Chapter 73: Harry and the Secret

The Longbottoms were still on Harry's mind that weekend when he slipped out of the castle under his invisibility cloak and made his way to Sirius' house. Between the accident with Neville's wand, meeting Neville's parents, continuing to help coordinate the letters in support of Professor Lupin, Quidditch practice, classes, piles of homework in preparation for OWLS, and his friends' prefect duties, Harry never had found time to ask Ron and Hermione exactly what they thought Sirius wasn't telling him.

But that didn't mean he'd forgotten.

He didn't even tell Sirius hello before reminding him of his promise. "You said I'd have much too much to do very soon. You said you'd tell me what that meant this weekend. It's the weekend."

"So it is," said Sirius. But he made no move to explain further, or to sit down, or to do anything else.

"I went with Neville Longbottom to visit his parents the other day," said Harry. "It was horrid."

"I imagine it was. It was good of you to go."

"Well, I was the one who broke Neville's wand. Didn't—" He stopped himself before he asked the question: Didn't Lupin tell you? Of course Lupin hadn't told Sirius. Lupin was in Azkaban, didn't know what had happened at Hogwarts that week, and couldn't tell Sirius anything.

It seemed like no time at all had passed since Lupin's arrest, and as if Lupin would be waiting for Harry when he returned to the castle. It also seemed like Lupin's arrest had happened years before.

"What's this about Neville's wand now?" asked Sirius.

Harry offered a brief explanation. "Your turn," he said when he was done. "You can't refuse to tell me forever."

"No," said Sirius quietly. "I can't." Sirius hooked one arm around Harry's shoulders and tucked Harry against his side.

"It can't be any worse than the rest," Harry mumbled against Sirius' chest.

"Yes," said Sirius. "It can. But you're quite right." He took his free hand and tilted Harry's face up to look at him. "Have you ever thought about your scar?"

"What kind of question is that?" Harry demanded. He unraveled himself from Sirius and sat down on the bottom of the staircase. "Of course I've thought about my scar. It was the only thing I had from my parents until I was eleven. Even though it came from the thing that killed them, I liked the way it looked. Then I came here, and everyone was always trying to stare at it. Not to mention that it hurts every time Voldemort finds a way to get too close to me, even when it was only that diadem Horcrux. How close are we to getting rid of all the bits of his soul, anyway?"

"Very close," said Sirius roughly as he sat beside Harry. "Almost too close."

Harry clenched his fists in frustration. "You're supposed to be the one who tells me the truth and doesn't speak in riddles."

"I'm trying." Sirius, too, seemed frustrated. "I've tried to tell you this before. Remus has tried too, but he was smart enough to get himself locked up when we couldn't put it off anymore."

"So stop trying and just say it."

"You're a Horcrux and you need to submit to Avada Kedavra so we can separate your soul from Voldemort's. If it works correctly, you won't die but the Horcrux will."

A wave of dizziness washed over Harry. It was a shock, and yet it wasn't. "So let's do it now." He jumped to his feet, clinging to the bannister for support. "You've got your wand. Do it."

"We think our best chance is to resurrect Voldemort using your blood and let him do it."

Somehow that was more shocking than the idea that he was carrying around a Horcrux in the first place. "I don't see how anything could go wrong with that plan," he deadpanned.

"Nor do I," Sirius agreed.

"Why do we think this is a good idea?"

"Because it's what happened in Remus' memories. That's how he was able to do the things he did. He died fighting Voldemort. Then you almost immediately— knowing you would have to sacrifice yourself to Voldemort— used a very old magical artifact to call him to you. You called your parents and me as well, of course, but we'd been dead much longer so it didn't affect us the way it affected Remus."

"Show me the memory," demanded Harry. "He must have shown you."

"He can't put that memory in a Pensieve. He and Dumbledore tried it over and over. It doesn't work."

"That's convenient."

"I'm under the impression that death is only rarely convenient."

Harry brushed the tips of his fingers over the scar on his forehead. He remembered the pain he'd felt every time Quirrell had looked at him in his first year.

He thought of how it was better that Lily and James were dead when they could have been bodies without minds like Frank and Alice.

He thought about how a whole generation of wizards like Lily and James and Frank and Alice might be butchered all over again if Voldemort wasn't defeated for good.

"How soon?" he asked.

"When you've had enough time to think about it that you can tell me you're truly ready," said Sirius. "I think we owe you that much."

It wasn't very much at all.

"I'm ready now," Harry decided. He didn't want to think about this. He didn't need to think about this. Thinking about it wouldn't change anything. "When can we resurrect Voldemort?"

"We haven't really discussed it," said Sirius. "None of us wanted to talk about it, and there was always something else that had to happen first. I think Dumbledore would prefer to do it when school is out of session. Can you hold on until Easter?"

Easter. Most of the students didn't bother leaving Hogwarts for Easter. Mrs. Weasley always sent wonderful chocolate eggs to her children and their friends, and they often turned in their homework with a chocolate smear or two when the holiday was over.

When Sirius had said they'd need to wait until school was out of session, Harry had thought that he'd meant June or July. Not Easter, which was two months away.

If Harry asked for a stay of execution until June or July, he would get one. Sirius had made that clear. Harry wanted that time, but not as much as he didn't want it.

"What if I tell you I'm never going to be ready? What if I tell you I won't do it?"

Sirius' voice cracked. "Don't tempt me."

"Would you help me run? Even though you've spent your whole life trying to stop Voldemort? Even though you believe that anyone who can make a sacrifice to defeat him should do it? Even though your brother died trying, and my parents, and however many of your friends? Even though you would do it yourself if you could?"

"It's your decision, Harry. Not mine."

"But you could stop me."

"But I wouldn't."

"I'm not going to run, you know. I'll be ready at Easter."

"I know."

For almost the first time since they had met, Harry didn't have anything more to say to Sirius. He didn't even want to stay in the house with Sirius. It wasn't that he was angry with Sirius; to the contrary, he knew absolutely and completely how very much Sirius loved him. That was printed plainly across Sirius' ludicrously handsome face.

Harry just didn't want to be around anyone at all.

"If I go back to school right now, will you start drinking?" he asked. Remus wasn't there anymore to look in on Sirius when Sirius was upset. That would be Harry's job alone until Harry helped resurrect Lord Voldemort and allowed himself to die, permanently or otherwise.

"No," said Sirius. "Moony's not here and your parents aren't here. It's just you and me, and I'm not going to fail you. Not now."

"Are you going to do that thing where you don't sleep for two days?"

"Possibly. I can't really help that, Harry."

It was the honesty of the answer that gave Harry the confidence to listen to the part of him that was screaming with the need to be alone.

"All right, then. I'm going back to school."

"Use your mirror if you need me."

Harry nodded, and Harry left.

He started to pull his invisibility cloak over his head, but the cloak felt too hot and heavy. Why should he hide himself now when, very soon, it was possible that no one would ever see him again?

Likewise, he didn't take one of the hidden tunnels back into the castle. How many more days did he have to feel sunshine on his face or snow crunching beneath his feet?

So it wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend. So he wasn't meant to be out of the castle. What was the worst that could happen? Would they ban him from future Hogsmeade weekends after he was dead? Even if he lived, he had already snuck out of the castle so many times that it had almost become boring.

He drew nearer the school. He heard shouts, but he didn't pay them any attention. No doubt students were practicing Quidditch or having snowball fights or sliding about on the edge of the Black Lake. He'd done those things himself back when he'd been younger. He knew, now, that he would never feel young again. He was, and had always been, a marked man.

His scar burned; not the burn he felt when Voldemort drew near, but the burn of a memory. He barely noticed when he passed through the gates to Hogwarts grounds.

"Off visiting Hogsmeade, Potter? I don't believe I saw a notice that this was a Hogsmeade weekend."

He was brought back to reality by the smug voice of Draco Malfoy. He ignored him. Like everything else, his and Malfoy's mutual loathing seemed far away and childish.

"I would know if it was a Hogsmeade weekend," Malfoy continued. "What with my being a prefect and all. They tell the prefects the schedule ahead of time and give us locations to patrol. You wouldn't know, because Dumbledore and McGonagall didn't think you were the right sort to be a prefect."

Once upon a time, he would have said something about how if Draco Malfoy was what a prefect was meant to be, he certainly had no ambitions in that direction. Now it hardly seemed worth it. Once he had wrapped his mind around Sirius' news, he needed to spend what time he had left with Ron and Hermione and his other friends.

"I don't think he understands, Draco," said a shriller voice. Pansy Parkinson. Pug-faced Pansy Parkinson. "I don't think he understands that as prefects, it's our responsibility to give him detention."

Harry finally took a good look at them. At another time, he might have been nervous. There were at least two dozen Slytherins crowding around him. He didn't see any professors or any students from other houses. It seemed that the Quidditch team had been practicing—Malfoy, Montague, Warrington, Crabbe, and Goyle were all carrying brooms— and some of their housemates had turned out to watch.

"Detention, Potter," confirmed Malfoy. "I'll let Professor Snape know."

"You do that," said Harry. He started to walk again. He planned to unfurl the Marauder's Map in the safety of his dormitory and find a private space to spend the next few hours, or even the rest of the weekend. He'd leave a note for Ron and Hermione so they wouldn't worry.

"Don't try to get out of this, Potter!" Malfoy called after him, sounding much annoyed that Harry hadn't argued about detention. "Everyone saw. The whole Quidditch team, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Astoria Greengrass, Stephanie Wheeler…"

Malfoy kept talking, but Harry stopped listening. He turned and looked at the girls. He didn't know the girl standing beside the Greengrass sisters, but she was about his height and looked old enough to be a sixth year. "Are you Stephanie Wheeler?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Why?"

"You don't have any business with her, Potter!" Malfoy snapped.

It was true that Harry couldn't very well explain that he had simply wanted to see the Slytherin who had written a rather personal letter of thanks to Professor Lupin. "I reckon she can decide for herself whether she has business with me, Malfoy," said Harry. "She's the dueling champion for her year, after all, and that's something you wouldn't know anything about."

There was a low rumble of titters and cracking of knuckles as Stephanie Wheeler stepped forward. She had light brown hair and light brown eyes and pale skin. She looked like about a hundred other girls in the school; it was no wonder that Harry hadn't noticed her before. "All right, then," she said. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

"I wanted to see if you would duel with me sometime," lied Harry nonchalantly. "There's no good competition in my year."

"She'll squash you like a bug," said Warrington. It almost sounded like a genuine warning instead of the posturing to which Harry had become accustomed from the Slytherin Quidditch team.

"Then that will be my problem."

Stephanie Wheeler laughed. "Yes, it will. I admit I'd like a go at the famous Harry Potter. I heard you shattered someone's wand the other day."

"It was only Longbottom!" Malfoy objected. "Anyone could shatter his wand."

"But anyone didn't."

"Let's make this interesting." Pansy Parkinson peeked around Malfoy's left side. Her prefect's badge glinted on her chest. "If Potter can beat Stephanie, right here, right now, no detention for him. If she beats him, he gets double detention."

"Deal," said Malfoy.

"Deal," said Stephanie Wheeler.

They all looked at Harry. "Deal," said Harry at last. "But I want a neutral referee. Someone who's not from Slytherin."

"We should move to the courtyard, anyway," said one of the Greengrass sisters. "We're right under Dumbledore's window. We'll find someone along the way."

They found a number of someones. The first Gryffindor they collected with Ginny's roommate Heather Hadley. Ginny didn't exactly speak glowingly of her roommates, but Heather had signed the Gryffindor letter in support of Lupin, so Harry knew she couldn't be all bad. He handed his bag to her. "Give it to Ginny if I die," he instructed. "She can give it to her brother Ron."

"I know you'll win," said Heather as she dutifully slung the bag over her shoulder.

Harry remembered the first time he'd been challenged to a duel by a Slytherin. (Had he been challenged this time? Had he done the challenging? Did this count as a challenge? Did it matter?) Ron had eagerly volunteered to be Harry's second. If he called for Ron now, Ron would come no matter what he was doing; there was no doubt of that. It shouldn't even hurt his reputation as a prefect since both Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were already involved.

But Harry wasn't ready to call for Ron knowing that they would only see each other so many times, now, before Harry died.

Or didn't die. Sirius seemed to think that Harry would probably live, but that probably wasn't enough. He needed to prepare to die, and if he didn't, that would be so much the better. Hermione would be proud of him. She liked to prepare for all eventualities.

And he would have been preparing right now if the Slytherins hadn't interrupted him. He had wanted to be alone, and now he was the center of too much attention— again.

The Slytherins nominated a willowy Ravenclaw girl who Harry recognized as one of Cho's friends as referee. Harry nodded his approval, and the audience fled to the sides of the courtyard.

The Ravenclaw girl— Lyssa, one of the others called her— counted down as Harry and his opponent took their places. They bowed to one another. Stephanie Wheeler looked like she could have been any number of girls. She could have faded into the background and lived a life where no one knew her name. Harry had never had that choice.

He concentrated on the sound of his own breathing and the wand in his hand.

They struck each other simultaneously, and he knew right away that she was, indeed, very good. Far better than anyone in his year. Maybe even as good as Cedric.

For the next ten minutes, they cast and countered. They dodged and ducked and threw up shield charms. They cast silly jinxes. They cast serious hexes. Sometimes one of them managed a hit, but it was never enough to end the duel.

He understood anew why Sirius liked his dueling club so much. With every spell he cast, Harry forgot that he was scared and angry. He forgot about Sirius and Lupin and Dumbledore and Voldemort. His blood and his breath and his magic were his own, and they were wonderful.

Just as his legs began to ache and his brow began to sweat, he spotted an opening.

"Expelliarmus!"

Lupin wasn't there to stop him. Snape wasn't there to stop him. Stephanie Wheeler's wand flew into his hand and he raised the two wands above his head in triumph.

The willowy Ravenclaw Lyssa shouted that he had won. He returned the wand; he and Stephanie bowed to one another again.

"I'll beat you next time," she whispered in his ear.

"Any time, any place," he told her. "Except during Quidditch matches."

And, he supposed, it would have to be before he turned himself over to Voldemort to die.

To be continued.

Author's Note: I hope you're safe and well. Don't feel any pressure to comment if you're not feeling it. And please go easy on me if you do comment… I spent most of this week writing very intensely at all hours, but the thing I was writing was a COVID-19 document for work. So yeah, this chapter did not get the best of my writing energy for the week.

Recommendation:

Tragic Hero by Rorschach's Blot. It is story ID number 2856230 on this site.

Summary: ONESHOT: Harry decides to take advantage of the fact that he is a tragic hero and does so in a manner suggested by Ron.

A little crack/humor in which Harry accepts his fate in a different way.