The Article Chapter 6, a harry potter fanfic

Part 6

Harry mourned the loss of Ron and Hermione when they had to return to the castle; they were both a comfort and a welcome distraction from himself. But now it was late, and he was cold, despite the heavy jumper he had pulled on and his close seat to the fire. Remus and Mrs Weasley, his 'carers' for the night, were both asleep – it was well beyond two in the morning. But Harry had no desire to retire to bed. The darkness when he closed his eyes was slowly taking on a new meaning for him, one he didn't wish to dwell on, but a trickling fear had been building in his gut every time he thought about it. And echoes of Voldemort sounded in his dreams, though he could never quite remember the details once he woke.

Madame Pomphrey was due another visit, but Harry knew he was physically fine. There were no marks on his body to serve as evidence for what had happened to him. The rope burn around his wrists was healed, the purple bruising of his elbow had faded, the stinging cuts at the side of his mouth aggravated by the chafing gag were gone, and the wound inflicted on his head when he failed to reach Kreacher in time was a distant memory; all courtesy of the Hogwarts matron, of course. She had fixed those problems in an instant – as soon as it was clear Harry was, well, alive.

Shivering at the thought, he dragged his moth-eaten chair closer to the flames. Though Dumbledore's explanation and history of Tom Riddle's penchant for horcrux making explained how Harry managed to live through a second fatal curse, it didn't explain why. Why was all of this happening?

Scrubbing his hands across his tired eyes, Harry willed his brain to come up with even half an answer he could believe. What was the point of surviving death twice? He was no hero, despite the whisper of the word 'miracle' he had heard from one or two passing Order members. Being the target of Voldemort's cruelty and hate didn't mean he was on equal footing with the dark wizard. But somehow that's what the wizarding world wanted to believe; they fully set stock in the idea that he was the opposing force to immeasurable evil. If only they knew how easy Voldemort had cornered him. Technically speaking, Voldemort had succeeded in vanquishing Harry, at least for a moment. He couldn't see how the next time they met would play out any different, with the exception that in round two there would be no horcrux within Harry to serve as a suicide scapegoat. No, the next curse would pierce its true target.

Lost in the sea of his own thoughts, Harry jumped violently when he heard a door shut rather sharply from out in the hallway. His hand scrambled for the temporary wand Dumbledore had offered him upon the loss of his own and he scolded himself for his paranoia, fingers gripping the foreign wood tightly.

Order members were constantly moving in and out of the old house, gathering supplies, passing information, or even just resting for a time – as Remus had been doing – so a noise was not cause for panic. Not only that, but the deed was solidly in Harry's own name and Dumbledore himself managed the enchantments that kept it hidden. There was no need for the intense hammering of his heart he could feel building in his chest. He willed himself to relax but stood to investigate regardless.

Stealing toward the kitchen, Harry could make out the dim light of a wand in the dark. That did make his nerves spike. Why wouldn't the lamps be lit? Swallowing hard, he crept toward the door and pushed it open with his left hand, slowly, only to be met with the cross face of Severus Snape, whose wand shone brightly in one hand, quill pinched in the other, clearly disturbed mid-message if the parchment on the scrubbed wooden table was anything to go by.

An impatient flick of Snape's wand lit every lamp in the long room simultaneously, illuminating the scene with a warm yellow glow. Far warmer than the icy glower that was currently aimed at Harry.

"Potter."

It wasn't a question. If anything, it sounded more like an insult, but he understood it as a demand for an explanation as to why he was standing in the doorway at twenty-past two in the morning, wand raised in nervous hostility.

"Sorry, sir. I was just… checking."

It sounded as lame aloud as it did in Harry's head, but the professor's expression didn't change. He simply bent back down to finish his note, the scrawled signature at the bottom finalising the deed, just before five potion vials were set atop it.

Harry looked at them and frowned slightly. "Are those f-"

"They are for Lupin."

Wolfsbane. Right.

"Why are you dropping them off in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't realise my schedule was any of your concern." The words weren't scolding, they were mocking. Harry wasn't sure which was worse.

"It's not," Harry said, dumbly, just wanting to break the weird silence that he could feel looming. "Right. I'll just-"

He had turned away, fully intent upon escaping, but of course it could never be that easy.

"What are you doing skulking around in the middle of the night, Potter?"

Well, that was a bit rich considering it was Harry's house and Snape was the one found standing in the shadows of a darkened kitchen. But despite his inner desire to flee, he found himself turning and shrugging.

"Bad dreams?"

Fury should have been the go-to response for such a back-handed question, but the fire died as Snape continued, his tone falling from sarcastic to serious so suddenly that it threw Harry for a loop.

"If the Dark Lord is attempting to invade your mind, Potter, you are obligated to say."

An unpleasant feeling tingled across the back of Harry's neck.

"He's not. There hasn't been anything like that since, er, well. You know."

The atmosphere was suddenly stifling, awkwardness abound, and Harry's expression shrivelled under the scrutiny of the other.

"Since your ephemeral brush with death."

It was as if the tension cracked when 'death' was spoken aloud, and all the air was suddenly sucked from the room. Harry stared, wide-eyed, at the ex-potions master, aghast that he had said it just like that. No one else that Harry had spoken to had been so direct, or perhaps blasé was a better way of putting it. Ron had joked, but if only to make Harry feel better. The unpleasant man in front of him clearly had no such intentions and yet, he felt slightly grateful – finding the straight-forward approach oddly refreshing, even if it came in the form of Snape's hateful voice.

It took Harry a while before he spoke again.

"Do you think he knows I'm alive?" The question wasn't one that anyone had dared give him a straight answer to yet. Not even Dumbledore.

Snape regarded the boy in front of him with a cool indifference, but despite the picture of nonchalance that the man was, he answered. Again, directly.

"He knows."

Harry believed him. He knew he was being told the truth, he just couldn't work out how that felt. He wanted to ask how Voldemort had reacted, surely Snape had seen him since. But he didn't. He knew that it was a closed topic. And while things had changed so much, the limitations of their topics of conversation wouldn't stretch much further.

"Right."

Snape seemed wary of Harry's response, his mouth turning down at one side in a displeased fashion, eyes focused, searching. The Gryffindor avoided his scrutinising gaze, choosing instead to focus on the cold teapot resting on the stove.

"There's something different about you, Potter."

The words unsettled Harry's stomach and he couldn't help but return his eyes to the man in front of him.

"You're certain the Dark Lord hasn't infiltrated your thoughts? Or dreams?"

He considered it for a moment, weighing in on the far-off notion of dread that came to him while he slept sometimes. But it didn't add up to the agony that was Voldemort's influence on his consciousness. Harry knew that feeling all too well. Perhaps, for once, they had been nightmares and nightmares only?

"I'm sure. I think…"

Harry paused, doubting his thoughts before deciding to commit them to words.

"I think it's the opposite. For once, he's not there at all, not really."

Colour rose in Harry's face at this admission, though he didn't understand why. Perhaps it was because of his chosen audience for such a statement. Why was he still here? Or more importantly, why was Snape still here? Tolerating a conversation with him.

Even more bizarre, something in what he said caused the ex-potions professor's eyebrows to rise just a tad. An almost unnoticeable movement, but there it was all the same. Was it surprise? Obsidian eyes looked him up and down, analysing with intensity. But it was obvious that the man didn't find what he seemed to be searching for, as he turned slightly to glance back down at the potion bottles – checking that all was in order – before pulling his cloak tighter around himself and gesturing for his student to move from the doorway to allow his exit.

Harry stood aside, watching the wizard stride down the darkened hallway, eventually disappearing into the night with a far-off close of the front door.

Deciding sleep was pointless after the jarring encounter he had with his Defence professor, Harry put the teapot he had been previously staring at to use and sat down at the kitchen table with a steaming cup, clutching it between his cold palms and hovering over the hot liquid, rather than drinking it.

He considered Snape's words. Was he really so different? His right hand left the hot tea and gently touched his scar, frowning as he did.

The unpleasant man hardly knew Harry that well, so how could he judge whether he was different or not? Besides, if anyone was changed, it was Snape. He hadn't forgotten the odd stillness from the man when he first awoke, nor the shouting that had occurred a few days prior about Harry's supposed 'indifference' to death.

Death. That was another thing. Snape had said it so simply. Had named the very thing Harry was avoiding discussing or thinking on too much. And he was grateful for it. Grateful. To Snape…

Huffing a breath out, he dared take a sip of the tea, cringing at how bitter it was. But he couldn't find the sugar.

As he sat in silence, Harry's thoughts couldn't help but creep back to Voldemort, and the fact that he now had confirmation that the dark wizard knew he had survived. What would he do? What was Harry to do now? Start the hunt for horcruxes, hoping that he'd survive long enough to get a shot at Voldemort? That seemed like childish imagination; he was still only sixteen. How was he supposed to go out in the world when he couldn't even cast a simple Accio without the Ministry of Magic knowing about it.

Sighing hard, he took another sip of the bitter brew. He grimaced. It really was a poor cup of tea.

Just as he placed the cup back down on the wooden surface, a sugar bowl popped into existence beside his resting left hand, startling him and causing him to upend the tea all over the table.

Jumping up from the bench, Harry turned to grab a cloth but stopped short as his eyes found Kreacher, standing in half-shadow near the sink. The forgotten tea dribbled over the side of the table and pooled across the tiled floor beneath, left to seep into the cracks as the young wizard and reluctant elf stared at one another.

"Kreacher?" Harry said, wary and tentative in one.

This seem to jolt the towel-clad creature back to the present, for he stepped out into the light fully, his alarming eyes considering Harry with displeasure and curiosity.

"Master has survived the Dark Lord."

Whenever Kreacher had addressed Harry as 'master' in the past, it was always laced with derision and mocking, but this time it wasn't, sounding just softly dismissive.

Harry blinked, bewildered by the introductory topic of conversation. His mind flashed back to the elf lurking in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Just about," Harry said, slowly.

He was hoping the other would continue but he was silent. As the moment grew, Harry began to fidget, and an unexpected admission built up in him.

"Look, er, thanks for getting the Dursleys – the fat man and skinny woman – out of Malfoy Manor. They'd be dead if you hadn't."

The last thing that he expected to see in Kreacher's often narrowed eyes was alarm, but it was visible there now, the words clearly confusing the elf.

"And," Harry continued. "I'm sorry for forbidding you to tell anyone about it. I didn't realise my words would be so… I know you probably wouldn't have warned Dumbledore about where I'd gone regardless, why would you? But even still, I'm not entirely comfortable having such an influence on everything you can and cannot do.

There was an awkward pause.

"So, yeah."

It was a foreign and subtle guilt that had sat on his chest the more he had considered the power he had over the form in front of him.

Though, his words didn't seem to be of any comfort to Kreacher, as his face was now thoroughly twisted in confusion – though without any hint of malice.

Harry had hoped to leave it there. The tension was starting to get to him. But he had one more question, one he suddenly couldn't resist, as soon as it had formed in his head. He thought about Kreacher's willingness to help Bellatrix Lestrange in her master's plot to corner Sirius and trap Harry in the department of Mysteries. Was the elf simply looking for kindness, as he knew Hermione believed? Or was some part of him approving of all Voldemort and his followers stood for, having served a family that prided itself on pureblood mania. He couldn't explain why he wanted insight into the elf's take on Voldemort, but there it was all the same. He tried his best to separate out the elf's part in Sirius' eventual death. Could he really blame him, when it was Bellatrix who had manipulated the small form, only to kill her cousin herself mere hours later?

"What do you think of the Dark Lord, Kreacher? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But, I'm… Well, I just want to know. I know how wizard's see him, but do you approve of what he does, because of the pureblood thing your mistress was set on?"

Kreacher looked stunned. His often-ugly expression was simply aghast, looking up at Harry with bewilderment.

"Sirius' brother was a Death Eater, right?"

Harry would only later understand how that one question would begin the turning point in the conversation and in how Kreacher and he saw one another. Immediately, the elf's face darkened, before softening out into something akin to mournful.

"Master Regulus," he croaked. "Yes, yes. He followed the Dark Lord."

"So, he died serving him?"

Harry tried to keep the judgement out of his tone, but Kreacher sensed it regardless, his eyes snapping to the young wizard's with a disturbing intensity.

"No," he hissed. "No. My kind, clever master. He had forsaken the Dark Lord, before the end. Kreacher knows."

"But, why would he do that?" Harry was astonished, feeling something shifting in the air as he considered the elf in front of him with renewed interest.

Kreacher regarded the question with a nervousness Harry had never witnessed in him, watching as the elf glanced toward the doorway that led back down the halls to where the portrait of his mistress stood in the dark. Instead of an answer, Kreacher simply shook his head and the Gryffindor understood, recognising the tell-tale signs of a secret.

"Look, I get that you don't like me, Kreacher. But I meant what I said in the passageway of Malfoy Manor. I won't ask anything of you again. But, do you think, maybe some time, you might be willing to tell me even a piece of the story?"

The wide eyes were distrustful again, all nervous energy gone, replaced with a guarded look and a small retreat of footsteps. But there was an almost imperceptible nod and Harry took that at face value. He could wait. This was important, he knew that much, but he could wait. He'd research Regulus in the meantime and hold out until the elf was open to speaking with him.

Harry dreamt of Sirius when he finally drifted off in the early hours of the morning, waking late the next day to a knock on his bedroom door and the alarming announcement from a rather unsure Remus that Dudley Dursley was waiting downstairs. Dressing himself quickly, he tried to loosen the knot in his stomach, hoping that Dudley was alone. He wasn't sure he could face his aunt and uncle right now.

The last step on the landing stairs creaked so loudly that Harry sighed, knowing the boy waiting in the sitting room would have heard, removing his chances of loitering in the hallway.

Pushing the door open with trepidation, he peered around the wooden frame to see his large cousin sat on the far couch, his heavy, though muscled, form crushing the old cushions beneath him as he wrung his hands in un-Dudley-like fashion.

Glancing behind him just as the larger boy looked up, Harry shut the door firmly, knowing that whatever was said here, both of them needed it to be in private. There couldn't be onlookers, like last time.

Moving with surprising agility, Dudley was to his feet, his face pinched in nervousness as he took in his skinny relative, eyes scrunching slightly at the dark circles under Harry's eyes. Though, funnily enough, Dudley's own pale face had similar rings under his lids, demonstrating the signs of his own personal ordeal over the last few days.

There was a pause, in which he wasn't sure if Dudley was going to punch him or cry. The boy was starting to shake, but his face was set.

"You saved them."

Harry's green eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to rebut the statement, knowing it was as much his fault that they were taken in the first place.

But Dudley didn't allow him to get a word out.

"You got them out. Even after how we've been with you at home."

Harry was aware that he was far more uncomfortable with those words than Dudley, despite the lack of understanding of anything to do with emotions or real-life situations that he had witnessed in his cousin in the past. This was just how it was in Dumbledore's office, but perhaps more extreme. The Gryffindor had even considered that maybe that time had been a one-off moment of maturity for Dudley. But no, here was the same boy he had seen that day.

"Why would you do that?"

The question caught him off guard, and he started, immediately shaking his head, unwilling to repeat what he had told Draco Malfoy, of all people, about the necessity of saving his relatives – regardless of whether they despised him.

"They were in trouble," Harry said, quietly. "It was necessary."

'Even if they wouldn't have done the same for you,' he thought, grimly.

"I was talking to one of the people who were guarding us. He said you're pretty famous in… your world."

Dudley's face was frowning in thought at his own words, as if the very notion seemed completely foreign to him. He then followed with a question Harry really didn't want to answer right now.

"Why?"

There was a long silence, but Harry sighed and dropped his shoulders, moving to sit in the armchair across from Dudley, suddenly tired – and not due to his late-night wakefulness.

"It's a long story," he mumbled, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dudley took a cue from him and also sat back down, scuffing his new trainers against the carpet slightly.

"But it's because of him, right? The guy that took mum and dad?"

Harry looked back at him. "Yeah, that's pretty much it, really."

"Is he still after you?" Dudley's question was unnecessary; they both knew the answer. But Harry nodded anyway.

"Right," Dudley mumbled, rubbing his arm awkwardly.

Wholly uneasy with this line of conversation, Harry turned things back on the other boy. "What are you going to do now?"

Dudley shrugged, saying nothing.

"Are- are they alright?" The question sounded stupid to him and Harry cringed at his own bluntness, knowing first-hand that of course they wouldn't alright after a run-in with Death Eaters.

But Dudley didn't torture him for asking. Instead, he nodded, looking older than Harry had ever seen him.

"Yeah. I mean, I can tell they're hiding a lot of it from me, but they're healed and all. Thanks to you."

Harry bristled at the misdirected gratitude.

"They were taken because of me, Dudley. You have to understand that." His words had a bite to them and if he had spoken to his cousin like that when they were children, he would have gotten a punch to the stomach. But this Dudley shook the words off, standing up and striding across the room. Harry tensed, getting to his feet quickly, as if waiting for the blow to land.

Instead, the larger boy swung his fist out and opened his fingers in a steady and steely offer of a handshake.

Shocked, Harry looked up at his face before glancing back down to the waiting hand. He didn't know what else he could do but take it, the two shaking hands slowly and seriously.

"They're alive because of you, that's all I know. So, thanks. Harry."

He paused as their hands fell away.

Dudley turned to grab his coat. "I'll see you around?"

Bewildered, Harry found himself nodding slowly.

"Yeah. See you around, Dudley."

As if from far away, he watched the boy leave the room. He overheard several voices, one he could identify as Dedalus Diggle's, before things quietened once more and the odd encounter with a boy Harry had never really taken an interest in was over, concluding that, as things stood, he didn't understand this version of Dudley one bit.

Harry had accepted the concept of 'never a dull moment' when it came to his schooling months long ago. Two days before he was due to return to Hogwarts, that constant reared its ugly head again, despite his current break from the castle that usually housed the uproar that was his life.

He had been reading over a letter from Dumbledore that evening, which stated that the headmaster himself was going to call tomorrow and take Harry to Ollivanders. He hated the loss of his holly wand, knowing, with deep-rooted anguish, that Voldemort had it at this moment. He remembered getting a hold of it just before blacking out in the cellars of Malfoy Manor, but he had not seen it since. Though the dark wizard had never referenced it in their short time together, Harry knew he had it in his possession and the thought burned him.

Sighing hard, he put the letter down, wondering why Dumbledore himself wanted to accompany him. Not that it was unwelcome, it was just unusual.

Putting it on top of the small pile of clothes he had gathered together, ready to be packed, he jumped out of his skin when Dobby suddenly popped into existence in front of him.

"Blimey, Dobby! You nearly have me a he-", but he stopped upon seeing the elf's expression, his small hands twisting his ears slightly.

"Harry Potter!"

"What is it, Dobby? Is something wrong?"

The elf hesitated, looking behind him for some phantom figure, before whispering quickly. "Dobby thought he should come tell you. Dobby was working on the seventh floor of Hogwarts this night, dusting the portrait of the ballet-dancing trolls, and saw a most peculiar thing."

Harry's face was utter confusion now, gesturing for him to go on.

"It was young Draco Malfoy, sir. Dobby sees him, just for a minute. Standing in the corridor, then not. He is supposed to be away from the castle."

Thoughts running a mile a minute, Harry balked at the idea that Malfoy was in the school. He was supposed to be in hiding with his parents. Why would he risk being seen there? The Death Eaters had several sons and daughters at Hogwarts, if one of them happened to see him…

"Are you sure?"

The elf's emphatic nodding left no doubt in Harry's mind and he stood up from the bed, pacing slightly, hand going through his hair. Was Malfoy back-tracking? Was he there for some nefarious reason? These poisonous thoughts built up in him before he could stop them, but he did his best to chase them away, reasoning that even if Malfoy or his family had second thoughts there was no way they would return to Voldemort. He'd kill them instantly for their betrayal. Just look at what happened to Wormtail.

Swallowing, Harry stopped his nervous movement. Biting his lip, he glanced nervously at the door, knowing that what he was thinking of doing was exactly what every member of the Order and his friends feared he would do – again and again. Running off into potential danger.

But this was Hogwarts. He was going back in two days anyway. And it was Malfoy. A reluctantly pseudo-reformed Malfoy, at that. Even if the other turned on him, he could best him in a duel – so long as Malfoy was alone.

Still, perhaps he should go straight to Dumbledore, write him a letter there and then? Or alert Mrs Weasley downstairs?

But Harry had this urge to speak to Malfoy himself, face-to-face, ever since he learnt that it had been the Slytherin who had informed Dumbledore of his whereabouts. He wanted to see for himself, to feel that the blonde had changed somewhat. And if he went running to the Order, there was no way they'd allow him to chase down his school rival. Most people – bar Snape and Dumbledore, and Hermione and Ron, of course – had treated Harry like he was made of glass since he had taken by Voldemort that night. The last thing they'd want to hear from him was a desire to dive into another risky situation.

Sighing, he looked back at Dobby who seemed to be getting more nervous by the minute, perhaps feeling unresolved guilt at spilling one of his ex-master's secrets?

"Was he alone?"

The elf nodded.

That still didn't prove anything though. Hating himself for wanting to rush off, Harry tried to settle his mind. This was Hogwarts! Where else was he going to be safe than there? Malfoy didn't have the protection in the castle that Harry did, not now. And Dobby would be with him. Surely that was enough to alleviate any worry?

"Dobby, would you come with me, to find him?"

The small elf looked positively touched at the question. Nodding enthusiastically, he stood tall – as tall as an elf could manage – and firm. "Harry Potter can always count on Dobby!"

Harry gave him a small smile and his thanks.

Grabbing his jumper from where it had been flung over a chair, Harry bemoaned the fact that his invisibility cloak, much like his wand, had been lost to him. He had realised this only recently, jolting up from the armchair he had been half-heartedly reading in, accepting that it now lay somewhere in the depths of the prison he had narrowly escaped. His dad's heirloom, gone.

Urging himself not to dwell on it, he pulled the maroon knit over his head and slipped his wand into his jeans.

"Ready when you are, Dobby."

A very serious expression came over the elf's face and he nodded, reaching up to grasp Harry's arm, the two disappearing on the spot.

Mercifully, the corridor outside the Room of Requirement was empty, and it took no more than a minute to get inside, the door opening upon Harry's third thought. What was utterly bizarre, however, was what greeted him when he stepped into the seemingly endless space. As the door clanged shut behind him, the sound of something smashing rang out from somewhere in the depths of forgotten things. Bewildered, Harry motioned for Dobby to keep quiet and follow him. The nod he got was solemn and focused and Harry led the way, wand alight in his hand.

Splintering wood and glass shattering led them all the way to the blonde head of Draco Malfoy, who was standing over a ruined vanishing cabinet, face sweaty and hair thoroughly messed, his wand in one hand and an old broom handle in the other.

"What on earth?"

Harry's voice sounded loud in the huge space and Malfoy whirled so fast he almost toppled, eyes wild with tension until they turned to confusion upon seeing who was standing before him.

"Potter?" The name wasn't spat at him but flavoured with honest surprise; the shock in the Slytherin's face only mounting when his grey eyes glanced downward.

"Dobby?!"

"Mister Draco, sir."

Harry almost laughed at the gaping expression he and Dobby were met with then, but he didn't; the situation they were in keeping him sober.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy? Isn't it dangerous to be seen?"

"I could say the same thing to you," was shot back at him, surprise replaced with hostility – though he kept looking at Dobby in something akin to wonder.

Harry ignored his words. "And what's with the cabinet?"

Now that had Malfoy's expression paling, instantly alerting the Gryffindor to the fact that this wasn't a stress-relieving destructive moment. Malfoy came here with the intent to destroy it.

"It's nothing, Potter. I just had to get rid of it. Stay out of my business."

Harry, oddly, believed him. Glancing down at the ruined mass of wood and glass, he considered the fact that Malfoy had been key in saving him not so long ago. And they had come to a tentative agreement in the bathroom that day. Was it possible to keep such a fragile truce going, now that Malfoy had the protection he desired, and Harry was currently out of harm's way?

Squinting at the remains of the cabinet, Harry pointed his wand at it, suspecting something but unsure without Hermione there to tell him different.

"Reparo."

Bits and pieces that Malfoy had so ceaselessly destroyed began to form back together. The cabinet didn't immediately become whole, but it was clear the magic was trying.

"What the hell, Potter?!" Malfoy shouted, enraged. "You don't know what you're doing."

Harry lowered his wand. "I'm not trying to fix it! I'm proving that it can be fixed. We need to destroy it to the point that it can't reform."

That shut the other up, his pinched face glancing between the Gryffindor and the half-formed furniture in agitation.

"We?" he sneered.

"Yes. We." Harry's tone was serious, but he thought the other wasn't going to budge. Until he did. Shrugging his shoulders in an unnatural way, Malfoy sighed. "Fine. What do you suggest?"

"We need to burn it. Reparo shouldn't work on ashes…"

Instead of mocking him, Malfoy looked thoughtful. "Fine. I'll maintain the flames; you keep them contained. If it starts to spread, cast Aguamenti."

Harry simply nodded, even though the tone was slightly bossy and merely listing out his own thought process. But he let it go.

The two worked in silence, as Dobby watched on in surprise as his old master and his favourite friend actually worked together, the minutes ticking by until the structure crumbled, and the wood smouldering; the burst of water from Harry's wand eventually smothering the smoking remains, leaving utter destruction behind.

There was silence for a long time.

"I thought you were off licking your wounds somewhere, Potter," came Malfoy's quiet voice, his tone wary despite its intent to insult.

"I could say the same about you," he said, repeating the blonde's earlier words back to him.

Malfoy glanced over to him, eyes drawn in a frown. Then he turned his attention to the elf. "And why are you with my old house elf?"

Harry didn't need to answer, for Dobby piped up almost immediately, no trace of hesitation in his voice.

"Dobby is Harry Potter's friend," he claimed, proudly, drawing a horrified look from the young Malfoy.

"There aren't any limits to your attempts at sainthood, are there?" The words were spat at him, but Harry didn't feel the usual hostility the Slytherin could draw up in him. He simply shrugged.

"Dobby saved me that night," he said, tone firm.

"A house elf, of course," Malfoy muttered. But then he paused. "The Dark Lord caught you though. I warned you not to go after those Muggles."

Harry frowned. "I couldn't have done anything differently. No-matter the consequences. You weren't there when Dobby brought, er, brought me back?"

Narrowing his eyes at the odd question, Malfoy shook his head, divulging that he and his parents had been moved to a secret location earlier that evening – clearly after providing the information of Harry's whereabouts, something the Slytherin failed to mention.

Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. His death was an Order secret and if Malfoy hadn't witnessed his body, there was no way he could know exactly what went down.

"Did-did he mention my mother and father? When you were there?"

Suddenly Malfoy was unable to meet Harry's eyes, the grey orbs focused on the ash pile in front of him.

"Er, yeah. He did. He guessed what had happened."

The blonde shivered and absent-mindedly rubbed at his arm, wincing slightly.

"You need to be more careful, Malfoy. If the wrong people had spotted you tonight…"

A sneer was aimed at him in response. "I'm well aware. I didn't come here on a whim, Potter. But now that it's done, I will leave and hopefully never have to see your sorry face again."

Harry said nothing. He didn't feel the need to. He let Malfoy have his biting comment and was willing to step out of the way as the other boy stalked past him. However, the blonde didn't take more than a few steps before he turned around, shooting Harry a scrutinising glance.

"What is with you?"

Harry started, taken aback by the turn in tone and conversation.

"What?"

"You. There's something different about you."

Chilled by the repeat of words he had heard from Snape, Harry stared at Malfoy in open surprise. What had caused him to say such a thing?

"You're normally more… well, easy to rile up. I've insulted you several times and nothing. Don't tell me it's because you're indulging me, Potter. Because I'll curse you into tomorrow if you're taking pity on me."

Blinking, Harry pulled back slightly, glancing over to Dobby, almost looking for support. But the sweet elf was gazing at him in confusion.

"What did he do to you?"

Something unpleasant shot up Harry's spine at those words, no doubt in his mind as to who he was. Staring at Malfoy, he saw the apprehension in the other's face, as if he was afraid of the answer. So why had he asked? The first spark of anger Harry had felt in a while flared up in him and that's when he realised.

He was less angry. Less on edge. About everything. Was that a result of having the horcrux gone? Had it affected him to that extent, some of Voldemort's natural bitterness seeping into him from within? Sick at the thought, Harry shook his head. Surely not?

Realising that Malfoy was actually expecting an answer, he scowled. "You wouldn't even tell me why you're here to destroy a cabinet for no apparent reason and you expect me to tell you that?"

Malfoy's mouth tensed. "Whatever, Potter. I can guess."

Despite his open dislike, this ability to assume what Harry had gone through under the Dark Lord's ministrations didn't seem to please the blonde one bit; instead he looked uneasy. That, at least, Harry was grateful for.

"It was nothing good," Harry confirmed, leading to Malfoy nodding in response.

The dark-haired boy sighed then. "Wormtail is dead."

Malfoy's wide eyes weren't sorry, but they seemed hyper-aware, hanging onto the other's words with careful ears.

"He was a coward," Harry said, his words harsh but true. "Even still…"

Silence descended on the trio and this seemed enough to chase the blonde away, his hands moving to tighten his cloak and he turned toward the path that led to the exit.

"Wait," Harry said, making him stop in his tracks. The Gryffindor sighed. "It's hard to get in and out of the castle unseen. Maybe Dobby wouldn't mind getting you back to the safe house?"

It was a sensible suggestion, but an awkward one considering how easily his sense could be translated into concern. Judging by Malfoy's reluctant expression, he was thinking the same thing. But, much to Harry's surprise, he nodded.

"Fine."

Well, it wasn't polite, but it was a yes.

Turning to Dobby, Harry smiled apologetically at the elf. "Would you mind? Only if it's alright with you?"

"Of course! Dobby is always happy to help the friends of Harry Potter."

It would have been comical seeing the revolted expression on Malfoy's face, if Harry's own hadn't been an exact mirror image of horror. Before either could protest at that statement, Dobby was moving to grab Malfoy's arm – who recoiled slightly but didn't step back.

"Wait here for Dobby, Harry Potter. We will only be a moment!"

Nodding, Harry cast one more look at the blonde. Before he could stop himself, words blurted out of his mouth, fuelled by the desire for Malfoy to escape Voldemort and not become what Harry long expected him to be.

"Good luck, Malfoy."

The Slytherin seemed almost insulted at first, but he seemed to accept the seriousness and weight of those words and reluctantly nodded back.

"You too, Potter."

And he was gone, leaving Harry in heavy silence, awaiting Dobby's return.

Glancing around at the incredible stash of treasures and junk the students of Hogwarts had discarded over the years, he walked slowly through the miscellaneous collection, picking up a ridiculous-looking stuffed cat only to wince at its eyeless sockets, placing it back down in a hurry.

Next to it there was an old tapestry slung over a large wardrobe that had a majestic woven lion sitting proudly, and stationary, at its centre, as well as a length of gold chains curled around in a metre-high pile in front. Oddly, there was a hat sitting atop the chains, a familiar vulture crowning the brim. Curious, Harry reached over to pick it up when Dobby suddenly popped up a few steps ahead of him.

Jumping slightly, Harry's hip bumped into a small side table, knocking several objects to the floor. Hunching down, he scooped them up and placed them onto an old dresser, raising an eyebrow at the title on one of the books he had disturbed – 'Spellbinding Sadomasochism: A Beginner's Guide'. Shaking his head, he tried not to think too much on who could have owned the volume, placing a discoloured old tiara on top of it before turning back to Dobby.

Shrugging off an odd feeling that had nothing to do with unusual book titles, he stepped toward the elf. "Ready?"

Dobby happily agreed, dropping Harry back to the room he had found him in with ample speed.

Though he thanked him profusely for all his help, Dobby could only smile before announcing his need to get back to the castle.

"Sure, I understand."

"Um, before Dobby goes, he has a question."

"Oh, okay. What is it?"

"Well, Dobby could have vanquished the big cabinet in only a moment if you had wished it. And with less ashy mess."

The elf's ears went slightly red at the admission, but Harry sighed. "Yeah, I know. But I thought that maybe it might be good for me and Malfoy to do that together."

"Why? Harry Potter, sir?"

"Honestly? I have absolutely no idea. But it seemed to work."

Dobby simply looked confused and pardoned his exit, popping out in a flash of colourful socks; leaving Harry to his meandering thoughts and concerns.

Now two people had told him he was different. Admittedly, neither were reliable sources for him as a person. Both were people he had spent the majority of his time despising. But still, it really bothered him that the two Slytherins would point it out. Was he changed? Less angry? Less open to volatile emotion now that Voldemort's influence on his own soul was gone?

Deciding he would ask Dumbledore about it tomorrow, Harry shrugged out of his jumper, collapsing on the bed and marvelling at where the last hour had taken him. But despite it all, he knew it was a good thing that he had gone; that he confronted Malfoy. Neither had discussed anything of real importance, but it wasn't necessary. It would only be rebuffed. A simple 'good luck' was all the blonde would have stomached. Honestly, Harry was surprised Malfoy even accepted that much. He wasn't sure when he'd see the Slytherin again, but at least they had parted on civil terms – a far cry from their disastrous beginning in first year. He wondered about the cabinet, of course. But somehow, deep down, he knew that the Slytherin's intentions were in the right direction. He would give him the benefit of the doubt this one time, a silent thank-you for Malfoy's hand in getting him away from Voldemort, no-matter how much that hadn't been the blonde's intention or direct action. It was important all the same and Harry could see that.

Maybe he really had changed?

Before he could be lost to this whirling wheel of thought, he heard Mrs Weasley's voice carry up the stairs.

"Harry, dear? Are you awake? I have spiced pumpkin soup on the table if you'd like some?"

His stomach growled in response and he called back in the affirmative, standing up, about to leave the room when he noticed the subtle smell of charred ashes on his clothes.

Cursing slightly, he moved to grab a new pair of jeans and t-shirt, dressing hastily. Tugging his trainers back on as he opened the bedroom door, he froze. Kreacher was standing there, a black box in hand, looking at Harry in softened displeasure.

"Er, Kreacher?"

For a moment Harry wondered if the elf was here to pick up their earlier conversation, but this hope was dashed when Kreacher gestured to the package he held.

"Master has a parcel."

Blinking in surprise, Harry frowned down at it, suddenly wary.

"Kreacher, if something unexpected came for me, it might be best to-"

"Good Kreacher has checked," the elf hissed, as if affronted by the mere suggestion of his ineptitude. "It is safe. Safe, but strange, Kreacher thought it best it be brought here. Not to the mudblood-praising Weasley wom-"

Harry sent him a warning look which halted his words.

"Why strange?"

"Kreacher found it, outside. Beyond the enchantments of the old wizard, but intended for this noble house. Strange."

His croaking voice only heightened Harry's dread, taking in the seemingly innocent wrapping with caution, only too aware that if it had been left outside the wards, the sender was more than unwelcome. Unwelcome and purposefully kept out.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped back slightly.

"Master distrusts Kreacher so? Kreacher can open it. To prove that no harm lies on it." His small voice held the hostility that often coloured his words, popping open the box before the dark-haired boy could protest.

Nothing happened, which at first provided relief to Harry's thumping heart. However, when the lid was pulled aside, pure and unfiltered fear shot through him, unabated by Kreacher's confusion.

With severe reservation, Harry looked closer. There, nestled atop a silk lining, was his beloved phoenix feather and holly wand, snapped viciously in half; the splintered wood sharp and jagged. He swallowed hard, knowing exactly who could have sent such a thing. And why.

Seeing it there, lying uselessly in the confines of a box, magicless and broken, it was all too easy to replace the wand fragments with visions of Harry himself. Which was, no doubt, the ill-natured intention.