falling to the ground like a bird shot out of the air. Harry cries out, catching her just before she touches the ground. There is the sound of Apparition, just barely heard over Bella's cry of victory. Sirius doesn't turn, but he prays that it is Albus, or other members of the Order.
Before Sirius is able to do more than raise his wand at Bella, Harry is already glaring at her. This only seems to intensify her pleasure, and the smile she gives back to him is almost sweet.
The air swirls about Harry, and Sirius can almost taste the magic in the air. Even though Harry has not been trained, he is still capable of using accidental magic, particularly when his emotions run high. Seeing the girl die before him, saving his life, is enough to ensure that Harry is about to lose control over the magic that he holds.
Harry shouts something, but Sirius does not see any jet of light head from him to Bella. Instead, he feels as if there is a string of pressure that joins the two. Bella raises her wand, her eyes narrowed as she begins to erect a shield. But it does no good. Her wand snaps before it is even at chest height, breaking apart so cleanly that all that is left is powder.
Her face goes white with rage, but the Death Eater behind her grasps at her shoulder as more cracks ring through the air. Sirius can see the arrival of Remus, and he notices that Remus' eyes alight immediately on Harry where he is seated on the ground and clutching at the girl's body.
Sirius is too late in trying to capture Bella and the other Death Eater as they clear out abruptly. He gives a small snarl before turning his entire being to his godson, looking so lost and broken on the ground.
He is the first to reach them, crouching down before Harry. "Harry," he says. Despite meeting again for the first time since Harry was too young to remember, Sirius is giddy. He wants to hold Harry, wipe away that stray tear that has just made itself known on the boy's cheek. But, Sirius figures, Harry must be about twenty now. He is no longer a boy.
Harry looks at him, his green eyes bright. They hold the sadness that Sirius knows must be there, but also a deep anger at the maniacal woman who had attacked them. "You were the dog," Harry says to him, his voice soft.
Sirius places his hand softly on Harry's where it is clutching tightly at the girl's shoulder. "Yes, I was," Sirius tells him. "My name is Sirius."
He can see the corner of Harry's mouth twitch. "The dog star." It is this that gives the insight to Harry's character. Sirius knows now that Harry has a sense of humour, despite dark times and in death.
It is not long until the rest of the Order joins them. Albus is the first to reach them, his long robes dragging on the ground as he kneels beside Sirius and in front of Harry. Harry looks over at him, then over their shoulders where there are more people, probably all staring at him slack-jawed. Remus hovers nearby, just behind Sirius. Harry's grip tightens around the girl's body, and his face closes down.
It's almost as if Sirius' heart does the same when he sees it.
"Harry," Albus says. "May I call you that?"
Harry looks back at him. "I suppose," he hedges. "But I don't know who you are, or how you know me."
Albus smiles a sad, kind smile and introduces himself. He looks down at the girl that Harry is still holding close to his chest. "I am sorry," Albus says, and when he looks back at Harry, it is reflected in his eyes. "I take it she was a very close friend?"
Harry examines him for a while, before nodding slowly. "You – you could say that." His voice is hollow, and it makes Sirius' heart ache to hear it.
Sirius stands to give Harry some room, and turning, he sees that only a few people have come. That's good; the smaller the number of people here, the better. Sirius considers it great luck that it is late enough that there are no stray Muggles about the empty lane.
Sirius shares a relieved look with Remus; they were particularly worried about Harry, having been close friends with James. They felt as if it were a betrayal to James when they had lost contact with Harry. Also standing awkwardly nearby are Bill Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and hovering near the back, Draco Malfoy.
He can hear Albus talking to Harry in quiet tones behind him, reassuring him and explaining things. Harry begins to sound a little frantic, his voice rising as he begins to panic. "I don't know anything, and I don't know what is going on!" Sirius doesn't think he can face Harry anymore without breaking down with him. To meet again under these circumstances is very trying.
"Harry," Albus says smoothly, and it is the tone of voice that makes Sirius angry enough to want to punch something. It is clear to Sirius that Harry wants to be left alone right now, sounding as tortured as he does. Clearly, he wants the time to himself to grieve, not to be coddled by strange men and be gaped at like he is now. Sirius glares at Malfoy as he cranes his neck. Malfoy catches sight of his snarl, and he sneers back. But he does come down from the tips of his toes and shuffles off to the side so his view of Harry is blocked by Bill.
Albus continues, and Sirius is happy with what he proposes, though a little disgruntled. "Perhaps it would be best for you to head to your place of residence? There is no doubt that you are in great need of time for yourself, after such a traumatic event. Familiar surroundings will do you some good, I think. I do not think that anything explained to you now will help. If you like, we can take care of everything here." Sirius keeps his eyes focused on the headmaster as he bows his head. "What was her name?"
"Maria," Harry chokes out. "Maria Houst."
Albus murmurs his condolences, and removes her body from Harry. Harry's grip is broken, and he looks as if his heart is being taken away from him as well. He swallows before raising his eyes, darting a quick look over to where Sirius is standing awkwardly with Remus.
The street is in bad condition, strewn with debris from spellfire and rubble. Sirius kicks at a small rock that had been broken loose of its place from the cobbled street before he waves his wand and sends it back to where it belongs. The others begin to make the street and its neighbouring buildings look like new, or as close to. Sirius is still able to hear Albus though.
"I'd like to take the time to explain everything to you, Harry. There is much for you to know, but it has waited this long – one or two days more will make little difference." He lays the body down gently, smoothing a hand over the girl's hair where it rests against the stone. Harry watches the hand closely, before he accepts the headmaster's hand to stand, though he looks a little hesitant. His legs are trembling, and the poor boy looks like a drenched dog.
All the happiness Sirius felt over finally finding Harry has long since evaporated, leaving him feeling worn and weary. Harry shuffles off down the street with Albus' reassurances that everything will be handled, and that Harry will be kept safe; he will not be attacked any more. Harry darts a last look down to the ground where the girl – Maria – lays, before he turns the corner.
Then he is gone.
"Draco," Albus says, turning abruptly. The blond boy straightens from his hunched position over a rubbish bin and looks over at Albus. "I want you to follow Harry, make sure he gets home safe, and stay there to make sure Voldemort does not find him."
Malfoy scowls. "Why am I charged with babysitting?" he whines.
Sirius snarls at him. "If you don't want to do it, there are some of us who will!" He gestures to himself and Remus, who is contemplating the girl on the ground sadly. Malfoy grumbles, but stalks off down the street in the same direction as Harry without another word. Sirius suspects that Malfoy is only doing so for the theatrics. Though he was quiet about it, Sirius knows – through a very reliable source – that Malfoy has always harboured a quiet obsession for the mysterious Harry Potter.
"Why send him away, Albus?" Remus asks.
"I believe he needs a small bit of normalcy before things begin to turn completely around. Help him take it all in slowly and give him time to adjust."
Albus sighs. He waves his wand and Summons the pole that had been dropped before. It is white with a red tip, and a small strap dangles at the other end. Sirius vaguely remembers it from before. Albus casts a last look downwards and sighs sadly. "She must have been blind," he says.
Sirius turns away from the death, preferring to let Albus handle it and refer it to the Muggle police.
.::.::.
Draco is only furious at being told to do something. He knows that everyone else knows that the mystery surrounding the Boy Who Lived has always fascinated him, that he has always wanted to get a chance to talk to him. After all, his father was a Death Eater, Draco thinks sourly. Who knows how much Lucius could have done to Potter or his family? He wants to have the chance to make it up to him, repair any damage his father had done, not only in the eye of the public, but also in Harry Potter's eyes should he find that Lucius did have something to do with his parents' murder.
He can see Potter's back as he follows behind him. There is a slump to it, making him look sad and dejected, which, Draco figures, is true if he considers how Potter reacted to the girl's death. Sad, to lose a loved one like that so abruptly.
He follows Potter to a large building that has several lights shining down to the street from its many windows. He sneaks inside after Potter, catching the glass front door before it latches, and is just in time to see Potter get inside the shiny metal box as the doors close. Draco watches the numbers as they rise, watches them until they stop on the number seven. Fitting, Draco thinks. A wizard living in a Muggle apartment building on the seventh floor. Everyone knows that seven is one of the most powerful magical numbers.
Draco heads back outside and reaches into his pocket. He has taken to carrying a shrunken version of a broom around with him. He's not about to shrink his actual broom – it would ruin the spells placed on it – so the investment in one that he can easily shrink is a good idea on his part. He's not about to go around on missions for the Order without an additional means of escape. He learned that the hard way.
Draco ducks into the shadowed park to the left of the building and enlarges the broom. He straddles it, thankful that the sun has already fallen, and casts a Disillusionment charm over himself and the broom, just in case.
The broom is slightly unsteady as it rises into the air. It always is when Draco first takes it out, and neither is it the fastest of brooms. But it does its job well enough. Draco counts the windows as he rises into the air, stopping when he reaches the seventh floor. He circles the building until he spots Potter moving slowly though his apartment. Draco's grip around the handle tightens as he guides his broom slowly over to the window, alighting softly on the balcony.
He watches as Potter throws his jacket down on the couch, before it slips off and lands on the floor in a heap. While he watches the garment crumple up on the floor, Draco notices that it is looking a little grubby. There is a small tear in the shoulder, and the hem is stained from where Potter had obviously been rolling around on the ground. It looks old and worn, and once Draco takes a good look around the rest of Potter's place from his vantage on the balcony, he notices that it fits right in.
The place is pretty sparse. Aside from the couch, there is a lone barstool in front of a counter. Draco can just see the edge of a bed from beside the balcony window, and a desk sits in the far corner of the room, littered with crumpled bits of paper and Muggle writing devices. Sitting in the middle of the desk, partially covered by the debris, sits a book that must have been quite thin at one point. It now looks as if it is fit to burst, small bits of paper sticking out at every corner. The only thing keeping it closed is a mug that Potter must have placed on it. Draco snorts.
Other than that, the place looks empty. There is nothing on the floor except for the lone jacket that Potter has just ripped off. There is no telly that Muggles seem so obsessed with, no radio or any of those other box-like things Muggles enjoy. There is the couch, bed and desk, all shoved against the walls and leaving the middle of the room clear.
Draco leans against the rail of the balcony and pulls out his wand to shrink his broom. He tucks it away carefully, making sure none of the bristles get caught on his robes. Even if it's a cheap broom, it does well to take care of it.
Being given the duty of watching someone is quite boring. Draco heaves a quiet sigh after discovering that all Potter looks inclined to do is sit on his bed with his head in his hands. And all right, Draco can give him the excuse of what a traumatic experience it is to have what must have been a very close friend or girlfriend die in front of him. And just the sight of the man before him as he sits on the bed is enough to make Draco's heart ache. It's almost as if he can feel the guilt that Potter is piling on himself.
He has no idea how long Potter sits there. Draco has long since started to examine the sky, looking up at the constellations as they appear in the night. He mumbles their names under his breath; Centaurus, the Centaur; Hydra, the water snake; Pyxis, the compass. It's something he's done since childhood, ever since his father took him out on a clear night long ago and said, See, Draco, that one there? That'syourstar.
Draco had liked that feeling, owning a cluster of stars so that when people looked up at the night sky, they would think of him. And even now, when Draco is older and knows that it is just what he's named after, it still sends a little thrill down his spine. There is meaning behind his name.
Draco turns back just in time to see Potter pull the covers of the bed back and climb in between them. Draco can't see his face, but he watches as Potter falls into a fitful slumber.
Draco is just able to make out the dim outline of Potter's face, aided by the Muggle street lights below and the full moon at his back. He is struck by the memories and the fantasies he had as a boy at the prospect of being able to meet Potter. He had always harboured a fascination with the legend of The Boy Who Lived and He Who Must Not Be Named, even though his father never particularly liked to tell it.
They come back to him now, as he watches Potter sleep. He tries to imagine what Potter would have looked like younger, his face less chiseled and a little softer, rounder. He tries to imagine what it would have been like if they had met on the train to Hogwarts, shared a compartment, maybe. Or perhaps they had met in Diagon Alley first, and Draco was able to show him all the spectacular shops. Maybe – maybe – they could have been Sorted into the same house, shared a dormitory even.
Draco's thoughts are broken when Potter shoots out of bed. He looks as if his heart is racing, his breath coming in short bursts. Draco shifts so that he is partially hidden from view, forgetting that he has already been Disillusioned. He watches as Potter sits back down onto the bed with a thump, his head going straight back into his hands, and Draco has to fight off a sigh at the repetitiveness of it all. He most likely had a dream about his girl.
It's not long before Potter is standing up, wobbling slightly, and making his way across the room to the desk. He grasps the back of the chair there, pulls it out and plops down onto it. The cup is removed, and it appears as if the journal grows three sizes. Idly, Draco wonders what Potter has stored in there.
Potter allows the journal to open up to where it will, then flips through it. He looks as if he is concentrating very hard, and Draco can't help but wonder why he doesn't bother to light a candle, or, knowing Muggles, switch on the lamp.
But after a while, Potter finds a writing tool among the debris scattered about the desk and begins to write. Draco imagines along with him, trying to envision what it is that Potter wants to record.
He doesn't write for very long, pushing away from the desk abruptly, the book still spread open before him. He stands, still somewhat unsteady, and crosses the room to where the barstool is placed. He sits and holds up his hand, the palm towards the desk. Draco can just barely make out the shadow of a small object flying through the air towards Potter, landing in the middle of his hand.
Draco's curiosity quickly turns to outrage. Obviously, Potter has been trained in magic to be able to Summon something. They've got it all wrong; Potter apparently wasn't left in the Muggle world, ignorant. He must have a wand hidden up his sleeve or something, been trained well before. And to think that they had been worrying over not being able to find Potter, at leaving him defenseless and open to attack from the Death Eaters, when all along Potter has been leaving them to fend for themselves.
Draco's irritation grows. He watches as Potter throws a ball into the air, catching it smoothly despite the darkness that engulfs the room, barely lit by the moon and city lights. As soon as it has made contact with his palm, it is off again, being hurled across the room and bouncing off the opposite wall. It sails back to Potter, but just before it touches his palm, Potter erects a shield, making the ball bounce once more and heading back to the wall. And again, just before the ball makes contact, it is once more changing direction abruptly as it reflects off another shield, sailing back through the air to smack into Potter's hand.
Potter goes through this process, ball to wall to shield to shield and back to palm. As Draco watches, he grows more and more furious. Potter is obviously strong with magic, his reflexes are quick… and this is all he's been doing with it? Throwing objects around at walls while there has been a war going on?
Draco is startled out of his increasing ire when the ball changes direction abruptly, smacking into the glass pane of the window. Draco is prevented from jumping back by the rail, and his hands go out to either side to steady himself. He glances over to where he has a white knuckled grip on it; he's still Disillusioned. There's no way Potter could've seen him.
But sure enough, Potter is standing from his seat and making his way towards the balcony. Draco debates retrieving his broom from his pocket and hovering before the balcony, but Potter is already unlatching and sliding the door open.
"You've been there for a while now, you must be freezing," Potter says, seemingly to no one, but Draco knows it's him Potter is talking to. He remains quiet though, until Potter steps back and gestures for him to enter. Draco scowls and removes the spell.
Potter smiles softly at him, somewhat sleepily as Draco steps over the threshold and into his tiny flat. Potter slides the door shut behind him, locking it with a deft movement of his finger. "What's your name?" Potter asks.
Draco is still a little off kilter, so he answers without thinking. "Draco," he says. "Draco Malfoy."
He flushes once he's realised what he's provided so readily, strides off across the room and makes up for his slip by demanding, "How'd you see me?"
Potter is still smiling softly at him, and his response catches Draco off guard. "I saw your magic."
Draco stops halfway across the room. He turns to Potter and raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Potter brushes past him and Draco stares at his back. "Your magic." He turns once he's reached the stool again, jumping up to sit on the surface. He swivels to face Draco, then waves absentmindedly at the couch, clearly offering Draco a spot to sit. Draco arches an eyebrow, but sits on the couch nonetheless. He clasps his hands together and rests them on his knees, his grey eyes searching Potter's.
"What do you mean by that?" he asks, slightly suspiciously.
Potter frowns, and looks off to the side. "It's… difficult to explain. No one really knows about it either, other than M–" he breaks off abruptly and clears his throat. Draco has a feeling he knows what Potter had been about to say, and he feels his stomach twist.
"Anyways," Potter continues, his voice only slightly unsteady. "I can see your magic. It's different for everyone, people and animals alike."
Draco frowns and leans back in his seat, leaning into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. "What's it look like, then?"
Potter cocks his head and looks at Draco for a moment. "Quite bright," he says. "Pure."
Draco flushes a little, sitting stiffly on the couch and trying to not look uncomfortable. If there's one thing he's not, it's pure. "You mean you see this 'magic' in Muggles too? Are you sure you're not just seeing a life force or something?" he demands, overwhelmingly curious.
Potter shakes his head, his black hair falling into his eyes. He brushes it away with a finger and says, "No, it's magic. It's stronger in wizards and witches, but even Muggles have it to a small degree. They just don't have enough of it for it to make itself known. Animals too, but theirs is more diluted, darker maybe. It's a different kind of magic, wild. Magical items, wherever there has been large amounts of it concentrated in an area, spells, illusions – all those things."
Draco frowns, thinking. "How is it you can see all this?" he asks slowly.
Potter gives a small, sad smile. "I'm blind."
Draco stares at him, gaping, before asking quietly, "What?"
"Blind," Potter says, rising a hand to brush it over his eyes. "At least, I don't have normal vision, or the same as what you have. All I see is the magic, and most times, that's enough. It allows me to see the people, animals, and certain objects, but I can't see the everyday things, objects that haven't come into contact with magic or imbibed it."
"So how is it you can make your way around here so well?" Draco gestures over to the desk. "Write and all that?"
"Everything here holds a small amount of my own magic," Potter says. He Summons the ball from where it still rests on the floor and walks over to hand it to Draco. "Here. Close your eyes and feel it."
When Potter places the ball into Draco's hand, Draco allows his fingers to curl up and around, encasing the small object in his fist. He closes his eyes and concentrates, trying to find that inner focus. It's not long after when he feels that spark, the warmth that seems to emanate from the ball itself, the call of magic. Draco's eyes shoot open and locate Potter, sitting next to him and staring proudly at the small portion of the ball that peeks from between Draco's fingers.
"How did you manage that?" Draco asks as he hands the ball back over.
Potter gives a careless shrug. He takes the ball, throws it once into the air, then tosses it over to the cluttered desk.
Draco purses his lips and decides to go another route. "What did you mean by magic is different for everyone?"
Potter gives a faint smile. "You know how no two people look exactly the same? They all have different personalities and mannerisms? Magic is like that too. It depends on how a person wields it, what they choose to do or not to do with it, and the person themselves. For example, your magic is quite bright. It shimmers around and within you, whereas the magic of the–" he pauses to swallow, his expression darkening, "–the woman's was quite dark – twisted – like serpents. It was dark purple, like a miasma." Draco has no question over who the 'woman' is. He looks away, preferring to study the shadowed wall across from him.
Potter continues in a falsely cheery voice. "To a degree, magic is reflective as well. Depending on what mood the person is in, any sort of afflictions – it all has some sort of effect on their magic. It's this that allows me to better separate people, allows me to notice their moods or expressions, by examining the melody of colours that surround them."
"And the animals?" Draco asks, overcome by curiosity. The things Potter is talking about draw him in, the way he talks about it, as if magic has been a dear friend for so long, a comfort in hard times.
"Well, an animal's magic differs greatly from a human's. Obviously they don't have quite the control we do, or they just use it differently. Instincts, for example, are a way they channel it or use it. I think that because they're using it in a different way, it gives it a different appearance too. The base colour is more of an earthy tone."
Draco mulls this over, trying to make sense of it all. "How did you get to be blind?"
Potter responds to this question with one of his own, "Does it matter?" and a shrug as he looks off to the side. "How does anything happen, really?" But Draco thinks there is more to it than that. He feels as if Potter is hiding something, but he knows now is not the time to ask invasive questions. Quite frankly, he's surprised that Potter has told him this much.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he finds himself asking, and tacks on, "How do you know this?"
Potter is silent for a moment, before saying, "It's a distraction. Takes my mind off things. Sometimes it feels good to explain things, especially to someone who can relate a little bit better than anyone else, you know? And I've had a while to examine it, learn things my own way. My family wasn't particularly happy about anything I did, so I kept it quiet."
Potter walks over to the bed and sinks down onto it with a weary sigh. Draco remains sitting on the couch, wondering what he should do now and trying to digest everything. He looks down at his hands, clasped together between his knees.
Potter breaks the silence by asking, "He sent you to watch me, didn't he?" Draco thinks he sounds a little disgruntled.
Draco nods, gives himself a mental slap, and responds verbally, "Yes. For your protection."
Potter raises an eyebrow at him. "You know, just because I don't see things the same way you do doesn't mean that I can't still notice other things. You don't have to limit yourself to only responding verbally. It's possible for me to see you gesture, or nod or shake your head, by examining your magic and how it changes. I told you that."
Draco flushes and looks away again.
"I understand if it has an impact on how you see me," Potter says softly, and Draco can tell there's a hint of sadness there too.
"No," Draco says hurriedly. "It shouldn't." To demonstrate this, he gives Potter a brilliant smile. Potter returns it, but it looks a little shaky to Draco.
There's an awkward silence after that for a few moments, before Draco has enough nerve to say, "You should get back to sleep. You didn't get much of it before."
Potter nods and moves back in the bed, swinging his legs over and settling the covers around his hips. He looks over to where Draco is beginning to stand from his place on the couch. "You might as well stay here, right? If you're supposed to be keeping watch, and all. It's quite cold outside; you don't want to stay out there for too long."
Draco hovers uncertainly before the couch. He looks Potter over nervously. "Are you–"
Potter nods towards the couch and says, "Take a kip on the couch, or feel free to transform it into something else. I'm not about to disappear overnight."
Draco wants to say that it is very possible for that to happen, at least once the Death Eaters become aware of his exact whereabouts. They know the general area. They'll think he's vulnerable, and will be able to track him down much easier now.
Draco settles down on the couch, unwilling to Transfigure it into something else for the moment. He's slept on worse things before, and Potter's couch is quite comfortable. He listens as Potter's breathing begins to even out and tries to match his own to it.
Just before Draco drifts off into a light slumber, he has the stray thought that this is probably the closest he'll get to his fantasy of sharing a dormitory with Potter. And perhaps the rest of them are not so far out of reach.
.::.::.
Draco awakens as the first rays of light begin to stretch across Potter's floor. It's far earlier than Draco would care to admit, but his eyes snap open all the same, the rest of him staying still as he listens for any sound out of place. There is only the deep breathing that belongs to Potter from across the room. Draco shifts just enough to notice that Potter has had a troubled sleep. His pillow rests on the floor and the sheets are tangled about his feet. While he has tossed and turned, his shirt has ridden up a small amount, and Draco is just able to make out a line of tanned skin. He swallows, but cannot look away.
Draco takes this time to stare at Potter unabashed. His eyes travel upwards, across the smooth expanse of his stomach and chest, pausing briefly to watch it rise and fall with every breath Potter takes. His eyes trace over the column of Potter's throat, then skip over to the strong line of his jaw. There is a faint shadow of stubble there, and Draco's fingers twitch with the desire to touch. Potter's lips are slightly parted, his brows dark, and his eyelids flutter slightly as he dreams. His fringe falls softly against his forehead, long enough to cover the livid line of his scar. Draco stares avidly at this for a moment, wondering about the nature of it. He knows that cursed scars – such as the one Potter has – carry a certain power of their own.
Potter shifts on the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching on the coverlet and his legs tangle themselves further in the twisted confines of the sheet. Draco sits up, intending to rouse Potter for an early morning start, when Potter gives a sharp cry. Draco is at his side faster than he can blink, stretching out a hand to shake him awake.
Potter's eyes snap open, and he looks frantically at Draco before he is scrambling away across the other side of the bed and pressing himself to the wall. Draco retracts his hand slowly, wondering what it was that brought out that reaction.
After a moment, Potter rakes a hand through his hair, then presses it to his chest as if to tell his heart to slow. He looks critically at Draco, then takes in the rest of the room with a quick glance. "We have to leave," Potter says, fighting to untangle himself from the sheet.
Draco stands, perplexed, and watches as Potter moves towards a closet and wrenches it open. "Why?" he asks.
"I should have a rucksack around here somewhere; get it for me, will you?" Potter says, throwing shirt after trousers down on the floor. "We have to leave because they'll be here soon."
Draco scans the sparse apartment to locate the sack. Once he finds it hidden in the hollow of the desk, he begins to stuff it full of the clothes Potter has littered about the floor. "Who will be here soon? And how do you know?"
Potter shakes his head. "I don't know, exactly. I just know that they're not anyone we want to meet anytime soon."
Draco's stomach plummets. He had hoped they would have more time before they were found. Potter dresses hurriedly, and Draco looks away, busying himself with waving his wand over the sack, performing lightening and shrinking charms in order to make sure everything fits.
"Thanks," Potter says, and gently takes the bag from him. Draco hands it over and, at a loss for what to do, waves his wand over himself to remove the wrinkles from his clothes, and a cleaning charm for his teeth. He watches as Potter fills the bag with some odds and ends that rest on the desk; the odd Muggle writing implement and scraps of paper. Draco's attention is captured by the thick book Potter has now bound with an elastic, and it slips in next to the rest of Potter's possessions.
"What's in there?" he asks.
Potter zips the bag closed and turns to him as he lifts it over his shoulder. He collects his jacket from where it still rests on the floor and gives it a shake. "Not now," he says. Draco frowns at the jacket and throws a few well placed spells at it. Potter nods his thanks and slings it over his arm before heading towards the door.
"No, not that way," Draco says, and heads over towards the balcony. "It'll be faster if we Apparate."
Potter hesitates with one hand on the doorknob, but he makes his way over to where Draco is opening the glass door. He steps out onto the landing and holds his hand out to Potter. Potter eyes it warily for a moment, before he slides his own in it. Draco smiles and pulls Potter closer, wrapping an arm about Potter's waist. Potter sucks in a breath and tenses, but Draco has already turned on his heel.
Not a second too soon. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnesses the arrival of several masked forms as they appear in Potter's quarters.
.::.::.
Potter stumbles when they appear in the courtyard before the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Draco tightens his hold around Potter's waist; he's not about to let Potter fall, not on his watch.
The sun has just barely risen, the glint of gold sliding across the window panes of the row of houses before them. Potter squints at them. He points to the space between numbers eleven and thirteen and asks, "What's there?"
Draco quirks an eyebrow at him. But of course, Potter is able to see magic. It only makes sense that he'd be able to see the location of number twelve, hidden as it is. Draco wonders if Potter would be able to get inside without being told by the Secret Keeper.
Potter turns his attention to the side, his eyes roaming over the area. He stops suddenly, his back going rigid; Draco can feel it where he still has his arm around Potter's waist.
Before he is able to answer Potter's question, a black form emerges out of the shadows near the building. Draco pulls Potter back and behind him, always on the alert, especially after the close call they had at Potter's apartment building.
His wand is out and pointing at the form as it stalks towards them, but the morning sunlight drifts down and hits the black fur of Sirius' coat, and is instantly devoured. Draco sighs his relief, his wand drooping ever so slightly before Sirius reverts to his human form and stands before them.
Sirius looks over Draco's shoulder and gives a half smile to Potter. "You're earlier than we thought you would be," he says to Draco, but he never looks away from Potter. He approaches slowly, coming up to the pair as if afraid to startle Potter. His eyes take on a sad glint, and he manages to say just loudly enough for them to hear, "You look so much like your father, Harry. But for your eyes; they're like your mother's."
Potter is silent behind him, and Draco is unable to interpret how this information is taken. He speaks before Potter is able to. "If we may gain entry, Black? Only, we just escaped from Death Eaters breaking into Potter's flat."
Sirius' eyes widen and his face loses its natural colour, but still reflects the warmth of the rising sun. He rummages in his coat pocket as he turns and beckons them towards the front gate. Potter moves out from behind Draco and trails after him, Draco bringing up the rear. He has his wand out, glancing apprehensively at the rafters.
At the gate, Sirius thrusts a scrap of paper at Potter. Potter fumbles with it for a moment, and Draco has a small spasm of worry. What if they can't get Potter into the headquarters? But Draco realises that he worries a little too much sometimes, as Potter looks up curiously at Sirius.
Sirius smiles his reassurance, holding the gate open for Potter and ushering him forwards. His hand hovers just above Potter's jacket, not touching, but still providing just enough reassurance. Potter walks forwards slowly, his steps deliberate.
"Black–" Draco begins to say, and as if Potter knows what he's about to continue with, he turns around and shakes his head ever so slightly. Sirius looks back at Draco questioningly, but Draco takes the hint from Potter and shakes his head. Sirius shrugs and bounds up the front steps to hold the door open for them.
Potter hangs back until Draco has reached him. He leans over just enough to whisper in Draco's ear, "Please don't tell them. I'm sure right now they don't need to be distracted by the fact of my disability. Besides, in a magical world, it's not that much of a disability, now is it?"
Draco has to concede he has a point, and he nods. Nevertheless, he grips Potter's elbow tightly and pulls upwards when they get to the stairs. Potter ascends, and they are whisked into the grim building. Draco pulls the door closed behind him, the wards closing in around them securely.
Sirius is blabbering on ahead of him, talking to Harry over his shoulder as he leads him down the hallway. Potter looks around, craning his head this way and that to examine the hall, looking up the staircase as they pass it and glancing curiously at the curtained portrait.
"I suppose you didn't have time for breakfast, then? Or much of anything else, I take it. That's all right, I'm sure Molly'll have made something by now, and if not, we can manage." He then lowers his voice and continues under his breath, and even though Draco cannot clearly hear what he is saying, he suspects he knows what it must be about. It was no secret that Sirius had always loathed the house elf that took care of the house, useless as he was. Not that it particularly matters now, Draco thinks, with the elf being deceased.
Sirius pulls out a chair for Potter at the table, then bustles around the kitchen, trying to find something for them to eat. He manages to scrounge up leftovers from whatever they had the day before. With a tap of his wand, the food is piping hot again, steam curling up from the plate Sirius places in front of Potter.
Sirius sits down at the table across from Potter, intertwining his fingers. He looks at him, his grey eyes roaming over Potter's face as Potter looks around the kitchen, frowning a little at the topmost left cupboard. Sirius has that look on his face that indicates to Draco that he's about to delve into a long explanation; he catches Draco's eye briefly, and it's all Draco needs to know that he should be leaving.
So Draco manages to slink out of the room just as Sirius says, "Harry."
He meets Lupin on the staircase as he heads up to the library. Lupin blinks in surprise at seeing him. His hand reaches out instinctively before being brought back to his side. "You're back early," he says. "Is everything all right?" His concern is evident in the way his brow furrows, his eyes scanning over Draco, assessing any damage for himself.
Draco shakes his head and says, "Potter is down in the kitchen with Black. No doubt you'd like a chance to talk with him as well before Dumbledore steals him away?"
Lupin gives him a small, genuine smile, and as he brushes past Draco, Draco thinks he feels Lupin squeeze his arm gently. The small measure of comfort is welcomed, not that Draco's about to say so. He's been feeling a little off balance lately, overcome by Potter's sudden appearance, the knowledge of his affliction, and not to mention the hope that has been making itself known in his chest; the hope that has probably risen in everyone now, just as surely as Voldemort has begun feeling apprehensive.
The library is silent when Draco eases the door open, slipping inside and gently closing it behind him. He breathes in deeply, the musty scent of old books calming him slightly.
He doesn't know what is about to happen, but by the looks of things, he might be the only one with knowledge of Potter's ability. Which is good, Draco supposes, as he sits down at the desk and pillows his head in his arms. If ever Voldemort became privy to that knowledge, he'd be sure to try to use it for his own means. And if it became known that Potter was blind in the usual sense, Voldemort would use that to his advantage too.
So Draco's not about to give more weapons over to the Dark Lord than he already has. Potter was wise to keep the knowledge quiet.
Besides, Draco will protect him.
.::.::.
It's hard for Sirius to wait until Harry gets to the headquarters, which is what brings him outside in his Animagus form, waiting for however long it takes them to appear, pacing back and forth in the shadows. And when they do, Sirius has a hard time staying still. He wants to run over and hug Harry until that tortured expression disappears from his face, but he knows that any overzealousness on his part probably won't be welcomed with open arms on Harry's part. After all, Sirius knows more about Harry than Harry knows about him; he'd probably be wary. So Sirius chooses to let Harry make the first move. He can wait.
Grimmauld Place is not the place he'd like to introduce Harry to the world of magic, but right now it's one of the safest places he can be. Especially when Draco had mentioned that they had come so close to getting caught by Voldemort's agents. Sirius had nearly growled when he had heard that. But he forces himself to remember that Harry is here now, safe, and under the Order's protection.
Harry takes in the kitchen with wonder, eyeing the cupboards and the papers that are still spread out on the counter. To Sirius, there's not much to see, but to Harry, this is most likely the first time he has been in a magical household. Sirius gives a faint smile and stops his hand from reaching across and gripping Harry's. He hardly notices when Malfoy slips out of the kitchen, only catching the flick of his robes as the kitchen door closes behind him.
Harry clears his throat, and Sirius can't help but notice that the poor boy seems nervous. Unsure of himself, perhaps. "You mentioned my parents before," he says hesitantly. "You knew them?"
Sirius can't hide his grin. "Yes, knew them quite well. We went to school together." His eyes gain that distant quality one gets when remembering things long since past. As Remus slides into the room, Sirius' smile widens. He's been waiting for the opportunity to tell Harry stories about his parents, he and Remus both.
Harry seems to start when Remus slides into place beside Sirius. He gives his customary warm smile to Harry, extending a rough hand to be shaken. "Remus Lupin," he says, softly. "Another good friend of your father's."
Together, Sirius and Remus fill Harry in on his parents, their school years, and then go on to talk about Hogwarts, seeing as Harry is so fascinated about it. His questions are endless – how was it created, its history, the spells and enchantments behind the ceiling of the Great Hall – he listens avidly to the stories they tell, hangs onto every word. Sirius can't help but be reminded of a bright-eyed youth learning about magic for the first time, a first year stumbling upon Hogwarts. His breakfast largely goes untouched, as he prefers to listen.
During a lull, Remus speaks up and asks, "Where have you been? We've been looking for you for several years."
"I – with my aunt and uncle," Harry says, and he sounds like he's been caught off guard. "I left them a little while back."
Sirius frowns. "Privet Drive?" he asks, and Harry shakes his head.
"Islington." His eyes remain downcast, fixed on the table. Before Sirius can ask more, he's shooting out another question, talking about things like wands and the wizarding community and how they've managed to keep it all hidden away.
Sirius feels like they've barely scraped the surface of what could be told when there is a burst of fire above the table, and a single red-gold feather drifts down. Harry reaches out and the feather falls smoothly into his hand, the fine plumes seeming to wrap around Harry's fingers in a gentle caress, as if welcoming him. "What does this mean?" he asks.
Remus rises and heads over to where the kettle rests and prepares tea with sure taps of his wand. As he does this, Sirius quickly explains to Harry, "It's the Order of the Phoenix's meeting call. This is Headquarters, and soon enough the kitchen will be filled with members." He leans forward and continues in an undertone as the first few people begin to drift in silently, throwing glances at Harry. "I'm sorry that this is all being forced on you so soon, but these are trying times. I'd have preferred to take this slower, but," he shrugs, "no one really listens to me anyway." The grin he gives after this shows that it doesn't bother him all that much.
Harry's hands slide under the table as the room begins to fill. It's obvious that the occupants of the room want to get close to him, but they're a tad uncertain; they're not sure what they're supposed to do. Malfoy, when he comes in, has no qualms. He sits down immediately at Harry's right, eyes his barely touched breakfast and says, "Eat." Harry throws him a look, and Sirius is surprised how quickly it has taken for these two to get along well enough to share a look.
There is a quiet murmur all through the kitchen that only increases as more people begin to flow in. The Order isn't as big as it used to be; most of the members are new blood, witches and wizards around Harry's age or slightly younger. Harry looks slightly out of place; his eyes dart every which way, sometimes stopping on a particular person, but with no rhyme or reason. In his Muggle clothes, he sticks out like a Quaffle in a row of Snitches.
The chatter dies down as soon as Albus sweeps into the room, his deep purple robes swishing about his ankles and trailing along after him. He looks a little surprised that Harry and Draco are here already, but he moves to the head of the table nonetheless. His piercing blue eyes roam over the table, capturing the attention of those present. There is still the occasional glance thrown towards where Harry and Malfoy sit near the other end of the table, but as Albus begins to speak, the focus stays with him.
.::.::.
Harry begins to feel slightly unbalanced as the room begins to fill; after all, he has next to no idea what is going on, and knows pretty much no one here. But Draco, who sits beside him, is his strong point; Harry feels at ease around him, a feeling he knows he'll need more of soon.
His mind is in a whirlwind; his thoughts batter each other until all that he's left with are the shattered remains. His trust in himself has dwindled. He's afraid that if he speaks or examines his surroundings too much, he'll lose it – it's a bit much to take in at the moment. Frankly, he is surprised he had managed to get home at all last night without tripping over something.
He had been thankful that there had been someone waiting on his balcony. It had been a distraction from the turmoil that surrounded him after seeing…. Harry doesn't want to think about it. His hands curl into fists around each other on his lap, and the voice of – Dumbledore? – washes over him.
Draco's magic is brilliant; a light blue like that of sunlight shining through ice, veined with pure white and strands of gold and holding a pulse and warmth to it that soothes Harry's frazzled nerves. He can't help but lean towards it now, seeking the comfort he knows is there. But surrounded by dozens of people he does not know constricts him. He doesn't dare show a hint of weakness around them. At a loss of what to do, he stares at the half empty plate before him, the way the magic curls around the edges.
He allows the conversation to wash over him, keeping his head down for the most part to avoid attracting attention. Even with Dumbledore speaking, he still receives the odd stare. His forehead twinges in sympathy, and he resists the urge to press a hand to it. He knows there is something odd about it; sees it in the odd reflection, can feel a faint tingle of something there when he presses a hand to it, something odd and foreign, almost slime-like in texture.
He steals the odd glance up though, examining the others from below his fringe. The light that fills the room from those present is astounding; it shimmers brighter than the lights he sees in his relatives, or those on the street. The difference, Harry thinks, is that these people are wizards. It's obviously more pronounced in them; they interact with magic more.
Across from him, Sirius' magic is playful, almost like that of a young colt and makes Harry smile. It's distinctly blue and yellow, but tainted heavily with loss and betrayal, various gradients of grey and black and red. But even with that, it makes Harry feel light-hearted. Harry can tell from this that Sirius is not one to give up easily, but neither is he one to forgive lightly.
Beside him, Remus is a puzzle. Harry remembers his magic briefly from the time in the street. Being able to examine it this closely and at greater length gives Harry a better understanding of it, though it's still confusing. It's almost as if it has two parts: a human side and an animal. The human side is light and warm, comforting in its steady beat. But the animal is raging, straining to be released, but prevented from doing so. It's almost as if it is biding its time, waiting for the correct opportunity. And Harry doesn't quite know what to think.
There are several others of interest in the room. Most show signs of hurt and loss, and a couple hold a taint that Harry knows was forced upon them, as if something had leaked through to their magic. Harry watches the twist of the taint as it briefly obscures the radiance of their own light, but it's prevented from burrowing deeper, instead settling on the surface like blackened sunning lizards.
Harry can lose himself in watching the magic weave around itself; he has on several instances. He does this now as Dumbledore talks, gestures towards him and effectively sends the attentions of many to him once more. He holds his breath and does not glance up from where he watches the magic sift through the air just above the table, hover over his forgotten plate, and twine about the small ornate candelabra on the table. There's so much magic in this old house that it allows for him to see the most he's seen in… a very long time.
Harry's not sure how quickly the time passes. He catches a few words, plans for attacks and secrecy. He watches the play of magic in the room, watching as it interacts with those closest, the shifts it undergoes. But he does notice when people begin to trickle out, some more hesitantly than others, whispering loudly behind their hands at one another. He runs his thumbnail along the edge of the table.
Beside him, Draco nudges him gently with an elbow. Harry looks up and meets the grey-veined purple of Albus Dumbledore. He gives a small smile, which Dumbledore returns as his magic brightens a little. He slides into the now unoccupied seat across from Harry and folds his hands together. "I'm surprised you two got here so soon," he says. "I trust you had no problems?"
Draco answers for him. "Not really, sir. We got out of there not a moment too soon, though."
Dumbledore makes a small noise. "Then it is good luck that you arrived here safely. There are several things I would like to discuss with you, Harry, if you feel up to it." The way he says it, though, has Harry thinking that he has little choice. If he's honest with himself, he knows that he would stay and listen anyway. He knows that there is more going on than what shows on the surface; there always is with magic.
He swallows and nods his assent. Dumbledore has a peaceful sense of magic about him, but there is the smallest trace of something that makes Harry feel nervous. Whatever it is has been haunting the elder for years now.
Dumbledore turns to Draco and says kindly, "If I could have a word with Harry in private, please?"
Draco stands and leaves his chair pushed back as he leaves the room. Harry tucks a hand under the bottom and pulls it back to the table, feeling the tingle of magic against his palm from the wood. The door closes behind Draco with a snick and Harry looks across the table at Dumbledore, who heaves a sigh. There's a wash of magic, and a charm spreads over the door.
When Dumbledore begins talking, Harry listens as avidly as he did when listening to Sirius and Remus, though the topic is much darker than long ago school days. Albus talks about the war, going on for great lengths about one Tom Riddle, later to be known as Voldemort. Most of it matches up with what he has heard already from the other two. Voldemort had murdered his parents, causing Harry to live with his aunt and uncle. At the age of eleven, Harry should have been reintroduced to the wizarding world, but he was nowhere to be found. Albus goes on to describe the next five years, Voldemort's second rise to power and the beginning of a harrowing war.
There are many blanks in Dumbledore's story. But there's the odd thing that he says that matches up with the dreams that have haunted Harry's nights. Harry's not sure if he wants to share this information so soon though, so he keeps quiet.
Towards the end, Dumbledore grows quiet. He pulls a heavy object from within the folds of his robes and sets it on the table, waving his wand over it and returning it to its original size. Harry can't help but stare; it glows heavily with magic, making it one of the most visible pieces he has had the fortune to look upon. He can see it clearly, see the magical runes on the sides, see the age and the feelings and memories emanating from the stone. For that's surely what is in the basin – memories. Harry catches small glimpses that they weave together, the silvery slide of them as they twist together.
"It's a Pensieve," Dumbledore explains. "It's used to show thoughts from one's mind, allowing for a deeper examining of past moments. It's particularly useful for spotting patterns and to make the necessary connections." He prods the contents, encouraging the rise of a bejewelled figure. As she speaks in a hoarse voice, Harry feels a shiver run down his back.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
Dumbledore is silent as the figure settles back into the basin, his wand lying against the table in a slackened grip. Harry watches the swirl of the memories as fireworks erupt in his head. His breath is short. He's afraid to ask what this means, but he fears he already knows - had known for a long time coming now. The dreams, after all, were not just ordinary dreams.
"It's me, isn't it?" he says, still staring sightlessly at the stone bowl. "It concerns this Voldemort and me."
Dumbledore heaves another of those time-weary sighs. "Truly, Harry, I am sorry. I understand that this is all so sudden. I had wished to take our time with this, but that is no longer an option."
"If I had been able to attend the wizarding school," Harry says, looking up to meet the vibrant purple of Dumbledore's magic. From the way his magic is twisting, he truly does regret his actions; actions that Harry understands have to happen. He may not like it, but he knows that this is what must be done, knows there's a lot to do – a lot he has to do. It feels like too much to take on, and he tries not to balk, tries to think of it as one thing at a time.
Dumbledore finishes for him, "I would have hoped that it would have already been done with by now."
Harry nods and resumes his examination of the Pensieve, watching the shift of magic and trying to memorize the runes he sees there.
Dumbledore's voice when he resumes speaking has a false cheery feel to it. "We'll have to train you, of course," he says, and stands. He gives a small gesture with his wand, sending off a silver streak that disappears through the wall. Harry looks after it, watching the magic fade from the spot on the wall where it made contact.
"I have someone about your age who would love to teach you," Dumbledore says kindly, recapturing Harry's attention. "She's one of the brightest witches of your age." Harry remains seated as Dumbledore crosses the room and pulls open the kitchen door, breaking the enchantment placed upon it.
On the other side stands a woman, slightly out of breath. Harry suspects it's from her run down the stairs, but also suspects that a degree of excitement is a factor as well. Dumbledore greets her warmly, inviting the girl into the room. She returns his greeting formally, stepping into the room and approaching the table slowly, almost self-consciously. Dumbledore pulls the door closed after himself, leaving the two of them alone.
The girl takes a seat beside him, and there is an awkward pause for a moment. Harry takes the time to examine her magic; it's a bright periwinkle blue, shot with pink, lavender and yellow. Harry decides the silence has gone on long enough. He smiles and introduces himself. "Harry Potter."
She's faintly surprised for a moment, before she replies with, "Hermione Granger." She shifts on her seat, moving it closer to him. Obligingly, he moves his chair so they're more or less facing each other. "Professor Dumbledore asked me a while ago to teach you when you were found," she says.
"I know some things," Harry says, and sees her light flare with curiosity. He doesn't really want to give off the impression that he's useless.
She's excited when she speaks. "We'll get started then, shall we? Oh wait – you'll be needing a wand…." She twists in her seat, and with a flare of magic, Summons a thick book to herself. "Maybe we can just arrange a schedule; you can tell me what you already know how to do, and we can plan according to that…" She trails off, then takes the time to look at him, her voice taking an even higher level of curiosity, and maybe a small trace of doubt. "How do you do magic if you don't have a wand?"
Harry shrugs a shoulder. "Without one, I suppose." Hermione looks sceptical, so he expands a little. "It's not like I can do a whole lot. It took me ages to be able to do what you just did," – he gestures towards the book that she has on the table – "and even then, it's only with small things, or things I'm used to."
Hermione bites her lip and a small crease appears at the corners of her eyes. She's quiet for a long moment, her magic twisting and flaring too quickly for Harry to be able to get a good look at it. She says to him quietly, "Not very many people are capable of wandless magic. It might be best if you keep this quiet, even if it's a limited degree."
Harry considers this, and looking at the situations he can only imagine getting himself into, knows that this is probably a good idea. He nods, and Hermione gives a small, joyous laugh, filled with mirth and excitement despite the troubles Harry sees beneath the surface.
She stands and says, "Let's go see what we can do for you. See if we can get a head start on things."
Harry stands and follows her to the door, watching as she eases it open before stepping into the hall. He can see the gloom seeping in around the shimmer of her magic, the magic of the house easing itself into the kitchen and infecting the cheer that has somehow found a place in a hostile environment.
Harry's not exactly sure what awaits him on the other side. From what he can tell, from what he's recently learned, he knows it's not about to be easy – far from it, really. But it's not like he's going into this alone. And that makes it easier.