Disclaimer: HP & Co. are property of JK Rowling In Cash Incorporated.
Dear Readers, sorry it has taken me so long to update. I have been on vacation in Cambodia. Very exciting. Anyhoo, on with the show. Thank you for all your reviews.
Chapter 22: Day 10, Part IV: Rolling Stones Gather No Moss
Madam Pomfrey bustled over to Ron's bed, where Hermione and Harry sat with wide eyes. "Harry, the Headmaster is in his office. I know he wants to speak with you, you should hurry over. The password is Malteasers."
Harry exchanged meaningful looks with his friends, then spoke up, "I don't think it's safe to walk the hallways alone, Madam Pomfrey, could Ron and Hermione come with me?"
The mediwitch frowned, clearly picking up on the real purposes behind the Gryffindor's request. Still, the danger was very real, far more real than Harry in particular seemed to realize. Students had been injured in those hallways just a few days earlier; if the steadily weakening wards had failed then, there would have been a massacre. Pomfrey looked at Ron, aware that he was mostly healed, and that he was probably less at risk with Harry Potter than anywhere else in Hogwarts.
So she nodded, and the Golden Trio broke out wide grins. "But no dallying!" she instructed sternly, eyeballing Ron. "And you! I hope the seriousness of your injury underscores the seriousness on the situation. Next time, people will die."
The Gryffindors sobered immediately, and Harry shivered. He wished the teachers would stop mentioning the gravity of the situation as though he did not fully comprehend – of course he did, how could he not? It was his parents who had been killed by Voldemort, and his godfather. Was he wrong for not fretting constantly? He feared that he simply hadn't the perseverance of mind for such an undertaking: the best he could manage was usually just the situation at hand. Living in Voldemort's shadow for years, he had long learned that a fixation on the danger would only paralyze him with fear and drive him to derangement besides.
The three of them made their way through newly eerie hallways in silence, none able to break the atmosphere of dread that the normally comforting mediwitch had bestowed upon them. When they reached the gargoyle, Harry gave it the password and they were admitted to the stairs to Dumbledore's office. At the top, the door swung open slowly to reveal the odd old man sitting at his desk, using his quill to write quickly on a small piece of parchment. He looked up and smiled at them, but the smile was strained.
"Harry, Ron, Hermione. Good afternoon. Please, take a seat." As they sat, Harry noticed the Headmaster's eyes fleet over to his canister of lemon drops, but the usual question was not posed. Instead, he straightened and looked down at the Gryffindors through his spectacles. "Needless to say," he began abruptly, "War is upon us."
He paused, but when no comment was forthcoming, he continued, "For a long time, I have tried to protect you – all of you, of course, but you, Harry, in particular, because of the greater danger to you. Regretfully, I am no longer able to offer such protection, as the Hogwarts wards have been deteriorating since the attack, as was likely Voldemort's intention. Tomorrow morning, all underage students will return home, except for you, Harry, and those that explicitly request asylum and with true reason to fear harm or compulsion upon their return."
"You mean the Slytherins that Malfoy and I just met with," Harry muttered morosely. As if things weren't bad enough. . .
Ron frowned as he tried to comprehend exactly what had been said, but Hermione found her voice almost immediately, "I don't want to go home! The others are too young to fight, I agree, but Harry needs us!"
"What!" Ron exclaimed, understanding now, and jumping to his feet. "I'm not leaving Harry alone with Slytherins or anyone! I'm going to fight too!"
Dumbledore shook his head sadly, while Harry showed little reaction. "You may fight if given permission by your parents, but neither of you are yet of age to make that decision yourselves."
Hermione tried to speak, but Ron was too fast, and too angry. "Screw that! Who gives a shite about age! You said yourself, this is war! War! You-Know-Who will be using kids!"
He would have surely continued, but Harry's hand on his forearm was enough to shut him up and convince him sit back down, though he glared heatedly at the Headmaster.
"Please understand," Dumbledore attempted to sooth. "It is not because I doubt your capabilities or potential, but that I must maintain the loyalty of your parents. Of all parents. Endangering children is a sure way to make enemies of former supporters, at least on our side of this ugly affair."
Hermione looked as though she had just bit into a particularly sour lemon: as distasteful as the logic was, it was indisputable. Of course, Ron couldn't have cared less for logic, though even he realized just how upset his mother would be if he were join up to fight. "We are not children," he huffed, but he was grasping as straws.
"We are according to wizarding law," Hermione said, with a sigh of resignation. "And we are the one who are defending the current establishment."
Dumbledore nodded again. "When you turn seventeen, we will of course welcome you, for you are needed; but for now, your possible deaths are greater liabilities than the potential value of your efforts."
Ron's anger was deflating into distress, but still he tried to protest, "What about Harry! Does nobody care that he is underaged! He –"
"Stop," Harry said, finally, turning towards his best friend. "You know why I'm staying, Ron. Please don't make this more difficult."
Both Ron and Hermione looked noticeably distraught at his nonchalance. "We'll be seventeen soon, Harry. We'll be with you before you know it," Hermione tried, but the words sounded hollow even to her.
"Sure, if the war isn't over by then," Ron retorted irritably.
Harry looked away from them, at Dumbledore's weary expression and his dull eyes. The great man seemed as drained of hope as he himself was, and they two were supposed to be the ones to defeat Voldemort? "If this war goes as disastrously as I expect, you'll be fighting next to me sooner than you think."
And there was nothing to be said to that.
After a long, heavy pause, the Headmaster spoke, "Hermione, Ron, could you please excuse us so that I may speak to Harry in confidence?"
So the two departed, feeling both relief and anxiety, leaving Harry and Dumbledore to sit in pensive silence. Though separated in age by many decades, they had never been so connected to one another as they were now, bonded by their similar roles in war. Eventually, the old man spoke, "You are right in your pessimism, Harry. Many will die in this war, as some are dying right now. Death Eaters are raiding houses, killing and taking prisoners who they will use as soldiers under the Imperius. When the students are returned home, many families will go into hiding. Just within the last few days, most businesses in Diagon Alley and Hogsmead have shut, though people have been too afraid to visit these places for months. The wards at Hogwarts are deteriorating, poisoned during the raid, so that it will have to be abandoned by all who chose not to go home. The attack on Hogwarts was a symbol, Harry, and its closing a message that no one is safe. The Ministry is weak, and likely to be attacked and/or closed any day now. Then, people were start joining Voldemort voluntarily, just to be on the winning side."
Harry was finding it hard to breathe, and a lump had swollen in his throat. Of course, he knew what war meant, but it was so much more real to hear it spelled out like this. How had everything spiraled out of control so quickly? He had been unconscious for a week and a half, and look what had happened! If he were to die, would there truly be no hope? That is what the prophesy meant, right!
Harry choked back a suffocating sob, but it was no use. A few tears fell from his eyes. "I don't know," he sniffed hoarsely, "if I can do this. . . how am I supposed to. . . ?"
Dumbledore looked upon him kindly. "You are not alone, Harry. There are many good people who will fight beside you. We have love, and goodness, and trust, and faith, and caring – all on our side. Voldemort is barely human anymore, and knows nothing of these. "
Unwillingly, Harry smiled at the tackiness and the absurdity of the situation. "So I'm going to kill Voldemort with mushy feelings," he joked weakly, as he wiped his eyes with one hand, and his running nose with his other.
Dumbledore smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. "Your mother did."
And died trying, Harry thought, without voice. Instead, he steeled his mind once again, sniffed one last time, and nodded.
For a moment, the old Headmaster studied the teenager before him: Harry was indeed strong of heart, soul, mind, body, and magic, just the qualities needed if he was to destroy Voldemort; but he was young, and the task nearly impossible. There was much work to be done if he was to have any chance at all.
"Harry, have you ever heard of a Horcrux?"
! BREAK !
Meanwhile, in the dungeons of the castle, another teen and his mentor were also discussing the war. Draco sat motionless, his arms draped along the arms of his easy chair, and his eyes cast down to the fireplace in Severus' quarters. Less than two meters away, the potions professor sat in his armchair, also facing the fire, but discreetly studying his favorite student. It was for him that Severus had straddled the fence of loyalties for so long; alas, time was running out, and soon he would be forced to accept the irrefutable fate he had chosen for himself a lifetime ago. Now, all that was left was to push his godson as far as possible in the other direction.
Eventually, the marked man spoke, "Dumbledore will just let the others leave, so that they may be met again on the battlefield. If they are not to make it that far, it will be up to you."
Draco continued to stare at the hypnotic flames, mind spinning without emotion; eventually, he nodded slowly. "I know. I have just the. . . arrangement."
"Don't tell me," Severus commanded, unnecessarily – Draco was well aware of the precarious balance of his godfather's loyalties, just as he knew that the Dark Mark had assured the potions professor no choice but to serve Voldemort, no matter how he might twist and push the boundaries of that service. Still, Snape felt an uncharacteristic need to give voice to that which had never been explicitly voiced. "I will not be beside you during these times, Draco. From here on out, you are alone."
Again Draco nodded, this time looking up at the man who had been more of a parent to him than his own hated, feared, and (regrettably) loved father. Severus was both hurt and relieved to find them as closed as ever. "I know."
Severus racked his brain for any parting advice with which to leave his godson, wishing he had made better decisions during his life so that he could serve as something other than an example of what not to do. "Don't forget what you have learned, not just from me, but from Lucius as well. It will serve you well, if only in knowing the enemy. Dark magic has its uses, especially when the sacrifices demanded by Light magic are unacceptable."
Again staring at the fire, Draco tensed at the mention of his father, but so slightly that it would not have been noticed by anyone unaware that it was the standard, reflexive response. "How could I ever forget?" he asked bitterly. He had been so thoroughly drilled in Dark magic that it would be hard to conceal his training from 'his' side.
Unseen, Severus' usually severe expression melted into one of regret and sorrow. He was passed beating himself up over one bad decision, made decades ago, but the pain still flared anew every time he was confronted with his inability to save his godson from a life steeped in darkness, fear, and suffering. In a momentary lapse in reserve, he snapped angrily, "I'll kill him if I ever have the chance."
Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Draco stood abruptly and turned toward the dark haired man. "You never will," he said shortly. Draco had never been one much for introspection, and as far as he was concerned, preoccupation with one's feelings (even in his thoughts the word was spat out) would likely get one killed.
Severus got to his feet as well, hating the pain the his dark heart could only feel around Draco. He clasped the blonde's arm, then pulled him into a stiff embrace, for neither was accustomed to physical proximity that was not unwanted and, often, agonizing in one way or another.
They drew apart and looked at each other as if for the last time. Draco stepped away from the fireplace, and Severus proffered his parting words, "Take care of the Slytherins, no one else will. You are taking quite a risk by siding with Dumbledore's Gryffindor lot. Some hate us almost as they hate the Dark Lord."
Draco nodded briefly, opening the heavy door, then turned around to take a final look at his mentor. He would miss his head of house, he knew, but he could not have suspected how much. "See you on the other side."
Then Draco was gone.
! BREAK !
When Dumbledore escorted Harry from his office, the latter's head was so full of new information that he hardly knew where to begin his mental digestion. The Headmaster had shown him hours worth of memories, mostly providing insight into Voldemort's upbringing, but Harry was largely unsure as to what he was supposed to glean from these. It was apparent that the psycho creep had not had an ideal upbringing, but this was hardly an excuse for the atrocities he had committed. Harry knew that he would be up late for many nights in the future, reliving every aspect of these memories, searching for any weakness that could be exploited.
As for the information about the horcruxes, Harry figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Horcuxes or not, Voldemort still needed to be destroyed – and the sooner the better, before he could kill however many more. He would deal with preventing his resurrection further down the line. AN: My spin, not necessarily JKR's meaning; still, he was destroyed before, so not entirely unreasonable. Has anyone else noticed logical flaws in her set up?
Entering the Great Hall, Dumbledore and Harry were greeted by a great applause of what appeared to be the entire student body (save those still in the infirmary), as well as most of the staff. Even the house elves apparated in to cheer and clap.
Harry felt mortified. What on Earth were they applauding him for! For regaining consciousness! But, of course, he already knew the answer: they were cheering because he had survived to lead the current fight against You-Know-Who. They clapped because all their hopes rested on him.
With a grimace on his face, he weakly waved. Some leader he was going to be, he could barely stand before of a crowd without feeling nauseous. He located Ron, Ginny, and Seamus whooping excitedly at the Gryffindor table, and he allowed it to ease his nerves somewhat.
Self-consciously, he followed Dumbledore onto the teachers' stage, then stood in front of the table. Withdrawing his wand from his robes, he muttered, "Sonorus," then pointed the wand at his throat.
The din died down, and students sat, attention raptly focused on the Boy-Who-Lived. Dumbledore had been right, they really did want reassurances from him, even the ones who had taken turns disliking, distrusting, and envying him.
"STUDENTS OF HOGWARTS!" he shouted, the amplifying spell deafening everyone so that most clamped their hands over their ears. Harry cringed at his typically poor beginning, but he pushed himself to continue at a more bearable volume, "Students of Hogwarts! I'm sorry that I wasn't beside you during the attacks! Believe it or not, I was the victim of a potions accident!" Laughter sprinkled the Great Hall, and Harry was unable to stop his eyes from flickering over to where Draco sat with the Slytherins, looking as severe as ever – but was that a hint of amusement tugging at his lips?
"I'm glad you can laugh! You're gonna need it! You're gonna need every bit of happiness and courage and hope you can muster! Me, I would never have made it this far without my friends to watch my back! Terrible times lie ahead for everyone! For both sides! People will die: family, friends, enemies! Maybe even you! You need to be strong! You need to be strong and brave to make the right decisions! Voldemort-" Harry barreled on despite the gasps of shock and fear, trying to remember Dumbledore's suggested outline for his speech, "Voldemort preys on fear and weakness! It is the fearful and the weak that give in and become his servants! I have seen them and fought them! Some are pure evil, but most are just weak and stupid! Some are just sniveling rats! Literally!"
Again, there was nervous laughter, but Harry was deadly serious. "Some of you will fight beside me, and we will save Britain for us, for her people! Others of you will go into hiding, to rebuild our society when the fighting is over! For we will need that too! Those who die will be remembered as heroes! And those who follow Voldemort will ROT IN HELL!"
A thunderous uproar of approval erupted from his student audience, and Harry smiled a little to himself. Not quite what Dumbledore requested, but Harry was quite impressed and chuffed by his performance. He hadn't thought he had it in him.
And maybe that was the key to this whole war.
! BREAK !
After Harry's short opening speech, Dumbledore broke the news to the student body: the castle wards were weakening and so Hogwarts was to be abandoned shortly; furthermore, the next morning everyone would be returning home, except for those over sixteen who wished to enlist, and those who were justifiably seeking asylum.
As expected, there was a great outcry of anger amongst the fifth and sixth years, particularly from the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables (Slytherin was suspiciously quiet). Young ones at every table were crying.
Harry was glad when Dumbledore stopped talking – he had really had enough of the old man's verbosity for one day. He wolfed down some chicken and mashed potatoes, and left the Great Hall as soon as possible. The appeals of his housemates to let them fight only underscored the fact that he had no decisions to make, Dumbledore would make them all. He was just the muscle. . . sort of.
He went to bed early, because he was exhausted from the long day, and to escape the hounding of his housemates and two best friends. Sleep came quickly, but was restless and plagued with strange dreams of trench warfare, mass graves, and the perverse home life of Voldemort's hideous mother.
He woke suddenly, shivering and covered in sweat, with no capacity whatsoever to return to sleep. He padded into the bathroom instead to take a shower, but found himself waylaid at the mirror. Leaning against the sink, he inspected himself: he looked weary and stressed and miserable, much how he felt. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, and turned towards the shower with a sigh of resignation.
Under the beating hot rain of water, Harry lost all sense of time, so that he had no conception of being there for over an hour. His mind circled through everything that he had learned from Dumbledore, everything he knew about Voldemort, everything he knew about wizarding wars. . . and then it circled through the knowledge again, anxiously and obsessively.
It wasn't until his forth time through these topics that he forced himself to stop. At this rate, he'd drive himself crazy before he even had a crack at destroying Voldemort, he knew better than to dwell on such matters. He forced himself to think of something else, of Ron and Hermione, of Sirius and Lupin, of Ginny and the Weasleys, but all topics seemed to lead back to Voldemort and war.
Finally, Harry allowed himself to think of a topic he had been avoiding for fear of distraction; but now he needed distraction, so he thought about the last week and a half. Of course, Draco was featured prominently in these memories. Harry had been shot at, for Merlin's sake; he had planted a bomb in a chest cavity; he had been drag racing in a Lamborghini; he had. . . lost his virginity. He wondered if it still counted – he had lived through the experience, but it had not been this body. Indeed, maybe it had been his other body that had been so turned on by Draco, leading to the whole de-virginizing experience; maybe that body had been under a love potion like Voldemort's father; maybe this body did not even find Draco attractive.
He was quickly relieved of these irrational notions when he noticed, quite abruptly, that his dick had grown hard. Hesitantly, conflicted as to what he wanted, and unsure if he was ready for it in the real world, he grasped himself tightly, then gasped at the relief it brought. He was so tense, so tormented, he barely cared who he was thinking of – but of course, he was thinking of the infuriating blonde, with his soft white skin, and his pink lips; his fit body, and taunt muscles; his broad, smooth back, and his firm buttocks. . . so tight and hot –
Think spunk spurted into his hand, and Harry leaned back against the tile wall to catch his breath. Gradually, the relief faded and was replaced by a profound feeling of uncleanliness, despite skin that had been beaten red and raw by the steaming water. He wondered if Lucius Malfoy felt the same attraction for his son as he did, if Lucius masturbated to images of his son's body too. . . He hated himself for even thinking such thoughts, and he bit his lip hard until the urge to scream and hurt himself passed.
Why was he punishing himself like this? He had to be strong, and of sound mind, if he was going to win this war.
! CHAPTER END !
Ug, sorry it is taking so long to transition. But never fear, crazy action will begin again with the next chapter. I am also pleased to announce that I have a relatively detailed plot planned out for this second half of the story, so I do not foresee the fic abandonment that has plagued my previous works. Still, encouragement would be appreciated, so PLEASE REVIEW!
