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Chapter Thirteen: DiscoveriesYou'd think, Harry thought, as he struggled to keep flat to the wall and not peer around the corner to see what Quirrell was doing too soon, that he would manage to use some bloody spell to get past that bloody dog.
This was the fifth time in as many nights that he'd trailed Quirrell to this door, and Harry was getting bored. Quirrell hadn't caused pain in his scar again, and neither had he sneaked out to the Forbidden Forest and drunk unicorn blood, or performed some unspeakable rite on a hippogriff. He just came to this door and talked or shouted to the dog behind it, until the dog exploded into barking—which should be happening any moment now—and he rushed out.
Harry was starting to think that Quirrell wasn't as much of a threat to Connor as he had seemed. After all, he hadn't been the one who had brought the Lestranges, and he hadn't been the one who had dropped the wards around the Quidditch pitch; if he were capable of that, Harry thought, then he would have been in a position to cause much more trouble. And if he had drunk unicorn blood…that might be a sign that the professor was mad, certainly, but no one had ever said that Voldemort's followers had the monopoly on madness.
There was the cold voice that had spoken in the Forest, though, and that was the reason that Harry kept following. His dreams insisted something was wrong, but Harry didn't trust them. He'd never had the talent—
Footsteps sounded up the corridor, heading towards him. Harry hastily cast the Disillusionment Charm on himself. Argus Filch had never caught him, though he'd nosed around a time or two.
Harry watched in curiosity and anticipation as this dark-clad figure strode nearer. Perhaps Quirrell's mysterious traitor had finally showed up, and was going to help him. That would make Harry's observations more interesting.
It was Professor Snape.
Harry ground his teeth. The insufferable Potions Professor didn't seem to notice that he was being teeth-ground at, and settled against the opposite wall not far from Harry.
Harry glared at him, and wondered if he would get away with a hex if he cast one now. He didn't think so. But Merlin knew Snape deserved it, for the way he had made Harry work like a house elf in the Potions class the last few days.
He was trying to think of hexes he could cast without sound—even though Lily hadn't started him studying nonverbal magic yet—and without an immediate effect when the door banged open, as expected. Quirrell came tottering around the corner, his hands fumbling at his turban.
Snape unfolded himself like a rising bat. Quirrell turned around, saw him, and gaped at him.
"S-Severus," he gabbled, sounding the way he always did.
"Quirrell," said Snape, not stuttering, Harry thought, on purpose, to make himself sound more threatening. He came a step nearer, and his hand went into a pocket of his robe and emerged with his wand. "And what are you doing here, hmmm? I never imagined that I would find you so interested in this one part of the school. You know what is down there."
Down there? Harry wondered. He supposed it was possible that the dog was guarding some kind of underground chamber, but if that was the case, why not put it on the ground floor, or in the dungeons, where it would have been easier to dive straight into the earth?
Quirrell laughed, and even that sounded false. Harry concentrated, but could feel no sense of dangerous magic about him. The most noticeable thing, besides his annoying laugh, was the constant smell of garlic that hung about him. "Only p-professional interest, S-Severus," he said. "You know th-that I l-like to study o-other fields that have some b-bearing on m-my own. That is a-all."
"What bearing could Hagrid's pet have on your own field?" Snape asked, coming another step nearer. Harry shivered. He had never seen Snape wear this face, holding a faint hint of amusement but hard and cold as a sheet of steel. He supposed it was the face that Snape had worn during his Death Eater days.
"Oh," Quirrell said, "s-such a w-wondrous creature. I w-wonder who b-bred it, that is a-all."
"Is it?" Snape said, and his voice had become so quiet that Harry had to strain to hear. "I think, Quirrell, that we would all be best served if you stayed away from the Stone. You know where it is. You know that it is well-protected. And you know what can be done with it. Unless you were planning to brew some Elixir yourself—and why would you want to?—then you have no reason to want to see it, or study it." His wand was rotating in his fingers now, spinning fast enough that Harry could see only the tip, moving like a dark star.
Stone? Elixir? Harry stuck the words in his mind for later, while Quirrell made what could be called an attempt at a sneer, if one was being kind.
"And wh-what do you w-want with the St-Stone, S-Severus?" he demanded. "Do you w-want to know wh-where and h-how it is h-hidden so th-that you can m-make the E-Elixir y-yourself?"
Professor Quirrell's stuttering got worse when he was truly nervous, Harry noted, making most of his attempts at intimidation useless. Of course, there was the cold voice in the Forest, and the steady voice that the professor had spoken with when he thought himself alone. This might be all an act, then.
Harry didn't think Quirrell's squeak when Snape lunged at him and pushed him up against the wall was an act, though. Snape held his wand to Quirrell's throat, and his face had gone completely calm, without a hint of the dark laughter that seemed so natural to him.
Harry recognized the expression. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough, just after Lily had given him a speech about what war might mean. It was the expression of a man preparing to kill.
"Now, Quirrell," asked Snape, "will you force me to this? I do not want to. If nothing else, it would be hard to explain to Albus. But I will, if you push me. You know what I was." He made a gesture towards his left forearm, invisible unless one was looking for it.
Quirrell couldn't even speak, just gasp and cry incoherently. Snape watched him for a long moment, then let him go with a violent shove. Quirrell stumbled and half-fell, catching himself against the stone and staring hard at Snape.
"You will leave now," said Snape quietly. "If I find that you have come here again, then I will speak to Dumbledore."
"D-do it n-now, if you w-want," said Quirrell, and straightened himself with a dignity that struck Harry as ridiculous more than anything else. "I d-don't care."
Snape laughed, and the sneer was back around the corners of his mouth. "No," he said. "I would rather know that I have you under my thumb, Quirrell, ready to destroy whenever I wish." He gestured negligently down the corridor. "Go."
Quirrell left, stumbling all the while. Snape watched him out of sight, and then turned and aimed his wand towards Harry.
"Finite Incantatem," he snapped.
Shit, he noticed the Disillusionment Charm, Harry thought, but didn't attempt to run as it melted. He stared up into Snape's eyes, which, for a moment, flashed genuine surprise—who did he expect to see? Harry thought—and then shuttered. He moved forward and grasped Harry's arm.
"How much did you hear, Mister Potter?" he hissed.
"The whole of it." Harry didn't call him sir. He didn't see that he should have to. They were outside the boundaries of classroom and Slytherin House, in the middle of something more important, something that encompassed them both—the war against Voldemort, the war that Harry intended to see Connor survive.
Snape said something quiet and obscene under his breath, and darted a glance down the hall. Then, quite shockingly, he sank to one knee before Harry and stared into his eyes. Harry stared back, feeling the slight twinge in his head that he sometimes felt when Snape did this. Whatever he was looking for, the Potions Professor seemed to find it. He closed his eyes and pinched his nose for a moment.
Then he said, "Potter, I will tell you what this means, so that you won't go sniffing about for trouble. I expect you to go back to your common room after this and not wander about after curfew again. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded. He did not say that he intended to wander anyway, to find disused corners of the castle where he could practice his wandless spells. It was not as though Snape had made him promise with an Unbreakable Vow.
"Dumbledore has a Philosopher's Stone, well-protected, in the castle," Snape said quietly. "He is keeping it safe from the Dark Lord. I might almost think that Quirrell is a minion of the Dark Lord's, but I know that he was not Marked when I served among the Death Eaters. You, however, will stay far away. This is a matter for adults. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir," Harry said. There was no need to come back here again, then. He knew what he was going to do with his own information. He didn't even blame Snape for not telling Dumbledore his suspicions about Quirrell. He was going to put his own information to even better use.
The troll was clumsy, the Lestranges clumsier. But there I had to worry about immediate danger to Connor's life. Now I don't, and I can plan.
"Are you coming with me to the Manor for Christmas yet?"
"No, not yet."
Draco paused. "Now?"
"Still not yet."
"Harry?"
Harry hastily stood up and shoved the book he was reading underneath the table. Not quick enough to escape Hermione's eyes, of course. She stared at him, then whirled her bag over her shoulder and set it down heavily on the table. No dust rose. She'd been coming here, her own private study corner of the library, for long enough that she'd cleared all the dust off. Harry had noticed it a few weeks ago, and kept the knowledge to himself, because he hadn't thought of a way to use it yet.
Now he had.
He smiled weakly at Hermione. "Hi, Hermione. Sorry. I just wanted a quiet corner to read in, and this one looked nice and clean. I didn't realize it was yours. Sorry," he added again, and tried to stuff the large book he was carrying into his bag.
"What's that?" Hermione asked, and then gasped as she caught sight of the title. Harry bit his lip and looked down at the ground as if ashamed, while silently congratulating himself. Sharp as Hermione was, this plan was already going much better than the other ones to give Connor some sheen of heroism had.
"Harry!" she said, her voice rising distressingly. "Darkest Alchemies? Where did you get that? Isn't it supposed to be in the Restricted Section of the library?" Her voice turned accusing. "And why are you reading it?"
"It's not a Dark book, Hermione, really," Harry said desperately. He studied her face. Her lips were set, and her eyes as well as her mouth managed to frown at him. He had counted on that. "It's a sort of history book."
"But why were you reading it?"
"Because I was interested, that's all," Harry said, shrugging. "Something that Snape said in class the other day."
For a moment, Hermione looked as if she'd let herself be distracted by that. Harry's sudden gifts in Potions had astounded and irritated her, and she'd been working hard herself to catch up. The books peeking out of her bag had the look of Potions texts, in fact, Harry thought.
Harry had a plan to get her back on the trail if he needed to, but she wound up clinging to the original idea. "Professor Snape didn't say anything about alchemists," she said, eyes narrowing.
"Uh…" said Harry, as if she had caught him flat-footed.
He shifted his weight, glanced around, and then said, "Well, see you later, Hermione. Bye." He carried the book around the corner of the shelves and waited for a moment. Sure enough, Hermione's head poked around the corner behind him.
He looked towards her, giving her enough time to duck out of the way, and then shoved the book awkwardly among the others, patting the spine. That looked like enough to hide it—or to make a pathetic attempt at hiding it. He hurried out of the library, bag banging on his shoulder.
He had no doubt that Hermione would look at Darkest Alchemies the moment he was far enough away. And she would find the well-worn page about the Philosopher's Stone and its last inventor, Nicholas Flamel. She would wonder about that. She would carry the questions to Connor. Connor's own suspicions of Harry possibly going Dark, fed by Ron's prejudice against Slytherins, would drive them to investigate. And then they stood a good chance of finding out that one was hidden in the school, or at least coming to Harry and drilling him for answers. He could drop subtle hints that would lead them in the right direction. Connor would find out about Quirrell—Harry could make it seem as though he were simply too blind to notice what the professor's constant visits to the third floor meant—and then Connor would tell Dumbledore about him. There would be plenty of glory for Connor, and all of it produced from good old Gryffindor honesty, hard work, courage, and suspicion of sneaky Slytherins.
Harry was rather proud of himself for thinking of such an ingenious plan. Of course, it helped that he would be in the shadows behind Connor, ready to aid him with a nudge in the right direction, or a carefully timed spell if things looked to be getting out of hand.
The most important part was that Connor survive, after all. But if Harry could lead his brother to his own victory while not being too obvious about it…
Harry thought it a good deal all around.
"Harry."
Harry glanced up, blinking. He'd been deep enough in his Charms textbook that he hadn't heard Draco ordering the other Slytherin boys out, or the room door opening and closing. But now they were alone, and Draco sat on his bed and stared at Harry with one of those serious expressions that promised a conversation Harry wouldn't like. He put down his book, stared back, and waited.
The first words out of Draco's mouth, though, were, "Why won't you come to the Manor with me for Christmas?"
Harry sighed. "Draco, we've been over this—"
Draco held up a hand. "I know that you think my father's a danger to you. But really, Harry's, he's not." His voice was so painfully earnest that Harry didn't have the heart to correct him just then, though he realized he should have when Draco went on. "I've talked to him about the Dark Lord's first rise. Poor Father was under Imperius from almost the first moment that the Dark Lord gained power. After all, he knew that he couldn't leave the Malfoys alive behind him, but enslaving them was better than killing them. And Grandfather Abraxas had just died. Father was reeling, uncertain, just trying to find his place in the world. I think that that was it. He served the Dark Lord only as long as he couldn't fight the curse, and then broke free and gave testimony to the Ministry that helped to convict other Death Eaters."
Harry looked at him for a long moment. Draco stared back at him, posed, shining, happy. Innocent, in much the same way that Connor was, Harry thought. The idea made him weary.
He could lie to Draco, perhaps, and come up with another reason to escape the Manor—that Connor wouldn't let him be apart from him at Christmas. But he didn't want to lie. Shameful as it was, Harry thought, he was growing used to honesty with Draco and Snape. They wouldn't let him lie, so why should he? About anything?
And Draco was wrong, and at some point, his wrongness might endanger Connor. Or, more within the realm of immediate possibility, his ignorance might endanger Harry, and if Harry died, he wouldn't be there to protect and defend Connor throughout the coming war.
"Draco," he said quietly, "my mother's told me the stories of the first war with Voldemort." Draco flinched and scooted backward on the bed, away from him. Harry didn't stop. Draco had wanted privacy. He had wanted a serious discussion. Well, he was going to get both. "I know that he wasn't above using the Imperius, but he only used it on some of the Death Eaters. He didn't use it on the ones who believed in his ideals and willingly joined him." He paused, and waited for Draco to grasp the truth of what he was saying.
Draco blinked, puzzled, for a long moment, then paled. "My father is not a willing Death Eater," he said. "He never was."
"He trained you to hate Muggleborns, Draco," said Harry. "You say Mudblood more naturally than you say I'm sorry."
"Malfoys never need to apologize," said Draco, but his attempt to lighten the mood fell utterly flat, and both of them knew it. He shook his head. "You're wrong about this, Harry. You must be."
"Why?" Harry asked, and heard his voice deepen and turn flat. "Because you want me to be? Because you don't want to believe me? I thought that Malfoys at least needed to face reality."
"No," Draco whispered.
Harry held up three fingers on his right hand. "There might be others, but these are the ones I know about," he said. "My mother told me that Lucius Malfoy helped kill the Prewett brothers. They were the brothers of Molly Weasley, Ron's mum. Did you know that?"
"No," Draco whispered.
Harry suspected that he was both denying knowledge and denying what Harry was saying. That didn't matter. He folded one finger down. That left two. "And he was responsible for attacking a Muggleborn family," he said. "Muggle parents, three children with magic who attended Hogwarts. The Nascents. He tortured them to death. Bellatrix Lestrange was there, too, but they recognized Lucius Malfoy's style."
"My father doesn't have a style of torture," Draco said, his voice very small. "You take that back."
Harry folded his second finger down. "And then there was the Bones family," he said, very quietly. "Edgar Bones, and his wife and children. One was a baby, Malfoy. A baby, not as old as Connor and I were when Voldemort came for him. He only—only—murdered them, because he didn't trust his wandwork against Edgar's. And Edgar Bones was Susan Bones's uncle. She's walking around the school right now, missing her uncle and aunt and cousins. Oh, and her grandparents, because—"
"Shut up!" Draco yelled.
Harry folded down his last finger, and sat watching. Draco was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, his hair falling around his face. He took a breath that sounded to Harry like a great, gasping sob, though he wasn't letting any of his tears actually fall.
"He's my father," said Draco. "He's my father. I love him. He wouldn't do anything like that. Or he'd tell me if he did."
Harry leaned forward. "It's all a matter of historical record," he said. "You can go into the Ministry and look it up in the records. The Pensieve and the trial transcripts are there. He claimed to be under Imperius, and he bought his way out. But he killed them, Draco. He killed them and he laughed when he walked away free—"
He hushed. Draco had reached out and struck him, awkwardly, across the face, not quite a punch and not quite a slap. Harry had taken worse from Connor in their mock-fights, but he watched in silence as Draco ran from the bedroom, slamming the door behind him like a giant's tread.
Harry sighed and picked up his Charms book again. He felt a faint sadness for the loss of his friendship with Draco, but it had been coming. He could only ignore the past for so long.
Besides, my first and primary loyalty will always be Connor's. What would happen if I became friends with a Slytherin? Would I feel compelled to choose between them?
Harry shuddered. He could imagine little more distressing than that.
Harry woke, blinking. He'd fallen asleep studying, which was unusual for him. He stood up and made his way to the loo carefully, since he could hear breathing around him and knew the other boys had returned.
He paused, though, when the faint Lumos spell on his wand showed him that Draco's bed was still empty.
Harry hesitated, then put his wand on his palm and murmured, "Point Me Draco Malfoy."
The wand turned, pointing definitively out of Slytherin House. Harry groaned to himself. He wanted nothing so much as to shower and go to bed. And Draco was probably wandering around the castle in a sulk, or in Snape's quarters complaining about what a prat Harry was.
Still, though, Harry did feel responsible. He probably could have found a gentler way to break the news to Draco. And he really had thought Draco was more politically aware than that. What son of a pureblood family wouldn't be?
He followed the wand in silence, casting another Disillusionment Charm on himself as soon as he left the common room. The wand tugged him up the dungeon stairs, surprising Harry, who hadn't thought Draco would have gone that far. And then it pointed to the doors to the outside, the same doors Harry had followed Quirrell out earlier that month.
Wary, Harry stepped outside. The wand aimed steadily towards the Forbidden Forest.
"Oh, shit."