Palindromes

Chapter 1

The sun is shining through the heavy drapes of his father's sitting room in tapered shafts.

Sun- sun makes him think of Quidditch, sun on grass and sun on Quaffles and sun gleaming on the good, solid handle of his first broomstick. That feeling that lies in the hollow of his mouth, curled between roof and tongue, named delight. He wants to stay with sun, think about it all day, but his father prods him gently with another word and its all fun again anyway.

This is Father's game. Another word can mean something else entirely, like 'snake' reminds him of favors and ice cream carries a certain bitter taste. Draco plays along and likes it very much- or else he would pout and Father would give in, like always. Draco understands it well enough now and calls out rushy exclamations in reply.

How about mornings, Draco, Father is saying. What does it make you think of? And then Draco thinks about mornings and sees sun and sees Quidditch and he is happy again. He smiles, a secret smile for little amusements, and announces this to Father, Quidditch.

Between his careful fingers, Father watches him, fingers that seem never to stop flickering in and out of sight. The little hand gestures and daydreams of his son filter through, and he sees everything, watching every movement, sharing every secret smile.

Somewhere it must come together, because, in the end, Father understands everything too.

He saw Harry two weeks after term ended. If anything, Draco felt pleased rather than surprised and outraged.

He had entered the café early, as he did from time to time when breakfast back at the inn didn't suit his tastes. He never expected to see anyone there; in fact, it irritated him when he wasn't served immediately. Most mornings, he would enter and find a seat by the window just before the waitress appeared, jotting down his requests before he has a chance to settle.

Today he frowned instead, taking in the pale light and the brisk waking rituals of the shops outside. His attention had already turned to his plans for the afternoon when the waitress bustled up with her pad and wand in hand.

"You're slow today," he said with disdain. She peered across at him along her narrow nose and dipped her head smartly.

"I'm sorry," she replied airily, amused, and offered no explanation. "What'll you be having today, Draco?- or are you too insulted now to breakfast in my café?"

"Tea, the usual, but hold the sarcasm if you would." She sent him a wry smile and was off to fetch it.

Moments later he was stirring it idly with a silver spoon, head leant up against the back of his chair and tilted slightly to his right so he could look up towards the sky and the street, if he wished. It was a pleasant view, if quaint, and he found himself forgetting the thoughts he had meant to be thinking about in order to look at the clouds, and hopes for Quidditch today floating among them.

The jolt of a shattered coffee cup made Draco lift his head and turn his attentions to the other side of the room. A large Chinese urn managed to block his view, but he heard a boy's voice and could see the scene reflected faintly in the window.

His gray eyes widened by a fraction. There was that uncertain shift in his mind, and he blinked his eyes, thinking, 'Potter'. Harry Potter, here, in his café, when it was widely known that he spent summers with his Muggle family. He mouthed the name as if feeling it on his lips would convince him of the truth.

Then he smiled, finishing his tea with the clinking of sickles to the tabletop, and left with his eyes cast downward and Potter's stare teasing the back of his neck.

Draco Malfoy made an exit.

Harry had not seen him enter, had not seen him sit down and delicately sip his morning tea. He hadn't noticed that translucent reflection in the window beside him, floating ghost-like above the vibrant window boxes trimmed with summer flowers.

Yet he watched closely as Draco rose and left. No insults, no stray sarcastic remarks or scathing death threats. No smirk. And as Draco skimmed past the window boxes and left his line of vision, Harry wondered how he knew just the way to make him grit his teeth and clench his hands.

"Was that...?"

"Draco Malfoy? Yes." Lupin glanced across the table at him. Frowning, Harry turned away from the window. "Don't make too much of it, Harry. I know for a fact he regularly comes here for breakfast. I can assure you that you're not being hunted down."

Harry rolled his eyes, picking at his muffin. Lupin had not ordered anything to eat. "Why would I worry about that?" he replied, but felt himself relax into his chair.

"Yes, well- it might be a good idea to worry a bit more. I'm not saying you should drink from a hip flask," he continued quickly, before Harry could protest. "I'm not Mad Eye, there's no need to live in fear, but just-...use caution. You put his father into prison; he's not going to be queuing up to join your fan club. Revenge should not be underestimated, Harry."

Harry looked away.

The day was innocent outside on Diagon Alley, so full of life with its pale green stems and sunshine blues and pink daffodils charmed to bloom through the heaviest snow. Hatred had no place here, where even Malfoy was passive, at least, rather than confrontational; yet Harry clutched at his hatred and hid it away, ashamed but unwavering.

No one could take it from him. It had made Privet Drive more than the usual torture by consuming his idle hours. He didn't want to remember what he had considered then while his scar was a constant agony and he was feverish and weak from the pain. The Dursleys knew better than to disturb him in his state, but they turned away the battalions of owls and cursed at him through the door flap, as if they could beat his nonsense into submission.

But owls still came, and Harry stared at the newspaper for an hour every morning since his eyes would never focus very long. Some days he wondered if the task was worth taking on, when every edition read nearly the same.

Murder- muggles were dying, no, more than dying because Dementors wandered the streets at night and stole souls as they pleased. Like wolves stealing chickens. The muggle world became a slaughterhouse and no one dared enter, no one dared to go in and save them all because it wasn't worth the risk of discovery.

Harry despaired. Locked away in his room he experienced nightmares and rages until the Dursleys were afraid to slide food through the door.

He was caged like a beast left to die and he no longer cared. Hedwig found one night that he would no longer open the window to let her in. She sat on a tree branch hooting softly and tapping her beak on the glass but Harry was too busy breaking himself apart; it all seemed impossibly misunderstood. 

He could not help, he could not leave, he could not eat or sleep from the pain. All in all, he lived because of the distant pulse of a greater need; only he could end this war.

But still they kept him caged away.

And then a letter arrived. The owl appeared with a crack, snipping at his fingers and there was nothing to do but take the envelope and open the window to lead it outside.

He took a cautious breath to see if, perhaps, he could still remember the smell of fresh air, but then a man was killed 23 miles away; he had an elderly mother and three small sons, Harry heard them locked in the next room, being subjected to Imperius as a group of laughing Death Eaters looked on.

A short, muffled cry escaped his lips and he slid down the wall, letter crumpled into the shape of his fist. Opening the envelope, he glanced down at it with eyes half-closed and one cheek pressed against the wall.  

Dear Harry,

Are you all right over there? Why haven't you been writing us? We've been worried, Hermione is going spare- you did promise you would this time. I hope the muggles aren't giving you a hard time. Honestly, we didn't think they would, but with everything that's going on, you know, we couldn't be sure..

Hold on, Professor Lupin wants to add something.

Harry- sit tight. I know Dumbledore's explained the situation to you, so you understand why it's so important, don't do anything that'll put yourself in danger. Arabella says she hasn't seen you outside, and that your family won't give her any information- let me know if anything's wrong, and please, try to keep in touch. ~Remus Lupin

It's Ron again-...

He shredded the letter and then let his head fall against the wall with a groan; the scraps of parchment fluttered down and stuck against his shirtfront like the perspiration that beaded in the hollow of his red throat.

He had wanted more than anything to give up.

One morning Uncle Vernon charged through the door and forced him into clothes. He was made to eat properly for the first time in days and he could not complain; instead, he stared at each Dursley in turn through glassy eyes, wishing he knew if this was a sudden change of heart.

They threw him out afterwards, Aunt Petunia saying tremulously that she wanted no dying ingrates in her house and Uncle Vernon saying good riddance. Dudley said nothing to him at all, instead demanding to know if he could finally reclaim his second bedroom, as it was, of course, rightfully his. He found himself staring at the door, standing on the doorstep where he had been left sixteen years ago, with yet another letter addressed to Petunia Dursley fallen at his feet.

And so he left.

He staggered into the second level of a parking deck belonging to Grunnings, the middle level between one and three, where his uncle always parked. It was Sunday, around half past nine, and there were very few cars about because of this.

Sitting down, he smelt petrol and cigarettes on the air. The combination made him lightheaded, but it was no worse than usual, and the sleepy, flickering quality of the lights made him laugh once before falling silent; any sound rebounded harshly against concrete ceilings, floors, and walls.

"Harry?" His name echoed strangely as well. Harry was surprised that he had not been the one to say it; a figure followed the voice out of the shadows and into a pool of marigold light. "Good god, what...? Harry, are you all right?"

"Fine," he replied with a weak smile. "Hello Professor. I saw your note."

"So it seems." Lupin checked him over silently with his eyes. "Harry,-"

"I'm fine. I..." A glance told Harry that further explanation was pointless. He fell silent and concentrated on the blurred outline of his trainers. 

"You don't have to tell me now, but later, if you would. We haven't the time anyway; it isn't safe for you here. I've already made arrangements; you'll have to follow what I say, all right, Harry?"

"All right. And I'm fine, really," Harry lied. The pain was ebbing now, but it was certain to return at any time. "Go on."

"First, come with me."

Lupin set off from the direction he had entered. With some difficulty, Harry kept up with his brisk pace, though Lupin was obviously slowing for him. A sense of urgency was all that kept him moving; Harry was aware of the danger in this rescue. The last time he had left the Dursley's house, a guard of nine witches and wizards had been sent to accompany him, with possibly more to help in planning and assisting.

They began to ascend a flight of steps. Lupin stopped midway to face Harry. For a moment he searched Harry's features, which were flushed a pallid red-gray, and sighed. "I didn't think this was a good idea from the start. Neither did Dumbledore- he discouraged me from coming for you this time, since there seemed to be no immediate danger."

"Is that why...you came alone?"

Lupin smiled. "I couldn't have you suffer, could I? A good Healer could probably come up with something to treat those pains. It's not as if there was no choice in the matter."

"I wasn't...about to die," said Harry slowly, hesitant to believe it himself.  

"No, you weren't."

"It felt like it, sometimes. I thought so. Nothing seemed to make sense, then- and now, you say that you went against Dumbledore. That doesn't make sense either."

Looking down at Harry from a step above him, Lupin seemed suddenly distracted. He turned his head to glance up towards the top level, where a scattering of stars was just visible. "We should get going, Harry. This can wait for another day. Come on." His voice was suddenly rough, and he climbed the remaining steps too quickly for Harry to follow.

When Harry emerged, at first he could see little. Apparently, Lupin owned his own Put-Outer; no lights lit the top level, but concrete ceilings gave way to the night sky. For awhile, Harry simply stood and waited for his eyes to adjust.

What he saw then was Lupin standing next to a giant motorcycle. The older man was examining it intently with his fingers, tracing over the handlebars and the metal that seemed like the subtle network of raised muscles under the fur of a big cat. A memory sparked in the back of Harry's mind, but he was too weary to recognize it.

Instead he approached the motorcycle- the motorcycle, rather than Lupin who, for a moment, didn't seem to notice him at all. When he did, he acted as if he had been woken in the middle of a dream. 

 "Oh, yes, Harry- have you got everything?"

Harry looked at him plaintively. He hadn't been able to salvage anything except his wand, which he carried in his pocket at all times, before he had been thrown out.

Lupin sighed. "That's right. I'll send someone by later to fetch your belongings, I suppose. Now-," He gestured towards the motorcycle. "This should take you to Diagon Alley. You'll be staying there for the night."

Harry nodded. Lupin seemed encouraged because he continued, "I know you've always taken a room at the Leaky Cauldron, so you should be fine there. Someone will meet you, we haven't been sure lately if..." Lupin trailed off. He stared at Harry for several seconds before sighing again and running a hand through his hair agitatedly. "You haven't got your invisibility cloak." 

"Though, apparently, I need it," said Harry listlessly. "Of course."

"No, no, it'll just be a bit more difficult, that's all. Here, get on-" He helped Harry mount. Harry had never really ridden a bicycle before, aside from pretending a few times on Dudley's dirt bikes when his cousin left the house. It reminded him strongly of riding a hippogriff. 

Lupin curled Harry's hands around the handlebars, showing him the brakes. "Only for emergencies. The motorcycle should guide itself, I've already made sure of that. Nothing should be able to get at you up in the air."

"It flies?" said Harry, surprised. Lupin smiled, a sad expression, though it was hard to tell in the dark.

"Yes, it does. He wouldn't have liked it so much if it didn't." Harry froze. 

"Not now," he said, his voice deadly soft but sharp and more distinct than it had been for days now. "Don't talk about him now. If I want to get through tonight I can't be thinking about him, so-...so I'll pretend you never said that, all right?" He closed his eyes.

"Are you sure you're fit to do this, Harry?"

"I'm not staying here."

Lupin took a step away from the motorcycle, looking pointedly down the stairs as if there were somewhere else he had to be.

"If that's what you want, then. The motorcycle should take you a few streets down from the inn, a side street- you should be fine, but stopping for directions wouldn't be the best of ideas. Make sure to keep out of sight."

"What about a Disillusionment Charm?" asked Harry.

Lupin shook his head. "If I could, I'd do one for you, but I haven't got the knack for them that Moody does; you'll just have to stay inconspicuous, and get down to the inn as quickly as you can without attracting attention. From there, there's no way I can help you, so you have to play it by ear- and don't let Tom the innkeeper see you, we aren't sure which side he's on recently. Once you're in there, get up the staircase, to room number 12, at the end."

Trying to concentrate, Harry repeated this to himself several times. The words swam in his head and it was difficult, but soon he remembered the directions well enough to satisfy himself.

"Ready then?" Harry couldn't help but think how tired Lupin looked- not from age, the darkness took away the gray streaks in his hair and the lines around his mouth in eyes, but from indifference. He didn't seem to care how he looked anymore.

"I guess. And, Professor- thank you."

"Go on. I'll see you in a few days, Harry. I would wish you good luck, but maybe you should just have this, instead." Lupin drew a small gray box from an inner pocket and continued wryly, "It's no wedding ring, I can promise you that. A pocket watch. I notice you lost the wristwatch you always wear."

It was true- Harry's old watch, slightly dented by the time it had been passed down to him, had stopped ticking just as summer began. "Thanks, Professor. I'd open it now, but...never mind." Just as he moved to pocket the box, he faltered. Instead, he flicked it open, fumbling as he brought it near his face.

The watch was made of bare gold, or seemed to be. It was smooth except for along scratch where metal showed through, and several rough areas where the watch must have been dropped and then polished carefully afterwards. At one point there must have been a matching gold chain, but this was gone, as well as the latch that would have held it tightly shut.

Harry was careful to keep it from swinging open as he replaced it gently, putting both box and watch back into his pocket. He felt a dull pain in his head that he didn't believe came from his scar, and swallowed.

"You'll be fine Harry," said Lupin. "Get on, now."

"Thank you."

"No need, just go."

Soon the thrumming growl of the motorcycle overcame his ears. The bike took a mighty lunge into the sky; Harry looked back as Lupin became more and more faint in the distance and then disappeared.