…And then there's this chapter. Which is not going to change the whole course of the plot, but which I envisioned turning out rather differently. Honestly, story.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Two Snakes in the Lions' Den"You are not visiting Gryffindor Tower without me," Draco declared, looking as though Harry had decreed he was going to go jump off the Astronomy Tower.
"I know that," said Harry, glancing casually up from the latest Transfiguration book he'd borrowed from the library. It contained interesting information on how to see someone in Animagus form. Harry didn't know if Voldemort had any unregistered Animagi running around his ranks, but he wouldn't put it past him, and in any case it might come in useful someday. Everything might come in useful someday. "I wasn't intending to."
That caught Draco with his mouth open and his eyes slightly widened, as though he were a cornered mouse McGonagall had decided to play with. Harry had often thought the Head of Gryffindor House must be more terrifying as a cat than she was as a woman, at least to things smaller than she was.
They sat there in silence for a while, and Harry learned that one sure way of telling an Animagus in animal form was to look at the color of their aura. Of course, he couldn't see auras yet. He bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully and wondered if he could learn.
Not yet, said Sylarana abruptly. Harry jumped a little. He had thought she had gone to sleep in the room's warmth. I think you might have the gift for it, but it takes more concentration than you have. And a more focused mind, she added. You're still using Occlumency to get through day-to-day.
Harry narrowed his eyes. I think I'm doing very well, considering—
Sylarana's head nudged him under the chin. You are doing very well, considering. Is that what you wanted to hear? But not well enough to see auras yet.
Harry felt irritation trying to rise, but he caught it and bounced it off one of his Occlumency shields, sending it into a dark and quiet corner of his mind. Sylarana hissed something about that becoming a second box if he kept it up. Harry ignored her. It was true that he needed Occlumency to get through day-to-day, but Snape had assured him that the breaches Riddle had opened in his webs were steadily filling with fog, and in some cases healed completely. He appeared to have lost no memories except a very few of his childhood.
"What?" Draco croaked at last.
Harry glanced up at him. "I thought we could visit Gryffindor Tower together," he said. "It's not going to make enough of an impression if I go by myself. The Gryffindors are uncertain right now, shifting around. They don't know what to think. And I think having someone they associate for sure with Slytherin among them will make it more difficult to ignore what House we come from."
"What if I said that I don't want to go now, and I don't want you to go, either?" Draco folded his arms and glared mutinously at him.
"You will," said Harry.
"Why?"
"Because otherwise I'll get annoyed at you for forcing me into that stupid race with Connor last weekend," said Harry. "I haven't got annoyed so far. I could, you know."
"That wasn't just my idea," Draco protested.
"I know that. But you're the one who cares the most if I'm annoyed with you," said Harry. "And you participated in it. You made sure that I couldn't get to Connor in time, along with the rest of them. And I heard you buttering him up about his performance in the last Quidditch match. You were trying to set him up for a fall, weren't you?"
Draco turned his head sulkily away.
"It was a stupid idea," said Harry, and turned pointedly back to his book.
"Harry?"
Harry ignored him.
"Harry? Please don't ignore me." The absolute desperation in his voice made Harry twitch, but he didn't turn back around. "All right, it was a stupid idea. And all right, we can visit Gryffindor Tower. Just don't be annoyed with me. Please. I went through that in the first weeks of last term, and I can't tell you how I suffered." The bed beside Harry dipped, and an arm wound through his. "Please?"
Harry sighed and clasped Draco's hand, glancing up at him. "Tell me what you were trying to do with that race."
"Separate you from your brother," Draco admitted, without enough of a flush for Harry's taste. "Harry, I don't understand why you want the Houses to unite so badly. We can learn to tolerate the Gryffindors—maybe. But does it have to be right now? And does it have to be behind Connor? I think you're pushing this too fast. Everyone thought you were mad and a Dark wizard, and then they thought Connor was a prat, and now suddenly you're back together and pushing pretty openly for us to join Dumbledore's side—Connor's side, I suppose, if you want to look at it that way. You know it's not that simple. You're not the only one doing a balancing act in Slytherin, you know. There's my father, for me."
Harry blinked once, then twice. "Then you admit your father was a Death Eater?" he asked at last. "And not under Imperius?"
Draco winced and glanced away from him.
"Draco?"
"I don't know," Draco whispered. "I think that it's likely, at least, and isn't that enough for right now?" He abruptly buried his head in Harry's shoulder, and shivered once, a bone-deep tremble that seemed to run from his shoulders to his toes. "I don't know what to do. I can't give up being a Malfoy. I love my parents."
"I would never expect you to give up being a Malfoy, or to stop loving them," Harry began gently.
"But I can't give you up, either," said Draco. "I can't."
Harry shifted around so that he wasn't twisted in quite so awkward a position, and draped his arms around Draco's shoulders. Sylarana hissed as she was forced to move. Harry ignored her again. "I don't want this struggle to tear you apart, Draco," said Harry. "I want you to be able to make a decision."
"But no matter what happens," Draco whispered, "I'm going to regret this decision."
Harry nodded. He wanted to say something comforting, but he didn't think he could. He switched the conversation back in its original direction instead. "And you think there are a lot of other Slytherins in the same situation?"
"Oh, Harry," said Draco, looking up with an unhappy smile, "I know there are. I'm sorry, but there are certain things they're just not going to talk about in front of you. Part of it's a pureblood thing, and part of it's a—a political thing. They've known me from childhood, a lot of them. They didn't know you."
Harry nodded. His head was throbbing, and he felt a bit numb. He had been moving too fast. He didn't want to take back his promise to visit Connor in Gryffindor Tower, but it seemed that it was going to be more complicated than he had thought it was.
Then he shook his head. It was always going to be more complicated than I thought it was. And I need to remember who I'm dealing with all the time. The children of Death Eaters are different from the ones who might be more receptive to the Light, and Gryffindors who think Dumbledore is great are different from the ones who don't care about him, and Ravenclaws who tease Luna are different from the ones who don't…
He caught his breath and leaned away from Draco. The other boy's hands tightened convulsively on him for a second, and then let go. Draco was watching him carefully, as though he expected Harry to leap up and declare that he couldn't stay in the same room with someone whose father had been a Death Eater.
"Make the visit to Gryffindor Tower with me," said Harry. "After that, we'll discuss different strategies for working in Slytherin. Will you help me?"
Draco smiled at him. "You know, all you had to do was ask."
"Mr. Potter."
Startled, Harry turned. He was just leaving Defense Against the Dark Arts, and here was McGonagall, swooping down on him. Harry braced himself, trying frantically to remember if he'd done anything wrong. "Yes, professor?"
"Come with me," said McGonagall, sweeping past him. "I would like to see you in my office, please."
Harry nodded to a bewildered Draco and followed McGonagall, now feeling more curious than concerned. Usually, if she really meant to get a student in trouble, her voice would have been cold and her eyes narrowed. Harry had the feeling that it was something else, this time.
They reached her office, and McGonagall led him inside, gesturing him to the chair Harry remembered from the time they'd discussed Transfiguration theory. He sat down, and accepted a cup of tea from her, all the while trying to keep his eyes from straying around the room. She had charts of things he didn't even recognize on the wall, and thought must be descriptions of esoteric transformations. He itched to study them, and see if he could work out what they meant. Perhaps they would be useful in battle.
McGonagall took a cup of tea herself and sat down across the desk from him. Her eyes narrowed at him for the first time, and Harry saw a glint of—worry?—in them. He shook his head, not understanding.
"Mr. Potter," said McGonagall quietly, "Headmaster Dumbledore has spoken with me."
"About what, ma'am?" Harry asked. He had no need to try and appear clueless, he thought. He really was.
"About—the argument that you and your brother had, about your new efforts to promote House unity and why that's important to us, and about why he is pleased to see Connor Potter turning into a leader." McGonagall sipped at her tea. "About everything, really, including why you care so deeply about your brother's success at this." She raised her eyebrows at Harry.
Harry let out his breath in a rush. So here was someone else he could speak to honestly. He was not sure if he should feel relieved or ashamed of his relief. It wasn't that difficult to keep the secret his mother had entrusted him with, or shouldn't have been.
"I'm glad you know, ma'am," he said. "You're Connor's Head of House. I thought you should know. I thought maybe you did," he added, "but not how much."
"I knew a little," said McGonagall, her voice treading carefully. "But only bits and pieces. And—I do not think I understand now, not fully. There is a difference between knowing and understanding, as I have often tried to remind Miss Granger." She put her teacup down on her desk with a faint clink. "In particular, Mr. Potter, I brought you here to answer a question, one that I believe only you can answer fully."
Harry arched his brows curiously. "I'll answer it if I can, ma'am, but I'm not sure what it can be. I'm trying to help Connor, but I can't see everything he'll become. Headmaster Dumbledore would be better at that."
"The Headmaster has told me what he can," said McGonagall. "Now, Harry, I need you to tell me something."
"Of course," said Harry, sitting up attentively. She had used his first name for a reason, he was sure. It was important. He wondered if she had noticed some oddity in Connor's behavior that she wanted explained.
"Did you choose this?"
Harry felt his jaw drop open, and he stared at her. McGonagall was gazing at him sternly, her hands clasped in front of her. There was such a confusing mixture of emotions in her eyes that Harry was not sure which one he should pick out to address first. There was sorrow, and anger, and shock, and pity.
Well, that last one he didn't understand at all, so he would approach the others instead.
I know why she pities you, Sylarana whispered into his head.
You be quiet, Harry snapped back, and said, "You're talking about my duty to my brother, Professor McGonagall?"
She nodded, once, a sharp bob of her head that reminded him of the way an eagle might peck at something. Her eyes certainly seemed eagle-sharp now, with the anger tightening her face. "Yes, Harry. I want to know if you chose it. Headmaster Dumbledore has assured me that you did. Now I want to hear it from you."
"Of course I did," said Harry, his puzzlement growing by the second. He knew the reasons and ways that Professor McGonagall was loyal to Professor Dumbledore. He could not fathom why she wouldn't trust his word. But, if she wanted additional reassurance, then she would get it. Their mother had warned him that it would be hard for someone outside the family to understand.
"Of course I did," he repeated, when he saw that she didn't seem to believe him. "Really, Professor McGonagall, I did. I've trained hard all my life for the moment when I can defend him. I'm trying to help him with politics and House unity now, but I'm afraid it's not working out well yet," he added, with a small smile. "And then we had this argument, and it was nasty for both of us. But it's been resolved. In fact, Draco and I are coming to visit Gryffindor Tower and Connor this weekend."
McGonagall closed her eyes. Harry was beginning to wonder what she had wanted to hear. His word was not enough, and neither was Professor Dumbledore's. Perhaps he should owl their mother. Lily was good at persuading people of the truth; she had persuaded Sirius, after all, and from what she had said in her last letters, she was working on persuading James.
"I would normally trust the Headmaster's word," McGonagall whispered at last. "But for something as profound as this—the sacrifice of a child…"
"Lots of people sacrificed in the First War, Professor," said Harry, and then shut up, because doubtless she'd sacrificed a lot, too, maybe even seen some students die, and he didn't think he had a right to lecture her.
"I know that, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, and opened her eyes. "But even the youngest who fought were older students, old enough to know what the threat of You-Know-Who meant. You are the youngest warrior I have ever heard of."
"Connor was younger when he defeated Voldemort, ma'am," said Harry, comfortable now. She was about to accept his word. He was sure of it. There was no reason she wouldn't. "Much younger."
McGonagall smiled faintly, but her eyes were troubled, and too intense when they rested on him. "You will come and talk to me, Mr. Potter, if you ever feel—pressured or constricted by your role?"
"Of course," said Harry. "I can't imagine that happening, ma'am, but it's true that we've got a long road ahead of us, and I might like to talk to you sometimes." He could feel himself relaxing. It was no good going to Draco about these things, not when he had his own burdens, and Snape would snap at him. McGonagall was a good choice, a safer choice. She was a Gryffindor. Gryffindors understood sacrifice better than most Slytherins would. "If you don't mind?"
McGonagall shook her head, eyes shadowed. Then she stood and moved around the desk, kneeling in front of him. Once again, as she had when he was being accused of Petrifying people, she hugged him. Harry hugged her back this time, because, this time, he thought he understood. She wanted reassurance that he was not going mad because of his role. He was not. He was happy, busy but happy.
"Please come talk to me, Mr. Potter," she whispered, "if what you think is impossible happens, and you grow tired."
"Of course," said Harry, still not comprehending how he could, really, but willing to say that, since it made her relax and let him go. He smiled at her and trotted off, his mind already filling with plans.
Tomorrow was the visit to Gryffindor Tower, the first time he had been there in months. He wanted to make sure that everything was ready, including his new goal for the time he left.
It was time to see how well Connor had made up with his Housemates.
"Honeysuckle," said Harry to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and she swung outward, though she was still staring at the Slytherin crests on their robes as though she couldn't believe they were there.
"Did Connor give you the password for this week?" Draco asked behind him, as they stepped into an immense silence.
"Of course," Harry muttered.
"And you didn't use it to come in and play pranks on the Gryffindors?" Draco shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Harry, Harry, Harry. I am so very disappointed in you."
"This is exactly the kind of stupid thing I don't want you doing," Harry muttered at him, and to his gratification, Draco shut up.
"Harry! Malfoy!"
Harry turned his head, smiling, ignoring the frozen, hostile stares from the chairs around the hearth. It seemed that Connor hadn't told his Housemates that two Slytherins were visiting. Or perhaps he had told them it was only his brother. The Gryffindors were used to Harry visiting them. They wouldn't be sure about a Malfoy, especially a Malfoy who was currently sneering at the common room's color scheme.
Connor came down the stairs from the second-year boys' room, waving at them. His eyes were so bright that Harry relaxed further. It was going to be all right, he told himself. It really was. They wouldn't achieve House unity today, or tomorrow, or next year, but eventually, they would. And Connor would know how best to do it in Gryffindor House, as Harry had in Slytherin.
Except that it turned out you didn't know very well how to do that, did you? a voice that sounded like his own murmured to him.
Harry ignored it. No, he hadn't. He had made a mistake and he was going to fix things, with Draco's help. He didn't see why his mind muttering at him about mistakes was going to change things. A mistake was not a crime.
But it can still cost. Look what Connor's mistakes have cost him.
Harry ignored that, too, because Connor had reached the bottom of the stairs and was hugging him. Harry returned the embrace, then stepped back and looked expectantly between Draco and Connor.
Draco stuck out his lower lip, but Harry's gaze didn't yield, so he stalked forward and put out his hand in Connor's general direction. Connor shook it with equal stiffness, and said, from between gritted teeth, "Malfoy."
"Potter." Not even Snape could have sneered their last name so effectively, Harry thought. It made Connor flush and drop Draco's hand.
"Look here—" he began.
"Harry. Malfoy."
Harry blinked as Hermione came down the stairs from the girls' dormitory, her footsteps loud even among the mutters that had sprung up around their entrance. She walked straight past Connor as if he didn't exist and stretched out a hand. Harry shook it. She turned and held out her hand to Draco then.
Draco frowned. Harry could almost see him recoiling at the idea of having to touch a Mudblood.
Then he met Harry's eyes and stretched out his hand. His shake with Hermione was perfunctory, but still less stiff than the one he'd shared with Connor. Hermione nodded, as if satisfied, when he let go of her hand.
"You can come sit over here," she said, and marched them both off to a corner of the common room. There were several first-years sitting there, but she made them move with a look. Harry raised an eyebrow. For some reason, he hadn't thought Hermione was as bossy outside of the classroom as she was inside it, but it seemed he'd been wrong.
"Sit down," said Hermione, and Harry made himself comfortable, while Draco made himself the least uncomfortable he could. Hermione took a seat across from them and gave Harry a bright, brittle smile. "So. How's your month been?"
"Less eventful than it seems yours has been," Harry muttered back to her. "Did Connor not apologize?"
"Not enough," said Hermione tartly. "He did that to me, and then he just thought he could wave it off."
"He did what?" Draco asked in interest.
"Nothing you need to know about," Harry told him, and Draco pouted and sank back on the couch. He turned back to Hermione, trying to conceal his surprise. Connor had seemed so sweet with him, and had taken his loss of their race last weekend so well, and had done very well among the Slytherins, considering. That he hadn't managed to make up with one member of his own House was surprising.
"Harry."
Harry glanced over the back of the couch. Connor was standing there, biting his lip and fiddling with his hands.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm trying. But it's an uphill struggle with some people." He scowled at Hermione.
"You were in my head," said Hermione, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. Harry, for the first time, reflected that she could be intimidating when she wanted to be, and not only because of her intelligence. "And then you tried to make a joke out of it. I don't like that." Her voice was rising, and heads were turning all over the common room. Or perhaps they'd always been turned, Harry reflected, and he was noticing their gazes more.
"I didn't mean to do it, though," said Connor, a flush coming into his cheeks. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Not when you treat it as a joke."
Harry stood up in alarm. Hermione's friendship with Connor mattered to him, or he would never have tried to compel her belief in the first place. And it seemed as though he was close to inflicting a few more months of wear and tear on that friendship.
Harry caught sight of Ron, frozen on the stairs, and looking as though he didn't know whose side to take. Harry made a silent appeal to him for help, and Ron shook his head, but jogged over.
"Hey, mate," Ron said, putting a hand on Connor's shoulder. He spared the obligatory scowl for Draco, but was more focused on Connor, for which Harry was grateful. "Maybe making it a joke wasn't the best thing you could have done with Hermione." He shrugged. "It worked with me, but I'm different."
"You're a boy," Hermione uttered direly, as if that explained everything.
Ron glanced at her nervously, then looked back at Connor. "Yeah, and girls want apologies," he said.
"I apologized." Connor looked stubborn.
"Not the right way." Hermione stamped her foot.
Harry shot a quick glance around the Gryffindor common room. He saw interest on many faces, but not a whole lot of sympathy. He sighed. It seemed that he had assumed Connor'd made much more progress here than was actually the case.
"Connor, can you apologize the right way, please?" he asked. "It won't take all that much more time, and then I think Hermione would think of you better." He looked at Hermione, to see if this was actually the case.
Hermione nodded. "Well, a little, anyway," she added. "And then it wouldn't be a bloody joke to him."
Harry winced. When Hermione swore, things were serious.
"But I apologized," said Connor. "I don't see why I should have to do it twice."
"You apologized to me more than once," Harry said quietly. "Connor, she's one of your best friends—or she was. Please?"
Connor glared at him, then at Hermione, then at Ron, who just nodded slightly, instead of giving him the support for only one apology that he obviously wanted. Connor sighed huffily.
"All right, I'm sorry," he said. "There. Is that enough?"
Hermione eyed him for a long moment. Then she said, "Maybe. If you still mean it in the next week, then I'll accept it." She turned and glanced at Harry. "Thank you, Harry, for making your brother see sense."
She went off, head held high. Harry shook his head at her back and glanced back at Connor. "Rocky road, then?"
Connor tightened his lips for a moment. Then he said, "She just wasn't in the right mood to hear it joked about, I guess."
"Wonderful. A deduction that didn't come from either Granger or Harry," Draco drawled from his corner of the couch. "I sometimes have hope that you use your brain for something other than screaming at your brother about Quidditch games after all, Potter."
Connor flushed further, and took a step forward, as though he would go around the couches to get at Draco. Harry stepped in front of him, and Ron tightened the clasp of his hand on Connor's shoulder.
"Don't, mate," he said. "He's not worth it."
"I heard that, Weasley," said Draco. "I am too worth it."
"Will you shut up?" Harry appealed to Draco, and then faced Connor. "Please, Connor. You know what Draco's like. And you know what Hermione's like." He paused, considered rephrasing the question, and in the end decided he had to know what Connor's answer would be when it was phrased exactly like this. "Why did you apologize to her that way, when you knew she wouldn't take it well?"
"I apologized to Ron that way, and he took it well," Connor defended himself.
"But he's not the same person as Hermione," Harry pointed out, controlling his exasperation with an effort. "Never mind that he's a boy and she's a girl, she's a different person, Connor."
Connor bit his lip. Harry could see him struggling with the temptation to admit that he knew that, to admit that he'd been wrong, and that his stubbornness was once again costing him one of his friendships.
But it seemed that he wasn't quite ready to admit that, at least in front of everyone else. Harry thought he would have done it if they'd been alone. Instead, he raised his chin and said, "Why can't anyone just take a joke?"
"That's what we've been wondering," said a voice from behind Connor and Ron. "Many times a day, I say to myself, Fred, why can't anyone just take a joke?"
"That's right," said a second voice. "And I say to myself, George, anyone ought to be able to take a joke, especially people who complain about others not being able to take a joke."
"Right," said Fred's voice. "And when they don't—"
"Then we show them up. Ready, Fred?"
"Ready, George. Exhibeo!"
Connor's robes, and the clothes under them, abruptly shimmered and turned transparent. He gave a shriek and tried to cover himself, hunching over as though he thought that would protect him. It couldn't protect him from the shocked laughter already ringing out across the common room, of course, laughter that even Ron was apparently having trouble refraining from joining in. Of course, he turned around in the next moment and bellowed, "Fred! George!"
"Yes, Ronnie-kins?" asked one of the twins. Harry, pulling off his own robe to toss around his brother, saw them both standing behind Connor and grinning like idiots. From the voice, he thought it was Fred who responded. "Did something happen to one of his friends that ickle Ronnie-kins doesn't like?"
Ron bellowed and ran at them. The twins nimbly dodged his fists and ran off around the common room, heading for their own room. Ron made it as far as the stairs before he slipped on something that definitely hadn't been there when he came down and slid back into the common room.
"Anyone should be able to take a joke, Ron," George called back down. "Remember that!"
And then they slammed the door of their room behind them, cutting off their own congratulatory chortles..
Most of the people in the common room were still laughing. Harry tuned them out and bent over Connor. "What is it?" he asked. "Something on your robes, or on your skin?"
"Must be my robes," Connor whispered back. "I th-thought they felt a little heavier this morning, but I didn't know what—" He turned his face away, breathing hard, so deeply embarrassed that Harry thought it would be cruel to make him speak again.
He felt a small round object in one of Connor's pockets, and levitated it carefully out; he didn't think touching it would make his own clothes go transparent, but he couldn't be sure. He examined it as it floated in front of him. It looked like a gray stone, probably an ordinary pebble, imbued with a spell Harry had never seen before. It would be the spell to turn clothes transparent when the command word was uttered, Harry was sure. He scowled. There was no denying the twins were magical prodigies, but why did they have to pick on his brother, of all people?
"It's gone now," Connor whispered, shrugging off Harry's robe. Underneath, his own clothes were back to normal. "Thanks."
Harry nodded, then turned and looked at the little pebble. Drawing his will up wasn't a problem under the circumstances, and the pebble cracked clean through and shattered.
He caught Connor's wide eyes and shrugged. "At least they'll have to make another one if they want to do that to you again," he muttered.
"Thanks," Connor repeated, and then closed his eyes, his cheeks reddening further at the furtive snickers still sneaking around the common room. "I think you'd better go, Harry."
Harry sighed. He agreed. Their visit had been an unmitigated disaster. He nodded to Draco, who popped to his feet and dusted off his robes as though dusting loose all the Gryffindor diseases he was sure to get from sitting on Gryffindor furniture. Luckily, he followed Harry without much prompting, and without, most importantly, saying anything until they were outside the portrait.
Then he said, "I told you he was still being a prat."
Harry scowled. "You made it worse," he said. "Well, you, and Hermione, and the twins." He started back to the dungeons at a pace that forced Draco to hope and scrabble to keep up.
"Really?" Draco echoed mockingly. "All of us? None of this would have happened in the first place if your brother weren't so stubborn, Harry. I'll grant you he's changed a little, but I don't think it'll be enough until he changes towards other people and not just you."
"He made a mistake," Harry muttered, knowing he sounded sulky, and not caring.
Draco gripped his arm, forcing him to stop. "Yes, he did," he said calmly, meeting Harry's eyes. "And the sooner you make him see that, the better off everyone will be."
Harry nodded. Perhaps he did need to have another talk with Connor, before all was said and done.
He ignored the worm of doubt that was squirming at him, the part of his mind laughing in the same taunting voice as before.
You don't want to admit that it's Connor who's the problem, not everyone else. You don't want to admit that maybe Connor just isn't what you want him to be—not smart enough, not perceptive enough, not talented enough yet, not committed to all the things that you think he ought to be committed to.
"Shut up," Harry muttered, glad that Draco would only think he was talking to Sylarana.
Actually, I agree with your thoughts this time, Sylarana said primly in his head. You'll have to shape and mold Connor himself, not just the others, if you want him to be a leader.
Harry nodded quickly. He'd never doubted that, he reassured himself. Of course Connor needed practice. Of course he knew this would take time.
But he would never think that his brother just wasn't the right person for the task. The Boy-Who-Lived was going to be important to the wizarding world, like it or not, by simple virtue of who he was, and Harry would much rather that it be a good importance than the kind of importance that would make the Daily Prophet attempt to smear him and call him mad, the way they had done to Headmaster Dumbledore in the past. He would be their hero, or he would be their scapegoat. They weren't just going to forget about him.
Maybe he just isn't right for this task at all, and you should abandon your hopeless efforts to make him so.
Harry threw that thought through one of the holes in his mind not yet filled with the Occlumency fog. There were some things he refused to think.