Black Specks eyed him warily before fluttering onto his wrist. Hedwig began beating at the bars of her cage with her wings. "Oh, shut up, Hedwig," said Harry as he went and closed the door to his room. It was just as well that he did, for Dudley's footsteps pounded up the steps and shook the house a second later. Harry heard him shriek from the top of the stairs: "THAT WAS MY SHILLING! I DIDN'T WANT TO GIVE IT TO THE PLATE! IT WAS MINE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Git," he muttered. He stroked Black Specks's head, who had been startled into the air before settling back down and digging his (or her?) talons into Harry's skin. "Ow. Ease up." He walked to Hedwig's cage and opened it. Hedwig puffed up her feathers and hooted at the intruder on Harry's wrist. "Out," he told her, feeling how Black Specks shifted uneasily. "Go on, fly a bit."
Hedwig gave him a baleful glare, then swooped out of her cage and through the window, letting out an injured hoot as she flew took to the air outside. Harry let the new owl into the cage, who immediately started on Hedwig's food and water without shame while the letter around its leg was untied. Harry stared at the back of the envelope.
Potter
#4 Privet Drive
Nobody calls me Potter, he thought as he slit the letter open. At least, nobody who knows my address.
His growing suspicion was confirmed when he took out a piece of neatly folded parchment that fell open along three creases. A blue-and-silver crest seal was stamped in the top right corner; a rearing dragon whose form followed the constellation Draco, marked by tiny stars. Along the underside of the crest a line of script curved that Harry didn't recognize. After studying the characters briefly he decided that it was neither Latin nor French, but Russian.
Harry glanced up at Malfoy's owl, for that was who it must belong to. "How the hell does he know where I live?" he demanded. Black Specks didn't remove his beak from the dish of food. When a year ago he would have furrowed his brows, Harry only sighed as one might when facing the inevitable and began reading.
Potter,
I wish to acknowledge your gift and express thanks for it. It is a most unique item.
Draco Malfoy
The ink on the parchment was black and rich, written in a hand as stiff as the message it spelled out. Harry was puzzled for a moment, remembering that anything he saw of Malfoy's handwriting had been an untidy scrawl. Then he smiled, a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Draco was being so very obvious. Then again, Harry couldn't blame him; he doubted he could have done any better if he had been brave enough to send the first letter.
Even one week into summer vacation, Malfoy had never been far from the front of Harry's mind. What was most disconcerting was the fact that whenever he considered writing one of his friends, Malfoy came first, Ron and Hermione second. With the finding of his mother's box and Percy's trial looming ahead and now Laura Ranone to worry about, the thought of his rival hadn't carried as much weight as it could have, which was both a blessing and a curse.
Now Harry sat down at the small, beaten table in the corner (the chair was a plastic child's one, salvaged from Dudley's mountain of unwanted toys), the locked box forgotten for the moment. For a moment he felt drained, like a man pushed to the point of exhaustion, unable to walk, and so had his legs moved for him. So many enormous things weighed upon his mind that it was impossible to concentrate on more than one at a time. The result was an emotional and mental rollercoaster that occasionally caused Harry to black out, as it were, until something else catastrophic jerked him back to reality.
And so his mother's box and Percy's trial and Laura Ranone all but vanished as he studied the parchment from Malfoy. He blew air through his lips and went to pry up the loose floorboard, where he still kept everything from Hogwarts (and anything edible) from his relatives for safety's sake. Near the top of his books and supplies was a stack of parchments and envelopes from Flourish and Botts that Harry kept for the purpose of writing letters over the summer. He sat back down and put a ballpoint pen to the fresh parchment and made one mark. He stared at the blue ink for a long time, worrying at his lower lip, indecisive. What to say?
He resisted the urge to scribble angry lines all over the page. His own pride was thwarting his intentions. Harry leaned forward into his hand and closed his eyes.
Draco Malfoy was his...his what? His dearest friend; brother; savior; benefactor; enemy. Perhaps none of them. Harry knew that what Malfoy was could not be defined this early in the game. He only knew that the other boy was his partner in a bond that paid no regard to reality or true feelings. It was a bond that was pliable, something that could be twisted into unimaginable shape, but not breakable. His mind touched briefly on his godfather and Rysk, and then to himself and Peter Pettigrew.
"Forgive me."
A dead man had begged; a dead man had spoken to him; a dead man had asked something Harry was not sure he could give even though he could hardly refuse to.
He shuddered. He and Malfoy stood on dangerous ground. Harry had been saved from emotional damage--for that was what Sirius must be suffering, and horribly--because he had had no contact with Wormtail for two years. He would not have that option with Draco. So...
So what?
Harry rested his forehead against his hand. At length, fumbling through vague, hazy thoughts, he came to a conclusion: in a bond formed by the debt of one's life to another, the raw material of a close, special relationship came into being, whether the parties were willing or no. In short, it was like the reverse of a natural friendship. Instead of beginning from an introduction to small talk to a deeper liking, the bond created an instant, intimate trust, and if neither of the bondmates were already friends, they would have no choice but to build from the sky down.
Or to pervert it.
Hello Draco,
How are you? Your owl gave me a bit of a surprise because I've never seen it before. You don't have to thank me for the dragon. Have you tried it on as a tattoo yet? I almost got it for myself, you know, but I didn't because of the colors. Rather stupid of me, really. How did you get my address, by the way?
Anyway, I hope you're having a good summer.
Write back,
Harry Potter
P.S. What's that language under the dragon thing? Russian?
He sat back. The ballpoint pen looked odd against the parchment. Then he folded it up and slid it into an envelope. Unconsciously, he addressed it to 'Malfoy' on the back, then hastily added in the other boy's first name.
"Well," he said as he fixed the letter to Black Specks's leg, "I've done my part."
****
Ms. Ranone looked across the waiting room, a richly furnished space with plush chairs and thick carpet. Only the cool green scheme of the room saved it from being uncomfortably stuffy. A wizard in Ministry robes stood in the doorway to Fudge's office. His sandy hair brushed his shoulders, making him look younger than middle age. When Laura glanced at him and stood he pulled the door almost to behind himself and met her halfway.
"He'll see you now," he told her, then lowered his voice. "Don't worry, I've taken care of everything. Just in case."
She nodded. "Thank you, Frank."
He gave a quiet little laugh, a sound that was always colored by a touch of hysteria. It had never ceased to alarm her. She supposed that it shouldn't surprise her, but it was still a relief that the insanity no longer gleamed in his eyes or strained his voice, which was always soft. "You don't have to thank me." He eyed her business suit critically. "Although I can't say that's going to help."
Laura shrugged. "I just met Harry Potter. I could hardly wear robes."
Frank Longbottom raised his eyebrows. "You'll have to tell me about Potter later, but--could hardly, or did you just not want to?"
Laura gave him a sour look and walked past him into Fudge's office.
"Ah, Ms. Ranone." The little man made no move to stand as he greeted her. "Come in, please."
Laura bought herself a few seconds of time to mask her dislike for the Minister by turning her back to close the door. Through the narrowing crack she met Longbottom's gaze before the waiting room vanished completely. "Good morning," she said with a tasteful smile, fighting to keep it from turning into a smirk as Fudge's watery green eyes lingered on her Muggle clothing. She couldn't resist prodding gently at her eyelid as she sat down before his desk and saying, "Sorry. My contact."
"Of course," he replied with a twitch. "What can I do for you?"
"Well," she began, settling her expression into one of neutral pleasantness, "as you know, I've been assigned to Percy Weasley's defense. As his attorney, I need an effective line of communication with my client."
Fudge gave a boisterous laugh. This time Ranone had to keep herself from twitching at the man's pompousness. "Yes, yes, but naturally." He turned his palms upwards before clasping them before himself again. "We have been delivering your messages to Mr. Weasley faithfully."
"Oh, I've no doubt."
"Come, what do you need to tell him? I'll personally see that the letter is gotten to him."
"That's most kind of you," she said earnestly, leaning subtly forward and looking the Minister in the face, "but I'm afraid simply writing him isn't enough."
Fudge's jovial expression fell ever so slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm requesting that he be released from Azkaban on leave to take counsel."
There was a pause, a short hesitation, but it was enough to let Laura's eyes stray and be caught by the green bowler hanging from a coat tree in the corner. She wondered briefly why he wore that Damned Hat, as it had been dubbed by those in her inner circle, before he managed to secure her attention again. "I'm afraid," and now the eagerness to help was quickly draining from his voice, "that that won't be possible."
Ranone raised her eyebrows. "Oh, but I assure you, it is. A commonly exercised legal right of the accused--"
"I mean..." Fudge sputtered for a moment, much to Laura's amusement. "I mean that it would not be wise. Mr. Weasley is under maximum security. He's a very dangerous man."
Only years of experience in the courtroom kept the terrible anger out of her face and voice. "He is only a boy, Minister," was all she said to hint at her ire. "I do realize he is under maximum security, which is why I am requesting your permission to let him out. In short, your signature on a parchment." A moment later she winced inwardly, wondering if that had been too condescending.
"I do not see anything that cannot be achieved through letters, Ms. Ranone."
She bit back a scathing opinion on the Minister's ability to see. "There is a certain level of communication that can only be achieved face-to-face," she retorted, right on the heel of his words. "And as for Mr. Weasley being dangerous, I recall that even Sirius Black was allowed counsel leave before his...trial."
That was truly satisfactory. Fudge, in Laura Ranone's eyes, was a blindman and a fool, but even he had enough intelligence to understand the emphasis placed on the word 'trial'. It was only coarse rock salt on the wound opened by the mention of Black's name. Any chance she might have had at eliciting his cooperating was now gone.
His mouth worked. "I'm sorry," he finally said, sounding irked but smug. "I cannot grant your request."
Laura sighed. "Well. I had hoped that this avenue wouldn't be closed to me, but I'm afraid I'll just have to take the less pleasant one." She reached into her purse and pulled out a thin sheet of parchment. "An order from the court for my client's release on counsel," she explained, though by the look on his face as he reached across the desk she guessed that she needn't have bothered. "This is your copy."
Fudge let it fall open and looked over it closely. His eye was beginning to twitch. Ranone kept her expression schooled, even though she wanted to laugh at the Minister's thinly veiled irritation. "Very well then," he said, glancing up, "As you will. I will be validating this. Good day, Ms. Ranone," without waiting for her to stand.
"Good day," she answered with deliberate cheerfulness, rising and leaving
the office.
Professor McGonagall was held at the edge of the door to Dumbledore's chambers
by the voices coming from within. She pulled back into the shadows, an intent
expression on her shrewd face.
"Where is Sirius?"
"Black left."
There was a long silence that told Minerva more than any words spoken aloud could have.
"Severus, I owe you an apology--"
"No, Headmaster. You do not."
The swish of robes and a single set of footsteps warned McGonagall of Snape's approach. She remained where she was until Snape turned the corner and nearly ran into her. He started and pulled back. She stared back at him without emotion, but that didn't prevent the former Death Eater from reading pity somewhere in her eyes. With a sneer, Snape brushed past her.
McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, then stepped into the doorway. The sunlight in the room had brightened; they day was approaching noon. Dumbledore made a stark contrast to the warm glow of his chambers, silhouetted in the window with his hands clasped behind his back. The Headmistress sighed and walked across the carpet to him.
"Albus?" she asked, drawing level with his profile. The old wizard turned his face to her. McGonagall felt her brow crease. "What did you say to him?"
The Headmaster looked back out the window. "Something I would take back."
Minerva followed his gaze to the outside world. The grass was very green, and would remain so throughout even the hottest, driest day in summer, unlike Muggle lawns. From the corner of her right eye she could catch just a faint glitter to mark where the edge of the great lake was. She pursed her lips and placed a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder, wondering bitterly if his protégée had ever done such a thing. Little did she know that Rysk's fingers had lingered centimeters from the same gesture several months before.
With a gentle squeeze, she turned and left him.
When Severus Snape walked into the teacher's lounge, he dropped down heavily into a chair, unguarded in his solitude. He could not bear to go back to his own chambers. Yes, he had chosen them because they were dark and cold and generally gloomy. They encouraged his dark thoughts; magnified them; echoed them; allowed no heartening ray to shine through. It was all part of a self-inflicted punishment that was not entirely conscious. But sometimes even he could not bear the voices of the ghosts that whispered from the stone walls. At least here, in the lounge, there was air and sunlight.
His solitude was short-lived. Before long he spied a cat with spectacle-shaped markings around its eyes, sitting in the far corner. Before he could say a word it leaped through the air and in mid-arc transfigured into Professor McGonagall, walking towards him. He stiffened, pushing away from the table as the other teacher sat down across from him.
"I do not wish to hear your reprimands as well, Minerva," he said acidly, more reactionary than usual.
"There's no need to jump to conclusions," she told him, assuming her prim air, which barely covered just how badly she wanted to start in on him. "I trust you to be enough of an adult to reprimand yourself. Although," she sniffed, "perhaps that is going against my better judgment." His stare turned poisonous. She was not cowed, instead conjuring up a customary cup of tea for herself and then, after a moment, one for him. He brought it to his lips with a mumbled thanks. They sat in each other's company for some time before McGonagall ventured, "What do you make of it, Severus?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know full well what I mean, sir," she said sharply. Snape took a particularly slow sip of his tea before answering.
"It's historical, certainly," he said finally. His tone became even more hypnotic as he sank into thought. "I believe that whoever would sacrifice themselves to such corruption is also certainly mad." He flicked a brief glance up through his eyelashes, trying to catch any hint her expression might hold. There was nothing. He pressed a bit harder. "A fundamental change in one's very character; perversion of your morals...a fall into darkness. Sometimes, even insanity. If a distinction between the two exists, that is."
Snape was rewarded with the hard line that McGonagall's lips pressed into. She tried to mask it with her teacup. "Most unpleasant," she agreed.
"You understate," he remarked silkily.
"What other way is there to say it?" McGonagall gazed at the edge of the table and drummed her fingers. "Oh! Severus," as though she had just thought of something, "You took the owl post this morning, didn't you?"
Snape nodded.
"Was there word from Jenny?"
The Potions master raised an eyebrow. "Who is Jenny?"
McGonagall looked incredulous. "Jenny Harrison. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. She left."
Snape's forehead furrowed. His eyes flickered back and forth in the distracted manner of one searching for a memory. "Harrison..." Minerva's eyes narrowed as a finger, almost of its own accord, came to rest on his temple. "I don't seem to...no, wait. Was she young?"
The Headmistress was studying him intently under the mask of confused surprise. "Fairly. Surely you remember her?" He was silent. "Severus?"
He looked up and through her, visibly troubled but dazed at the same time. "Odd. I don't. At least...not her face."
McGonagall shrugged, reaching for her cup. "Ah. Well. She wasn't a very interesting person." Her voice, despite her best efforts, stretched beneath a mixture of panic and relief.