Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter! Review responses up in a little while.
I adore this chapter. It is not entirely happy, but it makes Harry happy.
Chapter Twenty-One: A Renewal of Bonds
Harry glanced up and caught Lockhart's eye a moment before he knocked his books and his ink off his table. The ink bounced and sprayed in every direction, coating his books and a good portion of the other Slytherins' robes before finally coming to rest. Harry bit back a smile. He should be looking horrified, like everyone else. No one else would understand that his grin came from the nonverbal Levitation Charm he'd performed on both the bottle and the ink simultaneously, to insure that it went in all the right directions.
"Mr. Potter!" Lockhart exclaimed as he swooped down on them. "That is a very naughty mess that you have just created! What is your explanation for it?"
"Sod off, Professor," said Harry pleasantly, and then bent down to pick up his books. There was silence for a long moment, save for Millicent's hastily stifled guffaw. Harry could almost feel Lockhart wondering if Harry was enjoying the opportunity to criticize him without Lockhart being able to retaliate in any way but the one they'd agreed on.
That's a silly thing to wonder about, Harry thought as he straightened and smiled at Lockhart's shocked expression. Of course I am.
"Mr. Potter!" Lockhart managed to splutter at last. "I am surprised at you! Showing such disrespect to a teacher, and one who has achieved more than you ever will, no less! Your brother, now, he might rival me if he applied himself a bit more. But not you!"
Harry couldn't help himself. He held Lockhart's eye and raised his brows. Both of them knew what his "achievements" were really worth. Harry couldn't believe that he'd used that line on him.
Lockhart waved a finger at him. "Detention, young man!" he said. "Come to my office at noon on Sunday. You'll stay until all my fan letters are properly answered."
"Of course, sir," said Harry, and sat down in his seat again, ignoring the ink that still smeared the legs of the table. Let Lockhart clean it up. It would do him good to perform a useful spell for once.
He calmed his urge to grin at Lockhart's back. He was only doing this for Connor. That was the only reason he was acting like a Slytherin. He had to remember that, or he was too likely to start acting like one for its own sake.
"Good one, Potter."
Harry turned around and stared curiously at Millicent. "What do you mean, Bulstrode?"
"I can't imagine why you want detention with the grinning git," said Millicent, turning back to her quiz on Lockhart's adventures with the Baden Banshee, "but it seems as though you're getting what you wanted."
Harry carried on staring at her for a moment. Millicent, he decided at last, was just unconscionably nosy.
"What does she mean?" Draco whispered to him. "What do you want detention with him for?"
Harry, too aware of the listening ears behind them, shook his head. "I'll tell you later," he said.
He wrote for a few more moments, then gave Millicent a glare for good measure. She just smirked back at him, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
Stop looking at me, Harry thought, and that helped to reassure him. He couldn't have grown too far away from what he was supposed to be, if he was still nervous about the attention.
Did you see the look on his face? Sylarana asked as they walked towards Lockhart's office on Sunday. She was wrapped around Harry's neck, for once, flashes of her golden scales visible where his robes fell away. Her head rested just below his chin. Draco, I mean. When you told him that he wasn't coming with you?
Harry nodded. He was too embarrassed to say anything aloud yet. Draco had assumed he was going with Harry to the detention to confront Connor, once Harry told him what it was about, and then thrown a fit when Harry revealed that he wanted to talk to his brother alone. Harry had calmly answered him until Draco finally flung himself on his bed to sulk.
Then he had noticed that bloody bottle that Harry had given him, and noticed that it was purple, which indicated that Harry felt protective towards Draco. That had made Draco immediately smile and begin teasing Harry about how he wanted to keep the poor little Malfoy safe from his big nasty brother. Harry had tried to answer, but ended up flushing and getting away as fast as he could.
Think about the funny things, Sylarana instructed him. It is beyond me why you must think of the depressing ones.
Harry sighed in relief as he finally reached the door of Lockhart's office. He already knew the git wasn't there; he had overheard Connor talking and saying that his detention began at five minutes before noon, so the professor would have summoned him and made some excuse to slip away.
Harry let out a long, slow breath, then said, I think it's time for you to think about something depressing. He unwound Sylarana from his neck, and she let him, absolutely astonished. He put her on the floor. When I said that I was going to talk to my brother alone, I meant it.
But if I get too far from you, the ward will sound and the cage will fall down around me. Sylarana sounded absolutely childish, her tail lashing so hard that it hit the wall. I hurt myself, she whined.
I must, said Harry. And as long as you don't move too far away from the door, then the ward won't activate. I know it falls at a greater distance than ten feet.
You think I'm going to sit here and wait for you like a dog?
Harry shook his head. As you pointed out, the ward and the cage are the only things waiting for you if you don't. He pushed open the door and stepped inside before she could complain about anything else, and shut it behind him. Of course, a piece of thick wood wouldn't stop her from speaking in his head, but he thought she would respect this meeting enough not to do so.
Maybe.
Connor sat in a chair in front of Lockhart's desk, wearily sorting through a large pile of post. One pile, mostly pink and blue letters on scented paper that Harry could smell from here, looked like women's letters. There was a smaller, white pile in front of Connor, and a gold pile off to the side.
"I'm almost done with the sorting, Professor," Connor said, without looking behind him. "Which pile do you want answered first?"
Harry closed his eyes. His brother sounded so tired. Of course it was tiring, having all the school against you. And Connor didn't have the comfort of an entire House rallying around him, the way that the Slytherins had rallied around Harry after he declared that he was a Parselmouth.
Truly, his life is harder than mine is. It's easy to forget that when he's acting like such a prat, but it's the truth.
"It's me, Connor," he said quietly.
Connor jumped as if stung, dropped the last few letters he held, and whirled around without getting out of the chair. His eyes had narrowed, and so many emotions flashed across them that Harry was momentarily astonished. He was too used to being around people who controlled their emotions now, or at most showed only one, the way that Draco tended to. But in Connor's eyes were weariness, sorrow, anger, desperation, and fear.
He's afraid of me. My own brother is afraid of me.
Harry braced himself. This was one of the things they would speak about, then. At least it made a fresh start to an argument, the way that trying to talk to Connor about Tom Riddle or Quidditch simply didn't anymore.
"Why are you afraid of me?" he asked.
Connor gaped at him a moment, then drew himself together and snapped, "I'm not! Gryffindors are never scared!"
Oh, Connor, thought Harry, feeling as if his heart could break for his brother. Your courage is your greatest virtue, but I could wish you weren't so stubborn.
"Yes, you are," he said. "You're scared of me, and I want to know why. Do you really think that I'm going to Petrify you, or hurt you? I would never do that, Connor."
"You've been hurting me almost every day since September," said Connor, staring at him.
Harry winced as he acknowledged the truth of that, but said, "I wouldn't hurt you on purpose, then. And I've come here to try to make it up to you."
"How can you?" Connor muttered, sounding sulky and rebellious. He was grinding his chin into the back of the chair now, and his hands were clenched together. "You can't change the past, and you can't give me my Quidditch victory back, and you can't make it so that you never Petrified Luna or Neville."
Harry held onto his temper. He was not going to let Connor turn this argument onto those overtrodden paths. "Connor," he said quietly, "I want to know why you're afraid of me. I want to know why you lied and told Ron and Hermione that you came to see me when you never did. I want to know why, every time I've tried to repair our arguments in the past several months, you've never listened, but always run away like a hurt, spoiled child. That's not who you are. I know that's not who you are. The brother you are is the one who welcomed me even when he found out I was a Parselmouth, who said I was good even after I was Sorted into Slytherin. What's wrong with you? What's the root of all this?"
The terror in Connor's eyes was growing. He turned away from Harry and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering.
Harry took a tentative step forward. This was at least better than having Connor scream at him, but it felt as though someone were regularly punching him each time he saw his twin tremble. "Connor," he whispered. "What's wrong? It's something more than just having me look evil, isn't it?"
Connor gave the tiniest of nods.
"Tell me," Harry whispered.
"No!" Connor leaped off his chair and landed in front of Harry, his fists clenched and his eyes blazing. Harry recognized another attempt to move their argument back in the direction of old, familiar territory, territory where they would both be screaming too hard at each other to speak. "It's nothing, it's nothing you would understand, you wouldn't even care, you're too busy betraying me and hurting me to notice!"
Harry held onto his temper again. He wished now that he still had the box, since his anger was boiling and shifting about under the surface, and it would have been a great help to clear his mind so easily and efficiently.
But he reminded himself that there was something wrong here. There had to be something wrong. Connor had just admitted that there was. This was the most progress that Harry had made with his brother since the end of October, and it was now nearly the end of February. There was no way that he would let this slip away from him.
He'd missed Connor. He'd missed hearing his brother's voice, joking with him, laughing with him, trying to provoke him into a scowl. He'd missed knowing that his place in Connor's life was sweet and simple and uncomplicated, that Connor considered him always as a brother and friend and would never go to anyone else, even Ron, with news about something first. In reality, that part of their bond had disintegrated even earlier than October, since the moment Connor told Ron that he was having nightmares about Voldemort's attack rather than tell Harry.
It stops now. I want my brother back.
"I've never betrayed you, Connor, except in the service of an ideal greater than just brotherhood," he said calmly.
Connor stared at him, eyes narrowing. You're not following the script, his gaze said. I don't understand.
"I may sometimes have betrayed what you wanted of me," said Harry, his gaze firmly on Connor's. "But that doesn't matter. I've never betrayed the Boy-Who-Lived. And that is who you are, Connor, even though you haven't been acting like him these past few months."
Connor paled more than before. He choked out something, then immediately put a hand over his mouth, as though he hadn't meant to say that.
Harry stared at him. That—that was the thing that had been worrying Connor? Where had he got that idea?
If I find out it was from Snape, I am going to set a nasty trap for him in our next Occlumency lesson, that's for sure and certain.
Harry came forward, gripped Connor's shoulders, and forced his brother to meet his eyes. Miserable hazel eyes stared back. This was the emotion at the root of it all, Harry could see, though it had become clouded with self-loathing and self-doubt. Harry gently stroked his brother's hair back so that he could see the heart-shaped scar on his forehead more fully.
"You are the Boy-Who-Lived, Connor," he said. "Who else could have defeated Voldemort when he was a baby? Who else could have defeated him last year? I don't know where you got the ridiculous idea that you aren't. You are." He hugged Connor close, fiercely, and shut his eyes as he did it.
No wonder he's been acting like a prat. He thought he'd had his entire identity ripped away.
"No one—no one told me," Connor whispered. His words were barely intelligible, choked with months of pent-up anguish, but Harry had trained to understand this voice since they were both a year and a half old. He could make out what Connor was saying. "I just started—thinking. I thought about how much stronger magically you are than I am, Harry. And don't say you aren't," he added, though Harry hadn't gathered breath for a denial. "I know you are. I can feel it more, now. And then I thought about how long you fought V-Voldemort last year, and how you saved me from the troll, and the Lestranges. And I thought about how fast you fly. I thought it was your new broom that let you beat me in Quidditch, but it wasn't, was it? It was your own talent." He put his arms around Harry, holding him desperately. "And V-Voldemort attacked you this year, not me. Maybe he really wants you dead. Maybe you were the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry. You even have a scar, too."
Harry shook his head. He felt warm, and strong, and more certain than he ever had been of anything. His brother was holding him again.
"None of that matters, Connor," he whispered.
Connor seemed to be trying to pull away so that he could look into Harry's face, but Harry wouldn't let him. He just shook his head again. The world was the way it should be again. If only Harry had known that this was what was bothering his brother, he could have reassured him long ago.
"Power doesn't matter," Harry continued. "Voldemort is strong, and look at him. He's a Dark wizard, Connor, unable to love, unable to live. You defeated him the moment he approached you. Power doesn't make someone born to do something, not the way that love does. I may be strong, but it would mean nothing if I didn't love you. I'd turn to the Dark as easily as Voldemort did if I didn't have some kind of anchor holding me to the human side. More power just means more temptation."
Connor had stopped moving. Then he said slowly, "But Headmaster Dumbledore is even more powerful, and he's of the Light."
"Headmaster Dumbledore is one in a million," said Harry firmly. "He knows all the temptations, and when a Dark Lord appeared, he defeated him. That's because he knows that he wouldn't have been happy serving the Dark, that he would have been defeated eventually. He has wisdom, and that's better than power." He paused for a long moment. "Do you know who the next strongest wizard in the school is, after Professor Dumbledore and me?"
Connor shook his head. His hair rustled against Harry's cheek. Harry breathed in his brother's hesitant belief and felt it burst in him like song, like fireworks, like the feeling he had when he flew. He was the one who could give Connor reassurance. And this really was power. He could have thrown Tom Riddle off without a struggle now if he had tried to take possession of Harry's mind. Sheer magical power was as nothing against love.
"Professor Snape," he said, and felt Connor jolt. This time, he let his brother draw back and smiled into his face. "Yes, I know. That surprised me, too. But it's true. And Snape turned to the Dark for a long time, and had to fight his way back to the Light on a long and bitter road. So you see, Connor, wisdom has to be united with power, or it means nothing. You have the wisdom already." He dared to shove his brother's shoulder gently. "Though not so much as all that, or you could have come to me the moment you started suspecting this and I would have reassured you. Prat."
Connor slowly nodded. "And the Seeker talent?" he asked.
Harry snorted. "Do you really think being a good Seeker has anything to do with being the Boy-Who-Lived?"
"Well, no, I guess not," Connor said. "But I thought—I don't know. I thought I was supposed to be the best at everything because I was the Boy-Who-Lived, and I was letting everyone down if I wasn't. And I thought I was a better Seeker than you were." He leaned back and stared steadily into Harry's eyes.
Harry grimaced. He supposed that if he had to shed one of the gentle cloaks of concealment he'd wrapped Connor in, better that it be this one than one of the others. He didn't think Connor was quite ready to hear that Harry didn't expect to survive the Second War, that he assumed he would die defending Connor as Connor defeated Voldemort, and that he had embraced his future death joyously. "You're not," he said, and it hurt, and the expression on Connor's face revealed that it hurt him, too.
"But then why?" Connor asked. "Why hide that from me?"
"Because I thought it would be best if the Boy-Who-Lived looked to be good at everything, too," said Harry. "But Quidditch is a small arena to succeed in, in the end. Really, Connor, you've done much more damage to yourself in the school elsewhere."
Connor blushed and bowed his head. "In a minute," he said. "Tell me in a minute. First, tell me more about why you don't think that you're the Boy-Who-Lived. Voldemort attacked you, not me."
"Because he knew that would be the best way to make you miserable," said Harry sharply. "And it worked, didn't it?"
Connor stared at him with wide eyes.
"Have you ever felt so bad in these last few months as you felt then?" Harry asked, this time shaking Connor's shoulders slightly. He let his own pain creep into his voice, the mingled pain of losing Connor, of losing his place in the scheme of things as he understood it, and of knowing that part of him had rejoiced in the sudden freedom, shaking off its bonds as though they were actually chains and not bonds of love that Harry had assumed freely. "Have you ever spent so many days just chewing on your lip and wanting things to be different?"
Connor closed his eyes and began to cry.
Harry rocked his brother against his chest, and felt Connor's arms crush him frantically closer. "Voldemort did that because he knew it would hurt you," Harry whispered. "He knew that it would hurt you to make you think your own brother was capable of Dark things, and he made you doubt me, because you're so naturally of the Light." Connor stiffened in his arms, but Harry pretended not to notice, though he knew they would address it in a minute. "You can't let him get to you like this, Connor. Everyone needs you strong and shining. You've lived against him twice. You can get past this, too."
"And the scar?" Connor whispered, as if he were insistent that everything in his original list needed to be addressed before they could move on.
Harry snorted again. "Didn't you ever listen to Mum?" he scolded. "They came back after you defeated Voldemort. They know that you were the one who had the curse scar, Connor. They could feel that. They knew that a piece of ceiling had fallen and carved my head up. That's all."
"If yours was an ordinary wound, then it should have healed without a scar," Connor whispered stubbornly.
"Then so should yours have," Harry pointed out mercilessly. "Besides, Mum told me about this, the first time I asked her why I had a scar at all. She did try to heal me, but she was scared and shocky. They'd thought we were Voldemort's captives, thanks to Pettigrew's lies, and then come back to find us bleeding. She tried to help one of her children instinctively, but she's never been the best at medical magic, and she only healed it partially." He shrugged. "It's been the same for so long now that it would do me serious damage to have someone try to heal it again."
"And they tried to heal mine, too?" Connor whispered.
"Yes," said Harry, on firmer footing now. Lily had told him this part of the story, too. "They tried, but it wouldn't get further down than the heart mark it is right now. And then they realized it was a curse scar. You are the Boy-Who-Lived, Connor, and I don't want you to hear you doubt yourself again without coming and telling me about it."
Connor gave a little sob, and abruptly started trembling. Harry held him closer. "What is it?" he asked.
"But the Boy-Who-Lived is supposed to be of the Light," Connor whispered. "And what if I'm not?"
Harry frowned in perplexity. What can possibly be bothering him now? "What do you mean?"
"I—I learned that I have a magical gift," Connor whispered. "A Dark one. Worse than Parseltongue. I don't know what to do, Harry. I didn't know I was using it at first, and then I tried to quit, and then I tried to hide it, and it hurts knowing everyone would blame me for it and hate me, and I couldn't tell anyone if I couldn't tell you, and I was already angry and upset with you because I thought maybe you knew you were the Boy-Who-Lived and were just lying to humor me, and then I tried to forget about it—"
"Show me."
Connor froze, then swallowed. "But it's Dark."
"I showed you that I could speak Parseltongue," said Harry, stepping away from his brother. Connor swayed as if he would collapse without the support, but Harry stopped himself from going to him. Connor had to learn to start standing up and acting like the Boy-Who-Lived again, as soon as possible. He was, but everyone else needed to think so, too. "Show me this."
Connor closed his eyes, then opened them again and met Harry's gaze with a cool, calm directness.
Harry felt as though a wind had entered his body through his eyes. He could feel it curling around his mind. He could have stopped it using Occlumency, but, curious, he watched as it turned and rustled here and there, seeking he didn't know what.
Then it vanished, and he found himself taking a step forward that he hadn't known he was going to take. He blinked.
"You see?" Connor whispered. "I wanted you to take that step forward, so you did. It's compulsion, Harry." He looked sick with himself. "I didn't even realize I was using it to compel Hermione and Ron to go along with me at first, and then I let it go, and Hermione stopped believing in me. So did a lot of other people. Ron just stays with me because he's my friend, and that's wonderful, but—I used it! I have it! It's Dark, and I don't know what to do." With a wail of distress, he sat down hard on the floor of Lockhart's office.
Harry shook his head, smiling. Then he knelt down and hugged Connor, who promptly stopped trying to cry in his shock. "You really are a prat," he whispered to him. "You should have known that I would accept this. I accept all that you are, Connor, even when you are acting like a prat."
"But it's Dark," whispered Connor.
"Of course it is," said Harry, and ignored Connor's sudden attempt to break free from him. "Untrained. If it's untrained, then you're going to go around influencing people's minds for selfish purposes, and they won't know it. But if you're trained, then you can choose when to use it and when not to, and you'll know when it's best to use it and when it's not, too." He gave Connor's shoulders another little shake. "I can't believe that you were so worried about this that you ran around trying to hide it. Dumbledore has that ability, too, you know. You remember how he calmed down everyone in the Great Hall after they found out I was a Parselmouth? And you remember that he's of the Light? The greatest Light wizard?"
Connor sniffled once. Then he said, "I do remember that. But—that was a good thing. Someone might have hurt you, or someone might have fired off a spell meant for you and hit someone else."
"Very good," said Harry, and restricted the dry tone to his voice and the sarcastic things he wanted to say next. Connor wasn't really ready for that kind of humor yet. "It can be a good thing, Connor, just the way that I could have used Parseltongue to restrain Sylarana or command her to attack other people. It's Dark if you just let it run around untrained."
"Oh," Connor murmured.
"So go to Dumbledore," Harry encouraged him. "He can find you a teacher if he can't actually train you himself. He'll train you to use your compulsion ability, and then you'll be even more charismatic than you were before. This ability can be an asset to the Boy-Who-Lived, Connor. And once you have Dumbledore's wisdom, then you won't use it wrongly or selfishly."
Connor sniffled once. Then he said, "So you forgive me, Harry?"
"Of course," said Harry, shifting so that his arms were fully around his brother once more. "If you forgive me."
"Of course," Connor whispered back, and they sat there in silence for a few moments. Harry closed his eyes and savored the feeling of being purely happy. It had been rare this year. Even when he'd been in Connor's good graces, he'd been trying to distance himself from the Slytherins and Draco, and then he'd been their friend but distrusted by most of the school, and then he'd been Connor's enemy. Now he could think that everything was going to be all right, for the first time in a long time. His life had finally resumed the course it was meant to.
Then Connor stirred and said, "You said I'd done myself a lot of damage. What does that mean?"
Harry sighed and sat back, taking his brother's hand in his own. Connor's eyes were big and earnest, and he appeared willing to listen for the first time. Even this summer, Harry remembered, he'd fussed and sighed over the wizarding history their mother tried to make him learn.
"You need to be a leader," said Harry softly. "You need to lead everybody. That means that you need to lead Slytherins as well as Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and that you need to lead pureblooded wizards as well as halfbloods and Muggleborns."
"But I don't see why," said Connor, blinking at him. "I mean, when the Boy—when I defeat Voldemort, that will be it, won't I? They just need me to fight him. They don't need me to do anything else."
Harry smiled. If he had to destroy this piece of his brother's innocence, at least he could give him good news in its place.
"They do," he said gently. "You're their icon, Connor. You make them feel safe. You make them feel like you can't do anything wrong. There will be times when you mess up, of course, but you'll mess up less if you accept that you're a political leader, a war leader, as well as a fighter against Voldemort. I think you'll probably end up the next Minister of Magic if you want to."
Connor just stared at him. Harry could see that those were bigger dreams than he'd ever cherished. For a moment more, he held on to the idea of Connor as a child, playing, radiantly unselfconscious and ignorant of the eyes upon him.
Then he broke it. It was time to show Connor just who he really was, how much of the Light was in him.
"I know that you can forgive anyone," Harry whispered. "I know that you can unite anyone, once you put your mind to it. And that's what you'll need to do. The other Houses here distrust you. You'll have to put your mind to reassuring them and calming them down."
"Even the Slytherins?" Connor asked, with a sharp moue of distaste.
"Even them," Harry affirmed calmly. "They're not all like me, Connor, but they're not all like Lucius Malfoy, either. And with time and pressure enough, you may swing even the Death Eaters to your side."
"What makes you so sure?" Connor scowled at him.
"Because you are the Boy-Who-Lived," said Harry. He knew his own faith on this score was absolute, and he let it shine through his eyes. "You were chosen for that because you have such purity and love. Let it shine through, and they'll see and accept you for who you are. Who could choose to follow a madman like Voldemort when they see someone else standing with his arms open, accepting even purebloods and others who made a mistake in the past? Yes, they resisted Dumbledore, but he had a certain reputation long before Voldemort started his rise. You're different. You're new. You can make an impression on them that the Headmaster never dreamed of. You'll save us all, Connor. I really believe it."
Connor blinked, once. Then he said, "I—I can see it, Harry, and it's wonderful. I'd like to help make a world like that."
Harry buried his face in his brother's shoulder to hide a smile. He could see the vision, too: Connor, grown strong and mighty, shining with light after Voldemort's defeat, with men and women gazing up at him in awe as they listened to him mend old rifts and rectify old injustices.
And at his right shoulder stood Harry, wrapped in shadows, with no one paying attention to him beside his brother, but there.
Of course, they would never get there if they didn't start working to repair Connor's last few months of horrible, deeply undiplomatic behavior.
"The first thing you need to do," Harry said, "is make some gestures towards House unity."
Connor nodded. "What would you suggest?"
"A visit to Slytherin House," said Harry, with no hesitation at all.
Connor protested, of course, but Harry managed to persuade him after only a half hour of arguing. Then they left, Connor saying that he would apologize to Hermione and the rest of Gryffindor House, then go to the Headmaster and ask for training for his compulsion ability. Harry would go back to Slytherin and somewhat prepare them for Connor's visit the next weekend.
Connor paused at the bottom of the stairs and gazed solemnly at Harry. "Thank you, Harry," he said. "Thank you for loving me. I would never have learned this without you."
Harry managed not to wriggle with delight, but only by a stern effort with himself. He knelt, both to let Sylarana crawl up his arm again and in a gesture of submission to the Light's new leader. "Thank you, Connor. I love you. I believe in you."
Connor nodded once, face still uncertain, then blew out his breath and climbed the stairs.
Harry closed his eyes, soaking in the silence. He expected Sylarana to say something that would ruin the mood at any moment.
Of course I am not going to, she said. Why would I? It heartens me to see you so happy. I wish there was a way that you could be happy and show off at the same time, of course.
"There isn't," said Harry.
I know.
Harry decided that he wouldn't ask about the small sad tone in her words, and instead set off to the Slytherin common room. Draco would whine and rage and pout, and Millicent would smile too sharply, and the others would question.
Too bad, Harry thought, chin lifting higher. I might belong in Slytherin, but I belong with Connor, too. They're just going to have to learn to accept each other.