Thank you for the reviews yesterday!

And this is actually a nice and mostly non-angsty chapter. Don't worry; the angst will be back pretty soon.

Chapter 22: And Unleash The Dogs of War

James folded his arms, bowed his head forward on his desk, and left it there.

He could hear sounds, if he listened for them: the steady fall of rain outside Lux Aeterna's windows, the sound of a Levitation Charm being snapped at a heavy trunk, and then the sound of footsteps as they made their smooth way down the stairs. He didn't want to hear them. Or rather, he wanted to hear them, but only so they would drown out the sound of the written words echoing in his mind.

What he most wanted, silence, was impossible.

After a few moments, James raised his head, blinked, ran a hand through his hair, and then drew the envelope lying on the desk towards him again. Two papers protruded from it. He shoved the larger one away with what he knew was an expression of disgust, and picked up the smaller one, a simple square of parchment.

The hand and the message were equally simple and unpretentious.

Father:

I know what you have done to Snape. I want him back. So I am going to release the information about the part you played in my childhood unless you drop the charges you filed against him. You have a week from the day of Snape's arrest to drop them. If you don't, then one way or another, I am no longer your son.

Harry.

James's fingers twitched, and he resisted the temptation to look again at the letter, to try to find something in it that his son had never put there. Simple, straightforward, heartbreakingly clear, it left no room for doubt. Harry hated him.

Just as Remus said he would.

James squashed that thought, too, and picked up the larger piece of paper. It wasn't published yet; he had Merlin to thank for that. But it had been made up like a newspaper article, and the headline stood out at the top in damning letters.

HARRY POTTER NEGLECTED BY OWN FATHER

Brother of Boy-Who-Lived Reveals That His Father Regarded Him as a Toy

By: Rita Skeeter

In a shocking disclosure, Harry Potter, the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived and the recent victim of alleged abduction by Minister Fudge, has revealed that his father, James Potter, who recently filed charges against Severus Snape for misuse of an insanity potion, neglected him as a child.

Potter, 14, refuses to call it abuse, but does say that his father paid more attention to Connor Potter, his famous brother, than he did to his elder son. The small family lived, together with Lily Evans Potter, James Potter's Muggleborn wife, in a house at Godric's Hollow for most of the boys' childhood.

"He just stayed distant from me," explained Potter, in a private conversation with this reporter yesterday morning. "I was a toy for him, someone he could play with when Connor was busy or asleep. And someone he was afraid of, of course, but he tried to mask that." Potter believes his father may have been afraid of him for his magical power, which, as before reported in The Prophet, has reached Lord-level since last November.

Potter also believes that his father's filing of charges against Severus Snape, his guardian for the past year, rests not on a deep desire to have his elder son back, but on what he calls a "rivalry" between the two men forged in their Hogwarts years.

Potter admitted that Professor Snape has a bad reputation as the Head of Slytherin House, but also that he would have expected better of his father, a "glorious Light pureblood wizard and ex-Auror."

James Potter gave up his Auror position shortly after the attack on his sons on Halloween of 1981, in which Connor Potter defeated You-Know-Who. It was believed at the time that he wanted to go into hiding with his family, but according to his son, all was far from domestic bliss in the Potter home.

"My father spent almost all his time with my brother when we were children," Potter explained. "He cherished him more, laughed with him more, loved him more…How loving a father is one who can forget his child like that?"

Potter added that, since Connor is the Boy-Who-Lived, he would have expected decreased parental attention to himself, but he still somewhat resented his father for challenging another man's guardianship of him.

"And he was scared of me," he stated. Potter believes that his potential for Lord-level magic scared his father away from him, and that, as he has the same potential now, nothing has truly changed in the way his father perceives him.

The charges against Severus Snape include improper use of newly-created potions and failure to register such potions with the Ministry. His trial has so far been set, tentatively, for the middle of December. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has taken over Potions classes at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

James Potter has so far been unavailable for comment.

James sat back and rubbed his eyes. Behind him, he heard the footsteps come to a halt, but he didn't turn around and face them. Perhaps it was childish, but he didn't see why he should have to.

"I'm leaving," said Remus.

"Good luck on your journey," said James, stiffly.

Remus made a small sound that reminded James of nothing so much as a snarl. "You could still salvage this, you know," he said then, and caused an old resentment to rise in James. Counselor to all of us, until the bitter end. "I know that Harry hates you right now, but if you visit him, or write him a letter if you don't feel up to doing that—"

"Stop it, Remus."

There was a little silence, and then Remus's voice again, clipped and soft and futile. "You'd rather sink with your stupid pride than throw a lifeline out to shore? Harry would grasp it. You know he would."

James's hands tightened on the article, crumpling it. Good. I don't want to look at it any more. "It's not that simple, Remus."

His old friend's voice went cold. "It can be, or I would never have been able to reconcile with Peter. And I wish you'd had the good sense to do the same thing with the people you really need to. Goodbye, James. Remember that if you send a letter to me or Peter at the Sanctuary, it will take some time to reach us." He turned around, snapping something at the trunk, and James heard him leave. He sat in silence, the wards tingling around him, until he felt Remus step outside them and Apparate.

Then, biting his lip, James picked up a quill and began his response to Harry.

It would have been simple, after all, if he didn't have a wife and another son who might be hurt by this. But he did, and that meant there was only one answer he could give to Harry's blatant threat.

He wrote with a heavy heart.

When did everything go so wrong? When did Harry start feeling more loyalty to one of his professors than his own blood family, even when that professor embarrassed his father so horribly?

"Calming Potions," announced Dumbledore with a degree of satisfaction, his eyes shining at them over his half-glasses. "We will begin working on the variations of the simple calming draught today, and work our way up to ever more complex potions. Please open your books to page 437."

Harry dutifully did so, listening in silence to the excited chattering of the Gryffindors. They had been much more cheerful ever since Dumbledore took over Snape's classes. And Harry had to admit that Dumbledore wasn't half a bad teacher. He did explain things more slowly than Snape, and he could give more encouragement, even though he didn't possess half of Snape's theoretical knowledge.

But Harry could not forget what else Dumbledore was, not when he could feel the current of compulsion that soothed a fight beginning to erupt between Blaise and Dean Thomas, or when the encouragements to Neville had an extra edge to them. He kept his eyes down, and worked hard, and tried not to show how bored he was. Snape had had him on seventh-year work, and despite the lifetime of practice Harry had in pretending to be less competent than he really was, it was surprisingly hard to go back to fourth-year brewing.

He stood up to fetch the violet petals and other ingredients they would need, and Draco caught his arm. Harry glanced at him inquiringly. Snape had made them partners a few days before his arrest, and Dumbledore had seen no reason to change the arrangement.

Now, Harry almost wished he had. Draco's eyes were gleaming with the bright fever they'd taken on in the past few days, and the black-and-silver web around him pulsed, visible even when Harry wasn't looking for it.

"Harry," Draco whispered. "Can you fetch me some powdered bicorn horn and sphinx claws, too?"

Harry recognized those ingredients at once. They were for Draco's mysterious potion, about which he still refused to say much, but which he had dedicated himself to passionately.

"Draco—" Harry whispered.

"It's all right," said Draco. "I think I can get one of the preliminary steps in the potion done today. A lot of the ingredients are the same as a calming draught." He paused and stared challengingly at Harry. "Unless you're not going to help me any more, of course, and I have to fetch them myself."

Harry rolled his eyes and went to get what Draco had asked him for. Arguing with Draco had become more useless than ever.

Harry had, tentatively, touched the web, especially when they were in the library and Draco was lost in yet another book on Julia Malfoy, while Harry researched house elves' webs and how he might break them. The web did not react well to any attempt to touch it, it seemed. It simply writhed—once Harry had thought it even hissed—and slithered closer to Draco, wrapping his head and arms and shoulders. Harry could see the tendrils where it had sunk into his brain, and try as he might, he could think of no way to detach it without ripping out half Draco's sanity along with it. He was not about to risk that. He'd been through enough of that himself, after the Chamber.

He was at his wits' end to do anything other than help Draco complete the potion as fast as possible. The web seemed tied to that. It certainly grew brighter whenever he talked about it.

Complete the potion, Harry thought as he balanced all the necessary ingredients on a tray, not for the first time, and the web should let him go.

He was reminded, also not for the first time, that that might be as much wishful thinking as honest hope.

He settled down beside Draco again just as Dumbledore swept past their table. Harry cast a wandless glamour to shield the extra ingredients from the Headmaster's sight, and looked up with a small smile.

"You boys have everything you need already?" The Headmaster looked the very picture of kindness. Harry just watched him, even as Draco nodded and smiled and put on the sweet, innocent mask he'd grown expert at adopting of late, whenever someone who wasn't Harry questioned him about his life.

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Draco, and flicked his wand at the cauldron, causing the fire beneath it to light. Dumbledore bobbed his head pleasantly at them both, and then carried on around the room, pausing to give Neville a gentle scolding on the color of his calming potion.

"Calming potions," Draco muttered beneath his breath, flicking the powdered bicorn horn into the cauldron with precise movements of his fingers. "At our age. Honestly."

"Is that why we're not making one?" Harry muttered, even as he used the mortar and pestle to grind the violet petals down into a fine paste. He knew what he needed to do as well as Draco did. He had listened, not merely heard, while Draco chattered on and on about this step of the potion.

"Not just that," said Draco seriously. He spoke with his attention on the cauldron as the potion turned an odd orange color, and Harry thought that might have been the reason he said what he did, not realizing what had just slipped out. "So that I can become my father's magical heir, too. Or at least magical heir to a member of my family." He flashed Harry a hard smile. "I think that's a very good reason."

Harry blinked and clenched his hands briefly together. Research on Julia Malfoy, and this potion, which he's told me he'll divide into two equal portions, one heavy and thick, one light and airy. I should have known. "Draco," he said quietly. "Are you trying to call her ghost to you?"

Draco stiffened abruptly, and Harry saw the web around him blaze so brightly that someone else should surely have seen it. Then he whipped around and faced Harry, his face unfriendly.

"What do you know about it?" he whispered.

"Enough to know that necromancy is dangerous unless you make the sacrifices," said Harry, and filtered the violet petals into the potion in five equal pinches. "And you haven't." He felt his heart beating faster, and for a moment, everything in the class blurred but Draco's face. "And I don't think that you have any intention of making them either, do you?"

Draco snorted at him, and the web calmed a bit. "I don't need to," he retorted haughtily. "Not if I can finish the potion by Halloween. That's the night ghosts walk in full strength. She'll hear and heed my call. She's got to. I'm a Malfoy."

Harry thought privately that the ghost of Julia Malfoy did not need to do anything. She had struck him through the reading he himself had done as an independent woman, quietly used to getting her own way, but used to it nonetheless. If Draco called her, and especially on a night when the barrier between the ordinary wizarding world and the world of necromancy was at its weakest, then he would get a response, but it might not be the one he wanted.

"Draco—" he began, even as he shredded the sphinx claws.

Draco reached over and closed one hand on his hand. Harry blinked. Draco hadn't touched him in a day or two, and Harry was startled and worried to see that it wasn't just the gleam in his eyes that was feverish. His skin felt hot as well.

"Harry," Draco whispered, "please, will you just support me until Halloween? Only until then, I promise. I need your help with the potion. Well, I don't, I mean, I could do it on my own, but I want your help." He drew in a deep breath. "I don't think there's anyone else I would trust with as much of this as I have you. You're the only one I could trust, the only one I could ever trust."

Put like that, Harry thought, how could I refuse? He was still trying to make it up to Draco for his years of neglect and simply scooping the insides out of their friendship without giving anything back in return. What Draco wanted of him was simple enough, and it meant that Harry could watch his web and his fever and see if either of them worsened. Perhaps he would even find a way to loosen the web, if he really searched.

And it would give him something else to worry about other than Snape, and the reply from his father, which was due tomorrow at the latest.

He nodded, firmly. Draco's smile became sweet, and his hold loosened. "Thanks," he whispered. "Thanks, Harry. Really."

"I want you to sleep tonight, though," Harry told him. "You look as though you're getting sick, and you might make a mistake in the potion."

Draco blinked, then rubbed the side of his face. "You're right," he said. "I was up late last night studying, and the night before that. I can't collapse and just exhaust myself before I have to summon her. And someone else might notice if I get too run-down. Thanks, Harry."

Harry relaxed his shoulders. He would have to wait and see if his suggestion actually worked before he trusted to it, but at least Draco sounded sincere right now, and Harry would persuade him again at bedtime, if necessary.

Draco looked back at the potion, now a slow blue, and frowned abruptly. "Bother," he said. "I forgot, we'll need more powdered bicorn horn than that."

Harry started to stand, but Draco shook his head at him. "No, no, I'll go get it," he said, and slid out from behind Harry. His hand came down to squeeze on Harry's shoulder, hard, once, and then he hurried into the storeroom.

Harry added half the sphinx claws and stirred counterclockwise five times. Dumbledore swept past again, but just winked at him. Harry ignored the Headmaster.

He became aware of a quiet purring sound.

Harry squinted down with one eye, and saw an old-looking book poking out of the top of Draco's bag. He recognized it at once, though he still didn't know the title. It was the book Draco was always reading outside the library, the one that seemed to have given him the idea of the potion in the first place, and which he wouldn't let Harry see.

Now, Harry could reach down, shift the book a bit, and read the title, if he wanted.

Snape had to have given it to him, Harry thought, staring fixedly at the book, even as he went back to shredding the sphinx claws. His parents might have, but I don't think that he had it those first few days back at school, and they certainly didn't send it by owl. And it feels magical.

For a moment, Harry suffered a more profound doubt in Snape than he had known in years. Could the book have put the compulsion on Draco?

Then he shook his head. No. Snape wouldn't do that. He wouldn't take away someone's freedom like that. He was concerned, just like me, that Draco wasn't getting enough independence. It would be counterproductive to put that kind of compulsion on him when he wanted Draco to be his own person. The web has to come from something else—or, if it's from the book, Snape can't have known this would be the result.

He wouldn't do something like that.

"Here we are, Harry!"

Harry glanced up with a smile. "Just in time," he said, as Draco hurried up with the powdered bicorn horn. He felt calm and virtuous, even with the sight of the crawling black-silver strands on his friend's head. He had not looked at the book. He would not pry into Draco's secret until Draco was ready to tell him. "Add three pinches to the cauldron, will you?"

Grinning, Draco did so.

Harry eyed his web sideways as he stirred the potion again. They were going to complete it by the end of the class, and they could safely bottle it and store it somewhere until it was needed in the full potion.

I'll stand by him. I'll make sure he's free. He has to be. His life and his freedom are just as important as anyone else's.

"Potter! Stay a moment."

Harry halted with a wince, but turned around. Moody had just showed them the Unforgivable Curses in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry was feeling a bit sick, and he had watched even Zacharias Smith look unwillingly impressed. Harry wished he could stop thinking about the Killing Curse slamming into his forehead and Connor's that long-ago Halloween night, as he had seen it in a certain Pensieve, and condemning them both to this strange life.

Besides, this was the day that his father's reply was supposed to arrive, if he was really dropping the charges against Snape. Harry wondered if, by this time tomorrow, every one would be looking at him in pity and wonder and scorn—the boy who was neglected by his own father, the boy who was jealous of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco lingered for a moment, too, but Harry shook his head and whispered, "Do you know, I think that a spell called the Soul Strength Spell might help in detecting any sympathy-song between your soul and Julia's."

Draco's eyes brightened, and he patted Harry's shoulder comfortingly and rushed away. Harry took a deep breath and turned around to face his Professor, who limped towards him with steady motions of his wooden leg. He handled it so well that Harry could sometimes almost forget it was there, rather like he tended to forget Scrimgeour's limp when he was faced with the man.

Moody's face had become easier to look at—though easiest of all when his gaze was spread out over a whole classroom of students, and not just focused intently on Harry. Harry watched a point just above the normal eye, where the magical one didn't tend to roll, relaxed, and waited.

"Wanted to ask you something about the Killing Curse," Moody grunted, scratching the side of his scarred nose. "Didn't want to make a big deal of it in class, you understand, with everyone watching, but thought it worthwhile to ask you in private."

Harry nodded once, a light, tense bob of his head. He didn't know why he continued to be uneasy around this man. Moody had done nothing to hurt him, Rosier's warning notwithstanding. The silver gleam of the collar about his neck reminded Harry of the Hounds now and then, but Moody had been loud in his denunciations of the Minister for having Snape arrested. He was just an intimidating teacher, that was all, not quite as good as Remus, but good enough.

It's as though Regulus's dislike of him passed into me, since he can't be here anymore, Harry thought, with a pang of disquiet, and reached out after his friend again. Still nothing. There had been nothing but silence in that part of his brain ever since the autumnal equinox.

"—brother survived it," Moody said, and Harry realized, with a start, that he hadn't been paying attention, one of the first times that had ever happened. When the ex-Auror spoke, most of his students listened. "I just wondered if you could remember anything about that night? If you yourself know the source of your brother's exceptionalism?"

Harry fought the urge to hiss at the man. All his old protective instincts were up and barking, but he restrained them. Moody was not threatening Connor. He was just asking a question, a question that most people must have wondered about at one time or another, but would have directed to Connor himself or kept quiet about. It was still there behind their eyes, though. How'd you do it?

"No, sir," said Harry, letting a regretful frown pull at the corners of his lips. "I was only a baby, remember, and I wasn't the one who survived the Killing Curse." He kept his eyes firmly on Moody's. Let them flicker off to the side, even a little, and Moody might know he was lying. "You could ask Connor, though. He might know better than me. Surviving that has got to leave a mark on someone."

Moody gave him a wolfs-head grin. "Funny thing, Potter. I did ask him about that when I taught his class the other day. And he went white as a ghost and stammered out some nonsense about not being able to see right. Do you know what he might mean?" Moody leaned forward in interest.

Harry let his eyes widen in feigned surprise, while his mind sped. He would bet Connor had been on the verge of blurting out the memory in the Pensieve, before he remembered that they were supposed to keep it quiet for now, and hadn't recovered himself in time. Well, there was no reason that he should do so. Connor wasn't trained in lying and concealment as Harry was.

"Well, our cots were below the level of the door, you know," said Harry. "And when Voldemort—"

"Strange, that you refer to him by his name," Moody said softly.

Harry cocked his head. "I think it's silly to call him You-Know-Who, sir."

"Why?" Moody bounced his wand on his palm, both eyes fixed on Harry now. Harry was just glad that the magical eye couldn't read thoughts. He armed his Occlumency shields anyway, though.

Harry shrugged. "It's a silly title. If there was some better one, then I'd take it. But Voldemort is the name he chose, so I don't see why I can't call him by that." He bit his lip on the next words: that he could also call him Tom Riddle, and if anyone in the world had the right to call him that, it would be Harry or Connor, whose heads he'd sequestered himself in. But he didn't see the point in referring to it.

Moody studied him for a moment, then gave a grunt and a nod so abrupt he looked like a heron spearing a fish. "Continue."

"When Voldemort came in," Harry continued, "he would have shot the spell at Connor from above. Maybe he can remember part of it, but he couldn't see him fire the curse." He let a bit of envy creep into his voice. Might as well practice, if that article is going to be published after all. "That's different, though. He never told me that he might be able to remember any of it."

Moody grunted again, and tapped his wand against his lips. Harry tried not to think about all the incidents that might result from that, and waited.

Moody at last fixed him with both eyes, and said, "Do you ever wonder about freedom, Potter?"

"Freedom, sir?"

"Freedom." Moody nodded firmly. "Freedom to just—do what you like. You're very powerful." Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes over the way Moody sounded on those words. Impressed, just like anyone else. Isn't there anyone who can see that magic doesn't prevent someone from being a bad friend, the way I have been with Draco? "Have you ever thought of letting go all restraints and doing just what you like? That's how a lot of Dark wizards and witches get started, you know."

Harry shuddered at the mere idea. "No," he said.

"No?" Moody used a rising inflection. Harry narrowed his eyes. He's surprised. How can he be surprised, after he's seen me in class day in and day out?

"No, sir," he said firmly. "I'd hurt too many other people. And that matters to me. That matters a lot." He hesitated, but he didn't know the purpose of this conversation. On the off chance that Moody was trying to get him to bare his soul, Harry still had no desire to bare his soul to him. "I don't want to do that," he finished, simply, and shifted his feet as he glanced at the door. "Is that all, sir? Only, I'm supposed to go study for Transfiguration, and—"

"Go, go," said Moody, with a dismissive wave of his hand, and Harry hurried off, shaking his head. Strange. I don't know what he thinks he'll catch me in. Does he think I would suddenly blurt out some desire to be a Dark wizard, right in front of him? That would be a death wish, with how much he hates Dark magic.

Harry did glance back, once, to see Moody still regarding him, not even his magical eye rolling towards his lesson plan for his next class.

Harry shivered and all but ran out. He probably does think I'm going Dark. Honestly. Absolute power does not always corrupt absolutely—and I'm very far from absolutely powerful, anyway. Dumbledore and Voldemort are still stronger than I am. I wish everyone would stop acting as though my magic matters so much. What matters is what I do with it.

Harry saw the post owls coming, and held his breath. Four, and one of them broke off over the Gryffindor table and fluttered down to Neville, doubtless bringing him a gift from his grandmother.

The other three came to the Slytherin table, one of them landing beside Draco. The other two extended their legs to Harry, one already snatching food impatiently from his plate, as though it had had a long flight.

Harry took both letters, but made himself put off the one that, by the seal on the envelope, was from Lux Aeterna. His hands were not shaking as he opened the one from Snape. They weren't.

Harry:

I wanted to apologize for my behavior lately.

Harry blinked and peered hard at the letter. Nothing happened to the words. "Aspectus Lyncis," he muttered, just in case, but no trace of a glamour sprang into existence on the paper.

It seemed that it really was Snape writing this. Harry shook his head in wonder and continued.

I have had a friend recommend Slytherin behavior to me, and I intend to follow it. My trial is slated for December 21st, the day of longest darkness. I suspect that someone is making a point.

You are to bear up and keep your strength ready until that day. It may be that you will be called as a witness, or may volunteer as one.

Keep a watch over Draco. I have noticed of late that his behavior has altered. I will write to him with my concerns, but I am not sure they will make much impression on him.

Remember that I will not be kind if you have sacrificed something irreplaceable in a mad plan to free me.

Severus Snape.

Harry closed his eyes, took a long breath, thought, Let us see what I have sacrificed, then, and opened the letter from James.

It was short. It did not have to be long.

Harry:

I am dropping the charges against Snivellus, at your request.

Your loving father,

James.

Harry couldn't restrain a whoop of triumph, one that pulled even Draco's attention from his own letter, which looked to be from Snape. "What's that?" he asked, and snatched the parchment even before Harry could hold it out. He looked up, eyes wide with surprise, a moment later.

"What did you do?" he demanded of Harry.

Harry waved a hand. "Who cares? It won't happen now." He could feel the world opening out before him for the first time in a week. He still didn't have Snape free, that was true, but he had him one step closer to it. Only the charges from the Minister remained now, and Harry would wait a short time still to see if Scrimgeour might be able to do something; he didn't even know if Tonks had spoken to him yet. Then he would put any number of plans he had into motion.

"Let me see that," Millicent insisted, and took James's parchment from Draco. She reacted with her own whoop, and from there the letter had to go to Pansy, and Blaise and Vince demanded to know what was up, and the parchment passed down most of the Slytherin table.

Millicent pounded Harry on the back, hard enough to make him gasp and choke. "I don't know what you did, Potter," she said, eyes shining fiercely, "but it was worth it, whatever it was." She grinned at Pansy. "I think that someone might just happen to know where some butterbeer is, and if so, we're celebrating tonight!"

It was, Harry thought, his heart singing. It was worth it entirely. He caught his brother's anxious eye from across the room and smiled at him. Connor relaxed with a loud sigh that caught Hermione's attention. Unsure how much Connor might have told her, Harry looked away.

Since I've lost so many rounds lately, it feels good to win one.

As if mocking that thought, the black-and-silver web on Draco winked malevolently at him.

Harry narrowed his eyes at it. I'm going to get rid of you, too, see if I don't.