Harry steps into Snape's office, ready to pester the man until he would send a letter of inquiry to the Ministry. Snape had yet to open his mouth, and it had been the same each day for the rest of the week: Harry would stay moody and terse at breakfast, Snape would avoid his eyes, and Malfoy would dramatically roll his eyes and snipe at him to no avail. Everyone was miserable, it suited him just fine. He would not rest until Wormtail was behind bars and Sirius was free; and until then, Snape could wrestle with the ghosts of his own misdoings that he was to find in Harry's green eyes.
In Potions class he had been burning holes with his eyes behind Snape's back and sliced up the flobberworms in a haphazard way until Malfoy all but growled and shoved Harry out of harm's way as the cauldron bubbled furiously.
"My hero," Harry said, not taking his eyes off Snape.
"Stop talking, unless you actually mean the rot that comes out of your mouth, Potter," Malfoy snapped. They've taken to pairing up, and it was a boon to be standing next to Malfoy, who seemed to know his ingredients with an ease that Harry only expected out of Hermione. He had tried complimenting Malfoy at that score ("Merlin, Malfoy, I didn't know you had skills that might make your family proud.") which Malfoy did not quite take the right way ("Potter, you insult my family again and I'll tell you what a dirty Mudblood witch your dead mother had been.") and had led to quite an ugly scuffle. He had curbed his sarcasm and let Malfoy stir out their potion sullenly and peacefully.
"Should I—" Harry reached for the crushed beetle eyes, not quite looking to see where they were. His fingernails scraped the wooden table.
"No, be my guest and continue to stare at our Head and try to read his mind, I doubt you'll succeed," Malfoy muttered, but just then, class was dismissed, and Snape walked over to their table and inspected their cauldron with a bored air.
"In my office, Potter," he had said, waving his wand and making the Potion disappear, "And next class, do try to act up a half-hearted attempt to mimic Mr. Malfoy's skills. I daresay you may need them."
And with that, Harry trots after Snape's footsteps, into his office, where nasty things often happened to him for inscrutable reasons. He enters, expecting a telling-off or yet another session of suspicious eye movements until he would be dismissed. Or perhaps they would kill each other with their stares, Harry at this point is quite ready to do that at this point.
He pushes open the door and walks in, and there stands Sirius.
"Harry," he says. Sirius seemed to have been pacing around the small room and abruptly stops as he sees Snape and Harry standing in the doorway. He does not register Snape's sneer (or perhaps opts to ignore it), his eyes only for Harry. He is in his ragged clothes, and his black hair is tangled and dirty. He looks like a convict, is a convict, just like all those years ago back at the Shrieking Shack, the same maddened eyes, the same haunted voice. He repeats his name.
"Harry," he croaks. His hands grapple at something until he curls them into fists. His eyes are wide. "Is it really you?" As if he does not believe the scrawny boy standing before him. As if he does not quite believe where he is, who he is indebted towards.
"Shall I stay here?" Snape says, and by his tone, he wants to do anything but. Harry gives a small shake, and tries to say something. A thank you would not stand amiss; an acknowledgement of Snape's deeds should be mentioned. A sob is clogged inside his throat and he cannot even manage a simple sir. Snape saves him the mortification and steps away, pushes him none too gently into the small room. He shuts the door behind him, and. There they are, together and alone.
Harry stares.
Hullo, Sirius, he imagines. You've never met me before and I shouldn't know you, but I've seen you in my dreams. Or in another life, but never mind that, you'd think me barmy and anyways, that life wasn't a very happy one. You ride a ridiculous motorcycle and it makes a horrible roaring noise when it races across the night sky and the Muggles all look up to see what the racket is about. Or, yes, I know that didn't actually happen but I sometimes think you were the one to deliver me to the Dursleys instead of Hagrid, only at the last minute you decide to kidnap me back you your place and raise me as your son. And mind, this is a world where you're actually a responsible adult and you don't go off in an irrational rage to find Pettigrew, so you're a free man and you can raise me just fine, blood wards be damned. But unfortunately you do go ahead and try to get your own justice and so I don't get that wonderful childhood of mine, but that's okay because what I'm trying to say is that you're going to do that for me now, aren't you, I mean, let me ride your stupid loud motorcycle and buy me ridiculously expensive brooms and not go ahead to a reckless fight and kill yourself.
Or maybe not, Sirius, maybe not. You'll just offer me a home right now, and I will say yes immediately, even though I am not supposed to know you yet and it's dangerous, but I don't care because in another timeline I really didn't know you when you actually offered and yet I still said yes immediately. The Dursleys were that horrible, you see. You would think, that after a cupboard and a drafty old bedroom I would have trust issues, but I didn't, not when it came to you, and I wanted to live with you so much even back then, because you were offering me a home, you were offering me a chance to be free and I was so sure, even with your disheveled hair and wild eyes, that you would do me no harm, I just knew. Turned out I was right anyway, yeah? So you'll take me away and I can pretend now you are truly alive. Because you are, you're standing right here. So I can just touch you, just like that.
Right, Sirius?
He opens his mouth. Chokes a little.
"Harry?" Sirius says, voice small and hesitant.
And he cannot say those words jumbled inside his mind. All he needs is a word from his godfather, and he is a blubbering mess. He is thirteen again in another lifetime, overwhelmed and scared and just very happy that someone in this world can offer him a home.
Someone hugs him. He cries and cries, and the arms around him tighten, and a soft hissing voice soothes him, hush, hush, Harry, it's okay now, and Sirius is very awkward at comforting people yet he somehow does it for Harry, this poor man who had rotted in Azkaban and tormented by his own demons, and this makes him laugh through his tears. Sirius laughs a little too, chokes and murmurs, Harry it's okay, I got you.
It is a lie, but Harry is comforted by it, if only because Sirius does truly believe in such a future. Sirius, you are alive. He does not say.
They stay like that for quite awhile.
.
.
.
The last thing he remembers: he is about to send Snape a note, to thank him, perhaps, or he was walking down to the dungeons late at night, to try to talk to the man and get a reaction out of him, discuss his condition as a time traveler and coax Snape into cooperation and manipulation. Or maybe not. He is still in Sirius's arms, basking in the filth and dirt from Sirius's body, and after they both recover, the first thing out of Sirius's mouth is "Harry, Merlin, I can't believe you're in Slytherin, what am I going to tell James?" and it is said in such a fond way that Harry finds himself laughing and choking all at once, as Sirius continues, mock-offended but his voice cracks as he continues on "And now I'm indebted towards Slytherins! Horrible, just awful." And for a time they just stand there, grinning and staring at one another, until Sirius breaks first and the jokes are gone, his eyes going very soft and sad, as he murmurs, "You're all grown up now, Harry," and Harry opens his mouth to try to say something comforting to his godfather, he does, he will, but.
The world goes black.
.
.
.
He hears a voice. A familiar, snide voice, older than he expects it to be. Not the childish, endearing Malfoy who would chop up his shriveled worms for him, not the Malfoy who cannot even throw a decent hex. Not the Malfoy he is used to seeing every morning, with his tousled hair and his pale eyes not yet filled with cold hostility. The Malfoy he knew, who he had left behind to be eaten alive in Azkaban. He hears footsteps.
"Potter, I don't know why you're so keen to make such a horrible racket in the mornings, but some of us—"
Malfoy's voice floats in the air and hovers; stops. Harry thinks, get on with it Malfoy, speak up, I lost you for a bit there.
Malfoy's pause lasts for a short while, but the moment is enough to make him aware of how heavy his eyelids are, how unmoving his body is. He tries to open his eyes and finds them to be deadweight.
"…Potter?"
Malfoy again. But his voice is now tinged with an edge of fear. That was new—no, wait, Harry thinks. He did hear such terror before. But it was in a dream, surely; Malfoy was not really captured by the Aurors and thrown in Azkaban. It was a morbid fantasy, something Harry wished in his darkest hours. It wasn't supposed to really happen.
There is a great thumping on the floors, and he is shaken by a rough hand. "Potter?" Malfoy repeats, louder. And Harry can hear him quite well, he wishes to tell Malfoy that there was no need to shout so loudly. Don't be an overdramatic queen, Malfoy. He'd like to see how Malfoy would take that particular tone of his. "Potter!" He would really, open his mouth, only to make Malfoy go away. He was such a nuisance sometimes, wasn't he? He tries to move. All is futile.
"Kreacher!" Malfoy's voice is distant, and he feels his body warm up. Malfoy is using spells on him. Not a wise move Malfoy, he wants to say. The Aurors might come barging in. But of course, he is stuck, immobile. He cannot give Malfoy the proper warning. Malfoy throws spell after spell upon him. Your wand has a spell limit, you moron, Harry wants to say. Stop endangering yourself for other people, you were doing so well on that regard, too.
And then soon, the Aurors show up, and he hears the familiar screeching, the pure terror wrested from Malfoy's mouth—POTTER, I DIDN'T KILL POTTER!—and Harry wishes to say, of course not, Malfoy's learnt his lesson, he won't meddle into the Dark Arts any longer, he's not a murderer,
but he soon falls unconscious. Black overtakes him.
.
.
.
A ringing sound. A sob. A voice.
He wants to wake up. I had the most beautiful dream, he wants to say. I imagined Sirius back again, and this time he was really free, he won't be on the run anymore, his name was cleared and he's going to offer me a home.
I had a dream. I was eleven, and I was sorted in Slytherin but Ron and Hermione were still my friends and even Malfoy was a tolerable prat when he was younger and no Dark Lords tried to control him. I was trying to kill Voldemort. I guess I backtracked and tried to save everything at once. It's so hard to do everything again, did you know? You want to do everything; you want to be everything. You want to save the world but you also want to stay and talk with your friends who had once been innocent. You want to bask in the childhood that never was. You want to talk to everyone whom you had once shunned, you wish to make amends with the dead. No wonder wizards and witches go mad, those who meddle with time. You revel in the fact that you're playing God to the ignorant. You alone know what is to come, but you have no way to stop the inevitable.
A voice. A name.
It's Malfoy, there's no other person. Harry's too private these days, he doesn't even go out—
Will he wake? I'm feeling his pulse, he's not breathing, you must tell me—
Harry, Harry, can you hear me?
Yes, he thinks, I can hear you just fine, Hermione, please don't nag, you're just as bad as your eleven-year-old self had been. But he is too tired to speak. Another voice cuts off his thoughts. Soothing, that voice is. Rich and amused, it washes over him.
Sleep, this voice croons.
He listens to the voice.
.
.
.
When he finally wakes up, he is in a white bed inside a white, bare room. It reminds him of mental wards from old Muggle movies, where hysterical people repeatedly scream, I'm not mad, I'm not mad! He refrains from doing just that, and carefully looks around.
"You're awake."
And turns his head. Hermione must have been sitting in the very uncomfortable looking chair next to him, and now she is standing up, the chair toppling in her haste. Her eyes are very wide. She does not even stop to listen to his reply before she sends off a Patronus to Ron and repeats, in a hoarse tone, "He's awake, Ron!" and her otter goes scurrying off. Harry stares at her.
Oh, he thinks blearily. So I'm back. He flexes his fingers. He knows from Hermione's aged face, from the way his body is weary and worn, from the way the voice inside his head agrees. So, you're back.
He tries to smile at Hermione, but she is more vicious and angry than Harry had ever remembered her as. "Don't you start, Harry James Potter!" she snaps, her finger pointing at him. Her eyes blaze. He drops the smile and feels his face sag. Her eyes accuse him. I was worried about you, we were so worried about you, are you trying to get yourself killed? The same pleadings for the past many years all flow back into his mind. Perhaps Hermione as a child was always very docile and quiet, or at least the Hermione Harry had left behind, and he had made her into a raging woman. Or perhaps, it was all a wonderful dream, a world in which he had the ability to fix everything that had happened, except, really, he hadn't fixed anything, the world had become more complicated.
Ron comes barging into the room. Older, taller Ron. He does not choke up like Hermione, nor does he point fingers and starts screeching. He takes one look at Harry and nods tightly.
"Okay, good," he says, out of breath. He takes a quick look at Hermione. "Good, he's alive." Harry wants to laugh. Ron, you're always so late for everything. He bites his lips lest he sounds hysterical.
"Of course he's alive," Hermione says, but in a much calmer voice. She even manages to make her voice sound scornful. She plops back down to her uncomfortable chair and Ron steps in, drawing a chair that had been stashed against the wall. He sits down carefully, as if Harry would suddenly drop dead the moment there was a loud racket. Harry clears his throat and tries to get his mouth moving.
"So," he says. His voice is deeper. He sounds tired. "How long has it been?"
Ron and Hermione exchange a look.
"Weeks," they both say. They do not offer how they had been, what they have been doing. He sees it all in their eyes. He sees what they have thought, how they might have steeled themselves from the worst. Well, he thinks, it's nice to know that they care, after all these years. It was a funny thought; he banishes it immediately.
.
.
.
Hermione was the one who found him with the knife.
It was years ago, Hermione, let it go now, will you. Harry would say on the nights when Hermione was drunk enough to stare at him and touch him tentatively, as if he would disappear into the thin air. She would never do this when she was in her right mind. Sober and in control, she would talk about the traumas of war and what it may do to people, give him books on soldiers who had returned after the war and how they had coped. Harry would protest, but I was never a solider, Hermione, I've never been in battles, I've never learned how to kill. (Does she listen? Of course not—she is immovable and persistent as she has always been.) Inebriated, she would be less prone to lecture him and tended to let out small cries of distress instead. He wondered what was worse. He would refuse to acknowledge it. She would run a finger over his arm and brushed under his wrist but he would not meet her eyes. He would not answer to her unspoken question and sat sullenly until the moment would pass, until she would hiccup and pour herself another glass. Ginny would look at her a little perplexed, not knowing the sudden source of Hermione's bout of melancholic gestures. Hermione? she would perhaps question, amused and worried (and jealous? Harry would like to know the state of Ginny Weasley's mind on most days concerning his state of availability), Are you okay? You've had a little too much to drink, I think.
Fine, I'm fine. Hermione would dismiss. Her eyes would then search his. His cue would be to stare at the fireplace. Harry, are you?
I am, he would say, short and sharp. Ron did not intrude in their conversations during these times, and Harry dearly wished he would. Does Ron know? Did Hermione tell him? He wished Ron would burst out like fire, as he once had. Maybe then Harry could scream too. These were the days before Malfoy, mind. Harry did not have anyone to goad, and so he sat, day after day, feeling like the sulky child Hermione treated him as. Blessed are the days of Malfoy and his werewolf state; at least then he could bring himself to be the mature one and Malfoy the petulant, moronic child. If only.
Hermione was the one who found him in the bathroom, knife in one hand, a wrist stretched out, ready to be sliced and open (he wasn't really, he would later say and no one would ever believe). It was instinctive, he tried to explain, there was the blade and here was his hand. Years ago, a man had yanked out his hand and forcibly took blood away from it and resurrected his worst nightmare. There was still a little thin white scar running across his skin to remember those days long gone. Sometimes he touched it and remembered. He placed the blade upon that white line, just like all those other times, and thought nothing of it. He wouldn't do anything. Just. The blade was cold and thin above his skin, and if he only loosened his grip a little, the silver would sink down in his flesh. A wand would only slice his hand clean. What an impersonal touch that would be. He would do it properly, like a Muggle would (he had dug the grave of an elf after all, said he would do it properly and he would grieve properly; he had relished in the pain back then too, he had felt alive and burning in those hours of sadness, relished the non-magical ways that made his body ache). My head was white, he said, repeatedly, when Hermione found him later. She screamed and yanked the knife out of his hands. I wasn't thinking Hermione; I wasn't trying to do anything.
She stared at him, and he felt very childish and small in front of her, and when he felt petulant he had often said terrible words he did not mean, and this time it was no different. When he could not bear the silence any longer, he said, in a louder voice, Look, Hermione, sometimes I want to feel something and I can't, and this pain would be as good as any, maybe this would help me feel stuff, okay? Don't you sometimes wish that? You've felt the Cruciatus before, you tell me, doesn't that sometimes come up in your dreams? I dream of someone slashing me to pieces, I think that'd be better than this…thing I have, on most days. He waved a hand, vaguely.
And in that room, there was silence, after the clatter of the knife on the floor, only deadened stillness, until Hermione whispered out, No. No, I don't feel that way, Harry. She said it in such a cold voice that Harry blinked, wondered what was wrong. We all deal with things differently, and I have nightmares too, but I don't decide to slice off my skin the moment life crashes down around you. I'm not trying to kill myself.
I didn't slice off anything, Harry tried again, hotly, (I was not trying to kill myself, what a stupid thought, Hermione, I have Teddy to take care of) but Hermione was all ice and fire, her voice dripping with something dark and unfathomable,
No, Harry, I know what you mean. You can't feel anything, you don't want to live but you're not quite sure how you want to die, so you have nightmares about the war and stay in his ratty old house reliving old memories. I know what you're trying to say and I've been awfully patient, and so has Ron, now that I think about it, but you don't know that, do you? You just want to live onwards the war. The War! Hermione suddenly screamed, and Harry jumped a little. He looked at her, startled. I'm so tired of talking about the war, Harry! Every time I come here, you're moping and talking about the past, and I'm trying, Harry, I really am, but I want us to move on. I want to live; I want a better world for us. Don't you want that? Hermione pleaded and beseeched, and while she spoke her voice cracked. Harry, I want you to live. I want you to think of the future. I want a future with you in it. I know that's too much to ask of you now; but that doesn't mean I want you to just wallow up and think about death. You're living, Harry. Aren't you?
Harry stared at the knife lying on the floor and thought of Hermione in Malfoy Manor. Filthy Mudblood, Bellatrix called her once. Called her quite a few other things too, while she was at it. Crucioed with intent and malice, Bellatrix's bloodied wand. Hermione's sharp screams and how she had begged for mercy. How she did not relent, even with her begging and sobbing. Would Hermione go mad? he often thought after the war. Hermione never talked of those times. She hardly talked about the war, and she dared accused him of silence. He thought of how he had handled the Crucios inflicted upon him. The sharp needles that traveled across the body, the electrifying shock that made him wish for a merciful death. How during that short time, he would have chosen the painless death upon him than the agony of pain. How pain had made him feel alive.
I don't know, he finally said. He felt tired. Am I? I was never strong like you, Hermione. It's not the same as for me as it is for you.
What did Hermione say to this? The conversations stop there. Hermione did not ask him to promise him anything he could not keep. After everything, Harry would often wonder, why Hermione did not simply give up on him. Why she had never said with the same venom, I am so bloody tired of this, you and your silent ghosts. Please rot alone, please go ahead and die on everyone's behalf. I am done. He wondered why Hermione slammed many doors behind her only to come back with Ron in tow. He would look at anywhere but their faces, and wonder alone.
Those are the days. He was waiting for something to happen, and he did not give a damn about the future. He was waiting to die, in a burst of flame, in a blast of fire. He waited for an explosion.
.
.
.
He hears the story of his sudden fainting and sleeping state in fragments. Ron's version: It was Malfoy, has Malfoy's fingerprints all over it, he found you lying in the hallway, at least he said he did, he also said some stupid shit, saying that he did loads of tracking spells to find what was wrong with you, thought you did it to yourself, but who knows, right, maybe he cast those to hide what he was really doing, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy ("Oh, shut up, Ron," Hermione finally says, and Ron obeys reluctantly, mouthing Malfoy one last time).
At first Hermione gives him a dubious look, as if she thinks he purposefully poisoned himself, but something in Harry's face must have waved that suspicion away, because soon enough she dismisses Ron's attempts at storytelling and says crossly, "Ron, start from the beginning, you're not making any sense, no wonder your reporting skills are so horrid." She shifts in her seat and ignores Ron's insulted face.
"Harry," Hermione says carefully. She is restraining herself, but her frightful eyes betray her, "You've been in a coma. We've been so, so worried about you. We thought—"
"We thought Malfoy cursed you," Ron cuts in (again), and this time he does not bother to hide his agitation, his freckled face pale and wan, showing weeks of sleepless shifts, "And don't try—Harry, don't try to tell us otherwise. Mate, you've been fine just the other day, last time we've come to see you," aside from your bouts of depression and apathy that no one can seem to work out of you for the past ten years, he does not bother to say, "and then we had an owl from St. Mungo's saying that they took you in. Malfoy's in Azkaban, he's been held custody and there was a short trial, it must've been clear even to the Aurors."
He sucks in a sharp breath; he tries to contain his amusement at the way his friends are worrying. It is easy to do so, once he imagines Malfoy's current predicament.
"And you thought that, what? Malfoy cursed me? He's not allowed to use offensive magic in the house, you know that. His wand is tracked by the Ministry." Which was a very poor argument, since that had never stopped Malfoy from ransacking his poor teacups in the kitchen when he was feeling particularly nasty. Perhaps Malfoy just threw them against the wall like a common Muggle.
"Well, he's a werewolf now," Ron says, and shakes his head furiously just as Harry is about to open his mouth to defend the race of werewolves and their tame nature, "And no, Harry, let Remus rest on his grave at peace, but Malfoy is not Remus. He wants to do you harm, and you've just been too thick to know it."
"I live with him for most of the week," Harry points out, trying to make his voice sound furious, but he only ends up hacking up a cough. Hermione passes him a cup of water and he gulps it down. "I think I would know if he was harboring murderous plans towards me."
"Well, you're not the best judge of that, you know—some days I think you actually want the git to murder you in your sleep—ow, Hermione!"
"What Ronald means is," Hermione says forcefully, with another shove at Ron ("Can you stop with that Ronald crap," Ron mutters), "You don't take care much of yourself, Harry, and Malfoy—we think that he might have been lying low and just waiting…when to strike."
Harry lets the words sink in the room, hoping that they would realize themselves the sheer ridiculousness of their theory. When they do not bother to volunteer the absurdity of the statement, he talks aloud to no one in particular, "Is it strange that I'm the only one who believes Malfoy is innocent?"
"Yes!" Hermione all but snaps, and Harry turns to look at her, surprised at her outburst. "I—oh, Harry, you—you don't know what we've been going through, we thought you just died, we thought you wouldn't ever wake up, the Healers tested for any residue magic day and night but couldn't find anything wrong with you! What were we supposed to think? We've survived the war, and when everything is just getting back together, we have you dropping dead on us—" And Hermione does not go on, she covers her faces with both her hands and begins to sob loudly.
Ron and Harry both exchange a bewildered look.
"I—er, Hermione," Harry says, gently and slowly, "It's not as bad as it is, is it? I mean, look, I woke up. It's fine, I feel fine. Don't I look fine?" He throws a desperate look at Ron, come on, help me out here, and even though Ron had also been sullen with his own suspicions and worries, he quickly gets the message and nods a little too enthusiastically.
"Loads better," he says loudly, "All he needed to do was wake up, Hermione, look—"
"I don't need half-hearted attempts at consolation from the both of you," Hermione snaps from behind her hand, and both of them shut their mouths at that, "I know Harry's alright, it's just—if Malfoy didn't do it, then who did? And you better have a very good answer for this, too," she adds, viciously, lowering her hands to glare at Harry with her red-rimmed eyes, "Because people just don't collapse and fail to breathe for weeks at end! Did I tell you that? You weren't breathing, Harry, you were as good as dead! That's not just because of your exhaustion or depression!"
Harry stares at her. Well, he imagines saying, I kept seeing Tom Riddle in my dreams. Not that I told you; not that I told anyone. Death visits me quite a lot too, and I've been trying to persuade him to let me go back in time to change things a bit. Surprise, surprise, after needling and mocking me, he gave in. I went and became a prodigy. Sorry to beat you in Charms, too, wasn't my idea. But then Riddle comes and tells me that I didn't actually kill the actual Horcrux inside me all those years ago, so that dampened things a bit. I mean, Voldemort was a wily old bastard, color me surprised. Or maybe you should just shove me in the mental ward at St. Mungo's, that'll be best for us all. I'm seeing things as I want them to be, aren't I. I went back in time. Maybe it was all in my head.
"Maybe I should talk to Malfoy," he says slowly.
"Did you just hear anything that we've just said?" Now Ron looks furious. "We think he's the one who did it and you—what? Just want to pop in to Azkaban and have a nice little chat?"
"And some tea," Harry says, but the joke is lost on both of them, and Hermione gives out a large gasp. She is hiding another bout of sobbing, for which Harry is grateful.
"Wait," he says, holding up one hand. It is a very bony, white hand; he has not been eating, he realizes, staring at his own shriveled and weak hand, somewhat fascinated. Ron presses his lips and Hermione fiddles with his hands. "I mean—okay, let's get some things straight. I am sorry I caused you to worry. I was not about to die. Malfoy was not attempting to murder me—"
"We don't know that—" Ron starts loudly, but Harry cuts him quick.
"I do," Harry says, "Because Malfoy is not…well, he's a lot of things, but he's not a murderer. He had a chance, once, you know. To do us in, a long time ago." He raises his eyebrows and dares them to mention the Manor. Neither does. "And now he's in custody, he's all for self-interest and keeping his head low. I've seen him, yeah? He doesn't provoke fights—I've told you this," he says exasperatedly, when both give him doubtful looks. "He's changed."
"No, I guess the tea stains on your wallpapers make Kreacher an irresponsible house elf," Ron says.
"I never said he was all daisies and roses, I just—" Harry stops. His eyes burn. He rubs his temples with his fingers and tries again. "He wouldn't kill me."
Nobody speaks. Harry wills them to contradict him. He will scream at them; his nerves are frayed so. His head titters. A voice rebukes him, Malfoy is a spoiled rotten child, he doesn't care if you live or die, one cannot trust a Malfoy, Harry, mayhap he wants you to—
Hermione, finally, says wearily, "I know, Harry. He wouldn't. It was just…easier, I think. For us. It would have been such a simple story if it came to that." Harry lifts up his head and meets Hermione's watery eyes. She attempts a smile for him. "But I suppose nothing's simple with you," she says shakily. She does not mention blame and justice, she does not voice out righteousness and retribution. She does not say, Malfoy was always a sore point for you, or she does not offer, Harry, when have you been standing up for Malfoy of all people? She does not need to.
He grins at her, tired. "No," he says, "It's about time you figured that out."
Ron looks at them, resignation on his face. "So," he ventures out, his tone slow and deliberate, "Is no one going to stop Harry from waltzing into Azkaban?"
They all share a rueful smile.
"Well," Harry says, his voice lighter, "Not waltz in. I'll still have to act the bedridden patient, won't I?"
"You won't act it, you are a bedridden patient," Hermione is quick to say, and it is as if her outburst was not there at all, as if Ron did not spend a good amount of time defacing Malfoy's name, as if Harry was not about to have yet another breakdown. Fragile peace for the moment. "We're going to wait until you're able to walk, and then you'll petition the Ministry for a visit, Malfoy is heavily supervised for the moment—"
"I'll talk to Shacklebolt," Harry says. As if that would settle any matters. But he's Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Conqueror of the Dark Lord, and all the other ridiculous titles that comes with his name (The Master of Death, a high voice hisses at him). From the way Ron rolls his eyes, Harry is sure that they've returned to normal.
"Get some sleep, the both of you," Harry says, "And we'll talk. Tomorrow. I—" He swallows. "Thanks. For—you know."
"For trying to warn you off pretentious gits and failing to save you as you lay dying?" Ron asks dryly. He pats Harry's covered knee. "You're welcome."
"Ron!"
He laughs.
.
.
.
The guards in Azkaban are wary of him. They are toughened, old wizards who have seen insanity and cruelty inside these very walls. Their rugged faces show their apathetic nature. No screams of mercy nor cackling curses would scare them away. Harry waits patiently in the grey room. It reminds him of his dreams, where Riddle resides (shall I play mother?) and awaits him. In this room, there is a bare table and two chairs and only one door to allow them entry and exit. He sits in one chair and a guard stands over the entryway. Do you think I'll bolt out of here? Harry does not speak. The guard is not a conversationalist as they both wait. The guards had not shown any sign of surprise at Harry Potter in the steps of the wizarding world's most notorious prison, but they are reluctant to bring Malfoy to him. Protective of your prisoners, are you, Harry wants to jest. The quip dies on his lips as the clock ticks.
The door creaks open.
The guard comes in. No Malfoy.
Due to the circumstances we must escort you to his cell, he is a top rated security threat, the guard says.
Harry blinks. He stands up and realizes his face is hot. His blood boils.
You haven't even given him a trial properly, Harry wants to say back. Did he have his say? Did you show mercy as he screamed? His magic crackles around him. I will kill those Aurors. He does not even begin to think.
The guard that had stood by him takes a step forward. These are only security measures, Mr. Potter, he says, soothingly. He talks to Harry like he is taming a wild, unpredictable beast. Strangely, it works. Come, he is alone in his cell. We will not disturb you and grant privacy.
We will not—the other guard begins to say, but Harry cuts him off gracefully.
Thank you, I would very much appreciate that, he says and gives both of them a very sharp smile. His voice is cold, he makes it very polite and proper. The prison holds Dementors and raging Death Eaters and petty criminals. Nothing would have fazed these men, Harry had supposed. And yet they flinch at his look.
Cowards, a voice whispers. Harry is inclined to agree.
2016-12-26