Thank you for the reviews yesterday! I'll get the review responses up soon.
This is a noisy chapter, compared to the previous ones. It's also a chapter I realize people might not like very much. Um, sorry.
Chapter Eight: Omens of a Leadership Accepted
Harry lay on his bed in the Slytherin dorms and gnawed on his lip as he stared up at the Marauder's Map. He could see both Sirius and Connor clearly—positioned in a room on the seventh floor. They hadn't moved in hours.
He was fighting down the temptation to go and ask if his brother was all right. Connor had spent both days of the weekend with Sirius, as Harry had learned from a run-in with Ron that morning. He didn't appear to do any homework. He hadn't come to the Great Hall to get something to eat. He wasn't doing anything that Harry would say was normal and everyday for Connor to do.
Could he really be taking his duties as seriously as that?
Harry sighed and started to speak the words to clear the map, then paused as one of the dots abruptly left the room. He watched as "Connor Potter" moved downwards through Hogwarts, and only admitted the truth when he saw the dot approaching the dungeons.
He's coming to see me.
Harry scrambled off the bed, tapping the map with his wand and murmuring, "Mischief managed." Luckily, no one else was in the dorms right now; Vince and Greg were Merlin knew where, Blaise had gone to the library, and Draco was curled up in the common room with some books his mother had sent him earlier today.
Of course, Harry would have to cross through the common room to get to the door. He hesitated, sighed, then decided it couldn't be helped. Besides, it wasn't like he was afraid of Draco.
More like afraid to make him afraid of me, he thought, as he cautiously crept down the stairs and into the common room.
Draco looked up when he passed through the door, but returned immediately to his book. Harry told himself he was pleased, not worried. If Draco was reading, then he couldn't be fighting with Harry.
I wish I knew what he was reading, though. The books had no titles, on either the spines or the covers, only designs. Harry had recognized one of them—the rearing silver serpent of the Guile family, the last member of whom had been killed fighting in the Dark Lord Grindelwald's army. It didn't surprise Harry that the Malfoy library would include books about or by the Guiles, but he hoped Draco was careful in what he pulled out of them.
And, I'll admit it, madly curious to know what's in there, he added, as he came out of the common room door just in time to meet Connor's running charge.
Connor paused when he saw him, blinked, then said, "Oh, right. The map. Of course." Grinning, he shook his head and charged on, catching Harry up in a hug. Harry hugged him back, surprised. He always forgot that Connor was a little taller than he was now until reminded of it by his weight and size.
Harry waited until Connor danced back from him, grinning like an idiot, and then managed, "To what do I owe the honor?"
Connor laughed, the sound rising like water in spring. "Harry! I've been reading one of the books that Mum sent me, and then Sirius told me about something he heard once, and I put it together, and he said it was right, and it was! It was right!" He laughed and spun around, his hands raised above his head.
Harry cocked an eyebrow, unable to stop the smile, and then said, "Connor. I can't share your head. Tell me what you're talking about, please?"
Connor managed to calm down, though he was still grinning. "Sorry, Harry. But—well, look. Have you ever heard of an author named Griphook Fishbaggin?"
Harry frowned. "That sounds goblin."
"He was," said Connor, and then shrugged. "Well, except I don't think goblins have last names, so maybe he was adopted by them or something. Anyway, he wrote a book that I asked Mum to send me, because I'd read about goblins being allies of wizards and enemies of wizards, and I thought I should know if they were likely to be my allies or my enemies. And he mentioned this—thing." Connor waved a hand. "Concept. Idea. I don't know, it's hard to explain without seeing the whole thing. He gave it about sixty different names, anyway. There are whole pages in his book just devoted to explaining what the names mean in Gobbledegook."
Harry nodded. "And you figured out what the thing was?"
Connor grinned. "Yes! The closest human name is probably prophet. The goblins have a rumor, or a prophecy—except Fishbaggin always insists that it's not that, but then he translates the word as prophet again—that someday a great leader will arise and be able to command them. He'll have all these different duties. And they'll help him face his enemies, including this 'one of darkness.'" Connor paused for a long moment, and Harry waited. He knew when his brother meant to speak another word.
"And the best thing," Connor whispered, "the best thing, Harry, is that Fishbaggin always uses the same word to talk about the duty of command."
"What was it?" Harry asked.
"Hm? Well, I don't know. I don't know how to pronounce the Gobbledegook." Connor's eyes were shining. "But I mentioned it to Sirius, and he translated it for me. It means someone with the compulsion gift, like I have." He looked up, face on fire. "That means it's not Dark after all, Harry! I asked Sirius about that, and he confirmed it. How can it be, when prophecies are running around saying that I have to have it in order to be this sort of prophet to the goblins?"
Harry blinked, and then had an armful of his brother again. Connor hugged him hard, then broke away. "Sorry," he said. "I've got to tell Ron. He'll be wondering where I was, anyway. But I wanted to tell you first."
Harry looked at him sideways. "Why?"
Connor's stare back was blank. "You're my brother," he said, as though that explained everything, and it probably did. Then he was gone, with a cheerful wave, dashing up the corridor and towards the steps out of the dungeon.
Harry leaned on the wall and closed his eyes. He wanted to believe Connor. He wanted to be sure that his brother really did carry a Light gift and not a Dark one, if only for his own peace of mind.
But he could still hear Remus, saying that the Dark Arts were based on compulsion. He'd confirmed that Imperio was the quintessential Dark curse when Harry asked him. And if what Connor—and Sirius—could do was a version of that, then how could it be Light?
Harry took a deep breath and got his thoughts under control. You're letting your prejudices run away with you, he snapped at himself. You didn't even congratulate Connor on this new position of his—one he's thrilled to accept, one you would have been happy to see him accept, too, last year. It's so good that he's finally standing up and taking responsibility, isn't it? And you and your silly prejudices are going to ruin it all. He's stuck by you since he found out that you weren't really a new Dark Lord, just possessed. Why shouldn't you stick by him? So you have this uneasiness with compulsion. That doesn't mean it can't be done in the name of war or to justify a greater good.
But that made it sound as though what Dumbledore had done was right.
Harry made up a thought and repeated it to himself. My brother is not Dumbledore. Connor is who he needs to be, who he was born to be, who Voldemort marked him to be. He always will be. He's good. He's right about the potential of this gift, and it turns out the Dark has never touched him. That's all.
Now he only had to repeat that thought to himself, again and again, until he believed it.
Harry. Can you meet me in the Charms corridor tonight at seven?
The note was unsigned, but Harry recognized Connor's handwriting, and the owl that had brought the scrap of parchment was certainly one of the school owls. He looked up, caught his brother's eye across the Great Hall, and nodded. Connor looked confused for a moment, then smiled.
Just as well, Harry thought, tucking the note into a pocket of his robes. That will give me an excuse to avoid Draco this evening.
Draco had spent the first three days of the week ignoring Harry as he read, but that day, Thursday, he'd come out of his trance with a vengeance. Now he was staring. He peppered Harry with random questions—his favorite color, what kind of food he liked best, whether he really wanted to stick his fork into his mouth while acting just like a barbarian or a Weasley and talking all the time. Harry had tried to answer as patiently as he could. He was afraid his patience was about to run out.
He had tried to ask Draco, and a few other members of Slytherin House, why they hadn't told him about the power that Ron sensed. Millicent just smiled and looked secretive. Pansy changed the subject to ask how the brewing of her mother's Wolfsbane Potion was going. Blaise made up moronic excuses and fled when Harry didn't believe them.
Draco just didn't let him get a word in edgewise, and now he was at it again.
"What was that note, Harry?" he asked. "Who was it from?"
"No one important," said Harry, trying to concentrate on his treacle tart. It had been Sylarana's favorite treat. Currently, one of his self-tests, along with avoiding his rage as much as possible and controlling his magic, was to see how often he could approach the memories of her and turn them good instead of evil. Granted, he would often feel a hitch in his breathing or a burn in his eyes during one of the tests, but that was better than the horrible closeness to tears he'd endured before.
"Tell me," said Draco. "I want you to tell me."
Harry glanced sideways. Draco was staring at him again—Ron's intent gaze, Lucius's intent gaze, the gaze of a pureblood in the dance. Harry shook his head slightly. "I don't want to."
Draco reached out and put a hand on Harry's arm, near the place where he'd bruised him last week. Harry felt his anger, and his magic, flare at the thought of being manhandled like that again.
Draco at once dropped his hand and smiled at him. "That's all right, Harry. You don't have to if you don't want to."
Harry blinked at him. And a moment later, Draco's face went hard again and he nodded, exactly as if he had confirmed something about Harry that he had been waiting to ask him.
It was too much strangeness for one evening. Harry stood up. "I have to go to the library and work with Connor on our Transfiguration project," he said.
"Your brother hasn't moved from his table." Draco leaned back in his chair and studied Harry coolly.
Harry shrugged. "He said he'd be along later." He walked away from the Slytherin table, knowing that everyone could tell he was agitated from his stride, and not caring. Of course, now that he was aware of it, he could see heads turning at the tables he passed, hands rubbing noses or eyes or arms, and suspicion dawning into certainty on many pureblood faces.
You have to do something, Ron's voice rang in his head, and Harry clenched his teeth. Yes, he had to do something, he had accepted that, but he didn't have to like it.
He calmed his magic with an enormous effort, reminding himself that the last time Connor had met him privately, it had been to tell him good news. He would probably have more good news to tell him this time. Harry was looking forward to it after such a trying day.
He reached the Charms corridor and cast the Disillusionment Charm on himself to keep him hidden until Connor came. A few students ambled past him, talking about nothing particularly exciting. Harry was glad. He used the minutes he was alone to close his eyes and count to ten. He'd learned the words for the numbers in Gobbledegook and Mermish specifically to give him something to pass the time with. Figuring out how to pronounce the rush of goblin consonants or the insistent twanging of Mermish, which was really meant to be spoken underwater, took almost all his concentration; he'd never been that gifted with languages.
"Harry?"
Harry blinked. Connor was in front of him, peering around as though he thought Harry might not be there yet. Harry dispelled the charm. "Connor, there you are."
Connor grinned at him. "Yes. Here I am." He let out a little breath. "And, Harry, I have a favor to ask you." He squinted and licked his lips as though he couldn't wait to ask the favor and didn't want to ask it at the same time.
Harry raised his eyebrows. He was thrilled at the thought of doing something for his brother, but letting that show would result in questions he didn't want to answer right now. Connor still didn't know about the full extent of his training. "Yes?"
"Well, see…" Connor scuffed his trainer on the floor. "The problem is Ginny Weasley."
Harry blinked. "Ron's little sister?"
Connor nodded. "See, she has a crush on me or something." His cheeks grew bright red. "I don't know why. But lately she's been tagging after me wherever I go. The Great Hall, the Gryffindor Tower—and to lessons with Sirius. And I don't often see her. She's really quick, and clever."
"You want me to stop her?" Harry asked doubtfully.
Connor nodded. "I thought of a way to do it, but I don't have the skills, and Hermione is Ginny's friend. Could you—could you brew the Polyjuice Potion, so you could look like me, and distract her sometimes?"
Harry cocked his head. "The Polyjuice Potion isn't quick, Connor," he warned his brother. "It would take some time before I could have it ready, and in the meantime, Ginny would still be following you everywhere. Besides, maybe she'll get tired of it before the Potion's finished."
"Even knowing that it would take a while, I'd still welcome it," said Connor. "And Ron says she doesn't give up. Ever. She waited a whole year once, but she got Percy back for turning her favorite teddy bear into a snake, even though it was an accident. I think she'll still be following me around in October. And Sirius says he has to step up my training." He pouted. "Please, Harry?"
Harry sighed, then nodded. "All right. I need a piece of your hair, though. Otherwise the Potion won't work."
"That's no problem," said Connor with relief, and plucked a hair from his head, holding it out to Harry.
Harry took it and felt a jolting tingle race up his arm. A moment later, he felt the very familiar sensation of the cracked and broken phoenix web attempting to repair itself.
He tried to jump, tried to shout, tried to reach for his wand. Instead, he stood still, caught in a full body-bind, and watched as the illusion of Connor in front of him melted away to reveal Albus Dumbledore, stern-faced and sad-eyed.
"I am sorry that it must come to this, my boy," he said, holding up his wand. "But I cannot allow you to reverse the choices that you have made, nor turn the whole world topsy-turvy for the sake of your magic's freedom. You will be happier when the web is restored, I promise. Right now you are not only unhappy, but making others so."
Harry tried to open his hand, tried to let the hair fall, and found out he could not. His wards, too, the ones that kept him immune to Dumbledore's magic, were gone as though they had never been. It had to be the hair, he thought. Dumbledore had enchanted it with spells to dispel the wards and hold him still, and once it touched bare skin, that had been the end of it. Or maybe it really was Connor's hair, and depended on the blood connection between them.
Dumbledore waited a moment, as though expecting Harry to nod or say something in agreement, and then seemed to remember he was under the body-bind. He sighed.
"I am sorry," he repeated. "Expleo penuriam—"
He cried out abruptly, and turned, his wand falling from his hand in shock and pain. Harry had time to see a small gray rat clinging furiously to Dumbledore's ankle before it rolled off, dodging a bright white spark that leaped from Dumbledore's robes, and transformed into Peter.
"I've been watching," was the first thing Peter said, backing up so he was in between Dumbledore and Harry. Deftly, he reached out and plucked the hair from Harry's hand, and Harry relaxed and let out a loud breath. His magic rose up around him. Peter didn't seem to notice, his eyes still on Dumbledore. "Did you think I'd let you get away with this?"
Dumbledore didn't say anything, but a bright red curse leaped from his wand, even though it was lying on the floor, and came for Peter. Harry realized that Peter didn't intend to move aside.
He growled, exasperated—standing in front of danger and turning it from other people was his place, not Peter's—and called his near-instinctive Protego. It manifested in front of Peter and bounced the spell back in Dumbledore's direction. Of course, the curse dissipated harmlessly before it got that far.
Harry was left riding his magic, which had a hard core of the substantial, silent rage he'd locked in his box. The wall behind him had already turned to ice. He breathed, deeply and quietly, and told his magic, No. We are defending only.
It didn't object, but the air in front of him turned cold enough that he could see his breath. Dumbledore was watching them thoughtfully, as poised as though he had never lost control and fired a curse. If he noticed the frost creeping towards him, he preferred to give no sign that he noticed it.
When he spoke, his voice was laden with sadness. "Peter, Peter, Peter. Do you know what you have done? Do you know that you may have put the wizarding world itself in danger with your reckless actions?" He shook his head, slowly, his eyes disappointed. "So little remains of the boy I once knew, the boy who swore he would give up everything to save his friends."
Harry felt the touch of the truth like a wind on his neck. Is Peter—did he really go to Azkaban on Dumbledore's orders, then? Did he really leave us open to attack by Voldemort because Dumbledore wanted him to?
That would mean that Dumbledore had left Connor open to attack.
It was only the channels that Harry had carved into himself over the summer, the ones that he knew and which his magic usually tried to run in, that kept them all from dying then. He felt the building of an explosion that would have torn his body and Peter's apart at the same time as it would have killed Dumbledore, and sealed the channels.
No.
He rocked on his feet as the magic roared at him for his balking and turned on him, scraping his mind with harsh claws. He could feel his mouth straining in a silent scream, but he forced it back down, forced the magic back down, forced the impulse to destroy back down. He was master of his magic, and master of himself. He needed no one else challenging him for that title.
It took him a long moment to come back to himself, to still the washing tides of magic in him as they sloshed from one side to the other and ceased to wound him. Only then could he attend to Peter's voice, which had lost the mockery it held earlier and gone straight into incandescent rage.
"…look at him, Albus. Look what you've done. This is a child, a bloody child, Lily and James's son. You once claimed to love them, you said you'd do anything for them, you moved mountains to help them. And Sirius and Remus, too. You kept any of us from being expelled after Remus nearly killed Snape. Is this the proof of the love you offer? Is this what happens to our children even if it doesn't happen to us? Look at him and tell me you can do this."
"I can do this," said Dumbledore, his voice still sad beyond measure. "I must, Peter." His face was stern when Harry looked at him. "You knew the cost when you paid it. Harry knew the cost when he paid his."
"I changed my mind," said Peter bluntly. "And I've shattered the web, Albus. I'm here on my own, not because the insanity that you forced me into pretending finally took me."
Dumbledore had a moment of clear and obvious shock. Harry blinked. He didn't expect Peter to say that.
Does he think the web can't be broken?
Dumbledore had already recovered, though, and his face was beyond stern. It reminded Harry of the face he'd seen in the Pensieve memory, when Dumbledore had come to Godric's Hollow to bind him. "Certain choices cannot be changed, Peter. I told you this when I gave you the web. Still you swore to me that you wanted it, that you were doing this of your own free will."
"You never gave Harry that choice," said Peter. "And that sickens me."
Dumbledore shook his head. His power was rising around him, and Harry knew that he would attempt to break through the Protego shield in a moment. "Harry had his choice and his chance. It was only the greatest of misfortunes that led him to question it. It was damage Tom Riddle wrought to his mind that led him to question it. He is only wavering in his duty because he was wounded, Peter. You must realize that." He looked past Peter and caught Harry's eye. "If his mind were whole, he would know his duty and he would be happy."
"The web would have stayed buried," said Peter. "How young did you put it on him? It must have been—"
"Four," said Harry, since he thought he could speak now instead of utter a wordless scream. His head still hurt as though someone had tried to flatten it, and the magic was still curling around inside him, snarling and making little forays against the limits of his control every now and again, but he thought he could say this. "I was four."
Peter didn't look at him, but Harry could see the sudden stiffness in his shoulders and guess at the expression on his face. "Four," he said, his voice utterly flat.
Dumbledore probably thought there was nothing to be gained from speaking any more. His next attack was a hammer sent at the Protego shield. Harry had never felt such force behind any one spell. It was like a battering ram.
He reacted instinctively, the way that Snape had taught him to escape from such strong attacks in Occlumency. He grabbed Peter and rolled to the side, letting the Shield Charm splinter. The force of the hammer went through and sent rubble flying from the wall. Harry stared at it a moment.
He knew Dumbledore was in precise control of his power. He was sure the spell would have stopped before destroying him, because Dumbledore didn't want him dead.
It would have killed Peter.
Harry had had enough. He pushed at Peter, to get him further down the corridor, and then faced Dumbledore. "Haurio!" he said firmly, holding up one hand up.
A green shield spread from his palm and fingers, and then grew further, engulfing both him and Peter. This should absorb any magic Dumbledore threw at them, Harry thought. And it would give Peter time to run.
When he turned, he realized that Peter didn't have any intention of running. He was trying to get around or see around the green shield, probably so he could fling some more insults or accusations at Dumbledore.
"Get out of here, for Merlin's sake," Harry snapped, shoving at him and resisting the temptation to make a very Snapeish remark about dumb Gryffindors who wasted all their wits charging into battle.
"I want—"
"You can't tell me anything or protect me or whatever you came to do if you're dead." Harry shoved him again.
Peter paused for a moment, and then a faint smile flitted across his face. "You're right," he said. "Thank you for trusting me, Harry." A moment later, he'd changed back into a rat and was gone, scampering down the hall in a mad flight for his life. Harry spared a moment to hope that he wouldn't run across Mrs. Norris.
He turned his attention back to the shield. Dumbledore was still stronger, and was using that power in a very unrefined way, the same kind of raw force that Harry had used to break the windows and heal himself at Malfoy Manor, without channeling the magic through spells. Harry knew he could do the same thing.
He wanted to do the same thing. His rage, at least, would have been happy with him if he did.
But he remembered Hogwarts, and Remus's voice echoing in his head, saying that one had to consider the wills of others when considering whether a spell was Dark or Light. If he destroyed the school, as would happen if he let his magic fly now, how would that make him better than Voldemort?
He maintained the shield a moment longer, then dropped it and rolled out of the way. He still felt wind catch him and slam him hard into the wall, but though he was bruised, Harry knew he hadn't broken anything. He knew what a broken rib felt like, thanks to Quirrell's Crucio spell from first year. He got to his feet at once, and met Dumbledore's eyes.
They were still calm. Harry envied him for that—that he could call on his magic like that and not be incapacitated by the sheer fury it took.
"Where is Wormtail?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry shook his head. "I don't know. As if I would tell you even if I did," he added, with a snort.
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Now that I know Pettigrew has been sighted on school property, I have no choice but to accede to the Ministry's request and let the Dementors guard Hogwarts. They will find Pettigrew if anyone can."
"You could at least call him Peter, like I do," said Harry, and rubbed his aching head.
"I hope that you will have occasion to avoid calling him anything in the future." Dumbledore's voice was a knife now. "That was foolish of you, my dear boy, very foolish. How could you put your life in danger protecting him like that? How could you believe his lies? He would have hurt your brother, killed him if he could. He was the one who betrayed your parents and lied to them, saying that their sons had been taken elsewhere, so that Voldemort could enter Godric's Hollow unopposed."
Harry shook his head. "I know. I know." It was all confused and tangled in his head. Even if Peter had done what he had done on Dumbledore's orders, did that mean he was any less to blame? He had still put Connor in danger.
But Dumbledore was the one who put him in danger in the first place, and when he should have been protecting him.
Harry looked up as Dumbledore sighed. "Come with me, Harry. We can check you for traces of a Confounding Charm. I fear that Pettigrew might have been charming you into believing his stories."
Harry set his teeth. "I didn't say that I believed him absolutely, not yet. But I don't trust you, either."
Dumbledore had the gall to look shocked, as though that were the last thing he would have expected. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a spell abruptly struck past him and hit the wall. From its color, Harry suspected it had been a Jelly-Legs Jinx.
He turned, staring, to see Millicent Bulstrode standing at the end of the hall, lowering her wand. She was blinking innocently at Dumbledore.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Headmaster," she said. "I didn't know that was you. Of course you wouldn't have hurt Harry. I just saw a threat standing over him, so I attacked without thinking." She trotted forward, making a variety of soothing noises that Harry wouldn't have believed could come out of her throat, just as simpering and wide-eyed as Pansy could act. She put one arm around Harry's shoulders. "Come on, Harry, let's get you to the hospital wing. You poor thing. It looked like it hurt when you hit the wall. And it looked like you had an enemy. That's too bad, but you should take comfort. You always have less of them than you think. And your enemies might have more." As she spoke the last words, she was looking straight at Dumbledore.
The Headmaster simply looked back at her. He stood where he was as Millicent escorted Harry in the direction of the hospital wing. He tolerated the pretense until they were around the corner, then tried to shake her arm off. "I'm fine, Millicent," he said.
"Of course," said Millicent. "That's why you're pale and quivering like a pudding. And of course fine people are always clutching their heads, and smell like a thunderstorm."
Harry guiltily snatched his hand from his head, then paused. "I do not smell like a thunderstorm."
"To me, you do," said Millicent. "The Bulstrode trick, you know. It smelled like the mother of all storms in there. And you need the hospital wing and bed, Harry. It's not every day that your own Headmaster tries to kill you."
"He doesn't want me dead," said Harry, and then regretted the emphasis he'd put on the word as Millicent gave him a sidelong glance. "Now what are you going to do? And give me a straight answer for once."
"What, and watch you die of shock?" Millicent mocked him, but she obliged him. "Someone's been talking to us, someone who goes by the name of Starborn. He said we should watch you, that you could be a far more useful ally to us than we had suspected." She smiled like a cat stretching. "And you are, Harry. You outfaced Dumbledore. Now our families have a real choice. They don't have to go crawling back to the insane followers trying to put the Dark Lord back together or obey Dumbledore, whom none of them trust not to compel them. They can follow you."
"I'm going to be protecting Connor," said Harry flatly. "So you'll be really following him."
Millicent patted him on the head. "Aren't you cute," she said.
Harry remained silent the rest of the way to the hospital wing, but didn't feel much better, since Millicent settled for knowing sideways smiles when she couldn't get him to talk. Madam Pomfrey got one look at him and put him to bed with a Strengthening Potion and a Calming Draught. Harry drank them in resignation and lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Do something, Ron said. Well, I fucking did something.
Now I just wish I knew what the hell it was. And I wish I could tell someone that I'm not going to be a leader or compel anyone and have them believe me.
He sighed and closed his eyes.