AN: Sorry for the incredible hiatus. No excuses, but if you want the reason, feel free to PM me. I hope you like this chapter, feel free to comment/PM with any concerns, interesting theories, or complaints that I don't update enough. I welcome it all.
When Harry awoke the next day, it was to the smiling and mischievous visage of his mother. Harry felt a smile stretch his lips and a stark happiness surge in his chest. So many nights, this picture had simply been a cacophony of lines and squiggles, but now Harry could revel in the joy that shone in his mother's eyes. He could pretend that she was watching him live his life. And he could, in what he hoped was a healthy way, talk to her.
Harry had been up late the previous night, simply telling his mother all about what he was going through. About Voldemort, about Dumbledore, and all about the friends he'd made and the adventures they'd shared. The purely logical part of his mind added in that a portrait would make a good sounding board and a portrait specifically of his mother made Harry much less likely to come up with morally reprehensible plans. The cynical part of his mind shut up and let him have this one.
Harry got up and glanced around his room, realizing with a jolt that he hadn't bothered to pack anything. He grunted a curse and got up, throwing his various clothes and books into his open trunk. He didn't have time to fold anything, nor did he have time to organize his trunk in any way, but his burst of energy did mean that he got everything into his trunk before he heard a tentative knock on his door.
"Yeah?" Harry called, breathless and panting slightly, "What is it?"
"It's Hermione," said the voice, "Can I come in?"
Harry glanced down at himself and swore again. He was still wearing pajamas and had just packed all of his clothes. He straightened and thought quickly, weighing making her wait while he got dressed versus the embarrassment they'd both feel at his lack of proper wear. Not to mention, if the conversation lasted a while, there was a worry that Harry wouldn't have time to dress before they left for the station, and then he'd have to be in pajamas until they got into their robes before Hogwarts. But, at the same time, she sounded like she needed to talk, and was nervous about it. Any putting off of the talk would probably make her feel like Harry didn't want to talk to her.
That clinched it. "Come on in, Hermione," Harry said, his breath catching up to him, "I'm in my pajamas, though."
"Oh!" the voice exclaimed, "You can get dressed, I don't mind."
Harry walked over and opened the door firmly. "Come in, it's fine."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock at the sudden movement, but she nodded and walked into the room. "Thanks."
Harry closed the door and turned around, Hermione moving to the bed and sitting on it. She frowned, apparently not knowing how to start. Harry waited patiently, though the logical part of his minded urged him to break the silence. She was taking too long! They'd have to leave soon! Harry brushed that away and moved to the bed, sitting next to the girl.
Hermione glanced over and gave Harry a brief smile. "Nice pajamas."
Harry grinned ruefully. "I'd just packed everything when I realized I was still wearing these."
Hermione glanced at the clear floor and the closed trunk then chuckled. "And here I thought Greysight made you smarter."
Harry shook his head sagely. "Merely more logical. Acting on impulse is just as random as ever."
Hermione smiled at the comment, but soon her smile faded into a pensive frown.
"There's no Arithmancer's Puzzle on my floor, Hermione," Harry prodded gently.
Hermione rolled her eyes quickly. "Have you thought about splitting off onto the Right Side?" When Harry opened his mouth to reply, she spoke again. "I mean, more than just the idea to do it."
Harry opened his mouth, but paused. He hadn't, not really. But what would he tell Hermione? Would she leave him if he didn't have a plan? Harry mentally slapped himself. He wouldn't lie, not to Hermione, not to his allies. That's what they did.
"No," he said, shaking his head, "Not beyond the obvious."
Hermione nodded. "The first thing you should do is figure out your measure of success." She turned towards Harry. "Decide when you have won, and when you can stop fighting." She paused. "And even when you've lost."
Harry frowned in thought, his mind swirling with possibilities and specifics and eventualities and –
"Harry?" Hermione put a hand on his, a bemused smile on her face. "Not right now. Take your time." She squeezed his hand. "But think about it."
Harry nodded. "Thanks." After a brief silence, both of them enjoying the contact, Harry said, "Is there anything else?"
"Think carefully about who you let in," Hermione said, "Allies for their own sake is not always wise."
Harry nodded, thinking over how he'd felt when the DA had been betrayed the previous year, and how he could avoid that sort of thing in the future. He'd have to vet his allies more carefully than he had before. Of course, the easiest way to ensure loyalty was some sort of leverage, but that idea was utterly distasteful to him. Aside from that, the smaller numbers Harry had, the less chance there was of a spy or even just less chance of someone choosing to switch sides. Harry would have more face time with each person and would thus both inspire more loyalty and better see the signs of betrayal in people.
Harry had no illusions that his side would, by far, be the smallest. Voldemort and Dumbledore had both acquired their various allies and resources over decades and decades. Harry might, might, have a few months on his own before Dumbledore realized the betrayal. Then, if Snape was to be believed, Harry's days would be numbered. Dumbledore hated betrayal even more than Voldemort, though his methods of dealing with the traitor were often more subtle.
Tangent aside, Harry mentally rolled his eyes, small numbers was the key.
Harry could probably use the small numbers to his advantage, even. He'd have to figure that out, though. Bigger numbers tended to win battles, at least as far as Harry was concerned. Muggle history class, while long ago, might be useful after all. Harry set that away to ponder at another time. He emerged from his mindscape to see Hermione staring at him.
Harry blinked. He could see some emotion in her eyes that he hadn't ever seen before. When she realized he was looking at her, Hermione got a red tinge to her cheeks and turned away.
"Do I have something on my face?" Harry asked quietly, offering a way out.
Hermione didn't take it. "No, I just-" She paused then looked at him. "I like watching you think." She smiled, embarrassed, but not ashamed.
"W-why?" It was the first thing out of his mouth.
Hermione flushed brighter. "I...don't know." The lie was obvious, but Harry let her have that.
"Well!" he said, standing abruptly, "I should probably get dressed."
Hermione nodded and stood. "I'll just-"
There was a knock on the door.
Both teens froze. Harry knew what it would look like, especially to Mrs Weasely, and he did not want to have that conversation. Harry glanced quickly at the window, but it was locked and wouldn't that just make them look more guilty? They were both fully clothed, but he was in his pajamas, but surely that-
The knock sounded again. "Harry? Breakfast time!" It was Ginny. Probably the worst person to be at the door.
"Er, I'll be right down," called Harry. Hermione had quietly put a hand on her mouth, to muffle her gasp. "Just changing right now."
"Oh!" The voice raised an octave. "I'll just see you down there, then."
Harry hardly dared to breathe until her footsteps disappeared down the stairs. He caught Hermione's eye and the two began to laugh uncontrollably, first in little spasmodic chuckles, then in great gales of merriment. Harry managed to pull himself together first. Hermione soon followed suit, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
"I'll just be going, then," she said, still chuckling lightly, "I'll see you downstairs."
She turned and opened the door. Standing just outside, going down the stairs, was Ron. All three of them froze. Harry felt a chill sweep down his back. He knew how bad this looked. The logical part of his mind assured him that it was much better that they hadn't actually done anything. The cynical part of his mind knew that Ron probably wasn't going to be an ally anyway, that this was no big loss. But Harry saw the look on Ron's face, saw the hurt slowly turn into a fierce, cold anger. And Harry knew that he hadn't just lost a friend. He'd made an enemy.
The trip to King's Cross was cold and unpleasant. Ginny quickly picked up from Ron's icy glare that something else had happened, but she didn't say anything about it. Mrs Weasely again bravely attempted light-hearted conversation with the four teens, but Ron relied rather scathingly that he had a headache and wanted quiet and Mrs Weasely gave it up as a bad job. Harry and Hermione were sitting next to each other, something that probably didn't help the whole situation, but Ron largely ignored the seating arrangement and glowered at the fogged up window, as though trying to melt it all down.
Harry took the time to think about his plans, now that Ron was likely implacably against them. The youngest Weasely boy was not, perhaps, the most threatening enemy to Harry, and especially Hermione, given his lack of brains and his mediocre spell-casting, but in more personal terms, Ron commanded a strong loyalty amongst the boys of Gryffindor. Harry knew, from the previous year, that even the boys in his dorm would turn against him relatively easily, and Ron could turn them against Harry in an instant. Harry allowed himself a quick, sarcastic chuckle at the great loss of losing such wizarding talent as Dean "Acceptable" Thomas and Seamus "Not quite Dreadful" Finnigan. When Harry's mind reminded him that Neville was a member of that group, he sobered instantly.
While Harry had never planned to actively recruit, as such, he knew that Hogwarts would be where he gained the most support for his Right Side, and that his standing with the student body would greatly affect who would even be open to his ideas. With the boys of Gryffindor likely going against Harry, his thoughts turned to the girls of Gryffindor. With a sudden twinge of something close to shame, Harry realized he didn't actually know the girls of Gryffindor at all. The most time he'd spent with any of them individually had been at the Yule Ball when he'd, likely, disappointed Parvati and spent the whole night sulking with Ron rather than dancing with her. Suffice to say, the Gryffindor girls would likely be an uphill battle.
Harry was pulled from his mindscape when the smooth, black Ministry car pulled up to King's Cross and the brusque, standoffish Auror efficiently removed the teens' trunks from the boot of the car. The Auror, Relysh? Harry thought, glanced around to see if Muggles were watching, then shrunk the trunks and handed them off to the appropriate owner. Harry was mildly impressed that he made no mistakes in handing off the bags, even without asking.
Ron, as soon as he could, tore off towards the barrier, ignoring the shrieks of his mother, and didn't look back as he disappeared into the surging crowds outside the station. Harry felt the uncomfortable, nervous feeling he'd had the whole car ride settle into a solid knot in the pit of his stomach. He turned to Hermione and Ginny and gave an uncertain grin before striding forward into the station. Mrs Weasely followed them, muttering darkly about what she'd do to Ron the next time he came home for the holidays. Harry was suddenly grateful that the Dursleys had been Muggle, rather than magical.
The three teens, and the fuming matriarch, walked to Platform 9 ¾ with practiced ease, and moved through barrier with barely a second thought. Harry took in the absurdly bright gold and scarlet train with a sense of nostalgia, the masses of people and smoke pouring out of the smoke stack reminding him suddenly of his first trip on the Express. Harry was most definitely not that eleven year old boy anymore.
With a long hug and short goodbye, Harry led the way away from Mrs Weasely and onto the train itself, quickly finding a compartment for the three of them. They closed the door to the compartment and settled in, Harry and Hermione sitting on one side, with a seat between them, and Ginny in the middle seat on the other side. Harry glanced out the window and swept his gaze up and down the platform, looking for familiar faces. There was Luna, saying goodbye to her oddly dressed father, there was Lavender and Pavarti laughing and flirting with several Ravenclaw boys, there was Ron muttering darkly with Seamus and Dean, and there was…
Harry frowned.
There was Malfoy. But he wasn't swaggering and braggadocios as Harry would have expected. He was hunched forward, pulling his greatcoat close around his rich, black suit, and he was glancing this way and that as though a rat looking to dash across a kitchen floor. He reached over and unconsciously adjusted his left sleeve, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. With a conscious effort, Malfoy straightened his back and swaggered onto the platform proper, calling greetings Harry could not hear to friends Harry could not see. That was the Malfoy Harry knew, and seeing the smarmy little ponce scared and nervous etched itself into Harry's mind. It was somehow far more worrying to see Malfoy scared than to see him arguing with his mother in Diagon Alley.
When Malfoy left Harry's peripheral vision, Harry turned back to his compartment. Hermione had pulled open a book and Ginny was reading a copy of Witch Weekly. Harry grinned to himself and nestled further into the stiff-backed seat, seeking comfort but not expecting to find it. Ginny glanced up at the movement and grinned when she saw Harry looking at her.
The red-head put the magazine down and asked, "What happened with Ron this morning? Why was he all out of sorts?"
Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was very interested in her book. Sighing mentally, he turned back to Ginny. "He misunderstood something he saw this morning."
"What?" asked Ginny, her voice light and lacking all guile.
"Er," Harry began, before stopping to think about it. Harry's instinct was to tell the truth as, after all, he and Hermione had not actually been in a compromising situation. However, Harry was unsure whether or not Ginny's feelings for him had passed. If Ron was any indication, Weaselys reacted very badly to compromising romantic situations, and Harry was quite keen to avoid that with an ally. Harry had also always been told that women flew off the handle more violently than men and he wasn't entirely excited about experiencing the Bat-Bogey Hex that made Ginny so dangerous.
"I went to Harry's room to talk to him about something," Hermione said quietly, without looking up from her book, "Ron saw me leaving."
"Oh, is that it?" Ginny asked, "What a twit!" She smiled to herself and went back to her magazine.
Harry and Hermione shared an unnerved look. Surely that had gone rather too easily.
Before anything else could happen, though, the train began moving and the three teens were distracted with waving at Mrs Weasely standing on the platform, smiling and waving back at them. Harry felt a twinge in his stomach at the thought that she was probably waving at Ron as well; that his best mate not three months ago was likely vilifying him to a group of boys that would be sleeping not three yards from Harry. Ron had, obviously been estranged from Harry at times before, but nothing like this had ever crossed Harry's mind.
Fond memories of him, Ron, and Hermione going to and from Hogwarts, talking and joking and speculating what the year would hold for them. Hermione would be reading some incredibly dense tome or other, Ron would be regaling Harry with some story about the Chudley Cannons, and Harry would be basking in the presence of friends after a whole summer of nothing but the Dursleys. Hermione scolding Ron about having to finish his homework on the Express itself, rather than over the summer when he'd had "an abundance of time," and Ron's various, insufficient, protestations.
Harry stared out of the window at the passing terrain for a while, his chin resting on his palm, his mind wandering where it willed. He knew that he should probably be trying to get back into Greysight for his lessons with Snape, but Harry just couldn't bring himself to make the attempt. Harry was just too happy, too content to want to change his mindset to be colder and more cynical. Harry had no doubt what Snape would say to that mindset, but watching the peaceful scenery flow by in a blur of grass and sky lent Harry a serenity that even the specter of a displeased Snape could not banish.
Harry slowly came out of his reverie and found Ginny stealing glances at him. Harry tucked that away for future analysis and was about to say something when the compartment door slid open and a breathless third year stumbled in.
"Er, this is for Harry Patter," she burst out. When she realized her mistake, she went scarlet. "Potter! Oh my gosh, Harry Potter! I'm so sorry, how could I get your name wrong!?" She took a breath. "You're Harry Bloody Potter, you're the Chosen One, you're-"
"It's all right," Harry said, taking the note, "Thank you."
"I don't know," piped up Ginny, "I think I'll start calling you Harry Patter from now on."
"Patter does have a nice ring to it," murmured Hermione without looking up from her book.
"Please, no," said the girl, quietly despairing, "Please let this be a nightmare."
"What's your name?" Harry asked the girl, kindly.
"Rinoa Waterson," she mumbled, obviously mortified.
"All right then, Rinoa Yasterson," Harry said with a grin, "I'll see you around Hogwarts."
The girl looked up, saw Harry's smile, and sagged with relief. "Ooooooh, ok, I deserved that." She straightened and tried a grin at Harry. She was mostly successful. "See you around, Potter."
Rinoa turned and left the compartment and Harry sat back down, opening his letter.
"What's it say, Patter?" asked Ginny, no trace of a smirk on her face.
Harry sighed at the comment. "It's an invitation to lunch with Slughorn."
"Who?" asked Hermione, looking over with a thumb in her book.
"Oh, right," Harry said, "The new professor I recruited over the summer, the one who gave me that picture of my mother."
"What did you think of him?" Hermione asked, putting the book on the seat between them.
"He seemed nice enough," said Harry, "Said he hosted dinner parties for his favorite students."
"That sounds rather dodgy," said Hermione.
"My mother went to them," said Harry.
"Oh. Well then." Hermione glanced desperately around the compartment. "I suppose there's a chance they aren't dodgy."
Harry shrugged. "I'll check it out, in any case. I wanted to thank him again for the picture, anyway, and it can't hurt to get to know him a bit more before school."
Hermione chewed her upper lip, obviously torn between the inherent advantages in meeting an unknown teacher before classes and her hesitancy at the "dodgy" nature of the meetings. "Well," she said finally, "It's not as if I'm invited."
Harry chuckled. "I'll take you, if you want." At Hermione's quizzical look, he clarified, "I mentioned you to Slughorn and you're definitely exceptional."
Hermione went a little red, but maintained her facial composure. "I wouldn't want to be recognized via nepotism, Harry, but thank you."
Ginny, feeling a little left out, said, "Would you take me, Harry?"
Harry faltered. "Erm, Gin, well..." How to phrase it? "Your talents are...under the surface."
Ginny raised a dangerous eyebrow, "Potter? What does that mean?"
"Your gifts aren't valued by the wider public as much as mine or Hermione's," Harry said, frantically trying to pull his foot out of his mouth, "Not that they don't exist, I think you're wonderful, but other people, you know, er, they look at silly numbers and stuff."
Ginny blinked, then grinned. "You think I'm wonderful?"
Harry's mouth opened and closed, with no sound coming out. "Yes," he said finally.
Ginny went back to her magazine with a wide, contented smile on her face.
"Right, then," Harry said, looking over to Hermione, "I'll be off." He turned back at the door of the compartment. "Are you sure you don't want to come, Hermione?"
"I will be invited on my own merits, Harry," said the best witch in their year, with a tone of finality, "And if you say anything else, you won't be able to attend this lunch either."
Harry blanched. "As you say, Hermione." He got up and saw that he was still wearing his muggle clothes. That probably wouldn't matter to most people at Hogwarts, but still… Harry opened his trunk and pulled out the outer cloak generally used to fend off the formidable Scottish winters and fastened it around himself. Though a bit too warm to be comfortable, the cloak was quite effective in hiding his clothes from the world.
"Are you planning on wearing that?" Hermione asked, her voice cool.
Harry nodded. "Wearing muggle clothes holds no benefit, and could very easily hold a detriment, depending on who's there." He glanced about the compartment. "And I couldn't very well change in here, could I?"
Ginny went a bit pink and submerged herself in her magazine.
"Come here," said Hermione, exasperatedly pulling out her wand, "I'll make it comfortable."
Hesitantly, Harry approached. Hermione put her wand inside the cloak and muttered an incantation under her breath. Harry suddenly felt a cool breeze spring up, cooling him and making the cloak feel downright pleasant.
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said.
She waved him off in response.
Harry left the compartment and made his way up the train. Harry had always enjoyed rather a lot of attention from the rest of the school, for good or ill, and had always dealt with it by simply ignoring it. The more Harry thought about it, though, the more he realized that ignoring such a potentially useful aspect of his life was quite foolish. Harry had been convinced that good people simply didn't use fame to achieve selfish ends, that help should be offered and received based on the goodness of the action rather than shallow reasons like fame or even tangible reward. Harry wasn't entirely sure where he'd gotten this idea, a certain old wizard was the most likely source, but the more he thought about it, the more Harry was sure that he'd been incredibly naive.
What Harry had failed to realize was that being famous was not like most other forms of being special in society. If you were exceptional in some way, attractive or intelligent or powerful or what have you, the majority of people around still saw you as human. You still retained the same emotions and motivations and strengths and flaws as they did. Your thoughts and actions could easily be rationalized by those around you because, at the base level, you were still the same as they were. People had a mental infrastructure for thinking about intelligence, and someone being better than them. They could combine these mental infrastructures and still see the more intelligent person as human.
When you became famous, however, you suddenly became other.
What Harry had failed to realize was that famous people didn't have the same emotions or values as normal people. Famous people had motivations and feelings that were grander than what most people could imagine. They were simply beyond the world experienced by the mundane. Thus, whenever Harry had ignored someone because they were debasing themselves before the Boy-Who-Lived, he was reinforcing the idea that famous people were above others. It didn't matter why Harry was acting that way, what mattered was that everyone perceived him as being smugly superior to Colin Creevey, or whoever.
Harry decided that had to change.
And so, as he walked towards compartment C, Harry made a distinct effort to smile and wave back to everyone who looked at him. Most people didn't react except to grin, knowing that they were important enough for Harry Potter to smile and wave at them. This, coupled with Harry's recent exoneration by the Daily Prophet, ensured that they would all be more than fair to Harry the next time they heard rumors about him. Some nudged the people next to them, eager for their friends to see Harry Potter waving at them. Harry made sure to slow down so that everyone who looked would see him happy to see them. It slowed his journey considerably, but Harry figured it was quite the worthwhile investment.
Twice, girls came out to talk to Harry. One was Rinoa Waterson, only brave enough because of the urging of a friend of hers.
"Having a nice ride?" Harry asked, after a moment of Rinoa not speaking.
"Er, more or less," she said, fidgeting, "My friends are making fun of me for this."
"Sorry about that," Harry said with a smirk, "But surely there are worse reasons to be made fun of."
Rinoa looked up at Harry in horror. "Oh Merlin, I didn't mean…" She smacked her forehead rather hard. "Gods, why don't I think."
"What?" Harry asked.
"You were the target of such awful things last year," Rinoa explained, "For telling the truth." She shook her head. "And here I am complaining because you're talking to me. Sorry."
Harry waved her off. "No reason to apologize. The truth came out in the end." A little regret seeped into his voice. "I really just wish the Ministry had realized the truth earlier."
"You really mean that, don't you? You're not even mad that they slandered you for months and months?" Rinoa sounded incredulous.
"I, erm, wouldn't go that far," Harry said, "But I've found that it's a lot easier to ignore slights against you than it is to ignore them against people you revere."
"What do you mean?" Rinoa asked, frowning.
"Like, it's easier to forgive someone for something they did to you than it is to forgive an offense against someone you care about." Harry scratched his chin. "It's ironic, really, since humans are so often thought of as selfish beings."
"And you're smart too?" Rinoa's mouth was agape. "Blimey, you're more of a catch than even my mother thought." As she realized what she said, Rinoa's face went crimson. "No no no no no, like I mean that, ugh, you know-"
Before she could combust, Harry stepped in. "Rinoa." He put a hand on her shoulder. "It's ok."
The girl looked up into his eyes, for the first time Harry thought, saw his wry smile, then deflated with long, loud sigh.
"I'll just go back inside now." She turned back to the door, face still completely red.
"See you around, Rinoa!" Harry called cheerfully as the door opened.
As he walked away, Harry could just make out "You're on first name terms with him?!" as the compartment door closed. Harry didn't even need to try and grin at the next few compartments.
The other girl who approached him was a fourth year Gryffindor, as evidenced by a hastily donned badge showing a roaring lion, and Harry was quite positive that she needed no encouragement to came and talk to him. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, and her eyes were intense.
"Harry Potter?" she asked, with the confidence both of one who knew the answer and one who was well-used to being well-received.
Harry nodded, though his mind was less enthusiastic for this conversation. This girl was formidable.
"I'm Romilda Vane," she stated imperiously, as though that was supposed to mean something. Harry had barely a moment to consider the idea that, perhaps, that confidence was all it took for something like a name to mean something before she extended her hand.
Harry had the sudden feeling that he was being tested. "Miss Vane," he said, desperately trying to remember that he had the power, the influence, in this conversation. Harry reached a hand out and took hers, his eyes locked on her face, to see if he was doing the right thing.
Romilda Vane's eyes softened a bit, which Harry took to be confirmation. Knowing little about Wizarding protocol in these sorts of situations, if only Malfoy wasn't Malfoy, Harry followed what muggle custom dictated. He lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. The little gasp that followed told Harry that he'd done something, though whether or not that something was good remained to be seen.
"A pleasure, Miss Vane," said Harry, straightening and checking her expression.
"A-a pleasure, Mister Potter," Romilda Vane stammered out, her hand beginning to shake in Harry's, "Might I know what that was for?"
"Merely a custom of my upbringing," said Harry, trying his best to keep up the elevated diction this conversation apparently demanded, "My apologies if I have given offense."
"No, none at all," Romilda said, her other hand rising to her chest, "Your gesture is worthy of your name." She pulled her hand out of his and tried to regain her imperious glare. "Is it common for muggle men to interact with muggle women this way?"
Harry gave an apologetic smile. "Not as such, no. It is an archaic form of greeting a lady."
"A Lady, you say?" Romilda considered that. "Then, my Lord, allow me to greet you in our way."
Romilda curtseyed, her eyes low and her head dipped, then straightened. "I hope I may be of service to my Lord in anything he may require." Despite her tone, Romilda's eyes were anything but demure.
Harry took a moment to think about that, weighing her potential usefulness in the Right Side. She certainly seemed to know about Customs and such, which could be invaluable to Harry in his dealings with the political forces in Magical Britain, something he suddenly realized he'd have to contend with. Then again, Harry knew that he knew nothing about such things and that curtsy could easily have been put on. Regardless, however, Harry didn't know if her joining his side was in her own best self-interest, and thus asking her to join was against his principles.
Besides, what was it that Hermione had said? "Allies for their own sake are not always a good thing"?
"I release you from that," Harry said gently, again suddenly aware that those dark eyes were testing him, "For the dual reasons that I would not ask anything from someone I had not assisted in the first place, and that," he smiled wryly, "I, to the best of my knowledge, am not a Lord."
Romilda's eyes narrowed as she parsed whether Harry was insulting her or not. "Very well, Mister Potter," her eyes narrowed playfully and she smirked at him, "I shall find something for you to do for me."
Harry laughed, and was about to ask that it not be too difficult, before thinking for a second. She may not be simply joking and, by implication, agreeing to do something for her in the future was probably not the best thing to do. "You would have done well in Slytherin, Miss Vane," Harry said, trying to simultaneously compliment her obvious cunning, if indeed there was cunning to compliment, and to alert her that he knew what she was up to, if indeed she was up to anything.
Romilda raised an eyebrow, as if to take offense, then slowly lowered it. "As would you, Mister Potter," she said, her voice lower than before, "Though I suppose you knew that."
"It's a recent development," Harry said, "Though not an unpleasant one." He bowed. "I must be going now, Miss Vane, but I expect we shall see each other again."
"Till the next time," Romilda said, curtseying as before. She straightened and bestowed another imperious look at Harry. "My Lord." With that, she stalked back into her compartment.
Harry blinked, then sighed as the tension left his body. That had been difficult. Harry wasn't sure if he'd won per se, but he was pretty sure that he'd done better than expected. As a result of Snape's correspondence, Harry began mentally reviewing the conversation to see where he'd scored points and whether or not those could be transferable to future conversations.
Likely, Harry had missed how he was supposed to react to her hand, but had more than redeemed himself with what he'd done. That she wasn't disgusted with his muggle upbringing likely meant that she wasn't a Blood Purist, her being a Gryffindor also spoke to that, though Harry still made a mental note to find out if he'd committed some sort of a taboo with the kiss. It would certainly be...unfortunate if Harry found that he'd unintentionally become betrothed or something. As for how Ginny would react, that didn't bear thinking about.
The next part of note was likely when Harry had all but called her a Slytherin. Most Gryffindors would have been deeply rankled by that, but she hadn't been, even to the point of returning the compliment. That either meant that she didn't succumb easily to group prejudice, or that she had been insulted and had returned it to Harry as such. Given her tone, however, Harry discounted that last as unlikely.
So, Romilda Vane was likely a Pureblood, probably some level of noble, definitely a force to be reckoned with, and perhaps a potential ally. If Harry could play it correctly, and if her joining him was best for her, and, the biggest if of all, if Harry had actually passed any or all the tests in that conversation.
Harry breathed out a sigh. He was supremely glad that his Slytherin side hadn't surface any earlier.
Harry arrived at Compartment C rather on the late side and worried that he was being rude to the professor who so kindly invited him to lunch. However, when Harry walked up, he saw Blaise Zabini casually leaning against the compartment door. The tall, slim Slytherin insctinctively straightened when he saw Harry, a common move when any two Gryffindor/Slytherin met the other, and his face quickly arranged itself into a superior smirk.
"Potter," he said, his lip curling almost as naturally as Malfoy's.
Harry felt a flash of indignation, but Snape's voice rang out through his mind, "Think before you act in anger, foolish boy!" and Harry took a breath. "Zabini," Harry said neutrally, "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you," Zabini said, "And I expect for no better reason."
Harry tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Zabini laughed bitterly. "So there is someone left who doesn't know my mother." His lip curled again. "I forget that not everyone is in Slytherin."
Harry ignored the stab of irritation. "I'm sure Slughorn would have some reason to invite you." Inspiration struck like a flash of lightning. "It's not like he invites everyone."
Zabini frowned. "How do you know about the Slug Club?"
"He mentioned it over the summer," Harry said casually, "When I convinced him to teach this year."
Zabini's eyes widened, though he gave no other indication of his shock. "I take it back, Potter, perhaps you actually have a reason to be here." The condescension quickly returned. "After you, Chosen One."
Harry began to move forward, accepting the courtesy, but then paused. Zabini had been waiting outside for some reason. Leaning against a wall of the train was vastly less comfortable than whatever seating Slughorn had inside, and it wasn't likely that Zabini would sacrifice that sort of comfort for nothing. Harry paused, willing his brain to figure out what game Zabini was playing. Zabini, or any Slytherin for that matter, would never offer something that would make Harry seem above them. Therefor, it would seem that this would give some advantage to Zabini. Just because Harry couldn't figure out what that was didn't mean it didn't exist.
Harry looked back at Zabini and with, what he hoped was a knowing tone, said, "You've been standing out here longer, Zabini, surely you'll want to go in first."
A quick bit of shock passed over Zabini's face, for the second time Harry counted, but he smoothly replied, "A bit of standing is nothing." Again with the lip curl and the sneer. "You're more important, remember?" He gestured with a hand.
Harry figured he'd passed some sort of test by not accepting, so he kept going. "Er, I wouldn't want to be embarrassed by my lack of manners-" he took a step back, "Please, show me how to properly, er, enter a door," Harry finished lamely.
Zabini blinked at Harry's weak rejoinder, but took it in stride. "If the great Chosen One doesn't know how to walk into a train compartment, what hope do any of us have?" He bowed slightly, which probably meant something, "Please, Boy-Who-Lived, show me how you enter a door."
That was the second bit of false modesty, maybe that was how you won this game? "Ah yes, famous for something I don't remember and something I haven't done yet," Harry said, shaking his head slightly, "Whereas you-" so this is why Slytherins do all that research, "You actually have that...mother of yours..." Harry was not good at this game.
Zabini's lips curled into the first genuine smile of the conversation. "Having a mother like mine is less than the nothing you've claimed of your great and noble actions," And, with the tone of a chessmaster calling checkmate, "I insist, Potter. After you."
Harry froze. He lost. He knew that. He lost utterly, regardless of having to play without knowing the rules. Harry had lost before, sure, but he'd always known that the game was fair. He'd had advance knowledge about what he'd been trying to do, what his opponent was trying to do. There had been a common win condition as Hermione would call it.
This was different, though. Harry had bumbled into accepting a challenge that he had no idea how to face. He'd maybe done an acceptable job guessing the rules on the fly, but the result was that he'd fought a battle with no clear win condition and lost. The old Harry would have fumed and raged and- no. The old Harry would never have even played. Harry would never have even guessed that there was a game. Harry was improving. He'd found the game, even if he couldn't win it yet.
This was a victory.
Now, though, Harry had to decide what to do about Zabini in the moment. Harry could accept his loss with grace and walk in, but some part of him rejected that heavily. For all that the game was only words, Harry could still simply refuse to walk into the compartment. He'd probably fall in Zabini's estimation, but at least he wouldn't have lost. But again, Harry cursed his lack of knowledge, maybe that's what would make him lose more. Like, maybe part of the game is to acknowleddge your loss and take it with grace. If there was a better metaphor for politics, at least as Harry had heard others speak of it, he didn't know what it was.
Harry took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and reached for the door.
Just then, a tall, muscular, blond Gryffindor boy, already in his robes, strode up. "Cheers, lads," he said in a perfectly cultured posh accent, "Here for lunch?"
Harry nodded. Zabini ignored the boy.
"Cormac McLaggen," drawled the boy, extending a large hand to Harry, "Charmed."
"Harry-"
"Now, what are we all doing here in the hallway?" asked the boy, utterly ignoring Harry.
Struck by an idea, Harry caught Zabini's eye, then gestured to the door. "After you, Mister McLaggen."
"Right then," the boy said, opening the door and walking in.
A moment after the door closed, Harry smirked at Zabini. "Does that make up for my loss?"
Zabini, genuinely smiling again, "In a way, Potter." He put a hand on his chin, considering Harry. After a moment, he stepped forward. "You did well for your first time, Potter, and seeing McLaggen get his was quite satisfying." He extended a hand to Harry. "Slytherin will hear of it."
Harry paused for a second, his instincts screaming that choosing Slytherin over Gryffindor was the worst of all possible choices. Well, Harry had already made the choice, and it didn't make sense not to reap the rewards.
He took Zabini's hand and shook it lightly. He had to say something to pique Zabini's interest, the boy's knowledge could be invaluable to the Right Side, even if he never joined. "I've-" Harry checked his wording, "I've never shaken a Slytherin's hand before." Harry also sent what he hoped was a significant look to the other boy.
Zabini blinked and his hand tightened for a second. "I'll...remember that, Potter." He let go and calmly opened the compartment door. "Welcome to the game, Potter," he said in not quite a whisper before turning and walking into the room.
A few hours later, Harry sat around a table laden with food, utterly full and similarly tired of listening to Cormac McLaggen. If this was how the Slytherins saw Gryffindors, Harry suddenly understood where they were coming from. McLaggen talked endlessly about himself and all of the "bloody great adventures" he'd had with his uncle and his father. The stories weren't even interesting, they were just McLaggen killing some animal or other. No other plot, no intrigue, no puzzle to solve, no existential threat to Wizarding kind. Just killing an animal that you had no chance of losing to.
Finally, dessert was passed around, and McLaggen began to eat, rather than talk. Harry had shared more than one exasperated glance with Zabini at the ordeal, but now Zabini slightly raised an eyebrow, obviously some sort signal.
"McLaggen," he opened, condescension dripping in his voice, Harry had the sudden realization that there had been none of that at the end of their conversation, "As fascinating as hunting Nogtails is, I find I'd rather hear about a real adventure." Ignoring McLaggen's muffled exclamation, Zabini turned to Harry. "Is it true, Potter, that you slew a Basilisk?"
There was a sudden, vast, silence. Even chewing stopped.
Harry was suddenly the center of attention.
Harry froze for a second, sharply reminded of the Hog's Head tavern the previous year. Then, he saw Zabini in his periphery eyeing him the same way he had in the hallway. Ah, a test then. And what had been the moral of the last test? Harry's brain wracked itself to two whole hours ago...False Modesty.
Despite Harry's nerved, he had a plan now. Calmly pulling a plate of dessert over to himself, Harry slowly took a bite, as if to think. When his mouth was clear, he said, "Oh, yeah. Slew it with the Sword of Gryffindor." He shrugged. "Not the best story, honestly."
Zabini raised an eyebrow, as if to accept Harry's challenge. "Oh really? Apologies, Harry." A smirk stretched across his face. "Perhaps clearing up that rumor about simultaneously fending off a hundred Dementors would be more interesting…?"
Swept up in his role, Harry shook his head, "It's the same, honestly, as fending off one. Corporeal Patronus, seen one, seen them all."
Mouths gaped all around the table, dessert forgotten.
Zabini chuckled dryly. "Then I suppose escaping from the Dark Lord himself was similarly boring?"
Harry pretended to think about it, "If you care about rare, borderline mythical magical phenomena, I suppose you might be able to sit through the story."
"Now, see here-" tried McLaggen.
"Speaking of," Zabini cut in, his face breaking into a real smile, "Didn't you discover both the secret to the Mirror of Erised and retrieve the Philosopher's Stone in your first year?" His emphasis was not lost on anyone present. Most of McLaggen's stories took place after age fifteen, the legal age Wizarding children could begin "learning to govern their House."
Harry felt the tension grow, and he was almost loathe to break it. "Yeah." Then, after a moment, "Hermione and Ron did most of the work on that one, though."
There was a profound silence.
"Well, Harry my boy," said Slughorn, "I rather expect our future dinner parties shall not lack for entertaining story-telling."