The most common question I'm getting is whether Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived. Unfortunately, no answers are forthcoming yet.
Chapter Sixteen: The DanceHarry walked into the study directly behind Lucius, not wanting to give him time to set up traps or firecall an ally. The room was wide and, Harry thought, five-sided, though enough bookcases crowded the walls that it was hard to be sure of that. More wards coiled and hissed around him as he entered, letting him pass only because of whom he walked in with. The walls were the blue-gray color of the front door, of the old Malfoy crest, and bore no decoration save one portrait above the fireplace.
Harry turned back to face Lucius's wand, drawn and pointing directly at him. He grabbed for his own, trained reflexes springing into action.
He moved only a second behind Lucius, but that was enough.
"Probo Memoriter," Lucius intoned, and a jet of faint blue light sprang from his wand and struck Harry.
Harry closed his eyes and waited for the spell to take effect. He reminded himself forcefully that the spell could not be offensive, or it would dishonor both Lucius's son and his wife. Of course, the Death Eater he'd heard stories of might be ruthless enough not to care about that.
He felt his mind bulge and ripple oddly, and then he was remembering a day when he and Connor had been five, and Lily had had them playing on the lawn outside the house at Godric's Hollow. Connor had been playing with a toy broom, catching it out of the air like a Snitch when it flew past him. Harry had been reading a simple spellbook that described the charms he would be practicing that night when Connor slept, things like Wingardium Leviosa and Alohomora. The sun had shone, the sky had been a brushed, cloudless blue, and their mother had sat not far from both of them and watched them with wide eyes from which, for once, all shadows had fled.
The remembered scene flowed to that night, when Harry had practiced the charms and managed to levitate his pillow on his third try. Lily had come in during the middle of that and held him tightly for a few minutes. So vivid was the memory that Harry could feel her arms clasping him around the waist and shoulders.
The scene flowed to one of himself, seven years old, and mentally repeating the long list of pureblood courtesies he had learned that day as he lay on his back in the grass and watched the stars with Connor. Remus was telling Connor a story about the day a young wizard and a young Muggle had become friends. Harry had already had his story from Sirius, who, if he thought it odd that his young godson wanted to hear about formal dinners in the House of Black, never failed to indulge him.
Now Harry was nine and managing his first bits of wandless magic, after which he would always collapse immediately. But he persisted, and between May and August, he improved by leaps and bounds. Once he had looked up and seen their mother watching him from the doorway, her face bearing a faint smile both proud and worried.
And now Harry was ten—
Harry, struggling beneath the surface of the memories, managed to open his eyes. He realized that they were creating images that hovered in the air between him and Lucius, playing out in dazzling color and sound. Lucius had his eyes locked on them, a faint frown on his face.
Harry had never heard of this spell, but he had a fair idea of its effect by now. He gritted his teeth and called up the will that had served him so well in the forest. He shoved at the faint blue light that crackled about him, seeking out and displaying more memories.
Leave me.
The web of light bent and flexed around him, stubborn at first, but Harry was more stubborn. He clenched a hand in front of him, and the web abruptly snapped.
Harry staggered back one step, then managed to recover his balance and look up at Lucius. The older wizard stood with his wand extended still, watching Harry as if he were a particularly interesting species of fish.
Harry spent a few moments getting his breath back. It was impossible to hide that he was somewhat disconcerted, but he wanted to look as composed as possible. A weakness was a faux pas in the dance, worse than a mere wrong glance or gesture. A wrong glance or gesture might be a mistake. A weakness was far more likely to be a truth, something the weak wizard should have hidden.
"Mr. Malfoy," he said at last, "you have used a spell on me without warning and without my consent, and in response to no slight that I can see. You extended an invitation to come to your study with you, and I accepted it. For you to treat me as if I had broken the guest-laws is unacceptable. I'll wait for Draco and Mrs. Malfoy to return, so I may bid them farewell. I ask that you have a Portkey waiting so that I may return to Hogwarts when that is done. I bid you good day." He turned and walked towards the door of the study.
Lucius locked it with a nonverbal spell before Harry reached it. He turned around, this time with his magic poised about him. He could not remember being this coldly furious before. He had done everything correctly. Lucius had no right to act as he had been acting. To be a Death Eater was one thing, but Lucius was breaking the ancient laws left and right. It offended Harry on a level he hadn't even known existed in himself.
"Mr. Potter," said Lucius quietly, "please accept my apology. I thought that you would attack me when the spell was lifted. Instead, you have abided by the laws, and would even depart before I could tender an apology." He dipped his head, his eyes never leaving Harry's. "That spell was a test, as was the gift of the Foe-Glass and my impolite staring last night and everything else I have done since you came here. Each time, you have responded as though you were the son of two pureblooded wizards, and, moreover, one trained in the most ancient courtesies. I assumed that you would act as the son of a Mudblood. Forgive me for so assuming."
Harry held himself rigid for a moment, waiting, but that seemed to be the end of Lucius's little speech. He was waiting now, and Harry had to respond.
Of course, there was a test happening even now. If Harry reacted to the word Mudblood, he would confirm Lucius's assumptions, and that he did not deserve the apology. If he attacked Lucius, he would break the guest-laws, which, technically, had not been broken. Testing was permitted under the dance, was in fact the biggest part of the dance, and the spell had not been offensive or harmful.
He was digging out information from my memories to see what Connor's strengths and weaknesses are, Harry thought. Of course it was harmful.
But Connor was not actually here, and the spell had inflicted no harm, physical, emotional, magical, spiritual, or mental, on Harry himself. That was the set of steps Lucius was using, as proven by the fact that he hadn't apologized for any specific effect of the spell. Harry had to respond in the same kind of dance, or give up the protection of the guest-laws.
So do what you have to. Survive. Make it through the holidays so that you can make it back to Hogwarts, and Godric's Hollow, and Connor. And forgive yourself for what you have to do in the meantime.
Harry met Lucius's eyes again and said, "Mr. Malfoy, I accept your apology. I insist, however, that you ask me before performing any spell on me in the future. I consider myself to be the son of a Mudblood and a pureblooded wizard who has been fortunate enough to receive a nearly complete pureblood education from his father and Sirius Black." He registered the spasm of distaste that crossed Lucius's face at Sirius's name, but he didn't allow it to dissuade him. "I am also the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, and only immense guarantees of safety have allowed me to feel comfortable in Malfoy Manor. Any deviation from those guarantees makes me nervous. I am sure that, as a pureblooded wizard yourself, you understand."
Lucius studied him for a long moment. Harry waited. He hadn't missed either the spasm of distaste, nor the flicker of shock in those chill gray eyes when Harry had called his own mother a Mudblood. Of course, Lucius would have understood—Harry was acting the pureblood part he must—but he still must not have thought Harry would do it.
Harry sighed to himself. Connor would not have. He would stick to family pride and honor, and claim Mum proudly. I wish I could do that. And perhaps I could, if I wanted to endanger my life.
I can't. My life doesn't belong to me. It's Connor's. And this is what will let me get out of here and return to his side.
Lucius at last nodded, once, and then relaxed, his mask of ice seeming to melt for the first time. "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to a chair in front of the hearth. "I promise that the only spells on this chair are ones to make it more comfortable."
Harry nodded, murmured his thanks, and walked over to it. The chair was narrow, hard, high-backed, and high. His feet didn't reach the ground. Harry ignored that. If he complained about it, the advantage would go to Lucius.
"Since it is Christmas, I believe that mulled cider may be in order," said Lucius, and waved his wand. Two mugs of a steaming drink appeared. He carried one over to Harry, then took a seat in an identical chair across from him and inclined his head. "You may make the toast, Mr. Potter."
Harry didn't hesitate. Too long a pause would also convey weakness. "To being alive," he said, and drank. The cider tickled the inside of his mouth unpleasantly, and he couldn't escape the thought that it might be poisoned—except that Lucius would be beyond stupid to poison him now, while Harry was still inside the protection of the guest-laws. Harry had as much confidence in his enemy's intelligence as in his willingness to poison him, so he drank three mouthfuls and then put the cup down on his lap. It made his hands tingle with greater warmth than the fire could convey.
Lucius sipped at his own. His eyes never left Harry's. A moment later, he settled against the back of his chair and said, "I see that you have trained long and hard. Unusual to see such mastery of wandless magic in one so young, never mind such a repertoire of difficult and valuable spells. Tell me, Mr. Potter, why have you trained so? You are the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived. The Dark Lord is vanquished. You have your parents and your teachers to watch over you. Even my son, though I drive him hard in other ways, has more time to learn his magic."
Harry kept his face still. If Lucius wasn't going to refer to how he gained those memories, neither was he. "I do not believe in resting on laurels, Mr. Malfoy," he said, and sipped at his cider again. "I believe the Dark Lord will come again. And we must all be ready to meet him when he does."
"Ah," said Lucius softly. "Then your brother, the Boy-Who-Lived, also undergoes the same intense training program?"
Every time Lucius spoke of Connor, Harry felt as though his insides were being scraped over with a dull knife. But he ignored that as well. He was still the weaker partner in this dance. He had to guard himself, which in turn would guard Connor. And, he told himself, Lucius could not know for certain that Connor did not have the same training. He had not seen enough memories to be sure of that. "His training is complementary to mine," Harry chose to say.
Lucius's eyes flickered again, though Harry could not be sure which emotion they held. He sipped. Harry sipped.
"My son has spoken of you a great deal," Lucius said. "When I first read his letters, I was surprised. A Potter in Slytherin? A Potter willingly becoming friends with a Malfoy?" He smiled, but this time only his mouth moved; his eyes had gone cold again. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, why have you befriended my son?"
This is the protective father, Harry thought, and felt instinctively more comfortable. Lucius was not the perfect frozen pureblooded wizard on this ground. He would be easier to shove and push off-balance if Harry had to, and Harry thought he could do that best by telling the absolute truth.
"Draco has befriended me, more than the other way around," Harry said. "I would not wish to reject him. And I am certain that he wrote to you about his life debt to me and how he chose to fulfill it."
"Yes," said Lucius. "Of course, he did not explain the circumstances of the debt to me—how it came about or how you saved his life."
"Life debts are such private things," Harry murmured. "And such ancient ones. I think it is an honor done to tradition if we invest them with mystery."
Lucius smiled, genuinely, and lifted his cider mug in a brief toast to Harry. Harry checked his own emotions, and found himself caught in the same odd pleasure he had experienced since coming to the Manor. Lucius was a murderous Death Eater who would no doubt stop at nothing to insure that Connor died or was given to the Dark Lord. But he could also be counted on to stay inside certain boundaries, borders, cages, when not actually in battle. Such boundaries permitted certain moments of mutual respect and admiration. Harry knew his relationship with Lucius would ever be strained, but it worked beautifully.
"Enough about my son," Lucius said. "How is it that the son of a Mudblood received a pureblood wizarding education?"
"I wished to have it," Harry said. "My family had no reason to deny it to me."
"Interesting," said Lucius, raising his eyebrows. "I would have thought that any son of James Potter would be encouraged to follow the Muggle-lovers' traditions. To worship Dumbledore, for example. To avoid the word Mudblood as if it were a curse. To not know any pureblood traditions as a matter of pride."
Harry kept his face blank. That was a perfect description of Connor, who, while he had bits of pureblood tradition in his head, didn't know what they were, and had certainly never been taught them separate from the rest of his general wizarding education.
"My family had no reason to deny that to me, either," he said.
Lucius leaned a bit back in his chair. Harry was certain he was accepting that, processing it, evaluating it, and concluding that Harry knew both worlds. It happened to be true. It might also make Lucius hesitate when going after Connor, if he thought that Connor had a similar education.
Connor will need it, Harry thought, with an aching in his heart. I know he'll resist it, but we must start this summer. We may already have left it too long in our desire to protect his innocence.
"Then why are you in Slytherin House?" Lucius asked, abandoning subtlety altogether and thus changing the steps of the dance. Harry sat up, hearing the quicker, more dangerous music playing. "That might indicate that you are choosing one side of your education over the other."
"A student does not choose his own House," said Harry.
Lucius laughed at that. Harry blinked. The chuckle was rich, with a hiccupping sound near the end of it. It was very hard to imagine a man who laughed like that torturing and killing children. Harry would have been inclined to think that Lucius had a cold laugh, like the one he heard in his dreams sometimes.
"Come, come, Harry," said Lucius. "You can tell me. What did the Hat say to you when it put you in Slytherin?"
Harry tilted his chin. What he was about to do next was dangerous, but if he allowed the change of names to pass unremarked, then he was accepting an unequal position to Lucius's. He would not allow that to happen.
"Why, Lucius," he said, "I imagine that it said much the same thing it said to you."
There, Harry thought, as the elder Malfoy's face was wiped blank again, let him chew on that for a while, and wonder what I meant.
There was silence for a time, while Lucius sipped his cider and watched Harry. Harry watched him right back, wondering what the next sally would consist of.
"Did you know," Lucius said at last, his voice sinking a little, "that your magic is very powerful, Harry? Flexible and adaptable. Nearly as strong as I remember being when I was a child."
Harry reached out briefly towards Lucius, but could feel nothing. He hid his own magical strength behind a series of carefully constructed shields. Harry nodded. He had no way of knowing whether Lucius's statement was truth or lie, and therefore no reason to take such a compliment seriously.
"Thank you, Lucius," he said. "But, in truth, I am only the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived."
There. There was one flash of wide, suddenly alert gray eyes. Harry concealed a smile. Let that rumor guard Connor. Anything that might protect him was a help.
Lucius surveyed him in silence again. Harry drank his cider and pretended this was a pleasant, private meeting together.
Then someone knocked on the door of the study, at the same time as something tapped on the window. Harry looked up and saw a magnificent tawny owl waiting to be let in with a letter around his leg. The knocker proved to be Draco, who was calling in the next moment, "Father? Harry? Are you all right?"
Lucius rose gracefully to his feet and went to let the owl in. His eyes never left Harry as he did so, however, even as he removed the letter.
"Thank you, Harry," he said. "This has been most enlightening. Now, if you wish, please rejoin my son. He sounds anxious about you." He paused for a long moment. "I cannot imagine why."
Taking those words as the truce offering they probably were, Harry nodded and put his empty mug on the arm of the chair. "Thank you for the cider and the conversation, Lucius. Both were uniquely flavored."
Lucius smiled, though it was less a smile than a baring of teeth. "I look forward to meeting with you in the future, Harry Potter," he said.
Harry inclined his head and went out, where he had to first reassure a frantic Draco that nothing had happened, and then tell him that, no, that didn't mean he'd changed his mind about Lucius being a willing Death Eater. Then Narcissa came walking back in, a black eagle-owl that Harry recognized as Godric on her arm. Godric bore a letter from his twin.
Right behind him came two more owls that Harry recognized as his mother's and Remus's. Lily's owl had two letters.
With a sigh, Harry went to read his family's anxious inquiries about whether he had been killed, and to reply that, no, he hadn't been.
Lucius waited until the door had closed before he unfolded the letter. Of course it was a breach of the guest-laws for a guest to attempt to read the post uninvited, but that didn't mean that Harry Potter wouldn't find a way.
The letter was brief, to the point, and really nothing more than a confirmation of another letter he had received some weeks before. Lucius wrote out a brief reply, attached it to the owl's foot, and watched it hurtle up into the blank winter sky, heading north. That really meant nothing, of course.
Lucius walked back to finish his cider, and consider what he had learned in this conversation, or rather stuttering waltz, with Harry Potter.
The boy was everything his son had promised, and more. Lucius could see why Draco was so fascinated. Harry's magic made his own pulse pound with attraction to the power, interest in the wielder, wariness in case it was turned on him, and the competitive desire to match that power with his own.
What he had not known was that Harry had such full command of wandless magic, of spellbreaking, and of pureblood courtesies. He would have done James's grandfather, the last Potter really worthy of the name, proud—and he would have done him proud as a scion of eighteen or nineteen, ready to take his place as formal heir of the family. Control like that was unnatural in a child so young, just as the powerful magic was. Lucius knew of no reason that Harry should possess it.
Now that he was alone, he let one fist clench a little at the lost opportunity that the Probo Memoriter spell represented. He had seen that the Potters had trained their elder son hard, but he had not learned the purpose behind the training, nor what kind of education Connor Potter might have. Of course, Draco thought the boy was weak, but Draco was too absorbed in both Harry and himself to make rational judgments of that kind.
And then Harry had snapped the spell with a minor effort, and acted as an offended pureblood heir would, instead of the hot-tempered, Muggle-loving boy Lucius had expected to find.
Well, that only makes sense, doesn't it? He does have a temper, but he keeps it hidden. And he is not a boy, whatever his age.
Lucius let a faint smile play around his lips. Of course, the Potters had already chosen the side that would lose in the end—the letter he had received today was proof of that—but he felt a fierce gladness that he would get to face an enemy like Harry Potter on the battlefield before that end.
If the boy could be turned…
Lucius did not let himself think like that, though. It was possible that Harry would be turned, by his friendship with Draco and his presence in Slytherin House if nothing else, but eleven hard years of training did not seem to have altered him into the kind of wizard who would even entertain it as a possibility. More, the boy preferred the most ancient ways, for all that he had followed the modern dance without missing a step. Pureblood customs that formal most often ended by forming people who would break before they would bend.
And yet, the boy had said Mudblood, as if he spoke it every day.
Lucius briskly shook his head and snapped his fingers to call Dobby with his mantle. He was spending too much thought on this young friend of his son's. It was time that he leave on this errand for his lord. He had to retrieve a certain item hidden on the coast of Scotland. He wanted to do it, and then be home before lunch, so that he might spend Christmas with his family.
And our most unusual guest, of course.