The Gift

Indarae

Parings: Light Luna/Harry nearing the end, but that's not my ship, at all.

Rating: Pg-13, as always, for disturbing imagery and war.

Distribution: Schnoogle, Twisting the Hellmouth, ff.net, or simply email to ask.

Summary: (Severitus' Challenge) The death of Albus Dumbledore leaves a mountain of questions for the Light. Along with Luna, Ginny, Ron, and the unlikely help of a Slytherin, Harry learns that answers often bring hearbreak as the final conflict approaches.

A/N: Just as promised, the Saturday chapter.

Chapter Six — Tartan Dreams

December 23, 1997

Professor McGonagall had most certainly been asleep. Dumbledore would've been able to hide it somehow, but when Snape banged on her door with Harry shifting nervously on his feet at his father's side, the Headmistress Elect appeared at the door wearing a tartan dressing gown, tartan cap and, of course, tartan slippers. Harry was amused to note that they were furry. "It's urgent," Snape growled before McGonagall could snap at them for waking her.

She studied them both carefully before nodding and stepping aside to let them enter her rooms. Harry, of course, had never been inside any professor's private apartments before, so he took a moment so peer around at the artefacts present. The only magical household he'd spent time in was the Weasley's, and McGonagall was noticeably neater than Ron and Ginny's family. Almost everything was decorated in red and gold — it was even more garish than the Gryffindor Common Room after they'd won a Quidditch match against Slytherin, and that was certainly saying something. Harry really was fond of his House colours... but McGonagall had taken it much too far. It looked as though a cat had run through and sicked up in vivid red and gold over everything. "Please, have a seat," she offered, waving over at a set of chairs and a sofa next to a fireplace with a gold façade. "What's happened?"

The upholstery was plaid. As McGonagall took a seat across from him, Harry suddenly felt dizzy — the woman's entire outfit blended perfectly against the chair. "Harry found something while he was reading Albus' journals..." his father prompted.

Harry managed to tear his eyes away from the gaudy décor without being sick, for which he was quite proud of himself. "I... well, I was sorting through the pile of journals and 1980 fell open... I read the entry it opened to... er..." He gulped, at a loss as to how to explain the whole mess.

Snape's frown and snort of derision, often seen in class, were oddly comforting. "Go ahead. Give her the journal."

He nodded nervously and let the pages fall open in his hand before passing the journal to McGonagall's grasp. As she read, no doubt starting from the top of the page, Harry noticed that his hands were shaking with nerves. His father noticed and reached out his good hand to pat Harry's, comfortingly.

It wasn't difficult to know the moment at which McGonagall reached the revelation in the entries. She let out a cat-like shriek of shock and her hand fluttered to her mouth, eyes wide and locked on the page before her. "Oh, Albus... oh, how could you," she murmured. "This... this is real, correct? This isn't some prank?"

"I authenticated it tonight, just after dinner. Unless Albus decided to lead us astray in his own journal... then yes, it's the truth. William didn't die." Snape choked on the words, then snagged Harry's hand almost reflexively in a search for comfort. "Th-that's what we were going to name you," he murmured to the boy, cutting McGonagall out of the conversation entirely. "Bethy chose it. Your grandfather's mother's family had a tradition of naming their children after royals: Edward, Henry, James, Elizabeth, William... were you a girl, you'd have been Anne." Harry couldn't help but smile at the earnest expression on his face.

"Severus," McGonagall interrupted, "while I'm sure this is all very fascinating to Harry — er, William — er... whatever his name is now, this is — this is very, very serious. This is dangerous."

Though Harry would have thought it impossible, Snape paled a good three or four shades. "How is it dangerous? He's — he's my son, but he's still of the Potter line, too. It doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything," McGonagall snapped. "If one of those nasty reporters got wind of this... Severus, it's on record that you were tried as a Death Eater. Harry Potter cannot be connected to a Death Eater! The public is alreadly losing trust in -"

"Damn the public!" Snape broke in. "I've given eighteen years of my life to Albus! He's dead now and my cover's blown — he stole my son from me and I'll gladly piss on his grave for it, but I won't let the good of the public keep me miserable!"

McGonagall's mouth was hanging open. She looked too shocked to respond, so Harry finally let himself make a remark. "It doesn't matter whose son I am... does it? I mean, that doesn't change what I have to do or anything, so why is it so dangerous?"

"We need the support of the public," McGonagall managed to answer, still glaring daggers at Snape, "in order to mobilise the numbers needed to face off with You Know Who. Albus' death hurt us, but he's left a wealth of battle plans to me, and underworld contacts, and all sorts of useful information. He'll still lead us to victory. But victory relies on you, Harry, being able to stand as the Boy Who Lived to rally the troops. They need a figurehead — and as the son of an accused Death Eater, you won't make much of a hero."

So that's what the little paragraph in 1981 had actually meant: if Harry went off to some sort of magical battle and hundreds of troops sacrificed themselves to keep him alive... then in the end, the Light would win. He handed over the piece of paper before he forgot it. "I found that. It was part of Dumbledore's plan," he reported dully.

McGonagall nodded and didn't even read it. "You can't tell anyone. Either of you. I should probably just... I can't just Obliviate the both of you, it's illegal... but ohhh, this could destroy everything , should word get out. You can't tell a soul!"

His father snarled and looked ready to fight until the end, but Harry squeezed his hand and shook his head until Snape, looking affronted, fell silent. "When we win, then... can I tell whomever I want? Whomever we want?" he demanded. "When Voldemort's gone, it won't matter who knows."

"Certainly," McGonagall said, "but not before. It places everything in danger."

Snape looked ready to cry and attack at the same time. "Harry?" he murmured, the pain and tears thick on his voice.

"We have to win," Harry said in explanation and apology. "If we don't... then it won't really matter who we told, because Voldemort will kill us both the moment he has an unimpeded shot. Don't you see? I'm — I'm not ready to die yet, and this way gives us a chance."

"Alright," Snape said, choking on the words. "I won't tell anyone. I'll — I'll treat you like you're still — his son. Are you happy?"

Harry wasn't sure whom the question was aimed at, but he answered anyway, as sincerely as he could. "No. I'm not happy. But Dumbledore gave everything to win this... I guess he was probably just manipulating me the whole time, but he rescued me from the Dursleys. I owe him a little something for that."

Snape growled under his breath. "You wouldn't have been with the Dursleys if it hadn't been for the sodding -"

"Severus!" McGonagall snapped, "He's dead! At least pretend to have some respect!"

"I should go," Harry said, jumping to his feet. "I have to go back to the dormitory — Blaise knows, Professor, he grabbed the journal out of my hand and I couldn't stop him reading it — so I have to go threaten him until he promises to keep quiet."

"Threaten him?" McGonagall demanded in horror, but his father only nodded.

"If he won't listen to you, I'll have a go at him." Snape stood, pulling Harry into another hug before he could escape. It still felt weird. "Come down to my office and have tea with me on Christmas. You can tell the others that I caught you in the hall and decided to punish you for it. I know I can't — I can't act like a father, but just because of what she says doesn't mean I'll not meet with you -"

"I'll be there," Harry promised, cutting his father off before he could insult the new Headmistress. "Blaise'll be looking for me."

"Go," Snape said, releasing Harry with a gentle nudge toward the door. He tried to ignore the glare McGonagall had focused on his father as he hurried away from the overwhelming colour and emotion trapped in McGonagall's rooms. And though he was certainly filled with hope for the future, something he'd been lacking for so long... his heart felt crushed by what he had to do.

December 24, 1997

No one waited up, so Harry enjoyed a night full of rest — his scar wasn't hurting, his dreams were pleasant, and even Seth Gregory's chainsaw snores weren't enough to keep him awake. However, his sleep was cut short early the next morning by Blaise clamping his hand over Harry's mouth and punching him roughly in the shoulder. His yelp of pain was muffled, and Blaise shushed him with a wink. "You ran into Snape, didn't you?" Blaise whispered. "Your girlfriend was positive you'd gone off and gotten yourself killed, the way you ran out of here... Luna certainly has faith in your abilities, now, doesn't she?"

Harry sat up and pulled Blaise's hand away from his mouth. "She's just concerned, and she's not my girlfriend," he whispered back viciously. "Maybe Slytherins don't feel worried if a friend is the target of a Dark Lord, but Gryffindors do. Oh, wait — Slytherins would BE the Dark Lords, wouldn't they?" And then Harry stopped abruptly, realizing just what he'd said: Blaise and the others really were targets... and they'd all stood up to the Dark Lord, just like the Gryffindors did.

He started to apologize, but Blaise shook his head with a grin. "You're learning, Potter — if we can just teach you to get over that guilty conscience, you'll be happily insulting everyone around. Now — we're going downstairs before Weasley wakes up, and you're going to tell me everything that happened."

"And what if I don't feel like it?" Harry snapped, giving a snort of annoyance — but he rolled out of bed anyway, hissing as he bare feet slapped on the cold stone floor of the Ravenclaw dormitory. He couldn't wait to get back to the nice little carpets beside each bed in his own dormitory.

Blaise grabbed Harry's shoulder and forced him into a chair the moment they entered the Common Room. "Right then," he said, straddling a chair backwards so he could rest his chin on the chair back. "Spill. All of it. What did he say?"

It seemed useless to argue about it, but Harry certainly wasn't going to tell Blaise everything that had passed. "I ran into him in the corridor on my way to McGonagall's office. Er... I didn't tell him, Blaise. He found the journals. I, er, left them in the Infirmary the other day."

He frowned. "The Infirmary? Why were you there? Awww, did ickle Potter get a big bad paper cut?" Blaise sneered.

Harry rolled his eyes, silently cursing his forgetfulness — Blaise didn't know about Remus' presence. "I got sent on an errand there," he said. "That's not important. Anyway, I'm a stupid git and I left the journals there by accident. And he found them there, so he knew when we met in the hall. He hugged me," Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He hugged me and he told me how sorry he is, and he cursed out Dumbledore a lot. We went down to his office and had tea, and it was rather uncomfortable, since the last time I was in his office I was nearly expelled — but he kept apologizing. I never thought I'd see the day Severus Snape apologized to anyone."

"So, when will you tell Weasley?" Blaise grinned. "I can't wait to see him lose it. Do you think he'll faint, or attack you? I'll put three Galleons on his fainting -"

"Blaise," Harry snapped, "that's ridiculous. I'm not betting on Ron's reaction. I won't even know what the reaction is for ages. I'm not telling him."

The Slytherin boy's eyes seemed to pop straight from his head. "What?!" he demanded. "After all this — he apologized and everything — and you're not going to let him be what he is?!"

"No," Harry snapped, "that's not what happened! We went to see McGonagall and she said it was too dangerous to tell anybody. And you can't tell anyone either, right? She said something about me being a figurehead, and a figurehead can't be a Death Eater's son." Harry slumped against the back of the chair, pulling his knees to his chest in defeat. "I wanted to have a family, you know. Even if it was Snape. I don't even like Snape, but he's my father. Maybe he'd be terrible at it, but — but maybe I'd be able to have a birthday party when I turn eighteen. Or we could go see a film, at the Muggle cinema. Maybe he'd at least try to be a dad, but I won't get to find out, now will I?"

"Hey — don't give up yet," Blaise replied, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "She says you'll be a figurehead? Well, go kill You Know Who, and I bet you'll be able to tell whomever you want, right? That'll be soon enough."

Harry couldn't help but lose his temper at that. He snarled, grabbing Blaise's hand and shoving it away. "It's hardly that easy, is it? Sure, I could go running around in Hogsmeade until a Death Eater notices, and I'm sure I'd be taken straight to Voldemort — but that's the end. I don't know how to kill him! I can't kill him! He'll kill me, like he did James and Lily, and Hagrid, and Dumbledore, and that's it! End of the line! How can I possibly destroy something that even Dumbledore fell before?!"

Blaise grabbed his shoulders and forced him to stay in his chair. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, but he'd gone past the point of controlling his temper. "Harry, calm down. You're waking everyone up. McGonagall and Snape will find an answer, you'll see."

"They don't have a fucking clue how to win, I just talked to them last night! Did you know that the current plan is for a load of wizards to go get themselves Avada Kedavra-ed in my defense, in the hopes that enough fanaticism will equal the protection on me as a baby, so that when Voldemort casts the Killing Curse on me, it'll rebound again? What kind of a plan is that?! If they want me to go out and commit suicide, I'll go throw myself off the Astronomy Tower right now — cleaner, quicker, and then HE doesn't win over me! How's that sound, Blaise? You think I should go throw myself off the Tower?" Harry shoved Blaise back, fighting to get to his feet. In the reflection of the mirror above the Common Room fireplace, he caught sight of the two little second-year Slytherin girls, Tal and Mandie, huddling together on the stairs.

"Harry," Blaise hissed, "stop it! You know I don't want you to go out and -"

"Don't you?" Harry countered, bringing his voice as low and as calm as he could manage in his rage. "Maybe that's the reason you're the only one of your class left in Slytherin. Maybe it's your job to get close to me, and then betray me when the time's right. My parents were betrayed, you know. It was Dumbledore who did it. He lied to everyone, he made my father miserable, he knew James and Elizabeth were going to die but he didn't work to correct it! Is there a prophecy out there about what's going to happen to me? Maybe it's up in one of those journals of yours, but no one will tell me about it — does your Master know about it, Blaise? Does he know what Malfoy's eyes looked like when I found him dead in the hallway? Or Parkinson's, or Montegue's, or any of the rest?"

Blaise carefully pulled his wand out and set it aside, where Harry could see it, acting as if Harry was a dangerous criminal — or an animal. "You know that I'm not a Death Eater. I would never betray you. You're the only friend I've got, anymore."

Harry snarled again and grabbed Blaise's wrist in a bruising grip, yanking the boy a step closer. "There's only one way to tell." He twisted Blaise's wrist to keep him still — he gave a grunt of pain, but held firm — and ripped away the sleeve covering his arm.

There wasn't a Dark Mark there. There was a small scar near the inside of his elbow and a plethora of freckles. "Just because I'm a Slytherin doesn't mean I follow the Dark," Blaise whispered.

Harry stumbled back, letting go of Blaise's wrist, and crumbled to the ground. "I'm sorry," he murmured, realizing that he'd begun shaking with the sudden departure of his anger, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said — you wouldn't follow Voldemort, and you wouldn't turn me over, I'm just so — frustrated," he ground out, burying his face in his hands. It was hardly enough to cover the tears of bitterness rolling down his cheeks.

Blaise knelt down and pulled Harry into a rather awkward and less-than-manly hug. "It's alright. I don't blame you," he murmured. "Just — just don't do that again, alright? You were bloody scary — you looked just like Snape for a minute, there."

He tried to laugh, but it was too difficult to work up the energy. "Yes, that's me — mini-Snape."

"Mandie, Tal, go back upstairs," Blaise ordered over Harry's shoulder. He kept Harry in his grasp and settled on the ground. "There you go. They're gone. Nobody else down here. You're gonna be alright, Harry Potter, d'you hear me? This isn't the end of the line."

Harry nodded, trying to control his hysterics. "We're going to try. We're going to win, right?"

"Yes," Blaise murmured, "we're going to win."

They sat for a long moment, Blaise letting Harry cry onto his shoulder while he rocked slowly. Early light was streaming into the Common Room, and the others would be on their way down soon, no doubt awakened early by the commotion Harry had caused. "I'm not, you know," he finally whispered.

"Not what?" Blaise asked. He stopped his rocking and scooted back to look Harry in the eye.

"Not Harry Potter," he replied. When Blaise only frowned, Harry gave a shrug. "You said everything's going to be alright, Harry Potter'. Well, I'm not Harry Potter, not really. He told me — they were going to name me William. And they were going to get married. I'd have been William Snape. Do you — d'you think it's a good name?"

"A very good name," Blaise grinned. He stood and brushed off his flannel pyjamas before offering Harry a hand up as well, which he gladly took. "Well, Willam Snape, I think we've had enough excitement for the morning," he continued. "Besides, there's breakfast soon, and we've got to move over to the smelly old Gryffindor Tower so they can do the wards here. We should trash the place." He winked.

"Hey — that's my smelly old House you're talking about," Harry grinned back. He slung an arm over Blaise's shoulders as they trooped back up to the dormitory. "I hope you like red. There's lots of red... but not nearly as much as in McGonagall's room. We took the news there last night, and you should've seen the way the room was decorated... she has plaid sofas..."

~

"And McGonagall's pad was worse?" Seth demanded, glaring around at the Gryffindor Common Room in disgust, his journals tucked under his arm. The story had spread quickly, starting with an encore from Harry at breakfast, and with continued elaborations long into the evening. By the time the group left the library to move into the Gryffindor dormitories, Norah Roberts had been heard explaining to Percy that McGonagall's fireplace was fuzzy gold and burned tartan flames. However, the arrival at the dormitories ended their diversions. The first- and second-year Slytherins had gone back to huddling together when presented with the hostile territory that would be their temporary home. Blaise seemed to think the whole situation was amusing, Harry was annoyed to note, while Ron was following Matthew Eck, fourth-year Slytherin, around, making sure he didn't hex anything.

"The Hufflepuff dormitory would've been a more diplomatic choice," Ginny murmured to Harry.

"More diplomatic, maybe — but some of the poor sods might end up living in here, if some classmates don't come back. I know Seamus' parents were just about ready to pull him at the end of last year..." Harry shrugged and trailed off, before turning and slapping Blaise's shoulder. "Look on the bright side, mate — at least Ron's brothers graduated two years ago. You'd be in real trouble if they were still around."

Blaise sneered. "Yeah. Real trouble. Good Lord, is the loo tiled in red?" he demanded, ducking into a side room.

Harry couldn't help laughing. "Not all in red, Zabini, you exaggerate. Hey, Seth, that's my chair — go find your own." He crossed the room to nudge the blonde Slytherin. "I claimed that chair last year, I'll have you know."

"Finders, keepers," Seth replied, kicking his feet up on the table nearest the overstuffed chair. "It's all yours after I'm in a new dorm next term. Although... if I end up in this place, I think I might just claim it for mine. It's rather nice. Right in front of the fire."

"Best seat in the Common Room," Harry replied, unable to keep down his grin. It was nice to be home. The faded tapestries seemed twice as lovely after the time away. "We've probably been put back in my dormitory. It's at the top of those stairs," he pointed. "But you'd better watch this chair. I'll steal it back on the first opportunity, you know." Seth hmphed' and snapped a journal open, though he smirked at Harry the whole time; Harry crossed the room again to rejoin Blaise and Luna. "Ready to see your new home for the next week? I bet the Slytherins didn't have round dormitories."

"Er, Harry," Luna cut in. She hadn't quite forgiven him for running off the night before, but at least she was still talking to him. "Ron said he'd like a word. If you're not too busy."

Harry spared a glance for Blaise, who shrugged. "I can check out the room on my own, Potter. I'll probably be dragged down to wherever the first-years are sleeping, after that. I'm sure Marin or Julienne will be aching to gripe about being stuck in here."

He hadn't noticed the others filing out of the room, up their respective staircases. "Right, then — I'll be up in a few." Harry saw Ron standing nervously next to a window niche, his arms crossed and foot scuffing against the floor. "Oi, Ron! What's wrong?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving to join his best friend as Blaise and Luna left the Common Room, followed by Ginny. "Are you alright?"

Ron grimaced, shifting his feet. His ears slowly turned bright red, a sure sign he was embarrassed by something. "Er — Harry... you're not — you're not leading Ginny on, are you?"

Harry blinked. "What? Erm... Ron, I don't think I'm comfortable discussing my relationship to your sister with you. I mean, I promise we haven't done anything — especially since she's still dating Dean and she's informed me she's not at all interested in me, but it's really none of your business -"

"No," Ron snapped, "That's not what I meant. Well," he corrected, shifting his feet again nervously, "it's sort of what I meant. Well, er, what I meant was — Harry are you... umm... are you, uh, playing for the other team?"

Once again, Harry blinked slowly, praying silently for some sort of comprehension. It didn't come. "Ron, I've not a bloody clue what you're talking about."

Ron gave a significant look over at Seth, who was the only other person in the Common Room, and lowered his voice. "What I mean is.... by asking about Ginny, I just meant..." He cleared his throat, flush rising to his cheeks, and looked away as if unable to meet Harry's eye? "Areyougay?" he muttered, almost incomprehensibly.

Harry spluttered. Then he gaped a little, totally unable to answer due to shock over the question. "What?" he demanded. "What are you talking about? Why would you think that?"

"Well, I -" He cleared his throat again, scuffing at non-existant dust on the floor. "I came downstairs this morning, and you and Zabini were, er, hugging in the Common Room, and I thought maybe — well, you know — maybe you were, er, seduced by the Dark Side or something. And — and maybe that would explain why you'd been ignoring me and Ginny lately. She's not very happy, you know." Neither was Ron, his glare showed.

"I'm certainly not gay!" Harry squeaked, blushing even as he thought about it. "I just had a really tough time yesterday — I kinda lost my temper and started yelling at Blaise, but he helped me calm down. And then I -" He dropped his gaze, too embarrassed to look at his friend. "I started crying. It was stupid. I'm just a little overwhelmed, is all, and Blaise let me cry on his shoulder. I needed it."

Ron sighed, prompting Harry to glance up and meet his gaze. "You could've used my shoulder, you know," he muttered softly. "You used to tell me everything that was going on."

"I can't tell you this," Harry said truthfully, hoping Ron could understand. "McGonagall told me I'd be in grave danger if I told anyone."

"But Blaise knows," Ron snapped, glaring again. "You've been hanging with him 24/7. I know I haven't been the best possible friend the past term, because of Quidditch, and bloody Hermione and that stupid wanker, but I'm done mooning over her, now. I promise. We can go hang out again, just like it used to be."

Harry shook his head, leaning against the edge of the niche with a low sigh. "You're still the only one who knows about Remus. And Ginny, of course. I can't tell Blaise that, and I can't share this with you. But right now — right now, I really need Blaise's help, because he knows and I can't un-tell him. This is big, Ron. I wish you could understand how big."

"I understand big!" Ron protested. "Why can't you trust me? Damn, Harry, you know all of my secrets already! I thought we were best friends!"

"We still can be," Harry replied, "but you just have to understand that there are a few things I can't tell you, and this is one of them."

Ron shook his head. "No. Maybe I sound like a childish brat, but this is more than just a fear of mistrust. Someday you'll have to go out there and face off with You Know Who. When you walk out there, someone will have to be your second, you know. Who do you want your second to be, Harry? Me or him? Who would you trust to be your Secret Keeper?"

Harry shook his head. "You're different kinds of friends. He's a friend because I'm all he's got left. He'll fight for our side proudly, because of what he's seen. I've seen it too. All the dead... you're lucky you've been spared it, but it's still something I can't share with you because you've never waded through someone's blood. You've not lost a parent. You haven't stared evil in the face. Thank God you haven't — but it means I can't share it with you, because you can't understand it."

Without a word, Ron turned and stormed up the stairs, face a burnished red. From the chair beside the fire, Harry heard Seth turn a page. "You've messed up royally, mate," the Slytherin called.

"Oh, bugger off," Harry snapped. He turned to follow Ron up the stairs — but instead, he ended up perching on the benches in the niche, waiting for Ron to have ample time to calm down. He had been neglecting Ron in the past days — but every word he'd said was true. He and Blaise shared things that Ron would never experience, God willing. He curled up on the bench and stared out the window pensively. He'd made a fine mess of things indeed — and to make matters worse, it was Christmas Eve. What would Christmas be without Ron? He doubted Ron would forgive him any time soon.