Thank you for the reviews yesterday!
This is a very talky chapter.
Chapter Ten: Argutus
Harry was aware that Draco had been staring at him most of the day, but he'd been busy, first with Elfrida's meeting with him—and that had been odd, because she'd let him hold Marian again and then talk about how much sleep he was getting and whether his hand, which she knew was missing now, ever ached—and then with trying to decide how to reply to Snape's latest letter. Besides, the few times he'd stared inquiringly back, Draco had averted his face.
Now, though, it seemed that Draco had had enough. He burst out, "You don't have to be a hero about it, you know, Harry. You are allowed to ask."
"Ask about what?" Harry looked back up from Snape's letter. He'd finally decided how he had to respond, but that didn't mean the words would be easy to write. If Draco had something to say that would necessitate putting them off for a time, Harry was all for it.
"What we're doing." Draco waved a hand to indicate the whole of the Manor.
Harry had been vaguely aware that the house elves were preparing a long table in the house's main room for a celebration of some kind the next day, and he surmised they were also cooking and cleaning within an inch of their lives. He didn't know what to do about the Malfoy house elves yet, how far he dared to press Lucius about freeing them, and so he'd tried not to pay that much attention. "Yes?" he asked. "What kind of celebration are you having?"
Draco stared at him again. Harry shrugged. "What?" he asked, hearing his voice turn defensive, and picked up a quill. Magic kept the blank sheet of parchment pinned down to the desk in front of him, since his left wrist hurt when he ground it down too hard.
"It's your birthday tomorrow, you git!" Draco burst out.
Harry blinked, his mouth dropping open. He really had lost track of the days. It was easy to do, of course, when the days were an endless round of studying, punctuated now and then by a letter from Snape or an argument with Draco or a visit from Elfrida. Now, though, he really wished he hadn't done that.
"Shit," he muttered. "I have to get something for Connor." He jumped to his feet and made for the door.
Draco managed to dart in front of him. Harry glared up at him. Draco had gone through what Harry sincerely hoped was the last of his growth spurt, and was currently a bit taller than he was. He used it to his advantage now, leaning down and glaring back into Harry's eyes. "And where do you think you're going?"
"Diagon Alley," said Harry in exasperation.
"By yourself?" Draco looked perfectly scandalized. "Of course not, Harry."
"It's still daylight." Harry turned to study the sun coming in through the library windows, just in case. If he'd lost track of the fact that he had to get a birthday gift for Connor, he might well have managed to lose track of what time it was. He nodded and glanced back triumphantly at Draco. "See? I'll ask your mum if she'll go with me." Privately, he thought this ridiculous. He could defend himself better than anyone else, and he would only put Narcissa's life in danger. But since he'd rebuilt his mind, he'd found it paid to humor the people who loved him like this.
"She's busy with the preparations for the party," said Draco.
"Why is there going to be a party?" Harry could hear his voice getting plaintive, but he thought it had a right to. Draco and the Malfoys had given him gifts for his birthday before, of course, but they'd never thrown him some kind of extravagant celebration. "There doesn't have to be."
"Because Mother wants to invite your allies," said Draco. "Even the new ones, the ones who might not have carried away a very good impression of you from last time. Give them a chance to see what you look like when you're strong, and to meet each other." He snorted. "I can't wait to see the expression on Edward Burke's face when he sees that Tybalt Starrise's been invited. He thinks Light wizards have no place in a Dark wizards' gathering."
Harry frowned. "When are they coming?"
"Late morning, early afternoon." Draco seemed more relaxed now that he believed Harry had given up any intention of going to Diagon Alley. "Mother thinks a few of them will probably arrive before then, though, to talk to you as privately as they can."
"Then I have some time to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning and buy a gift for Connor," said Harry hopefully. "Maybe even take it to him myself—"
"Harry." Draco folded his arms. "You can make a gift for your brother. I've seen you do it before. And you're not going anywhere outside the wards."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "I still think Bellatrix being outside the wards that day is a coincidence, Draco. And she ran the moment she saw your mum, anyway." Narcissa had still managed to inflict a curse on Bellatrix that she had said, cheerfully, would feel like a living thing trying to claw its way out of her belly. Harry had found himself wincing and wondering if there should be a limit to the oath of vengeance Narcissa had sworn, but then he'd looked into her face and known better than to say that.
"I don't think it's a coincidence, Harry." Draco's voice was still light, but it had frosted over, and Harry knew he was going to lose this argument, unless he actually wanted to Apparate through the Manor's wards, find a gift, and then dare to come back and face Draco's and Narcissa's wrath. "Besides, the last owl you sent your brother came back dazed, remember? I don't think the wards they've got him under, wherever he is, will let one through this time, either."
Harry scowled. He didn't know where Connor had been moved after the battle at the Weasleys—Connor had said that he couldn't tell him, just in case the letter fell into the wrong hands—though his brother could send post to him. He'd said he was cheerful, that he hadn't been wounded in the battle, that he was glad Harry was safe, and many other things Harry had found reassuring at the time. Now, though, he was longing to know exactly where those owls came from, and wishing he'd receive one tonight. Perhaps he could persuade it to stick around and take a present back.
"Why are you worrying so much about buying a gift for your brother?" Draco repeated, his voice gentle and coaxing.
"Because I don't have any ideas for making one." Harry turned to pace around the library, trying to run his left hand through his hair on instinct, and then snorting as the hair raked along his wrist instead of over his fingers. "It has to be perfect, Draco. I want it to say something about the last year, and who we are, and what we've done—"
"Hush, Harry." Draco had come up behind him and put his arms around him. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. Lately, Draco didn't do this when Harry needed comfort, but any old time he wanted to. "You'll think of something. I know you will. And if you can't give it to him until after the summer, then that's all right."
Harry started to say it wasn't all right, and then stopped, eyes widening slightly. For whatever reason, Draco's words had sparked an odd chain of thoughts in his mind. When the summer was over, they would go back to school, and thanks to the lack of a Triwizard Tournament this year, he and Connor would both be able to play Quidditch. In a moment, he'd thought of the perfect gift for his brother.
"Excuse me, Draco," he said, and elbowed gently at his arms. Draco let him go with an amused little snort.
"Had an idea, didn't you?"
Harry nodded distractedly and jogged to the other side of the library. The books he needed were on the top shelf, where he'd noted but not read them the first day he was here. Luckily, Narcissa's punishment on reading heavier books than ones of fey tales had expired; Harry had found it exquisitely frustrating while it lasted. He pulled out two of the weightier tomes and then curled up in a chair to read.
Draco watched Harry for a moment. He could feel his emotions, humming like a hive of bees, and also, if he really concentrated, his muscle movements, sometimes presaging what he would do next.
His gift continued to change, and Draco was not sure what he was going to do about it.
Or how he was going to tell Harry, for that matter.
Draco had opened his eyes a few days ago to find that he was opening his father's eyes, not his own. He'd lain still, caught between fear and curiosity at the feeling of limbs so much heavier than his, the sensation of long hair and sleeping robes instead of pyjamas, the soft sound of his mother's snoring in his ear.
He'd concentrated, and managed to hop back to his body. But then he'd lain awake and silent, still afraid.
He had known without having to think about it that he could have commanded his father to stand, stretch, yawn, scratch himself, speak words that were words of Draco's devising and not his own. It had felt even easier than with the Death Eater Draco had attacked. It was not compulsion, not the way that Harry had described his brother's ability to Draco. Compulsion functioned on the mind only, and could be resisted. This was the knowledge that Draco could manipulate other peoples' bodies like puppets to his will.
He could imagine how useful it would be in battle.
He could imagine how much Harry, with his love of free will, would hate it.
Draco shivered before the thought of telling him. It had to happen sometime, of course, even though Draco had never intruded into Harry's mind and never planned to without invitation. But every day that Draco could put it off, and had no more wandering incidents in the nighttime, was one more that he could bask in the glow of Harry's unrelieved regard, and know that Harry never suspected him of more than, in Harry's view, an odd desire to touch him too much.
Draco straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. He had promised himself that he had changed, would change, and he knew that the kind of person he wanted to be would have told Harry as soon as the moment seemed right after the battle. Besides, the moment was coming when he would have to push Harry, gently, to get other things he wanted. Back down from that, and he would never have the equal footing in their bond that he so desperately yearned for.
A flutter of wings pulled his thoughts from their descending spiral. Draco turned, and watched two great horned owls swoop through the window. Suspended in a net between their claws was a large green box, bearing the coiled silver serpent that marked Coluber House.
Draco accepted the box, hearing the delicate press of scales as something slithered around inside, and paid the owls with some of the Sickles he'd been carrying in his robe pocket in anticipation of the delivery. They bobbed their heads at him and soared away.
"What have you got there?"
Draco cradled the box against his chest and didn't turn around, despite Harry's curious question. "A birthday gift for you," he said loftily. "You'd better not try to see what it is."
Harry laughed at him, though the sound had a tinge of sadness. "Draco, you don't need to buy anything that it takes two owls to deliver," he said. "But thank you. I won't try to see it, or guess."
Draco crept out of the library, casting several suspicious glances over his shoulder to keep the joke running, and then took the box to his room. One glimpse inside reassured him that the Omen snake looked the way he was supposed to look, compared to the pictures in the books Draco had studied. He dropped a few of the stunned crickets he'd also prepared into the box, and heard soft crunching a moment later.
Draco flopped back on his bed, then winced. Beds in Malfoy Manor were not really made for flopping on, however comfortable they were for sleeping. He folded his hands behind his head and uttered a long, deep breath.
I'll wait to tell Harry about my ability. I think I have to. The gift I give him tomorrow is going to be hard enough for him to stomach.
Harry delicately wound a tendril of magic around his fingers and then stood back, nodding. The seven tiny Quidditch players he'd created, adapting a spell from one of the Quidditch books that teams used to predict strategy, zoomed around their artificial pitch, Transfigured from a piece of parchment. Harry grinned at them. They wore the robes of the Chudley Cannons right now, but they would change their colors depending on the team names that Connor spoke to them.
It was not, perhaps, the perfect gift, but it was one that would have meaning to Connor, and certainly did to Harry. Here's something that you enjoy, and which hasn't had a chance to be tainted by the last year. He might even write those words in the letter he hoped to send his brother, but probably not. He trusted Connor to understand his meaning.
He sighed and cast a glance at the clock above the mantelpiece in the library. It was already almost nine, and he didn't know how much longer he'd have before the guests started arriving. If it weren't for Narcissa and her punishments, he could have stayed up late last night and finished this, but Narcissa actually checked on Harry to be sure that he went to bed at the time she'd assigned him. Harry was disappointed in her. Yes, he had promised to obey the limits she set, and he was, but these were silly ones. His cheeks stung just thinking about them.
That's probably why she did it: to make you feel so humiliated that you won't think of running off again.
Harry huffed a breath, and then looked up hopefully as a house elf came in with a confused-looking owl perched on its arm. Sure enough, the owl had a small box hooked to its leg. Harry held out his own arm and whistled, and the owl launched itself to him, delivering the package and the letter to him with a solemn air.
"Wait a bit?" Harry asked, while smiling his thanks at the elf. "I have a package for you to take back, if you're willing."
The barn owl fixed him with wide golden eyes, as much to say that she couldn't do that.
"I have a dead mouse here," Harry added. And he did, lying beside him under a preservation spell. When he realized he might have to tempt the owl that came from Connor, he had thought he'd want to have the best temptation possible. "It's yours if you take the package back."
The owl swiveled her head, but at least she hadn't refused outright. Carefully, Harry shrank the Quidditch player set and put it into its box before he opened the letter Connor had sent him.
To my brother Harry, happy birthday. Have some fun this year.
Love, Connor.
Curious, Harry opened the small box, and smiled at what lay inside, struggling furiously against its bonds. It was a Snitch, but slightly larger than normal, and as Harry watched, it flashed with various colors, then turned clear and almost vanished from his sight. Snitches like this were sometimes used to train serious Seekers, but mostly they were children's toys, intended to amuse.
"It looks like we're thinking along the same lines," Harry muttered, and then set aside the Snitch to pick up the box containing the Quidditch player set. He eyed the owl coaxingly. "The mouse is yours, if you just take this back."
The owl hopped in place. Harry grimaced a bit as she cut his arm and trails of blood started to flow from beneath her talons, but he kept his stare steady, and in a short time, she inclined her head and permitted him to tie his box and note to her leg. Then she stared imperiously at the mouse. Harry laughed, ended the preservation spell, and tossed it to her. She sat on his arm and happily fed until the mouse was gone, then turned and launched herself past the startled house elf, who chased her.
Harry turned around with a chuckle, just as the fire in the hearth flared green and Henrietta Bulstrode stepped through.
Harry lifted his eyebrows and studied her. Henrietta stared back for a moment, as though she hadn't expected to find him there. Then her mouth curved in a smile that couldn't fool him. Harry had seen eyes like hers before, in pictures of hunting great cats.
"Hello, Potter," said Henrietta. "Happy birthday." She placed a carefully wrapped box on the mantelpiece. "I trust that I find you well, though you seem to have deprived yourself of a hand since the last time I saw you."
Harry concealed a snort. Is that the best she can do? He hadn't worn the glamour of his left hand since returning from Godric's Hollow, and of course Elfrida and Adalrico had seen, along with Hawthorn, and the word had spread among the Dark purebloods. "Hello, Mrs. Bulstrode," he said, not even bothering to respond to her barb. "Many thanks for the birthday wishes. Did your daughter come with you?"
Henrietta twisted her head, rather like the owl. "She did not. But I will tell her that you asked after her. Many a young witch might be happy to hear that you were interested in her fate."
Harry concealed another laugh. Why is she being so obvious? Well, after all, I was weak the last time she saw me. That probably factors into it. "I wish her all the best, of course," he said. "I can imagine the sight that she'll make in a few years, when she's come into her power and her beauty." Henrietta's eyes brightened, which made it the perfect moment for Harry to add, "Of course, she would receive an invitation to my joining."
Henrietta blinked and stared at him. "Your joining?" she asked, and then obviously hated herself for ever saying something so inane.
Harry smiled at her. "You must have heard of that, too," he said. Patronizing, just the right among of patronizing in my voice—and oh, how her eyes flash! "That Draco Malfoy and I are most likely going to be joined," Harry clarified, and added a few more dollops of condescension into his voice for good measure.
There passed a few moments during which Henrietta simply breathed, and then she dropped a curtsey. "Let me be one of the first to wish you congratulations then, Mr. Potter," she said.
"Oh, most people already have." Harry wandered to the library door, smiling over his shoulder at her. "But I accept your good wishes just as I accept your birthday wishes. Come this way, please, and you can put your gift with the others. I'll see that you receive some refreshment, too, Mrs. Bulstrode. Do you prefer wine? Perhaps not this early in the morning, hmm? Pumpkin juice might be better."
He turned forward again, before his victorious grin could become visible. He still thought this whole extravagant birthday celebration was a ridiculous idea, and could not tell why the Malfoys had planned it—even as a convenient excuse to gather his allies, there was no reason it had to be so lavish—but he might as well use it to have fun with someone who thought his control of the alliance fragile.
Henrietta stood where she was for a moment, eyes narrowed and focused on the door.
I acted stupid.
And it was my own fault.
Grimly, Henrietta ran the memory of that first meeting over in her mind, even as she gathered the gift she'd ordered for Potter up and followed him down a corridor and into the massive, sunlit central room of the Manor. She could still remember Potter's pale face, the staring eyes that indicated he was thinking of his own ends before anyone else's. She had thought him a fanatic, and easy to trick and delude as all fanatics were. He had magic, of course he did, but he wore only the appearance of power, and she could drape him over herself like a cloak easily enough.
That boy was nothing like the one who confronted her now, turning her barbs with ease and seeming utterly unashamed of his lack of a left hand.
Henrietta raised her eyebrows at the long table, already set with a few gifts, and placed her own among them. Well. She had made her mistake, and she had paid for it with a few moments of humiliation.
She intended to pay with nothing else. She had listened to the stories about Potter when ordering her gift, even as she let her own impressions of him order her behavior. The gift was one for a more dangerous man, adapted to Potter's unique circumstances. It might have shattered him if he were really as weak as she thought. Now Henrietta could be thankful for her foresight. At the very least, it would inflict a deep wound.
She turned and summoned a smile to her face even as she saw Honoria Pemberley, of all the Dark witches in her acquaintance the one she despised the most, come towards her with her hand out. Henrietta tried to take the hand, and it vanished. Pemberley giggled.
Henrietta simply nodded, as though amused at the trick, and waited. Potter would open her gift soon, and she could be content in the knowledge that he would suffer when he did.
"…and then he ate the whole thing!"
Harry couldn't help smiling as he listened to Honoria Pemberley narrate the tale of the pudding she'd created with illusions, and which her father had attempted to eat gamely despite most of it vanishing and bending around his spoon. She was an accomplished illusionist, she reassured him, strong enough to create the glamours of taste and scent which had fooled her father. Harry resolved to keep that in mind whenever he was dealing with her.
"Potter." Thomas Rhangnara had all but bounced up to him, with a woman Harry hadn't seen before at his shoulder. "This is Priscilla Burke, my wife. Well, she was Priscilla Burke when we married. She's Priscilla Rhangnara now. That is, if she changed her name." He turned to his wife with a slight frown. "I keep forgetting to ask, dear. Did you change your name officially, or didn't you?"
Priscilla smiled tolerantly at her husband and held out her hand to Harry. She was a tall woman with a fall of golden hair that looked longer than it was thanks to the length of her neck. In reality, Harry saw, it stopped just short of her shoulders. Her eyes were large and wide and as green as his mother's, but both harder and warmer, like jade put in a fire. "It's Priscilla Burke still, dear. I wanted it to be." She turned her attention fully to Harry. "Auror Priscilla Burke, technically. And yes, that's possible because I've never Declared. Neither Scrimgeour nor Mallory would have tolerated a Dark Auror working in their department."
"You really should Declare, my dear," said Thomas chidingly. "I told you, the Dark has the best arguments. True Dark wizards work individually, yes, but in patterns that collapse and change according to the wills of the wizards involved. Think of constellations. Stars can move. Do they shine the less brightly for that? No, they don't. And of course they can be grouped into different constellations. Take Achernar—"
Priscilla guided her husband away with a firm hand on his elbow, and an eyeroll at Harry that told him she knew well how to manage Thomas. Harry found that oddly reassuring. He wanted people at this celebration who were less than focused on him. Thomas was the only one he could absolutely count on to be so, though.
For example, he was acutely aware of Henrietta's eyes on him every time he moved, and Draco's as well.
Henrietta's scrutiny he could understand, but Draco's seemed to have something to do with his gift, given the way his gaze darted back and forth between Harry and the box sitting on the table. Harry caught his eye and smiled, trying to reassure him that he would love it, whatever it was. Draco looked away.
Harry rolled his own eyes. Fine. Be like that. He probably thinks he would manage me like Priscilla manages Thomas, but I think I could return the favor a time or two.
Then he blinked and touched his head. I don't understand myself sometimes. I still don't know if I'm going to survive the War, and I'm thinking about Draco and me joining?
He shook his head and glanced about for Narcissa. It was nearly noon, and from the look of it, no more allies were due to arrive. Edward Burke was the only one missing and he had already sent a sneering letter saying that, due to the unfortunate presence of the halfblood Honoria Pemberley, he preferred to stay home and wait for a more dignified occasion of celebration.
He'll either get over that or stop being my ally right quick, Harry thought, even as Narcissa caught his eye and nodded at him.
"Thank you for coming," said Harry, casting a mild Sonorus on himself so that his voice captured everyone's attention at once. "If you would sit down at the table, we do have a meal planned for you."
His allies moved to take their places. Harry sat at the head of the table, of course, flanked by Draco and Narcissa. Lucius took his place next to his wife, but Harry was curious about where the others would sit.
Henrietta, he was amused to see, took a position exactly in the middle of the left side, neither far from him nor near. Honoria, Tybalt Starrise, and his joined partner John gravitated together into a giggling, arguing, sometimes sneezing clump. Ignifer took a seat next to Lucius, sitting bolt upright and returning him blank proud look for blank proud look. Mortimer Belville sat on the other side of Henrietta, a safe distance back from the table, so that he wouldn't get food on his robes, Harry thought. Thomas would probably have stood if he were allowed, or wandered from place to place talking, but Priscilla took his arm and guided him gently to a seat next to Draco. Charles and his wife Medusa, whom Harry had met only in passing thanks to Honoria insisting on monopolizing his time, sat a few chairs down on the other side of Ignifer. Harry had to admit he approved of that. Charles was obviously a cautious man, and though his presence here bespoke his allegiances, he stood as near to neutrality as he still could while Harry paid him no special notice.
Hawthorn took the seat next to Ignifer, ignoring the woman with easy grace. Elfrida and Adalrico were next to her, Elfrida cooing softly to Marian and not looking up often. A permanent blush seemed to stain her cheeks. Harry could hardly credit that this was the same woman who had sternly asked him questions about his health yesterday. She was very different now—but then, puellaris witches were trained to be fierce only in defense of their children, and to act as modest and retired as possible in public.
Harry wondered, as the house elves carried in plates to everyone except him—he was casually levitating his lunch out of the kitchen instead—what his allies would think of the meal.
Mortimer was the first to react, staring down at the plate as if it were covered with worms and not pasta. "Potter," he said. "There must be some mistake. Birthday dinners between the ages of fourteen and sixteen traditionally begin with stuffed quails. The birthday dinners of Auglorious the Red began the custom," he added, and then paused, as if he were waiting for Harry to ask who Auglorious the Red had been.
Harry didn't intend to give the pompous scholar the satisfaction. "Not just pasta," he said, and then poured the bowl of tomato sauce that had floated after his plate over the pasta, casually hovering the dish just over his left wrist. "Spaghetti. I like it." He smiled at Mortimer. "Do eat up, Mr. Belville."
Mortimer looked as if he could conceive of nothing more horrifying, probably because the sauce would tend to get on his robes. He extended his fork and poked at the pasta, and then shook his head. Harry noted that Honoria, Tybalt, and John had all dug in with squeals of recognition and delight, and Narcissa, who had known about this from the beginning, was eating with resignation, but most of his other allies were staring at him. Draco poked the spaghetti several times with his fork before seeming to understand that it wouldn't hurt him.
"Isn't this a Muggle food, Potter?" Charles Rosier-Henlin asked at last, his voice fascinated.
"In origin, I think." Harry levitated a napkin over to himself and dabbed at some of the sauce that had already escaped onto his chin. He was more thankful than ever for his magic since he'd lost his left hand. He could use it to do simple things like wipe his face without letting go of his fork. "I don't really know that much about it, just that I like it."
He went back to eating, and gradually, one by one, his allies did the same. Harry knew he was still receiving stares, and felt entertained. They would be seeking some subtle message in his choice of food.
The only one Harry intended was quite simple and obvious, really; he thought it was more significant that he was eating without house elves serving him, though they had still cooked the food (which he was unhappy about, but Narcissa had refused to allow him in the kitchens). I am stronger than I was at one point. And in minor matters, I'm going to do as I like.
Finally, everyone except Mortimer had finished, and he pushed the plate away as though glad to have an excuse for quitting. Harry heard him fervently muttering cleaning charms to himself as the house elves came out and fetched their plates away—with the exception of Harry's, which had tamely taken itself back to the kitchens already.
"I suppose I should open my gifts now," said Harry aloud.
"Please do, Potter." Henrietta Bulstrode was leaning forward, her eyes bearing the gleam of a hunting cat. "Open mine first, if you wouldn't mind. I spent some time fussing over my choice."
"How wonderful, madam," said Harry casually, even as he summoned Henrietta's box to him. "You've only had a week to know about this." Narcissa had told him that much yesterday, when he'd tried to talk her out of a large birthday celebration and failed. "It must have been a lot of fussing concentrated into a small space of time, and yet it doesn't show on your face at all." He smiled at Henrietta, and then opened the box with a snip of his magic.
"Well, it's very small, Potter, but it is what I want to give you," Henrietta was saying.
Inside the box lay a gleaming left hand, sculpted of silver. Harry had seen a few wizards wearing them in the past, long before he had any reason to be interested in them.
He raised his eyebrows and glanced up at Henrietta. Her eyes devoured his expression. Obviously, she'd hoped he would flinch, be hurt, panic.
"It's handsome," Harry admitted, letting his magic levitate the hand out and spin it front of his face. "Unfortunately, the wrist is a bit too big to attach to mine." He smiled at Henrietta. "But I appreciate the thought, and even the pun. It was very clever of you, to think about giving me a hand."
Someone giggled. Harry thought it was Honoria. The rest of his allies were sitting in absolute silence. Harry directed his beaming smile around the table, then laid the hand and the box both aside. He did detect a flash of stunned disbelief in Henrietta's eyes before her face smoothed again.
She expected me to be ashamed of being crippled, then. I'm not. This is a war-wound. I'll leave the glamour off, not draw attention to it unless I'm asked, and then admit to it. Neither hiding nor flaunting is the way to go. This is just part of who I am, at least until I figure out how to break the last of Bellatrix's spells.
He grinned at Honoria. "Should I open yours next?"
"Oh, please do." As he called her box to him, Honoria made tiny hovering phoenixes follow it and chirp at the ceiling. Harry opened it with a sense of real curiosity. He didn't know what whim of hers Honoria might have gratified in choosing a gift.
He found a silver whistle, and held it up with his hand, letting it spin on its chain. "What does this do, madam?"
"Blow it," Honoria suggested, and then began laughing aloud.
Harry concentrated, but couldn't identify any Dark magic on it. He shrugged, put the whistle to his lips, and blew.
Everyone sitting around the table promptly burst into laughter. From the looks of things, they wanted to stop laughing, but they couldn't. On and on they went, as if they were being tickled mercilessly. Mortimer Belville actually fell out of his chair. Medusa Rosier-Henlin was holding her sides in pain. Lucius's eyes were furious above his distended mouth.
Though Honoria hadn't told him how to stop the effect, Harry decided that he could do worse than blow the whistle again. As the shrill sound echoed around the room, everyone relaxed and stopped laughing. Lucius's face had gone icy.
"That was a ridiculous gift," he told Honoria.
"Was it?" Honoria tilted her head to the side. "I don't think it was. Think about it, Mr. Malfoy. Harry here blows that whistle at his enemies, they start laughing, and he escapes." She shrugged, looking extremely smug. "And they won't easily think the whistle is a weapon, either, because it's my own invention, and not registered with the Ministry."
Harry nodded at Honoria and put the whistle back in its box. He wasn't entirely sure if he approved of her doing that and embarrassing his other allies, but at least she'd been laughing right along with the rest of them—and the whistle hadn't affected Harry at all. He could take it as a protective gift, if he wanted to. He still wasn't sure he could trust her.
But she is fun, he had to admit.
Several of the other gifts were more prosaic—a set of fine robes from Mortimer Belville, a tiny mechanical lion that paced and roared from Tybalt and John ("to bring some Gryffindor influence back into your life," according to Tybalt), a book on Quidditch from Charles and Medusa. Harry smiled at Charles, understanding the import of the gift. They weren't pretending to know him better than they did, and they were still making a statement of neutrality. Charles would have known that he liked Quidditch from Harry's conversation with Owen at the last meeting. Harry nodded at him as he put the book aside, and received a surprised glance, followed by a slow relaxation, from Charles in return. Medusa leaned her head on her husband's shoulder and smiled widely in Harry's direction.
He was utterly unsurprised when the large, flat packet from Thomas and Priscilla turned out to be a book on the constellations. He nodded to them as he stroked the cover. "Thank you."
"There's also philosophy inside," said Thomas eagerly. "All about the comparison of Dark wizards to stars, and how—"
"Dear." Priscilla put her hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to spoil the book for Potter? I know that you don't like it when someone does that to you."
Thomas's eyes widened in horror. "Of course not! I'm sorry, Potter." He nodded several times. "My lips are sealed now. You'll just have to discover the book's wonders on your own."
Harry smiled and put the book aside. He was already getting a little weary of the gifts, though. Honestly. No one needs this many.
He frowned when he received Ignifer's present. It looked like a broad, flat rock, but it was copper-colored, and thin, and sharp on the edges. He took it up, gingerly, so that he didn't cut himself, and looked at her.
"It's a dragon scale," said Ignifer softly. "From a Peruvian Vipertooth. If you need my help, Potter, wave it in the air, and it'll ignite and let me find you anywhere in Britain."
Harry blinked. It was a more open declaration of alliance than any of his new allies had made so far, unless one counted their coming to these meetings at all as an absolute commitment, which Harry didn't. "I—thank you."
"You're welcome." Ignifer leaned forward, never looking away from him, her yellow eyes as proud as a hawk's. Harry experienced a dizzy moment as he gazed at her. She appeared a distant figure out of legend. Her looks bespoke Light witch so strongly that he found it hard to reconcile them with the aura of Dark magic that pulsed about her, even knowing the facts about her expulsion from her family as he did. "It's the least I can do, if you are also offering me a sense of belonging."
Harry nodded slowly. Whether it was because of her heritage or something else, Ignifer was offering him a true alliance. He was not about to disdain it.
"Thank you," he repeated, and then set the dragon scale down and turned to the gifts from his closer allies.
From the Bulstrodes, of course, came a book on the strategy Adalrico had been trying to teach him, and a book on taking proper care of oneself. Harry flashed a sheepish glance at Elfrida. For one moment, he saw fangs among her teeth. He wondered what Millicent had been punished with if she didn't eat properly and go to bed on time.
Hawthorn gave him a silver frame. Harry swallowed when he saw what it contained: a wizarding photograph of Dragonsbane. Swaddled in black, of course, so that his face could not be seen, as Harry had always known him. A necromancer never showed his face to anyone but his spouse and children. Still, that Hawthorn would give this picture up in the first place to the one who had killed her husband…
Harry met her eyes solidly. "Thank you."
Hawthorn merely nodded. Harry had to look away as he set the photograph in a place of honor beside him.
Narcissa and Lucius's gift was a silver bracelet, carved with delicate letters. Harry couldn't make out what they spelled, though. He didn't even know if they were runes, or ordinary letters so entwined with vines and the like as to make them unreadable. He glanced at her with, he knew, a faint frown on his face.
Narcissa leaned forward and laid her hand over his. Her voice was low but clear. "As a wizarding child gets older, Harry, he should have some emblem of his becoming an adult, and more and more a representative of the family instead of just someone who shelters under its protection. This bracelet is that." She nodded to it. "We couldn't, of course, just adopt you into the Black or Malfoy families, but we can show how much you mean to us: one Black by birth, one Malfoy by birth, and now a mingled family of both bloods. Please consider yourself bound and entwined with both of us, not only with the Malfoys." She lowered her voice. "And, of course, if you ever do find yourself bound even more firmly, we would not object." She led Harry's gaze to the side, and he met Draco's.
Draco's face held an odd expression: hope, and determination, and caution. Harry swallowed, and couldn't look away for a long moment. When he could, his cheeks were burning. He suspected he was about to find himself pursued with more determination.
He examined the bracelet to distract himself, and found that he could make out the letters, now. They were the Malfoy and Black mottos, intertwined. He smiled at Narcissa, and clasped the bracelet around his right wrist. "Thank you. I accept."
Narcissa relaxed. Only then did Harry realize that she'd been nervous he might reject the bracelet.
Why? Just because I'm Potter by birth?
Harry shook his head briskly. He was his parents' son, yes, and in more ways than just by blood, but that didn't mean he would ever be heir to Lux Aeterna or anything else James or Lily Potter owned. He would have refused them if they were offered. He didn't see why he should want them.
He forced the emotions away from him by smiling at Draco. "Well, Draco, it's time for your gift."
The expression on Draco's face became tinged with faint panic, but he didn't try to stop Harry from summoning the large box to himself and opening it.
Harry felt his own face change as he stared at the small snake in the box. He swallowed. It was inevitable that he should, he thought defensively. Memories of Sylarana were brewing in his head. He half-wanted to shout at Draco for getting him another snake at all.
But he put his hand into the box and hissed a soft greeting. The snake raised his head, hissed back, and crawled onto his arm. Harry lifted him out, staring at him and trying to appreciate everything that Draco had done for him.
Harry had recognized his breed at once. He was an Omen snake, one of a species of serpents whose bodies could reflect the future, and who sometimes appeared as signals of the fulfillment of prophecies or signs of impending disaster or fortune. His scales were utterly smooth, the color of milk—until they caught the light. Then they brewed and stormed with silver and white and gold, and sometimes shone transparent. He was beautiful, his head slender and more pointed than Sylarana's had been, his eyes a pale, cloudless blue-green, like the sky during a particularly fine sunset.
And he was of the Light. Omen snakes had always been associated with it.
Harry stared at Draco across the top of the box, and Draco nodded back at him.
"I got him because I thought he would be a good companion for you, Harry," he said. "When Omen snakes choose, they're more friends than—than pets." He coughed. "If he likes you. He might not."
Harry looked back down at the snake. A companion. And of the Light, and male.
He really was trying to give me someone who could be a friend, and who would remind me as little of Sylarana as possible.
There was another way in which he didn't remind Harry of Sylarana, Harry thought, as the snake yawned. He had no fangs. He was a constrictor, not a venomous biter.
Harry took a deep breath, and said in Parseltongue, "Hello. Do you like me? I'm not sure that you do."
The snake cocked his head seriously to the side. "I'm not sure yet, either," he said. "But I think so. You speak, yes, but it would take more than that to win my affection. You hold me gently, and that matters more. And you smell shocky, but you keep going through the pain. That is worth a great deal. I think that I will stay with you at least a few days, and if you cannot be my friend, then we will part with no hard feelings." Shining like a ripple of living water, he climbed to Harry's shoulder and curled the lower part of his body there, lifting his head to touch his tongue to Harry's cheek. He was only about six inches right now, but he would grow, Harry knew, until he was at least as long as an adult wizard's torso. "I like the way you smell."
Harry swallowed. "Good," he tried. "What is your name?"
"I do not have one," said the snake placidly. "But I would like one in the language wizards use for spells. I like that one. If I could choose any human language to speak, it would be that one."
Harry nodded, and watched the snake for a moment, trying to think of a suitable Latin name. The serpent had turned outward to watch the rest of his allies, who were sitting still. Harry wondered if any of them knew how to react. He thought not.
The snake twisted once more, his scales flashed, and the perfect name came to Harry.
"What about Argutus?" he said aloud. The word meant "clear," and also "significant," when applied to omens.
"I like that," said the snake happily. "I think I like you. But I must wait a while to make up my mind, and I mean no offense if I do not choose you for a companion. There are many people who are simply not suited to be friends to an Omen snake."
Harry had to close his eyes, then. Omen snakes formed no involuntary bonds. He had known that, once, but had forgotten; it was a long time since he'd read about magical serpents. Argutus would choose to be his or not of his own free will.
Draco has done this for me. And he knew exactly what he was doing.
Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes. Draco's fear melted. Harry didn't know exactly what his own face was showing, but he suspected it wasn't half his emotions.
So he nerved himself, braced himself, and leaned forward to kiss Draco, gently, on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispered into his ear, while Argutus grumbled and adjusted his perch, slithering down his left arm to coil about his wrist, and he heard a few of his allies buzzing. "You don't know how much this means to me."
"Enough for you to kiss me in public." Draco's eyes were brilliant when Harry sat back. "I think I do, Harry."
Harry stared one more moment before he turned away. That gaze was just a bit too intimate, and made him feel like he was in freefall. He needed to move past this awkward, and potentially vulnerable, moment.
He graced the rest of the company with a smile. "Should I have the house elves bring in dessert?"