He That Gazeth on the Skies

Yet the old again shall be
When the time you see
That the King enjoys his own again

- 'When the King Enjoys His Own Again,' (17th Century)

Storm-clouds rolled over another above, toiling for dominance like the Wild Hunt itself hounded them. Saul had taken one look at them that morning and wondered if Hogwarts had committed some slight to bring down the wrath of a thunder god. Graham had said nothing. He knew the thunder gods, and knew they needed no offence to unleash the heavens on unsuspecting mortals. But now he had to face their fury head-on, stalking through the lashing rain down the slippery slopes of the school grounds towards Kettleburn's paddocks. Even with precautions of thick outdoors robes with a good hood and hefty boots, he knew it was for nothing. He'd be soaked to the bone before long.

…uncompromising and uncontained; may I persevere, unrepressed, in adversity…

'Mulciber!'

There were times he had to pause before responding to such calls; more often than not, they wanted his brother. But out here in the storm there was only him. Graham turned to see the broad form of Paul Bane tromping through mud to catch up. He stopped despite himself, despite that never had he and Bane exchanged words before.

Bane grinned a broad, uncertain smile, hand raised to keep up his hood. 'Hell of a day for it, huh?' Saul and Randal were convinced Bane was throwing his lot in with Leo Travers in Hufflepuff. Graham suspected Paul Bane wanted nothing more than to be nice to everyone, and had yet to learn this was impossible without the greatest of compromises.

But it was better than walking through the rain alone. And likely better than the companionship that awaited him. 'It's the price we pay for a good summer.'

'Is that how it goes?' Bane chuckled as they made their careful way down slippery paths. 'You get the good, so you've got to get the bad?'

'Someone has to get the bad, at least.'

Bane glanced at him uncertainly, then said, instead, 'Sorry about how it all went down.' Graham didn't know what he was talking about, and so remained silent. He found silence better than questions; people raced to fill the gulf with whatever words sat on the tips of their tongues. 'This class, I mean. What with us grabbing all the good animals, and you being stuck with Hargreaves - not that I mind Hargreaves, she's just tough to work with -'

'I don't know her.' He wasn't interested in debating the virtues of his new partner. It would change nothing. 'And it's worked out with the animals. Kettleburn sent me a note this morning. The Granian arrived last night.'

'Wow.' Smiles came much easier to Bane. 'Working with a Granian; that's cool.'

It would come, Graham knew, with more shifts that summer at the Rothachs' farm. He would pay for a good Care of Magical Creatures grade with his labour, and a piece of that most elusive economy amongst the wizarding class of Britain: an undefined favour. But he was saved, at least, from pretending to be interested in the Banes' hippogriff by their arrival at Kettleburn's paddocks, and the wide barns at the far end. To his surprise they were almost the last arrivals; Sharon Bane was ribbing her brother for tardiness the moment they arrived, and Macdonald and Richmond cooed over something in one of the stalls. There was no sign of Hargreaves.

He watched Macdonald's gaze flick over at their arrival then immediately drop, like she'd picked up something too hot to hold and the mere sight of him burnt. Graham knew these reactions well, even though they belonged to his brother, not to him. There was not much similarity between the siblings; both tall, but Randal had the advantage in build and, by all accounts, looks. What was strength and charm in Randal was gaunt severity in Graham, and he never smiled enough to soften it. But they shared that same golden hair, those same blue eyes, even if Randal's were the sky and Graham's were ice. Randal should have been the fairer to look at, and yet it was at the shadow of him in Graham that Mary Macdonald flinched at, not Graham himself.

He did not avert his gaze, because he was not his brother and refused to harness guilt for deeds Randal never regretted. But still he moved on as swiftly as pride would allow, because looking at her reminded him of Randal's crowing success - in past months of deeds long gone, in past days of his recent fray - that still tasted bitter.

Kettleburn limped out of his office, such as it was; a small room off the barn Graham was not certain was water-proof. He was dry, though, and smacked his hook on the wooden wall to get their attention. 'We were supposed to have the paddocks today, get your beasties out into the open. We'll have to make do as suits them in this weather; the hippogriff won't mind, at least. But let this be a lesson to you: come rain or shine, you must see to these animals - what're you doing, girl -'

That was to Richmond, who had unhooked the door to her stall to get a better peep inside. Kettleburn's urgency implied grave danger, but there was nothing from the darkness but a series of high-pitched yips - and then a dark, fluffy shape thudded into her chest and bowled her to the floor.

'You don't unharness an animal without knowing -'

But Kettleburn's warnings could not have fallen on more deaf ears if they'd tried. Rather than savaged by some foul beast, Richmond had been knocked over by a three-headed puppy, who was proceeding to try and lick her face with all of its tongues at once.

'Oh, Merlin,' groaned Sharon Bane. 'That's the most adorable thing I ever saw. How come we didn't get the cute thing, Paul?'

Because while a three-headed dog has interesting training and dietary requirements, the challenge of a hippogriff will get you a much better grade.

'You stupid girl!' Kettleburn lurched over to grab the hound by the scruff of one of its necks and haul it in the air. Immediately, another of its heads tried to lick the Professor's face, so he held it at arm's length, resisting its fluffy cuteness. 'There could have been anything in there! You had no idea of the creature's temperament! It could have been an illusion, there to lull you into a false sense of security only to strike -'

'Look at its paws!' Mary Macdonald squealed.

'They were right,' a low voice drawled next to Graham, and he glanced over to see Hargreaves had appeared from nowhere in all the excitement. 'NEWT classes are super more intense.' She was doing a fair impression of a drowned rat, her outer robes too small and inadequate against such conditions. In years past they wouldn't have been expected to go outside in this weather, but still she stood, tall and smirking and doing a good job of looking unaffected at how cold she had to be.

'There was a serious risk of Richmond's heart bursting,' Graham agreed.

'Or Kettleburn's melting. Maybe he'll learn the true meaning of Christmas.'

'I'll expect!' Kettleburn burst, giving up on his lecture and returning the puppy to Richmond and Macdonald. Thankfully it had tongues to lick them both at once. 'Your second piece of work in the portfolio to be about first contact procedures with an unfamiliar creature! Use this as a lesson!'

'All due care must be taken against such a fearsome beast,' Hargreaves agreed solemnly.

Graham watched as the girls put down the pup, which proceeded to chase its own tail. This became harder as the heads fought over which one got to do the biting. 'Waterproof gear will be provided to protect against insistent licking.'

'Ear-plugs blocking out girlish squealing must follow Ministry safety requirements.'

Kettleburn glared at them. 'Let's go see your beastie, then, shall we? Everyone else, just - oh, play with the damn pup.' He led them down the row of stalls, all of them different sizes. Many held various creatures for his OWL lessons, but in the storm most animals were content to hunker down and wait for the rain to end. There was the occasional squawk or snort, but the predominant sound was the thudding of rain on a thin wooden roof, and the sound of yipping far behind them.

'I had to tidy up some things in Herbology,' Hargreaves said apropos of nothing, stiff and taut as they walked. Graham again fell onto the tactic of not talking, merely giving her a sidelong look. She visibly bristled. 'It's why I was late. It were Sprout. I couldn't get out of it.'

He realised she expected him to be angry, and frowned. He spent enough of his life tip-toeing around wild insecurities in the Slytherin common room to want to indulge them in class. And yet he had to work with this girl. 'It's not a problem,' he said, aiming to avoid passive aggression to just move the topic on.

'She was shipped in late last night,' Kettleburn called over his shoulder as he limped. 'Her box kept her dry against the rain and she's used to Scottish weather or she's the worst Granian I saw. But she's still in an unfamiliar place; don't let her fly freely -'

'For about a month, so she's acclimatised to this being home,' Graham drawled. 'And otherwise only exercise her on a lunge rope.'

'You'll have to do that every day. She's not a dog; she needs a lot of exercise. It's going to be a long week. I checked her out; she's fine and healthy.'

'Good - I've worked on the Rothachs' farm some summers, sir, I can handle a yearling.'

'I wasn't going to tell you how to,' said Kettleburn flatly, and pointed to a stall ahead with his hook. 'She's in there. I'll be with the Banes and their hippogriff. It's filthy. They're in for a laugh.'

Graham did smirk as Kettleburn left, and said to Hargreaves' nonplussed look, 'Cleaning Hippogriffs is hell. You ever saw a chicken take a bath?'

'Not that many live chickens in Brixton.' Now, instead of defensive, she seemed unsure.

'They roll in dust. Cleans off the feathers. Hippogriffs do it, too, but that makes a mess of the non-feathery bits, too.' He looked at the stall. 'I take it you're not that familiar with horse care, either.'

'Not flying horses, neither.' She folded her arms across her chest, also eyeballing the stall.

'That's fine. I do know what I'm doing. Most of it's just graft.' He approached the door and peered over into the gloom. Catching a glimpse of a silhouette in the darkness was no simple matter, but then darkness moved. Despite himself, he smiled. 'I'll bring her out.'

'Is that -'

'We should both meet her, get her used to us. And that's best done out here, not in a confined space. It's fine, the Rothachs train their yearlings.'

He unhooked a halter off the wall and slid into the gloom alongside the dark beast. A nose soft as velvet investigated him, hot-breathed and snuffling, and he rose a hand to the withers, felt the warmth and muscle underneath. 'Hullo,' Graham murmured, voice as soft as the nose. 'You're a fine lass, aren't you. We're going to take care of you, now.' He knew to be slow and careful with a beast in an unfamiliar environment, moved far from home, but she was cooperative as he slipped the halter on and led the her out the stall.

He heard, rather than saw, Hargreaves' reaction; by the time he looked over, her expression was more or less under control, but the catch of her breath had been unmistakable. Suppressing a smile, he tethered the Granian out in the barn, and stepped back to his partner to survey their new project in all her glory. The beast was a good fourteen or fifteen hands, coal black from coat to long, feathery wings. Still gangly in that way yearlings could be before they had grown into their height, she hoofed at the ground and snuffled the walls, the ground, before, finally, the noble head swung around for dark, intelligent eyes to fix on them.

But Graham was watching Hargreaves; watching the flicker on her brow, the parting of her lips. He had seen dozens of such beasts of all ages and sizes, so there was far more to see in a Muggle-born from Brixton's first close-up encounter with a flying horse.

Then her mouth snapped shut and she said, like asking about the weather, 'What's her name?'

'It was in the letter…' He reached for his pockets. 'Go say hello.' A flicker in her expression suggested he'd earned a sardonic comment, but somehow she held her tongue and, slowly, reverently, approached the beast while he fished out the message the Rothachs had sent him last week.

'Muirne,' said Graham, and watched as Hargreaves extended a flat palm under the nose to be duly investigated, and snuffled.

Now she smiled, and, with her focus on the horse, he let himself grin, too. 'Muirne,' she murmured, her brow knotting. 'You're - I'll do the bloody work but I'll need you or Kettleburn to tell me for a bit what that work is -'

'Of course,' he said calmly. 'Most of it's labour, and not that difficult once you know the routine. She'll be well-trained by the Rothachs; it's her care and exercise we'll be more responsible for. We can work out a shift pattern, but she'll need attention every day. Mucking out, and all that. And once she's accustomed to us, to the area, allowed to fly freely, we'll find some tack and can ride her.'

Her eyes widened. 'What, like, when she's flying?'

He padded over to join her, patted Muirne's shoulder. 'She is a flying horse. It's even better than broom-riding.' But then, she probably didn't own a broom, either, and this reminded him of the state she'd been in when she'd arrived at the barn. 'Wait here.'

When he returned, it was with a wooden box, but also a towel that he tossed to her. 'Dry off. Warm up.'

'I'm not -'

'You'll need a better coat. We're going to be coming out here in all weather, and these storms don't seem set to stop any time soon.' He put down the box and snapped it open. 'Now, when you're done, I'll talk you through grooming her and then the fun part: mucking out.'

It was easier like this. Easier to focus on a job, to focus on Muirne, than to wonder what they'd think about him down in the Slytherin common room for sharing this work - hard, important work on a magical beast - with a Mudblood. Explaining the process as he went, the nuggets of insight into what was for him the everyday and mundane, but was for her a secret world. It would probably have been enough of a novelty for Hargreaves to be expected to work on any horse, but now here she was, set for two years to work with one of the finest magical beasts in the country.

They were busy for so long, and their attention so diverted, that they almost didn't notice when Macdonald appeared down their end of the barn and, still not looking at him, said, 'Kettleburn wants us back to finish up.'

Hargreaves watched the Muggle-born's retreat, and when she looked back at him, the tension had returned to her dark eyes to give them a hard, flinty edge. 'I reckon you get that a lot.'

Graham cycled through his options, and settled on a non-committal noise before un-tethering Muirne. 'I'll put her away. Tidy the brushes?'

'Being as,' she continued, and he sighed as he realised she had no intention of dropping this, 'I don't think I've ever seen you being a shit to someone direct. Standing next to the ones being shits, yeah. And then there's your brother -'

His jaw tightened, and he hid his expression by opening the stall. 'I'm here to work. To do this project and to get a good NEWT. I'm really not interested in talking about the rest of school.'

Her expression was returned to that studied, controlled mask when he emerged from the stall, Muirne put away with her fresh straw and feed. 'Right. That might mean you've got to condemn or defend your brother, your friends.'

'If I were like them,' he spat before he could stop himself, 'would I have agreed to work with you, Hargreaves? Practically gift-wrap you a good NEWT? Show you how to do all this? Saul or my brother would have thrown a tantrum at this pairing.'

'So you'll agree to work with me like you would anyone else.' She lifted her hands. 'My mistake, Human Being of the Year Award due right here.'

'What do you want from me, Hargreaves?'

Her chin tilted up a half-inch. 'Guess I just wanted to know where we stand. I don't much like the thought of you planning to beat the shit out of me when my back's turned.'

'I don't -'

'Maybe you don't, but the look on Mary Macdonald's face makes it clear she don't know how much like your brother you are. He did a right little number on her last year, if you cared. Tried to do it again the other day, but Evans and Corrigan stopped him.'

Graham flinched, remembering Amycus' laugh as he related breaking Corrigan's nose. 'All I want,' he said flatly, 'is to get through school in one piece.'

'Then you and I,' said Hargreaves, 'got the same aims. Think that makes for a peace accord? Work together here, ignore each other elseways?' She stuck out her hand. It was an odd sort of formality, and yet comforting in its way. Graham spent so much of his time trying to gauge the hidden meanings in words, in watching everyone's subtle inference or avoidance, that this blunt, open declaration was more refreshing than he'd anticipated.

He gave a curt nod and, with Kettleburn's voice echoing down the barn to demand they move their arses, they shook hands.

The rest of the lesson passed without incident, excluding the threat to his vomit reflex when he discovered Macdonald and Richmond had named the three-headed puppy 'Princess.' But over the afternoon of Kettleburn directing them on the necessary pieces of work to add to their portfolio and helping acquaint them with their creatures and their rudimentary care, it did at least stop raining. Dark clouds rolled back to clad the sky in dirty grey, as if they had stained it with their passing.

This meant the Quidditch practice would not be cancelled, and so Graham set off at a brisk pace with barely an obligatory farewell the moment Kettleburn released them. With all this way to walk back to the castle, he would have to hurry to not be late.

Which made it more than a little disconcerting when he walked into the dorm to find Saul had laid out all of his Quidditch gear for him. 'You better hurry,' his friend proclaimed, out of uniform himself, arms folded across his chest.

'You need to stop living vicariously through my Quidditch career,' Graham pointed out, inspecting the array to make sure Saul hadn't forgotten anything. He hadn't, and Graham had to glance up and smile. 'Thank you.'

'Thank me by winning.' Saul hesitated. 'Your brother's in a foul mood, by the way. I would avoid upsetting him.'

I always avoid upsetting him, Graham thought as he peeled off damp uniform layers. 'Why today?'

'He had a clash of some sort with Dearborn.'

'The Muggle Studies teacher?'

'Mn. Some manner of confrontation with Dearborn challenging his suitability as a prefect.'

'Dearborn's new.' Graham pulled his padding over his head. 'He'll learn soon enough that Sluggy knows better than that.'

'I know. But Randal was talking recriminations.'

Graham did stop at that. 'Against a teacher?' That would open up a whole new theatre in their little war. 'I don't see what we could do.'

'Perhaps not us.' Saul's brow knotted. 'Randal spoke of writing to Rabastan.'

Which would mean involving the Cause beyond their walls, an overt and violent move against Professor Dearborn at a time when he wasn't shrouded by the iron curtain of Hogwarts. 'I'm not sure this is a path we want to go down.'

'Neither am I,' Saul admitted, unusually possessing of his own opinion. 'I'd wondered if you'd talk to him.'

Graham frowned and pulled on his gloves. 'I don't handle Randal for you. You know this.'

'Not for me. For him. For us. Escalation against teachers, involving outside forces in our business - we can't possibly anticipate where that will end, Graham. But Randal is getting more… assertive.' Saul's expression pinched. 'I worry he's listening too much to the Carrows.'

And not enough to you, you mean. There's the true fear. But for once Saul's political interests and what was best for everyone were in alignment. Graham slipped on his emerald robes, the team trim finishing the padding, and buckled his belt. 'I'll speak with him. But you know I have no power.'

'I was hoping the fact you rarely try might make him realise it's serious. Now. Go kick some Gryffindor arse.'

'It's practice, Saul.'

'Then imagine Gryffindor arse - wait, no. Don't do that.' Saul made a face. 'I'll see you at dinner.'

Rising to the common room and up into the corridors, Nimbus 1001 slung over his shoulder, Graham stormed through the crowds and out into the open in such a hurry that he almost ran into Severus Snape coming the other way. Only a swift side-step stopped him from sending his fellow Slytherin skidding across the floor, and with a jolt, Graham grabbed his arm. 'Sorry, Snape. Didn't see you there.'

Snape had still been ramming papers into his bag, black, greasy hair falling across his face like an unpleasant veil through which he now peered to look Graham up and down. 'No trouble,' he mumbled. 'Oh, it's a Quidditch night?'

No, I dress like this to make a statement. Graham instead nodded.

'I'll come with you,' Snape said in a peremptory manner. 'I need to speak with the Carrows as it is.'

Graham gave his thin, indoor robes and his satchel full of papers a dubious look, then decided it was nothing to do with him if the heavens opened and Snape was soaked. 'As you wish,' he said flatly, and turned for the corridors.

Snape stalked in his wake like a skulking shadow, head bowed, clutching his bag to him tightly. It took him a while before he said anything. 'Have you - did your brother mention his fight the other day?'

'With that brute Corrigan? No more to me than anyone else. I think it speaks for itself.'

'But it wasn't just Corrigan, was it,' Snape pressed on.

Graham remembered the look in Mary Macdonald's eye, remembered how his brother had never explicitly stated what he did to her in February 1975 and yet crowed about it all the same. His jaw tightened as his mind sheered away from the dark corners it was better for everyone if no light found them. 'No,' he said flatly. 'It was not.'

'I mean, there was Evans - did you see her face?'

Clarity was not especially welcome, not when it came with Snape's simpering. Graham had enough on his plate without being sought as an ally against his brother's brutality towards some wretched Mudblood Snape still desperately pined over. 'You recall, Severus,' he snapped, 'how you no longer spend time with Evans, which is why my brother is much more inclined to listen to you now?'

Snape's expression closed like a vice. 'I know,' he said, voice low and throaty. 'I just think we should be measured in our moves. Deliberate, not needlessly brutish.'

'That is rather Amycus' job,' Graham said with fading interest. 'Don't deprive a lad his livelihood.'

'The fact is that your brother bungled another attack on Macdonald -'

Graham stopped, spinning to face Snape, shoulders tense. 'That is not the fact. The fact is that you are upset Evans was hurt. Be upset; I couldn't care less. But don't deign to lecture my brother with some pretence of high ground.'

Snape stared back, unruffled by the confrontation. It took him a moment before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was a low drawl. 'Curious,' he observed. 'I wasn't sure you cared, Graham, at all.'

Reeling himself in was like corralling an unwilling horse back into its stall before a storm; hard, but necessary, and Graham made himself scoff as he turned away. 'Right now, I care about getting to Quidditch.'

They heard the humming before they rounded the last corner before the main doors - that tune, that blasted tune Wick had spat across the school that somehow made the Muggle-borns so damned smug, like they'd made a statement and won a victory somewhere. That was the worst of it, in Graham's eyes; it was a message neither he nor the Slytherins could read the whole of, but it was undoubtedly an insult, a challenge, and in their uncertainty they didn't know the best way to answer it. A glance at Snape and his curling lip suggested he was just as irked at the sound of it.

'Power to the people…'

It was some Gryffindor third year boy, short and pudgy and alone. Graham relaxed an iota when the boy ignored them, likely not trying to send a message, likely just singing to himself. Then he saw Snape go for his wand.

'Power to the pe-' Then a yelp, a thud, and with a muttered incantation Snape had sent the boy flying across the corridor to be pinned halfway up the wall.

'Stop. Singing,' Snape snarled.

Graham paused, Hargreaves' words thundering in his head. I don't think I've ever seen you being a shit to someone direct. Standing next to the ones being shits, yeah.

The boy struggled, powerless against invisible forces pinning him in place. 'I'm - I'm sorry!' he yelped, and from the way he'd come arrived another half-dozen younger students, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and all of them freezing in place at the sight of the confrontation.

Snape cast them a disinterested look. They were two sixth year Slytherins, and even a gaggle this size wouldn'tthink to try to free their comrade. The school told them, over and over, to beware the big bad Slytherins, and sometimes, just sometimes, that reputation worked in Graham's favour. Then Snape's leer turned back to the pinned boy. 'If I hear that song again,' he sneered, 'if I hear it sung, if I hear it whistled, if I hear it hummed, by anyone, I won't just scrub out their mouths with a Scourgify. I'll scrub out yours. Understood?'

The boy whimpered, and Snape whipped his wand to jerk him across the corridor again, crashing him into the opposite wall. The thump wasn't that solid, the impact to rattle more than hurt.

Graham only took a half-step forward. All I want is to get through school in one piece. And he stopped.

'Understood!' the boy squealed, and, with a disinterested sigh, Snape, lifted his wand and let him fall to the floor.

Through long eyelashes, he gazed down the corridor at the rest of the gaggle. 'Tell all your friends,' he sneered, before starting again down the corridor towards the main doors.

And Graham followed.

It still wasn't raining when they got outside, and judging by the clouds remaining dirty, not black, it looked as if they might be lucky that night. Snape peeled off for the stands once they made it to the grounds, leaving Graham to troop his solitary way across the pitch to where his brother stood, the lone figure still on the ground as the rest of the Slytherin team zipped about the skies above.

'You're late,' Randal Mulciber declared as he walked up.

'I had to get up from the paddocks. It's a long way.'

Randal looked him up and down, gaze tense. 'Laps,' he said at last.

Graham's jaw tightened. 'You scheduled this fifteen minutes after classes ended; it's not reasonable to expect -'

'If I go soft on you, everyone will say it's because you're my brother.' Randal's expression was like a void into which fraternal love went to die. 'Laps.'

That was the reason he didn't bring up the Dearborn issue, Graham told himself as he tossed down his broom to begin the gruelling, embarrassing circuits of the Quidditch pitch on foot, for all the rest of the team at their lofty heights to see. Randal was in a bad mood, with him and the world; he wasn't being his brother, he was being his captain. It was not, in so many ways, the right time.

It was, he thought as he remembered hesitating next to Snape mere minutes ago, never the right time.