Chapter Sixty-Five: Innocent

He did think about it during the return journey. He could have walked via the ordinary path—perhaps it would have been less suspicious, but the way through Honeydukes still seemed safer, and there was always a part of his mind that could give attention to such concerns. A part that insisted upon having a backup plan. Did he even know the external road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts? Was it somehow paved and clearly marked? He didn't recall seeing such before, and thus he doubted it.

His first action, after pulling off the invisibility cloak in an unoccupied bathroom, storing it safely away, and returning to Gryffindor Tower, was to pull out the photo album, yet again. Then, he flipped rapidly through the pages, relying on sheer luck to lead him to the page for which he sought. But the photo album was filled with pictures of his mum and dad, and pictures including anyone else were few and far between.

But the pictures of their wedding….

There it was. He'd looked at that picture more often than he cared to admit, trying to imagine what sort of person his dad had been, trying to understand what little he knew, to slot vague details onto the image and try to make a person from those ingredients. Or he'd looked at his mother, trying to tell, once and for all, whether or not there were any reality to his dreams. And he'd looked through all of these pictures several times, over the course of the last few weeks. Somewhere, surely, he would find Professor Lupin, and Sirius Black. But if he hadn't recognised the former, whom he saw on a weekly basis, how could he hope to recognise a man he had no memory of ever meeting?

He removed the photograph, gently, from the four little corner-tabs holding it in place, half-expecting a secret message or something to lie beneath. That was, of course, absurd, but then, so was everything else that had happened this year. Or since he'd turned ten.

He closed his eyes, leaning back on his bed, and then thought that, as he had already pulled the photo out, he might as well turn it over. Sometimes, people wrote messages on the back.

And there was a note, indeed, in unfamiliar, rounded writing, full of soft edges.

Hey, Moron! the note began, and Harry blinked. Was the person who had given the picture to Hagrid insulting him from afar? But, no, as he read on, he saw that this picture was third-hand, having been sent to the person who later gave it to Hagrid. Somehow, that seemed promising. In full, the note read:

Hey, Moron!

I thought I'd sneak this photo into the replacement robes I gave you for Christmas. Clever of me, right? I heard the whole story about how Old Pus burnt a hole straight through the pocket of your robes, and the picture you always keep in them. I keep my copy somewhere safe, so I copied it and thought I'd give it to you as a replacement. I didn't take this picture; don't go accusing me of being vain, or something else stupid, sending a picture that has me in it to you. It's the exact same one you kept in your pocket because it "symbolised the bond among us", remember? Try not to get it destroyed, this time!

—S. B.

Harry didn't know what to make of most of it—was "Old Pus" some sort of scathing moniker for Riddle, or something? But if that were true, whoever had sent the photo to its recipient (a friend?) would probably have made a bigger deal about his friend surviving Voldemort's wrath. And, if "S. B." should stand for "Sirius Black"…well, it explained why the previous owner had been eager to give it away, and helped to narrow down the potential list of previous owners.

Not that it mattered who had received it. He or she was in the picture, somewhere—as was "S. B.".

Best man at his parents' wedding, he thought to himself. That was what McGonagall had said. He flipped the image back over again, and looked through the crowd, certain, this time, that not-yet-Professor Lupin and Peter Pettigrew were somewhere in here….

There! That had to be Professor Lupin—the shape of the face was right, and the eyes, although the man in the photo looked far less world-weary and defeated than the man Harry saw in class every week. He had the familiar, warm smile, but it sometimes twitched into a surprisingly cocky smirk. As if he noticed Harry watching, he pointed in the direction of Lily and James, smiling.

Just how sentient were pictures, anyway?

Well, they couldn't hear, so they'd be no help finding Peter Pettigrew. Harry tried anyway, but Lupin's expression didn't change. Probably it was too much effort to give photos a real personality, and the magical solution Colin Creevey had mentioned last year only let them have some idea of who was currently examining them. Mild legilimency, or a little parlour trick, the one about picking a card. Street magic.

He scoured the photo himself, until his eyes alit upon a figure he recognised, despite being confident they'd never met. Chubby and short, without being stout, he had watery, almost beady eyes, and unfortunately square teeth, with a long, pointed nose. Peter Pettigrew. Harry was certain of it.

His gaze flicked back to his parents, sure that Black would be nearby. One of the men in the photo turned his head to look directly at the camera, relaxing into a sort of languid grace, hands in his pockets, although Harry thought tuxedos weren't supposed to have those. He looked at the camera askance, and gave a broad smirk. Harry stared at that face, at eyes sparkling with joy and mirth, lips spread in a grin that said he had a joke that he was dying to share, short hair nevertheless fastidiously combed and very neat, unlike James's. There was a sort of disconnect between his dress and his attitude—he was slouching. Was that allowed at formal events?

This image struck a more powerful chord of familiarity with him than the brief glimpse he'd had of an immobilised Black on the morning news, at Privet Drive, or seen in the Daily Prophet. He could almost hear his voice, speaking indecipherable words, and, to his lasting surprise, his eyes filled with tears.

He knew (or could hazard a guess) why they looked familiar, why he could identify them. His mind was a jumbled mess now, and the dementors had drawn memories from his infancy back to the fore. He recognised them all—Black and Lupin and Pettigrew—because they'd been a part of his infancy. They'd been there. He'd heard Sirius's voice, although he didn't remember it. And Professor Lupin's. And Peter Pettigrew's. And he thought that the nudge in his mind that led him to his conclusion came from those scraps of memory. That, and perhaps experience of his own with being accused for things he hadn't done: Dad! Harry set a snake on me! Dad! Harry hit me! Dad, Harry broke my new bicycle! The tyre's flat, see!

He hadn't; he hadn't; he hadn't. And neither had Sirius Black.

Mother was right. Sirius Black was innocent.

"I said 'he's innocent'!" he cried, rather at the end of his rope, after everything that had happened that day. "Peter Pettigrew betrayed my parents."

Ron was rubbing his head as if he suspected that he'd damaged it somehow, or he might have heard wrong. Harry cocked his head, momentarily distracted by something stupid. It still happened. Was Ron's hair longer than usual? He hadn't noticed. He'd been thinking of more important things, but he suspected that having long hair didn't make it harder to hear. Especially if you kept it out of your ears, as he did.

He shook his head, and dragged his fatigued mind back to bear on the problem, even though he'd been going over it nonstop for the last few hours. He was missing something. He knew that much. He'd gone to the library, looking for more information, but for some reason, it hadn't had anything to offer. Hermione would have been appalled at the thought of books failing her. Harry was just annoyed.

And he was taking it out on his friends. He took several deep, calming breaths—the sort he usually instructed Hermione to use (he saw her eyebrows rise in recognition), and unclenched his fists.

"Just trust me on this," he said. It irked him to see that neither of them did trust him on that. They wanted him to give a solid argument. The problem was that he couldn't.

"Harry," Hermione said, in a very gentle voice, as if speaking to a very small child. His irritation must have shown, because she flinched and withdrew, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm down again. She continued. It was very end-of-first-year. "You heard what they said: McGonagall, and Flitwick, and Fudge."

"Says the girl who thought Snape was out to kill me first year," he snapped, and she crossed her arms, ready to stand her ground. Ron was looking around the room, as if wishing he were anywhere else. Harry fixed his gaze upon Ron, the only neutral party.

"Look, just give him a chance, alright?" he asked, in exasperation. "Everyone deserves a chance to defend themselves, but if the Minister or professors find him—"

"It's the Dementor's Kiss. I remember; you told us," Hermione said. She did not sound as if she were even considering the possibility which, Harry conceded, was very sensible of her.

"Call it intuition—or call it reason. Look, everyone who speaks of Sirius Black says the same things: he was brilliant, they say; he was friends with my Mum and Dad (if anything, they'll omit this); he was the last person I ever thought would go over to the Dark Side. Doesn't that last clause suggest anything to you? That absolutely everyone finds it incredible that Sirius Black was a traitor—but they still believe he is? Something doesn't add up."

"They must have their reasons," said Hermione, sounding a bit subdued, which meant he was making a tiny bit of progress. Ron was watching him, as if trying to figure something out. He felt a specimen in a zoo, even though he knew it was just Ron showing that he was…you know, listening. Precisely what Harry wanted.

But they were, all three of them, quite stubborn in their own ways. He sensed Hermione wanting to dig in her heels.

"Well, of course. Everyone has their reasons for everything. Hagrid was expelled because Riddle framed him for murder. I was the 'Heir of Slytherin' last year because I could talk to snakes. And absolutely anything that didn't go Uncle Vernon's way was liable to be my fault, by way of magic. Excuse me if I don't feel like ignoring the signs pointing to Sirius's innocence!"

Sign one: his mother had told him so, in a dream. Sign two: everyone spoke highly of him before he left Hogwarts. Sign three: …there was a sign three, wasn't there?

He turned to the Foe-Glass, and studied the image continuing to form in it. Short, and somehow compressed, but vague, still, with robes hanging loosely off of it…but short hair.

Clearer than yesterday, not as clear as tomorrow.

"That is too short to be Sirius Black," he declared. Hermione shot him her most disbelieving look. Ron seemed to be considering. There was a thoughtful expression to him, as if he were silently weighing Harry's every word.

There was silence, as Hermione visibly calmed herself, and then, slowly, relaxed, heaving a great sigh.

"You're being an idiot. And you're not making any sense. I understand why. This year has been tough for all three of us, between my extra classes, and your…reactions to the dementors. Ron's had to try to keep both of us afloat. I get it. But it's almost Christmas, and I really don't want to fight with you, Harry. Let's just leave this for now, okay? We'll talk about this, later."

That was probably the best he could hope for, as he had no evidence, yet, to back up his claims. This was the risk of siding with your intuition—it rarely had proof, by definition. But he didn't want to argue with her, either, so he just nodded, and turned away.

The next day was the first true day of Christmas Break (weekends don't count, for purists). Because they now had the middle of the day free, and because both Ron and Hermione had signed up to stay over the winter to keep him company (although only Ron was willing to admit this, the mother hen), they were free to go down to visit Hagrid at a time when he couldn't protest that Harry was endangering himself.

"I should ask him why he never thought to mention that I had family—a godfather. Even if he supposedly is a Death Eater, and therefore evil, Hagrid should have told me. I hate it when people keep secrets about my life from me!" he cried, with a bitterness that surprised him. But, it was absolutely true. Usually, however, Dumbledore was the culprit. But, Hagrid had known.

Was he imagining it, or did Ron look down, rather guiltily, at this outburst?

Nah.

Harry had meant to ask more about the photo album (he was not about to admit anything that suggested he had overheard yesterday's conversation), but a glance at Hagrid's tear-stained face abruptly refocused everyone's thoughts. Because the matter involved Malfoy, in Harry and Ron's case, and the life of an innocent and beautiful magical creature, in Hermione's, they volunteered themselves for the Great Buckbeak Rescue Mission. Harry privately suspected it was a hopeless task. Hagrid did have one thing very well put: the Ministry was in Lucius Malfoy's pocket. And none of the Trio had the power to go against Malfoy in that field.

"It would probably serve for sufficient distraction if I killed Draco for starting this whole mess," Harry snarled, shoving a book away across the table with more force than strictly necessary.

"But then, you'd get in trouble for murder," Hermione said, eyes wide.

"But it's not murder if it's Malfoy," he retorted. "And anyway, I think I could put up a proper defence, or make it look like an accident, or something. But I won't act until I can be sure of getting away with it, I suppose. Pity."

Ron seemed to have cottoned on that talking about killing Malfoy was nothing but a way of venting stress. Not the healthiest way, doubtless, but not a sign that Harry was about to go on a rampage, or murder someone. Hermione, however, disapproved even of that. Even if Malfoy was a nasty piece of work, she disapproved of such talk on general principle.

This did not make reading up for Hagrid's case any better. At least, if all else failed, Hagrid wasn't taking the fall for this one. That was what Harry told himself, repeatedly, to take his mind off how important the situation was.

Ron tried very hard to be helpful, but the average book would never hold his attention. Harry took pity on him, and used him as a sounding board for ideas, instead. He worked much better, thus. He could even, sort of, take notes on strategies that might prove useful. He did not seem to realise what Harry was doing, which was fine by Harry.

For some reason, Harry was making swifter progress than Hermione through his books, but Hermione's information was more useful. It must be her ridiculous thorough methodicalness in play.

Christmas morning was far too bright. Snow had fallen the night before, and, as snow does, made everything look much brighter than it was. It threw copious amounts of light into the castle, far too early to deal with in the ordinary way of things. Harry knew that returning to sleep was pointless regardless of what hour it was, and rolled out of bed with a groan. He might not be training with the Patronus Charm for the moment, but he still was practising occlumency, and fake occlumency, and then subtle uses of the other kind of magic—and not-so-subtle, when he could find time to himself. It all took quite a toll on his energy, and he refused to take a break for the holidays.

Regardless of the dementors and Sirius Black outside the castle, it was a perfectly ordinary Christmas—if you discounted the mysterious gift of a Firebolt from person or people unknown. Hermione showed why it was important to somehow convince her of Sirius Black's innocence by telling McGonagall about the broom. When McGonagall confronted him, he knew he could have lied—she might even have believed him—but that wouldn't do well for his credibility in the future. He handed the broomstick over, instead.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he could check for such curses well enough himself, by now.

But he didn't. He was still silent on the matter of the other magic. He didn't know what to think of it, and wished that he hadn't had to wonder about it today. Christmas Day was a very bad day to question these things as it was—as a religious holiday, the entire matter still got tangled up in his head, in a way he'd yet to untangle. The same questions of years past resurfaced in their original forms. He hated this new tradition of asking the same questions on the same day, year after year. He'd almost given his metaphysical uncertainty the slip, and then Hermione had, inadvertently, recalled it to mind.

Which meant that, for once, Harry was the one not speaking to Hermione. He made pretence of having to study for Buckbeak's case, and review all the varied magics he was currently using to defend himself in general (Patronus, occlumency, Foe-Glass, that was to say—or at least, that he was willing to say). Hermione knew that, in actual point of fact, he was angry with her, but she only knew the half of why, which did not bode well for her making amends.

But they were, all three of them, too stubborn. She refused to admit that she might have erred—which, in spirit, she hadn't—and Harry refused to overlook her unilateral action (even if it was on his behalf), or the way she'd dredged back up old insecurities.

The good thing was that she had waited until close of day before doing this, which meant that he didn't spend the entire day driving himself mad with unanswerable questions. (Will you still insist that these questions cannot be answered? said the part of his mind that was making this complicated to begin with. He'd half a mind to go back to ignoring it, again. But it was the most promising lead on proving Black's innocence—indeed, the only reason he believed in it, himself, and thus….)

Ron showed prudence by trying to mediate the conflict, which did not avail him well. He would probably have sided with Harry, anyway, given Scabbers's declining health. Hermione's awareness of this did not help matters, at all.

"Take Harry's side!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "You always do!"

This did not seem fair to Harry, as Harry could think of several instances in which Ron had not, in fact, taken his side over Hermione's. But he knew better than to point this out to her. Hermione rarely cried, which made him suspect that she was, in truth, having a small nervous breakdown, anticipating their return to classes. It wasn't his fault she'd taken so many.

His own state of fatigue and overwork were at least due to forces out of his control.

Harry had had plenty of time to practice with the Firebolt before quidditch season resumed. He had been unsurprised by the "all-clear". Hermione, by contrast, was wringing her hands, and looking wretched. But Christmas was far removed by now, and Harry quite missed speaking to her about books. Not to mention that work on Buckbeak's case was difficult to accomplish with the team divided, thus. It was like that saying about the right hand and the left hand.

Hermione made some very tearful apologies, and Harry had, as gently as possible, admitted that it was mostly not even something she'd knowingly done wrong, and Ron had finally relaxed, with his two best friends no longer at odds with one another. They'd almost had another fight when Harry finally told them about the Map, but Hermione seemed to remember his reaction to the loss of his broomstick, and listened to his counterargument for why he needn't hand it in.

Gryffindor defeated Ravenclaw after start of term, which put Wood in a slightly better mood. Harry had followed his previous, disastrous strategy of not actively seeking for the snitch, to much better effect, this time. Cho Chang had enough skill not to fall off her broom, or crash into the ground, when Harry pulled out of his dive at the last second, which was just as well. And Malfoy, and not Harry, was punished (by McGonagall, of course), for pretending to be a dementor, with the assistance of living stilts Crabbe and Goyle. Harry wouldn't have used the Patronus Charm, except that he remembered that there always seemed to be a moment of calm before dementors started sucking the happiness from people, and that that was the only instant in which he would be reliably able to act. Better safe than sorry, even if the use of a wand during a match was worth a penalty.

There was no penalty.

Wood was teary-eyed, but beaming 'round at them, come end of match. He clapped Harry hard on the shoulder, saying, "I knew you'd come through, Harry," which was much better than when he'd visited Harry in the Hospital Wing during Harry's convalescence to tell him that he "didn't blame him at all".

Katie Bell caught Harry's eye behind Oliver's back, and rolled her eyes. But she, too, was smiling. Last time, there'd been occasion, but no opportunity. This time, there was absolutely no need for the reserves. Of course, they still needed to do extraordinarily well in the final match—there were a lot of variables that Harry had trouble keeping straight—but they were still in the running, which boded well for the health of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team as a whole.

All in all, things were going well. Harry could almost overlook the growing clarity of the Foe-Glass shadow that he checked nightly. He was unsurprised to find that it bore a striking resemblance to a thinner, more ragged-looking Peter Pettigrew.

It was just Hermione who still wouldn't listen.