Chapter 4. When a Spider Weaves His Web
"Mudblood!" Goyle spat out. His beady rat-like eyes were running Harry's figure up and down, flames of lust in them mixed with flickers of hatred. The bulk he had acquired in his seventeen years of life didn't make him any more attractive than an overfed blasted skrewt. If the Slytherin's ego was large enough to believe Harry would lie with him, the mindless creature had to think again.
"Your range of insults is as limited as the number of your brain cells," Harry replied coolly, not looking up from a fragile ancient tome on battle magic. The name-calling used to hurt him, but not anymore. Out of the corners of his eyes, Harry watched Goyle dumbly open his mouth and process the information.
Huh, I doubt he will make it before dinner. Harry flipped the page, returning his attention to the fascinating book. If I believed in Goyle's brains, might as well believe that the Deathly Hallows are not a children's tale, and immortality exists.
"It's time to go, guys," Draco Malfoy announced from his position at the mirror. The blond was fixing his green and silver tie, a cool and pleasant expression on his face. Turning his head to the sides, Malfoy checked for everything to be perfect. The blond spent a hellish amount of time in front of the mirror.
"But shouldn't we put the mudblood in place?" Goyle ground out. Harry only rolled his eyes and flicked another page.
How boring. In seven years, one would think they could change the repertoire of questions and morning rituals.
"And be late?" Malfoy curled his lip and finally turned away from the mirror, directing his attention to the lowly mortals. His hair was as blond as ever and height – here Harry narrowed his eyes in envy – as ridiculously tall as it had been the day before, the previous time in front of the mirror. Obviously, nothing drastic had changed in his body overnight, and the blond was happy.
Sometimes, Harry wished to join the Weasley twins and play a prank on the haughty pureblood heir.
Alas, with them being Gryffindors, it wasn't easy. His every gesture and wrong word would be analysed by the House of Lions. Not in his favour.
Their loss, then, isn't it? Harry thought as Malfoy passed him without a nod or a word of acknowledgement, his face a frozen aristocratic mask of politeness merged with the airs of superiority. Typical. All purebloods are so charming. A bunch of rich toffs.
This time, however, something was different.
"We used to follow every word you said... But you're not so mighty anymore, are you, Malfoy?" Goyle bit out with a nasty smirk splitting the pudgy face in two, as his hand grabbed the quieter Crabbe before he could step up to Malfoy and follow him like usual. "We all saw the lil' blood traitor wipe the floor with you."
Harry raised an eyebrow and propped back on his elbows to observe the confrontation through half-lidded eyes. Malfoy's goons abandoning him? Not that big a shock, if he thought about it. Goyle's confidence in himself had been steadily increasing, proportionally to the growth of his duelling abilities – the bloke's style was rubbish, if it existed at all, but by flinging around bursts of pure power he succeeded in disabling his adversaries. Or killing them. Mercy? Overrated by a mile.
Malfoy stiffened. Harry realised, with a sharp sparkle of vindictiveness and malicious glee, that the blond barely resisted slumping his shoulders and shrinking in on himself under the razors of Harry's, Crabbe's, and Goyle's gazes.
The Crucio from Harry's wand had not only pained Malfoy; it had obliterated all the vestiges of authority the teen had had, shedding light on the weaknesses and faults of the pureblood, the ones previously hidden in the convenient darkness of the allure, and wealth, and prestige of the Malfoy name.
Ah, sweet, sweet revenge.
You will live my life for a while, it seems, dear Draco. Blatant weakness, the kind you showed – in front of your beloved Dark Lord, no less! – is not tolerated in Slytherin. It is despised, resented, hated, and the person displaying it doesn't deserve so much as basic human mercy. The only thing we can do to the whelps who whine at every littlest sign of pain or a mere scrape, is to end their useless existence. Or make them top themselves. Not like someone would care, no?
Wasn't this what you told me after humiliating me in the middle of the meeting, all those years ago, after you had publicly hexed me? And you were all taunting me, not a hand outstretched to help?
"I see you've got yourself a backbone, Goyle?" Malfoy hissed, albeit still stiffly, while his clenched fists trembled just enough for the human eye to see.
"Jus' realised we're not what people call us – your gu- gone- goons! Yeah, that's the word. We don't have tah be this anymore, now that you're not our leader." He thought – which looked like a damn hard piece of work, mind you – for a moment before pointing a fat finger at Harry. "Besides, I want him."
"Terribly sorry," Harry said with disgust lacing his voice and cracked a crooked grin. "I don't go around lying underneath some slabs of lard. My bones are too fragile to survive under all this weight. And it wouldn't be a blast explaining to Madame Pomphrey how I've got a fracture."
"You will not touch him," the blond demanded from his peer, grey eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled. Harry blinked after shooting him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "Imagining you in a sexual relationship gives me day-mares, and considering that the only place to snog here is the dormitory, I will not have you two copulating under my watch. Keep it in your pants until the holidays, at least."
Ah, that's closer to the poncy arse I know.
"I don't have-"
"Your family are still subservient to mine," Malfoy interrupted. Snakes of frost slithered up the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory. "Or have you conveniently forgotten this tidbit? I order, you obey. Simple, really – even for your debatable brains."
Goyle stood still for a minute, sorting out this information, a constipated frown of thinking process clear on his face. Finally, with a glower and a 'fuck you' in Malfoy's direction off he stormed, probably to drown his sorrows and grudges in pumpkin juice and to stuff his face with a mountain of banana cupcakes. His loyal, mindless friend Crabbe by his side all the time.
"Oh, what's that, Malfoy?" Harry quipped, lounging lazily on the bed. His head tilted backwards. "Protecting me? How gallant."
Malfoy's body shook with fury, desperate rage, like a volcano before bursting with lava. When his head rose, his eyes gleamed with steel, and it was the most arousing look Harry had ever seen on him.
"How dare he!" the blond hollered. Harry winced from the sound. "After all I've done for him, all the chatting-up and butt-licking of professors so they would give him a passing mark-" His voice dramatically lowered. "After all we have been through together, all the moments we have shared..."
"Never thought you were so attached to those two laddish brutes," Harry remarked. He stood up and stretched, not noticing Malfoy's quick glance at his graceful arch of the body, akin to that of a cat's.
"A Malfoy must never walk alone," Malfoy griped, his knuckles whitening. "Father says it is undignified and shows one's decline in influence. There should always be someone on the flank to show that subservience to one of ours is something to be proud of." The haughty tone he had assumed, the one that told of lofty world of nobility and political prowess, evaporated when Malfoy added in a normal, waspish voice, "Besides, it is plain embarrassing. I would feel like a social washout going somewhere alone."
Harry chortled at that, picking up his school bag from the floor and adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
"It seems the Malfoys are out of fashion now. You'll get used to it, oh the walking pinnacle of dignity and pride."
"Of course." Malfoy's glacial eyes could freeze water, but not Harry as he gritted out, "Blood traitor must be acquainted with this kind of treatment."
"Intimately. And whose fault is that?" Harry gibed without real malice in his voice. He loathed Malfoy for the cruelty the blond had saturated Harry's childhood with, but sometimes the blue-eyed teen's remarks entertained him, too, and on those days he would feel lenient and wouldn't retort with one of his small but oh so satisfying revenges.
He suppressed the urge to cackle. If they only knew. A Marauder's legacy doesn't die just so, not even in a jungle of bullying and endless, tiring struggles with it.
"But I am NOT!" the blond nearly shouted the last part. Frustration was rolling off him like an avalanche, accumulated since that night in the ballroom and only increased with the incessant jibes from the Hogwarts population and the proper pureblood community. A public humiliation wasn't forgotten easily, not in the days they lived in.
Harry surveyed Malfoy from the corner of his eye for several seconds. He shrugged.
"Anyway, oh illustrious local pureblood wonder, you may walk with me to the Great Hall if a few corridors alone are too big a scare for you."
The reactions will be fun to see. I'll even endure your presence for that.
Malfoy sneered, and an expression as if he had just consumed a barrel of sourest lemons possible overtook his face, twisting it. "And that helps my situation so much, Potter. People will flock to me with admiration for parading around with a blood traitor hanging off my arm."
"Suit yourself," Harry threw nonchalantly, not really caring. His pleasant moments aside, Malfoy irked him most of the time.
Befriending the blond had been Harry's most coveted and secret dream in Harry's childhood, a zealously guarded wish he had never revealed to any living soul for fear of a landslide of criticism and onslaught of hatred, just like he had never let on that the general derision toppling him, a mere child of nine, had hurt him for all the poker-faced facade he maintained. The idiocies of his youth.
Thankfully, the fallacy of finding a friend in a Malfoy had abandoned him long ago. Harry had never asked it back.
As his polished shoe crossed the threshold, a loud outcry interrupted his musings, and not a moment later a set of school robes rustling alerted Harry of a person scampering to join him.
Not so high an' mighty now, are we?
"Changed your mind?" Harry didn't bother keeping the smug undertones out of his question. Malfoy's furious gaze burned.
"As if!" the blond squeaked indignantly and rushed past Harry's form into the corridor that led to the common room. "The way to the Great Hall is the same for all of us, imagine that."
Harry's lips hitched upwards as he lazily followed the other teen, and the glee shimmering in his eyes didn't wane even under the glowers that accosted the pair when they ambled through the common room. Not even when Parkinson spat insults and wailed at her 'dear, darling Drakey-pooh's descent into 'blood-traitorishness', and loudly proclaimed him a threat to all things dignified and pureblood, while Malfoy was slowly withering and hunching in on himself, yet clinging to Harry's presence like an overly dependent puppy you wanted to kick but spared in the end.
Malfoy's banishment wouldn't last long, what's with that family's historical position amongst wizards, but a debt of honour – that would. Oh, how fortunate it all was! Harry would help the boy, somewhat endear himself to him, protect him from bullies – and if those didn't show up, Harry could always use his dear Aunt's fortune and arrange some – all the while pretending to be besotted with Malfoy's favour and budding affection between them.
Yes, striking a 'friendship' with the Malfoy heir would benefit him.
And please Harry all the more when the time would come to show the blond how much he actually loathed him – after the sod had formed an attachment, of course. And after Harry had killed the leader of the Dark.
Life is looking up.
Harry's target was sitting at one of the numerous rosewood tables of the library, proper and composed, not a brown hair out of the usual bird's nest she sported, not a wrinkle on her fine Ravenclaw robes. Perfect. Harry licked his lips.
Summoning his usual confidence and a guileless expression on his face, Harry strode to the girl he wanted to 'befriend'.
"You are Hermione Granger, right?"
The smile on Harry's face screamed 'fake' but was so utterly convincing that when the girl looked up in confusion only for her cheeks to redden, he just ticked the mental list. And here he had hoped things would be different with her...
Despite this, when her eyes immediately sharpened a moment later, this sparkle of infatuation snuffed out of existence and hastily forgotten, when she straightened out and surreptitiously covered the titles of the books scattered across the table with a great piece of parchment, when she replied with a charming smile of her own, Harry confirmed that the rumours didn't lie and indeed Hermione Granger was a capable witch not only in the book department.
Then again, there usually was much more truth to rumours than people liked to believe.
"Harry Potter, right?" the girl retorted without motioning him to sit down and join her. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at his abrupt attempt to talk to her out of his own volition after so many years of maintaining a level of cool respect between them, no warm feelings seeping in. Obviously, she sensed something dodgy about it. Clever girl.
Harry covered a smirk by an embarrassed cough.
But not clever enough.
"I know we've never really talked before and all..." he began in a soft voice, conveying awkwardness with his inept shuffles and a shy quirk of lips. This part was important. He had to play it right. "Still, I thought I'd ask you- I mean, you really are the best person for this, I think, so-"
Hermione's eyes softened by a margin and when she spoke, there was no real bite. "How about getting to the point? I still have an essay to do – the laws of permanent transfiguration of body parts can wait, but Professor McGonagall won't."
Harry made his eyes brighten and face light up as he nodded enthusiastically and pulled a chair to plop down with a loud sound.
"Exactly!" he exclaimed and shot a charming grin at Hermione. "This is what I want to talk to you about."
"The laws of permanent transfiguration?" Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Brown eyes now glazed with wariness, she probed, "Um... Sorry to tell you, of course, but at the rate you are going now, Potter, don't you think it might be over the top?"
Line, hook, and sinker. Harry loved his mask of a witless dueller; it left so much room for improvisation.
"Exactly," he repeated and leaned over the table, grasping one of her smooth, dainty hands in his own, and continued with a plaintive sigh. "I want you to tutor me."
At first, she stared. Then, she let out a chuckle of merry laughter, which erased the tension in her lips and forehead, and it struck Harry that this was the only time he had ever seen her so full of mirth and without a disapproving frown or scowl.
"I don't do any tutoring," she finally said after calming down, looking surprised at her outburst and pointedly staring at her quill instead of Harry, unwilling to acknowledge that he had made her laugh. And is it regret I see here? "I'm sorry. You have to find someone else. I think Padma, Terry, or Su would love to teach you, you know."
Harry shook his head with vigour, appearing frantic, although inside he was drifting in a sea of calmness. She would agree. Simply because Dumbledore wouldn't give her any other choice: according to the teen's suspicion – and those, modesty aside, usually proved to be true – she was one of the Order's spies, and the man would never let an opportunity to have Harry on his side slip. Just like the Dark Lord, Harry was sure, would make his move soon and secure Harry's subservience.
It felt wonderful to be the tool everyone fought so fiercely to have on their side, in their misguided superiority forgetting that Harry had his own agenda and had smarts and abilities to counteract whatever manipulation they threw at him.
Just like he was doing now.
"You don't understand," Harry said in a soft, hollow voice. His beautiful face scrunched up in a grimace of misery and beseech. Hermione reached to squeeze his hand, her own eyes bleeding with confusion and an undercurrent of eager anticipation – she didn't get to hear other's secrets often, and another bit of knowledge always came in handy. "No one really does. It's not Transfiguration itself that bothers me. No, not quite. I could be a total dunce in it like Crabbe, and I wouldn't care, but I have someone who does..." he trailed off suggestively.
Hermione's puzzlement was palpable until it hit her and she gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, her pretty brown eyes wide with-
Was it fear? Concern? For him? Harry gritted his teeth to keep himself from an incredulous snort, his mind as if blocked, hindered from the onslaught of warm feeling threatening to churn in his chest.
It was just a game. She was a pawn. Nothing more. There would be no real feelings of affection and companionship between them, because that desire remained one more prisoner in the confines of Harry's jarring childhood, that imaginary jail filled with the broken bits of all his wishes and aspirations, the ones he had locked up and forgotten in his bid for revenge.
Vengeance was everything for him now, the very keystone of his way of life. Without it, he would simply crumble under the negativity, pain, suffering, denial, disappointment, cruelty, which were the bricks of his existence.
Not vengeance, Harry corrected himself. Justice. Voldemort will receive his due, and I'm sure people will only thank me for that later, despite the sacrifices they will have to make. What's that saying Grindelwald's so famous for? Ah, yeah. 'For the Greater Good', it all is.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione snapped him out of his musings, apprehension growing on her thin face as she cocked her head and stared. "Your adoptive... mother."
"Not mother!" Harry snapped and thumped his fist on the table, furious. Seeing Hermione flinch and inhale, hearing the smack echo in the library brought him back to the situation he was in. He reassured Hermione with a twitchy grin and a wave of his hand. Perhaps he could use it, after all. His next words were a whisper. "She's not my mother-"
"I'm so sorry," Hermione cut in and reached to trace a finger down his cheek. "Oh, Harry – I'll call you Harry, all right? – it was so stupid, so insensitive of me- I should have realised you are still sore after your parents' death and it's inconsiderate of me-"
Harry held up a hand to stop her and surreptitiously moved away from her fingers. He didn't like people touching him. Usually, it meant only pain or trouble.
"You are right, it's inconsiderate." He blathered on before she could utter a word. "Still, Bellatrix is not my mother but she is my guardian and holds a lot of control over me and my life. You can't imagine the nasty things she can do..." The shudder he did not have to fake.
"And, of course, she needs you to have great marks," Hermione finished for him. Harry nodded with a grateful smile.
Finally, we are going somewhere.
"Yes. Transfiguration included. And you are the best in the subject."
Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip and fiddled with her fingers, still uncertain. She probably hadn't yet received any missive from Dumbledore explaining Harry's potential affiliations, and was now swinging back and forth between duty and compassion like a pendulum, pitying Harry and wanting to help him, but unsure of how her leader would take her gallivanting around with the ward of the notorious Dark witch.
Well, there was always the tiny chance she wasn't one of the spies in Hogwarts at all, but the probability was so slim it was laughable. Harry couldn't be mistaken here.
So, I just need to prompt her a bit. Easy, really.
"You have some trouble with Duelling, right?" Harry questioned innocently and grinned at her affronted scowl as she drew back and huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. So easy to rile up. That might be a disadvantage in the future. He needed his 'link' to be calmer. Well, they would work on it, if time afforded.
"I do NOT!" she hissed like the Dark Lord's snake that visited Lestrange Manor all year round, carrying messages from her master. "I am doing wonderfully, thank you very much! My marks are perfectly above adequate and our professor never complains and- Honestly, Harry Potter, what gave you the idea?"
"Maybe these?" Harry lifted the parchment spread on the table and revealed the dusty tomes on the art of duelling, battle spells, and defensive shields. He tapped his chin in mock contemplation. "Hmm... What might they be, I wonder? After all, you so clearly expressed you have no need for additional research on duelling, huh?"
"There is no limit to perfection," Hermione insisted, once again looking anywhere but him. The obviousness annoyed Harry.
How am I supposed to use the blasted girl if she can't mask her bloody feelings if her life depended on it? And it will. Of course it will, with what I've planned for her.
"This might be the truth," Harry drawled calmly and waited until she relaxed. "But you don't even hit the mark of 'really good', Gran- Hermione. Sorry to burst you bubble."
"Now you are behaving exactly like I would expect you to after hearing the rumours," Hermione hissed. Even her hair seemed to acquire a life of its own, and Harry wouldn't be surprised to see it morph into snakes and parrot their mistress. "Arrogant, haughty, self-important-"
"Self-assured, and nothing of what I've said to you is a lie," he snapped before regaining his control and schooling his features into that softness and vulnerability people like Hermione adored, swooned over. "I need to better my Transfiguration, Hermione. The awful things she will do to me if I don't... Please, you must help me."
Harry summoned a pathetic, pitiful expression he would never otherwise wear on his face and peered at her through his thick eyelashes. Victory flooded him when determination was slowly eating away at the hesitance on her face. Just a little push.
"Do you want me to tell you how much she hurt me?" he addressed her. In a flurry of black robes with silver and green trimmings, and a ponytail of black hair, he latched onto her arm – he didn't mind the contact when he initiated it – and clutched it tight. "This is important, Hermione. I know you have plenty of twits crowding you all the time and pestering you with all those half-arsed excuses for why you must do their work for them, but with me, only two hours a week will be enough."
Enough to influence you and turn you to my side, because I'm here and Dumbledore is not, and you want recognition, which I will give you after killing the Dark Lord. After all, I've got no intention of dying after that. And survival isn't guaranteed if you are hunted by sycophantic worshippers bent on revenge.
So, my dear, when I'm through with him, the title of his defeater is all yours.
"All right," Hermione finally relented, her sharp mind drowsy with sympathy Harry professionally invoked in her. Abruptly, she raised her chin high and puffed out her chest. "And there is no need for duelling lessons, Po- Harry. I am studying by myself."
"You need them," Harry insisted. Having her as an ally and then let her die would be bothersome. Finding another strong-willed puppet would be a back-breaking chore, and Harry would rather spare himself that. "'Perfectly above average' doesn't mean much when half the class are doing superb, and the professor never complains only because you are a muggleborn, thus he doesn't give a damn."
"Are you a blood purist?" Hermione demanded sharply, her eyes narrowed.
Oh no, my dear, we are not diverging from the topic.
"It'd be hypocritical of me to be," Harry placated her with a patient countenance and inclined his head, making raven-black hair fall on his eye. "Blood traitor, remember? Besides, my mother was a muggle. It would be disrespectful to all my memories of her to disparage this heritage."
"Oh." She looked properly chastised, deflated. "Today is a strange day. I have never behaved so inconsiderately before."
Harry shrugged and allowed a small smile to dance on his lips. "Even geniuses can have a day off from being so composed. It happens. Anyway, my aid will be necessary to you."
At her protests, he threw her an exasperated glance.
"You are barely keeping up, Hermione," he reproved her mildly and smirked. "I, on the hand, am the best damn duellist in this entire school. If anyone can help you, it's me. Not least because initially I had problems with this subject."
"You did?"
"Yeah." Harry nodded and noticed how enraptured Hermione became, the way she bent forward in interest, eager to hear how he had acquired his current skill. "Believe it or not, I couldn't cast a Stupefy without it backfiring." A chuckle bubbled out of his throat before he swallowed to cut it off and pierced Hermione with a freezing stare. "And then I realised I needed it. I needed to become stronger. Needed to be able to fight, if only to put up a good fight with Malfoy and his posse. And they are nagging you, too, right?"
Hermione slowly tilted her head in agreement, and her eyes gleamed, and Harry knew he had her.
"I know that many of them underwent some training in summer, since we're now expected to take our duties as Death Eaters seriously." He refused to think of the cursed mark on his forearm. It was too much. "They are no match for me, but they'll wipe the floor with you-"
"Always so full of yourself, Potter!" a familiar voice butted in, and even before turning his head, Harry mentally sighed. Really, what was he expecting? Where Hermione was, Ron Weasley always stalked.
"Is there a course of some sort for timing your dramatic entrances like you do?" Harry asked coolly without deigning to snap his head to look at the newcomer.
Weasley ignored him. Weird, that. Usually the redhead blistered and snarled and yelled and-
Oh, of course. Hermione Granger was there.
"Hey, Hermione, are you okay?" The gangly teen walked up to the Ravenclaw and started checking – more like 'feeling up' – her for injuries before she went red and shook his hands off herself, shoving him away. Weasley's freckled face crumpled in hurt, and Harry realised with dread that this was akin to an episode from a family drama. "You didn't have to push me this hard! I was only trying to make sure you're okay after-"
"Yes, Ronald Weasley, I'm perfectly okay after spending an hour having a pleasant talk, imagine that! But I will not be so okay if you don't make yourself scarce this very moment! Please. Before I do something... unfortunate."
"I- I just-" Weasley stammered, red splotches on his face, and lifted both of his hands to shield himself from the girl's fury. "I didn't know! I mean, he's a Slytherin and all, so-"
"If your sight is usually failing you so badly as your brain," Harry drawled with a pleasant smile on his face, standing up, "I can tell you that half the students are Slytherins. It's pretty prestigious, you know, with the Dark Lord being one."
The redhead's expression contorted into rage as he spat, "A slimeball like you would know. After all, sucking up is the only way to be a squad leader with your dubious smarts and abilities."
"Squad leader?" A frown creased Harry's forehead and he refused to believe what had to be unmistakeable, yet so very mind-boggling that there was a dam on his comprehensive ability. "What are you yapping about, Weasley?"
With a nasty grin, the taller teen mocked, "What, your secret is out now? Afraid that everybody's gonna know that you're some upstart git's lapdog now, 'cause this is the only way for you to have this position when they denied it to me, though I'm so much stronger than you and-"
"Weasley!" Harry's sharp shout cut through the rant and severed it like it would a thin thread. The mentioned teen cringed and shivered under the suddenly astute and intense pair of bright green eyes, which bore into him with a frightening amount of malicious force. Harry stood up and raised his chin, demanding, "Explain right now!"
"You are a slime bucket," Weasley gritted out and marched up to Harry in all his scruffy glory. Yet, he stopped just the right respectful step away, wary of Harry's shark-like smile. You can't drown a self-preservation instinct completely, after all. "That's all there is to know."
"Do you have a masochistic streak of sorts?" Harry asked incredulously and closed that distance between them to grab the Gryffindor red and gold tie and pull it, ignoring Hermione's gasp behind the redhead. Despite possessing a smaller frame, Harry displayed clearly who was in control here. A spell buzzed beneath his fingertips, ready to shoot off on his command, and Weasley's scared face spurred him on, and their magic clashed and overlapped them, and filled Harry with delightful energy.
It was exhilarating. To have this control. Knowing, that a mere pull of will – and Harry's magic would incinerate the boy, being too strong to submit to any other's.
"Headmaster Dolohov asked me to pass on a message to you."
"I'm waiting. And Mordred forbid you make me wait a minute more. Not all people have the time to dally here, so chop chop."
The abhorrence on Weasley's face? Precious.
"Fine. You're to meet Dolohov tomorrow at six-something to discuss your placement as a squad leader. They're granting you the title 'cause you're so powerful or whatever. You'll speak to him. Now, release me!"
Harry complied, his mind still locked on the fact that he had unwittingly snatched the position many coveted, and patted Weasley's cheek.
"Not so hard, was it? If you behave, with time you'll realise that playing a good boy will get you much farther with me than acting so annoyingly tough all the time. It's stupid. You should've simply told me the information sooner and trotted off to whatever brooding lair you have."
"Harry!" Hermione berated with an irritated scowl.
"Well, off I go!" Harry flashed her a smile which was marginally warmer than his usual fakes. "Cheers and I'll find you somehow to discuss when and where we're going to meet."
"Hermione! You can't! I- I won't let you go with him wherever he wants you to, 'cause, you know, he'll lure you in, trick you, and do something- something bad or worse, and-"
Harry didn't stick around to hear what the rest of the rant was about, busy as he was. And this animosity wasn't novel to him.
Apparently, the fact that Harry didn't struggle every day against the unfairness of blood purists and the Dark Lord's reign in general was a dark mark against him in Ron Weasley's book.
Harry could certainly live with that.
And Hermione...
He had been hesitant to approach her, even as he had contemplated the idea in the stern darkness of Lestrange Manor, lying in his bed, exhausted, feeling as if he had passed through a colander but in reality had merely endured another perilous bit of training with Rodolphus.
Yet, she was the most probable candidate for the role of the Order's spy.
It couldn't be anyone on the staff – that much was sure. Oh, Harry was so certain not because of some misguided faith he had in McGonagall, Flitwick, Babbing, and some others, not to mention that's he could always whiff something fishy about Snape. Harry wasn't daft, and, sadly, neither was Voldemort.
The Dark Lord didn't want to lose capable teachers, because those were hard to come by, so he had tweaked the dark marks of all former or suspected members of the Resistance movement so that they were now physically unable to betray him.
Harry heard that some chit had tried it. She had been so happy after relaying a piece of information to her allies. Right up until she exploded and her entrails hung all over her husband.
So, students were left.
Purebloods and, for the most part, halfboolds were bloody happy under Voldemort's rule, so that left him contemplating mudbloods and blood traitors like himself, and Harry knew the signs of wavering loyalty to the Dark when he saw it.
Hermione Granger was perfect spy-material. She was intelligent, albeit not very covert while lying, seemingly rule-abiding – she hadn't lost a point in all her Hogwarts years – and meek, and also appeared resigned to her station in the world, even though most other mudbloods waged attempted wars on Hogwarts staff and students, trying to return the course of things to the pre-Voldemort's days.
While people like Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, and Justin Finch-Fletchley ran around the castle like headless chicken in hopes of causing some ruckus here and there, pointlessly battling against the system, she sat back, and observed, and memorised. Much like Harry.
And if Harry could see the benefits of the girl, so would Dumbledore.
And, probably, Voldemort, which was why Harry hadn't outright stated his sudden burning love for the Light and a desire to jump sides. The Dark Lord had eyes everywhere.
Making Harry all the more excited to wriggle out of those traps and accomplish his mission.
He preferred thinking about his goals and successes instead of nightmares and what being a Death Eater comprised.
No matter how much Harry scrubbed, it would not go away.
The droplets of water beat down his body in an endless stream as he stood under the shower, tense, shoulders trembling, and rubbed his arm, that place previously unmarred but now tainted with the image of a skull and a snake. The skull's open jaws eerily resembled a mocking smile.
He had that horrifying claim forever etched onto his skin, a symbol of his subservience, one that wouldn't go away even long after Voldemort's death – always there, always a reminder.
Still, so many people wanted to carry that claim... Harry remembered Malfoy's vain pride, and Nott's quiet anticipation, and Zabini's shiver of excitement... And those were all his housemates! Voldemort-besotted people were many, all across the country and going far beyond it.
Very often, when he was afraid to dream his nightly horrors, unwilling to plunge in the darkness of his memories, Harry lay at night thinking what made people cater to the whim of a deranged psychopath, because surely that was all Voldemort had ever been – a batty delusional loon with an illusion that he was destined to have the world.
And yet...
Harry remembered the man's charisma, remembered the pull he had felt to him despite the loathing, remembered the seductive whispers and surprisingly pleasant voice-
If he hadn't been the one to order his parents' deaths, would Harry be just one more member of the world-wide fan club?
The idea frightened him. Mostly because of its high probability.
But he did order it, Harry told himself firmly. And without a strong reason, too. If my parents did something truly nefarious, then yes, I would forgive him because that would be him acting for the country's benefit. But they didn't.
His path was set. For the rest of the evening, Harry chided himself for ever doubting it and succumbing to Voldemort's dubious charms.
Next Chapter: What being a squad leader means, a very long Tom/Harry part, and some duelling action! Also, from the next chapter the pace will be picking up, and there will considerably be more action and interactions with the Light side.
Thanks for all of your encouraging reviews! I will reply to them in a couple of hours, just after I'm through with cooking dinner. You guys are awesome and really make my busy days, so I can't even express how much I adore you all!