Chapter 6
Inverted
As a Seeker, all the pressure falls on one pair of shoulders. The Chasers can score strategically enough that our team won't lose even if the other immediately gets one-hundred and fifty points; the Beaters can protect our team from Bludgers; the Keeper can ensure the opposing team doesn't gain points. But only the Seeker can end a game. In order to do that, we need to find the Golden Snitch.
I glide over the pitch, scanning for the familiar flashing gold while simultaneously keeping an eye on my team. Ron's doing well; Hufflepuff only managed to get two goals through. His sister is, too. "Smith's lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice…" Luna's dreamy voice drifts over the pitch. I'm not entirely sure who thought it was a good idea to have her commentating, but it's distracting my competitor — Lily Moon — who's gaping at the commentator's podium rather than looking for the Snitch, so I count Luna as a blessing.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn't need a distracted opponent.
I'm far more interested in the figure flitting through the stands. A platinum pinprick weaving through a sea of yellow and black to the crashing sand of crimson and gold. Adjusting the handle of my broom, I sail subtly in the direction he's heading. Anyone could spot that bushy chaos of curls from miles away; I certainly can. Clenching my jaw, I watch as Malfoy slithers steadily closer to her.
Hermione never really watches Quidditch games. I know she prefers to get comfortable in the library, during a time it must be ghostly quiet. If she wasn't sitting alone I would've thought Neville or someone had dragged her to this match.
Malfoy reaches her, and my hands clench so tightly against my broom that my knuckles go white. For a few tense seconds, I can only imagine what their exchange sounds or even looks like. But then, Hermione gets up and walks away, leaving Malfoy a solitary pinprick amidst the crimson crowd.
In my peripheral vision, Moon dives abruptly, forcing me to rip my eyes from the snake. I tilt my broom downwards, racing after her, the wind whipping violently through my hair. It's too late, though. I know it before her hand closes over the golden ball. When she catches the Snitch and Hufflepuff wins by a hundred and ten points, I just can't bring myself to care. She didn't catch Malfoy, like I intend to.
I have to end this game. For Hermione's sake, more than anyone's.
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It's reached a stage in the year where it's not cold enough to keep the fire on, but it's not warm enough to shed some robes. Glowing candlelight ignites the common room in a sort of dim warmth as I sit on the sofa closest to the extinct fireplace, legs stretched out towards the hearth. I watch Hermione scan over my Herbology essay. Her own legs are crossed on the sofa, a fat volume about plants that was most certainly not on the start of year textbook list sitting on her lap under my essay.
"Couldn't get the Prince to help?" she comments snidely, not for the first time, as she waves her wand over a scrawled sentence. I glimpse the words shifting and rearranging against the parchment before I roll my eyes.
"If I could I wouldn't have asked you," I reply, and I grin when she shoots me a filthy look. "Besides, I would much rather talk to a talking Venus Fly Trap than write about it." Hermione scoffs, like I knew she would. "If you had actually read our textbook—" I begin for her in a high-pitched mimic, and I brace myself for the resulting thrown object.
She instead throws her head back and laughs. I muse on the rarity of the sound. It's like walking through a scalding, parched desert for days on end. My lips are cracked, my throat is dry. Hallucinations are flickering in and out of my peripheral vision. My fears and nightmares are re-lived in my waking moments through my slowly decaying brain. And just when I think I'll succumb, my ears prick at the trickling of water. Hermione hasn't been happy for a long time. She'd been bright-eyed and ecstatic in First Year but she quickly realized that even in a world of magic she didn't fit in.
I've never told her this, like she never has to me. But I figure my understanding of her is why I'm one of the few people who can make the corners of her eyes crinkle with that thirst-quenching sound.
"I'm glad you know me so well," she deadpans once her laughter fades.
I grin. "Don't you reckon that would be a cool way to die, though?"
"I don't think dying is cool, Harry!"
"Hypothetically speaking. I mean, which way would you rather die: getting swallowed by a man-eating plant that can hypnotize you or getting crushed by a vending machine?"
Hermione snorts, and it makes her lightly freckled nose wrinkle. "Crushed by a vending machine?" she titters, "What on Earth made you think of that?"
"Well," I say, scratching my chin, "I always imagined that's how Dudley would die, the amount of free snacks he's tried to spank out of those things." We spend the next twenty minutes laughing at my cousin's expense, while Hermione continues improving my essay to hopefully land on an E rather than an 'Acceptable'. Once it starts nearing eight o'clock, I thank Hermione for the help before telling her I have to head over to my next session with Dumbledore.
"I don't think he'll take well to your procrastination on that memory," she reminds me unhelpfully. I scowl lightly, shaking my head.
"I guess I'll see. I'll let you know." I turn to the direction of the portrait hole, then pause. My heart starts to accelerate as the thought enters my mind. If I had been a strategic or reasonable person I would've ignored the lingering thing in my mind, but it's that Gryffindor courage they're always ranting about that fuels my next words. My patience has officially worn thin. "You know what I think of Malfoy," I state, swivelling back around. Hermione's head is bowed over my essay, but I note her wand is motionless in her hand, and no inked sentences are moving around. "But what do you think of him, Hermione?"
It's silent, for a while. I hear a loud but muffled laugh from one of the dormitories upstairs.
"Why do you ask?" Her tone is haughty. Her natural sign of defensiveness.
I shrug. "You just never seem to believe me."
Hermione scoffs; then finally, she looks up at me.
"Because what you say about him is ridiculous. Death Eater? Why would Voldemort want to hire an inexperienced kid with daddy issues?" I would snicker at the comment, but I'm too preoccupied trying to figure out if she knows something incriminating. Well, I suppose not. When Hermione's passionate about a topic, it's because she believes in what it stands for. There's a lot of new things I've learned about my friend recently, but I know for a fact that she will never actively defend a servant of Voldemort.
What she might see in Malfoy is a redeemable bully. Or, perhaps, a misunderstood boy. I just need to find a way to prove to her there is a tattoo of a skull and snake branded on his left arm. That's far more important than whatever Dumbledore has in store for me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if that evil creature got his skeletal hands on my best friend before Slughorn would be willing to indulge in his Horcrux memory. And I would kill Malfoy, without my wand.
I would kill him with my bare hands.
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Tom Riddle was a quiet boy. Charismatic, charming, well-mannered, but quiet. He was an orphan who was used to not getting what he wanted, so he figured out a way to do it himself. Something I'd inferred internally while watching the memories with Dumbledore.
This feels wrong.
It's not the first time I've used the invisibility cloak to spy on someone, and during then, it never felt wrong, because they were people dabbling in dark magic, wandering the corridors of Hogwarts with darker intentions. People who needed to be spied on. People who needed to be stopped.
That's still the case now, technically. Except, Malfoy is not alone.
We're on the Third Floor. Both the Map and Parvati's replicated schedule had informed me to come here. The corridor we're moving through has suits of armour planted across its length. The two torches in the corridor make the smooth metal surfaces glint in the dimly lit area. The first suit rattles slightly when I pass it; I give it a weary look, before moving my attention forward again. There's a portrait of a dozing Sphynx right at the end, where the corridor bends to the left.
Malfoy has his hands in his pockets, strutting at a leisurely pace. I'm following two footsteps behind him. Peering past the back of his head, I watch Hermione's hair bounce as she marches forward.
"Will you hurry up?" she snaps, glaring at him — and, unintentionally, me — from over her shoulder.
"Whatever for?" Malfoy drawls, and Hermione's eyebrows draw together. Oh, he's in danger now, I think somewhat smugly. She stops walking and whips around, placing her hands on her hips. Malfoy takes another step forward, then leans his back against the wall in between two suits of armour. From this angle I study the side of his face, and my eyes dance between her frown and his smirk. I hover in the middle of the corridor, much like Hermione.
"We're not exactly taking a nice evening stroll. We have a duty."
Malfoy hums. "If we walk quite as briskly as you I daresay we'll miss any misbehaving Second Years hiding in the shadows."
Brows raised, Hermione stares down the corridor with an exaggerated sweep. Even though I know perfectly well I'm invisible, my heart stops the second her eyes pass over where I'm standing.
"Well," she snaps, "unless they decided to have a costume party in those—" she nods sharply towards the suits of armour, drawing a snicker from Malfoy "—I daresay there's no point dwelling so long in this corridor."
There's a heartbeat of silence. The Slytherin pushes himself off the wall. My hand plunges into my pocket. Each step he takes towards Hermione has me gripping my wand tighter and tighter. I shuffle closer to them, careful about the rustle of any fabric in the deathly quiet of the sleeping castle. When Malfoy steps so close to Hermione that the tip of his nose is a hair's breadth length away from hers, I nearly abandon all pretense and whip off my cloak and send a hex at him.
"Point taken," he murmurs, smirking. The snake slithers back, striding past towards the portrait of the Sphinx and disappearing round the corner. My eyes dart to focus on Hermione. She's staring at the suit of armour in front of her, looking a little dazed.
Shaking her head slightly, my friend follows him out of sight. As I watch the last of her curls vanish behind the wall, I find myself unnerved.
Not because of Hermione's ambiguous opinions on the Slytherin. It's got less to do with Malfoy's obvious attraction towards her, too. I've had months to grow accustomed to that. No. It's something else.
Draco Malfoy is a loud boy. Sly, cunning, shrewd, but loud. He's the son of two ridiculously rich members of the so-called 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' who is used to getting everything he wants, so he's incapable of accepting when there isn't a way for him to receive it. His family are bigoted blood purists who work for the very madman I study with Dumbledore. Hermione is a Muggle-Born, someone they would murder on the spot. I think he is far more dangerous than Voldemort has ever been.
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The sun's come out again. It glares down with searing persistence from its pale blue backdrop. Everyone's spilling out onto the Grounds or heading off towards Hogsmeade on this fine Saturday. Well, most people. Hermione passed up my offer to go to Hogsmeade to study in the library. As I walked with Ron through the Entrance Hall in his attempt to escape Lavender, I caught sight of Malfoy emerging from the dungeons and heading in the opposite direction of the crowd. Frowning over my shoulder, I'm just about ready to ditch Ron to follow the Slytherin.
My friend must've seen Malfoy too, though, because he grabs my arm and tugs me out the doors.
I'm glad he does. For the most part of the trip, I manage to push my mind away from Death Eaters and Slytherins and Voldemort. Our first stop is Honeydukes, where Ron buys a bunch of non-melting Chocolate Frogs and I get an extra large Flavour-Changer Ice Lolly. We stroll in and out of shops, not in the mindset of buying anything as we talk about ordinary, mundane, stupid things. Things my Dad, my Mum, Sirius and Lupin had the luxury of when they were my age. At least that's what I figure, with the stories Sirius had told me.
"She's nice," Ron mutters, picking up a pot of broomstick varnish in Dervish and Banges, "but, I dunno, we don't really talk much."
I clear my throat. "Maybe snog her less?"
Snickering sheepishly, Ron tosses the varnish back onto the pile. "Fat lot of good this stuff will do for my broom," he says, changing the subject. I glance at the pile of varnish pots before raising them to his grimace. "It was doomed the day I got it. Fred really roughed it up."
I shove my free hand in my pocket, but I don't bother offering to get him a nicer broom. None of the Weasleys will ever accept money. They're not ashamed of who they are, which is something that I've always liked about them.
As we approach Zonko's Joke shop, my lolly is just about finished. "You eat really bloody slow," Ron remarks, and I grin.
"Sorry I don't inhale my food like a pig," I retort, sniggering with him.
"It's a force of habit," Ron insists, pushing open the joke shop door. "Living with six siblings and all. Never know when they'll steal your food. Granted, from what I've heard about your cousin, he could have all seven helpings."
I laugh. As I step past him, I reply, "Nah, mate. You've got to savour it. Even when there's a black eye on the horizon." I step forward and barrel right into Astoria Greengrass. She's a head shorter than me, so I have to peer down at her sullen face. For an unpleasant moment I'm reminded of all the problems that have been ailing me. "Uh, sorry," I say, sidestepping her. She abruptly bursts into tears and races out of the door. Glancing at an equally bewildered looking Ron, I clear my throat. Ron grins slightly.
"Blimey, Harry," he mumbles as he steps beside me. The shop is crowded with people, who, thankfully, are too preoccupied testing firecrackers and ghost horns to have noticed the commotion at the door. We advance (squeezing through some Third Years) towards an aisle of variously foul scented dung bombs as he continues, "You have a thing for making girls cry—" I scowl "—first Myrtle, then Cho—"
"Alright, shut up," I grumble, as Ron guffaws at my ear.
"Oh!" he exclaims suddenly, veering abruptly to the left. Whipping my head towards him, I follow his brisk pace. Loathe to admit it, Ron has really bloody long legs so it takes a lot more effort for me to plough through the throng of students. I pass a shelf displaying love potions, and for a second time my mind falls back to Malfoy. I glimpse the caption: 'For Him or Her!' before moving my eyes towards the back of my red-headed friend's head.
I'm thinking about love potions and spilt mead. Silver eyes slicing into the back of a bushy head. Slender pale fingers wrapped around a throat. A coiling snake. Rage. A cowering man in tattered grey robes. His long hair is matted and dull. I'm staring down at his dim grey eyes. My fingernails are digging into his skin.
"You've failed me, Lucius," I say, my voice but a hiss. I watch my snake slither by us. "But I have chosen to forgive you."
The man chokes out a strangled sob. I'm disgusted. "Thank you, my Lord," he rasps, "you are merciful." A vindictive pleasure runs through my veins.
"Your sister-in-law has told me stories of your son..." I hiss, "Some very good stories indeed..."
I slam back to the world with violent turbulence, clutching at my throbbing scar. I'm breathing heavily. It hasn't happened for so long I had hoped it had stopped. The thing, I quickly realize, that had brought me back to my reality is a teary-eyed Parkinson. Merlin, maybe Ron's right, I tell myself in an attempt at levity. But my scar's still prickling under my sweating palm.
"Watch where you're going, Potter!" snaps Daphne Greengrass from beside her, rubbing her friend's shoulder.
I raise my hands in mock surrender, gritting my teeth and doing my very best not to shake. But just as I'm about to squeeze past them, Parkinson blocks my way. There's something raptor-like about her glazed eyes. "I would tell your Mudblood friend to be very, very careful," she hisses, jabbing a sharp, polished fingernail at my chest. I take a few silent deep breaths.
"Why?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow coolly even though my blood is simmering and my scar won't stop tingling. "You think she's afraid of you?" Parkinson reveals a set of straight white teeth, except for one incisor which for reasons only known to herself is a crystalline shade of violent pink. I'm reminded in a strange way of the Cheshire Cat from that stupid book Aunt Petunia would never read to me.
"It's Draco she should be afraid of," she purrs, and it feels like the floor has disappeared beneath my feet. Some very good stories indeed... She shoves past me with a parting simper. Greengrass offers me a filthy look before she, too, flounces away.
I weave forward aimlessly through the crowd, feeling faint, until a freckled hand dives in and drags me into a more secluded aisle. My eyes drift over the shelves of jigsaw puzzles that will always have a missing piece before I settle them on Ron. Then, I glare. "What the hell?" I snap, clamping my jaw shut to clench it when my head pulses particularly painfully.
"Sorry, mate." He scratches the back of his neck. "Lavender was in the dungbomb section with Parvati. No idea why. Don't intend to find out."
"Right," I say. "Forget about it. Listen..." Don't tell him. Don't tell Hermione. Just get to Dumbledore. "Let's just enjoy the rest of our day." But I don't enjoy it. I spend our entire time in Zonko's fretting, nodding along to whatever Ron's talking about even though I'm not sure they're at the appropriate moments. If he's noticed he doesn't mention it. I try to end it, but Ron insists we get some drinks first and I figure there could be an advantage. I'm anxious to get a hold of my informant. So when Lavender storms toward us with her friend and corners Ron in the Three Broomsticks, I count my lucky stars, seizing my opportunity while simultaneously silently apologizing to my friend.
"Anything?" I demand quietly, after dragging Parvati to a remote corner of the pub. There's a couple of seedy looking warlocks mulling over their drinks on a table a few metres away but other than that, we're at a safe distance from prying ears.
"If there was, you would've found out about it, Potter," she states dryly. Clenching my jaw, I start pacing back and forth in front of her. I glimpse her raising her eyebrows. "Actually, there is something to discuss," she says suddenly; my heart starts thundering against my chest as I pause to face her. What could there possibly be that wasn't saying it initially? "The favours you owe me."
Oh. I scowl at her, but she ignores me. She doesn't know you have Voldemort in your head.
"Seriously?" I snap nonetheless, and one of the warlocks peers over at us in my peripheral vision. I breathe steadily in an attempt to keep my temper in check. Parvati merely simpers at me. "Fine," I mumble hotly, "what's the favour?"
"Tell Weasley to dump Lavender if he's really not interested." I sigh impatiently; this isn't important. "My friend deserves someone better than an undecided boy who doesn't know what he wants. I've been telling her to dump him, but she won't listen to me."
"You don't think I haven't told Ron before?" I mutter, glancing at the warlocks who are now eyeing us with interest. I grab Parvati's arm and gently shove her further to the corner, next to a rusty looking candelabra hanging off the wall. "He doesn't want to do it."
"Well then find a way to make him do it," she replies fiercely, "because I'm sick of coming into the bathroom in the evenings to console my sobbing friend. He's not worth it." I open my mouth to defend Ron, but the dangerous look in her eyes informs me that it would be wiser to stay quiet.
"Alright," I tell her, for the sake of my throbbing head and time. She gives me a smile. I'm struck because it's not a fake, simpering, borderline evil smile. It's genuine. Real. There's a dimple in her cheek. It makes me forget, for one mad moment, that I was looking through a madman's eyes. I might have dwelled longer on the thought if there wasn't a distant explosion that rattled the candelabra beside her. Parvati and I lock eyes for a second, her smile vanished, before there's another, more deafening explosion.
People start screaming; the shock has worn off. One of the warlocks lunges towards us and before we know it he's hauled us towards the panicking crowd in the pub. "Stay together, now," he urges, before slipping through the crowd and out the door. I'm dimly aware of Parvati gripping my arm. As I scan the crowd for red hair, I glimpse distressed expressions and tears. I recognise a Third Year Gryffindor crying as he searches the crowd, presumably for his friends.
Heart in my throat, I approach him with Parvati in tow. I put my hand on his shoulder, his large, wet, amber eyes looking up at me. "It'll be alright," I say firmly, and he nods. The pub is overcrowded and stuffy. Sweat is beading on my forehead. My throbbing, aching, forehead. I can't find Ron. There's a blood-curdling scream outside, silencing the whole pub.
"Potter!" whispers Parvati furiously as I rip myself from her grip, but I'm already shoving through the tightly-knit crowd of the pub, dashing out the door, wand in hand. The door creaks shut behind me, closing off the whispers and gasps. I feel like I'm underwater.
I can't see anything immediately in front of me, but something about the green glow against the cobbled street makes me look up — the Dark Mark is imprinted in the sky.