A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far and to everyone who's added me to their story alerts. Even though there were more story alerts than reviews it still makes me happy to know how many people are following Serpent Tales :)

Chapter 06 – Fire Draught

Harry woke alone the next morning for which he was glad. Usually he and Ron dressed and went down to breakfast together but today Ron had left him sleeping. But then, Ron had seemed a bit more distracted than was usual as of late. Harry wondered with bemusement if Ron had kissed a Slytherin and burned for an evening too. If he had, Harry was certain he'd never find out about it. This wasn't something he would be willing to share either.

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, a new thought striking him. He may not have to share it—probably Malfoy already had. Probably, Malfoy had already told the entire school. Probably, he was sitting down in the Great Hall right now, mocking Harry and laughing at his expense.

Groaning, Harry debated staying in bed for the rest of the day. He might have if he hadn't remembered that he'd ignored Dumbledore's letter yesterday. In the clarity of a new day, a fresh start, the guilt he hadn't felt last night for his offense welled in him now. He should go apologize. And besides, between a disappointed Dumbledore and an entire student body judging him by his newly discovered sexual orientation, he'd take Dumbledore.

"Enter," said the familiar voice, now laced with an unfamiliar heart-turning discontentment.

Pushing open the heavy door Harry was greeted with the sight of Dumbledore, his wand once again imbedded in the snake-like instrument he'd called a Reader. Dumbledore seemed bowed under the information the Reader was giving him, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed. Harry waited silently until he straightened.

Without looking at him, Dumbledore removed his wand and circled his desk to take a seat. Harry sat too, unsure what to say.

"I can make neither head nor tails of it, Harry," Dumbledore finally said.

"Sir?"

Dumbledore's eyes met his and they looked sad—old. "The Reader has finally raised more questions than it's answered. I can't figure it out this time. Its message has eluded me and it has become frustrated with me."

Harry's eyes widened. "You speak of it like a sentient being."

"Oh yes," agreed Dumbledore. "When you're connected to the Reader, it feels quite like having a second brain in your skull; one that you have no control over—that has thoughts and feelings separate from your own thoughts and feelings."

"Seems like a great headache," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. Then he said; "But I believe you have something you wanted to say."

"Yes," Harry said, bowing his head with sudden remembered shame. "I wanted to apologize, sir—for ignoring your letter last night."

"And why did you ignore it, Harry?"

"I was—er, well, I just...was tired."

Dumbledore tilted his head, spied Harry through his half-moon spectacles. His eyes seemed probing, like they could see right through Harry's half-truth. Harry was suddenly struck by how quiet it was.

"Understandable," said Dumbledore after a time. "It occurs to me that I never do consider whether the times that are best for me are best for you, though I do put in effort to ensure my requests don't overlap with any of your previous engagements. Perhaps you would like to draw up a schedule with me?"

The guilt Harry felt doubled. Dumbledore was too kind, too accommodating, when Harry had bluntly ignored him without even a reason.

"No sir," Harry shook his head. "The arrangement we had before was fine. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for last night and that it won't happen again."

Dumbledore smiled. "Very well, Harry. I trust that it won't. And while you're here and I have some time to spare, what say you to completing the lesson I had planned for yesterday evening?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent." Dumbledore rose and summoned a cauldron and some potion supplies from a cupboard across the room. "We'll be brewing the Fire Draught today. It's a potion that you might have found handy in your first year."

"What does it do, Professor?"

"It allows the drinker to withstand great heat, even walking directly through flames."

Harry grinned at the memory of the obstacle course the Hogwarts professors had assembled in his first year to protect the Philosopher's stone. A Fire Draught surely would have been helpful to escape Snape's trial, had Hermione not been with him.

Dumbledore continued. "Fire is one of Voldemort's very favorite allies. Can you guess why?"

"Because it's destructive," Harry guessed. "And it spreads?"

"Yes, those are the most basic of reasons. But more because Voldemort is afraid of the dark."

Harry thought this sounded silly. Children were afraid of the dark, not the ruler of all evil wizards.

"Ignore your preconceptions, Harry," Dumbledore said, reading the thoughts on his face. "The dark means something different for us than it means for Voldemort."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"What does the dark mean to you?"

Harry shrugged. "Nighttime."

"Precisely. Plain and simple. Darkness means the sun has gone down, the moon has come up, and it's time to rest, peaceful in our beds. For Voldemort, darkness means the demons of his past are chasing him."

"The people he murdered?"

"Those," Dumbledore nodded. "And the people he tortured, the ones he hurt, the ones he turned against him and his cause—all of these directly and indirectly."

Harry was confused. "Do you mean he regrets all of that, then?"

"Absolutely not. Voldemort doesn't not have enough of a soul to feel something as glorious and painful as regret. No, he fears all of that. He fears retribution. And so he favors the bright company of fire, to chase away the nightmares. And he attacks and kills with fire in hope that it might snuff the dark before it is born.

"Which is why," Dumbledore continued, his voice newly invigorated. "I will be teaching you how to brew the Fire Draught. After drinking it you can step through Voldemort's light and become his darkness."

Harry laughed and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "We will begin with shredding a knot of fluxweed."

Hours passed and Harry grew sweaty and hungry. Dumbledore kept his office well insolated so that heat pressed in on all sides of the potion, as the instructions stated. And as the office grew warmer, the instructions grew more precise.

Add exactly three hairs from the leg of a bumblebee. Give three and one half stirs clockwise and a quarter stir counterclockwise. Use a syringe to insert one teaspoon of Fanged Geranium poison into the bubble forming at the bottom of the cauldron. And on and on until Harry was sure there was no ingredient they hadn't yet added.

Twice Dumbledore expressed dissatisfaction, claiming the potion wasn't exactly the right shade or didn't smell exactly right. He assured Harry that if it wasn't perfect, if he couldn't fix these mistakes, he would burn when he tested the final results. And Dumbledore would make him test it, whether he'd gotten it right or not. That was how his potion lessons with Dumbledore always ended—with either failure or triumph.

Today Harry longed for triumph and did all he could to rectify his errors. He had no desire to feel even a slight reminder of the hours he'd spent burning only yesterday.

Then, finally, Dumbledore declared him done.

"There is no more you can do," he said and Harry's heart felt like lead in his chest. Surely that meant he had failed.

Dumbledore offered a full ladle to Harry. The potion was almost clear, tinged yellow, and still boiling even though Harry had extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron almost an hour ago. He accepted the potion with trembling hands and drank it. It slipped like ice water down his throat.

Raising his wand, Dumbledore conjured a rounded, shallow dish and then a single, flickering orange flame. It danced in the center, crackling and taunting.

"Run your hand through," Dumbledore instructed. "I have a salve prepared should it burn you."

Harry wasn't worried about lasting effects. He trusted Dumbledore to heal him quickly and efficiently. But the pain of fire was an all too recent memory.

He hesitated and then whipped his hand over the flame so quickly that it's grappling fingers had no time to find purchase. A faint streak of soot ran the length of his palm but other than that he was unmarked.

"Again," said Dumbledore.

Harry knew what he really meant: slower. He obeyed.

This time he lowered his hand from a foot above the flame, slowly, slowly. Any second he should feel the faint warmth elevating, burning, scalding. And then his hand was in the fire, it licked up and around, dancing over the back of his hand. It was faintly warm, like a second hand holding his, caressing his skin. It tickled with tiny kisses and Harry turned his hand over, scooping it up, petting it.

"How strange," Dumbledore commented. "And I was sure you added too much hellebore. An old man's mistake, perhaps."

Harry smiled, playing with the fire. He dumped it from one hand to the other and bounced it on his palm like a ball. "Excellent," he hummed and Dumbledore smiled. But Harry noticed that it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well done, Harry," he said. "I suppose this means we won't have to repeat the lesson. One down, countless more to go. That will be all. Feel free to take the fire, but do extinguish it when you're finished."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, leaving the office with the fire wound between his fingers.

He passed through the castle this way, absorbed by the flame and his thoughts, not watching where he was going or who he passed. Then, a voice called him and his eyes widened with worry. Ron was jogging around the corner, catching up, and Harry thought he knew why he looked so eager. Surely he wanted reassurance that the rumors he'd been hearing weren't real—that Harry hadn't actually snogged Draco Malfoy.

Harry's heart felt lodged in his throat as Ron skidded to a stop in front of him.

"Quidditch practice today, Harry?" he asked excitedly.

Gasping a sigh of relief Harry smiled, bringing his hand back up and resuming his play with the fire.

"Bloody hell! How're you doing that?" cried Ron. He made to reach for the flame but cringed back from its heat.

Harry grinned. "Fire Draught. I just brewed it with Dumbledore. It allows me touch anything, no matter how hot, without getting hurt."

"Brilliant!"

"Yeah, but listen to this," Harry said, dropping his voice.

He explained quickly about what Dumbledore had said about the inadequacy of his obviously perfect potion.

"Well it's gotta be like he said, an old man's mistake. Right?"

"I dunno, Ron," whispered Harry. "When has Dumbledore ever been wrong?"

"Bloody hell," Ron mumbled again.

Just then a group of Slytherin girls whisked by, offering no reaction to Harry or Ron's existence. This distracted Harry.

"Er...has Malfoy been...er, saying anything about me today?"

"Wha—" Ron shook his head like he was banishing a pesky fly. "Nah, haven't seen him all day."

"He wasn't at breakfast?" Harry asked.

"Nope. Why?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed as he reflected on this new knowledge. Ron interrupted his thoughts in an oddly quiet but aggressive voice.

"Who gives a toss about Malfoy? I wanna play some damn Quidditch!"

Harry shot him a glare. It was a rather rude way of him to say it. "Fine," he said. "Let's just get some lunch first."

Ron's eyes went wide and then he flushed scarlet. His next words were barely a whisper: "Did I say that out loud?"

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him in disbelief, then led the way to the Great Hall.

"Is it just me," Harry talked over his shoulder to Ron. "Or has everyone forgotten their manners lately?"

"Sorry mate," said Ron, catching up. "I didn't really mean to say that out loud."

"You said that already," Harry muttered, feeling like that was no excuse for his bluntness.

"I know I did, but like I'm trying to say, I didn't mean to. Errant thought, y'know?"

Harry gave him a look. "You sound like a broken record, Ron."

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

Ron gaped at him, face full of confusion. Then he shook his head and kept moving. "Nevermind," he murmured. "So did Hermione tell you that she skived off a Prefect meeting? Some Head Girl, eh? Thought I don't blame her with Malfoy milling about."

He laughed and Harry joined him, forgetting about their little tiff and enjoying some time with his best friend.

When they arrived at the Great Hall Harry found it unusually loud, like the common room had been the night before. It was so earsplitting, in fact, that he jammed his fingers in his ears, though this did very little. He glanced around as he took his seat, expecting all eyes on him. He must be the source of the outburst. Maybe, for some unfathomable reason, Malfoy had waited until lunch to spread the news.

But he received no more stares than usual, though some were bewildered by his fingers in his ears. He removed them cautiously as he scanned the Slytherin table. Malfoy was not there. How very odd.

He turned to Ron, surprised to not find him also cringing at the noise level, and asked; "Where do you suppose Malfoy is?"

Ron shrugged, filling his plate to overflowing. "Probably off shagging some tart. I hope his boinker falls off." He laughed raucously at his own joke. Harry found it a little crude, even for Ron, but was amused.

Or that must be what the warmth spreading over his face meant, because he refused to believe that after one bloody kiss even a mention of Malfoy's 'boinker' would spark anything other than disgust in him. Yes, he could now admit he was gay. Yes, Malfoy's kiss had been the cause of that acceptance. But there was no way in hell he would be the result of it.