"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."
Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."
-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
*
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never has been, never will be.
A/N: My deepest apologies for the delay: I can only say that I am truly pathetic … and, more importantly, that the inspirational Muse for this tale was on sabbatical. But wait! I have more to apologize for. In all truth, this is only half of the planned material for this chapter. It became too long … and I haven't yet finished the second half. Therefore, despite the promise I made that action would appear in this chapter, it is being put off until the next one. Again.
My sole excuse is that the inspiration for scenes involving action comes to me rather infrequently, and anything I try to write when I don't want to write it is of exceedingly poor quality. In short: it sucks.
So, I hope that this chapter will content you all until the promised material comes. Hopefully, that will be soon, as I have finally figured out some complicated plot points.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"You don't believe this! Wouldn't Sirius have told you they'd changed the plan?"
"Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter," said Lupin. "I assume that's why you didn't tell me, Sirius?" he said casually over Pettigrews head.
"Forgive me, Remus," said Black.
"Not at all, Padfoot, old friend," said Lupin…
~ Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black, in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
* * * * *
Secure in his animagus form, Sirius trotted through the stone halls of Hogwarts, heading purposefully for the library. It had been quite a struggle to overcome the temptation to listen at the infirmary door, but morality, honor, right, and what-James-would-do-in-this-case had triumphed. True, if Harry did not see fit to share whatever it was that Dumbledore said with his godfather, Sirius probably would be completely miserable for days, but such were the risks of being a parent …
Only, of course, he wasn't Harry's sole parental figure any more. That thought was enough to elicit a happy bark from him, and his sedate stride turned into a series of exuberant, puppy-like bounces. James is alive!
Sure, there were many difficulties ahead, but fate could not possibly be so cruel as to kill off his best friend and unofficially adopted brother again. Still filled with a subdued jubilation, Padfoot nosed the heavy door of the library open. If only he could get Remus to believe too, then everything would be perfect. Nobody could withstand the combined force of the three Marauders and Harry Potter. Dumbledore would be made to believe, someone would figure out a way to get those spells off of James, and the world would be well again.
Firmly, Sirius expunged from his mind all thoughts of Voldemort's vengeance, the things Harry and James were obviously hiding, his own failures, the war ahead, and James' tenuous grasp on sanity and idiotic determination to abide by Dumbledore's decisions. It was like Remus said: if you focus only on the unpleasant aspects of life, you'll end up driving yourself mad.
Of course, that had been when Remus was twelve years old, and he'd been referring specifically to his lycanthropy, but surely the saying still held true.
Inside the library, he found Remus sitting on the floor in the Restricted Section, surrounded by neat stacks of old tomes. Remus was hunched over a musty volume, scowling in concentration, looking dusty and tired. He glanced up as Sirius padded around the corner, and concern overspread his thin face. "Padfoot? What is it?"
Sirius took a quick look around to verify that the library was empty of unwanted company, then transformed back into himself and dropped down on the floor, casually shoving a few books out of the way. The stack tottered for a moment, then tumbled over gracelessly. "The Headmaster wanted to talk to Harry, so he sent me up here to tell you what's going on."
Some of his half-repressed happiness must have come through in his voice, because Remus gave him a sharp, puzzled look, and closed the book. "What? Is it … good news?" Hope tinged his tired voice, and Sirius suddenly broke into a wide grin, thrilled at the thought of the good news he could impart.
"It's James. It really is. The Headmaster has agreed that he almost certainly is – hell, even Snape agrees – and –"
Remus interrupted, disbelief warring with hope in his voice. "Are you sure? Truly? What did he say, exactly? What does Snape have to do with it? How can he be sure it's James when we haven't even found this spell yet? What about all those dark spells on him? What about –"
Sirius waved a dismissive hand. "You can ask the Headmaster for the details. Snape brought back news that seems to confirm that the Death Eaters weren't the ones who broke into the cemetery, which means that it has to be James."
"I don't see how that's a logical conclu –"
"Of course it is!"
" – because if the Death Eaters suspect Severus, and Albus has hinted that they do, they would give him inaccurate information in hopes that we will become incautious, allowing them to set off whatever traps they've planned –"
Sirius broke in, irritated with the hard, reasonable tone Remus was speaking in. "Dumbledore's sure – or almost sure. And I'm sure. Moony, I spoke with him –"
"What?!" Remus leapt to his feet in consternation, though the heavy books anchoring down his robe turned the jump into an awkward lurch. "You did what? I can't believe it, Sirius! What kind of an irresponsible, stupid thing to do was that? Albus made us promise not to try to talk with him until we knew it was safe! You could have been killed, he could have gotten out – anything could have happened! You broke your promise … I can't believe you did that." As if exhausted, he dropped back down among the books, staring at Sirius in accusation. Guiltily, Sirius stared at the floor. Then Remus's hushed voice broke the uncomfortable silence again. "What – what did he say?"
Relieved, Sirius looked up again. Moony might be an insufferably logical and cautious prat who, despite his uplifting philosophy at twelve years of age, had manged to become a confirmed pessimist in his adulthood, but at least he wanted to hear the truth. "We didn't talk very long – but it was long enough to convince me. It's James, without a doubt. Prongs is back. I think he's hurting and unhappy and let's say that the past fourteen years haven't been very pleasant for him, but it's still him. He … well, he acted a bit odd when we got off onto the subject of Lily, but that's understandable. He asked about Harry, and about Wormtail, damn him, and …" A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he added wonderingly, "and even though I told him what happened, what a fool I was to make him switch Secret Keepers, he still got upset when he heard I'd been in Azkaban. He was just like himself."
Remus listened, wide-eyed, and Sirius correctly interpreted the expression on his face to mean that good old rule-abiding Moony wished he had broken his promise and gone down there too. "Did he say anything about what happened?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes - after a while. I asked, and he said he didn't really die, but then he wanted to know what … what happened that night." Sirius coughed to hide the sudden catch in his voice and went on as lightly as he could. "He didn't want to talk about what happened to him, though he did give a brief account of that night. He said … oh." Sirius frowned, chagrined. "I forgot to tell Dumbledore about this. I suppose there's no hurry." He launched into a condensed version of the conversation, and Remus listened avidly, suspicion slowly fading from his face. Sirius finished with a resentful account of Snape's interruption, then, remembering James's parting words, slowly added, "James … while Dumbledore was dragging me out … wanted me not to come back until we figured out what the problems were. That's very like him, isn't it? Annoying over-protective selfless git."
Remus's mouth twitched briefly into a smile. "Well … yes." He hesitated, then added, "So … Dumbledore thinks it might be true? What about those spells, then?"
"I don't know." Sirius shrugged dismissively. "The point is that it's James. Moony, even the Marauder's Map says it's James! Don't worry about the bloody spells. It will all work out. You'll see."
The smile faded, and Remus frowned down at the book in his hands. "I know what the Map said. We've already realized it isn't an imitation. However, that isn't the point. We don't know if it's his … well, his mind. His 'soul,' if you will."
"Of course it is," Sirius growled, thoroughly incensed by Remus's stubbornness. "I've talked with him, damn it! I know it's him. Why won't you just believe me?"
Remus sighed. "Sirius … I hate to repeat clichés, but doesn't the expression "too good to be true" mean anything to you? Telling me that you know it's him just isn't a very persuasive argument." Remus paused, ignoring Sirius's silent indignation, then looked up, eagerness struggling to break through the shield of caution on his face. "Did he – did he say anything about me?"
Sirius cleared his throat, fidgeting, and looked away. "Well … er … actually, he gave me a message for you. Would have been longer if we'd had more time. He said … er … he said to tell you he's sorry – sorry for suspecting you. He said it was stupid of him to think that, and he was very happy to hear you were well. He'd thought you were dead for years."
Sirius glanced up awkwardly, then froze in bewilderment to see Remus's face setting in a sort of hurt realization, a deeply betrayed look that Sirius couldn't remember seeing since … well, not since that stupid, stupid, stupid prank he had played in sixth year when he had sent Severus Snape to the Whomping Willow.
The expression vanished as soon as Sirius raised his head, but a dull pain lingered on in Remus's eyes. "So," Remus said flatly, staring somewhere beyond Sirius's shoulder. "He did think I was the spy."
Horrified and penitent, Sirius flung himself into a torrent of apologies and excuses. "I didn't mean that – I – Listen. It was my fault, Moony – I don't think he ever really believed it, it was just that he's always felt so sorry for that damned Pettigrew – he wouldn't even blame him now – and I'm sure he feels very bad about it – but he only believed it because I said it, and he trusted you, really – and –"
Remus slowly turned his wounded gaze back toward Sirius. "And why," he asked softly, "did you think it was me, Sirius?"
The words lay between them like a gaping chasm. Since the quick forgiveness in the Shrieking Shack that night over a year ago, the issue had never been mentioned. Sirius had thought – had hoped – that Remus understood, that he didn't dwell on the issue, that it hadn't hurt him, that it would never be brought up again.
He had been wrong.
Shame burned in his throat, but he forced himself to keep his gaze steady. "Because I was an idiot?" he hazarded, pleading bitterly.
"Because I'm a werewolf."
No question – just a statement of fact. And that it was an accurate statement didn't help matters. Sirius swallowed hard. "I … it was … we knew that Voldemort was trying to recruit all the Dark Creatures, and –"
"I see." Remus looked down, reopened the book on his lap.
"No, listen, that's not all there was to it –" Sirius protested, genuinely distressed. "Remus –"
"We can talk about it later." Remus's voice sounded as hard and brittle as ice, and the set of his shoulders really did suggest that he wanted to drop the subject, but Sirius was not about to leave it on such a note.
"It wasn't that we didn't trust you, we thought you might be under the Imperius or –"
"I don't want to hear it, Sirius." Remus rose to his feet again, tucking the volume under his arm. "If you'll be so good as to excuse me, I must go and show this to Professor Flitwick. If it really is James, as you say – though I think we both realize that you're not an objective judge – then we need to figure out the spells quickly. I'm sure Harry needs you." Without another word, he turned and strode away.
Sirius remained slumped against the bookcase for a long time, staring sightlessly at the piles of tomes around himself. All his previous euphoria had drained away, leaving a pervasive sense of guilt and depression in its place. For several minutes, he sat resting his head in his hands. Then he rose decisively and strode toward the doors of the library, remembering only at the last minute to transform into Padfoot. He could wallow in guilt about his inane, stupid, clumsy, unkind handling of the situation later. Remus was right, as usual. Harry might well need him. Harry might be feeling very low and miserable, if Dumbledore's grave face had been anything to judge by. Even if Harry's real father was back to take his rightful place (or would be soon), Sirius still had a duty to be there when his godson wanted him.
Besides, he could do with a little comforting himself. It would be nice to be around someone who wasn't making him feel like an absolute rotter … at least, not more of one than usual.
Merlin's beard! What would it take to get Remus to believe it was James?
He slid softly into the infirmary, from which both Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore were blessedly absent, and paced toward Harry's bed. It was empty. Padfoot quested toward the infirmary toilet, but quickly emerged from it with a grave face and an unwagging tail. For a moment, he hesitated on the cold tiles beside Harry's unoccupied cot, then, decisively, ran out the infirmary door and down the hall, heading for the stairs to the dungeons.
* * * * *
Lord Voldemort had moved his headquarters. Obviously, it would have been quite unsafe to remain in the house to which he had brought the Potters, as one or both of them might be able to find it again. But he did regret the spacious mansion … the small cottage he currently inhabited was a far cry from the splendor in which Salazar Slytherin's Heir should live.
And the place was infested with cats. Small cats, large cats, medium-sized cats, and tiny kittens with enormous eyes. They swarmed everywhere. In the past twelve hours, he had had to forcibly remove cats from his chair by the fireside five times, and they did not seem to be taking the hint very quickly. But they would learn. Two of their number had already died for setting paw on Lord Voldemort's poor substitute for a throne, and the others would soon grow wary of it. He might have simply killed them all at once and been done with it, but Nagini, once Lucius brought her, would doubtless enjoy chasing them, and he was reluctant to deny his pet a bit of welcome sport.
Besides which, there was something remarkably soothing about kicking a small, furry creature.
The tabby which had unfortunately crossed Voldemort's path emitted a yowl of pain as his booted foot connected with its small ribcage. It skidded across the flagged floor of the kitchen, rebounded off a wall, and dived under the stove with a Quidditch Seeker's reflexes. Voldemort stalked on, his black robes swishing around him. As he entered the cottage's absurdly small parlor (not nearly magnificent enough for the Dark Lord, though the black-and-silver carpet added a much-needed ambiance), he saw a gray tail vanish quickly behind his chair. Good. They were learning already. A quick spell removed all cat-hairs from the upholstered seat, and he sat down, staring into the fire through slitted eyes.
His new base – absurdly inadequate in spite of the roomy grounds about it and its many convenient, twisting passages – was only a small part of his current irritation. Only a short while after Lucius had left, he had decided to try out his new spell. And now it was an effort to keep himself from shattering every window in the cottage in a fit of rage – more at himself than at anyone else.
If only he had been faster!
Severus had been there. He had been there, looking uncomfortable and sullen, but not really surprised. Had he only just found out? Or had he known all along? Half an hour earlier … five minutes earlier, and Voldemort might have found him out, might have found concrete prove either of his innocence or his guilt. Was he a traitor, or was he not? That look which old Dumbledore had give him … what could that mean? Did Dumbledore suspect his Potions Master? Or were Voldemort's suspicions that dear Severus was a double agent actually correct? Whatever Lucius might say, Severus was hiding something, and he fairly radiated untrustworthiness. Nagini, too, had smelt it. Fear was common enough, but Severus …
Time would tell. If he brought back news of that little gathering, it meant that he could still be trusted.
Somewhat.
Other than that frustration, Voldemort felt that his brief look through James's eyes had been a success. It was highly disorienting, as had been expected, but he had had no difficulty initiating or terminating the contact. Dumbledore and his pathetic cronies were having no luck removing the spells; that, too, was good. They seemed to be accepting that James was James – which, hopefully, meant that he would soon be admitted to their secret councils and be informed of their plans.
Voldemort rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and gazed thoughtfully at his fintertips. James still seemed quite attached to that inconvenient pup Sirius Black … a violent and rash young man, but one whose reckless plans had an annoying tendency to work. He had been a thorn in the Dark Lord's side often enough in the glorious days before … October 31st, 1981. Azkaban seemed to have worked some change on Black, but it was too early yet to say whether the change was good or ill.
Briefly, Voldemort toyed with the idea of having the Ministry informed that Black was hiding at Hogwarts. But, satisfying as it might be, there were too many objections to it. For one, the Ministry might have more difficulty shutting their eyes to his return if they could no longer blame his actions on Black, and he was not quite ready for their attention, not yet.
Well. Enough thought for the moment. Perhaps another jaunt over to Hogwarts were prove more informative than the last. Like enough James was sleeping, but who could say?
* * *
He was awake. Awake, pacing unsteadily, and quite alone. That was highly disappointing, but one didn't become the terror of the wizarding rule by being impatient. Voldemort could afford a wait.
When in Hogwarts, he had once been told that patience was always rewarded. That little axiom did fail occasionally, but this was one of the cases where it proved true. James had paced back and forth across the room only sixteen times before the door swung open and admitted Harry Potter.
Perfect, thought the Dark Lord.
James stopped dead in the center of the room, and Harry Potter slipped around the edge of the door, glanced over his shoulder nervously, shut the door, and directed a brilliant smile toward his father. "Hullo, Dad," he said.
"Harry, what are you doing here?" James demanded, his voice rising in alarm. "It's dangerous! You shouldn't be here!"
The boy's smile vanished instantly, and distress filled his face. "Dad?"
"There are dark spells on me." James gesticulated wildly, taking a step back. "They don't know what they are and they can't get them off. What if Voldemort did something that makes me hurt you? You've got to stay away until they're sure it's safe!"
Chivalrous Gryffindor fool.
Angry color flared in the boy's cheeks. "That's a lot of rot. You're not going to hurt me, and – and I jolly well deserve to be able to talk to you!"
James's arms dropped to his side. "Harry …" His voice sounded defeated and helpless, and the boy's anger drained away.
"I – I won't stay long, then, but … Headmaster Dumbledore said they're going to put a guard on the door right away, and I may not have another chance for a long time, and … I just … I need to talk to you. We've hardly had any time … everything's just happened so fast …"
How touching. It seems I am to witness a pathetically emotional father-son bonding moment. I do hope the nausea will not be too strong.
"Er …" Harry went on, now shifting his weight from foot to foot with an embarrassed expression, "can I … er … I mean, I know it sounds silly, but I haven't, er, really touched you yet, you know, and, er, it's just that it doesn't quite seem real yet, you know? And, so, I meant –"
An instant, later, he had his arms around James's neck and was in turn being subjected to a very tight embrace.
So much for the vaunted "I'm dangerous; go away" warning. Gryffindors!
"I just can hardly believe you're alive," James whispered, his voice rasping as if he was close to tears. "All this time, I've thought you were dead, that everyone was dead, that I'd failed and that I was all alone …"
"There's me and Professor Lupin and Sirius," Harry said comfortingly.
Miles away, a Dark Lord rolled his eyes in scorn.
"I know." James pushed Harry back, holding him at arms-length and blinking through a sheen of tears. "I'm – Merlin! I'm not usually this weepy, Harry, I swear. I'm going to blame it on exhaustion and this bloody awful headache I've got. Are you all right? Did anything happen after I passed out? I'm really sorry for that, you know, I didn't mean to leave you alone. But you got here all right, didn't you? Your burns were taken care of?"
"I'm fine." The boy's face suddenly reflected a troubled doubt, and he added slowly, "I was just talking to Dumbledore – he's starting to think you're really you, now, and Sirius is sure that you are, which is really good, and I'm sure he'll be able to convince Professor Lupin, so everything will be all right. But while I was talking to Dumbledore, he said – well, he knows about the prophecy."
Patience is always rewarded? Perhaps it's true after all. This sounds useful.
"He knows?" James demanded, sounding rightly incredulous. "How can he possibly know?"
"Well … he says it's a real prophecy." Harry's eyes, behind those ridiculous spectacles, were full of pain. "He says Professor Trelawney said the same stuff about thirty years ago, and if she said it when that crazy lady in … uh … Bavaria, or wherever, said it, then there's got to be something to it, hasn't there? I mean, Trelawney did make another real prediction once. It came true. It was my fault, too."
I sense guilt. I wonder …
"Harry, I'm sure it wasn't your –"
"Dumbledore says when he figured out that Voldemort knew about the prophecy and was going after people who were descended from Slytherin, like the, uh, the McKinnons and the Prewetts, he did some research himself and found out that the only not-pureblooded descendents left were us, the Potters."
What in Slytherin's name is this supposed to mean? Does the damn old fool know the truth?
"What?!" James cried. "You mean Dumbledore knows?"
"No, no, he doesn't. Not what you think he does. That was what I thought, but what he knows is something totally different. I don't understand it, but I think what he meant was that … uh … your, er, mother was descended from Slytherin. Only he says she wasn't really. That's the part I don't understand, because he was talking about being at school with my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, or something, and said she, er … well, he said something like her son wasn't actually her husband's son, only Voldemort didn't know that."
What?
"What?" James lifted a hand, rubbing at his forehead. "Slow down, please, Harry. I have a frightful headache and, well, you're not making a lot of sense."
"Dumbledore doesn't know about, er, who your mother married," Harry mumbled. "He thinks she really married a Muggle called Potter, and that's the reason why you're, er, a halfblood. He thinks that Voldemort thinks that your mother had Slytherin blood, only she didn't really, and Dumbledore knows that because he knows that, er …"
"That my grandfather was a bastard?" James asked dryly.
"Well … yeah."
Oh, indeed. I can see that I have some research to do. Hopefully whoever my dear grandmother-in-law chose to dally with was at least a pureblood. I suppose I have only myself to blame. Can one really expect a family like that to hold to their wedding vows?
"I see. I think. So … Dumbledore's got it all wrong."
"Does he?" The boy looked up, his expression pathetically hopeful. "You don't think that maybe Voldemort was lying, and Dumbledore's actually got it right, and we're not really at all related to Slytherin?"
"I hadn't thought of that."
No need to think of it now. You're too smart to grasp at something you know is a lie, boy.
"I … Harry, I'd like nothing more than to believe that, but … I … I'm not just believing it because he told me. I think it's true. We are what we are, and wishful thinking isn't going to do any more to change a bad situation than hexing a Slytherin improves his temperament, as Remus once told me. Though he was actually referring to his own situation, which is really worse than ours, if you think about it, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Harry said gloomily.
The poor boy looks quite crushed. My heart bleeds for him... the foolish brat.
"Harry," James said gravely, "just because we have an ancestor of questionable character doesn't mean that we've inherited some kind of taint. You are who you are, and knowing more about your family isn't going to change that." Harry stared up at him uncertainly. "I'd add 'You're a good person and don't ever doubt that,'" James went on wryly, "but seeing how brief our acquaintance has been, I'm not sure you'd consider it a meaningful remark."
"Well …" Harry hesitated, gnawing on his lip.
Déjà vu, as the uncultured say. I recollect having that habit as a child 'Tis truly a very foolish-looking mannerism … I shall have to break him of that at some point … "You are who you are," forsooth. I think my son has lost his ability to make inspirational speeches.
"If that's true," the boy went on slowly, "then … do you think everybody would believe that?"
Not everyone is as naïve as your father, boy.
"I mean," he hurried on, "couldn't we – do you think – well, I … what do you think they'll all think if we told them about it? Not the whole world, I just mean our friends … like Sirius. Sirius wouldn't think any differently about us if he knew, would he?"
Don't count on it, grandson mine. You'd be surprised to learn how judgemental your precious godfather truly is.
James dropped his hands away from the boy's shoulders and stared at the ground. "I don't know, Harry. I've wondered that for years, but I just don't know."
"He doesn't think worse of Professor Lupin for being a werewolf," the boy pushed on eagerly. "This isn't any worse, you said. It's not our fault what or who we are, is it?"
Not Pettigrew's fault he was born a coward, is it? Hasn't stopped Black from hating him for his weakness. Go on, boy, tell him, and watch him turn against you.
"Of course not," James sighed, "but Sirius … he – he gets so upset over things. I mean, he used to get so upset over things. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if I told him as soon as I found out, but I'm afraid it's too late now." James crossed slowly to the bed and sat down, rubbing absently at his head. "He'll be upset I hid it from him. He'll … I'm afraid he won't trust me – us – as much if he knows. He accepted Remus for what he was, though … well, it took him a little while, because he … Remus had lied to us all a fair bit, you know, and that is something Sirius has a hard time forgiving, I'm afraid. He got over it, and he didn't care about the lycanthropy, but … but when the war came, he … well, I can't say that, because I did it too, like a bloody fool, but we both instantly thought Remus must be the spy because of what he was."
"You did?" Harry asked doubtfully, remaining stationary in the center of the room.
"We were young and foolish and upset," James sighed. "I'm heartily ashamed of myself when I think about it now. I hope it doesn't bother Remus too much. But … well … I don't want to hurt Sirius any more, Harry. Peter has already betrayed us. How will he feel if he knows it was my fault that he went through that hell in Azkaban?"
"How is it your fault?" Harry demanded.
"Because … because it was me that Voldemort was after. It was because I told him no that he went after my friends. I should never have asked Sirius to be my Secret Keeper. I didn't have the right to drag him into my mess, my mistakes. I didn't have the right to drag anyone in. I should never have married Lily. I should never have –"
"Dad!"
That doesn't sound entirely like guilt speaking. Did the spell unhinge his mind more than I thought it did? This may be a problem.
"I'm sorry."
"Well … but … Dumbledore would understand, wouldn't he? He doesn't have a temper."
"That's true enough, but … we can't trust him to keep it secret either, Harry. He has the whole school to think of, the whole wizarding world. He has to do what's best for everyone, and at the moment, I'm not entirely sure that keeping me here is safe or wise." Harry scowled, but James went on. "I'm not asking you to keep quiet if you don't want to, Harry, but I … I'm afraid of what might happen if we tell anyone." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, much to the hidden watcher's annoyance. "Harry … I trust Dumbledore, but he always does what he thinks is best, and sometimes he risks things which he has no right to risk. People's lives. I'm afraid of what he might do if he knew."
Harry stared at the floor and said nothing.
James went on after a moment, his voice weary and strained. "After my mother told me the truth, I – I thought about telling my friends – Sirius, Remus, Peter … and … and Lily. But it didn't seem to matter, and I didn't see any reason to give them something to worry about. I didn't think it would ever matter – I thought the knowledge would die with me, and no one would ever be affected by it. I was wrong. But now –" He swallowed convulsively. "I have so little left, Harry. I don't want to risk losing anyone."
The boy shuffled his feet. "I think I know what you mean," he said quietly, and elaborated no further.
James sighed and ran both hands through his hair. "I don't know what we should do. I just don't know. I can't think clearly about it, not anymore. I – I just want to forget it!" he burst out in sudden fury, startling all listeners. "I don't want them to always look at me – at us – as if they're wondering if we should have been in Slytherin, if we'll join him, if we'll try to become him, God forbid!"
"I don't think they'd do that, would they?" Harry asked hesitantly.
James shook his head. "I don't know. I don't believe they would, but … the more people who know, the more likely that the whole world will find out. I just … I hate hiding it, but how can I risk not hiding it?" He sounded almost as if he were trying to convince himself rather than his son.
Harry shuffled his feet again, looking for all the world as if it were his purpose to wear a hole in the carpet. "That's what I think, too."
James nodded slowly, then murmured in a suddenly hopeful voice, "Remus … we could probably tell Remus! He's better at keeping secrets than anyone else I know, and he never judges superficially. At least, I've never known him to do so."
"I'm not sure whether Professor Lupin believes you're not a trick of Voldemort's," Harry said doubtfully, "but Sirius can bring him around."
"Yes," James whispered, almost as if he hadn't heard Harry, "I think perhaps we can tell Remus."
So Black isn't the favorite after all. Interesting. It is a pity I never could get the werewolf to join me. He would have been a priceless addition to my army … incredibly talented, that one, but as inflexible as adamant. Even Black would be easier to sway.
"Maybe not yet," Harry demurred, eyeing his father anxiously. "I don't know if he really thinks you're you yet."
James blinked. "Oh. But I thought you said Dumbledore … why wouldn't Remus believe it?"
"Well, Dumbledore believes it because –"
The door banged open. Harry leapt into the air like a startled insect and spun around, grabbing for his wand.
Damn. Just when it seemed something really important was going to be said.
Sirius Black stood in the doorway, arms folded and expression stern.
It would be him. Always blundering onto the scene and foiling my plans through sheer luck. Someday, jail-crow, your luck will run out, and you will find a Dementor's Kiss waiting for you.
"Oh. Hullo, Sirius," the boy said weakly.
Black squeezed his eyes shut, looking unutterably weary. "Harry … don't you ever listen to reason?"
"Not if he takes after me," James interjected.
"Do you want Dumbledore to lock you up?" Black went on irascibly. "I'm sorry, James, I was up in the library and I didn't know he'd left the infirmary …"
"Why's he in the infirmary? Is he sick?"
"No, no, it's just a convenient location … er …" Black fidgeted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Look here, if you want to talk longer, I'll stand outside the door and knock when someone comes, all right?"
"No," James said quickly. "Dumbledore was right. It is dangerous. You should both go."
"I don't want to go!" Harry protested. "Sirius –"
"Besides, you'll catch your death of cold running around half-dressed like that," James added. "What is that ridiculous thing you're wearing?"
I was wondering that myself.
"Infirmary robes," the boy muttered, turning an unusual shade of pink.
"They've gotten worse since our time," Black explained helpfully, then put out a hand. "Come on, Harry. We'd better clear out before someone comes along and gets genuinely angry at us."
"I'm coming," the boy muttered. "But I'll be back," he added firmly, meeting James's eyes. "Just as soon as I can. Because you're not going to stay here forever. They'll figure out how to get those spells off any minute now."
"Thank you," James said softly. "Take care, and don't do anything rash, Harry. I'm not sure I could handle it if anything were to happen to you. That goes for you too, Padfoot," he added sternly over his son's shoulder. "Don't pull any silly tricks."
"Your accusations wound me," Black informed him. "When have I ever pulled any silly tricks?"
"Do you want a list, or are you just in the market for derisive laughter?"
The boy looked bewildered yet delighted, glancing back and forth between his father and godfather with an expression suggesting his wildest dreams had somehow come true.
Throw in his mudblood mother, and his wildest dream probably would be true. Enjoy it while you can, brat – and either say something informative or clear out. There is a limit to how much of this revolting display of affection I can handle.
Thankfully, Black seemed to hear something at that moment, for he started and glanced over his shoulder. "Someone's coming. Hurry, Harry, we'd better get out. Good-bye, Prongs, and try not to let boredom overwhelm you. I'll see if Dumbledore will send you some books – how's that?"
"That would be wonderful. But your idea of fascinating reading is The Beater's Bible, so why don't you let Remus pick the books out?"
A shadow instantly dropped over Black's face.
Been quarreling, have they? I'll have to remember that.
"I'll see what I can do," Black said shortly, then forced a smile onto his face. "See you later, James."
"Take care, Dad," the boy added.
"Be careful," James called after them as the door swung shut.
He slumped forward, pressing his hands against his eyes. "Damn," he mumbled, his words barely audible in the quiet room. "Bloody damnation. You'd think fourteen years in hell would entitle a fellow to a few hours to spend with his son and friends, wouldn't you?" Abruptly, he laughed, a running, gasping, sobbing chuckle that teetered upon the line between amusement and insanity. "So much for the famed Marauder ability to spout off apt one-liners for every situation. If I never see them again, I somehow doubt that be careful are going to be very comforting last words," he whispered. "But is it even safe to tell someone you love them?"
"… Not that it made any difference for Lily … Lily … oh, this damned bloody headache!"
* * * * *
Lucius Malfoy stood knocking at the door of the Dark Lord's temporary base, whimsically dubbed "Merlock Cottage" by its illustrious tenant, for almost an hour before Voldemort appeared to grant him entry. The Dark Lord seemed unusually thoughtful and withdrawn, though he did thank Lucius courteously for bringing the great snake Nagini to him. More than glad to be rid of her, Lucius almost felt pity for the feline occupants of the cottage who would soon become her prey.
"I seem to remember," Voldemort began as soon as they were settled in the cottage's single, woefully inadequate parlor, "that you and Arthur Weasley have … hmm … something of a rivalry between you."
Lucius flicked a dismissive hand. "A rivalry, my Lord?" he drawled. "Hardly that. I would scarce condescend to consider that Muggle-loving, povery-stricken fool as a rival in anything. Certainly I dislike the man, and I believe he quite loathes me, but there is nothing resembling competition between us."
The Dark Lord smiled maliciously. "Perhaps not. I believe it was different when you were at Hogwarts, though. Quidditch, marks, the House Cup … were you not acknowledged rivals for the position of Head Boy?"
Lucius inclined his head coolly. "We were in the same year, yes, my Lord."
"And Weasley – if I recollect rightly – was Head Boy for your year."
"Yes," Lucius answered through gritted teeth.
"A promising boy, was he not? Pity he threw all his advantages away for his fondness for Muggles … and his ridiculously large family. Though there was a time when you did not view his throng of children with such scorn … your only son is the same age as his youngest, I believe?"
"Yes," Lucius said again, and forced himself to smile. "They quite detest each other."
"Natural enough. 'Tis a shame it took you so long to produce an heir, Lucius. If the boy had already finished Hogwarts, he could be quite useful to me. Though, as you are unlikely to ever have another son, you might feel some hesitation about endangering him." Voldemort's thin lips curved into an unfriendly smile. "I do hope I am mistaken about that sentiment?"
Lucius kept the smile fixed on his face, though he found himself seething inwardly. "I assure you, my Lord, that if my son were of age, I would be eager for him to serve you in every way possible. He, of course, feels the same. Our loyalty to you is complete."
"Excellent." Settling his elbows comfortably on the arms of his chair, Voldemort laid his fingertips together and regarded Lucius over them with a reptilian gaze all too reminiscent of Nagini's predatory stare. "I am delighted to hear that, as I will be requiring young Draco's services at Hogwarts once the school commences again."
Hiding a grimace of dismay, Lucius drawled, "Thank you, my Lord. He will be overjoyed to hear that he can assist the cause. May I ask –"
"Returning to the subject of the Weasleys," the Dark Lord interrupted smoothly. "I intend to dispatch a small force to their house … the Burrow … to dispel the protection old Dumbledore has placed there, and to pay the redheads a short visit."
Leaning forward slightly in his chair, Lucius frowned. "You intend to kill the family, my Lord?"
"Oh, no, no, nothing so drastic. Merely to … frighten them, shall we say? I fancy that an Unforgivable or two are in order, but the Killing Curse will not be required at this stage."
"This is for the Potter boy's benefit, then?" Lucius asked flatly.
"Quite so," Voldemort answered, but his eyes narrowed dangerously at Lucius's tone. "Why, my dear friend, one would almost think that you disapprove."
"Not at all, my Lord. Why should I? As you yourself have observed, there is no love lost between us. Harming the Weasleys is undoubtedly an excellent means of putting fear into the Potter boy."
"Then you would have no object to going with the force intended for this?"
"None, my Lord. It would be my pleasure."
"How gratifying. But, Lucius, do bear in mind that the consequence shall be dire if you grow too enthusiastic and accidentally kill a Weasley … any Weasley. I have other plans for Potter's 'surrogate family.'"
"Of course, my Lord. I shall be cautious. Who will be in command of this mission, my Lord?"
He had fully expected to hear his own name; thus it came as a painfully unpleasant shock when Voldemort smiled and said, "Pettigrew." Before Lucius could give vent to his shocked objections, the Dark Lord went on, "Our little Gryffindor rat is intimately acquainted with the house and grounds of the Weasley clan … and, too, he is easily recognizable. I have my own reasons for wishing those at Hogwarts to know who is responsible for the attack."
"You know my view of Pettigrew, my Lord," Lucius said through his teeth, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. How dare Voldemort put him, Lucius Malfoy, under the command of a cowardly, inept, Gryffindor traitor? It was unbearable – it was a calculated, deliberate insult! "Is it certain that he is capable of carrying out any operation requiring finesse?"
Voldemort's wand was suddenly pointing straight at Lucius's pale face, and he froze, aware that he had pushed the Dark Lord too far. "Are you questioning my judgement, Lucius?" the taller man hissed, his serpentine eyes narrowed menacingly. "Are you implying that my trust is misplaced?"
Briefly, Lucius wondered whether Voldemort was referring to his trust in Pettigrew – a ludicrous idea – or to his trust in Lucius himself. The question would bear deliberation later. Keeping his face a calm mask, he carefully answered, "No, my Lord, not at all. I should never be so foolish as to criticize you. It merely pains me that a Gryffindor will be my – my superior in the mission."
"That was not what I heard, Malfoy. Tread carefully."
"My Lord, I only wish you to be served as well as is possible. It is only your well-being that concerns me. Many of us – your faithful followers – have long wondered if Pettigrew's actions that night fourteen years ago were … premeditated. Of course, if you are convinced that he is a loyal servant, I shall suspect him no longer." Lucius felt his muscles knotting in tension, as the struggle to maintain a smooth, confident tone grew nearly impossible. "If I have offended, I humbly crave your pardon."
Thankfully, the Dark Lord lowered his wand, but no friendliness returned to his face. "Has it not occurred to you, Lucius," he said softly, "that I am best served when my servants do not make the fatal mistake of considering themselves my equals."
Servants! Malfoy choked down his dangerous fury, and injected a proper amount of meek fear into his voice. "My lord, I have never thought –"
"Of course not, Lucius. Say no more." Voldemort smiled again, odiously confident. "I am certain such a thing will never occur again."
"Indeed not, my lord," Malfoy hastily assured him. Leaning back, he forced himself to relax. He did not know what game the Dark Lord was playing here, or how he had caught onto the fact that Lucius disliked being treated like one of Voldemort's other groveling slaves, but he would not show the damned man just how shaken he was by that little death threat. "How soon is the attack on the Weasley's Burrow planned, my lord?"
"I believe that five days before the commencement of Hogwarts would be an admirable time," the Dark Lord murmured thoughtfully. "That way it will still be fresh in the minds of those concerned when they return to the school, and it will also give Pettigrew ample time to plan the attack and prepare the men. And it will give you ample time to scout out the protection wards on the … house … the Weasleys live in. You will report your findings to Pettigrew – and I do expect you to come up with a quick and sure method of taking those wards down, Lucius."
"Of course," Lucius murmured, and bared his teeth in a false smile. "Whatever you wish, my lord."
END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
Responses to reviews (rather brief, as I have a Latin test to study for):
Purple People Eater: Thanks for the tip! Sorry about that … must have messed up with copy & paste. I'll fix the reference … someday …
Kitana: Do I gather that you dislike "manipulative old" Dumbledore? :) Thanks for the review! No Snape in this chapter, sorry, but he will show up again soon.
Jeva: Glad you liked Chapter 13! Hope that Grandaddy Voldie lived up to your expectations here.
Rowan: Aye, the Marauder's Map would show his name. But as the Marauders didn't exactly have undead zombies in mind while making it, they're all rather unsure whether it would say "Evil Resurrected Corpse of James Potter" or simply "James Potter" if the James Potter in question is an evil undead zombie … if you follow me. Excellent point, though!
Giesbrecht: The "Remus Meets James" chapter is indeed scheduled for some point in the future … but not quite yet. As you can doubtless tell, Remus has … er … "issues."
Electra: Thanks! Glad you enjoy Sirius & Harry moments. :^) Dumbledore won't find out for a while yet – or, at least, that's the current plan. Always in motion, the future (plot) is.
Neutral: Thanks so much for your review. I don't know if I've actually reviewed many of your stories, but I love 'em all. Your comments meant a lot to me – I'm delighted that you're enjoying NHP.
Dawyne: The Mirror of Erised shows you what you want to see. Harry, doubtless, could want nothing less than to see that he is related to Voldemort. Therefore, (in my opinion, at least), the mirror would not have shown him Voldemort in his family portrait, whether the relationship is true or not.
Jennie: Thanks! Glad you found it. Hope the ridiculously long wait for this chapter hasn't soured you on the story.
Tarawyn: I think I see what you mean when you say that Harry is "a bit off." Have I gotten him too emotional or too sarcastic? It is difficult to remain true to the characterization of him in the books since … well, pray don't hate me for saying this, but quite frankly there hardly is any characterization of him in the books. I realize I'm committing a sacrilege by saying this, but JKR is just not the best writer out there. Sorry! Anyway, I am trying my best to write him properly. Any tips on exactly how I'm doing him wrong would be appreciated. Thanks so much for the review!
Ariana Deralte: Certainly, you may have an estimate of how many chapters before someone else finds out about the Potters = Riddles truth. Surprisingly enough, I'm fairly sure that someone finds out in the very next chapter … or, at least, the one after it. I don't think it will be anyone whom you expect, though. Title of Most Creative Reader goes to anyone who guesses it correctly. :D Next person probably learns it five or six chapters after that … the plot may change. (I swear, I will start updating more quickly.)
Nicole: Not going to give away everything, but I can tell you that Dumbledore definitely doesn't know the whole truth.
Lady Ani: Thanks for the review! I'm very glad you're enjoying the story.
Chrysta: Thanks! Remus will certainly figure out some important things through his research. As to your interpretation of Dumbledore's words to Harry … hmmm … I think I'll pass on that explanation for the present. :D The question is if Dumbledore would really describe himself as a "not particularly admirable young man" …
Sailor Hylia: Good to hear from you again! In answer to your remark: "from the way Harry is in the books, I guess his not telling Dumbledore could be plausible, but... I don't know. I think you're leaning on the "Harry-keeps-his-mouth-shut" crutch just an eensy bit too much"
There's a certain amount of truth in what you say, but as JKR has always shown Harry as being hesitant to entrust others with his secrets, I don't feel that I'm too far out. True, one might think he'd have learned by now, but think about it. Remember Ron's reaction to learning that Professor Lupin was a werewolf? Maybe Harry's worried that even his best friend seems to be at least somewhat judgemental. Remember how everyone reacted to the news that Harry was a parselmouth? Raise that to the power of ten, and you've a glimpse of how they'd react if they learned Harry was actually descended from You-Know-Who. He has good reason to be afraid of the news reaching the public in general, though his reticence with regard to his known friends is less understandable. Harry is, however, deeply ashamed of his connection to the Dark Lord, and, as he would rather not even know it himself, he doesn't want anyone whom he cares about to know it either. He would be too afraid of the mere possibility of losing a friend to risk it. James's motivation for silence is much the same, though he is also worried about how the truth might impact Harry's future if it were known. He basically wants it all to be forgotten.
Thanks for the sympathy and the advice! I agree: writing really is therapeutic. Unfortunately (from a certain point of view), I find writing original fiction even more therapeutic than fan-fiction, so I usually only write on NHP when I'm not in desperate need of de-stressing. Life has been rather stressful since my last update, but is now settling down again … hence this update!
Lily Lupin: Poor old Dumbledore … we must be kind to him. He isn't exactly wrong; he just doesn't know the whole truth.
JKLB: Thanks! I'm glad that you think I'm treating James's attitude toward Peter the right way. No, this actually isn't an AU. Voldemort's dad was a Muggle … hence the word further in that prophecy – which, remember, may not really be a true prophecy, despite everything that Dumbledore has said. :D
Merlin's Quill: Yes, I suppose it is a bit cliché-ish, but … most things are!
All Mighty Terrestrial: No! Haven't given up.
JerseyPike: I think it is more difficult to bring Lily back because her death was (at least partially) responsible for Harry's survival. In addition, we know more about James, and thus can write him better. At least, that's my take on the matter.
Dreaming One: Thank you for the review! I'm delighted you're enjoying the story.