Thank you for the reviews yesterday!
This is another transition chapter, as everyone recovers from the battle.
Chapter Thirty: Denouement
"She'll live for now," said Madam Pomfrey softly, pulling the sheet up around Honoria and stepping back from the bed.
Harry nodded. He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if the mediwitch was sure. She wasn't sure, or she would have said outright that Honoria was going to live. She wouldn't torment him with uncertainty if there was no reason to do so. Besides, Harry had no doubt that Madam Pomfrey would watch throughout the night and try to keep Honoria alive.
He would have watched himself, but Tybalt, John, and Madam Pomfrey were all staying, and there was someone who needed him more. As the matron went to fetch healing potions for Honoria, Harry turned and met Draco's eyes. Draco was hovering near the entrance to the hospital wing, now and then staring at one of the beds as if he would like to collapse into it.
"Come on," Harry said softly, stepping up beside him and offering an arm.
Draco accepted with a single look of gratitude so rich that Harry winced. Merlin, the things that must be running through his mind right now.
Lucius and Narcissa had already left. Lucius had simply given a single, proud smile when Draco told them about using the Unforgivable, and why he'd used it. Narcissa had touched her son's cheek, but looked back and forth between him and Harry, and not spoken a word. Harry was not sure if that meant she didn't think Draco needed to recover, or trusted that Harry would help heal him better than she could.
And that, at least, Harry thought he could do. He'd killed for the first time much more recently than any of the elder Malfoys. They'd be recalling old memories, and probably not much sympathy. They'd try to urge Draco past the fact of this first death before he was ready. Harry would not.
Together, they slowly made their way back to the Slytherin common room. It was late Saturday night, late enough that even the students most bent on excitement had gone to bed, and none of the few slumped in chairs or on couches stirred as Draco and Harry went by. Harry divided his attention between the floor in front of him and Draco's face. It was hard to see either in the low light of the fires.
They reached their bedroom at last. Harry half-feared Blaise would be waiting up to demand an account of the battle—and his reaction to the Killing Curse probably wouldn't be a helpful one for Draco's state of mind—but steady, soft snores came through his curtains. Harry sighed and helped Draco gently into his own bed, then cast a silencing charm and climbed up beside him, kneeling on the sheets rather than getting under them. Draco had his arms wrapped around his chest now, as if he didn't want to be touched. Harry could understand that.
"How do you stand it?" Draco whispered.
Progress. At least he would speak about it, rather than Harry needing to drag it out of him.
Harry said softly, "I found it difficult at first. The one it hit me hardest with was Dragonsbane, but Mulciber was—hard in a different way. I tried all the arguments on myself. Necessity. It was the only way to kill him. He would have hurt other people if I didn't kill him. He was a Death Eater, so I was doing the world a favor."
Draco turned his head inch by inch, until he faced Harry. Harry put out his hand in spite of himself, smoothing it over Draco's forehead and into his hair. Draco sighed, and the tight clutch of his arms around his body relaxed a bit. "And did they work?" he asked.
"No," Harry said.
Draco frowned and started to move as though he would throw off the touch, then subsided under it. "Then how did you live?"
Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure his way would be the best way for Draco to handle the problem.
"Tell me, Harry. Please."
Harry closed his eyes. "Because pain doesn't stop, Draco," he said. "There are always going to be things to be endured. I just—I think most people live, sometimes, like they're going to get through the pain or the onerous tasks of daily life into some legendary time and place where they can do nothing but relax and drift in bliss. I know that's not true. The relaxation does end. The onerous tasks are usually life itself, not something to be pushed aside so you can enjoy life. The pain needs to be got through because it just has to. Putting my head down and pushing is the way I live."
"Or running in front and dragging the rest of us along behind you," Draco said, with a slight chuckle.
Better than I thought, Harry realized, relaxing. He can joke. How long was it before I felt like doing that after Mulciber? The death of Rodolphus didn't really count, to Harry's mind, both because he'd been unconscious for so long afterwards and because he'd had many, many emotions to sort out from that night, not just his slaying of the Death Eater. But for Draco, the dominant impression of this battle would be that he had killed for the first time.
"True," Harry murmured, and then opened his eyes in startlement as Draco pulled at his arm. "Draco, what—"
"Get under the covers with me," Draco said. "Please, Harry?"
Moving slowly, because Draco's earlier attitude had indicated just how little he wanted to be touched, Harry did as he asked. The moment he lay down, Draco rolled over, grabbed him, and held him close, shuddering a bit as his arms wrapped around Harry's waist and back. Harry forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle, and placed his hand on Draco's shoulder.
"I can't entirely regret it," Draco whispered. "And I think I can put my head down and push through like I need to, Harry, as long as you're here. If she wasn't dead, you would be. And I would do anything to prevent that."
Harry shuddered and tried to rear back slightly. He couldn't move. The warmth pushing in from Draco's body seemed to have inundated his mind as well. He felt flayed, stripped to the bone, seen. He liked it better when Draco concentrated on himself. But he was too close, and too aware of what this meant to Draco, to do anything but meet the gray eyes staring feverishly into his.
"I love you," Draco whispered, and then closed his eyes. Perhaps the closeness was too much for him, too. Or perhaps the warmth and the reassurance and the closeness combined with the battle exhaustion dropped him off. Harry heard him lightly snoring a few moments later.
He waited some time, then tried to move gently away. Draco's arms were so tightly wrapped around him that he couldn't. Harry laid his head back down, and was immediately pulled in even tighter.
Harry swallowed and tried to ignore the prickling of his skin, the instincts screaming at him that he felt too good and needed to move out of danger now. At least he didn't think he was in any danger of going to sleep. He stared over Draco's head at his curtains and the underside of the four-poster, and made himself remember the moment when Greyback had vanished from existence.
At least he had been right. There was that meager comfort. His magic could do such things, and he had been right to run away and recover his temper rather than doing them to Margaret. If he had looked at her right after he knew that she hurt Argutus, would he have spoken her name, commanded her to meet his eyes? Would she have popped out of existence like Greyback did?
And he still didn't regret killing Greyback. But he would have regretted killing her.
He used the hours when he lay there and could do nothing but stare and think to sort through his emotions, carefully tucking them into place, analyzing them and learning what he should do from them. He was powerful. So it behooved him to keep tight, careful control of his power. His anger at the traitor notwithstanding, he wasn't about to march off and start accusing or killing people. He would maintain his secrets instead, question his allies subtly, let them know he was watching, and, next time, use a system of multiple plans, checks, and traps. Or false plans, false attacks, even. See what got reported and what didn't.
He wasn't bound magically to his newest allies—though, after the battles, the bonds of life debts connected him to Ignifer and Honoria, just waiting for them to claim them—but he had made promises it would be awkward and insulting to break off with no explanation. Insult someone badly enough on the suspicion of a breach, have it not be true, and other Dark families would either stay neutral or attack him because of their ties to the person he'd insulted, whether or not they joined the Death Eaters. A misstep in the dance now, just when he was entering the wider arena of politics, was not something he could afford.
So he would restrain himself. He had always known he had to. This simply added another, excellent reason.
Tight and tame and lashed, Harry smoothed out his emotions, and swallowed them, and made them lie still. He didn't sleep, but by the time the sun rose and Draco's arms finally loosened enough for him to crawl out of bed and go back to the hospital wing, he was convinced he'd accomplished something more valuable.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry started and lifted his head from his cradled arms. He'd sat a few hours' watch by Honoria's bed while Madam Pomfrey got some sleep. Tybalt and John had left for home just after he arrived, still angry and worried, but content to surrender their friend to Harry's eyes and the mediwitch's care. The first thought Harry had, on hearing a voice he didn't immediately recognize, was that it might be John.
But it wasn't. A man with an oddly-accented voice, oddly familiar face, and oddly ragged white-blond hair stood in the doorway of the hospital wing. His eyes were yellow, and fastened on Harry's face with—keenness, was the only way Harry could define the emotion. Keen curiosity? Keen rage? Keen interest? Some of all of those.
"Sir?" Harry asked. "Can I help you?"
"I can help you, and that is the more important question." Now that the man had recognized him, he seemed to relax, and he certainly had no hesitation about striding further into the hospital wing, drawing up a chair, and sitting down next to Harry. "My name is Paton Opalline. Fergus Opalline was my son."
Harry shut his eyes and winced. He had confirmed, after they had Apparated back to Hogwarts, that the werewolf who had died in Hawthorn's attack was Fergus, not Delilah Gloryflower or Claudia Griffinsnest. "I am sorry for your loss, sir," he said softly. "Do you really still wish to help me?"
There was a reflective pause, and then Paton said, "I see that Fergus told you nothing about his family. Well, he may have been ashamed, though what he became was not his fault. He did—Mr. Potter, would you please open your eyes and look at me? I feel odd talking to your bowed head. I assure you, I do not blame you. Fergus made his choice to fight, and he fell in the doing so, willingly, facing enemies. I am very proud of him."
Harry blinked and looked up. That's why his hair is so ragged, he thought. He's chopped it in mourning for his son. Some of the Light pureblood families did that. "I—I don't understand, sir. I would have thought you would want to withdraw from the war, to not risk getting any more of your family killed. Besides," he added, "though I know Fergus wanted to help me because I sent him Wolfsbane, I am unaware of any debt you owe me."
Paton shook his head. "It's true that we were planning to keep out of the war at first, because of what we are," he said. "But now, one of our sons has died for you, Mr. Potter. Blood was given. Willingly." He paused, but Harry went on staring at him blankly, not knowing what to say. For the first time, he was really regretting not studying the customs of Light pureblood families in depth. He'd spent much more time on the Dark customs, because Lily had simply assumed that the Light wizards would follow Connor automatically, while Harry would need to persuade and bind and convince the Dark ones to become allies. Harry felt very ignorant of everything right at the moment.
The exhaustion and the worry over Honoria probably aren't helping, he thought, wiping at his eyes.
"What are you?" he asked.
Paton smiled. "Old Blood, Mr. Potter. Have you heard of us?"
Harry chased a memory for a moment. But no, though he'd read the term, it had always been in the context of historical background, no more important for him to grasp what was happening in the wizarding world today than the names of Muggle kings nine hundred years ago were. Besides, his greatest historical background was in the First War with Voldemort, the one with Grindelwald, and everything else that might pertain to the struggle of Light and Dark. From what Paton was saying, Old Blood was outside that. "Not enough to know what you're talking about, sir."
Paton smiled more widely and shook back his sleeves. Then he bent his head and breathed on his wrists.
Harry watched in wonder as a glamour he hadn't even sensed melted away, revealing Paton's previously unmarked skin as writhing with tattoos. Harry couldn't see a pattern to them. They were simply endless dark lines, perhaps deep blue or purple or green, twining and intertwining and making their way up his arms until they vanished into his robes. Harry looked up and saw that similar swirls adorned Paton's face. There, though, they seemed to move in harmony with his features, forming dark green concentric circles around his eyes, blossoming into whirls of gold and red on his cheeks, dipping into yellow near his chin and blue on his throat.
"What do those mean, sir?" he asked.
Paton sat back with a shake of his head that moved his ragged hair from side to side, looking half-smug and half-eager to explain. "Old Blood, Mr. Potter. We're part of the fifth dimension of Dark and Light, one that isn't spoken about so much anymore, with all the debates on free will and compulsion. Peace and war," he elaborated, when Harry looked at him blankly. "We rarely fight in wars. They kill our family. And we don't like that. We would rather concentrate on growing."
Harry eyed the tattoos on Paton's wrists and cheeks. "And those—those represent your family, sir?"
"Yes, they do." Paton traced one finger over the gold and red rosette on his left cheek. "One line for everyone born with the name of Opalline, or from the womb of a woman who married into another family, or a female descendant of one of those daughters. Our family is very great, Mr. Potter, because we accepted certain limitations on ourselves. At one point, most of the Light families were Old Blood, sworn to peace, not to war. If two wizards did have a conflict, they might fight duels, usually not lethal, and the punishment for killing a pregnant woman was to be Obliviated, turned into a child, and bound to the family the dead woman had come from. That was as violent as we got. Aurum exilis, cognatio abundans, has been the Opalline motto for sixteen hundred years, the length of time we have been sworn to the Light and have been Old Blood. In gold poor, in blood rich."
Harry tried to imagine the amount of children a long-lived Light wizarding family intent on producing more children and avoiding conflict might have, and failed. "Why did the other Light families turn away from being Old Blood?"
Paton shrugged, though his face darkened with a shadow of old anger. "They wanted money, political power, vengeance—to be able to challenge the Dark pureblooded families on their own ground. Of course there are not as many riches when we give the money we accumulate towards the upkeep, rescue, saving, and protection of our own family, and when we are so many. But we are still Old Blood. We have not abandoned our vows, and in return for that, we have a deep connection such as the others will never understand. There are Opallines everywhere, Mr. Potter. And now that one of our own has willingly given his blood to your cause, we consider you an honorary family member. Blood shed over you rather than blood running through your veins, if you will."
Harry shook his head slightly. "But if you can't fight—"
"I did think you would see it as soon as I mentioned it, Mr. Potter." Paton gave him a deep smile, eyes narrowed and smug. "We are everywhere, and of course everyone knows that relatives gossip. And most of our enemies are unaware of just how connected we stay. Our spy network is unparalleled." He tipped his head. "That is what I intend to give you access to, Mr. Potter—cousins and second cousins, siblings and half-siblings, children and parents bound together all over Great Britain, Ireland, and Europe. We originated on the Isle of Man, and that is still my seat as family leader, but we did not stay there."
That's his accent, then. He's Manx. Harry grabbed and held on to that bit of knowledge. He wanted to hold on to something in the sliding mist of fatigue his mind had become.
"Your offer is wonderfully generous, sir," he said.
Paton shook his head. "It is only what you should have, now. When you sent the Wolfsbane, you gave our son the ability to choose peace once again. For that, we would have to thank you. But then he died in a chosen battle, using the beast's form and the savagery that he could not help having to fulfill a goal of the Light. Mr. Potter, that makes you a part of our family. You enabled Fergus to make himself useful and good, instead of sinking into despair."
"I didn't know I was doing it," Harry muttered. He looked over at Honoria to disguise the expression on his face, but had the feeling Paton could still see his blush. Honoria breathed on, oblivious. Harry found himself envying her.
"But that is what makes you worthy of this gift," said Paton. "I wanted to tell you this, Mr. Potter. We would only fight to defend ourselves—and even then, we prefer to avoid Dark Arts and other magic that would break our vows—but you are one of us, and we can certainly spy for you." He stood. "Are there any other questions that you wish to ask me?"
"I—no." Harry thought about saying that he was the one responsible for Fergus's death, but he doubted that Paton would take that well. And perhaps it was the enemy werewolves who were responsible. Perhaps he could learn to think like that. "Thank you for coming, sir."
"I will mourn Fergus forever," Paton said softly. "But I have the living to think of first, all my family. And that includes you now, Mr. Potter. Our letters are open to you, and our hearths and homes, should you ever need them." He hesitated, and Harry found himself wondering what else the man had to say.
He found out when Paton began in a low, faltering voice.
"Mr. Potter, I have no idea how you truly feel on the matter, as I no longer trust the Daily Prophet to report the truth, if it ever did. But my family possesses spells that set aright the wrongs between blood kin. That includes spells that punish parents who do the hideous things that your parents did to you."
Harry jerked his head up. "Would the Wizengamot or the Ministry consider those spells sufficient punishment to forego execution or imprisonment?"
"They would not," Paton said. "These spells are means of personal redress, Mr. Potter, justice, not vengeance and not legality."
"Then, thank you, but no," said Harry, turning away and leaning down near Honoria's bed again. He told himself there was a slight change in her breathing. It had sped up a little. Was that a good thing? He would have to ask Madam Pomfrey. He would have to learn medical magic. He didn't want to just kill and wish people out of existence. "I will contact you for other things, though, Mr. Opalline."
"I understand," said Paton. "They are still your blood." Harry heard him breathe again, probably to erase the tattoos and restore the glamour, and then his hand glanced over Harry's shoulder. "Should you ever change your mind, I would be most happy to teach you the spells myself."
Harry just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Paton turned and left.
Harry tugged the blanket up over Honoria and then went to fetch one of Madam Pomfrey's books. He wanted the mediwitch to get some more sleep, still. He might as well use the time for something productive, and begin to study on the means of combating the wounds left by battle curses.
"Harry. Are you quite well? You look exhausted."
Harry froze for a moment as Narcissa's arms closed around him in a tight hug, but then forced himself to relax. He'd sat by Honoria's bed most of the morning, until Madam Pomfrey awakened, and then left and contacted Narcissa. On the way, and while he waited for her, he avoided Connor, Snape, Draco—assuming Draco was awake yet—and others who could have told that he hadn't slept. They would only tell him to go to bed, which wasn't useful. He hadn't realized Narcissa, who, after all, had seen him just last night, could tell.
"I've been to bed, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, which was perfectly true, and then sat down in the chair facing hers. McGonagall had granted them the use of a small anteroom usually used for private talks between professors and seventh-year students who were going into their fields on leaving Hogwarts. "I wanted to talk to you about the attack last night, and who might have betrayed us." He'd thought about it, and decided there was no ways that Narcissa was the traitor. She might abandon him, but she would never abandon or endanger Draco.
Narcissa sat down, eyes still fixed on his face in a way Harry didn't much like. "You want my opinion on our allies?"
Harry sighed. "Yes. I am tempted to suspect Henrietta Bulstrode, since her magic is so strong she could practically count on surviving the battle no matter how much danger she put herself in, and I distrust her. But perhaps I am letting personal motives blind me."
"Perhaps," Narcissa murmured. "I will tell you the reasons I brought them into the alliance, Harry. Perhaps that will help.
"Honoria Pemberley is a skilled illusionist, deeper than she lets on, and more useful. I think you saw that last night," she added dryly. "I wanted her for her fighting skill, and to show some of the people who might hesitate to join an army of purebloods that you were not at all averse to fighting beside halfbloods and Gryffindors. Ignifer Apollonis, much the same. When she once fixes her loyalty, she does not change her mind easily. She's resisted entreaties from her family for more than a decade to change her allegiance back, resisted a sterility curse, resisted all the impulses of her childhood telling her that Dark wizards were evil. And she serves as a useful symbol of the alliance's fluid nature."
Narcissa leaned back and closed her eyes. "Those were my easy choices. Charles Rosier-Henlin—there was the risk that he might not like you, or might decide that you were not strong enough. But he has invented several new spells that I know of, and I respect his hidden strength. And I think that he is now firmly committed to you.
"Thomas Rhangnara is intelligent, capable of research that might serve us well, a good persuader, and in contact with wizards in India who might be useful if the Dark Lord takes the fight to other countries. Also, his wife Priscilla is a good eye on affairs in the Ministry.
"Mortimer Belville is more important for his family than himself. Speaking of which," Narcissa added abruptly, opening her eyes and reaching into her robe, "I have letters from the Belville family for you. The battle last night impressed them; it is the kind of test they have been waiting for you to pass." Harry accepted the letters, wishing he did not feel so much as if they might bite, and nodded. "Edward Burke's cousins are rich, and there is at least the chance that they will pass money and information along, now that they have seen how well you treat their most annoying relative. They have written you as well." Narcissa gave him another envelope.
"And Henrietta?" Harry asked quietly.
Narcissa hesitated for a long moment. Then she said, "Harry, I feared that people would think us weak if I did not approach her. She is too obvious a candidate to omit from an alliance, especially one that already contained her second cousin Adalrico. There is a reason that the Dark Lord tried to recruit her. Powerful in magic, notorious for acting in her own interest most of the time but giving everything for those causes she adopts as her own—did you know that she saved Elfrida's life?"
Harry blinked, once or twice. Then he said, "No."
Narcissa nodded. "Adalrico had angered another Death Eater. I still don't know for certain which one. In those days, I tried to avoid Death Eater talk and business as much as possible, not wanting Lucius's Lord to think I should be Marked. At any rate, he invaded Adalrico's house and tried to kidnap or kill Elfrida while she was pregnant with Millicent. Henrietta, however, likes Elfrida, even if that does not extend to liking all the things Elfrida values. She had set up spells to warn her of such an occurrence, unlikely as it might seem to happen. She arrived in some manner that was not Apparating—Adalrico has never been able to explain that to me properly—and utterly destroyed the Death Eater. Adalrico told me that he found a layer of flesh, blood, and bone exactly one inch thick coating every surface of a particular room."
Harry winced. He didn't know what Dark magic Henrietta might have used to achieve that particular effect, but he could envision the results all too well. "I had no idea she liked Elfrida."
Narcissa shrugged. "She sees no reason to announce it. But I thought that was another reason she might agree to join us, once she heard that Elfrida was in the alliance and bound to you formally. She is extremely dangerous, Harry. I will not lie to you about that. She will find every way of fighting a bridle and rein that she can. But if she decides that she likes you, there is no one I would trust more at your back."
"Not Draco?"
Narcissa smiled slightly. "My son is a special case. Draco more, then. But no one else. She is magically stronger than Lucius, and more deadly than Severus, because she does not possess his scruples. I think it extremely probable that she might have betrayed you, though I did not believe she would go quite this far. But if she did, it was likely as part of a test. If you pass the test, she will be a step closer to deciding to join with us completely."
Harry frowned. "There were odd gaps in the counterattack," he said. "They only sent seven flyers up to strike at us, and I would think there would be more, since Henrietta was there, and they'd want someone to counter her as well as me. I'm surprised Karkaroff didn't come himself."
Narcissa nodded. "They took out the Muggles, but they did not lay an effective ambush. Curious, when they seemed to know most of the details of our attack. They were not surprised by the fact that we struck from three directions, for example. And they sent inexperienced werewolves to face Hawthorn and the others, when they should have had Greyback and his mate there." Harry flinched at the mention of Greyback's name, but Narcissa didn't seem to notice. "Perhaps, Harry, the traitor left deliberate gaps in his or her communication."
"But we can't know that, can we?"
Narcissa bowed her head. "No. We can't. Perhaps it was someone who meant to betray us, but was simply ineffective about doing so."
Harry scowled. He couldn't think who would have done that. Some of his allies were more intelligent than the others, there was no doubt about that, but they'd all been present at the meeting and known the details of the attack on Woodhouse. They could have given all sorts of damaging information away. Karkaroff, with advance notice and the time to summon more Death Eaters to the site of the battle than Harry would have fighters, should have crushed them. Harry's magic might have been the only thing to tip the balance.
Perhaps the ineffectiveness was on Voldemort's side, he conceded. But there is no way to know that, either.
"I'll be constructing some double blinds," he told Narcissa. "But you think there is no one I should remove from the alliance just yet?"
"That is your choice, Harry," Narcissa murmured. "Now, for example, that Burke's and Belville's families have responded to you, you could remove them from the alliance by a few slow and careful rituals. I would not recommend doing that with Henrietta. She would take it as an insult, and she would almost certainly strike at Draco or your brother in retaliation."
Harry gnawed his lip for a moment. Burke and Belville were both good enough fighters to go into two battles and come away unscathed. He supposed he should at least consider retaining them for that.
But if one of them betrayed us, got Honoria injured and Fergus killed…
Harry swallowed and shoved down the rage. He really did just want to let go, to let his fury-filled magic fly, or to haul the likely suspects in and use Veritaserum on them, but he recognized the lure, and the danger, of that path. Those were the kinds of decisions Dumbledore had made, when he first decided to start sacrificing principle and conscience to necessity. Harry would not walk in his footsteps.
"Double-blind for now," he told Narcissa. "I'll tell them I'm planning an attack I'm really not, and see if I can catch them out by what Voldemort's forces do in response to that information."
"That is probably for the best," Narcissa said, and sighed. "At least I can say that I do not suspect our Light allies. Laura Gloryflower would be incapable of an act that endangered fighters of your age, and Hawthorn will vouch for her fellow werewolves."
Harry nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Narcissa, Harry. I did grant you permission to call me by my first name." Narcissa's voice was abruptly full of compassion. "You do not yet feel comfortable enough to do so consistently. I have faith that you comforted my son after the battle. Did anyone comfort you, Harry?"
Harry stiffened and lifted his head. "Of course, madam. Draco did."
Narcissa studied his eyes. Harry stared back. What he said was nothing but the truth, and he willed her to see that.
"You always get more formal when you want to shut someone out, Harry," Narcissa said.
Harry clamped down on his shifting emotions, the impulses to get angry or explode into denial. They were only the results of his exhaustion following a long night of battle. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. "I am tired, I'll not deny that, but I am glad that as many of us survived unscathed as did, and I'll be happier having something like the traitor's identity to dig into. How is the burn on your shoulder?" he asked, deliberately shifting the subject.
"Healed already. Poppy Pomfrey is a wonder with a wand." Narcissa stood and hugged him again before he could move away. "Please promise me that you'll slow down a bit today, Harry," she murmured into his ear. "Your health is very important to all of us."
Since Harry had nothing more strenuous planned than a little more watching by Honoria's bedside, he nodded readily. "I will, Mrs. Malfoy."
Narcissa kissed the top of his head and stood to seek out the Floo connection she'd used to enter Hogwarts. Harry stood to make his way to the hospital wing.
…must remember that mediwizardry on the Slicing Curse is delicate work. There is typically so much knit skin to be stitched together, and such significant blood loss, that several people are necessary to save a victim's life, unless he or she is brought immediately to the attention of a mediwitch or Lord-level wizard skilled in the healing arts.
Harry scowled over the top of the book at Honoria. "You were damn lucky," he told her. "And I need to learn more about healing magic."
"Harry!"
Before he could even put the book down, Connor engulfed him in a hug. Harry hugged him back, more than a little startled. It was true he hadn't seen his brother so far that day, but it was only noon as yet, and he assumed that Connor would have gone to get news of the battle from someone else if he were already awake. Otherwise, he really would have had a faceful of excited brother some time earlier.
"How did the battle go?" Connor demanded in a low voice. "Is she a casualty?" He glanced sideways at Honoria with a look of undisguised curiosity.
Harry nodded, his heart lightened by Connor's presence. His brother was still a child in important ways, hence Harry's leaving him behind, but he was also alive in an impatient, restless manner that tugged Harry out of himself entirely. "Yes. She took the Slicing Curse for me." Connor shuddered and turned slightly green, no doubt remembering his own experience with that one. "As for how it went, well, the werewolves went in first, the way I told you they would—"
He talked for several minutes, doing what he could to pierce together his disjointed impressions and the fact that he had to surmise, not just tell, what some of his allies had been doing, since he didn't know for sure. Connor divided his attention between Honoria and him. His face likewise alternated expressions, awe and shock and envy.
When he got to the part about wishing Greyback out of existence, Harry hesitated, but then plunged on. If he couldn't tell his brother about it, then who, out of the people who hadn't been on the battlefield, could he tell?
"You just wished him gone, and he was?" Connor stared at him, the sunlight through the windows turning his hazel eyes to sparks of shocked fire.
Harry nodded.
"But that's—" Connor shook his head. "Could Voldemort do that?"
"I don't know." Harry stifled a yawn. "Maybe he could, but he prefers to do other things instead. After all, Greyback didn't bleed to death or leave a surprised-looking corpse, and sometimes those seem to be Voldemort's main criteria for a nasty spell."
"Tell me more!" Connor leaned on Honoria's bed and listened to him.
Harry had just about finished the attack when Honoria took a jolting breath. Harry sat up at once. "Madam Pomfrey!" he called.
The mediwitch came bustling in, took one look at Honoria, and smiled. "There she is," she said. "Her body's magic has joined in fighting the Slicing Curse. She'll live, Mr. Potter."
Harry closed his eyes as a wash of deep, rich gratitude overtook him. "Thank Merlin," he whispered. "Can I let Tybalt Starrise and John Smythe-Blyton know, madam?"
"Only if you tell them to stay at home." Madam Pomfrey shook her head chidingly at him. "She won't be able to have that many visitors for a day or two yet. In fact, now that she's rounded the corner, I'll have to ask you boys to leave."
Harry held up his book as he clambered out of the chair. "And I can borrow this?"
Madam Pomfrey looked at him quite oddly, as if she found his choice of reading material strange, but nodded. Harry stood, stretched, and headed to the Owlery, so that he could send Hedwig with the message. Connor bounced beside him, silent but obviously full of the battle.
"Harry," he said, when they were about halfway up the Owlery steps.
"Hmmm?" Harry was busy thinking about Slicing Curses and shields to counteract them. One thing that made them so dangerous was the expanse of the spell, the invisible blade that sliced a wizard or witch with wide wounds, and could completely evade a narrow Haurio shield not placed just right, or even most Protego ones. Harry thought there ought to be a way around that. Maybe a potion would work better than a shield.
"Do you think I'll be able to follow you to the next battle?"
Harry turned and leaned against the wall. He should really eat something, he supposed. Lack of food and sleep, the heavy book, and the running around he'd done made him dizzy. But right now, he needed to fix all his concentration on Connor's face, and give him an honest answer.
"I don't think so," he said. "Not yet."
"I did learn a few new spells with Snape," Connor protested.
"I know. But not yet."
"When?"
Harry thought. It wouldn't be fair to set a marker of his brother besting himself or Snape, or even someone else. Harry didn't know how well Remus's skill, for example, compared to the average Death Eater. He was not about to let Connor die just because he could beat Remus but couldn't beat Karkaroff. There was someone's word he could trust, though, as long as Harry talked to him about it.
"When Snape says you're ready."
Connor's face fell. "He won't. He hates me. The way he treated me in our Friday session—"
"How?" Harry snapped, straightening. Damn it, I asked for this thinking they'd able to work it out. Connor comes around if you treat him fairly, and Snape cares enough for me that I assumed he'd try. "What did he say?"
"Called me a child. Said I wasn't ready. Took points off Gryffindor for not trying, when I was trying as hard as I could." Connor clenched his fists and scowled.
Harry adjusted the hold of his left arm around the book and sighed, his anger draining. "Connor, he says things like that all the time in Potions class, and you can ignore him there. The thing is, he really thinks you aren't trying. He told me that."
"But I am!"
"I know," Harry said soothingly. "I'll speak to him and tell him that, but for right now, you should probably ignore him. If he gets more cutting, then I'll speak to him again. I promise. All right?"
Connor muttered something, then said, "It's just that I love you, Harry, and want to be there for you." He looked up with an unhappy expression that made Harry's heart melt. He tossed the heavy book in the air, let a Levitation Charm catch it, and looped an arm around Connor's shoulders as they walked the rest of the way up to the Owlery.
"I know," he said. "I do know that, Connor." Merlin, how hard it must be to just assume you'd have a role in the war and then get spanked by the near-loss of your brother in your first battle. And I was the one who put him through that pain that I suffered when Honoria was dying. "And I promise that the chance will come soon. But I love you, too, and I want you to be safe. All right?" He put his hand on his brother's shoulder, turning Connor to face him.
Connor nodded, jaw set. Harry hoped he was resolving to work harder and not to annoy Snape.
He called Hedwig down and asked her to carry a message to Tybalt, smiling as she hooted in the affirmative. He borrowed quill and parchment from Connor, since he was so brilliant he'd forgotten to bring them, and scribbled a quick note, including the warning from Madam Pomfrey. Of course, Tybalt had been a Gryffindor, so he probably wouldn't heed it, but Harry had done what he could.
He'd just lifted his arm for Hedwig to fly away when an unfamiliar owl circled down to him. Connor glanced over curiously from the other side of the room, where he was playing with Godric, his black eagle-owl.
"Who's that from?"
Harry shook his head, frowning. The envelope was blank, and the owl took off the moment he freed the message, without waiting for a reply. Harry murmured, "Finite Incantatem," and concentrated hard on the letter, looking for any trace of magic, any charm or glamour that might hide something nasty. In the end, he hovered it in front of his face and tugged it open without using his hand.
The envelope contained a folded piece of parchment and a smaller one. Harry caught the note as it fluttered to the floor, and raised his eyebrows at the writing on it.
Should you wish to reply, simply send an owl with your answer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It will reach its destination.
Unsigned, and the hand wasn't familiar. Harry frowned and turned to the letter itself.
He had only to read the first two words before he stopped, his heartbeat sounding in his ears like a slap. He knew that hand, well enough.
"Harry?" Connor was moving towards him now, one hand out. "You've gone pale."
Harry shook his head and used his magic to fold the letter tightly, into a small ball. "From Evan Rosier again," he said dully. "Another useless warning, bragging about how he would have commanded the battle. I don't want to read it right now."
Connor's face softened. "Probably wise."
Harry nodded, and tossed the ball of the letter casually behind him. Another Levitation Charm caught it and slid it into his robe pocket. He managed to carry on the pretense of a normal conversation with Connor, and even go down to lunch with him, though he was aware of the letter all the while, burning like an Ashwinder egg against his hip.
The letter was from James.
Harry had no idea what to do with it.