That last chapter was fun to write. This one a little less so—except for one particular scene that I absolutely love.
Chapter Twelve: How Like a Lion"Harry! What are you doing in there?"
"Just a minute!" Harry yelled out through the door of the loo, and splashed some more water on his forehead, washing the scum of blood from his scar. He sighed when he realized the lightning bolt was once again filling with crimson. That troubled him more than the crippling headache he'd awakened with. He could hide the headache; Tom Riddle's possession last year had given him plenty of practice. A bleeding scar was something else.
Draco was knocking harder than ever on the door. "I'm coming in there in two minutes, Harry Potter!"
"I'm done!" Harry reassured him, while he checked his scar. Yes, it would probably take a few hours to fill and drip again. The blood rose slowly, as though it were forcing its way out past thick barriers of muscle and skin. He thought the few hours he had promised to spend in the library with Luna, helping her get caught up on the lessons she'd missed last year when she'd been Petrified, would push its limits, but with luck he should be able to clean it again before the blood spilled down his face.
Draco opened the door before Harry could get there. Harry gave him a sharp glance. "That wasn't two minutes," he pointed out.
"I lied," said Draco, and caught Harry's hand, pushing back his fringe before he could stop him. Harry turned his head away, but Draco had already seen his scar, and the livid color it had turned.
"I thought so," Draco whispered, and then raised his voice. "Somehow you forgot to mention your bleeding scar in your account of the last few weeks, Harry."
Harry glared at him and hurried towards the library, Draco keeping up with him easily. Draco had, most unfairly, started into a growth spurt, and he never seemed to trip over himself the way some of the other boys did, either. "Why didn't you mention it?" he asked insistently. "Why did you feel that you had to keep that one thing concealed from me?" Then he paused, and Harry knew the thoughts that were running through his head. If you kept one thing from me, how many other things have you kept?
There were a few others, but none of them were Draco's business. He didn't need to know the details of Harry's meetings with Peter; that was Peter's secret, and Harry's to keep. He didn't need to know that Harry sometimes felt like hexing his brother when Connor preached about the goodness of compulsion gifts to him, because then he would feel like he'd been right about Connor all along. He didn't need to know how intensely uncomfortable Sirius was making Harry. That was a private matter, especially given the conflict Harry was feeling between his emotions for Sirius and his emotions for Snape.
And he didn't need to know about the scar bleeding, because that would involve explaining the dreams, and Harry had no idea how to explain them. What did a dream of two dark figures and a dream of other dark figures tightening in a ring about him have to do with anything? Harry had figured out that he only woke with the headache and his scar bleeding on the nights he had them, but they told him nothing he didn't already know. Yes, he had enemies. That had been obvious since the first time he fought Bellatrix Lestrange—since the first time he learned about Connor having enemies, really.
Except that, from his stare, Draco thought he did have to know, and that a few details meant he deserved the whole thing.
"I'll tell you later," said Harry, trying to hurry ahead as he reached the doors of the library. Draco lengthened his stride and caught him easily. Harry whirled to face him. He got angry much more easily now, and the one good effect of that was that he was sure he wasn't letting his rage collect in a hidden place and build up any more. "Why do you insist on accompanying me everywhere, anyway?"
"The Headmaster might hurt you," said Draco, not looking away from him.
Harry snarled. "Yes, but he's not going to try where someone else can see. I'll be safe with Luna."
"Yes, and on the way there?"
Harry turned away again. He knew that he was Draco's friend, and he knew that Draco was his, but this intense care unnerved him. As he had told Snape, it was one thing for someone to value people in general, and another thing altogether for them to show that they valued him.
He strode into the library, his mind already buzzing through the million and one things it seemed he had to do. Private work with McGonagall, finishing the brewing of Hawthorn's Wolfsbane Potion, coming up with a response to Lucius's truce gift, tutoring Luna, tutoring Neville, Quidditch practice, his own homework, spending time with Draco so that he wouldn't feel lonely, reading Bindings of Magic, visiting Connor and Sirius…
Harry's life was already a whirling circus. He couldn't imagine what it would become should he actually do something with his power, the way that people kept begging him to.
He sighed with relief to see Luna sitting at the table they'd agreed on, with her books spread in front of her. Of course, he faltered a bit when he came closer and saw that she had Divination and Arithmancy textbooks, since she took neither class.
"Luna?" he said softly, and she looked up at him, protuberant eyes blinking from behind her glasses. "Are you—all right?" There were some days where she was more all right than others.
"Of course, Harry," said Luna, with the same gravity that she said everything. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You don't take those classes," said Harry, sitting down in the chair across from her. Draco took the one beside him, and made a comment under his breath that might or might not have included the word "Loony." Harry gave him a glare that promised a hex when they got back to the Slytherin common room, and then turned to smile again at Luna. "What would you want with them?"
"I want you to teach me about them," said Luna. "You're taking the classes, aren't you, Harry? I asked someone, and they told me that you were."
Harry winced a bit. He hoped that whoever Luna had asked hadn't hurt her. He would have to ask the other Slytherins what they'd seen tonight. Most of the students, especially other Ravenclaws, didn't seem to understand that hurting Luna always resulted in Harry finding out about it, no matter how quiet they tried to be or where they did it. The other Slytherins thought it was a fine game, watching out for Luna, reporting it to Harry, and then watching for what clever or embarrassing hex he inflicted on the ones who'd embarrassed her in return.
Harry hadn't yet got Neville to confide the same mistreatment to him. He insisted that he could handle himself, and that anyway no one in Gryffindor mocked him too badly. Harry didn't believe him. It was taking time to coax Neville out of his shell, though, especially since he hadn't spent half of last year with his peers.
"Yes, I am taking these classes," he said, to get himself back on track, and picked up the Divination textbook. "Where did you want to start? Tea leaves? Crystal balls?"
"Dreams," said Luna.
Harry sent her a sharp glance. She looked back at him, serene and serious as ever, and if she had ulterior motives, she hid them better than anyone else Harry had ever seen.
"All right," he said, and opened Unfogging the Future to the right page. His own textbook always fell open to that place automatically now. He had read the brief descriptions of dream interpretation over and over again, hoping against hope there was something that could help him with his nightmares. But Trelawney's books were as useless as Trelawney herself. "What did you want to know?"
"About dark dreams," said Luna. "Nightmares."
Harry could have recited the paragraph from memory, but he pretended to be reading, for Luna's and Draco's sakes. Their eyes on him felt like skewers. He wished they would stop—stop looking so calm, stop looking as though there was a hidden purpose behind this, stop looking at him. "Um. Reading dark dreams is different from the art of reading light dreams, also commonly called prophetic dreams. While light dreams are the will of the future reaching down to touch those so favored, nightmares, also called dark dreams, represent a different kind of favor. They are commonly accepted as either the dreamer's fears made manifest, or, occasionally, as the reaching back of a future so awful that it wants to prevent itself from happening."
He leaned back in his chair. "Luna, what questions did you have?"
"What kind of dreams do you have, Harry?"
Harry stared at her. He didn't dare look at Draco. Luna sat with her quill poised above her parchment and just regarded him calmly.
"Oh, normal dreams," Harry managed to say. "You know, the kind that you always have when you go to sleep." He forced a smile, and hoped it looked more natural than it felt. "The other night, I dreamed that a door was chasing me."
Luna nodded. "And what about other kinds?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nightmares," said Luna. "Do you ever have nightmares, Harry? I dream about the Wrackspurts possessing me, the way they possessed you last year." Luna never had accepted the Tom Riddle explanation for the possession. "What are your nightmares?"
"I don't have nightmares, Luna," said Harry. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to scare her. Merlin knew he was already doing that to enough people; he'd had a huge argument with Connor about it just the other day. "Just regular dreams."
"He has nightmares every night," said Draco.
Harry whipped around. "Draco!" he squawked.
"You prat," said Draco, seizing his arm and brushing back his fringe again. His finger rose and touched Harry's scar, then came back down and forced Harry to acknowledge the glistening red liquid on it. Harry winced. He'd started bleeding sooner than he thought. "She's trying to help. Can't you see that? And I'm tired of you not talking about this. What happened to moving forward and being honest, Harry? You said that you would."
Harry closed his eyes. His headache was returning, despite the potion he'd brewed himself last night and taken this morning. "I know. I just…I don't know why I'm having the nightmares, all right? I just am."
"Do they have to do with Voldemort?" Luna asked.
Harry stared at her. He'd never heard anyone else but Dumbledore and his family pronounce the Dark Lord's true name without stumbling. Luna just gazed back at him, waiting for the answer, and didn't seem to realize there was anything remarkable in what she'd done.
"They can't," said Harry. "How could they?" He remembered the dreams that he'd had about Quirrell in first year, and the dreams about Tom Riddle last year. Well, yes, the Tom Riddle dreams had had to do with Voldemort, but they were Voldemort, the signs of Riddle working his way into Harry's mind. The others were—dreams. "If anyone is going to dream about Voldemort, it should be Connor. Riddle himself told me that Connor's scar is some kind of connection to him."
"This looks like a pretty damn good connection to me," said Draco, swiping his finger across the scar again and holding it up. There was enough blood to soak the palm of his hand and spill towards his wrist. "Damn it, Harry, what do you dream about?"
Harry took a deep breath. Backed into a corner like this, he had no choice but to talk about it, and he had promised himself that he would try to stop hiding things. He really had no choice, unless he wanted his confined magic and his confined rage back. He told them about the dreams, and emphasized their vagueness and the fact that he had no idea what they related to.
"I think I know."
Harry turned around abruptly. Merlin, how many people know now? Hermione Granger apparently did, since she was behind him and looking at him, her face somewhere between serious and worried.
"Do you," Draco said, his body language gone tense, his hand making the hovering motion that Harry recognized as Draco's version of being ready to reach for his wand. He didn't like Hermione, or any of the Gryffindors, really. He barely tolerated Neville. Harry couldn't figure out why, since all Draco ever said when asked was They're Gryffindors, Harry!
"Yes," said Hermione. "I wondered why I was sneezing all the time around you, Harry," she added. "And I think I figured it out. And, well, if I'm right, then you have some pretty Dark magic. I think the shadows you're seeing in your mind are your own fears of your magic. You know that you're doing something wrong, even if it's unconscious—"
"Shut up, Granger."
Harry had never heard Draco sound so deadly. He was on his feet now, wand in hand, never wavering from the way it pointed at Hermione. His face was pale, his eyes gone dark, and a few flecks of actual foam shining near his lips. Alarmed, Harry stood and put himself in between Draco and Hermione.
He wondered, tiredly, how many people he would have to shield from overzealous Gryffindors in a month's time. Of course, this time it was probably the other way around, but he wasn't sure about that. Hermione was one of the most powerful witches in the school. She would give Draco more trouble than Draco probably suspected in a hexing contest.
"Stop it, Draco," Harry said over his shoulder. "These dreams have troubled me for months." Well, one of them had troubled him for months, but he didn't care to dwell on the distinction right now. "If Hermione thinks she's figured out one of them, or even both, then I want to hear what she thinks."
Draco's hand clamped down on his shoulder, hard enough that Harry gasped and winced. "But this has to do with the thing I told you about already," Draco whispered into his ear. "The thing I didn't want to tell you about because it would hurt you. Please, Harry. Leave it be. You do not want to hear this." The last words sounded almost like one sentence, spoken in the same intense whisper.
Harry frowned. He couldn't imagine how Hermione's theory and Draco's secret could be the same thing, but it would certainly fit with Draco's sudden and overwhelming reaction. Nothing seemed to drive him mad quite like threats to Harry's safety. Harry had had to stop him from hexing Dumbledore three times this last week.
"I think I want to hear it," he said, and turned back towards Hermione.
Draco's arms descended, clamping around his waist and squeezing the breath out of him. "No, no, no," he whispered. "Harry, please, trust me. Do what I tell you. Turn around and walk out of the library now. I'll make your apologies to Luna. I'll listen to Granger and tell you if they really were the same thing when she's done, and I'll report it honestly. But don't listen to her."
Harry attempted to pull himself free of Draco's grip. It held firm. Harry sighed and glanced at Hermione.
"I think he can choose whether or not to hear this for himself, Malfoy," said Hermione, putting her nose up. "And he deserves to hear it, whatever you think. Harry, I think you have the ability to—"
"Silencio."
Harry stared. The spell hadn't come from Draco, even though he'd torn one arm free of Harry's waist and was groping frantically for his wand. It had come from Luna, who walked up and looked Hermione up and down as she mouthed silently. Then she turned and glanced up at Harry.
"It's like the necklace I gave you last year," she said. "The one to protect against Wrackspurts. Sometimes you need a necklace, and sometimes you need a spell."
Harry blinked, once, twice, again. He had the feeling that there was something very profound in what Luna had just said, though he couldn't reason out what it was. "Thank you, Luna," he said slowly.
Luna nodded. "You should never let Wrackspurts get hold of you," she said. "Or the Heliopaths, either." She turned and wandered over to her books, gathered them up, and then wandered out of the library. Harry supposed that meant their study session was at an end.
Hermione was still mouthing in outrage. Harry glanced at her and sighed. He knew he should release the spell and listen to what she had to say. Hermione was a brilliant researcher. If she had found something among the books that related to the dreams, it might take Harry months to duplicate her. He was good at applying knowledge he'd already consumed, not so much at finding it.
If you were a Gryffindor, then you would take the spell off and listen to her, said a voice in his head. Harry suspected it was Connor's voice. That was one of the things they'd fought about, lately. Connor said that Sirius had said Slytherin House was fundamentally untrustworthy, and had given him stories about all of Harry's classmates' parents to prove it. Connor was always full of stories about Sirius saying this or that. He was disappointed that Harry couldn't seem to repair his relationship with him and become a dutiful godson again, and told Harry so at every opportunity.
If you were a Gryffindor, if you were brave, if you were like a lion, then you would listen to her.
But Harry wasn't, and so in the end he sighed and walked out of the library. Draco was nearly prancing at his side, as though he suspected that he was responsible for Harry's decision to leave without freeing Hermione.
Harry rubbed his scar again, and Draco dragged his hand away from it and pointedly showed Harry the blood. "You're going to Madam Pomfrey," he announced.
"She'll put me in a bed and want me to sleep," said Harry. "And that won't work, Draco. If I sleep, I'll dream, and my scar will bleed again. Let it go. I only have to clean it off every few hours."
Draco stared at him. "And I never noticed?"
Harry was about to argue that yes, Draco had noticed the scar bleeding, when he realized that Draco meant the frequency of times he'd washed the scar. He sighed through his nose. "I guess you didn't," he admitted.
"You're far too good at hiding things, Harry," said Draco, with a sadness in his voice that Harry supposed he might understand if he concentrated. But he couldn't concentrate for very long. He had to get to Quidditch practice early, since his study session with Luna had ended early.
He was about to hurry off when Draco's hand touched his shoulder again. Harry looked up and met a pair of eyes so concerned that he abruptly hugged Draco, simply to reassure him.
Draco hugged back, muttered, "Be safe," and then went off in the opposite direction. Harry ran faster than ever. Flint, who had failed his NEWTS last year and so been kept back an extra year, really, really didn't like it when anyone on the team was spending free time dithering about elsewhere, but he would make an exception and be especially harsh with Harry, since he thought Harry was their team's key to victory.
Harry had just left the Great Hall and turned towards McGonagall's office when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and backed off immediately when he saw the Headmaster. His magic rose to bind him in protective walls. Probably Dumbledore had found some way past the modified mirror spell Harry had cast on him.
Instead, Harry saw, Dumbledore was avoiding eye contact. That meant the spell still held. Probably, Harry emphasized to himself. After the way Dumbledore had tricked Snape from his side—McGonagall had told him the story on the night she'd taken over his tutoring—Harry would believe anything of the Headmaster, including that he would pretend the spell still held when in fact he had overcome it.
"Please come to my office, my dear boy," Dumbledore dared to say. "We have much to discuss."
"I'm sorry, Headmaster, but I'm meeting with Professor McGonagall now," Harry said, as calmly as he could. He would be polite. He could be polite. He would not scream the roof down and set Dumbledore on fire as he wanted to. Besides, trying to set him on fire would probably only result in more ice. No matter what spells Harry practiced with, his magic and his rage both remained cold. That was another thing that had bothered Connor when he confessed it.
"You are not, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly.
Harry froze. "What did you say?"
"I said that you are not," said Dumbledore. "I have relieved Minerva of the responsibilities of teaching you. She is not your Head of House, and as Transfiguration Professor, she has other students who need her attention. She agreed with me. I believe her exact words were that a Slytherin student should be able to find other ways to learn." Dumbledore smiled at him.
Harry smiled back at him, which appeared to disconcert the Headmaster. He heard McGonagall's words for what they were, a salute and a statement of faith. And she had not outright been forbidden from associating with him, as Snape had been. They might still be able to meet on the sly. McGonagall had thought it better to yield than contest to the bitter end.
Sometimes, she is almost Slytherin, he thought, and then looked up at the Headmaster. Dumbledore avoided his eyes. He was probably thinking of magic to use on Harry right now, then. Probably. "Will all due respect, Headmaster, I won't want you teaching me in her place. There are reasons that it I don't want it. I hope you understand them."
Dumbledore only waved a hand. "That can be arranged later, Harry. Either Remus or Sirius would be an excellent candidate for your next teacher."
Harry concealed his snort. Remus he could see, but Sirius… Only if I want a course in ranting about Slytherins or twitching. He had only disliked Sirius more when he learned he was the cause of Dumbledore's attack on Snape. Harry was sure that Sirius had lied about the false memory. It sounds like the kind of thing he'd make up, secure in the knowledge that the Headmaster would back him, because the Headmaster likes Gryffindors so much. It doesn't matter that it's so ridiculous. Dumbledore supports him.
"No, this is something else," said Dumbledore, solemn now, and drew a large letter forth from his pocket. Harry recognized the seal of the Ministry on the front. He nodded slowly.
"Lead the way, Headmaster," he said.
Once they were seated in Dumbledore's office, and Harry had refused tea and sweets and another cup of tea, the Headmaster handed over the Ministry's letter. Harry wasted no time in opening it.
Dear Mr. Potter:
We realize this must come as a shock to you, and indeed we are in a somewhat unusual position ourselves. Normally, we would write to the parents of a child your age. However, on contacting your parents, they claimed to have only one son, Connor Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, though birth records and your attendance at Hogwarts clearly prove your existence, and they did admit to remembering a Harry Potter who had moved away or died a long time ago. They seemed to think that you were a relative of your father.
This is a sign of Dark magic in operation, and as such, we are forced to resort to this rather unusual form of communication, and of request.
It has come to our attention that you exhibit powerful magic, both Light and Dark, that you did not exhibit last year. We understand that such magic is not your fault, but the result of your birth, and we hasten to assure you that we do not regard you as at fault. However, each magical child so powerful must have a guardian in order for the wizarding community at large to assure themselves that the magic is not going wild or untrained. Since we have contacted your parents and they are victims of Dark magic that causes them to deny your existence, we currently believe they are not suitable guardians for you.
We would ordinarily appoint a guardian ordered by the Wizengamot, but your case is special enough that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is concerned with it. We believe you should have a guardian who a) lives on the grounds of Hogwarts, so that you may continue to attend school and acquire training for your magic, and b) is someone you trust, which will make your training all the easier, and c) can learn some of the facts of the case, as powerful wizards do not usually emerge as you do and we fear there may be something unnatural in your magic, perhaps as a result of the Dark spell cast on your parents. As someone who fulfills all of these conditions except the last, we have chosen Albus Dumbledore. Please sign the letter enclosed with this one; it will confirm the Department's choice of guardian and grant us permission to release the facts of the case, as we understand them, to him. It also grants you the option to choose your own guardian, provided that he or she fulfills the criteria set forth in this letter.
Amelia Bones
Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.Harry turned the letter over for a moment, wondering why they had contacted him instead of Dumbledore directly. Was it the unusual nature of the case, or the fact that his parents were still alive but victims of an unknown curse, or--?
And then he knew what it probably was, and wanted to laugh. The Ministry would have heard about his magic. And they would want to keep things quiet, since Harry was Connor's brother. All of this was being arranged to pass the case along as quietly and as quickly as possible, without the possibility of either making it public or vexing Harry.
Harry glanced up at the smiling face of Dumbledore. "The Ministry contacted my parents," he said. "They don't remember me, so they're appointing a guardian who has to live on Hogwarts grounds and oversee my training. They want to appoint you."
Dumbledore's smile grew wider. "That would be wonderful, Harry. I have long looked forward to an opportunity to work more closely with you."
Harry nodded at him, then turned back to the letter enclosed with Amelia Bones's letter. It had a simple line for his signature (magically binding, of course) if he accepted Dumbledore as his guardian, and another few lines for him to fill out, complete with signature, if he wanted another guardian. The letter warned him sternly that his chosen guardian would have to comply with all the standards set out by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the original document.
The necessary words were written, and a brilliant white flash traveled around the room. Harry chuckled to himself. He would have to study the Ministry letters and see what magic they used, if he got the chance. His hand was already empty, the letter having apparently communicated with the original document to confirm that the chosen guardian met the standards set forth in it, with him to confirm that this was what he really wanted, and with Hogwarts to confirm that the chosen guardian was in residence, and then taken itself off to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry wondered idly if the Aurors had come up with that particular spell, or if it was the product of some overworked and underpaid researcher.
"Excellent, Harry!" Dumbledore said, sitting back. "May I see the original letter?"
Harry handed it over to him, and waited in patient silence as he read it. Dumbledore glanced up at the end of it, blinking. "I am flattered that you have changed your mind about trusting me, Harry," he said.
"I haven't," said Harry, and enjoyed seeing Dumbledore's face change. I can be like a lion, sometimes. I can face what I have done. "There is that option they mention at the end, about choosing my own guardian. I did. And, as you saw, he met all the standards set forth in the letter." He shrugged.
"Who?" Dumbledore whispered.
"Professor Severus Snape, of course," said Harry pleasantly.
Dumbledore stood. Harry could sense the power rising around him. He met Dumbledore's eyes calmly. "Will you really do this, Headmaster?" he asked. "We could destroy Hogwarts if we were dueling. You know that."
"You have not asked Severus, Harry," said the Headmaster. "Are you quite sure that he would be willing to take on a burden?"
"Oh, I am quite sure that he would be," said Harry, and bared his teeth in what was not a smile.
Dumbledore stared at him for a long moment, then sat back down and shook his head. "I must admit I do not understand, Harry," he said softly. "Why would you do this? There are so many things that you must be trained in, so many things you do not understand, and I am the one who can best train you to know them."
"You haven't explained them so far," said Harry. "You made me a slave. Merlin only knows why, but I trust Snape, and he's proven how much he's willing to risk for me."
"I will make every effort to remove him from you again," said Dumbledore calmly. "You must know that."
"I know that," said Harry.
"How long will we play this game?" Dumbledore's face was long and sad, sad enough to break a heart. "How long until we are the allies we must be to defeat Voldemort, Harry?"
"As long as it takes," said Harry, and turned his back. Dumbledore didn't try to make him remain in the office.
Harry made for the dungeons. He walked up to Snape's office and knocked on the door, knowing the professor was working late on Remus's Wolfsbane Potion.
The look on Snape's face when he opened the door made all Harry's anger at Dumbledore dissolve. "Idiot child!" Snape hissed. "What are you doing here? If the Headmaster—"
"I just made you my guardian by filing a paper with the Ministry," Harry interrupted him. "Can I come in?"
Snape stared at him intently for a long moment. There was a bare flicker of warmth in his eyes before he inclined his head and moved out of the way. "Idiot child," he said again, more mildly this time. "I suppose that you have left all your brewing equipment with Minerva."
"Yes," said Harry agreeably.
"Well, we will ask her for it tomorrow. In the meantime, come here and make yourself useful for once."
Harry moved over to brew one of the lesser potions that the Wolfsbane took. After working so hard on Hawthorn's batch, he could tell easily where the brewing was at any stage.
"And Harry?"
Harry glanced up. Snape was watching him with his head on one side.
"Well done," Snape said quietly.
This time, it destroyed the bitter memory of what he had said after the Veritaserum and replaced it with a good one. Harry grinned at him and turned back to his brewing.