The beginning of the term hadn't been exactly peachy and as the week progressed, Harry's stress levels didn't diminish in the slightest. To make matters even worse, Snape had been appointed as their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
What had Dumbledore been thinking? The man lived and breathed Dark magic, spoke of it with a loving caress in his voice…
Harry paused and took a deep breath. After they'd seen Draco Malfoy at Borgin and Burkes, he couldn't stop thinking about the possible implications. Neither Ron nor Hermione took him seriously; he had been trying to talk to them again and again, but they were convinced Malfoy had only been bluffing.
Yet as soon as Harry tried to put himself in Malfoy's shoes, he understood one simple fact: had the roles been reversed, he, Harry, would most likely have tried to avenge his father. Not that his father would have been a Death Eater.
Still, the thought wouldn't leave him.
What was worse, the more he recalled the day Hermione had attempted to find out what Malfoy wanted from Borgin, the more Harry couldn't help but cringe. To bluntly ask Borgin what Malfoy had wanted under the naïve cover-up story of looking for a birthday present for him had been beyond silly. Hermione had misunderstood the whole point of the conversation they had eavesdropped on.
Borgin had just been threatened by Malfoy. Of course he had been on his guard!
He couldn't tell her that much, though. She and Ron wouldn't hear anything against Malfoy as it was, and if he as much as hinted at the fact that Hermione had thoughtlessly ruined any chance of them finding out anything from Borgin, she would most likely stop speaking to him altogether. And he didn't want that. He knew Hermione had meant well.
It didn't help his frustration levels at all, though. Something was going on, he could feel it. He'd seen it in Malfoy's smug expression—an expression he knew rather well—and he knew Malfoy was up to something.
Yet even Mr Weasley didn't believe him, preferring to blissfully think Voldemort wouldn't take a sixteen-year-old into his service. As if Voldemort cared about one's age…
To add to his strain, Fay Dunbar's behaviour was completely impossible to read. He had been observing her a little since their incidental meeting on the train, and now he understood why he had never noticed her before. She didn't have many friends. She mostly kept to herself, occasionally speaking to Neville. She would often read some colourful book and, when bored, fidget with the magnifying glass pendant she wore. That was all there was to her, really.
The previous afternoon, he had met the girl for the second time during their first Potions class with Slughorn, but she had completely ignored him. She had been right about observation as a skill, though. It had crossed Harry's mind that he could talk to her about his suspicions, but he wasn't sure. Not to mention it was difficult, provided she had decided to behave as if they had never met before.
Absorbed in these reflections, Harry had received a note from Professor Dumbledore, according to which their lessons would start the following Saturday. He, Ron, and Hermione had spent their lunchtime speculating what Dumbledore was likely to teach Harry. They had been finishing their discussion when the bell had rung, alerting them it was time to head for their classrooms.
Once they had descended to the dungeons, they had found out there were only about a dozen people progressing to the N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had manifestly failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins including Malfoy had made it. There had also been four Ravenclaws waiting next to Ernie from Hufflepuff, and also Fay Dunbar. The latter had been standing in a corner by herself and furiously scribbling into her notebook, her eyebrows knit together in concentration.
"Harry," Ernie had said portentously as soon as he'd spotted him, holding out his hand, "didn't get a chance to speak in Defence Against the Dark Arts today. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron, Hermione?"
Harry had briefly wondered who Ernie had got his pompousness from, but there hadn't been time to ponder this question; in fact, he wasn't sure whether Ron or Hermione had even had the chance to answer. He had been about to make his way to Fay when the dungeon doors had opened and Slughorn's belly had swum into view. The rest of the lesson had been too exciting for him to be able to chat with her, so between finding an old copy of the Advanced Potion Making full of helpful notes left by the previous owner and getting Felix Felicis as a reward from Slughorn, it hadn't been until this evening that he decided to track her down.
He found her in the library after yet another failed attempt at persuading Ron and Hermione to discuss the possible danger that Malfoy posed in his desire for revenge.
"Fay?" he said. "Um, hi."
The girl held up a hand to indicate that she could not be interrupted. Her gaze never left the parchment.
Harry waited, but all too soon, curiosity got the better of him.
"What are you doing?" he asked, taking in her piece of parchment covered with long sequences of letters, her magnifying glass, and her book resembling a Muggle detective novel.
"Did you know that the prevalent cause of death among Aurors is plain carelessness?" she intoned.
"Err—"
"Well, it is, and it seems to be fatal to both wizards and Muggles alike. For instance, there was this detective—which is kind of a Muggle version of the private investigator—who was able to locate a suspect in a particular part of London by the stripes embedded in that man's leather shoes. This mistake cost the criminal his freedom. Now, the funny thing is that most wizards would be just as careless in this situation as that Muggle. Who bothers to clean their shoes, who takes the time to go through such details? I was thinking of creating a quick cleaning spell; something so simple could literally save a life—"
"Creating a spell?" Harry inquired.
"Well, yes, it's not like they teach us any simple household spells anyway, so I thought I could create one of my own."
"Right," Harry said. "Listen... We met the other day in a train compartment—"
Harry leaned forward, not sure how to start; the library was almost deserted, yet there was no telling if someone was eavesdropping. To his amazement and horror, however, Fay's kind, enthusiastic expression morphed into one of coldness and hostility.
Not bothering to answer, the girl shoved all her things into her bag, stood up, and pushed past Harry, heading for the exit.
Harry blinked, a little shocked. Unwittingly, he found himself quickly sprinting after her.
"Fay! Fay, wait!" he shouted, panting. "What's wrong?"
At this, she turned and looked him straight in the eye. When she spoke again, he had the bizarre feeling that she was withholding something from him.
"Look, you may be famous Harry Potter, but you don't have to make fun of me!"
Harry's jaw dropped.
"Excuse me?"
His confusion must have shown, for Fay's determination faltered.
"Well... you promised to come back to my compartment," she said slowly. "Then you vanished. I thought..."
Harry cringed.
"Sorry," he said. "I ran into Ron and Hermione; they had just finished their train patrol, and I forgot. And then Slughorn invited me to his compartment, and... eh..."
Fay Dunbar just looked at him. Harry wished she'd say something like, it's all right, as anyone else would do, but she didn't. So he tried again.
"So, um, I was wondering... there will be Quidditch try-outs. I've been appointed as the new captain. D'you fly at all?"
"A little," the girl admitted. "So what happened between you and Draco?"
Harry's eyebrows arched a little; he didn't like her calling Malfoy 'Draco' as if they were friendly.
"How do you know about that?" he asked in return.
"The whole school knows by now," she reminded him, referring to the way Snape had made Harry parade through the Great Hall with his face covered in blood. "I found out earlier, though. I happened to pass a group of Slytherins just as Draco made a rather crude joke about breaking someone's nose."
Harry scowled. It wasn't Fay's fault—he would have gone after Malfoy one way or another—but her words had brought back all the emotions he had experienced that evening as he'd lain there, unable to move a muscle beneath his Invisibility Cloak and feeling the hot blood from his broken nose flow over his face…
"Boasted, didn't he?" he muttered in spite of himself. "Figures."
Fay didn't let him brood for too long, though.
"So what is it you want?" she asked.
"You said you were a pure-blood, right?" Harry specified.
"Yes."
"But you like Muggle detective stories, and you want to be an Auror."
"Is it about your nose?" the girl asked bluntly. "Because if you want to get back at Draco, I don't think I can help. I try to avoid trouble."
Harry snorted.
"Trust me, so do I. It's trouble that never avoids me."
Fay blinked, though something minute changed in her expression, as if she appreciated the joke. Before Harry knew it, he smiled at the awkwardness of it all, and she followed suit.
"So what is it?" she asked.
Harry wasn't sure how to start.
"What if I told you I need someone to help me with my observation skills?" he started uncertainly.
He didn't want to spill the beans just like that, but he did need help. And Ron and Hermione just wouldn't listen.
"I'd tell you your observation skills aren't that bad," the girl assured him. "Though I suppose another person's insight never hurts..."
"No," he sighed. "The thing is, nobody believes me, so... I dunno, they always used to."
"Your friends?" Fay guessed.
Harry nodded.
"Nobody aside from Neville ever listens to me," she sighed. "Though I'm not sure, maybe it's just because Mrs Longbottom is a friend of my mum's, and Neville sometimes comes over to hang out in the shop."
"You're friends with Neville?" Harry asked, though he had already noticed she would sometimes speak to the round-faced boy.
"Mhm," Fay muttered.
"You know what?" Harry said, recalling something. "When we had our very first Flying lesson, Malfoy took Neville's Remembrall, and I remember Parkinson saying something to Parvati... I don't remember what it was, but it sounded like they had known each other before."
"Oh, yes." Fay nodded. "Parvati's dad works for the Department of International Magical Cooperation , and Pansy's dad... used to work there."
"Used to?" Harry echoed, interested.
Fay shrugged. "I've only heard the general gossip, but people say he was let go."
"Do all the pure-bloods know each other?" Harry wondered.
It was funny how he had never thought of asking anyone before.
"Not everybody knows each other, but it's easy enough to tell if someone's pure-blood, half-blood, or Muggle-born. The prominent families tend to know each other. " Fay answered.
She looked at him with interest.
"I've never seen you around though," she commented. "You keep to yourself, don't you?"
"Yeah," he admitted evasively, not wanting to talk about the Dursleys. "So you're not angry with me anymore?"
Fay looked at him, appearing a little conflicted.
"So it is about your nose, isn't?" she asked in the end.
"You could say so," Harry sighed. "But not only."
Fay considered it. "If we are going to collaborate, you will have to tell me everything, though," she decided. "And if it's a joke—"
"It's not a joke." Harry assured her.
"All right, then, we have a pact. I'll help you find out the information you're trying to find out, and then, if I need help with something, you'll help me."
Harry smiled, feeling inexplicably lighter. He wasn't sure about the whole thing. But the conversation they had had on the train had been promising, for despite her slight awkwardness, Fay Dunbar seemed to be accustomed to observing people, and that was good. At any rate, nothing could be worse than having no clue as to what Malfoy was up to and to which consequences his revenge plans could lead, so a little help couldn't hurt.
"Um… brilliant," he stammered. "So you will come to the try-outs?"
Fay blinked. "Um, sure," she promised. "I will. But... just so you know—I like my nose just the way it is, all right?"
She looked oddly flushed for some reason, but Harry didn't care. Now—perhaps—there was a slim chance of busting Malfoy.
AN: Hey guys, originally, I actually posted the first chapter as a one-shot, but since there was some interest, I decided to continue. In the course of writing, I realised that up to this point Harry had actually led quite a sheltered existence when it comes to knowing about wizarding society in general, so I figured it's time to make him explore a little.
Also, it is not easy for Harry to reach out and trust someone else at this point— no matter if he had reached out to Luna, Neville or even someone from Dumbledore's Army—he is used to hanging out only with Ron and Hermione by this point. His suspicions about Draco Malfoy don't let him be though and neither Ron nor Hermione take him seriously, so it shows his desperation that he decided to reach out at all. No worries though. It's something to keep in mind because it wouldn't be realistic if everybody suddenly became friends.
Special thank you goes to Tarpeia for beta-reading.