Author's note: thank you for following me and for the reviews. The reviews help me write!
Hope you enjoy this chapter.
btw, hope it's obvious that the world and characters belong to jkr, and the plot to me.
7. Influence
Harry is walking towards the Quiddich pitch with his housemates and he has an overwhelming sense of loss. He should be out there, on the pitch, listening to Oliver's, or Flint's, he supposes, instructions, preparing for the game, instead of heading for the stands. For the first time since he arrived into this world he fully understands the magnitude of what he has done.
Harry thinks it is ironic that Quiddich is what makes him conscious of all the things he should have realized and accepted weeks ago: that he cannot return, that his friends will never be the same, that he is slowly changing into someone quite different. Hermione would scoff and say Quiddich should not provoke such strong emotions, and Ron would say that hey, he's still in a much better place than where he was. Harry knows this, and he does not really regret coming here, but he still cannot help feeling deflated.
He is in the stands, and everyone is cheering. Slytherin is playing Griffindor, and Harry has trouble rooting for the right team. Seven years he spent in the red and gold of Griffindor, catching the snitch for the house of the lions. Now, he finds himself groaning with the others when Angelina scores, but a voice in the back of his head keeps insisting that something is very wrong. When he spots the snitch, it is with great effort that he stops himself from pointing it out to the oblivious seekers.
Half an hour later, the Griffindor seeker captures the snitch, and Griffindor wins the game. Half an hour after that, Harry approaches Flint in the locker rooms.
"What do you want Potter?"
"Our seeker's no good."
"Yeah, I haven't noticed that in the two years I've known him. If you don't have a better option I suggest you sod off."
"I can play."
"You're a firstie, you're not allowed. And I don't know you can play."
"You could test me, and if I'm any good we could ask professor Snape to ask professor Dumbledore to make an exception for me."
Flint looks unconvinced and it is a show of how desperate he is that he nods.
"Tomorrow, before dinner. Come to the pitch, and don't be late."
...
Lucius Malfoy is eating breakfast with his wife, reading a copy of the Prophet and thinking that one of these days he would have to get around to hiring Skeeter, when Narcissa says:
"Darling, I think you should tell Draco to stop this nonsense"
"Hm? What was that?"
She takes the paper out of his hand and folds it at the edge of the table. A house elf (Holly, he thinks, but he cannot be certain) appears and takes it, and disappears again after refilling their cups with fresh coffee and cream.
"I said I think Draco should stop acting like a child."
"He is a child".
"He is a Malfoy, and a Black, and I will not have him embarrassing himself and destroying any chance of an alliance with Potter."
"From what I hear Draco is not the only one to blame."
"But he is the one we can control. Make him see sense, darling, I am getting fed up with his whining. "Potter is so horrible, Potter is insufferable, why does everyone love Potter?" It's driving me mad."
Lucius sighs. If he is honest with himself he has to admit that Draco's letters are getting annoyingly repetitive.
He looks at Narcissa, as she sits, back straight, robe folded in just the right places, her very posture screaming "pure blood" and thinks that he must make time to take her out dinner one of these days. It's been a while, several weeks, since they went out together last. He has been busy with work, persuading that idiot of a minister that passing laws that allow werewolves to be educated is not a wise move. It isn't, really. The dangers are countless and Lucius doubts the creatures can ever learn anything. He thinks of Fenrir, and the way the huge werewolf ate the body of a muggle child, and the way the Dark Lord smiled and patted his arm as though saying "good dog". Lucius would never admit it, but Fenrir Grayback is one of the very few people, or creatures, that frighten him. The thought of Draco in the same room as that monster haunts his dreams. He prays that if, or when, he supposes, the Dark Lord regains power, Grayback is no longer alive, but something tells him that is too much to hope for.
"All right, Narcissa, I will write to him, but I am not sure it will do any good. I think he knows everything I have to say."
"Perhaps. But if he does not listen to you, I am sure there are other ways to influence him."
They would never hurt Draco, but a small reminder that Lucius has the power to induce great pain and has done so many a time is enough to put Draco in his place. Lucius is sure that Draco does not believe they would harm him, but that the boy will never know for certain.
"Do you ever think we spoil him?"
"I know we spoil him, but what is influence and money for, if not to spoil ourselves?"
"Yes. You are right of course".
"Aren't I always?"
"Oh yes, darling, you are."
He smiles, and says:
"Why don't you meet me at the "Billion Herbs" tonight? I can reserve a table."
"That would be marvelous. I love that restaurant."
He knows she does, and indeed it is a very nice place. The cuisine is delicious, the waiters polite and efficient, and the cooks know that for Malfoys, they should use their best recipes.
Lucius finishes breakfast and stands up. Dobby appears and hands him his formal robe. He kisses Narcissa and goes over to the fireplace. He takes a handful of floo powder and throws it into the flames, and states, very clearly:
"Ministry of Magic, minister's office", and steps forward.
...
Harry's Quiddich tryouts are scheduled to take place this evening so he is excited when he enters the Defence classroom. Quirrel is his usual stuttering self so Harry is playing tic tac toe with Blaize and considering whether to start the DA a couple years early. He would call it something else, of course, perhaps Neville's Army, but if Lockhart is still hired next year it might be prudent to begin teaching everyone proper Defence. Ironically, the most competent teacher besides Remus was Crouch, and Harry sincerely hopes to avoid his coming to Hogwarts.
He is also unsure who to approach about Flamel. Maybe it would be safer to leave the stone in the mirror of Erised, but he fears Neville might need the practice and the encounter with Voldemort. Harry determines to talk to the boy, but there will be some complications. For one, his mother confiscated his cloak.
Harry still can't believe she did that. The Dursleys used to punish him, of course, but it had always been for things he didn't do and he always managed to trick them. Besides, it feels odd to be punished at 19.
"M-m-mist-t-ter P-potter, t-t-tell me, w-what-t is the d-d-dd-issssarm-Ming sp-pell?"
"Expeliarmus, sir."
Harry fights the sarge to grin. Here is Voldemort, teaching Harry the spell that will ultimately bring about his death. Harry wonders if Neville gets it, if Neville here has the aptitude for Defence that he found during Harry's fifth year.
The bell rings, and they file out of the classroom and go to dinner. Harry sits a few seats away from Malfoy, and is surprised when he hears:
"So Potter, I hear you might get on the Quiddich team."
The voice is not friendly, but it is a far cry from the usual disgust.
"If I'm lucky. What's it to you?"
Malfoy looks embarrassed and somehow very unhappy, but relies politely enough:
"I'm concerned about our house's reputation, naturally. Our seeker is inadequate so I hope you will have more skill."
"You know I can fly."
Something close to fear flitters across Malfoy's face and he nods assent.
"So Draco, you've come out of your sulk?" Blaize butts in, his mouth full of raspberry tart.
"I was not sulking!"
"'Course you were." Daphne quips. "You were always glaring and complaining about everything."
"Shut up."
Draco's ears are red and Harry takes pity on him. The boy is only 11 and Harry is supposed to be a responsible adult.
"So maybe next year you could try out as well? Maybe for chaser?"
They keep talking about Quiddich, discussing tactics and remembering important games they've seen. Harry drops a hint about Crum, but when everyone looks blank he backtracks and goes back to explaining why the Cannons are the best. It is not hard, after listening to Ron for years.
After dinner he appears at the pitch. Flint looks sour and mutters about "wasting his time". Harry mounts the broom and flies a couple circles, and then, out of nowhere, Flint yells : "catch, and troughs a little stone into the air." Harry leans close to the handle, with mounting excitement, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as he speeds closer and closer to the ground. He is meters away when the pebble is in his hand and then he turns slightly and flies towards Flint, his arm extended and the stone resting on his palm.
The Captain looks impressed but tries not to show it.
"Not bad, Potter, now why don't we try again."
It is only after two hours of throwing and catching, when Harry is sweaty and tired and his breathing is labored, that Flint lets him go.
"You're on the team. I'll talk to Snape in the morning."
Harry mumbles a thank you and staggers to the showers and then to the common room. For once he is glad that it is not on the top floor. He falls into bed and goes to sleep at once, and he does not dream at all.
...
Dragging a troll into Hogwarts is not simple, and Voldemort wishes he had chosen a stronger wizard. Quirrell's utter inability to cast an efficient Imperius is driving him crazy and he has to resort to threats to make the weakling try harder.
"I will ssssskin you alive, Quirrell, and take a ssssssstronger body, and you will ssssssssuffer more than Bellatrix's toysssss."
After hours of hard work and nagging, the troll is in his power. It takes two more hours to cast enough Confundus charms on the student body to make them leave the secret passage and the dungeons to allow him to bring the troll inside. He had chosen Halloween because it is the night he died. He thinks it is only fitting for this to be the night of his return, but it is a pity that the troll will not kill any students. They will be in the great hall, enjoying the feast.
"Their last feast."
As he runs to the doors prepared to shout: "troll" he thinks, gleefully, that Dumbledore will not have time to know what hit him.
Another author's note: I will be away from home for the next 2 weeks, and I do not know if there will be wifi. I will try to update as much as I can.
