Title: The Spinning World: So That You Could Remember Him (7?)
Author: hans bekhart
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content, mention of character death, mention of rape.
Summary: In the sequel to "Casualties of War," Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Draco makes a new friend, Harry gets a pep talk from a half-giant and Terry Boot contemplates strangulation as a method for controlling annoying Slytherins. Notes: Super thanks to thedelphi and lj user"seaoftethys"> for beta'ing! Feedback and reviews are very much appreciated. Also, please check out my LiveJournal (hansbekhart), where I have a soundtrack to the first act of The Spinning World posted.
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Remus had waited for him in the blackness of the garage, the hot end of his cigarette his only light. It traced an arc from his long, nervous fingers and up to his mouth and shed a brief light on the short beard around his chin and mouth. It wasn't a neat beard or a deliberate one. It was dirty and uneven and golden in the light of his cigarette. When Sirius finally found him, Remus had been waiting long enough to be angry, but then again they were always angry with each other these days.
He stood when Sirius addressed him, flicking the cigarette carelessly away, pushing himself up with a hand on the supple leather of the motorbike's seat. Sirius circled him warily, his features set in a hard line despite the whisky on his breath. His voice was low and fast, muttered accusations veiled behind their endless argument. Remus was brief, maddeningly cool, answering Sirius' interrogation without actually saying anything of meaning.
The garage smelled of petrol and fine leather which creaked beneath Remus' worn palms when he leaned forward, tormenting Sirius with the curve of a mocking smile and the slide of dirty fingers across the bike's surface. The light that spread across the oily floor picked up the fine hairs along the line of his throat, glinted against bared white teeth. Sirius' shoulders hunched, his arms spread, growing bigger and more threatening in the dim light but the first person to move was Remus, striking forward with inhuman speed and snatching the front of Sirius' jacket to haul him close.
Sharp hip bones ground together. Sirius hissed surprise, but Remus only laughed, throat roughened by the cigarette and the recent moon, and Sirius punched him, fist glancing along the side of the jaw, struggling for dominance against the solid weight of the motorcycle behind Remus. They fought almost silently, Remus' breathless laughter muffled in the small room, colliding sharp elbows and bruised knuckles until Remus managed to pin Sirius' arms up against his chest and bring sharp teeth against the side of Sirius' throat. Sirius stiffened, fingers splaying against Remus' collarbone before clenching on his collar and tilting his head back. Eyes shut and lips parted, Remus' mouth slid down Sirius' neck, biting hard enough to leave bruises but never (almost) hard enough to break the skin.
With a growl, Sirius' hands shot down, twisting Remus' arm hard behind his back and forcing him around, hand on the back of Remus' neck pushing him down, bending him over the bike while he fumbled, cursing, with the zip of his jeans. Remus scrabbled for purchase, nose pressed into leather and knees knocking painfully against the body of the bike. His laugh turned into a groan when Sirius pushed into him, dry but for the clear slick on the end of his cock, hard enough to tear but Remus pushed back anyway, driving Sirius harder into himself. Sirius made no sound but a long jagged growl, his fist buried in Remus' hair, pulling his neck into a painful angle. Remus made enough noise for the both of them, bitter laughter still lurking around the edges of his moans and cries for more, harder, Sirius, more. His cock was trapped beneath his belly, sliding between the rough fabric of his coat and the supple leather of the seat.
At first, Snape had tried to avoid this sort of memory. The first time he had called one up in his Pensieve, the sight of Black taking Remus had sent him reeling away, hissing with rage and jealousy. He had been sickened but drawn back helplessly, hating himself for it before spinning elaborate webs of justification. At first, he had been smug in his knowledge, his power over Black, who still had no idea what Snape was stealing from him, had no idea that Snape could see him at his most vulnerable. He'd watched Remus' face contorted in orgasm, smile in the afterglow. Remus Lupin had always been unattainable, after all, even when he had been alive and still in the arms of Black, even when under the protective watch of James Potter. The years after Potter's death had vanished as Snape had bent his nose to a job that he despised and Lupin had done ... whatever it was he had done. Traveled the world. Had a lover who wrote to him in passionate, needy letters. Smoothed down all of his rough, animal edges and donned the mask of a harmless academic.
Snape had seen through it effortlessly, but to his astonishment had discovered himself just as easily seen through. Remus had recognised him, took hold of the boy Snape could barely remember being and refused to let him retreat back behind the walls that everyone else respected.
Black's jeans had stayed around his skinny hips as he thrust roughly into Remus, his belt buckle clinking against itself. Remus' jeans had slid down his thighs, ludicrously. Snape's cock was heavy in his hand as he stroked himself, watching the snap of Black's hips, the slide of cock in and out of Remus. There was blood on the slick shaft, the slightest smear of blood on the inside of Remus' thigh, and Snape panted harshly through his mouth, hand moving faster.
His attention had drawn so tightly to the push and thrust of bodies that at first he didn't notice when Remus turned his head. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone and Snape's hand slowed, faltered. Their eyes locked across nearly twenty years of time and death itself.
Remus stared Snape straight in the face, eerily accurate, as though the young man knew, knew that some day someone would watch him and Black fuck on top of Black's motorbike. A cold shudder ran down Snape's spine and his hand jerked around his cock, helplessly, mouth open. Snape came hard and Remus followed almost immediately, nails digging into the seat, crying out in what sounded more like a sob of relief.
He looked away while Black finished. He pulled out with a grunt, stepping away to fasten his jeans closed. Remus straightened but didn't move away from the motorbike, his fingers stealing down between his legs to cautiously investigate himself. They didn't look at each other, and Snape let his attention drift.
Black's voice startled him. "Why are you here, anyway?" he said tiredly.
Remus shrugged, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he slipped his jeans up his narrow hips. He light the cigarette with his wand before he answered. "Just got back into town," he said. "Needed to -- see a familiar face, I guess."
Draco didn't cut his hair, and life went on. November dragged its feet into a cold December. It snowed for the first six days of December, and Harry and Draco still had not spoken. It had been three days before Harry had gathered up the courage to approach Draco, only to lose his nerve halfway towards the knot of Slytherins gathered around Hagrid's hut. As days passed and he failed to find the words to ask for forgiveness, it had just seemed easier and easier to let it go for another day and then another, until it felt almost pointless to try and catch Draco's eye in class. Their months living in Remus' home, their weeks together at Hogwarts seemed to vanish until Harry had begun to wonder if he had dreamed it all.
Draco began to forget as well. The reasons he had nursed a bitter crush on Harry for so many years faded until all he could remember was what an arrogant prat Potter was, how he still didn't know the names of all the people he had been going to school with for five years. How he had always thought he was better than Draco anyway. As the term trudged on he fell back to taunting Potter when he saw him, although he didn't pursue encounters the way he used to.
Without Potter bringing him out of himself, obliviously demanding his attention in the here and now, Draco forgot himself and became an imitation of who had been, before Pansy's death. He tripped first years, tormented Gryffindors but avoided the Hufflepuff house, which was still vaguely annoyed with him for the fight with Stebbins. He spent his days without thought and his friends looked on, worried or involved in their own problems.
Draco found himself alone, early one Saturday morning. He had no detentions and he had only intermittently been doing homework, so he wrapped himself up in the warmest clothing of his housemates and went outside to play in the snow. He wandered far from the castle down to the courtyard of stone and the fields beyond it. He scooped up snow between his gloves and tossed it over his head, lifted his face to feel the snow flakes falling on his skin. His cheeks flushed in the cold, bringing a healthy glow to his face and he looked more alive than he had for some time. The world was silent around him, a thin string of smoke curling into the sky from the castle the only sign of life.
Once, when Draco was very small, his mother had taken him to the snow as a surprise. It had been just the two of them, when Lucius had been away and they had both been lonely. She had woken him before dawn and tapped her wand against his forehead to keep him warm, and then taken him in her arms and taken them to the North Pole. That was what she told him at the time, at least, and he had believed it until she had accidentally let it slip that it had been Norway.
Draco had been young enough that he hadn't yet started craving his father's presence and approval, when it had been guaranteed and not withheld as punishment. Narcissa had always loved him fiercely and so he had always taken her love for granted.
Draco let his shoulders slump, standing still in the field with snow up around his ankles. He was cold and wet enough that his healthy glow had faded to a snow-burned red, but his smile was blissful as he ground his feet from side to side to sink deeper into the powder. His eyes tracked snowflakes as the wind grabbed hold and flung them to the ground.
He hadn't heard the tread of feet across the snow and he didn't hear when they drew up short, startled, along the high wall of arches bordering the field. They were silent and still for a long time, watching Draco standing with his face tipped up towards the snow. And so when Draco's thoughts moved towards hot cocoa in the common room and he turned around to return to the castle, he was so shocked to find himself being observed that he squealed like a little girl.
"What the hell, Thomas!" he cried, when he had mostly recovered. "How long have you been standing there?"
Dean Thomas gaped up at Draco from the ground. He had leapt backwards in surprise when Draco screamed, and slipped on the icy ground. "I wasn't following you," he said, wincing as he pushed himself back to his feet.
"That's wonderful," Draco said, frowning. "But although that's crossed my mind in the past, it wasn't what I asked."
"You've thought I was following you before?" Dean asked, surprised.
Draco stopped a few feet away from him, his arms crossed over his chest. "I've seen you staring at me," he accused.
Dean laughed. "Everybody stares at you these days."
Draco beamed. "Well, that's true. But most people stopped doing it a few weeks into term. You keep staring. Are you going to tell me something artistic and flattering, to explain your bad manners? I mean, I think pretty highly of myself but it's starting to get a bit weird, Thomas."
"Well, I do like your scars, artistically, I mean," Dean said frankly, leaning in close to Draco. "But the real reason I keep staring is because I'd like to lick them. Aaaaaall over."
Draco stared at him, openmouthed, until Dean burst out laughing.
"Actually, I was going to the speaking stones," Dean said, eventually. "I go out there sometimes, you know, to think."
"Yeah," Draco said wisely, "it's a good place to feel sorry for yourself, isn't it?"
Dean only grinned, his eyes flickering towards the ground. "Exactly."
Draco pushed himself up onto the stone seat carefully, balancing most of his weight on his good arm. "I sulk anywhere I like," he said.
"I've noticed," Dean replied.
"It's a privilege," Draco said loftily. "For the exquisitely groomed and talented like myself."
Dean said nothing, but settled next to Draco in companionable silence, tucking the notebook he held under his arm. He pulled his knees up to his chest and they stared out into the snow in strangely companionable silence. After a time, Dean dug in his pocket for a grubby pencil and began to draw, absently. Draco watched the pencil track across the paper, unerring lines forming the contours of a hand, the softness of a hooded eye.
"Aren't you Muggle?" Draco asked thoughtfully.
Dean considered this. "I thought I was," he said finally. "Found out in second year that my dad was a wizard. He was killed before I was born, though."
Draco hmm'ed, but made no further comment.
Dean's hand hesitated, slowed. He stared at the pad of paper beneath his pencil, his eyebrows drawing together. "You ..." he said slowly, looking down at Draco with his jaw set. "You were there when Professor Lupin died, weren't you?"
Draco shifted a bit. "Not exactly," he said. "It was during the night. I was asleep."
Dean nodded and said nothing further. He met Draco's eyes evenly, not asking or pleading but not looking away, either. Draco drew back.
"You're funny and you're a good artist, but I don't know you," he said in a low voice. "You don't have any right to ask me about all that. I don't have to tell you anything."
"Nobody told me anything," Dean said. His voice was just as quiet as Draco's, but his words were desperate, choked off. "Nobody ever tells us anything. Seamus and Neville and me've been sharing that room with them for five years but we're not really all friends. Friendly, of course, but not friends. We get the same stupid half-truths from Dumbledore at the end of every year about what Harry Potter and his friends have been up to, just like everyone else here. They've saved us from You-Know-Who again and Harry and Ron never told us anything, even though we sleep only a few feet away from them. It's stupid and I'm tired of it. I feel like -- like a supporting character in a book that can't be arsed to give any bloody personality to its supporting characters. Malfoy, I know that we've never really talked before but -- please."
Draco's lips quirked in a thin smile. "Well, I wouldn't say we don't have anything in common. We've both been screwed over by Harry Potter, after all."
Dean laughed, a soft huff of air. "Think of it that way, then. All you're doing is ... proving that you're better than Harry."
Draco burst out laughing. "You're pretty smart, for a Gryffindor."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean answered. His fingers were curled tightly around his notebook, waiting for judgment. Draco pulled his cap down more tightly around his ears and shoved his gloved fingers into his pockets, considering.
"There was a painting that was hung in the study," he said abruptly. "Of a grindylow. It wasn't signed, but I saw the thing you made of the cannibals that was in his office, third year, and I knew that you made it. It had a nice frame and everything. It was right over his desk."
Dean's breath caught, and he glanced down at his feet, silent.
"We talked a lot over the summer. In the beginning I didn't want anything to do with Potter and he didn't want anything to do with me, but Remus -- one could really talk to him. You knew that already, I imagine." Draco paused. His eyes tracked the fall of the snowflakes towards the earth, coming more quickly now.
"Harry said that he was sick," Dean said softly. "That he never got better."
Draco's nod was so slight that Dean would have missed it, if he hadn't been watching Draco carefully. "He never showed it. Harry and I only found out a few days before he -- died." Draco blinked rapidly, remembered his flat denial when Remus had finally told them that he was sick, his unshakable belief that Remus wouldn't be dying because Professor Snape would know how to save him. Even after everything that had happened to him, Draco had still wanted to believe, to trust in those around him, and he didn't quite know when he'd lost that desire. Somewhere between predawn light that turned the world to an empty and unforgiving place, and snow stained with ancient blood, something had slipped away from him.
Draco bit his tongue, longing surging up from his stomach so intensely that it was agonizing. It bubbled and moved inside his body and drew his arms close around his waist but he let it come, welcomed and examined it. He missed Remus so much but now, sitting in the icy morning with a boy that he hardly knew, he was, bizarrely, comforted. The grief was shared, he could see it in Dean's face and the curve of his fingers around his notebook.
"I thought he was an artist," Dean said quietly. "Because he had such long fingers and he was so nice. He knew my name the very first day of class and he used to let me sit with him while he graded papers. I made up this whole history for him -- I've never told anybody this, not even Seamus. It's ridiculous and I won't mind if you make fun of me for it. But he -- he was a good teacher," Dean finished lamely. He turned away and swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Draco looked away politely, and they lapsed back into a silence that was only slightly embarrassed.
"You don't seem to be all that angry with Potter," Draco said, after some time had passed. "If I had ever thought you and I would have a heart-to-heart sort of conversation, I would have expected it to be about what a prat Harry Potter is."
Dean chuckled faintly. "Oh, well, I imagine that's mostly what you talk about. I wanted to give you a break from your favourite subject."
"It's such a rich and varied subject, though," Draco said, reasonably. "Ripe for scathing observations and hilarious pantomime."
"I'm sure it must be," Dean returned, "since you've gotten so much mileage out of it."
"He makes an easy target," Draco said modestly. Curiosity, though, prompted him to dig further. "But you wanted to ask me about Remus rather than say anything about Potter and the Weaslette?"
Dean shrugged. "Professor Lupin was more important. What am I supposed to say about what Ginny did? She's a shallow bitch and he's an arsehole and it hurts but I'm not awfully surprised, Malfoy."
"I was pretty surprised."
"That's because you don't know Ginny very well. She has almost as high of an opinion of herself as you do." Draco let that pass without comment. "She seems, you know, clever and funny but she can be really childish, too. She told me that she'd known all along that you and Harry were going out. And she told me that she'd gone out with me to make Harry notice her," he added bitterly.
"So are they ..." Draco swallowed. "Are they going out now?"
Dean shook his head. "She didn't want to tell me about it, but I don't really think Harry's much interested in girls."
"He was interested enough in Weasley," Draco said viciously. "I heard all about it."
Dean was watching Draco thoughtfully. "He didn't have sex with her, if that's what you've heard." Draco's head jerked up, eyes wide. "She said she would have, if he'd wanted to. But she cli -- climbed on top of him and he pushed her off and flew off with hardly a word."
Draco met Dean's gaze, searching the other's eyes for any hint of a lie. He looked away after a long time, rubbing his hands together slowly. "It doesn't change anything," he said.
Dean shook his head. "It didn't for me, either."
Harry trudged down the hill towards Hagrid's hut, unaware that he was missing Dean and Draco by a scarce hour or so. The unlikely pair had taken themselves off to scrounge up a late breakfast and cocoa, leaving no sign of their presence except for the deep footprints Draco had made in the field, which were nearly covered up by the time Harry made his way down the path. Harry's scarf was pulled up to his nose and his hands were curled into fists in his pockets. He scuffed irritably along the snow, kicking a bit at the drifts much as Draco had done only a short time earlier. He had left Gryffindor Tower in as little huff as he could manage, smothered by the fire and warmth and cheer.
Life had mostly gone back to normal for Harry Potter. Christmas holidays were coming and, according to Hermione, O.W.L.S would be there before they knew it. She had constructed a rigorous study schedule for Ron and Harry, which they had of course ignored. Dean wasn't exactly talking to him, but he would stay in the same room with Harry and that was enough. The Hogwarts rumor mill had come up with a hundred reasons as to why Draco Malfoy had attacked Harry in the Great Hall and told him never to come near him again, but with the principal players staying quiet, nobody except for Eloise Midgen hit upon the idea that it was a love affair gone sour, and she wasn't paid any attention to. Ron and Hermione had come back to Harry after a few days; they'd been friends long enough that it had never really been in doubt and as long as they kept away from the still-tender subject of Malfoy, they had gotten along fine.
It had been a few days since Harry had last sent an owl to Sirius, but he hadn't heard anything from his godfather yet. Sirius' most recent letters had been full of angry, nearly incoherent ramblings about how Snape was desecrating Remus' home and driving Sirius to madness. "One day," one had warned, "you're going to go to your Potions classroom and find that Snivellus has been turned into an enormous slug that belches faeces and can't speak except to sing the words to "I Am the Walrus" over and over in the voice of a six year old girl."
Harry's first thought had been to share this vision with Draco and get a few laughs out of it -- Draco was sure to come up with a more fitting song for Professor Slug to sing -- before he remembered that, of course, he couldn't do that now.
It had been something similar that had gotten him out of the castle and into the snow to visit Hagrid. He had the slightest inkling of what a fool he was -- he had spent quite a bit of time, when he was with Draco, missing his old life, and now that Draco was gone he spent most of his time missing Draco. As thick as Harry could be at times, he knew that he had missed his window of opportunity to get Draco back, had been too afraid to try. Needless to say, that knowledge hadn't done much to improve Harry's temper.
Hagrid welcomed Harry into his hut with a weak grin that was mostly obscured by the enormous slab of meat that was covering his eye. He peeled it off to show off a spectacular black eye, his eyes darting side to side as he explained that the, er, thestrals were actin' up a bit.
"Are they dangerous?" Harry asked. Neville had told him a little about thestrals in the carriage ride to Hogwarts, but he'd missed most of Hagrid's lecture the day he had taken them into the Forbidden Forest.
"Nah, o' course not. They jus' have a bad reputation," Hagrid said scornfully, slapping the steak back over his eye and turning to make Harry some tea.
"Then how did you get hurt?" Harry said. Hagrid stiffened. He peeked hesitantly over his shoulder at Harry.
"'S not important," he said gruffly. "Anyway, how've yeh bin? I heard yeh're fightin' with Malfoy again. I thought you two were friends now or somethin'."
Harry took a rock cake and tried to crumble it onto his plate. A chunk of dough broke off and wedged itself painfully under his fingernail. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We were friends for a while. Then I did something really stupid."
Hagrid's bushy eyebrows rose -- at least, the one visible rose. "You did somethin' stupid?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry said hotly. Anger and embarassment flared hotly in his stomach, his temper already stretched nearly to its limit. "You mean I do stupid things all the time, right?"
Hagrid chuckled, raising a massive hand to ward off Harry's outburst. "Nah, o' course not. Just that I woulda expected Malfoy t'be the one makin' all the trouble between the two of yeh. I know teachers aren' supposed t'say stuff like this, but somethin' always seemed kinda strange about him."
Harry sucked on his hurt finger, frowning. Something vague and uncomfortable rolled restlessly through his mind, too shameful to put into words. Hagrid's hut smelled comfortingly of wet fur and old ale, mixed up in Harry's mind with memories of being small and overwhelmed, hot and eager on the chase of Slytherin's heir of the mystery of Professor Quirrel, but all he could think of was how much he missed the smell of tea and chocolate and calf-bound books stacked haphazardly along mismatched furniture. It was embarassing and Harry felt obscurely ungrateful. He ducked his head, ashamed to find his eyes prickling fiercely.
Hagrid, to his credit, kept quiet and adjusted his steak more comfortably over his eye. Harry wiped his eyes quickly with the sleeve of his jacket, wetting his face with the snow that had melted there. He took a sip of tea, uncertain of his hands and of Hagrid. As he had gotten older, Harry and his friends had visited Hagrid less and less, shared fewer of the things that happened to them as they grew. He didn't know how to tell Hagrid that he had fucked up badly, that he had had sex with Draco Malfoy and then hurt him, that he had never really known what it was to miss someone so badly that it made you sick and kept you up all night. He wasn't even sure if Hagrid would understand how he felt, and so Hagrid's next words came as a surprise.
"No one expects yeh t'be perfect, Harry," Hagrid said.
Harry's head jerked up and he laughed, harshly. "Yes, they do. Everybody expects me to be perfect, they think I'm some sort of hero. Nobody thinks that it was all my fault that Draco hates me, everybody just expects that he did something horrible."
Hagrid's expression didn't change. A small, gentle smile had curled around his wide mouth and he looked Harry square in the eye. "They're not the ones tha' matter, an' you know it."
Harry stared at him, blinking rapidly. He glanced away after a moment, ducking his head. "Draco said that he liked me because I wasn't perfect, because I was different than he thought I was. Because I wasn't 'Perfect Potter.'" His mouth twisted bitterly. "I guess I proved that one."
"Nah," Hagrid said. "Ever'body makes mistakes. Look at me! I've done lots o' stupid things in my time. I tell yeh, this --" he gestured at his face, "-- this's been a thumpin' great one. But none o' that matters. Yeh've got yer friends an' that's what counts, eh? No more of that, now. Yeh'll get me cryin' next and then nothin will've been set right."
Another cup of tea found Harry in a calmer state, Hagrid carrying the conversation meaninglessly about Aragog and his monstrous children. "They jus' get a mite upset, y'know, when things come inter their territory, although why they think he'd want ter take over their ruddy nest I don' know, an' no cause at all to take it out on me when all I'm doin' is lookin' fer 'im --"
Hagrid stopped abruptly, looking pained. Harry grinned. "You're going to let it slip sometime, Hagrid. Just tell me what you're looking for in the Forest and what's been hurting you."
"I can't," Hagrid said, exasperated. "It's dangerous, and I don' want yeh runnin' off and gettin' hurt on account o' me."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not a little kid anymore," he said with emphasis. "I'm fifteen. I -- know better now." He believed it as he said it, all memories of spying on a mostly safe werewolf gone from his head, but he couldn't help the slight catch in his voice.
Hagrid's eyebrows raised skeptically, but he stared down at the tea cup dwarfed between his hands silently. "Over the summer, me an' Madam Maxine were sent t'talk to the giants on Dumbledore's behalf. Y'know, make some sorta peace with 'em so they don' join up with You-Know-Who. Nothin' really came of it -- long story -- but I found somethin' really important and brought 'im back with me."
"What -- who was it?" Harry asked.
Hagrid glanced up at him and away, and then pulled the steak off of his eye with an embarassed grunt. The eye was nearly swollen shut with a thick, yellow fluid that seeped from its corners, and the angle of Hagrid's cheekbone was distended and painful looking. "It's my brother," he said at last. "Half-brother, I mean. He was livin' with the tribe we went t'talk to, but he's small fer his age an' he was gettin' picked on by th'other giants so I ... I brough' him back wi' me. I thought it'd be alright -- I could teach 'im ter talk an' ev'rythin' but he -- he ran away an' he's bin loose in th' Forest ever since. I caught up with 'im a couple days ago an' that's how I got this." He gestured at his eye.
"Your brother did that?" Harry asked, astonished. Ron had told him a bit of the savagery of giants after they had accidentally overheard Hagrid and Madam Maxine during the Yule Ball, but his memory of Ron's revulsion had been overshadowed by Rita Skeeter's article and Draco Malfoy's taunting. Harry hadn't grown up hearing about giants, how they had gone willingly to Voldemort's side during his first rise to power, how they had come out of the hills and ground straight through villages, how when the Aurors had come they had been torn to pieces and then eaten. Remus Lupin might have been able to tell Harry how little respect giants had for their own kin and how easily they would hurt or kill their own parents, brothers or sisters, but Remus Lupin was gone and so Harry believed Hagrid when he said that his brother could be tamed, and Harry let Hagrid swear him to silence.
They passed the rest of the afternoon with tea and reminiscences and between stories of his parents and Hagrid's memories of his own first years at Hogwarts, Harry forgot all about Hagrid's brother. By the time he remembered Hagrid's bruises and his search through the Forbidden Forest for a missing giant, it would be far too late.
Terry Boot was a patient person. He loved learning of all schools and methods, endured the oddities of his House with a sort of eager patience, waiting to see what Morag McDougal or Lisa Turpin or Luna Lovegood would do next, and nursed a secret love of Muggle cigarettes that he shared only with Anthony Goldstein. He was honest and hard-working, if perpetually distracted by something or other. He had been friends with Draco Malfoy for most of their years at Hogwarts, having been fascinated in first year by this strange little boy with terrible manners who hated all Muggleborns with a viscious passion and yet seemed to be considered an alright sort. Anthony hadn't seen the point of trying to tame Malfoy, but Terry had taken a fancy to the notion of scientific methods that year and decided that it would be a grand experiment. The fancy had faded (any sort of method was simply too much for Terry) but the odd friendship had remained.
At that moment, however, Terry rather felt like strangling Draco.
"Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "You want me to break into Professor Snape's private rooms … to steal a book … a book that we're not sure if he still has anymore … risking detention and death … so that you can resurrect the spirit of Professor Lupin … which you believe is being stored inside of you and Harry Potter. Did I get it all?"
Draco considered this carefully and then nodded. Terry was relieved to see that Anthony looked as baffled by the proposition as he felt himself; this wasn't a common sort of thing that one wizard asked of another. After five years of attending Hogwarts, Theo had learned enough about wizarding culture to be awed by how very little he knew, a philosophy that would probably have done Harry some good to adopt.
They were sitting in a narrow corridor below Ravenclaw tower, which swayed ever so slightly in the wind of the storm. Snow hurled itself against the window pane and Draco looked a trifle green. Anthony and Terry, well used to the way their tower drifted in the wintertime, only braced themselves against the wall.
"I don't know what the book looks like," Draco said.
"Neither do I," Terry said desperately, "All I know about it is that it's small and bound in some sort of leather, which is what you told me you saw when Lupin cast the spell on you and Potter."
"Why don't you just ask Snape for the book?" Anthony asked. Draco sniffed.
"I'll tell you later," Terry started to say, but Draco cut in.
"No, no, don't mind me. Explain away."
Terry let out an irritated huff of breath, but met Draco's eyes obstinately. "I told you that I didn't know what the spell would do -- you don't even know if it would be some part of Lupin or if only the red wolf would appear."
"What red wolf?" Anthony asked.
"The one that ate Little Red," Draco said, impatiently. "Why don't you go ask Loony Lovegood to explain it to you? The grown-up are talking, here."
"Professor Lupin cast a spell over Draco and Potter, over the summer," Theo said, turning to his friend. "It took the form of a red wolf when it manifested," -- Draco snorted rudely -- "Draco, honestly. Try to be nice at least once in a while, particularly while asking favours. I promise not to tell."
"People would know," Draco said mournfully.
"When You-Know-Who attacked them, this red wolf came out of their chests. It behaved like a Patronus but required the breaking of a soul to create. So what we -- mostly me -- have been trying to discover is whether this soul fragment can be recalled, only that's rather difficult because we don't have the book for it. Professor Snape does."
"What sort of soul fragment was it?" Anthony asked curiously. "If you know that, then you could figure out whether or not the soul itself can be recalled, even if you don't have the book."
Draco and Terry stared at him. "What do you mean, what sort of fragment was it?" Draco asked. "Are there varieties in souls? Different flavours, perhaps?"
Anthony flushed. "I meant, do you know what Lupin put into the spell? Was it a literal tearing off part of his soul, or was he calling up specific elements of it to put into the spell?"
"The spell resembles both a horcrux and a Patronus, as far as we can tell," Terry said slowly, "A horcrux tears off an actual piece of the soul and a Patronus is specific elements: happy memories. If we could find out anything about the base elements of the potion that Professor Lupin made, that might tell us whether it's closer to one or the other. But for that we need the book and now we're back in that loop again."
"I bet it's closer to the horcrux," Draco said. His voice was high and excited as he spoke, eyes glistening. "I bet it's an entire piece of him. It took three days for the potion to get those -- those things loose, the red lights that he cast over Harry and me. It couldn't just be a little part. I knew it; I knew that we could save him. I knew he wasn't really gone." He grinned at them and abruptly Terry's annoyance had turned to a hot, prickly fear.
Draco had always been prone to mood swings, of course. It wasn't anything Terry needed to worry about.
Except that five minutes ago, Draco had looked rational. Annoyed, but as calm as he ever was. There were a lot of things about what had happened to Draco, what gave him those scars, what had twisted and mutilated his hand, that Terry knew nothing about. He had never asked. Had never wanted to ask. Terry had always wanted to know everything, but when Draco had sat him down in September and looked at him with unfamiliar eyes, he had realised that there were some things better left unknown.
"Draco, we don't know anything for sure," he said. "We need the book before we can understand any of it."
Draco was already waving a hand at him dismissively, his eyes far away but that eerie grin still playing around his mouth. "Nonsense, Terry," he said, "I have absolute faith in you."
If I strangled him, Terry thought wildly, if I beat him over the head with Anthony's textbooks, would he be less mad? Then he'd be dead, I suppose. Dead and still mad, I don't think he could help it. Then he'd be dead and probably a ghost and then he'd never leave me alone. He'd bother me for eternity. I bet he'd be the sort of ghost that would always stick his hands through other people or yell rude things or interrupt lessons.
He settled for grabbing Draco's face and shaking him lightly. "I'm not going to sneak into Snape's private rooms to steal a book for you," he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Either you ask him for it or you steal it yourself."
"Why, is ickle Terry afraid of big bad Snape?" Draco asked, his words muffled by Terry's palms pressing against his cheeks.
"Terrified," Terry said solemnly. "Absolutely bloody terrified, ever since he exploded my cauldron in second year while I was trying to make a Babbling Beverage. I didn't stop talking for four days. He said I had gotten distracted, which is very likely, but I think he did it just for the fun of the thing."
"All right," Draco said, crossly. The light had faded from his eyes but his face was still flushed. "I'll get the book myself then, you nancy."
Most of the Heads of House did not live in the dormitories with their charges but were instead lodged somewhere nearby, close enough that they could be on the spot immediately if there were trouble or a crying child, but far enough away that they couldn't be accused of anything indecent, or, as was more likely, be plagued incessantly by their students. The sole exception to this rule was not, as one might suspect, in the Hufflepuff quarters but instead in Gryffindor, where the tower had been known to rearrange itself completely if the Head of House ever changed rooms. Each successive Head had for nearly three hundred years had attempted to gain at least a little bit more privacy and woken up in the middle of the night to find all of their belongings dumped into the Gryffindor common room and their own bed back where it belonged.
The rooms given to the Slytherin Head were less capricious and far better furnished than Gryffindor's. There were four rooms instead of the average two given to Hogwarts teachers: an impressive sitting room, a study, a bedroom and another room behind that with a multitude of secret doors and passageways hiding behind the decor. It had usually been used for shady and mysterious doings and in Snape's case, was where he kept his most valuable potions ingredients and brewed concoctions that he didn't want Dumbledore (or Voldemort) to know about. They were adjacent to the Slytherin dormitory, accessible by pressing the sixth stone down from the ceiling, twenty-three stones past the entryway to the dorms. Draco had had its position memorized since first year, although he hadn't been allowed into Snape's private rooms until the year after that.
It had been with Remus' voice in his ear that he had restrained himself from rushing down to the dungeons after leaving Terry and Anthony. He had bided his time instead with Dean Thomas, being taught the basics of Muggle football, which hadn't interested Draco until he'd learned about the frequency of rioting in the stands. Life in Slytherin had been tense lately, as they had begun to count down the days until they'd be returned to their parents, nearly all of whom were supporters of Voldemort if not active participants in Pansy Parkinson's murder. Unburdened by these worries, Dean listened with flattering interest to Draco's rambling stories and, even better, returned every insult and snide comment with the quick humour that was normally buried beneath a quiet exterior.
It was only when he was making his way towards the dungeons that the strange, panicked excitement returned, settling in his stomach and spreading through his shoulders and forearms, certainty bringing his footsteps down hard against the stone. He was conscious enough to check the corridor at both ends, even though it was past curfew and Theo and Daphne had long since departed on their rounds.
The dungeons were quiet, the bawling of the gramophone muffled nearly to silence by the stone walls, the air chill and damp. Draco stood for a long moment before the blank wall, his eyes tracing over the shapes of the stones, unseeing. He had spent so much time sitting beside Remus, following him around the house, that it was almost as though he could feel Remus standing next to him, guiding his wrist as his fingers twitched around his wand, the door appearing as the stones rolled smoothly away. His eyes shut as he moved his wand over the grain of the wood, probing for any weakness in the protective wards as one might feel for the tumblers of a lock. He wiped away a tear with his dead hand without really feeling it slide down his skin.
Draco's magic had come early and wild, untamable for years. His father had been so proud and had never minded the broken china the way Draco's mother had, repairing the damage done with a flick of his wand and then taking his son outdoors to see what else he could do. Draco's magic wasn't sophisticated, the way both Lucius and Narcissa's were; it was blunt and forceful, the equivalent of magic's bass notes. He recognised some of Snape's spells, knew how to break or go around a few but bothered with neither, shoving and tearing instead at the layers of magic that he could see behind his eyelids. His lips moved soundlessly.
Draco Malfoy would likely be quite a powerful wizard someday, if he survived long enough. Severus Snape, however, already was, and so what happened next really shouldn't have been a surprise.
Snape heard the shouting from the Potions classroom. His chin lifted and for a long moment he only listened, brow furrowed, hand still. Then, above the cries came a noise more animal than human and Snape was out of his seat and sprinting down the hall before his chair had hit the ground. What he saw when he reached the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, however, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Bound to the wooden frame of Snape's doorway was Draco Malfoy, his thin body nearly buried beneath thin, snake-like cords that strained under his furious struggles. Tracey Davis and Vincent Crabbe were pulling frantically on the cords and it was they who were shouting; Draco was howling and snarling, throat bared, a rope caught between his teeth like a horse's bridle.
"Get out of the way!" Snape barked, and Davis and Crabbe sprang away from Draco as if stung. Davis was nearly in tears, Snape noted as he waved his wand to free Draco from the cords. Crabbe caught Draco around the shoulders as he fell forward, tilting his friend's face up almost automatically, his own thick features creasing with worry when he saw the red lines cutting into Draco's skin.
"What is going on here?" Snape growled. "Were you attempting to break into my office?"
Draco's chin lifted defiantly and he shook off Crabbe's hands. "I need something from you."
"Indeed?" Snape said softly. He kept his eyes trained on Draco's face but didn't miss Crabbe's expression of dismay.
"Draco, come on. Leave it alone," Crabbe murmured. Draco didn't even look at him. He met Snape's eyes evenly, as though he had had every right to try and steal from Snape's rooms.
"What is it that you ... require so badly?" Snape hissed.
"A book. You know which one." Draco knew that the confrontation had shifted in his favor when Snape's face paled. His expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered towards Crabbe and Davis.
"You two are out of your common room. Return immediately."
Crabbe firmed his jaw out rebelliously, but bent his head and did as he was told. Davis followed him, glancing back at Draco over her shoulder. Tears had brimmed over and had finally spilled onto her cheeks, but if Draco had looked over at her he would have been startled to find fear rather than concern in her eyes.
The hall settled into silence as the door to the dormitories closed behind them. "Were you going to search my rooms?" Snape asked quietly.
Draco nodded. "I need that book."
"What were you planning to do when I caught you?"
Draco was silent.
Snape tapped his wand against the door, undoing the remainder of the wards in silence. He raised an eyebrow, sensing the damage that Draco had done to them, but said nothing. Draco followed him into the office and shut the door behind himself.
Snape made no move to fetch anything for Draco, merely moved to the chest at the far end of the room and removed a half-full bottle and a tumbler. He poured himself a few fingers of the amber liquor and turned to face Draco, tapping his long fingers on the edge of the crystal. Draco's good hand clenched. The other hung uselessly at his side.
Draco broke the silence first. "You have the book here. You wouldn't leave it for Sirius to find. And you wouldn't have left it after Remus died, either. You took it back and you've been hiding it here, keeping it secret."
Snape's response was cool and amused, keeping his thoughts in close to his chest. "I've kept a priceless book full of rare magic as some sort of ... token? Has there been something in our relationship that would lead me to believe that I am one of your love-sick classmates? Were you going to look under my pillow first?"
"You have it," Draco said.
Snape's eyebrows were lifted nearly to his hairline, but his smirk was fixed to his face. Staring at it, Draco was unsurprised to find within himself a sudden wellspring of hatred bubbling and rushing to the surface. His fingernails bit into his palm and he stared at the curve of Snape's mouth, thinking over and over: you failed him and I hate you, I hate you because you failed him, I hate you because you failed me.
"Oh!" Snape said, expansively. "If you have proof that the book is still within my possession, why didn't you simply say so? We could have dispensed with all of this."
I hate you I hate you I hate you, over and over again until it nearly drowned out Draco's certainty. He took a deep breath and then another without thinking about it, without grasping for hands or friends to support him as he always had. "I know that you have it," he said evenly. "I know that you took it so that you could remember him. I know because I took a jumper, a hat, a seashell and a piece of wood that were his. Because I needed to and so did you. Stop treating me like a child and give me Remus' book."
The blood pounding in Draco's ears drowned out the silence that stretched painfully between them. Snape's face was bloodless, his fingers tight around the tumbler before he set it down abruptly. He nodded once, only a sharp jerk of his chin and vanished into the shadows of his bedroom. Draco listened to the door of the chamber beyond open and close and then Snape returned, a small, calf-bound book clutched between his fingers. He stopped just beyond Draco's reach and held it out, forcing Draco to step towards him to reach it.
Snape's free hand came up and closed around Draco's wrist when he did so, holding the boy fast. Draco's lip curled but Snape only wrenched his arm painfully to the side. "You --" he snarled. "You insufferable --!"
He let go and turned away, and didn't look back when the door slammed behind Draco, I hate you I hate you I hate you you failed me echoing in his mind.
