Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!
My apologies for the lateness of this. I didn't realize how long it would be, and some parts were very hard to write.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Explosions
Harry dreamed.
"Welcome home, my lord." Bellatrix's voice was soft and exultant as she steadied the small throne on the ground. "Oh, welcome home at last."
Voldemort's hissing laughter came from the center of the chair. Harry still couldn't see him, though he could see Bellatrix and the chair better in the dim half-light of dawn than he had in his last vision. He snuck around them in a circle, watching carefully. He still didn't think he was actually present, but this area where they had landed was more open than the forest where Harry had seen them last time. Harry could see a long stretch of empty beach plunging down to meet the water, and beyond that, a waste of equally empty downs.
Nagini slithered around the chair, and hissed something that Harry's ears translated as, "Are you comfortable, dear Master?"
"Always, with you near," Voldemort hissed back. Parseltongue didn't sound that much different from English to Harry, at least while he was speaking it, but Voldemort's voice managed to make the innocent snake language sound foul and perverse. He gave a little shudder that made his fur bristle, and kept watching.
"We must move," Voldemort told Bellatrix. "Nagini needs a warm place, and so will I. And then—then the sun." He was laughing again, and Harry fixed his eyes on the ground, the soft sand beneath his paws, so that he wouldn't have to watch the expression on Bellatrix's face when she listened to the laughter. She looked as if she considered it richest music.
"Yes, my lord," the Death Eater said, and scooped up the chair. Harry stared despite himself at the end of her right wrist. It was capped with—something. He thought it was not a hand, but it shimmered and flexed like moonlight on water, and it obviously gripped like a hand even if it wasn't one.
The dream moved on, tracking Voldemort and Bellatrix and Nagini across the sand, and Harry perforce followed. The pain in the center of his forehead was growing worse, but he didn't know why. This scene was almost peaceful.
Until they climbed the first down off the beach, of course, and met a Muggle walking alone, whistling to himself. He paused and stared at Bellatrix with his mouth open.
Nagini killed him, since Bellatrix's hands were rather occupied. Harry supposed it was a more merciful death than he could have had, given how Bellatrix liked to torture her victims, but it hardly mattered as he watched Nagini's teeth and coils bear down, and heard the quick scream the Muggle gave before that was choked off. And watching Bellatrix tear a bit from the body and bring it back to feed to the invisible thing in the chair was almost more than Harry could stand.
"Welcome home, my lord," Bellatrix murmured again, making a motion as though she were wiping at milk on a child's cheek. Harry highly doubted that this was anything so innocent as milk. "Welcome home at last."
Harry felt the pain in his scar grow to the point where he could feel it blazing through into reality, and then he burst back to himself, gasping and grabbing at his forehead, with the knowledge that Voldemort had returned to Britain.
Draco opened his eyes sharply. He didn't know why. He'd been dreaming one moment, quite comfortably ensconced in a place that had the best features of Malfoy Manor and Florean Fortescue's mixed together, and now he was in his bed with his forehead tingling—
His forehead.
Draco swallowed and carefully pushed the curtains of his bed back. He had discovered in the past few days that he could ignore most emotions as ghost sensations, unless they were very strong or they came from Harry. He had a good idea why his forehead was hurting now.
He padded quietly over to Harry's bed, since a quick Tempus check told him it was still only six in the morning, and twitched on Harry's curtain. He heard a quick, startled breath, then the rustling that meant Harry was turning over and trying to pretend he was still asleep.
Draco leaned in and glared at his friend. Harry's face was relaxed, his mouth slightly parted as though in wonder at a dream. He'd even got his eyes darting back and forth under his eyelids in pursuit of the imaginary vision. But he hadn't thought to clean off the trail of blood that had run down his cheek.
"Harry," Draco hissed at him. "I know that you're awake, damn you. Open your eyes and talk to me."
Harry still tried to pretend for a moment, and then he rolled over and blinked at Draco, one hand rising as though to cover a yawn—and, just incidentally, shield the trail of blood from view. "Hi, Draco," he said. "What are you doing awake so early? Did you have a bad dream?"
"For the love of Merlin." Draco crawled onto Harry's bed and let the curtains fall shut behind him. "Look. This is stupid. We've had a few days to get used to this now, and that means that you know I have empathy, and I know I have empathy, and I've memorized your words to me. You said that you didn't mind me being able to see your emotions because it was me. Was that a lie?" He could feel hurt rising, but he shoved it away, in favor of being angry. Showing pain would just make Harry that more likely to lie.
"No," said Harry, blinking as if he couldn't understand how their conversation had taken this sudden turn. "I do trust you, Draco, you know that. I trust you more than anyone else."
Draco wanted to crow in glee, but instead he put the words away to admire at a later time. "Then start bloody well acting like it, Harry," he muttered, and plucked at the sheets. "You trust me, and you know that I can feel your dreams, anyway. Why do you pretend that you're not having them?"
Harry's shoulders hunched, making him look like a turtle. Or a coward. Draco thought about it for a moment, then told him so.
Harry stared at him in sheer astonishment. Draco squinted and felt out through his shields, still a tedious process, like groping about for his wand in a darkened room. Yes, there was the faint sensation of cold wind on his face. Harry really was shocked. "I'm not—I didn't even know you might say that to me," Harry muttered.
"Good," said Draco. "Then maybe you'll listen to other things I say, too. This is getting ridiculous. I made some promises, and I'm trying my best to act on them, Harry, but I want promises from you, too. Are you going to make me go through this silly charade every time you have a dream, which I can feel, or are you going to simply confess and tell me when you have one?"
"I'll tell you if they wake you up," Harry tried to bargain.
"Every time," Draco insisted.
Harry frowned at him. Draco raised an eyebrow and waited. Harry had been acting slightly different in the past few days, as though someone had told him something that he wanted to take into consideration, but he was too obviously searching for a way back. Draco understood. He would have liked to be able to step back to their uncomplicated friendship of a few months earlier, too, when he hadn't made as many stupid mistakes as he had.
But Draco wasn't about to let Harry find the road back. He had changed. So had Harry. Draco had known that the first time Harry shied from his touch, if not earlier. And if he let Harry get away with this, then the prat would just find some way to smother his pain from the dreams, or maybe make Draco's shields thicker so that he couldn't sense them.
And the maddening thing was, he would do it for unselfish reasons; those were his real ones. Draco didn't care, though. It was still maddening.
"All right," said Harry at last, and let his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh. "Merlin, you don't give up, do you?"
"Never," said Draco, and felt able to give a smug smile at Harry, which was returned with interest as a frown. "Really, Harry, if you would just look at that serpent I gave you once in a while, then you'd—"
He shut up as he heard a soft hissing sound travel through the dungeons. He flinched. He'd only heard that sound once before, but he knew what it portended. It wasn't easy to forget.
"Oh, no," he muttered.
"Draco?" Harry was sitting upright in a moment, looking around as though to move between him and danger. "What is it?"
"My mother's decided on the response she's going to make for my summoning Julia against her will," said Draco hollowly. The hissing sound was right next to the bed now, and even knowing it would only hurt for a moment, he winced and cowered. Harry had been the one to insist that Draco write a letter to Narcissa telling her the truth, but he had thought the only possible retaliation would be a Howler. Draco knew better. "She's done it before."
"When?" Harry asked, even as the curtains parted and a silvery shape slithered its way across the bed to Draco. Harry was handing his wand with barely a twitch of his hand, and then he hissed, as though he thought he could speak to the snake and distract it from its duty. Draco shook his head at him.
"When I tried to practice a Blasting Curse on one of our house elves," said Draco, wincing just at the memory, "and wound up destroying one of my mother's family heirlooms instead." He held out his hand, palm flat. The snake wrapped around his wrist. It was much bigger than the tiny serpent that had attacked him last year, but just as artificial, made of gleaming metal. It did not stop hissing as it fixed glittering green eyes on Draco's face, but its jaws parted, and Narcissa's voice came out.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy," she said.
Draco looked down.
"I am very disappointed in you."
That was what she had said about the chest he'd destroyed, too. Draco had to force himself not to curl his hand up. The snake would only pry it flat and administer the bite anyway, as it had last time. It would hurt less this way.
"Disappointed enough to use the heir-snake," Narcissa continued. "What you did was unworthy of your name, unworthy of the pride that we raised you to have. To go begging to the dead, Draco. I had thought you were long past such childish courses, that you would never have considered them.
"And you broke your promise to me. You are not an adult, as long as you do so. You are a child."
Draco swallowed.
"Heir-snake?" Harry nudged him with one elbow.
"Explain in a minute," Draco muttered. "I don't know if she's done yet."
Narcissa, as it happened, was not done. "Your father has said that he will congratulate you on becoming a magical heir to the Malfoy line, but only when you have shown him that you can be an adult. Until then, you need a reminder of what you have been and must grow away from."
The snake whipped its head around and bit straight into the center of his palm. Draco sucked in his breath, but did not cry aloud. The serpent would be able to hear that, and would carry the sound back to his parents.
The snake slithered gracefully off his arm a moment later, and off the bed. It would make its way back to Malfoy Manor and freeze into motionlessness once more, until Narcissa again had cause to punish him.
Draco watched in dread as the bite in the center of his palm colored quickly, and then transformed into an image of himself as a two-year-old, wiping its eyes and crying. It didn't make any sound, luckily, being no worse than a magical photograph, but anyone who looked at it could see his face going blotchy and his mouth gaping in the moans of a spoiled child. Draco started to fold his hand shut.
"Let me see."
Harry gripped his wrist and gently turned his hand over, frowning at the image. "Do you want me to heal it?" he asked.
Draco found himself smiling, though he knew it was a shaky expression. "No. The heir-snake would just return and bite me again."
"What was that all about?" Harry went on lightly holding Draco's hand, not seeming to realize he was doing it—or perhaps he had realized, and was willingly reaching out for contact. Since Halloween, Harry had seemed reluctant to endure any touch that he didn't initiate. Draco flexed his fingers, partially to enjoy this while he had it and partially to ease the pain of the bite, and explained.
"It's an heirloom that Malfoy mothers, or the women who marry into the Malfoy line, inherit. It's used to punish children who really should know better. It reminds them of what they were when they break a promise or do something else younger than their age." He peered at the crying image in his palm, and found it, if possible, more horrid than before. He gave Harry a sickly smile. "I knew she'd probably do that. I broke my promise to her. I haven't done that in years, and never in a way that could have endangered my life before."
Harry snorted. "I'm glad to see that you realized that much, at least. Go back to sleep, Draco. It's Saturday. We don't have to be awake for a while yet."
Draco nodded, but waited until Harry pulled away from him and lay down again before he climbed back into his own bed. Even then, he hesitated to murmur, "No more nightmares without telling me, Harry, remember?"
Silence, and then Harry sighed and said, "No more nightmares. Good morning, Draco."
Draco slid back into his bed satisfied, despite the lingering pain in his hand. He knew he was being an annoyance, but that was the only way to keep Harry from retreating into his shell, and so far, it had worked.
Besides, he knew his mother wasn't furious with him. If she were, she would have sent him the heir-snake with instructions for it to bite him in public.
"We wish you would let us bite him."
Harry rolled his eyes as he and Draco entered the Great Hall for breakfast. The comment from the Many had become the usual order of things, and he no longer knew why. Draco hadn't done anything especially annoying in the last week; in fact, he'd been much better than he was before, now that the compulsion on his mind and heart had finally cracked. "No," he said, just as he always said, and sat down at the Slytherin table.
The Many hissed in irritation, but the smell of food distracted the little snake, and soon it had crawled up his wrist and was daintily eating the bits of food he deigned to feed it. Harry glanced around the room halfway through breakfast, noticing with a faint curiosity that most of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were there. Of course, it was Saturday, but even last weekend, most of them hadn't eaten at the same time.
Really? Are you sure? You had other things to notice last weekend.
Harry winced at nothing and shook his head. He was—well, compromising on the issue of Vera's words. He kept them hovering beneath the surface of his mind, and peeked at them when he absolutely couldn't stand it any longer. Otherwise, though, he ignored them as much as possible. She had said many hurtful things, things that could prevent him from helping others if he spent too much time thinking about them. So he wouldn't.
He caught Connor's eye from where he sat at the Gryffindor table, and smiled slightly. His brother was yawning, one hand pressed in front of his mouth and his nose wrinkled. He straightened up the moment he caught sight of Harry, though, as if he wanted to prove that he was too adult to yawn. Harry lifted his forkful of sausage to him in greeting, and Connor nodded back.
"Attention, students."
Harry jumped slightly. Dumbledore hadn't been behind the head table a moment ago, but he was there now, and most of the other professors were with him—minus Snape, which made Harry close his eyes for a moment. Dumbledore, of course, was smiling, and he held out one hand in front of him as though to give a blessing.
"As you know," Dumbledore continued ceremoniously, "we have left the Goblet of Fire alone for a week—long enough for worthy students of all schools to enter their names in a bid to compete in the Triwizard Tournament."
Oh, yes, that nonsense. Harry had known that a few upper-level Slytherins entered their names, but most of his yearmates seemed to be above that. The one thing he felt grateful for was that he knew Draco hadn't done it, since he'd been so occupied, first with the potion and then wrestling with the consequences of the gift of empathy.
"Ow," Draco said beside him, as if sensing his thoughts.
"Who is it this time?" Harry muttered at him from the side of his mouth, not taking his eyes off Dumbledore.
"Blaise again." Draco whispered the name. Blaise was just two seats down from Harry, on the other side of Millicent. "Droopy. Weepy. A brewing black thunderstorm of melancholy." He paused. "Come on, Harry, let me make fun of him."
"You'd have to explain how you knew," said Harry, and sipped at his porridge.
"I would not. I'm a Slytherin. He'd just assume that I figured out he was mooning over somebody from keen observation."
"Maybe he had bad news from home," said Harry, shaking his head. Granted, he wasn't the empath, but he didn't see how Draco could be sure that Blaise's romantic sorrow was, well, romantic, and not the result of some tragedy. "And I think you need to work on your shielding."
"Hush it, Potter," Pansy snapped, leaning around Draco's shoulder and frowning at him. "They're about to announce whose names will come out of the Goblet to compete in the Tournament."
Harry narrowed his eyes. Pansy's face was flushed, her eyes brighter than they appeared to be normally.
"Tell me you didn't put your name in the Goblet," he said.
Pansy flushed more deeply and turned her back on him to face Dumbledore.
Harry rolled his eyes. Merlin, what does she want? It's not like her family needs the money. The attention? Honestly, who would?
"The Goblet of Fire creates a binding magical contract on the wizards and witches whose names emerge," Dumbledore was saying. "That means that, if someone's name comes out of the Goblet, that person must compete in the Tournament." He paused, but he'd done too good a job promoting this Tournament as something exciting and not dangerous, Harry thought. Most of the students still watched eagerly as Dumbledore tapped a large chest in front of him three times with his wand and took out a rough wooden goblet.
The top was burning with blue flame, and Harry, his eyes squinting against the sudden blaze of magic that the Goblet had brought into the room, had to admit that that more than made up for its appearance. Dumbledore held out his hand, and a scrap of parchment emerged from the flames and settled into his palm.
"The champion for Durmstrang," he read out, his voice loud and confident, "is Viktor Krum."
The Durmstrang students broke into cheers, and Harry blinked as the Quidditch player he remembered from the World Cup stood and shouldered his way forward to the head table. Dumbledore spoke with him softly for a moment, and Krum nodded and walked through a door into a small side room leading off the Hall.
Once again, the Goblet gave a name into Dumbledore's hand, and this time he smiled, as though he'd had something personally to do with the selection. "The champion for Beauxbatons," he said, "is Fleur Delacour."
Harry saw one of the part-Veela girls rise in a cloud of shimmering silver hair. Subdued, butterfly-like applause trailed her as she walked up to the head table. Harry caught a glimpse of her face, and was reminded of Narcissa the first time he had met her. Fleur, though, had let a hint of nervous excitement color her cheeks. Dumbledore spoke with her slightly longer than he had with Krum before sending her into the small side room.
Harry noticed most of the students around him leaning forward. Draco was rubbing his forehead and murmuring something about "bloody excitement headache."
"He hasn't announced the Hogwarts champion yet," Pansy murmured. "I still have a chance."
"For Merlin's sake," said Harry, but a glance at their faces showed that no one was paying attention to him. He shook his head and finished his porridge, as the Goblet seemed to deliberate on the final name before shooting another scrap of parchment into Dumbledore's hand.
"And the champion for Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, "is Connor Potter."
Harry felt himself gasp, which caused him to choke on his porridge. He heard cries of interest, cries of outrage, and at least one foot-stomping fit of disappointment from Pansy. Beside him, Millicent had gone silent and intent, and Draco stared across the room at Connor.
"But he didn't put his name in the Goblet, I thought," he said.
Harry gained control of his choking, and swiveled his head to look at his brother, his heart going crazy in his chest. Connor's face was pale. He stared at the Headmaster with a look that did not seem to crave either fame or fortune. That look said that he didn't know what the hell was going on.
"Come forward, now, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore was saying. "When one's name emerges from the Goblet of Fire, one is bound to compete in the Triwizard Tournament."
One look at Dumbledore's face, which was still smiling serenely, and not at all concerned that he was putting the Boy-Who-Lived in the way of danger, convinced Harry that Dumbledore had planned this.
The bloody bastard.
Even as his twin hesitantly stood and made his way up to the head table, Harry was letting his magic go. Dumbledore looked abruptly in Harry's direction just before Connor reached him. Harry narrowed his eyes and inclined his head. Beneath his hand, the remnants of the porridge in his bowl had turned to ice.
We need to talk, Dumbledore.
As though he'd heard the words in Harry's thoughts, Dumbledore nodded, and spoke kindly with Connor for a moment, ignoring the way that Harry's twin desperately shook his head. A few moments later, Connor put his head down and trooped unhappily into the side room.
"I will converse with our champions for a few moments, and tell them what to expect," Dumbledore announced to the room, as the Goblet of Fire's flames went out, and he tucked it back into the chest in front of him. "After that, I will be in my office in case anyone wishes to speak with me." His gaze lingered on Harry for a moment, and then he turned and swept out of the Hall.
Harry glared after him, and then Draco was tugging on his arm and muttering, "Come on, Harry, calm down. You're giving me a headache here."
Harry blinked, startled out of his rage. "I thought my magic didn't give you a headache any more," he said, glancing at his friend.
"Not your magic, your fury," said Draco plainly. "Come on. There's nothing you can do about it for right now. I'll walk you to the Headmaster's office." He tugged on Harry's arm again.
Harry nodded, and stood. He did think it was funny, as they left amid the buzz of curiosity and interest and unease from other students in the Hall, that the one person whose expression seemed to match his was Moody's. He had just destroyed his goblet with what looked like a modified Blasting Curse, as though intensely upset that Connor's name had come out of the Goblet.
Harry tensed when he saw Dumbledore coming up the corridor towards them. Draco, who'd been standing beside him but saying nothing, tensed too, and laid his unmarked hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Just be calm," he whispered.
Harry could not be calm, though. His gaze was fixed on the Headmaster, and he couldn't seem to remove it. Rage had given way to something more dangerous, a mixture of glazed ice and dark, shifting water that altered from moment to moment. Distrust and disgust were the foremost emotions in it, but they were mixed with others, among them the abiding conviction that he would not forgive Dumbledore this mistake.
"Ah, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I think that you should go and comfort your brother after this interview. He did seem somewhat upset about having to compete in the Tournament, though he understands, now, that there's no way that he can back out." He smiled at Harry.
Bloody bastard. He isn't even pretending that he had nothing to do with it! I just—I don't understand—
"Why?" Harry whispered, and knew his voice was shaking.
"Because," said Dumbledore gently, "Connor needs a test of his own, an arena in which he can shine. He has become less noticed this year than he ever was. At least, when he was in the storm of crisis that his accusations against you last year and the year before created, he was learning how to weather the fame and the expectations that came with being the Boy-Who-Lived. But now, Harry, whose name is in the newspapers? Who in your family is the focus of attention?"
Harry couldn't quite mask a wince. His oldest instincts shrieked that this was wrong, that he shouldn't be taking time and attention away from Connor. His training in defensive magic had been quite heavy on spells that would protect his brother without attracting notice by their flashiness. And now he'd been flashy and not even realized it.
He took a deep breath. He bore the guilt, he knew he did. He would deal with it later, though. He needed to say this. "His life is in danger in the Tournament. He could be killed."
"He has at least as much a chance as the other champions, I would say," Dumbledore murmured. "And more than most. Why wouldn't he? He is the Boy-Who-Lived, and most people accept that he must be a wondrously powerful wizard, to have defeated Voldemort."
Harry opened his mouth to answer, and found himself stymied again. If he claimed he was more powerful than Connor, then he was saying the kind of thing his training made him intensely uncomfortable with saying. And if he said Connor was more powerful, it was a blatant lie.
He found himself hissing at Dumbledore, and the Many hissed back comfortingly from his arm.
"We may bite this one, at least?"
"No," Harry insisted, and then turned back to the Headmaster instead of listening to the Many having a sulk. "I don't understand why you would do this," he bit out. "You must know that your favored interpretation of the prophecy is in danger if he is."
"I trust that you will protect him, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Thanks to his brother, he has survived worse dangers."
Harry closed his eyes. "You're trying to tangle me up again," he said. "Keep me busy."
"Yes, he is," Draco breathed against the back of his neck, so softly that Harry almost could not hear him. "His emotions are saying so. He was a bit surprised that you figured it out."
Harry opened his eyes quickly, but if Dumbledore had ever actually looked surprised, it was gone now. "The Goblet has chosen," he said. "The Tournament must proceed. Connor will succeed, Harry. You'll see. And this will give him a chance to step, at last, out of his brother's long shadow."
Harry came very close to hating Dumbledore then. He watched in silent rage as the Headmaster whispered the password to the gargoyle and it sprang aside. Dumbledore put one foot on the staircase beyond, and then paused.
"Oh, I had almost forgotten," he said, and drew an envelope from his pocket. "This came for you this morning, Harry. It's the letter I want you to answer." He tossed it to Harry, who caught it automatically.
"Why should I?" Harry had to ask, since his magic was trembling, as eager as the Many, to be let out and attack Dumbledore. "Why should I, when you've broken our truce by dragging Connor into this damn Tournament?"
Dumbledore raised one eyebrow. "Why, Harry," he said, "this letter has nothing to do with our earlier truce. It is the culmination of a promise you made me for quite a different reason, don't you remember?"
Harry did. The Minister gone, and Snape free. If Dumbledore voted to keep Fudge in office and to send Snape to prison, then Harry was fairly certain the rest of the Wizengamot would follow him.
If they knew…
But if they were to have proof of what Dumbledore had done, then they would need to know how Harry knew these things, and they would have to dig up the whole sorry story, and that would hurt other people and bring attention to focus on some aspects of his life that Harry could not bear to have exposed.
"I hate you," he whispered to Dumbledore, and slipped the letter into the pocket of his robes, and went to find Connor, Draco hot on his heels.
Albus watched Harry go with a slight frown. The boy had reacted more violently than he had hoped or expected to the inclusion of his brother in the Triwizard Tournament.
I thought he would understand, he mused as he climbed the stairs to his office. He is the one who wished to play in politics. He was the one who went to Slytherin. He should be well used to the necessity of testing someone. And since Connor did not actually defeat Tom either when he was a baby or last year, and I highly suspect that he did not in the Chamber, either, he must grow stronger. There must be a reckoning. At least this will not be the fatal kind. And Harry should have known that I would use those words against him.
Harry needs to learn love and forgiveness, I know that. But sometimes he acts as if he had too much compassion already. I do not understand it.
Ah, well. This is his brother. We trained him long enough, Lily and I, to love Connor to the exclusion of all else. Albus nodded, accepting that his foresight had failed because he had forgotten the bond between the twins. I should have known he would snap at me like this.
But Harry would keep his promise, or he would have destroyed the letter with fire already. He would read it. He would reply. And that meant he would be taking the first step on a long, long road to becoming the kind of leader they would truly need, since he had told Albus the possibility of his fulfilling a different role in the prophecy.
Harry will understand, when he reads what she has written.
Harry didn't even need to wait before entering Gryffindor Tower. Ron was watching for him, and let him in, with only the faintest glare of distaste at Draco.
"Where is he?" Harry asked, looking around the common room and finding no Connor there.
"Upstairs." Ron gestured with his head. "He's locked the door and won't let anyone else talk to him. It's pretty bad, mate."
Harry nodded and turned to the stairs.
"Harry?"
Harry glanced back at Ron, and found him frowning, biting one knuckle. Ron waited. Harry waited.
Ron broke first, and said, "Are you sure that he didn't put his name in the Goblet? He says he didn't, but…" He shrugged, as though to say that he would not have given up the opportunity to pursue such fame and fortune himself, danger or no danger.
Harry quelled the temptation to snap. Ron was Ron, and he wanted to distinguish himself. With his family and the block on his magic, which Harry had sensed was still there all through the lessons in spells that he had given him, it made sense. And if he thought Connor had been lying to him, he would be understandably upset.
"I'm sure," said Harry quietly. "He's been occupied with something else, an argument he's been having with our dad by letter."
Ron's face clouded, even as he nodded. "I know what that's like," he said darkly. "Percy's still a git, and won't come work with our dad."
Harry hesitated, but Percy's secret wasn't his to tell. He just inclined his head and went up the stairs. Draco laid a hand on his shoulder all the way up, and Harry forced himself not to throw it off. It didn't feel bad, really, just temping, and he couldn't afford to give in to temptation right now.
He knocked on the door to the fourth-year boys' room, and received an angry shout from behind it.
"I told you I didn't want to talk to anyone!"
"Too bad," Harry muttered, and undid the locking charms that Connor had put on the door with a few twitches of his will. He stepped in, and had to duck the pillow that Connor threw at him. It caught Draco full in the face, though.
"Merlin, Potter," Draco said, wiping dust off his cheeks. "Do you chase the house elves away from your bed just so that you can have the pleasure of lying around in your own filth?"
Connor's face flushed. He'd already been crying, and now he started scrabbling for his wand among the bedcovers.
"So help me, Draco," Harry said in an undertone, "talk to him again, and I'll hurt you." He stepped forward before Draco could say anything to that, and grasped his brother's wrist. Connor tried to jerk away.
Harry wouldn't let him, turning him around and wrapping him in an embrace instead. Connor closed his eyes tightly and held onto him with strength that Harry recognized as desperate. That didn't bother him. In fact, he could feel himself truly relaxing for the first time in a week. This, he didn't have to do research on, the way that he did with the Parseltongue book that Arabella had sent him, or on house elf webs. This, he could do something about immediately, and help someone else. That was the only thing that truly made him feel at ease.
"It's all right, Connor," he breathed into his brother's hair. "I'll help you. I'll help you find spells to survive the Tasks, whatever they are. I know that you didn't put your name in the Goblet, and I know that you didn't want fame and glory." And his brother didn't, he was convinced. Connor had been too busy trying to put himself together again after Sirius's death to crave this kind of thing. "I won't let you die."
Connor gripped his shoulders for a moment. "You don't think I'm cowardly, to be afraid?" he whispered.
"You didn't want this," said Harry. "How is that cowardly?"
"I got a lecture," Connor muttered, pulling away enough to wipe at his face. "From some of the upper years, especially this fellow named McLaggen. I should show courage, what was I crying for, I was going to make the other Houses think Gryffindor was wet, and so on."
Harry sighed. "Well, they will expect you to show up for events with the other champions, and smile and look cheerful about it," he said. Connor's hazel eyes were clearer now, and he did seem more relaxed, both of which made Harry feel more cheerful. "But you can do that, right? I mean, you did it first year when you got chosen for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and that was unusual."
"But now I don't feel like it," said Connor. "Sometimes I get tired of being the Boy-Who-Lived all the bloody time."
Harry felt Draco shift, as though he were going to say something, but he thankfully didn't and make Harry have to hurt him. Harry smiled gently at his brother and brushed the hair back from his heart-shaped scar.
"I know," he whispered. "And you'll always have me to talk to, me to lean on, if it gets to be too much. I mean it, Connor. I love you, and I'll be here for you."
Connor's eyes cleared completely, and he nodded, slowly, as though he needed to feel each separate part of the motion. "That's what I keep telling Dad," he said. "That's what we're arguing about. I keep telling him that he's being an idiot for not trusting you to know your own mind and backing off Snape. He keeps writing back—oh, all kinds of things, that Snape has corrupted you and you should have more loyalty to your blood family and so on." Connor shrugged, his face growing mulish, but, thankfully, no longer closed, the way it had been before when Harry tried to talk to him about James. "He's an idiot. I wish he was here so he'd eat his words. But don't worry. I'll tell him about this, unless you would rather I'd not."
Harry smiled in spite of himself. "No, it's fine. Thank you, Connor." He hugged his brother on the shoulders this time, and pulled away with a pat on his back. "And you'll come to me if you need my help, right?"
Connor nodded. "I promise."
"Good." Harry turned around again, and saw Draco watching them both with an odd expression on his face. Harry blinked and peered at him. It looked like jealousy. Harry shook his head. He had no clue why. Surely Draco had to know that if he were in the same kind of trouble, Harry would help him the same way? And he was an empath now, and should be able to feel Connor's sincere pain and agony.
"Let me know if there's anything else I can do," he told Connor, and, on receiving a smile from his twin, left in contentment—
Or as much contentment as he could find, with the letter burning a hole in his pocket.
Harry took a deep breath and slowly opened the envelope. He had a suspicion as to who it would be from. That was the reason he'd, according to Draco, "been radiating anxiety that would drown the Giant Squid," and the reason that he'd gently refused company while he read the letter. Draco had finally, reluctantly, backed off, and let Harry come to the Owlery alone to read it.
There, amid the gentle shiftings and shufflings of the birds, with the honesty-charmed parchment he'd borrowed from Dumbledore earlier in the week beside him, Harry looked down and read the letter he'd known, in the back of his mind, would be coming.
Dear son:
I imagine that you never expected to hear from me again. What else could there be to say between us? You made your feelings clear when you took away my magic. And you probably thought I had made mine clear with the betrayal I inflicted upon you.
No, you have not been blinded, or charmed. The only charm on this parchment insures my complete honesty. It was a betrayal, and I can see it now, in that light. I have had much time to think, Harry—nearly a year.
For months afterward, yes, I raged and plotted as to how to get you back under my control. That was the reason I told Connor to compel you if nothing else would answer. But around May, I got past that. The news of Sirius's death and how you had saved your brother yet again, which Albus told me of, helped open my eyes to the fact that pain other than my own existed in the world.
Albus also told me of your changed position in regards to the prophecy.
Harry, I cannot say that I regret everything I did in the past, because this parchment is forcing me to be honest. I can say that I would do it all differently now. I did not realize the truth about what happened the night of the attack. If I had, then I would have helped you train your magic so that you could fight Voldemort, not bound it and caged it. I would have helped you become the Boy-Who-Lived, not the guardian of the one I thought was the Boy-Who-Lived. I would have helped you accept your possible death in the light of being a hero, rather than being a sacrifice.
As it is, I accept that I cannot have my magic back. I would like to know my sons again—the young men Albus says they have become in the wake of May's events. I read of you only in the newspapers now, and a terror and a thrill touches me, that the sons I raised have become so formidable.
Harry, will you let me greet you on a new footing, one where I know what you are and what you can do? Will you consent to see me again? The justice ritual prevents us from meeting because you said that you did not want to see me again, but that part can be reversed, even though the loss of my magic cannot be. This distance between us was something you required, not a reparation from me, and a prohibition that has affected you as much as me. If you change your mind, we can see each other once more.
Please write back.
Love,
Lily.
Harry closed his eyes. He sat in silence for a long time, save for the brush of wings above him as owls came and went.
Then he drew out the honesty-charmed parchment—how glad he was, right now, that he didn't have to go to Dumbledore's office and borrow some—and composed his reply, intensely glad that no one was there to see him, and the way his hand shook.
This is for Snape, he told himself, again and again.
It was the only way he got through the letter.