VI., in which many unexpected things take place.
While Sirius stood in disbelief of the man standing before him, the visitor smiled shyly, chuckling to himself; before the professor knew what had happened, Remus was pressed up against him, his mouth nibbling eagerly at Sirius' lower lip.
Sirius could feel the wolf in Remus' teeth, and he could feel the claw of Remus' hand as the thinner man clutched at him.
Growling appreciatively, Sirius then pushed the door closed with his foot; it was good to taste and feel his old friend once again.
In less than one week, Draco had wooed the precious first year from King's Cross station, had tasted the sweet innocence of the boy's still-soft skin and moist, pink lips; he had felt the boy's gently rounded belly writhing beneath his touch, and he had fastened his own heated mouth around the child's tender throat.
And Julian - for that was the boy's name, sweet and round on Draco's tongue - had found solace in the strong band of Draco's arms circling his thin shoulders, had slid softly out of his expensive robes and in between Draco's silken sheets; he had tangled his very small hands in the Slytherin's cornsilk hair, and he had clung to Draco with fervor and the delicate sheen of sweat blushing over his brow.
It was during those obscure and pointless free hours of the day that Draco had brought the child to the prefect's dormitory, that one small apartment of two rooms in a long hallway on the second floor with the other prefects. Between his lessons that Draco had whispered sparkling promises into the child's ear, tickled the child's neck with baited breath. On those first few empty, lazy Saturday mornings of the new term that Draco had woken to find the boy curled close to his chest, one small hand clinging to the linens; he had heard the child wake to the sounds of his own tiny whimperings in the night.
Draco had been involved in heated affairs before; he had sneaked through the shifting shadows of the school at night to entertain such trysts in the Astronomy Tower, where no one cared who was groping whom in the tiny, dark corners. And he had also been in Julien's place, the younger party, the child clinging blindly to a godly seventh year. He understood the insecurities and loss of innocence the boy was going through during their time together.
But never had he felt so betrayed by any boy's youngish tendencies, the early bedtimes, the long nightmarish clinging, the steady whimpering in the chiding starlight. Never had he longed for the freedom of his own bed whilst another vibrant young body lay steaming beside him. Never had he wanted so badly to be out of it all, and it startled him.
High above the manicured Quidditch pitch, Harry sighed, slouching on his broom, a shining Aura 3500 given to him by Sirius as a birthday present. It was slender and gleaming in the sunlight, a brightly polished ash handle sloping gently upwards to the end where, in glittering silver, its name was printed. The tail was a pretty thing, too, tapered cherry wood twigs charmed to outlast any attacks made upon them.
This year the Gryffindor house team was looking for one chaser and one beater to replace the seventh-year players from the previous year. Professor McGonagall, with Madam Hooch, had just walked onto the pitch below, ready to begin calling numbers and watching the potential new players try out. Many would be decent, Harry knew this for a fact; they probably played with siblings over holidays, watched Quidditch cups both at Hogwarts and elsewhere, or simply had a knack for the sport. There were a few who had no chance of making the team; every year, one of these poor students was Colin Creevey, determined to have a spot beside Harry at every match.
On the bleachers sat a motley crew of other Gryffindors, friends of those trying out, or simply those curious about the new members of the team. Hermione was there, sitting with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. The three of them made quite a trio, dressed in light sundresses and sandals for the warm autumn weather; their hair was combed and curled, their nails painted, their eyes made up and pretty. They chatted into the breeze, their words gobbled up by the sky.
"Oi, Harry, watch it!" Red and gold Gryffindor robes flashed past, whipping a cool wind around Harry and sending his glasses askew. He scowled; the offender stopped her broom, giggling, and beamed up at him. "Sorry 'bout that, Harry! Pull your head out of the clouds, and maybe next time you'll not get beaned!"
She streaked toward the ground again, her long ponytail of copper-carrot hair flying as a banner behind her. Harry snorted, looking around at his level in the air, where the other players hovered diligently, scattered.
There was Ron, by the near goalposts; he had become one of the team's chasers and team captain in their fifth year. A few feet above him was a small blond boy in his fourth year. He was freckled and wiry, another chaser and most always joking with Ron over this or that. At the other end of the pitch hovered their only returning beater, a fierce-looking sixth- year called Tabitha, with green-black eyes and dark, wild hair. Harry was, of course, still seeker, and keeper was Ginny Weasley, who presently pulled her broom out of a headlong drop just in time to hop nimbly from its seat and stand before the professors with a grin.
Professor McGonagall's voice came over the stadium, echoing grandly among the bleachers, using the Sonorus charm. She held up her hands as she spoke, appearing unfazed by the booming quality of her voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please form two lines," she said. "If you would like to become beaters, please stand to the left, in front of Madam Hooch. If you, however, would rather be a chaser, stand to the right, in front of team captain Ginny Weasley, if you please. You will each receive a number, and that will be the order in which we will see you perform for us. Thank you."
The booming voice died, leaving the stands ringing from the sounds. The professor removed the spell, and as students began filing into their two lines, she stepped away and gazed up into the sky, her dark eyes searching for something.
At once she cast Sonorus again, and the stadium was filled with the words, "Harry Potter, please come down at once - I would appreciate a word, Mr. Potter."
Harry began his descent amidst laughter from his teammates, landing a few feet in front of the professor, slinging his Aura over one shoulder and running a hand through his thick hair in an attempt to calm the unruly locks. It was a futile attempt, and stray strands still fell over his forehead in disarray.
"Mr. Potter, Professor Black has requested to see you." Harry's eyebrows knitted together, and the professor sighed, nodding. "You know where his chambers are?" The boy shook his head, and she clucked her tongue. "Yes, of course you wouldn't, not this early in the year. Go to the third floor corridor, to his classroom. His apartments are across the hall, third on the right. There is a plaque on the door. You should not be able to miss it easily." She shooed him, and he went, leaving his Aura in the broom shed and charming it with a security spell.
On his way into the castle, he glanced back out at the pitch. Golden sunlight flooded the field and stands, casting long shadows in the late afternoon. The team darted and laughed on the breeze, catching and tossing Quaffles easily for the potential new players, hitting Bludgers back and forth between them. Harry sighed, and just as he turned to walk inside, he caught sight of the Snitch, merely a slight flash of gold above the near set of posts.
Julian came eagerly into the room with Draco, his small hands already reaching, his lips already moist and pink and ready to be kissed. He was wearing his school uniform and plain black robes, while Draco wore just a pair of dark trousers and his white uniform shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and collar unbuttoned.
Draco stood by the window then, looking out at the Quidditch pitch and its isolated stands sticking poker-straight into the wisping clouds above. The Gryffindors were out there today, recruiting new players. Slytherin's team was full, had been full for three years running; there was a waiting list for their team, and only the best were allowed. Gryffindors were known for allowing players onto their team out of pity. Draco sighed, quietly refusing to look back at the boy behind him.
But the boy came to him with footsteps like snowdrops, each melting silently into the old floorboards as he approached. His dark eyes were wide, his lashes dark and wet. With his small, perfect hands, he began to unfasten the buttons of Draco's plain shirt, blinking slowly as he did. The light from the window washed over him in a golden rain, and he was beautiful for all the innocence lost in him.
Draco brought a hand to stop the child's movement, his long fingers wrapping over Julien's very small palm.
"Don't do that," he whispered, and the child looked up at him with wonder and worry bleeding through his pale features. He removed his hands from Draco's shirtfront, letting a sigh hiccup in his throat. "No, stop that." He lifted Julien's chin with two fingers, feeling slightly sick at the sight of pale, pearly tears forming at the corners of his doe-eyes. "I said, stop that. You're going to make me vomit."
Julian turned his head away, but Draco's fingers remained. The boy moved his hands to clutch Draco's with a quiet desperation, his hair falling over his eyes.
"Now, stop that!" Draco's voice was growing thin, a shrill edge showing through his threadbare tone. "I'm serious. Stop that right now, or I shall - " But he could not go on, not when Julian brought his gaze up to match Draco's in a broken expression.
"You're not going to do anything," said the child softly, but quite firmly. "I know you. I know you're like me, Draco." His eyes narrowed just enough to corrupt his expression. "You know that my father - "
He stopped, shrugged, and dropped Draco's long hand, walking in heavy silence to the other side of the room. Just before the door, he turned, saying, "I know now why you asked me up today. I'm not stupid, Draco." There was a brief pause, during which the boy's stance changed. He appeared taller now, older, lacking that innocent expression which had first drawn Draco to him in the train station that first day.
Draco looked away, out the window. The Gryffindors were drops of red and gold shadow against the pale, late afternoon sky, drifting and falling this way and that on the wind. They were laughing, happy.
He wished he was one of them. Flying. Drifting. Happy. He closed his eyes, murmuring a hopeless prayer in the hollows of his mind that he should be one of them, knowing in his heart that it would not be granted. He knew that there were no gods there to listen.
Instead, Julian spoke, saying in a surprisingly cordial and cold voice, "I shan't come again, if it's what you want." He looked up. "I know it's what you want - for me to never again come near you. It's all right, and I'll survive, if you're worried." He granted Draco an indulgent smile. "You aren't worried. I know."
And he left the room, that small two-room apartment which was the only accommodation a prefect knew, leaving Draco to his wishes of a gently floating breeze over the pitch below.
Harry discovered the apartments of Sirius Black easily, and he knocked, curious over the meaning of this late afternoon visit. There was a scuffling from within, and then the gruff, familiar voice of Sirius calling, "Just a moment - I'll be just a moment."
It was less than a moment before he pulled the door open, beaming brightly at Harry, who stood awkwardly in the corridor. Sirius all but pulled him inside, and Harry stared at the grand nature of the rooms.
"Come in," said Sirius in semi-jest, making a sweeping bow toward the rest of the apartments. "Sit down, or stay standing, if you will. You want something to drink? I've got a few cold Butterbeers in the ice box, or some milk, if you like."
"Uh - butterbeer's fine," said Harry. He was looking out the window, which gave him quite a lovely view of the Gryffindor Tower off to the left, the long spread of hills beyond the castle to the right.
Sirius disappeared through a door to the right, and came back a few minutes later with two frosty bottles in his hands and a bright smile on his lips.
"So this is your room, then?"
Sirius chuckled, popping open his bottle and shrugging nonchalantly. "My rooms, yeah. I'd no idea I would be put up like this, y'know. Thought Dumbledore'd put me in a tiny little place no bigger than that closet under the Dursley's stairs." He shrugged again. "Not that I wouldn't be able to handle anythin' that small, of course. In Azkaban, I - "
Harry shuddered; the godfather stopped, taking a long drought from his bottle.
"So," said Harry lightly, sipping his butterbeer politely. He was not thirsty. "Am I your first official visitor, then?"
Sirius shook his head. "No, Re stopped by earlier, actually, to - "
"Re?"
"Sorry, I guess I forgot. Remus. Professor Lupin to you, I s'pose. If you want to be particular about it."
"Is he here?"
Sirius grinned, shaking his head. "Shouldn't be. Headmaster called him out not five minutes ago, but he wasted no time in getting out of here. Went by floo powder, see."
"Oh."
"No worries, though. He should be back in time for dinner." Sirius glanced at the clock on the mantle of the enormous fireplace along the far wall. "Which is soon. Care to walk an old man down to the Great Hall, then, Harry?"
Harry allowed him a small smile, and nodded downwardly. "Yeah, Sirius. Let's go."
The Great Hall was alight with ribbons of gold sunlight. The light slid through the wide, glassy windows, rushing with an awkward, bubbling splendor through air, glass, and the thin banners fluttering brightly from the ceiling.
There was laughter, there - great gurgling currents of laughter whipping through the entire room. Mercilessly they tickled the youthful faces, eliciting grins and giggles and shy words and dancing phrases.
This was dinner; this was noontime in the castle. This was springtime youth at its best, though that bright light from a robust yellow sun was in all its autumntide glory. This was the joys of childhood playing Marco Polo in a shimmering, abandoned August pond, eating two slices of chocolate cake too many on a candle-wish birthday evening, and prancing gaily through the rain in May's sweet showers. This was the very belly of innocence, round and soft with the gently singing strings of youth itself, and it was the time and place which most took the breath from Harry Potter's swelling lungs.
He came into the room with his godfather, the shape shifter, Sirius. At the head table, the Headmaster appeared elegant and wise and old, draped in soft robes as ancient as the man himself, his beard and gold-framed half- moon glasses glimmering solemnly in the sunlight. Beside him sat the old lady professor, the head of the lion's noble house, looking stern and quiet and kind; her long fingers toyed gently with the silver spoon at her right hand, ready to stir the crowds of students at a moment's notice from the old Headmaster. To his left, a seat stood empty; this was delicately immobile, carved with intricate runes and designs and story-book pictures.
Harry knew who this seat was left open for; this was the place set for Remus J. Lupin, and in its simple, hollow nature, it reflected the professor's personality in its perfect sense and meaning. The golden edges on chalice and plate glowed yellow as Lupin's eyes were prone to do; the blue napkin wreathed in intertwined silver, blue, green, and gold ring spoke softly in testimony of a monthly tragedy ever-present in the man's life thus far; the dark, soft glow of wood backing the sturdy chair behind seemed to ripple, just as once a month the newly sprouted fur ripples in the round-cheese moon smiles sympathetically down upon him.
Sighing into the dusty beauty of it all, Harry bade Sirius a temporary farewell, and took his place at the long, simple bench at the Gryffindor table, second to the right in the high-ceilinged hall.
Immediately, the golden paradise drowned in a clamber of silverware and chatter of many unified voices. Harry was, yet again, tossed blindly into the midst of masses of bumbling children, wandering absently once more in this whirlwind of aimless chit-chat and the offensively careless exchange of words.
Harry arrived late to class, chest heaving beneath each breath as he struggled violently to slow his racing heart. The plastic ends of his shoelaces clacked and clattered on the dusty old floor, his starchly creased pantlegs rustling irritatingly against one another as he pumped his legs, the loose strap of his rapidly wearing bag streaming endlessly out behind him. His hair leapt and fluttered across his forehead and back again, tickling at the corners of his eyes; and his throat constricted and felt dry and papery.
The classroom had been previously unused, tucked away in some foreign corner of the school (as many corners of Hogwarts are prone to be), shut off from the rest of the school like a dusty box of memories squirreled away in a forgotten eve of an attic room. The door creaked behind him as he came, panting, into the room.
Professor Aaron Needleworth Trimble sat perched atop his cluttered desk, skinny legs folded at is narrow ankles, long hands clutching at the hems of his pants. He beamed at Harry as the boy tripped toward him across the front of the room, handing Trimble a small, tightly rolled parchment paper sealed with Professor McGonagall's distinct green wax seal. Trimble tore at it with his thumb, scanned the strict penmanship of the senior professor's note.
He then smiled at Harry, whose attempts to breath at a normal rate were in vain; a trickle of sweet perspiration trickled down is brow. Harry quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his robes.
"I see. Well, sit down, then, there - in the back, in that empty seat."
Obediently, Harry shifted his books from one arm to the other, looking at the vacant spot of a desk in the very last row of desks, readying himself to sit beside a younger student, one of those pitiful fans (an associate of the Creevey brothers, no doubt), or quite possibly -
The seat sharing the empty spot's desk was occupied by a slender, delicately cut figure who was presently bowed low over a curling scroll, an elegant grey quill moving as an extension of his hand. This was Malfoy; rival and enemy of Harry Potter since the their first year at Hogwarts, spoiled prat son of one of the wizarding world's most esteemed Ministry officials, looking dazzling and brilliant in the watery light of the high windows which graced one wall in the tiny room. He seemed to be carved from ivory and gold, the yellow of his hair gracefully fading into the porcelain, snowy whiteness of his pale, pale flesh. Harry, even from across the room, could see the deep blue veins running under Malfoy's rice-paper skin, a myriad of minute, rushing rivers of well-bred, life-giving blood.
Harry blinked, broke the trance, and looked at Trimble, who was watching him quite expectantly from his perch atop the desk. "I - I'm sorry, sir, but I - I can't sit there."
"And," said Trimble, smiling obligingly at him, his dull teeth cutting a half-moon from his face, "why, exactly, is that, Harry?"
Malfoy looked up, a brief and fleeting assessment of the situation taking place between professor and student; he then became quite absorbed with his work, tying his letters together with a carefully guided sweep of his wrist. He did not look up again.
"Uh, we - I mean - Malfoy and I - don't get on too well, Professor," he stammered softly, watching the probing eyes of the other students in a hesitant, sidelong sort of way. "We never have."
"Oh, I do see, indeed." Trimble's smile broadened compassionately. "I completely understand." The smile thinned out, and a void in Harry's trunk deepened. "You may be seated next to Mr. Malfoy, Harry. Please. I will not ask again."
The void spread rapidly, and Harry was well aware of the heavy, sinking feeling in the very pit of his stomach. He turned and began the long walk down the narrow aisle between desks, his sneakers making a hollow sound on the flagstone floor with each step, his legs strangely numb beneath his swishing black robes.
"Oh, and Mr. Malfoy," called out Trimble, hopping neatly from the desk. "If you please remember the rule I installed in my classroom quite recently?"
Malfoy looked up, startled, and set the fluffy quill away sheepishly, rolling up the bit of parchment before him and tucking it into a pocket. The quill followed, and he looked again at the professor as the man turned to a large green chalkboard to one side of the desk.
"Thank you. If you would all take out your notes from last time, I believe we can get started before Mr. Potter has taken too much of our valuable class time."
He began to write on the board quite rapidly with a bit of plain white chalk, speaking in excited tones as he did.
"Now, as you know, Muggles are quite oblivious to even the most obvious of events in the world, even if they are left out beneath their little, non- magical noses. Look at our records of history, with all the great evils in the world, and then look at theirs. They document our histories as mythology - take a look at Circe in their supposed Classical Mythology. Take a look at all of our documentation of recent evils in the world - there is no mention of it in their world, despite the hundreds of thousands of deaths worldwide caused by Death Eaters and the like each year. They really are quite fascinating in their persistent ignorance, aren't they ...?"
Harry had taken his place beside Draco, who moved his chair away from Harry and pulled a spiral-bound notebook from his bag. Harry watched in amazement as Draco also took out a skinny, plastic, ball-point ink pen from the same bag, and began to take notes from the chalkboard as Trimble filled the space rapidly.
It was a moment later that Harry realized that the rest of the class, too, had pulled from their respective bags Muggle ink pens and pads of lined paper. He stared at the board, watching as Trimble danced on his toes nimbly, excitement spewing from his mouth as he lectured and taught.
"You'll need a pen," said Draco, using only the very corner of his mouth. Harry blinked owlishly at him, until the blond huffed out his breath impatiently and flipped over the notebook. From its flimsy metal spiral, he brutishly tore three pages, dropping them onto the desk in front of Harry; he dipped his hand into the bag at his feet, bringing up another ball-point ink pen and dropping that, too, before Harry. "No need to give it back - just find a notebook before Trimble realizes you've not been issued one."
"Thank you," said Harry after a dumbfounded moment, and he began to take down the notes.
It was a long time before Draco turned back to his work, long breaths and reels of thought before his critical pale eyes returned to his own diligent note-taking.
Supper that evening was a splendid affair indeed. The enchanted ceiling cast a cool silver glow over everything, clashing and mingling with the warm yellow and gold tones from the torches and floating candles overhead.
Harry sat among those so-called friends of his, each worrying himself over his own matters while pretending to hear everyone else's, his long fingers toying with the plated gold handle of the fork at his table set.
He glanced up, bored; the Slytherin table was hissing and spreading foul word of those seated at and around their table, each pair of glittering eyes hiding at least a dozen great secrets, all eager to be spilled. The Slytherins held proud, malicious grins on their twisted faces, beautiful and gleaming in the dancing light all around. Harry blinked, suddenly blinded by it all.
Draco was looking back.
Cornsilk hair glimmered with its usual sleek style; pale eyes brooded below a fair brow. Shadows moved and pirouetted over a cream-skin canvas, and the petal-pink lip pulled slightly aside, an elegantly rehearsed sneer, as he regarded the rest of the room.
But Draco was looking back now, the sneer had been put aside for a few precious moments; he continued to look back until Harry glanced away. His dark eyes wanted very much to be watching something which he knew very well, something which would not blind him with its newness and foreign beauty.
He looked instead to his godfather. Sirius sat at the head table, hair tossed carelessly over his strong forehead, his usual broad grin pinned seamlessly in place as he conversed with the weary-looking man beside him.
Professor Lupin. Harry sighed inwardly; the professor looked exactly as he had four years before, those tired and thin curls falling loosely around his pale face, amber eyes taking in his surroundings placidly. Subtle lines and hidden meanings flowed through his changing expressions, those smudged shadows beneath his eyes like twin bruises on either side of his face.
He was terribly handsome, appearing so terribly thin in his dark red velvet robes, leaning nonchalantly against his chair as he hung on every word uttered from Sirius's wide mouth. Sirius himself was dressed in dark blue robes lined with ivory satin, his twinkling eyes never leaving Lupin's delicate expression.
The Headmaster came into the hall, then, his robes swishing and glittering for all the embroidery on them, his spectacles shining as he turned to greet those around him.
Silence fell over the hall as the Headmaster turned to address them, holding up his withered hands in a useless gesture; the chattering students were already watching him with an eager light in their eyes and faces.
"My dear students," he began, "my dear professors, and my dear self." A small, whispering laugh drifted through the students' tables. He smiled faintly, but it was not a long-lasting expression, nor did it truly reach his eyes. As the corners of his mouth fell again, he continued, "I have an announcement which I can no longer put off. It is known by many of you that the Ministry of Magic is in an uproar, due to recent events concerning the entire wizarding world."
Harry looked away from the old man for a moment, glancing around him. The others were nodding to themselves, sharing private whispers of the knowledge they possessed. Harry knew nothing of which the Headmaster spoke, and he felt sheepish that he had allowed himself to drift so far from the rest of the world's matters in the few weeks he had been at Hogwarts.
"For those of you who know not of what I am referring," Dumbledore continued seamlessly, his eyes catching Harry's, "allow me a brief moment of explanation. Two weeks ago, there was a vicious attack on a Muggle family in a small town south of London. Hours later reports of a second attack were brought to the Ministry, followed in the next four days by no less than six more attacks. Every household involved had Muggle-born witches or wizards within their family. The attacks are believed to be the work of Dark Witches or Wizards, but the Ministry has yet to come up with any leads. However, due to the rising concern, widespread panic, and (here I quote directly from the Daily Prophet) 'utter hopelessness' of the situation, the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has decided - " Dumbledore paused, pursing his lips for a short moment before finishing, "Fudge has decided to renounce his title as Minister of Magic."
A ripple of excited, frightened whispers spread throughout the room, and Harry felt as though someone had dropped a hot coal into the very bottom of his stomach.
The Headmaster held up his hands to quiet them, closing his eyes as he allowed the speculation to die to a mere breeze of a murmur. When he spoke again, his voice was thin and quiet. "It is because of these events that I reluctantly - very reluctantly, and with much grief - have decided to resign from my position at Hogwarts, and I will no longer be your Headmaster."
The Slytherin table hissed and spat with celebration and hopeful suggestions of who might replace the old wizard, but Dumbledore said nothing to quiet them. He merely glanced at them with a pale fire in those light blue eyes, his brow furrowing deeply.
"At the beginning of this week, I was offered the position of Minister of Magic. It is with much consideration and thought that I have agreed to take Fudge's place in the ministry," he said at last. "I will become the Minister of Magic in Britain on Monday, when I am to be sworn in at the London Bureau."
He allowed the students a moment to voice their objections, concerns, and revels at this announcement. Harry remained unfazed by the chatter around him, shocked by the whole ordeal, and he noticed that the professors, too, all held the same aghast expression in their aging eyes. Sirius appeared heartbroken by the Headmaster's startling words.
But Dumbledore was not finished speaking, and again, he held up his old hands to quiet the students. As the murmurings in the hall died out, he took one step back, toward the table, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes.
"I am pleased however to appoint a new Headmaster, as is custom at Hogwarts. In my stead I am leaving a man in whom I place my full trust and confidence. I expect the students to behave as though I were still here, and I pray the same in my heart." He glanced around, and Harry found himself leaning forward in a sick anticipation. "Please step forward, Professor Lupin."
...
* I meant to have this chapter finished a very long time ago; time yet again slipped away from me, and my profs believe that they have top priority. (Because they control my grades and therefore also control my fate, however, I'll play along with their little games.) Also, ff.net has been giving me grief about signing in since, oh, about February. The next chapter (I hope) will not take so very long to be posted.
While Sirius stood in disbelief of the man standing before him, the visitor smiled shyly, chuckling to himself; before the professor knew what had happened, Remus was pressed up against him, his mouth nibbling eagerly at Sirius' lower lip.
Sirius could feel the wolf in Remus' teeth, and he could feel the claw of Remus' hand as the thinner man clutched at him.
Growling appreciatively, Sirius then pushed the door closed with his foot; it was good to taste and feel his old friend once again.
In less than one week, Draco had wooed the precious first year from King's Cross station, had tasted the sweet innocence of the boy's still-soft skin and moist, pink lips; he had felt the boy's gently rounded belly writhing beneath his touch, and he had fastened his own heated mouth around the child's tender throat.
And Julian - for that was the boy's name, sweet and round on Draco's tongue - had found solace in the strong band of Draco's arms circling his thin shoulders, had slid softly out of his expensive robes and in between Draco's silken sheets; he had tangled his very small hands in the Slytherin's cornsilk hair, and he had clung to Draco with fervor and the delicate sheen of sweat blushing over his brow.
It was during those obscure and pointless free hours of the day that Draco had brought the child to the prefect's dormitory, that one small apartment of two rooms in a long hallway on the second floor with the other prefects. Between his lessons that Draco had whispered sparkling promises into the child's ear, tickled the child's neck with baited breath. On those first few empty, lazy Saturday mornings of the new term that Draco had woken to find the boy curled close to his chest, one small hand clinging to the linens; he had heard the child wake to the sounds of his own tiny whimperings in the night.
Draco had been involved in heated affairs before; he had sneaked through the shifting shadows of the school at night to entertain such trysts in the Astronomy Tower, where no one cared who was groping whom in the tiny, dark corners. And he had also been in Julien's place, the younger party, the child clinging blindly to a godly seventh year. He understood the insecurities and loss of innocence the boy was going through during their time together.
But never had he felt so betrayed by any boy's youngish tendencies, the early bedtimes, the long nightmarish clinging, the steady whimpering in the chiding starlight. Never had he longed for the freedom of his own bed whilst another vibrant young body lay steaming beside him. Never had he wanted so badly to be out of it all, and it startled him.
High above the manicured Quidditch pitch, Harry sighed, slouching on his broom, a shining Aura 3500 given to him by Sirius as a birthday present. It was slender and gleaming in the sunlight, a brightly polished ash handle sloping gently upwards to the end where, in glittering silver, its name was printed. The tail was a pretty thing, too, tapered cherry wood twigs charmed to outlast any attacks made upon them.
This year the Gryffindor house team was looking for one chaser and one beater to replace the seventh-year players from the previous year. Professor McGonagall, with Madam Hooch, had just walked onto the pitch below, ready to begin calling numbers and watching the potential new players try out. Many would be decent, Harry knew this for a fact; they probably played with siblings over holidays, watched Quidditch cups both at Hogwarts and elsewhere, or simply had a knack for the sport. There were a few who had no chance of making the team; every year, one of these poor students was Colin Creevey, determined to have a spot beside Harry at every match.
On the bleachers sat a motley crew of other Gryffindors, friends of those trying out, or simply those curious about the new members of the team. Hermione was there, sitting with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. The three of them made quite a trio, dressed in light sundresses and sandals for the warm autumn weather; their hair was combed and curled, their nails painted, their eyes made up and pretty. They chatted into the breeze, their words gobbled up by the sky.
"Oi, Harry, watch it!" Red and gold Gryffindor robes flashed past, whipping a cool wind around Harry and sending his glasses askew. He scowled; the offender stopped her broom, giggling, and beamed up at him. "Sorry 'bout that, Harry! Pull your head out of the clouds, and maybe next time you'll not get beaned!"
She streaked toward the ground again, her long ponytail of copper-carrot hair flying as a banner behind her. Harry snorted, looking around at his level in the air, where the other players hovered diligently, scattered.
There was Ron, by the near goalposts; he had become one of the team's chasers and team captain in their fifth year. A few feet above him was a small blond boy in his fourth year. He was freckled and wiry, another chaser and most always joking with Ron over this or that. At the other end of the pitch hovered their only returning beater, a fierce-looking sixth- year called Tabitha, with green-black eyes and dark, wild hair. Harry was, of course, still seeker, and keeper was Ginny Weasley, who presently pulled her broom out of a headlong drop just in time to hop nimbly from its seat and stand before the professors with a grin.
Professor McGonagall's voice came over the stadium, echoing grandly among the bleachers, using the Sonorus charm. She held up her hands as she spoke, appearing unfazed by the booming quality of her voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please form two lines," she said. "If you would like to become beaters, please stand to the left, in front of Madam Hooch. If you, however, would rather be a chaser, stand to the right, in front of team captain Ginny Weasley, if you please. You will each receive a number, and that will be the order in which we will see you perform for us. Thank you."
The booming voice died, leaving the stands ringing from the sounds. The professor removed the spell, and as students began filing into their two lines, she stepped away and gazed up into the sky, her dark eyes searching for something.
At once she cast Sonorus again, and the stadium was filled with the words, "Harry Potter, please come down at once - I would appreciate a word, Mr. Potter."
Harry began his descent amidst laughter from his teammates, landing a few feet in front of the professor, slinging his Aura over one shoulder and running a hand through his thick hair in an attempt to calm the unruly locks. It was a futile attempt, and stray strands still fell over his forehead in disarray.
"Mr. Potter, Professor Black has requested to see you." Harry's eyebrows knitted together, and the professor sighed, nodding. "You know where his chambers are?" The boy shook his head, and she clucked her tongue. "Yes, of course you wouldn't, not this early in the year. Go to the third floor corridor, to his classroom. His apartments are across the hall, third on the right. There is a plaque on the door. You should not be able to miss it easily." She shooed him, and he went, leaving his Aura in the broom shed and charming it with a security spell.
On his way into the castle, he glanced back out at the pitch. Golden sunlight flooded the field and stands, casting long shadows in the late afternoon. The team darted and laughed on the breeze, catching and tossing Quaffles easily for the potential new players, hitting Bludgers back and forth between them. Harry sighed, and just as he turned to walk inside, he caught sight of the Snitch, merely a slight flash of gold above the near set of posts.
Julian came eagerly into the room with Draco, his small hands already reaching, his lips already moist and pink and ready to be kissed. He was wearing his school uniform and plain black robes, while Draco wore just a pair of dark trousers and his white uniform shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and collar unbuttoned.
Draco stood by the window then, looking out at the Quidditch pitch and its isolated stands sticking poker-straight into the wisping clouds above. The Gryffindors were out there today, recruiting new players. Slytherin's team was full, had been full for three years running; there was a waiting list for their team, and only the best were allowed. Gryffindors were known for allowing players onto their team out of pity. Draco sighed, quietly refusing to look back at the boy behind him.
But the boy came to him with footsteps like snowdrops, each melting silently into the old floorboards as he approached. His dark eyes were wide, his lashes dark and wet. With his small, perfect hands, he began to unfasten the buttons of Draco's plain shirt, blinking slowly as he did. The light from the window washed over him in a golden rain, and he was beautiful for all the innocence lost in him.
Draco brought a hand to stop the child's movement, his long fingers wrapping over Julien's very small palm.
"Don't do that," he whispered, and the child looked up at him with wonder and worry bleeding through his pale features. He removed his hands from Draco's shirtfront, letting a sigh hiccup in his throat. "No, stop that." He lifted Julien's chin with two fingers, feeling slightly sick at the sight of pale, pearly tears forming at the corners of his doe-eyes. "I said, stop that. You're going to make me vomit."
Julian turned his head away, but Draco's fingers remained. The boy moved his hands to clutch Draco's with a quiet desperation, his hair falling over his eyes.
"Now, stop that!" Draco's voice was growing thin, a shrill edge showing through his threadbare tone. "I'm serious. Stop that right now, or I shall - " But he could not go on, not when Julian brought his gaze up to match Draco's in a broken expression.
"You're not going to do anything," said the child softly, but quite firmly. "I know you. I know you're like me, Draco." His eyes narrowed just enough to corrupt his expression. "You know that my father - "
He stopped, shrugged, and dropped Draco's long hand, walking in heavy silence to the other side of the room. Just before the door, he turned, saying, "I know now why you asked me up today. I'm not stupid, Draco." There was a brief pause, during which the boy's stance changed. He appeared taller now, older, lacking that innocent expression which had first drawn Draco to him in the train station that first day.
Draco looked away, out the window. The Gryffindors were drops of red and gold shadow against the pale, late afternoon sky, drifting and falling this way and that on the wind. They were laughing, happy.
He wished he was one of them. Flying. Drifting. Happy. He closed his eyes, murmuring a hopeless prayer in the hollows of his mind that he should be one of them, knowing in his heart that it would not be granted. He knew that there were no gods there to listen.
Instead, Julian spoke, saying in a surprisingly cordial and cold voice, "I shan't come again, if it's what you want." He looked up. "I know it's what you want - for me to never again come near you. It's all right, and I'll survive, if you're worried." He granted Draco an indulgent smile. "You aren't worried. I know."
And he left the room, that small two-room apartment which was the only accommodation a prefect knew, leaving Draco to his wishes of a gently floating breeze over the pitch below.
Harry discovered the apartments of Sirius Black easily, and he knocked, curious over the meaning of this late afternoon visit. There was a scuffling from within, and then the gruff, familiar voice of Sirius calling, "Just a moment - I'll be just a moment."
It was less than a moment before he pulled the door open, beaming brightly at Harry, who stood awkwardly in the corridor. Sirius all but pulled him inside, and Harry stared at the grand nature of the rooms.
"Come in," said Sirius in semi-jest, making a sweeping bow toward the rest of the apartments. "Sit down, or stay standing, if you will. You want something to drink? I've got a few cold Butterbeers in the ice box, or some milk, if you like."
"Uh - butterbeer's fine," said Harry. He was looking out the window, which gave him quite a lovely view of the Gryffindor Tower off to the left, the long spread of hills beyond the castle to the right.
Sirius disappeared through a door to the right, and came back a few minutes later with two frosty bottles in his hands and a bright smile on his lips.
"So this is your room, then?"
Sirius chuckled, popping open his bottle and shrugging nonchalantly. "My rooms, yeah. I'd no idea I would be put up like this, y'know. Thought Dumbledore'd put me in a tiny little place no bigger than that closet under the Dursley's stairs." He shrugged again. "Not that I wouldn't be able to handle anythin' that small, of course. In Azkaban, I - "
Harry shuddered; the godfather stopped, taking a long drought from his bottle.
"So," said Harry lightly, sipping his butterbeer politely. He was not thirsty. "Am I your first official visitor, then?"
Sirius shook his head. "No, Re stopped by earlier, actually, to - "
"Re?"
"Sorry, I guess I forgot. Remus. Professor Lupin to you, I s'pose. If you want to be particular about it."
"Is he here?"
Sirius grinned, shaking his head. "Shouldn't be. Headmaster called him out not five minutes ago, but he wasted no time in getting out of here. Went by floo powder, see."
"Oh."
"No worries, though. He should be back in time for dinner." Sirius glanced at the clock on the mantle of the enormous fireplace along the far wall. "Which is soon. Care to walk an old man down to the Great Hall, then, Harry?"
Harry allowed him a small smile, and nodded downwardly. "Yeah, Sirius. Let's go."
The Great Hall was alight with ribbons of gold sunlight. The light slid through the wide, glassy windows, rushing with an awkward, bubbling splendor through air, glass, and the thin banners fluttering brightly from the ceiling.
There was laughter, there - great gurgling currents of laughter whipping through the entire room. Mercilessly they tickled the youthful faces, eliciting grins and giggles and shy words and dancing phrases.
This was dinner; this was noontime in the castle. This was springtime youth at its best, though that bright light from a robust yellow sun was in all its autumntide glory. This was the joys of childhood playing Marco Polo in a shimmering, abandoned August pond, eating two slices of chocolate cake too many on a candle-wish birthday evening, and prancing gaily through the rain in May's sweet showers. This was the very belly of innocence, round and soft with the gently singing strings of youth itself, and it was the time and place which most took the breath from Harry Potter's swelling lungs.
He came into the room with his godfather, the shape shifter, Sirius. At the head table, the Headmaster appeared elegant and wise and old, draped in soft robes as ancient as the man himself, his beard and gold-framed half- moon glasses glimmering solemnly in the sunlight. Beside him sat the old lady professor, the head of the lion's noble house, looking stern and quiet and kind; her long fingers toyed gently with the silver spoon at her right hand, ready to stir the crowds of students at a moment's notice from the old Headmaster. To his left, a seat stood empty; this was delicately immobile, carved with intricate runes and designs and story-book pictures.
Harry knew who this seat was left open for; this was the place set for Remus J. Lupin, and in its simple, hollow nature, it reflected the professor's personality in its perfect sense and meaning. The golden edges on chalice and plate glowed yellow as Lupin's eyes were prone to do; the blue napkin wreathed in intertwined silver, blue, green, and gold ring spoke softly in testimony of a monthly tragedy ever-present in the man's life thus far; the dark, soft glow of wood backing the sturdy chair behind seemed to ripple, just as once a month the newly sprouted fur ripples in the round-cheese moon smiles sympathetically down upon him.
Sighing into the dusty beauty of it all, Harry bade Sirius a temporary farewell, and took his place at the long, simple bench at the Gryffindor table, second to the right in the high-ceilinged hall.
Immediately, the golden paradise drowned in a clamber of silverware and chatter of many unified voices. Harry was, yet again, tossed blindly into the midst of masses of bumbling children, wandering absently once more in this whirlwind of aimless chit-chat and the offensively careless exchange of words.
Harry arrived late to class, chest heaving beneath each breath as he struggled violently to slow his racing heart. The plastic ends of his shoelaces clacked and clattered on the dusty old floor, his starchly creased pantlegs rustling irritatingly against one another as he pumped his legs, the loose strap of his rapidly wearing bag streaming endlessly out behind him. His hair leapt and fluttered across his forehead and back again, tickling at the corners of his eyes; and his throat constricted and felt dry and papery.
The classroom had been previously unused, tucked away in some foreign corner of the school (as many corners of Hogwarts are prone to be), shut off from the rest of the school like a dusty box of memories squirreled away in a forgotten eve of an attic room. The door creaked behind him as he came, panting, into the room.
Professor Aaron Needleworth Trimble sat perched atop his cluttered desk, skinny legs folded at is narrow ankles, long hands clutching at the hems of his pants. He beamed at Harry as the boy tripped toward him across the front of the room, handing Trimble a small, tightly rolled parchment paper sealed with Professor McGonagall's distinct green wax seal. Trimble tore at it with his thumb, scanned the strict penmanship of the senior professor's note.
He then smiled at Harry, whose attempts to breath at a normal rate were in vain; a trickle of sweet perspiration trickled down is brow. Harry quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his robes.
"I see. Well, sit down, then, there - in the back, in that empty seat."
Obediently, Harry shifted his books from one arm to the other, looking at the vacant spot of a desk in the very last row of desks, readying himself to sit beside a younger student, one of those pitiful fans (an associate of the Creevey brothers, no doubt), or quite possibly -
The seat sharing the empty spot's desk was occupied by a slender, delicately cut figure who was presently bowed low over a curling scroll, an elegant grey quill moving as an extension of his hand. This was Malfoy; rival and enemy of Harry Potter since the their first year at Hogwarts, spoiled prat son of one of the wizarding world's most esteemed Ministry officials, looking dazzling and brilliant in the watery light of the high windows which graced one wall in the tiny room. He seemed to be carved from ivory and gold, the yellow of his hair gracefully fading into the porcelain, snowy whiteness of his pale, pale flesh. Harry, even from across the room, could see the deep blue veins running under Malfoy's rice-paper skin, a myriad of minute, rushing rivers of well-bred, life-giving blood.
Harry blinked, broke the trance, and looked at Trimble, who was watching him quite expectantly from his perch atop the desk. "I - I'm sorry, sir, but I - I can't sit there."
"And," said Trimble, smiling obligingly at him, his dull teeth cutting a half-moon from his face, "why, exactly, is that, Harry?"
Malfoy looked up, a brief and fleeting assessment of the situation taking place between professor and student; he then became quite absorbed with his work, tying his letters together with a carefully guided sweep of his wrist. He did not look up again.
"Uh, we - I mean - Malfoy and I - don't get on too well, Professor," he stammered softly, watching the probing eyes of the other students in a hesitant, sidelong sort of way. "We never have."
"Oh, I do see, indeed." Trimble's smile broadened compassionately. "I completely understand." The smile thinned out, and a void in Harry's trunk deepened. "You may be seated next to Mr. Malfoy, Harry. Please. I will not ask again."
The void spread rapidly, and Harry was well aware of the heavy, sinking feeling in the very pit of his stomach. He turned and began the long walk down the narrow aisle between desks, his sneakers making a hollow sound on the flagstone floor with each step, his legs strangely numb beneath his swishing black robes.
"Oh, and Mr. Malfoy," called out Trimble, hopping neatly from the desk. "If you please remember the rule I installed in my classroom quite recently?"
Malfoy looked up, startled, and set the fluffy quill away sheepishly, rolling up the bit of parchment before him and tucking it into a pocket. The quill followed, and he looked again at the professor as the man turned to a large green chalkboard to one side of the desk.
"Thank you. If you would all take out your notes from last time, I believe we can get started before Mr. Potter has taken too much of our valuable class time."
He began to write on the board quite rapidly with a bit of plain white chalk, speaking in excited tones as he did.
"Now, as you know, Muggles are quite oblivious to even the most obvious of events in the world, even if they are left out beneath their little, non- magical noses. Look at our records of history, with all the great evils in the world, and then look at theirs. They document our histories as mythology - take a look at Circe in their supposed Classical Mythology. Take a look at all of our documentation of recent evils in the world - there is no mention of it in their world, despite the hundreds of thousands of deaths worldwide caused by Death Eaters and the like each year. They really are quite fascinating in their persistent ignorance, aren't they ...?"
Harry had taken his place beside Draco, who moved his chair away from Harry and pulled a spiral-bound notebook from his bag. Harry watched in amazement as Draco also took out a skinny, plastic, ball-point ink pen from the same bag, and began to take notes from the chalkboard as Trimble filled the space rapidly.
It was a moment later that Harry realized that the rest of the class, too, had pulled from their respective bags Muggle ink pens and pads of lined paper. He stared at the board, watching as Trimble danced on his toes nimbly, excitement spewing from his mouth as he lectured and taught.
"You'll need a pen," said Draco, using only the very corner of his mouth. Harry blinked owlishly at him, until the blond huffed out his breath impatiently and flipped over the notebook. From its flimsy metal spiral, he brutishly tore three pages, dropping them onto the desk in front of Harry; he dipped his hand into the bag at his feet, bringing up another ball-point ink pen and dropping that, too, before Harry. "No need to give it back - just find a notebook before Trimble realizes you've not been issued one."
"Thank you," said Harry after a dumbfounded moment, and he began to take down the notes.
It was a long time before Draco turned back to his work, long breaths and reels of thought before his critical pale eyes returned to his own diligent note-taking.
Supper that evening was a splendid affair indeed. The enchanted ceiling cast a cool silver glow over everything, clashing and mingling with the warm yellow and gold tones from the torches and floating candles overhead.
Harry sat among those so-called friends of his, each worrying himself over his own matters while pretending to hear everyone else's, his long fingers toying with the plated gold handle of the fork at his table set.
He glanced up, bored; the Slytherin table was hissing and spreading foul word of those seated at and around their table, each pair of glittering eyes hiding at least a dozen great secrets, all eager to be spilled. The Slytherins held proud, malicious grins on their twisted faces, beautiful and gleaming in the dancing light all around. Harry blinked, suddenly blinded by it all.
Draco was looking back.
Cornsilk hair glimmered with its usual sleek style; pale eyes brooded below a fair brow. Shadows moved and pirouetted over a cream-skin canvas, and the petal-pink lip pulled slightly aside, an elegantly rehearsed sneer, as he regarded the rest of the room.
But Draco was looking back now, the sneer had been put aside for a few precious moments; he continued to look back until Harry glanced away. His dark eyes wanted very much to be watching something which he knew very well, something which would not blind him with its newness and foreign beauty.
He looked instead to his godfather. Sirius sat at the head table, hair tossed carelessly over his strong forehead, his usual broad grin pinned seamlessly in place as he conversed with the weary-looking man beside him.
Professor Lupin. Harry sighed inwardly; the professor looked exactly as he had four years before, those tired and thin curls falling loosely around his pale face, amber eyes taking in his surroundings placidly. Subtle lines and hidden meanings flowed through his changing expressions, those smudged shadows beneath his eyes like twin bruises on either side of his face.
He was terribly handsome, appearing so terribly thin in his dark red velvet robes, leaning nonchalantly against his chair as he hung on every word uttered from Sirius's wide mouth. Sirius himself was dressed in dark blue robes lined with ivory satin, his twinkling eyes never leaving Lupin's delicate expression.
The Headmaster came into the hall, then, his robes swishing and glittering for all the embroidery on them, his spectacles shining as he turned to greet those around him.
Silence fell over the hall as the Headmaster turned to address them, holding up his withered hands in a useless gesture; the chattering students were already watching him with an eager light in their eyes and faces.
"My dear students," he began, "my dear professors, and my dear self." A small, whispering laugh drifted through the students' tables. He smiled faintly, but it was not a long-lasting expression, nor did it truly reach his eyes. As the corners of his mouth fell again, he continued, "I have an announcement which I can no longer put off. It is known by many of you that the Ministry of Magic is in an uproar, due to recent events concerning the entire wizarding world."
Harry looked away from the old man for a moment, glancing around him. The others were nodding to themselves, sharing private whispers of the knowledge they possessed. Harry knew nothing of which the Headmaster spoke, and he felt sheepish that he had allowed himself to drift so far from the rest of the world's matters in the few weeks he had been at Hogwarts.
"For those of you who know not of what I am referring," Dumbledore continued seamlessly, his eyes catching Harry's, "allow me a brief moment of explanation. Two weeks ago, there was a vicious attack on a Muggle family in a small town south of London. Hours later reports of a second attack were brought to the Ministry, followed in the next four days by no less than six more attacks. Every household involved had Muggle-born witches or wizards within their family. The attacks are believed to be the work of Dark Witches or Wizards, but the Ministry has yet to come up with any leads. However, due to the rising concern, widespread panic, and (here I quote directly from the Daily Prophet) 'utter hopelessness' of the situation, the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has decided - " Dumbledore paused, pursing his lips for a short moment before finishing, "Fudge has decided to renounce his title as Minister of Magic."
A ripple of excited, frightened whispers spread throughout the room, and Harry felt as though someone had dropped a hot coal into the very bottom of his stomach.
The Headmaster held up his hands to quiet them, closing his eyes as he allowed the speculation to die to a mere breeze of a murmur. When he spoke again, his voice was thin and quiet. "It is because of these events that I reluctantly - very reluctantly, and with much grief - have decided to resign from my position at Hogwarts, and I will no longer be your Headmaster."
The Slytherin table hissed and spat with celebration and hopeful suggestions of who might replace the old wizard, but Dumbledore said nothing to quiet them. He merely glanced at them with a pale fire in those light blue eyes, his brow furrowing deeply.
"At the beginning of this week, I was offered the position of Minister of Magic. It is with much consideration and thought that I have agreed to take Fudge's place in the ministry," he said at last. "I will become the Minister of Magic in Britain on Monday, when I am to be sworn in at the London Bureau."
He allowed the students a moment to voice their objections, concerns, and revels at this announcement. Harry remained unfazed by the chatter around him, shocked by the whole ordeal, and he noticed that the professors, too, all held the same aghast expression in their aging eyes. Sirius appeared heartbroken by the Headmaster's startling words.
But Dumbledore was not finished speaking, and again, he held up his old hands to quiet the students. As the murmurings in the hall died out, he took one step back, toward the table, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes.
"I am pleased however to appoint a new Headmaster, as is custom at Hogwarts. In my stead I am leaving a man in whom I place my full trust and confidence. I expect the students to behave as though I were still here, and I pray the same in my heart." He glanced around, and Harry found himself leaning forward in a sick anticipation. "Please step forward, Professor Lupin."
...
* I meant to have this chapter finished a very long time ago; time yet again slipped away from me, and my profs believe that they have top priority. (Because they control my grades and therefore also control my fate, however, I'll play along with their little games.) Also, ff.net has been giving me grief about signing in since, oh, about February. The next chapter (I hope) will not take so very long to be posted.