This chapter is more a series of disconnected scenes than anything else, but they lay necessary groundwork (and cover some necessary time).
Chapter Seventeen: Between BrothersHarry swiveled between opposing currents of air, his eyes locked onto the gleam of gold ahead. He knew it was going to dive an instant before it did, and he was beneath it, catching it and holding it snugly in his palm.
The commentator, who had called each of Harry's moves before this with a tone of shock bordering on awe, now seemed stunned into silence. It was a moment before he could cough and call out, "And Potter catches the Snitch! Slytherin defeats Ravenclaw, 250-100."
The cheer that erupted from the Slytherin stands made Harry feel good. It was almost enough to drown out the hissing from the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor stands, and the corresponding sink in his heart. He landed, carefully, on the far side of the field, and climbed off the broom to stretch his legs. He felt—all right, really. He didn't mind defeating another team that Connor wasn't on. He would just have to watch what happened in the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game to insure that he wasn't going to take the Quidditch Cup away from Gryffindor.
He only had a moment to relax before the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team swooped down on him with triumphant roars. Harry blinked as Marcus Flint actually picked him up and shook him, before enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. He cackled and whispered gleefully in Harry's ear, "You're all right, Potter, really," before opening his arms and tossing Harry to the Beaters, so they could embrace him and roughly pat him on the back in turn.
Harry blinked and tried to protest, but they weren't listening. Slytherin and Ravenclaw had been tied at one hundred points each, and the rest of the teams had, apparently, been watching the Seekers like falcons, all the while trying to steal the Quaffle from their own very evenly matched opponents. No one had sent Bludgers at the Seekers, too afraid of giving the opposing team a chance to gain control of the balls and hit their Seeker in turn.
Harry hadn't been aware of it. He'd dodged the other Seeker, sought out the Snitch, kept it in sight, and caught it as soon as he could. He had a distant feeling of gladness. He wouldn't have wanted the pressure.
He walked back to the changing rooms in the midst of the team, listening to jokes cracked at the expense of the Ravenclaws in wonder. The Slytherins had never treated him like this before. Mostly, they'd seen him as Draco's odd little hanger-on, and treated him like an extension of Draco, or an extension of Connor when the Gryffindors had done something to annoy them. Harry had gotten used to having Draco as his only friend in Slytherin, a situation that only convinced him further that he really belonged in his brother's House.
Now he shed his green robes for the first time in comfortable companionship, and even smiled when Marcus Flint performed an "interpretation" of the Ravenclaw Seeker, all flailing arms and popping eyes, that had the others roaring in more laughter.
"Um, Harry. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
The laughter ceased at once, and Flint spun, getting between Harry and the door. "No hexing our Seeker allowed, Gryffie," he snapped. "We won, fair and square. Go away."
"It's Connor," Harry said, shoving at Flint's shoulders. "He's hardly going to hex me."
Flint stayed right where he was, blocking Harry's access to and sight of Connor, both. "I wouldn't put it past the Gryffindors," he sneered. "They were upset that their precious Ravenclaws couldn't defeat us. Next thing, they'll be saying that they managed to win the match we had against them by something other than dumb luck."
Harry could imagine how Connor's face would be flushing at that. He hadn't revealed the secret of Harry defeating the Lestranges to anyone else, but he did wince every time someone mentioned his spectacular Quidditch victory.
"Let me talk to him, Flint," Harry said, as calmly as he could. "He only does want to congratulate me on the game, I'm sure."
Flint sneered at Connor again, and then told Harry, "Five minutes. Then we're having a party in the dungeons, and you better be there, or we'll find you, turn you into a turtle, and crack your shell." He and the rest of the team poured away, leaving the room suddenly thunderously quiet. Harry blinked and rubbed his ears, grateful that he could feel them. He'd been flying for over an hour in the chill January air, at speeds and heights that couldn't help but steal the warmth of movement away.
"Harry," said Connor. "Congratulations on winning the game." His voice was oddly formal.
Harry nodded back, at a loss for words. They'd been back at school for a few weeks, and so far his promise to spend more time with Connor was one he hadn't pursued. Draco kept him busy, and so did the fiendishly long and difficult and frequent Quidditch drills before the match with Ravenclaw. Harry had often caught sight of Connor watching him from a distance across the Great Hall, but there was always a Slytherin in the way when he went to talk to him. After this victory, Harry suspected, there would be more than ever, as much out of genuine friendliness as the need to train or a dedication to keeping him apart from Gryffindors.
Connor shifted back and forth. "Father heard back from Dumbledore," he said after a long moment. "The request for Re-Sorting failed."
Harry managed a smile. "I thought it would."
Connor leaned forward, suddenly intense. "I only have one thing to ask you, Harry," he said. "I thought it would be more, but you have a party to go to in five minutes, after all." His tone as he said that made Harry wince.
"Go ahead, Connor."
"Do you like being in Slytherin?" Connor asked him, blunt as a hammer. "Do you really like going to parties in the dungeons and spending all your free time with Draco Bloody Malfoy?"
Harry winced again. His suggestion that Draco and Connor get to know each other after Christmas holidays had gone over spectacularly badly with both of them. The one lengthy meeting Harry had had with his twin before this one had been to plead with him not to hex Draco's ears off, after Draco made an ill-timed comment about Hermione.
"It's not a matter of liking, Connor," he said quietly. "Most of them are pretty indifferent to me most of the time, and I know that I'm just a toy for Draco, a prize that he can show off. I think he'll tire of me quickly, maybe before next year. Then I'll have more time to spend with you." He smiled, hoping that was what his brother wanted to hear.
"But you don't actively hate it, and you're not pining for Gryffindor the way you were at the beginning of the year," Connor summed up.
"Connor…"
But his brother was pulling away, a grimace on his face. "That was all I wanted to know," he said, and walked away.
Harry started to go after him, but a green bolt of light he didn't recognize barred his way, and then Flint and the others came to drag him off to the party. Harry remembered little of it afterwards, blurred as it was by his grief and bewilderment over Connor, except that Draco had staged a recreation of the game that included a bunch of peas, representing the Ravenclaws, falling all over the table in shock when a salt shaker, representing Harry, caught the grain of salt he'd spelled to shine gold like the Snitch.
What bothered Harry most about that memory was that he remembered laughing, with all the others, and then wondering what he was becoming.
Harry hissed under his breath as Snape examined his potion. It wasn't the same glass-cleansing potion as the other first-years were brewing. Snape had assigned him a complicated sleeping potion that Harry privately suspected was another part of the preliminary steps in the Wolfsbane improvements. Harry hardly dared do less than his best, not only because that might end up costing an innocent werewolf his or her life, but because Snape would know. Snape suspected that anything less than perfection was Harry not doing his best, in fact.
"Very good, Mr. Potter," Snape pronounced. "I see that someone from your family has finally inherited a smidgen of talent. Fifty points to Slytherin."
Harry flinched and lowered his head, hearing the murmurs coming from the Gryffindor side of the room. It was the most points Snape had ever given in a single class, and even given the fact that he'd been handing points to Harry since February started, it was a bit ridiculous.
Connor led the objection. Harry loved him for that, even as he feared what would happen to his twin for exposing himself to Snape's wrath. His brother had led Gryffindor to victory over the Hufflepuff Quidditch team last weekend, though, and Harry doubted that he could have stopped Connor now with anything short of a Stupefy spell. "Why is Harry making a different potion than the rest of us, Professor Snape? None of the rest of us knows how to do it. Maybe he's just boiling water over there and tossing random ingredients in, and you're giving him points to make yourself feel better."
That touched off a few shocked giggles among the Gryffindors, which lasted precisely until Snape rounded on Connor.
"Giving points to Slytherin is the only thing that makes this wretched class tolerable for me, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his voice colder and softer than Harry had ever heard it. "It reminds me that competent Potions students do indeed exist in the world, and that I do not need to kill myself because none of my students can grasp the basics of my art. I do have talented students, simply not ones who are convinced that they know everything there is to know without my instruction—" a glance stabbed Hermione "—or who add any ingredient they please without bothering to read the instructions—" a cool stare at Ron "—or who speak up and disrupt the rest of the class to distract attention from their own incompetence." He was staring at Connor now. "Detention with me for a week, Mr. Potter, to be served at eight-o'-clock every night."
"But—" Connor said, and then slammed his mouth shut. He turned back to the glass-cleansing potion, his movements furious. Harry winced as he made three mistakes in the next minute.
Eight-o'-clock at night was the time that the Gryffindor Quidditch team had taken to practicing on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Harry looked up to see Snape watching him, expression merciless. Object, his eyes said, and I'll add more time to it.
Harry glanced away and bottled his potion, aware of both Snape's eyes on him, pleased, and his twin's eyes, wide and betrayed.
Harry was getting desperate.
It was the middle of March, and still neither Ron, Hermione, nor Connor had approached him about the Philosopher's Stone. Oh, there had been some sidelong stares, some conversations between the three of them that hushed when Harry walked into Gryffindor Tower, and some mutters between Ron and Hermione when he passed in the halls, but nothing like the coordinated effort to pry his secrets out of him that Harry had expected by now.
They had to move soon, Harry thought. The end of the school year was only a few months away. Come summer, Dumbledore would have the time and the leisure to move the Stone elsewhere, and probably would; Harry had the sense that keeping the Stone where it was had been a stopgap measure at best, always intended to be temporary. Then Connor would lose an easy chance at heroism, and a victory that would be truly his.
So Harry decided to lie, again. He knew that his brother's silence around him, his faint smiles and his deliberately shorter visiting times with Harry, were born of suspicion that Harry was actually enjoying the dubious attractions of Slytherin House. It shouldn't be too difficult to work with that, and get Connor to sit up and pay some fucking attention to what he was doing.
So, on a Wednesday night just before curfew, Harry went up to Gryffindor Tower. He gave the Fat Lady that week's password—strong of soul—and she opened. Harry glanced quickly around the common room, making sure to breathe loudly enough that everyone looked up at him.
"Where's Connor?" he asked.
"Upstairs," said one of the red-headed twins who were Ron's older brothers. Then he grinned. "Say, Harry—fancy trying a sweet?" He held out a tray of sweets covered with oddly-glowing spells. Harry would have known not to try any of them even if not for Connor's emphatic warnings to never eat anything the twins gave him, ever.
"No, thanks," he said, and then ran up the stairs to the first-year boys' room.
Connor was alone, thank Merlin, reading his Transfiguration book. He glanced up and gave Harry a distant smile.
"Harry," he said. "What's the matter?"
Harry exhaled loudly, shifted from foot to foot, and chewed his lip. He had the feeling he was overdoing it, but if he was too subtle, then Connor might not think anything was wrong. He did at least succeed in gaining his brother's attention, as Connor laid down his book and leaned forward.
"Harry," he said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," said Harry, shaking his head. "I thought I could talk to you, but—no, this was a bad idea. I'll leave." He turned towards the door.
Connor spelled the door shut before he could leave. Harry felt a moment of odd pride. The situation reminded him of his talk with Lucius Malfoy, though he suspected it would turn out far differently. For one thing, Harry was utterly in control of this conversation.
That made him feel odd, so odd that he missed Connor's next query, and only snapped back to reality when his brother shook his shoulder. "Harry, I think we should go to Professor McGonagall," he said, looking almost frightened. "Or, at least, Hermione."
"No," Harry whispered. "I have to talk to you. You're the only one I trust."
Connor perked up considerably. "What is it, Harry? You know I'll help however I can."
Harry met his brother's eyes and said, "Connor, there are whispers in the dungeons. I think that someone's plotting something. Maybe not the Slytherins, but they all know about it. They stop talking whenever I walk into the room." He made sure not to lay any emphasis on the words, so as not to say that he thought the Gryffindors were doing the same thing.
Connor leaned nearer, eyes wide. "And what do you think they're talking about?"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Harry whispered. "I'm sorry that I didn't come and talk to you about this before, Connor, but—but I suppose I thought I was betraying Slytherin honor. I'm sorry. I didn't think."
Connor sat back from him. "So what changed your mind?" he asked. "Did you finally realize there's no such thing as Slytherin honor?"
Harry stared at him. That, he hadn't expected. He supposed that Connor had been spending more and more time with Ron, since he hadn't spent it with Harry, and that that had influenced him.
For just a moment, he felt the most nonsensical urge to insist that his Housemates did too have honor.
Harry shook it off. He couldn't afford silliness like that. He had to hurry up and give Connor the clues that he needed, and then get back to the dungeons before he was missed. Snape was given to checking at least once a week in the tunnels around the dungeons, to insure that all his charges were safe in the common room, and he hadn't done it yet this week.
"You could be in danger," he whispered. "That's what changed my mind."
"Why?" Connor asked, and his face became skeptical. That was one of the things that Harry loved most about him, how open and malleable his face was. His expressions changed from moment to moment, and it was always possible to tell what he was thinking. He didn't hide his emotions under the layers of deception that Slytherins used, that Harry himself had learned to use before he ever came to Hogwarts. "I don't think the Stone has much to do with me, Harry."
"But think who might want the Stone," Harry whispered. "And think about the way they stop talking around me."
It didn't take Connor more than a few moments to make the connection. His hand flew up and settled on his scar, and he winced, going pale. "Voldemort," he whispered.
Harry nodded, his second impulse. His first had been to correct Connor from the use of Voldemort's name to the use of "Dark Lord," which really was a sign that he'd been around Slytherins too long. "I think that's it. And I think that you need to try and find the Stone. I've been looking, but I don't have many clues." He could reveal the clues later, dependent on another lie, if Connor really did need them.
Connor chewed his lip. "We could find them," he said. "Ron, and Hermione, and I."
Harry bowed his head. "You don't trust me. I understand."
Connor's hand touched his shoulder, and Harry looked up. "It's not that, Harry," Connor said earnestly. "I swear it's not that. But—well, Hermione's good at research, and Ron's good at telling me things I never knew about wizarding history and Gryffindor history and how everyone thinks of the Boy-Who-Lived, and I'm good at deciding what to do. And Ron doesn't trust or like you as much anymore, and Hermione's not sure. Please? It's just for a little while. There's no reason for you to involved, since you're not the Boy-Who-Lived, and you'll be in danger, now that Slytherin House is talking about it, if you show too much interest."
Harry felt his heart jump a little. There was both the independence and the Gryffindor attitude he'd wished to encourage. "All right," he said. "Whatever you think best, Connor."
His twin hugged him, hard and unexpectedly. "Thank you, Harry," he said. "For coming and telling me, I mean. I know that it can't have been easy for you, even if Slytherin honor doesn't exist."
Harry hugged him back, and hurriedly sneaked out of the Tower, since it was almost curfew. He held the memory of the hug to himself, and the fact that Connor trusted him, and tried to ignore the ridiculous hurt that Connor had said those things about Slytherin House. They were true, weren't they, to anyone outside the House?
And, besides, Harry could recognize the potentially dangerous signs in himself. Sometimes he thought he could slide away from Connor's side, to find friendships and causes of his own in Slytherin. And that was something he couldn't afford. He was born and trained to fight at Connor's side, to defend him from Voldemort until he was old enough to save the world.
He couldn't afford any other allegiances, any other loyalties. He had to remind himself of that.
Snape waited outside the common room door. He smirked when he saw the lone boy trailing back towards it, face bowed so that he didn't watch where he was going. But his head snapped up when he was still a distance from Snape, and his eyes were wide and wary for a moment before his face shut down even further than it did in class.
Snape was proud of that. Harry was better at controlling his emotions than he had been when he first came to school, and that was saying something. Someone—Lily?—had tutored him very well in that already. Snape intended to push him until the boy could lie with his face, which still wasn't possible for him yet. At best, he could convey blankness that made it difficult to tell what he was feeling.
"Well, well," Snape drawled, stepping away from the wall. "What do we have here, Mr. Potter? An insistence on wandering the halls at night. One might wonder why."
Harry was still, not even the sound of his breathing audible. He waited for Snape to say what he wanted to say and then leave.
Snape moved a few steps closer, bringing his shields up further. He knew it was impossible. All the laws of magic insisted it was impossible. But if it were not impossible, he would have said that Harry's power had grown since he started attending Hogwarts. Snape certainly needed to raise his shields higher each time. Of course, that could be the effect of familiarity with Harry.
"This next week," he snapped, "you will begin working on fifth-year potions in our class."
Harry inclined his head, but said nothing.
"I will also begin lending you extra books on the art of potions," Snape continued. "You will read them. You will master them before the end of the year. I do not intend to let you take the books back home with you over the summer, for one mutt to chew to pieces in his moon-rage and another to piss on them."
Harry's shoulders lifted, but he only nodded.
"And finally," Snape finished, whispering now, "instead of creeping off into the deserted areas of the school to practice your spells, you will come to me. You are very good at defensive magic, Mr. Potter, but your offensive spells need work. You must be able to attack, not only defend. It will cost your brother dearly some day if you do not know how to do it. You saw that with the Lestranges."
Harry's eyes did show a bit of shock this time before they closed in resignation. Then he nodded again. He stepped past Snape, whispered the password, and vanished into the Slytherin common room.
Snape watched him go, well-contented. Harry had acted considerably more Slytherin ever since he had come back from Christmas with Draco Malfoy. That he had survived Lucius was testimony enough to the boy's character—or, as he still insisted on seeing it, the lack of it—but Harry had also taken to keeping secrets, talking more often with the other Slytherin students, walking and standing like Draco, and reacting in class like a pureblood heir. Snape wondered if the boy realized it.
Then he snorted. Of course not. If he did, he would rush to reject such mannerisms.
It was tiresome, sometimes, Snape reflected, that he could not merely tell Harry what he wished to do—raise the reputation of Slytherin House once again—appeal to the boy's ambition, and enlist him as an ally. But he knew Harry would recoil if he suspected that real reason, and he would utterly refuse to act against his brother if he thought that Snape might ultimately do something worse to Connor than detentions during Quidditch practice.
No, he had to break Harry of his loyalties first before he could explain why he had broken them, and coax him out of Connor's shadow before he could show him what that shadow had done.
Snape turned back to his offices with a swirl of his robes. Patience, he counseled himself. Patience. You have waited this long. You have your candidate. You are training him. Before his seventh year, everyone shall see Slytherin rise again.
That is soon enough.