Wind That Shakes the Seas and Stars

by Lightning on the Wave

AU of OoTP, Slytherin!Harry, HPDM slash. Snape begins the year with a mistake that sets his ward against him. Now Harry is using all his own considerable cunning to ride out the multiple storms, even as the Second War goes into motion. COMPLETE

92. A Path of Green and Gold

Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

This is the longest chapter I have ever written. Hopefully, by tomorrow, I can go back to chapters of a more normal length. Argh.

Chapter Seventy-Two: A Path of Green and Gold

Harry could feel the temper in the valley changing almost from moment to moment. His coming to the stage had begun the alteration; the centaurs had changed it, and the entrance of Acies with the dragon had changed it yet again. He wanted to speak now, while it held overtones of both fear and awe, rather than wait.

"Most of you know me, by reputation if not by sight," he began. "My name is Harry—I was born Harry Potter, but I have permanently severed myself from that last name, due to the actions of the witch who bore me and the wizard who sired me. My brother still carries it, and I have no wish to sever that particular bond." He gave a little bow in Connor's direction. Connor stood up and bowed back. He was enjoying this, from the wide grin on his face. Harry relaxed. See, Snape, he's not going to embarrass me. Just in case, though, I won't give him any speeches to make. "I also am becoming vates, the wizard who tries to free the magical creatures from their webs and encourage them to coexist with wizards while making sure that neither their wills nor anyone else's is impinged upon."

A hand rose in the crowd. Harry smiled when he saw that it came from a cluster of wizards in golden robes, indicating their devotion to the Light. "Yes?" he asked. Truly, almost anyone else was welcome to speak at the moment, as long as it wasn't Cupressus Apollonis.

"What do you mean by becoming this vates thing?" asked an unfamiliar voice, which sounded like an older witch's. "I thought you had already achieved that title."

Harry shook his head. "It is not a title that a wizard or witch can achieve and then keep," he said calmly. "It is a task I must always be proving my claim to. If I use compulsion or impinge on the free will of another, such as by setting house elves free without consulting their owners or not working for their freedom once I know about their webs, I fall from the path. And it is not a title, not the way that Lord or Lady might be said to be. I must keep changing, moving forward all the time." He smiled at the disconcerted expression on the witch's face, and then turned back to the crowd. "Are there any other questions about what a vates is meant to achieve?"

There seemed to be none for now. Harry nodded. "I am other things, some of which you already know. For example, I am a Lord-level wizard, but not a Lord. I do not plan to Declare, ever." He hoped that might get rid of stupid questions about Declarations for Light or Dark, and if anyone intended to try to force him to those Declarations, they would know that it was useless. "I am also the heir of the Black family, thanks to the graciousness of Regulus Black."

"Do you claim the surname Black?" That was probably Edward Burke, his voice nasal and irritating.

"No," said Harry easily. "I have not yet chosen the surname I will wear, if any. As I am legal heir to the Black family, I was not required to take their name."

"Is it true that you've sworn an oath to fight for the rights of werewolves?" asked someone else. Harry had the feeling that he knew the voice, that it might have been someone who was in the meeting in February. He could not identify it at once. "And that the blood took the form of the Black crest when you made it?"

"Both are true," Harry confirmed calmly. "But the blood took the form of the Black crest because I used the Black oath-taking knife. And the oath to fight for the rights of werewolves does not mean I will invade the Ministry and demand that they follow my will. I think Minister Scrimgeour might have something to say about that." He smiled as a few people chuckled. "I intend to find a solution to the problem that both sides can accept, and that will involve persuasion, politics, speaking to the Wizengamot, petitions, and likely making common cause with people who want similar things. It will not involve use of magic to overwhelm someone else's will."

"What do you want to accomplish with this alliance, exactly, Harry?" That was Lucius's voice, and Harry nodded to him, grateful for the opportunity to lay out his goals.

"I intend to change life in the ways that I have said I would," Harry said. "I think the treatment of most magical creatures is a blemish on the honor of the wizarding world. The web that confines house elves to their service is particularly so, since it makes them long to serve instead of simply live under their web with self-knowledge, the way that the centaurs and the unicorns have done. I intend to unbind those webs once I have knowledge and opportunity to do so and once everyone involved in them has agreed to it."

"What is the benefit for your allies in this?" Adalrico's voice was near the stage, nearer than Harry had expected him to be. Of course, he might want the other spectators to see how close the Bulstrode family stood to Harry.

"In knowing they have done the honorable thing, of course," said Harry, and then laughed when he saw the looks of dismay on many faces. "And in accomplishing more of their own magic and furnishing more of their own lives," he continued. "We can perform simple cleaning and cooking charms to sustain ourselves, but most of us prefer to rely on house elves, for no reason except that we have always done it. We will have new business opportunities as well, since the magical creatures who choose to mingle their lives in the wizarding world will need help, advice, and special magic." He met Magorian's eyes as the crowd reacted to that. The lead centaur scraped his hoof slowly on the ground, as if he were considering this. In truth, he and Harry had discussed this in the last few weeks, and he had agreed that Harry could say this, though of course there was no guarantee that a centaur traveling among wizards would choose to rely on wizards for what he needed. Harry nodded once, and then turned back to the crowd.

"I admit it might sound like a great sacrifice for very little. But we have walked in a secure world that has nearly nothing to do with reality. Our house elves are not willing, natural servants, but slaves constrained to like their service with ancient magic. Werewolves are not evil beasts who chose their curses, but victims of a web that transfers itself through the bite. When we shun them and push them out of our society, we are doing what Voldemort, among others, wants us to do." Some people actually covered their ears, Harry saw, as if they couldn't bear to hear the Dark Lord's name spoken. "He used one of his werewolves, Fenrir Greyback, as a tool for political intimidation, and we do nothing but oblige him when we give up on those wizards and witches who suffer from lycanthropy. Currently, werewolves cannot hold paying jobs, and cannot have custody of their children, even when they are related by blood. Is it any wonder that many of them become desperate and cruel, trying to survive? This is an entirely avoidable problem, now that we have the Wolfsbane Potion to insure that werewolves can survive the full moon nights with their minds intact. We are the ones being cruel in the first place. And if a werewolf bites one of our children in vengeance for his treatment, then we are the ones to blame."

"Does the Wolfsbane Potion actually work?" someone asked from a section of the crowd containing mostly Dark wizards. "I've heard rumors that it didn't."

"Yes, it does." Harry scanned the crowd slowly, though he had already spotted Remus during his initial gazing. Showing himself apparently a bit less observant than he really was had its advantages. "Professor Lupin, will you come here, please?" he added.

Remus strode easily out of the crowd and towards the stage. Harry could feel their eyes raking him, trying to see an aura of evil fluttering above him. But with his back turned, he had few identifying features, and even when he turned, only the people sitting close to the stage could make out his amber eyes and the gray streaks in his hair. He nodded at them, as if amused, and then looked at Harry.

"Will you tell us about the effects of Wolfsbane Potion?" Harry stepped back, sweeping a bow as he deferred to an expert. He wondered how many people in the crowd would realize that he was granting Remus a chance to speak that he would never have had in a normal gathering. Werewolves couldn't legally testify at trials, or even talk to informal public gatherings without fear of persecution, as long as most people knew they had lycanthropy.

"Of course." Remus faced the crowd with his usual mild gaze that hid the strength of the will he'd developed after his year at the Sanctuary. "My name is Remus Lupin," he said, as Harry whispered the spell that would carry his voice into the spectators' ears as well. "I have been a werewolf since I was a child, a victim of Fenrir Greyback's bite. I am also the godfather of Connor Potter, and watched over both him and Harry as they grew. I was Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the 1993-1994 school year, and I currently hold the post of Gryffindor Head of House there."

"How can the Headmistress have hired you?" demanded Augustus Starrise. Harry rolled his eyes, glad that he stood behind Remus's shoulder and Augustus couldn't see him do it.

"She does not pay me a salary, but gives me room and board, to cooperate with the laws," said Remus peacefully. He paused, then glanced at Harry. Harry understood what he was asking permission to refer to, and nodded. Most of the people in the crowd would probably have heard of it anyway.

"Also, Harry has been kind enough to create a Gringotts account for me, which contains enough gold from the Black vaults to keep me happy for some time," said Remus, almost carelessly.

The gazes swept back to Harry. Harry concealed his chuckle at the amount of shock in them. Have they not heard, or did they not take the rumor seriously? He lifted his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "Professor Lupin has been kind to me," he said, "and he made my childhood the richer for having known him. Of course I would wish to establish an account for him, since the Ministry is not currently enlightened enough to let him work for his keep."

"The effects of Wolfsbane Potion," said Snape's voice. Harry had to bite his lip to hold back his grin. The voice was deeply cold, as though Snape were a random stranger annoyed by the introduction of another topic on the stage, rather than someone, like Harry and Lupin, adding his touch to keep the dance under their control. "You were going to discuss the effects of the Potion, Lupin."

"So I was," said Remus, with a smile that said he knew perfectly well who the voice belonged to. "Under the Potion, I do indeed retain my own mind, so long as I swallow it before the moon rises. I transform, but I am in control of my actions. I can run through the Forbidden Forest and prowl Hogwarts's grounds in defense against intruders, or I can curl up in my office and sleep if I like. The Potion has given me my choices back again." Remus's head tilted, and Harry saw a hint of the werewolf in his narrowing eyes and flaring nostrils. "It is a precious thing, since in so much of wizarding society I have no choices at all."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He and Remus hadn't discussed his saying that, but what good was inviting Remus to speak if he stuck to a prepared script? Harry could not, in one sense at least, speak for him, since he wasn't a werewolf. Nothing could substitute for the words of one who suffered the curse openly and was willing to speak for those who couldn't reveal themselves.

"Do you deny," said a ponderous, wheezing voice, "that werewolves have done great harm and damage to ordinary wizards and witches? Would it not be better to avoid that?"

"I do not," said Remus. "Do you deny that the wars of Light and Dark have done incredible damage to the wizarding world? Would it not be better to avoid those? Perhaps we should ban anyone from Declaring for either allegiance." His muscles were poised and sharp, on the edge of trembling. Harry saw it and wondered whether to ache for him or exult. Though this had to hurt Remus, he was at last, at least, getting the chance to speak.

"The free choice of wizards and witches has determined the nature and extent of our wars," said a far-too-cultured voice. Harry narrowed his eyes and looked, and was sure a moment later that the speaker was Mortimer Belville. "Werewolves, on the other hand—or paw, begging your pardon, Mr. Lupin—had the chance to object to the laws as they were being formed, and yet never did so."

Remus laughed. Harry heard the edge of a bark to it, and was momentarily glad that this wasn't a full moon night.

"Of course we did not," said Remus. "We were barred from making any appeals to the Wizengamot as they decided upon the laws. This was under Minister Fudge, but since it was the first of the anti-werewolf laws passed, it determined all the others. They passed with our apparent silence and complicity because we could not break that silence unless we wanted to be arrested."

"How can you possibly know that?" Belville demanded. "Those are secret Wizengamot proceedings—"

"Then how would we have had the chance to object to them?" Remus asked, with a shrug. "Answer me that, my lord." The flat contempt in his voice made Belville's face flush. "But I do know," Remus added. "Conspirators should not think their secrets can remain secrets forever."

Harry stepped in then. Remus was angry enough that he might reveal secrets that weren't his to reveal, like the existence of Auror Wilmot, the werewolf Harry was certain had told Remus about the Wizengamot's debate. "They should not," he added, drawing attention back to himself. "Those ancient wizards who wove the webs to contain house elves, centaurs, unicorns, and almost every other magical species I've talked to didn't pass the knowledge on to their descendants. How many of us believed that house elves were naturally servile?" He saw guilt people wouldn't admit in most of the faces turned towards him, and nodded. "So did I, when I gave it any thought at all. But now that we know about it, we have no excuse for not acting."

"I don't see why," said a witch, whose bells braided into her hair indicated she'd had war training. "We could leave things as they are. It would be the easier course."

"And a wrong one," said Harry quietly. "I, at least, will not leave things as they are. The reason I accepted your requests to come today is that I thought there was at least a chance you might be interested in helping me with this."

"I still have seen very little of what you offer those who follow you," said Cupressus Apollonis, his voice gentle and grave and utterly reasonable, "other than hardship and struggle that cannot be completed in their lifetimes. Even you, my lord Harry, young as you are, will be hard put to free all the magical species before you die. Why should we follow this path? What is in it for us?"

Harry could practically feel Ignifer's nervousness; now that her father had made an inroad, she must be afraid that he would dominate the conversation. But Harry had the counter to this one, given Cupressus's claimed allegiance. He smiled at him. "Sir Apollonis," he said, choosing the sarcastic title Ignifer had used, "how can you ask such a thing? The Light is fair. The Light is noble-minded. And you serve the Light. Surely you should wish to free the house elves and others because it is the right thing to do?" He cocked his head to the side and assumed a confused expression. "Of course, that is if you serve the Light. As you reminded me before the meeting, I do not know you at all. Perhaps the Dark is actually your preferred allegiance."

Cupressus's face wavered, as if a curtain were briefly pulled off a stage. The ugliness Harry saw behind the curtain made him wince. Here was an opponent who would sacrifice even his own advantage for the sake of seeing his enemies suffer. But he lifted his head and held the man's eyes. He would not back down. He had faced far greater threats than Cupressus Apollonis.

"I assure you, Harry," said Adalrico Bulstrode's voice, "that not all Dark wizards are committed to those outworn ideals that pretend to separate our two allegiances."

Harry turned to look at him, and saw the hope in his face. Adalrico wanted to be distinguished, to have those who might not know see that his family stood close to Harry's side. Well, why not? It was the truth, after all.

"I know that, Mr. Bulstrode," said Harry, bowing his head. "If you will come on stage, we can show those who might doubt us living examples of wizards who care more about actions than Declarations."

Adalrico brought his whole family, of course. Harry would not have expected less. He turned his head, seeking out and beckoning the Parkinsons, the Malfoys, and Arabella Zabini with his eyes. They came up to join him as if they'd been expecting this. Harry grinned and glanced at Acies, wondering if she wanted to be introduced as well. Acies held still for a long moment, then inclined her head so suddenly that Harry jumped.

I hope we aren't about to cost the Headmistress her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. On the other hand, if Acies chooses to acknowledge who and what she is, I don't think McGonagall should necessarily have a say.

Harry faced the crowd again, and murmured, "May I introduce the Bulstrodes—a Dark pureblood family, sworn to me in a formal family alliance, and the lucky parents of two magical heirs." Millicent lifted her chin. Marian stood with fortunate solemnity at her mother's side. Harry knew he wasn't imagining that some of the gazes from the crowd sharpened, with envy and admiration both. He supposed he might be the instrument of the Bulstrodes getting more offers of alliance, perhaps even of marriage for Millicent, which was no bad thing. "May I introduce the Parkinsons—also a Dark pureblood family, sworn to me in a formal family alliance. Hawthorn's husband and Pansy's father, Dragonsbane Parkinson, died for me in the graveyard where Voldemort resurrected himself." He met Hawthorn's eyes, and saw more than a tinge of gratitude in them. He couldn't see Pansy's face, but she gave him a small nod.

"This is Arabella Zabini, a Songstress and an ally I am fortunate to have," said Harry, inclining his head to Arabella, who nodded back. She was beautiful in the sunlight, her black skin perhaps accented with cosmetics spells, Harry thought. He did notice that Blaise hadn't come to the stage with her. "And Acies Lestrange, who currently teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts under the name of Acies Merryweather."

More than one gasp came from the crowd at that. Harry saw some Hogwarts students shaking their heads. They would be wondering how they hadn't recognized their professor in the cloaked woman who had ridden the dragon to stage, Harry supposed.

"And, last but far from least," said Harry, wheeling to face Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, "the Malfoys. Lucius Malfoy has graciously entered into a truce-dance with me." Lucius nodded, his face blank, his eyes the color of steel. "Narcissa Malfoy is a large part of the reason so many other allies have gathered to me, since she is an accomplished dancer." Narcissa gave a smile like winter sunlight. "And Draco Malfoy," Harry said, meeting Draco's eyes, "my first friend other than my brother, the first student to welcome me to Slytherin House, and—"

For a moment, he nearly faltered. Then he pushed himself forward. He could do this. He had planned to do this, to show Draco how serious he was. It was and wasn't a dramatic gesture. It would look like that to most people who weren't standing on the stage, but Draco was standing close enough to see Harry's eyes and hear the slight shake in his voice.

"And the man I currently plan to enter into a formal courting ritual with, once Walpurgis comes," Harry finished firmly.

Draco's eyes widened, but he controlled himself almost at once. It was doubtful that even Millicent or Pansy had noticed that he hadn't expected that. He extended a hand, and after one panicked moment when he couldn't remember the correct positioning of his own hand, Harry accepted his wrist. Draco bowed his head and kissed Harry's pulse point. Harry returned the gesture the moment Draco straightened enough for him to do so.

Life to life, Harry had read about a formal public acknowledgement of the ritual. Heartbeat to heartbeat. It is a remnant of an older gesture in which both lovers were required to strip and touch their hearts to each other's, in order that their parents might check them for glamours and deformities.

Harry was grateful that the kissing of pulse points had substituted for that. He held Draco's eyes for a long moment, hoping that was enough to show how much he loved him. He was willing love to show in his own eyes, but he didn't know if it worked. It wasn't an emotion he had practice expressing in that form. I can be a brother, I can be a godson and a simulacrum of a son, but I've never been a lover. I want this to work.

Draco's own eyes held his love, Harry could not doubt that, and a kind of wild, tender pride. Harry wasn't sure whether that was simply because Harry had accepted his proposal, or if the public nature of the acceptance had something to do with it.

Draco placed a hand beneath Harry's chin a moment later and draw him nearer, asking and daring him with his eyes both at once.

Harry hadn't planned beyond this moment, because he hadn't known how Draco would respond to him. But his own courage was up, and it would be stupid to back out now. He took a deep breath and leaned nearer before Draco could complete the gesture, kissing him strongly.

Draco made a little muffled sound in the back of his throat. Harry took advantage of that, and continued the kiss at a leisurely pace for several moments, then drew back and looked at Draco with a lazy smile. "And why didn't you anticipate that, hmmm?" he whispered. "Surely a Malfoy always anticipates everything."

Narcissa had something as close to an idiotic grin on her face as Harry suspected he would ever see. Lucius looked as if he couldn't decide between a smug "I knew it all along" expression and an abstracted "Let me calculate how this will affect my political fortunes" expression. And Draco…

Draco had recovered remarkably quickly. Anticipation of more and delight and affection and appreciation and possessiveness mingled in his face as he answered, "I always knew you were going to be mine, Harry. I just didn't anticipate the timing, that's all."

"Well, do keep up," Harry retorted, feeling his own grin stretch his cheeks wide, and turned to face the crowd again, Draco's arm settling around his waist.

Most of the spectators were appropriately stunned. Harry paused to savor that for a moment, then continued smoothly. "I am able, I hope, to provide my political allies with more than just the satisfaction of doing the right thing, strong as that motive is." He threw a little half-glance at Lucius, and saw people follow his gaze and realize that Lucius Malfoy, surely, would never enter into an alliance solely for "the satisfaction of doing the right thing." "But for myself, that is and will remain the strongest motive.

"I was raised in the knowledge of Dark pureblood rituals, though neither of my parents was a Dark pureblood. I have a deep love of the wizarding world and what it has accomplished—its dances, its arts, its sports, its history. But I will love it more, allies and potential allies and friends, when its foundation of slavery and suffering has been destroyed."

"How can you say that it is built on a foundation of suffering and slavery?" Cupressus Apollonis asked, his voice as smooth as if Harry's public declaration of his joining hadn't fazed him at all. "What have our dances to do with the supposed suffering of house elves? I must confess I do not see the connection."

"Because so many of our achievements are the result of time and leisure," said Harry, feeling passion enter his voice. He hadn't planned to say this, at least in these exact words, but perhaps Draco's acceptance of his acceptance had given him the courage. "Our artworks came about only because our ancestors were freed from caring for themselves by house elves.

"We pride ourselves on our fortunes. But we do not guard our own money, and we do not watch over it, and we do not mint it." Harry fought to conceal a smile then as he thought of what would happen when the southern goblins chose to reveal their freedom. The fact that they could destabilize the currency of wizarding Britain if they chose should be a good reason for humans to listen to them. "I would argue that that does not really make our fortunes ours.

"Our dances, beautiful as they are, enshrine vengeance instead of reconciliation, pride instead of forgiveness, separation rather than a common cause. I think that is directly connected to the fact that, when wizards did encounter those who challenged their beliefs and sympathies, they responded with webs. Rather than find some way to live with them, they pushed them away. The Muggles are the only strangers we have ever encountered strong enough to overwhelm us, so instead we hide ourselves and wield our magic against them if they show any sign of intruding into our tiny world."

"Very well said!" Harry wasn't surprised that it was Calibrid Opalline who'd called that. Her eyes were as brilliant as her family's blue and gold colors.

"I want to change that," Harry said, feeling fire rising and racing through him. "I want to have the beauty of our world built on a foundation of beauty. I want the façade to match what's beneath. I want to find a way to evaluate what we have built. Some traditions are worth keeping. Others are not."

"You are speaking of revolution," said Laura Gloryflower. Harry could not make out the tone in her voice, but he thought it was one of wonder.

Harry bowed his head. "I am."

"But we can't change that much!" objected Mortimer Belville, his face turning downwards in a frown. "How can we? We'll lose our identity. We're already doing that with the flood of Muggleborns into our world. We're threatened on all sides, and you want us to lower the walls?"

Harry couldn't help snorting. "We have tended to overestimate our own persecution," he said dryly. "We are the ones who placed webs on the magical creatures, not the other way around. And as for Muggleborns, Belville, I must ask you: what do you think separates a Muggleborn from a pureblood?" He could feel Draco's arm tighten around his waist, but he wasn't sure if it was in amusement or an attempt to caution him.

"Their blood," said Belville. "Their customs. Their view of the world. Their magic. Everything." There was genuine revulsion in his voice. Harry tried to conceal a wince as he thought of Hermione and John Smythe-Blyton sitting in the crowd, listening to this spew.

"I hope, in time," said Harry, "to show you that the majority of those things are pureblood perception, not reality, and the barriers that are real can be overcome." Hermione, he knew, had learned enough pureblood rituals to surprise Zacharias. He wondered what the spectators would make of her at the festival that would follow this first part of the meeting. "I know it will take time. I will not force you to give up those beliefs any more than I would force you to free house elves before you believe that they belong free. But if you wish to be part of the alliance, then you should know that I consider the rights of Muggleborns as important as the rights of purebloods, and I will fight beside them and for them equally."

"How can you, when you say that you were raised as a Dark pureblood?" someone he didn't know inquired.

"A Dark pureblood with a Muggleborn mother," said Harry, and smiled as he saw uneasy shifting in the crowd. How many of them forgot that already? It's the behavior that matters to most of them, I would wager half my fortune, and when someone acts the part well enough, they forget about the blood. Which just goes to show how many of their prejudices are nonsense. Hard-to-overcome nonsense, I'll grant that, but nonsense at the bottom. "I am both, in this case. And I see no contradiction in the union of those opposites. I am more interested in reconciliation than vengeance, in forgiveness than pride, in a common cause than a separation. Those I plan to leave out of this alliance are those who will exile themselves." He caught and held the eyes of Cupressus Apollonis then. "They would not wish to work with me in any case, given what they believe."

Cupressus's face was a study. He had apparently believed that Harry would accept him even after he'd insulted Ignifer. Harry supposed he might have been overestimating Harry's investment in forgiveness, or perhaps he had thought he was powerful enough that there would be no choice about it.

Harry gave him a sweet, envenomed smile. Revolution can come a little later to Ireland, that's all. He turned away from Cupressus and said, "Understand. I intend to fight beside anyone who wishes to join me. But to do that, they must have the intention of striving for more than just the defeat of Voldemort, though that's part of the goal for the alliance. I won't allow this war to dominate my life, because peace is worth more than war. Prophecy supposedly marks me as the defeater of Voldemort—" and he saw many people in the crowd lean forward "—but nothing marks me as vates but my own free will. My dedication to the same possibility in other people is what drives me forward. If I Declare for any belief, it is that one."

He let his eyes roam the crowd for a moment, then bowed his head. "It is true that this will require work," he said quietly. "I expect to die in the work. By then, however, I hope to have invested enough other people with my ideals that they will continue with the revolution for its own sake."

There. Introduce it quietly, at first—the notion of them following a set of principles, rather than a name or a person. Not all of them will accept, at first, that I don't intend to be a substitute Dumbledore. But I'll continue to emphasize that until they learn. This is the cause of the magical creatures and change and peace and free will and dozens of other things, not the cause of Harry.

"Does anyone have anything else to say?" he asked, into the profound silence that followed his statement.

The Antipodean Opaleye swung her head towards Harry and uttered a deafening cry. Acies translated it a moment later, in the shock of the echoes. "This Singer says that she has chosen to come because she wishes her children to escape being hunted and tormented by wizards. The vates provides the best chance for that."

Magorian reared and then came down with his forehooves hard enough to make a distinctive thump, calling all eyes to him. "And we say that we will stand beside our vates in war, because he has freed us from both our web and the compulsion to rape that once would have followed our freedom," he said calmly. "He pursued the road of blood and willing sacrifice in order to do so. If he can walk such a hard road, we will follow him down this broad and easy path."

"And we will stand beside Harry because we have chosen to do so, and we honor our word."

Hawthorn, Adalrico, and Lucius all said that at the same time. Harry refused to believe it wasn't practiced. But it gave the necessary impression of his allies' unity, and no one else did have any other questions or remarks after that.

Harry nodded, then lifted his hand. Magic poured forth from it and swirled lazily above everyone's heads, then dived into the middle of the large clear area behind their seats. Harry willed and molded the power, and it became a large dark green tent streaked with gold on the sides, the colors of his soul, or mingled Dark and Light.

"There will be festivities now," Harry said, enjoying the shocked stares immensely. "Some of my allies have graciously agreed to provide food and drink, and others music." He glanced at Arabella Zabini, who nodded, eyes amused. Some people would go out of their way to avoid listening to her now that they knew she was a Songstress. "I intend to wander myself. If you wish to speak to me, search me out." He stepped gently away from Draco's half-embrace and towards the edge of the stage.

Draco caught his left wrist. "I think we need to talk, Harry," he said, his eyes intent.

Harry coughed, feeling his cheeks flush. "In a while, Draco," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "First, I need to mingle."

Draco nodded. "Then I'll search you out when I want to speak to you," he said, and smiled with a force that took Harry's breath away, and walked towards the steps off the stage himself.

Harry shook his head dazedly, and then turned to make sure the centaurs were comfortable, trying to control the wild beating of his heart. That had not gone too badly, any of it, and it made a marvelous beginning.

---

Falco Parkinson took a delicate step backward, testing the strength of the magic-made tent's roof against a sea eagle's weight. It held. It was truly remarkable that Potter could raise a creation like this on a moment's notice, and that the magic that made it would feel so much like cloth.

Remarkable—and unnatural.

The longer Falco observed Potter, the more he grew disturbed and unnerved at what he saw. He had known many Lords and Ladies in the past. He had watched them all Declare, and stand or fall in the wars of Light and Dark, and he had valued them even as he despised them for their weakness in having to Declare. Those Declarations helped to balance the world. They were part of the reason that he could speak of magic, and the wizarding world he guarded, as stable. Powerful wizards and witches could divide people, split them into two equal factions, or lure the wavering and the neutral in their direction. Thus Falco had felt happy enough retreating from the world fifty years ago. Albus was a Light Lord, but he would face a wizard strong in the Dark soon enough. And he was as committed to ideals of balance and unchanging calm as someone with an allegiance could be.

Now here was a powerful wizard who refused to Declare. Falco would have been intrigued, interested in, proud of Potter if he had the sense that the boy was someone like himself—someone who had decided to remain alive as a guardian on the world's balance by tricking both Dark and Light into extending his years in the hopes that, someday, he might Declare.

But instead, Potter used both Dark and Light magic with no regard for the inner consistency and principles of either. He used the magic that fit the situation at the time. He rejected power when it grew beyond a certain limit, but never seemed to consider that, to not be a hypocrite, he really ought to give up all his magic and become a Squib. And he aspired to an impossible path, the vates, and to destroying and altering many old institutions of the wizarding world merely to suit himself.

He was a relativist. Falco had never been comfortable with them. He might do anything, and manage to justify it to himself.

And he was considering changing, altering, the whole world without a thought for what it would look like a hundred years hence.

Falco had found Tom Riddle exactly as he expected to find him: he was a Dark Lord, and good at it, maintaining one side of the balance as it should be maintained. Falco was growing increasingly concerned, however, that Harry would not Declare for Light, and that he had been able to drain so much of Tom's magic. Even nearly a month after their catastrophic encounter in the Chamber of Secrets, Tom was wounded, dazed, hurting, barely able to swallow the magic that would eventually restore his own power.

All these concerns tumbled in his mind as he sat on the tent's roof, a bird no one paid much attention to, and he saw, clearly, the path that he would have to tread if he couldn't convince Harry to Declare.

He sighed. Well, I value the balance of the world more than my own life. I always did. He raised his wings and circled down so that he could observe the people clustered in the tent. Perhaps he would yet see something that would convince him Harry was not, as he appeared, a powerful, irresponsible child.

---

Augustus shook his head and smiled. He did enjoy verbally sparring with Cupressus Apollonis, who could never resist the temptation to test him. They had been comrades and enemies for decades, since one was the leader of the Light families in Northern England and the other the leader of the Light families in Ireland. They believed the same things, but never approached them in the same way.

Currently, Cupressus was trying to find out—with extreme tact and politeness, of course—how Augustus had managed to get Harry to accept his alliance.

"But what was he like at his parents' trial?" Cupressus coaxed him.

Augustus sipped at a cup of wine, which, he had to admit, was quite good even if it had come from the cellar of a Dark wizard. "He was graceful," he responded. "Strong, like a young tree. He made a speech that still stirs tears in my eyes when I think of it, about why his parents had done what they had."

"And you heard the details of their crimes?" Cupressus asked, his nose delicately wrinkling. "I glanced over the newspaper articles, but did not pay them much attention." Implicit in that statement was the one that only a cretin would read the Prophet, much less give credence to what it said.

"I did," said Augustus. "One can see the way those crimes have shaped young Harry. He tends, for example, to hate compulsion and any attempt at controlling others' wills, though he will restrain himself for the sake of others—as if he has turned the hatred that properly belongs to his parents' treatment of him on other wizards. And he takes a very poor opinion of feuds in families."

Cupressus's face flickered the slightest bit. Augustus hid his smile in the rim of his goblet. They had shared situations where they were matched, situations where Cupressus had the mastery, and ones like this, where Augustus held the higher ground. He liked the third kind best.

"Then he must have been upset about the rift between you and Tybalt," Cupressus murmured.

Augustus restrained his own scowl now with difficulty. He still remembered the day he had first heard of Tybalt's involvement with the Muggleborn wizard, and demanded, in a firecall, that Tybalt drop him at once, or consider himself as no longer heir of the Starrise family.

He'd received an owl the next day. Rather than an apologetic letter, it contained a copy of Tybalt and Smythe-Blyton's joining papers.

Augustus had altered his will that same afternoon. Since Pharos was also of his blood, and Tybalt hadn't been his magical heir, there had been no great barrier to doing so—except that Tybalt's stubbornness burned in the back of Augustus's mind like a hot coal.

"He was," Augustus said, recovering himself. "But he did make an attempt to reconcile us." There. Let him think how unlikely that is to happen between him and his obstinate bitch of a daughter. "And he understands the cause of the disagreement between us. He knows, for example, that Tybalt was in Gryffindor, while the rest of our family is traditionally Hufflepuff." He lowered his voice. "Meanwhile, Ignifer was raised and educated at your house alone, wasn't she, Cupressus?" He didn't need to say, aloud, that Cupressus bore the whole burden of not insuring his daughter wasn't Light through and through.

"She was," said Cupressus, his face gone smooth again. "And I should remind her of that, as she seems to have forgotten it herself. Thank you for your time, Augustus." He turned and melted into the crowd.

Augustus shook his head and finished his wine. He planned to retire early, after just a few more hours of watching the people circulating through the tent. Harry had said nothing unexpected in his speech, after all. And Augustus had made no progress on his own personal quest that day. The white staff had buzzed with such unhappiness he'd left it in his own tent. There was no telling whom Alba's spirit might have meant to signal out in this mass of Dark wizards.

But tomorrow, he would bring the staff forth again. Perhaps it might sense one of her murderers, and then he could achieve vengeance for his twin at last.

---

Ignifer liked things to make sense. For example, the enmity between her father and herself, though encrusted with hatreds and insults and refusals to apologize on both sides, made sense at bottom, because it was a simple matter. She had Declared for the Dark after it saved her life. He had said that he would cast her out of the family and perform an infertility curse on her unless she changed her allegiance back. Ignifer had refused, her father had performed the outcasting and the curse, and that was that.

Honoria Pemberley did not make sense. She knew that Ignifer didn't like her much. She knew that Ignifer did not think illusions and glamours were funny. She knew that Ignifer had Declared Dark for a serious reason, not because it sounded like a good idea at the time, which seemed to be Honoria's whole reason for doing so. She knew that Ignifer was eleven years older than she was, and she knew that Ignifer had had no lovers, male or female, since her reversed Declaration; that had been in the gossip pages of the Rookwood, and Ignifer saw no reason to deny the truth. So Honoria Pemberley flirting with her, fetching drinks for her, and trying to cheer her up made no sense at all.

"Go away," Ignifer tried when Honoria brought her a second glass of wine, because all her less direct means of dismissal, including haughty stares, had brought forth a flood of bright chatter instead.

"Why?" Honoria made a small phoenix perch on the edge of the cup and sing until Ignifer took it in embarrassment; people were starting to stare. The phoenix vanished as Honoria smiled up at her. She had done her red-gold hair up in some elaborate style that Ignifer didn't recognize, and her blue eyes matched the shade of her robes, or at least one of their shades. She wore a glittering ton of jewelry, but Ignifer had no way of telling how much of it was real and how much an illusion. She seemed to have no idea how much of a spectacle she was making of herself. Or perhaps she did and enjoyed it, Ignifer thought. It would be like her. "I like you, and it's not like you hate me or have anyone who would try to hex me if I pursue you."

"It makes no sense," said Ignifer patiently.

"Yes, it does," said Honoria, her eyes reflecting honest surprise for a moment—unless that was a glamour, too. "You're beautiful and intelligent and powerful and very stubborn—everything I like in a woman. Add to it that you're fighting on the same side as I am, and I think it's inevitable."

Ignifer listed the reasons she'd thought of. Honoria listened to all of them, then shrugged, said, "Don't care," and made a small row of tap-dancing lions appear above her head, sticking their tongues out at Ignifer. Ignifer shook her head.

"Daughter."

The voice spoke in Latin, and that alone would have made Ignifer know who it was, even without the tone. She stiffened and turned just her head to look over her shoulder. It was Cupressus, of course it was, but now Ignifer's mother, Artemis, hovered anxiously at his side.

"Father," Ignifer said, also in Latin. If he was going to stage a public confrontation like this, at least he'd had the grace to do it in a different language.

"I am sadly disappointed in you, daughter," Cupressus chided her. "Why have you soiled this gathering with your presence? At least the other Dark wizards around you were misguided from birth; they knew no other way. But you—you knew better, you had the best raising, and still you chose the path of damnation. You should depart at once, Ignifer. The stars are ashamed to look down upon you."

Ignifer tensed her shoulders. This was no worse than many other arguments they'd had. Yes, it was in public, which made it worse inevitably, but in content and tone it wasn't new, and she thought that if she deserved damnation for anything, it was in letting the words go to her heart still.

She knew why they did. She'd been raised knowing her place: her father's magical heir, and future leader of the most prominent Light pureblood family in Ireland, and daughter of a magnificent legacy. And since she'd destroyed it, she'd been scrambling to find another place. She had found one with Harry, but it would never give her the security, the confidence, the absolute poise, that her father's did him.

And that confidence always made her wonder, a tiny niggling worry, about whether she'd been wrong after all, and should go back.

"Pardon me."

Ignifer started. She had forgotten Honoria was there. The smaller witch worked her way around between Ignifer and Cupressus now, her smile fixed and glamours of roaring lions on her shoulders.

"You are an arrogant son of shit," Honoria told Cupressus in flawless Latin. Ignifer stared at her. Cupressus and Artemis stared at her. Honoria didn't appear to care. "Your veins flow with it, far more than mine, Muggle mother and all. I would check your family legacy, and make sure that one of your ancestors didn't fuck in a cesspit along the way. That's the only thing that could explain your behavior, unless you have daily meals of shit. I wouldn't put it past you, blind as you are." She arched an eyebrow, and Cupressus's face became smeared with a glamour of feces, looking—and stinking—impressively like the real thing.

She extended a hand to Ignifer, and Ignifer accepted it and let Honoria lead her away in a daze. Honoria walked until they were next to a table full of food; then she turned and stared at Ignifer, eyes bright with concern.

"Are you all right?" she whispered in English.

Ignifer nodded. "I—thank you."

"You're welcome," said Honoria, and brightened. "But I think I deserve a kiss for that, at least."

Ignifer thought of the shit smearing her father's face, and had to agree. She bent and lightly kissed Honoria, noting that her breath smelled of wine, and faintly of peppermint. When Honoria tried to deepen the kiss into a full-blown snog, however, Ignifer drew back with a headshake. "That was only worth one kiss," she said. "You have to earn more."

Honoria's eyes lit with a passion that rivaled the glow she showed in battle. "I can do that. Do you have any siblings who listen to your father's shit?"

---

"Zacharias! How nice to see you again. And who is your young lady?"

Hermione turned and dipped into a deep curtsey on seeing the witch who'd accosted her boyfriend, spreading her deep green robes around her. She knew it was the right gesture to make, because the woman was both old and in possession of a silver widow's ring. Whether or not her family was distinguished, she deserved respect from a girl of Hermione's age.

The witch smiled. Her eyes were brown and her hair blonde, but Hermione didn't think she was Zacharias's relation. He wouldn't have been quite so haughty if he were presenting her with an aunt or cousin or great-aunt, she thought as he first bowed and then extended his hand along Hermione's arm.

"Helena Deeping, this is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger. Hermione," he added in a side-tone, "Mrs. Deeping is currently next in line to head the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

Mrs. Deeping blushed and said, "Oh, Zacharias, you make it sound as if it's going to happen next month! It might not, you know. Or the Ministry might shuffle me somewhere else. Minister Scrimgeour does give those people who might head Departments under him a most uncomfortable level of scrutiny."

"I wish you success, Mrs. Deeping," Hermione murmured, peering at the woman from beneath lowered lashes. With luck, this would turn out to be her third surprised witch of the evening. "The Light ought to favor someone who keeps to the old customs."

The witch glanced at her. "And how do you know I keep to the old customs, my dear?"

Hermione nodded to the snowflake design around the wrists of her robes, melting into twined flowers on the bottom of the sleeve. "Because you honor the seasons, ma'am. Today is the day winter becomes spring, and you've worn robes that reflect that."

Mrs. Deeping's face flushed even more with pleasure. "Miss Granger," she said, "you're a credit to your young man. I'm ashamed to say that I don't recognize your family name."

Hermione flashed a sweet smile. She loved this part. "Oh, you wouldn't, Mrs. Deeping," she said. "I'm Muggleborn."

She savored the expression of stunned surprise on Helena Deeping's face for a long moment, and then turned and swept towards the far side of the tent on Zacharias's arm.

"There's more to being a pureblood than confounding other purebloods, you know," Zacharias murmured in her ear. Hermione heard the touch of breathlessness to his voice and knew he'd been fighting to keep his laughter under control. "Besides, most of them are so unintelligent—not worthy targets of your time, my love."

"By exploding their expectations, I'm helping them ascend to our standards," Hermione said. "It's a public service. Look, there's another one." She nodded to a wizard in golden robes with an almost frighteningly deferential expression on his face.

"Hermione," Zacharias sighed.

Hermione looked up at him and fluttered her eyelashes. "And it provides entertainment for you, too, love."

Zacharias hesitated, then straightened himself with all the dignity due the Heir of Hufflepuff and the Smith family and took her to meet the wizard.

Hermione smiled for him. Really, this was gentle vengeance, and far better than drawing her wand and casting curses in all directions. She couldn't count how many times she'd heard the word "Mudblood" since she'd been here, always spoken casually, always spoken with no sign that these wizards and witches actually knew anything about the people they were denigrating.

Hermione had spent enough time getting angry with Zacharias's assumptions of pureblood superiority already. It was far better to get even, and show them how much better she was at their own games—and that a supposed Mudblood could learn anything, do anything, that they could.

---

"But it's true," said Thomas, wondering, as he usually did, why other people couldn't see things that were perfectly obvious to him. This time was even stranger than usual, since he wouldn't gain anything from telling a lie. "It's called the Grand Unified Theory of Every Kind of Magic. Oh, some of the branches of hereditary magic are giving us a little bit of trouble, I grant you, but we're finding exceptions in all of them, to prove that they're not that hereditary after all, and the passage of magic is much more complicated than we ever guessed. For example, did you know that Parseltongue is only passed on from one parent in a hundred? It's true. By tracking records of Parselmouths who had children, we found—"

"That's all well and good," interrupted the man Thomas was talking with. He couldn't remember his surname, except that it was Raven-something. Thomas was far more interested in his ideas, which were in disagreement with all of Thomas's. "But to return to your main point. Do you really mean to tell me that there is no way of predicting when and where Muggleborns will be, er, born?"

"Of course not," said Thomas, with an airy wave of his hand. "But you aren't paying attention. We've learned that there really is no difference between a pureblood's and a Muggleborn's magic. All those old ideas about children of mixed marriages being less powerful than their parents are lies, and so are the ones that say it's Muggleborns coming into the wizarding world that result in the increased birth of Squibs. We—"

"That isn't true."

Thomas frowned. The man was stupid. How funny that he hadn't noticed before! "Yes, it is," he said. "We've studied it."

"Who's we?"

"Oh, an international group," said Thomas. "I met some of the members years ago and I've been exchanging notes with them since, and then of course I got to meet them personally when we removed our children from Durmstrang. Nasty business," he added, with a shrug of his shoulders. He remembered Rose telling him some of the stories about Bellatrix Lestrange, whose cruelty was not only repetitive but stupid, and for a moment he lost the thread of the conversation. Then he shook his head and came back to it. His children were rescued now, and everything had worked out all right. "We owe Harry a great deal for rescuing our families—"

"Then you really call him Harry," said Raven-missing-syllables, looking at him with increased attention. "I thought that was only a political stunt, for him to have abandoned his last name, and that you called him Lord Potter among yourselves."

"Why would we?" Thomas asked in bewilderment. Really, he is rather stupid. "Harry is his name."

Raven-whatever chuckled and leaned nearer to him. "You can tell me the truth, Mr. Rhangnara," he coaxed, his voice gentle. "I mean, we've all heard the stories, and they're good stories, but don't you think it's just a bit unbelievable that a boy who's not even out of school yet did all that? I've heard he has a friend at the Prophet, that Skeeter woman, who'll alter stories for him as it suits him. And, likewise, you can tell me what really happened at Durmstrang. It might help me make the decision on whether to join the alliance. A boy who disclaims his last name and speaks nonsense about wanting to help house elves isn't an attractive proposition, but if I knew that he had a circle of advisers around him, sensible adults, who know and speak the truth and are just letting him run on his rein right now to play out his wilder excesses—"

"You'll have to find one of them elsewhere, then," Thomas interrupted. Now he understood what was going on, and he was irritated. It was no wonder that Raven-rest-of-name was overly invested in the idea that there were fundamental differences between purebloods and Muggleborns, no matter what the evidence said. He was an idiot altogether. "Because Harry did rescue my children, and he is what he says, and the freeing of house elves is, at the very least, an interesting philosophical question that ought to be attended to with interest by anyone not utterly blinded by his own pride. Good night, sir."

Thomas turned and stormed off towards the nearest table of food, where he could see three of his children talking with some of the other young wizards in attendance. He huffed under his breath. Why were so many people having trouble accepting that Harry was vates? It wasn't a matter of picking a side and closing one's eyes. It was a matter of looking at the evidence and seeing what actually worked, what was actually true.

Then the crowd shifted, and he caught a glimpse of Harry talking to a centaur, and he smiled, his bad mood forgotten almost at once.

In the end, evidence and truth would win out, because they had to. And Thomas got to watch a real vates at work. He relaxed and walked forward, whistling, his native optimism restored. The ignorant couldn't be ignorant for long, surely, when truth shouted at them from every corner of the world.

And perhaps Harry and the centaur wouldn't mind if he listened in on their conversation, for research purposes. So far, most of the centaurs their research group had contacted had proven reluctant to let wizards interview them for information on their magic.

---

Millicent turned her head abruptly. She thought she'd just felt a familiar flare of magic at her shoulder, as if someone she knew was standing there. But no, though she'd been startled, what had startled her was someone passing drenched in an uncomfortable amount of perfume. Millicent winced, imagining what that would be like for the werewolves in the group, and started to face her food again. She was sitting down, because only the gauche would eat while walking around.

"Miss Bulstrode?"

Millicent looked up. Next to her was a boy she didn't recognize, standing slightly taller than she was only because of the chair. He bowed to her, as if he wanted to apologize for interrupting her meal. Millicent leaned back and studied him. He must be from Beauxbatons, she thought, because his English, though almost perfect, did have a slight French accent to it, and he looked as if he'd been in the sun far more often than Durmstrang would permit.

Millicent was sure that she would have remembered him if he attended Hogwarts. His eyes were piercing green, almost the color of Harry's, and he was her age.

"Yes?" she asked, since she realized the boy was patiently permitting her to look at him, and that meant he wasn't here for just a quick conversation.

"My name is Pierre Delacour." He gave her a slightly self-deprecating smile as her eyebrows rose. "Yes, my cousin Fleur attended the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts," he confirmed. "And my family is at this meeting partly because of Fleur's reports of Harry's power." He cocked his head like a curious bird. "But since Harry's speech, I have found myself more interested in you personally, Miss Bulstrode."

Millicent felt her lips curve in a smile. This sounded like the first stages of either an alliance or a marriage offer, and she was fully prepared to accept either one.

"I am flattered, Mr. Delacour," she said, standing. "Would you like to meet my parents, so that yours might talk with them?"

"It would be a delight," said Pierre gravely, and claimed her hand. "But, not just at the moment, no. My first business is with you, Miss Bulstrode."

A marriage offer, then. Millicent wondered how many others would be started or even concluded tonight, and whether Harry knew what purpose the alliance meeting would serve. Probably. It was not often that this many European wizards and witches came together, and they would take chances to conduct negotiations that might otherwise happen only in small festivities.

"I'm flattered, Mr. Delacour," she said, and offered him her arm. From one corner of her eye, she caught her father's delighted grin. "Shall we walk?"

---

"Look at him," Regulus whispered into Snape's ear, with a slight chuckle. "If I was choosing my heir on the basis of political acumen, I could hardly do better."

Snape had to admit that Harry was steering himself well through the crowd. He spoke to most of the people who came up to talk to him, his face friendly and open enough. In about half the conversations, it wound up closing, and he shook his head gravely and stepped away. It needed nothing more than that to let his listeners know that he didn't find their terms, whatever they were, acceptable.

Snape did think that the unassuming posture Harry had chosen here, eschewing his own tent and colors, and even formal robes—he wore his Hogwarts ones—went a little too far. And it was contradicted by the fact that he'd stood up in front of them all and made a speech, with a dragon blazing at his side and his allies gathered around him and Lupin practically declaring war on the Ministry.

And then the public kiss with Draco...

Snape frowned and shook his head. It was not that he disapproved of Draco's courting ritual—it would take both of them being different people before Snape would think Harry should marry or join with someone else—but it also struck against the humility that Harry affected, and made it seem more of an affectation. He could say what he liked about being a Dark pureblood with a Muggleborn mother. More of his gestures, trappings, and actions spoke "Dark pureblood" than the other way around.

He is a Lord, in the eyes of most of the people here. Far be it from me to press the title or the Declaration on him, but he should realize that he seems to be making himself into a Lord even without either.

"You're too quiet tonight, Severus," said Regulus, dragging him out of his thoughts. "You should dance."

Snape gave him a sharp look and shifted his right leg, which was sore enough from the short walk from the seats to the tent. "And how would you suggest that I do that, Black?" he asked. "Perhaps you intend for me to set a new fashion for unspooling one's flesh on the dance floor?"

Regulus laughed at him. Snape reluctantly smirked. Regulus had always been able to pull him into amusement, as regularly and inexplicably as Sirius Black could infuriate him.

"Your leg wouldn't come undone," said Regulus. "Madam Pomfrey fixed it up too well. Come on!" He grabbed Snape's left arm, pointedly resting one hand on the concealed Dark Mark, and tugged him off his seat. A wave of his wand, held in his other hand, and music began to play from nowhere, a slow, sedate piece that would allow Snape to dance, if he really wished to, without hurting his leg.

Snape, of course, scowled and refused to at first. Regulus capered by himself, and attracted attention, and looked so utterly ridiculous that Snape finally began, reluctantly, to move, if only to save his friend from the embarrassment of dancing alone.

"There," said Regulus. "I knew you had it in you! You certainly dance enough in your mind, making up enough clever insults for any ten wizards."

"You forget which one of us dances better, my friend," Snape murmured, and kept his eyes fixed on Regulus's face.

Regulus's expression faltered for just a moment, and he jerked his head up, his nostrils flaring. Then he said, "Well, but some dances are just unpleasant to recall, Severus. Clumsy partners, stepping on one's feet, reversing direction while the music's still playing and forgetting what one does in the formal waltzes. And Voldemort had a particular predilection for clumsy partners, don't you think?"

"I don't know," said Snape thoughtfully, as he moved in a slow circle. "He had me. And Peter. And Lucius. And Hawthorn. And you," he added.

"Ah," said Regulus, voice pitched low. "I'll grant you your own mastery. And Lucius, his too. I think he was responsible for some of the deaths you believed Evan orchestrated. And none of us even suspected that Peter was a devotee to the Light, and not just jealous of my brother and his friends. And Hawthorn, well, the way she maneuvered to make sure her husband wouldn't have to serve her Lord was wonderful." Regulus spread his arms and adopted a big, goofy grin. "But me? Severus, I couldn't even maneuver Harry into becoming my heir. How am I supposed to have been a good enough intriguer to weave elaborate plots among the Death Eaters?"

"And yet, here Harry is, your heir," said Snape. "And here you are, alive."

"After having spent fourteen years as a wooden dog," said Regulus. "Poor Severus, if that's your definition of triumph."

"We take our victories where we can find them," said Snape. "And we make out own defeats, half the time. I still allow a prank that occurred in my sixth year to bother me." A month ago, he could not have said that. But then, a month ago, he could not have seen himself considering suicide for any other reason than to escape his own pain. "And you still act as if you carry a secret Harry would find it too hard to forgive you for."

Regulus tossed his head, a nervous gesture, like a half-bridled horse. His gray eyes shone with a light Snape remembered well. "I told him about the trapped Mark, Severus."

"Not that. What you kept from all of us for a year, Regulus. Or was it two? How early did you know what the Dark Lord tried to kill you for?"

Regulus's hands clenched and opened. "Long enough to do certain things because of it—things I'm ashamed of now."

"Things that Harry could forgive you for," said Snape. "If you could overcome your own shame."

"It's not that easy—"

"It wasn't for your brother, either," Snape said, and stamped with his left foot when the music called for it. "Voldemort used his own shame to strangle him, and keep him from telling anyone of it until it was too late."

"I'm very sure that Voldemort's not possessing me," said Regulus, and tried to recover with another grin. "He'd object to some of what I put my body through."

"Not as much as Harry would object to your death," Snape said, and waited.

It was the end of the dance, in more ways than one. Regulus drew back with a shake of his head, and whispered, "And what if my shames and my crimes are multiple, Severus?" and turned back to his seat.

Snape went to watch Harry's back. He'd been mingling with the crowd unguarded for long enough now. And Regulus needed time to think and realize that people could forgive him, even for things that he himself considered unforgivable.

Regulus had once been the only person Snape considered worthy of his time among the Death Eaters. Then he had been more than that, and deeper. He had come back changed, but unchanged in what was at once his most endearing and his most irritating trait: his conviction that he needed to do things himself, because that was the only way he could measure up to the standards of the people around him.

---

Harry grimaced and nodded. "Yes. That was a mistake, and I shouldn't have allowed it." He glanced ruefully at the half-empty tables of food, and the more-than-half-empty table of wine and goblets. "I'm going to take care of that in the future."

"Good," said Magorian, with a grave scrape of his hoof. "We did wonder, vates, whether you noticed the irony in allowing house elves to provide food for you and your allies."

Harry knew he was blushing, but he grinned at the centaur. "That's one thing centaurs will do that almost no wizards will: keep me honest."

"It is our honor, vates."

Magorian and the other centaurs took their leave then; Harry suspected it came at least partly from people starting to drift up to them, having overcome their fear, and ask them impertinent questions. He watched them thunder away, and returned Magorian's backwards-glancing salute with a sharp nod. Then he took a deep breath to try and still his nervous excitement. Magorian had given him, in amongst all the other things they'd talked about, two pieces of extremely good news: Firenze's mission to the giants was going well, the last his friends had heard of it.

And the centaurs were ready to join in the trap Harry intended to lure Voldemort into on Midsummer.

Harry saw the other wizards, frustrated by the centaurs' sudden departure, turn towards him. He pasted a smile on his face. He could control his expression when he felt no emotion stronger than frustration. He was tired—it was well after nine o'clock now, and he hadn't had anything to eat, what with the constant talking. But he had secured several new people to the alliance, and dismissed many others, and he had the chance to do more. Frustration could wait.

Besides, he wasn't sure he should eat the food when house elves had provided it. It was time to start paying closer attention to his morals.

"Mr.—I mean, sorry, Harry?"

Harry smiled at the first young wizard who'd forced his way forward. He was drenched in perfume, as if he feared to offend with the least scent of sweat. Something about his movements was familiar, but Harry didn't know what it was. From his bright blue eyes, he could be related to a quarter of the pureblood families here. Harry had probably met and talked with his relatives already.

"Yes?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The young man bobbed nervously. "I know. Sorry. My name's Alan Morningturn. I just wanted to tell you that I'd—I mean, if you're serious, I don't know if you were—I'd like to free my house elves."

Harry blinked. "You are? You would?" That was the first such offer all evening, and he could feel his heartbeat speeding up in anticipation and the miasma of weariness and frustration falling away. "That would be wonderful. I am serious. Do you have a formal contract to give me permission to free the house elves?" Though the wizard's word was probably enough, he'd like something written. That way, if Alan was offering a gift he couldn't deliver on, like house elves who belonged to a relative, Harry could make sure to refuse.

"Yes. Right here." Alan's face was pink with excitement as he fumbled in his robe pocket. "Oh, Merlin, this is so exciting, thank you, thank you, thank you—"

Harry wasn't sure afterwards what warned him. Perhaps it was as slight as the indentation of Alan's robe pocket around something that definitely wasn't a sheaf of parchment. Perhaps the boy's practiced nervous expression faltered at the last moment. Or perhaps he remembered, suddenly, where he'd seen those familiar gestures before.

He was on the ground before Alan pointed his wand and screamed, "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry rolled safely away from the jet of green light, which had been aimed so directly at him that it struck the earth instead of flying over his head, and he didn't have to worry about anyone else. In a moment, he was on his feet, his hand snapping out and drawing tight. In his mind, he chanted, Expelliarmus. Petrificus Totalus.

Alan's wand flew out of his hand, his body went rigid, and he fell to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. Harry took a deep breath and scrambled to one knee, whispering, "Finite Incantatem."

But the glamour, if glamour it was, remained on Alan's face. Harry murmured a charm to turn his robe pockets inside out, and found no flask of Polyjuice Potion. He frowned at Alan, wondering who he was, and how he could have managed a spell that Harry's magic wouldn't expose.

One suspicion he could allay, however. At his gesture, Alan's left robe sleeve rose. Harry let out a harsh breath at the sight of the Dark Mark gleaming on his flesh.

"Harry!"

Draco's arms were around him in the next moment. Harry reached back to pat him absently on the shoulder, staring still at Alan, trying to figure out his deception. Alan stared back, his frozen eyes wild with rage and fear.

That expression was familiar to Harry, at least. He had to transport it into another face and into eyes that weren't that shade of blue before he could make the connection, though.

And in the end, it was Snape, limping up to them just then, who spoke the name aloud. "Montague!" he barked, the name of the one Slytherin Death Eater, who had vanished from Hogwarts on the same night as Rovenan had died.

Harry winced as he saw the expression in "Alan's" eyes change. "What's been done to him, sir?" he asked, raising his voice and stepping gently away from Draco. He appreciated the support, but he needed to stand upright. Otherwise, rumors that Montague had managed to wound him might circulate.

"A permanent change to his face and voice," Snape murmured, leaning forward. "Very powerful and Dark magic. It can't be reversed, so it's rarely used. But the Dark Lord did force such a change on a few of his followers in the First War." He glanced at Harry, ignoring the wake of shrieks and gasps and horrified gestures spreading behind them. "I recognize him as Montague, but we'll need to use Veritaserum on him to be sure."

Harry hesitated. Technically, only the Ministry had the legal authority to use Veritaserum. And while he could be said to be the authority in this gathering, since he was both its host and the most powerful wizard, he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if word of this got back to Scrimgeour.

Even more, though, he did not dare to look afraid. He doubted that Montague would confess to his crime. He could claim that he was Alan Morningturn to anyone who asked, and here by Harry's own invitation. And if he said that Voldemort had compelled him to do this, then Harry would have to accept it, since he had accepted that the victims of Dumbledore's spell were compelled to horrible crimes against him. They could use Legilimency, but that was even more invasive, definitely illegal, and not something that Harry wanted to reveal he, Snape, or Charles could do.

He nodded, once. He would make the decision, and if consequences followed it, then he would deal with them. "Veritaserum it is," he said.

Snape pulled a vial of the clear liquid from his pocket, uncapped it, and moved his fingers towards Montague's face. Harry relaxed the Body-Bind just enough for Montague's jaw to open and Snape to place the three drops on his tongue. Montague gave a gagging sound. Snape, his face full of quiet, contained rage, massaged his throat to make sure he swallowed.

"What is your full name?" Harry asked, as the test question.

"William Richard Montague," said Montague, his voice flat and his eyes glazed.

Harry nodded. He had expected this, he told himself. There was no reason to feel as if a cold wind were blowing down his spine, as if it had really taken him by surprise that Montague had tried to assassinate him. He had known the other boy was a Death Eater.

"What was your purpose in coming here today?" he asked.

This time, Montague fought to hold the answer back, but it emerged anyway. "To kill you if I could," he said. "Our Lord is so weak that I wanted vengeance."

"So you didn't come at Voldemort's command?"

"No," Montague grunted, biting his own tongue as he struggled. "I'm supposed to be out recruiting other Death Eaters. Most of the Death Eaters are."

Harry smiled. He knew it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I suspect we'll treat you a damn sight better than Voldemort will for trying this and failing," he muttered. "Was your plan really just to come up and try the Killing Curse on me?"

"Yes," said Montague, his eyes on the ground now. Harry didn't think he was unable to meet his victim's gaze. It was Snape's that seemed to disturb him. "I thought if I could get close enough, I had at least a chance. And there's no saying that you can resist the Killing Curse a second time." He did glare at Harry then, as if challenging him to say that he could.

Harry shrugged, and looked at Snape. "Can you think of other questions to ask him before I turn him over to the Ministry?"

"Are there any other Death Eaters here today?" Snape's voice was low and merciless.

Montague sneered, looking, for no reason Harry could fathom, triumphant. "Yes."

Harry understood a moment later. Of course, there were other Death Eaters here today, or those who had once been Death Eaters: Peter, Regulus, Lucius, Adalrico, Hawthorn, and Snape.

But Snape swung around, drawing his wand as he moved, using his bad leg as a pivot. His voice was equally low and merciless as he cast the spell, and Harry could feel his magic surging up behind the incantation, to insure it touched everyone in sight. "Abscindo manulaes laevaes!"

Every robe in sight lost its left sleeve. Harry could hear cries of outrage, and sighed. Of course, some of his new allies, touchy already, would consider this the ultimate insult, to be suspected of following Voldemort when Harry had invited them to a peaceful gathering and made them swear an oath not to use magic except in self-defense.

Harry could see people looking at their neighbors' bare left arms as if expecting a revelation. He shook his head when long moments passed and there was no reaction more extreme than some of their watchers flinching at the sight of Snape's bared Dark Mark. "I think we should—"

A hoarse cry sounded abruptly behind them. Harry whipped around, and saw Mortimer Belville dragging someone forward. He cast the other wizard on the ground in front of Harry with a triumphant shout that was almost a bark.

The man was Edward Burke, and he had one hand on his left arm, trying to cover something up. Harry narrowed his eyes when he saw the curve of the black snake and skull sticking out from under his fingers, and his heart gave a single, harsh jump.

"Did you betray us to Voldemort during the Woodhouse battle?" he whispered.

"You know nothing," Burke hissed, his eyes wild. He tried to back up, and failed as Belville's wand poked him in the back. The next moment, he'd whirled around and snapped at Belville, "Yes, I was a traitor, if you want to call it that, and he helped me!"

Harry looked at Belville. He raised one eyebrow and turned his left arm towards Harry, showing him the unmarked flesh.

"You did!" spat Burke. "You did, you bastard! You told me that you were going to be Marked!"

Belville gave a short, helpless laugh and shook his head. "I was joking, Burke. I thought we were having a drinking and complaining session about Potter, back when he was still Potter, yes? And here I find out that you took me seriously." He clasped one hand to his face. "My apologies, Harry," he added, from between his fingers. "I never thought he was serious, or I would have suggested that you look for the Mark on his arm sooner."

Burke uttered a short, wordless scream and tried to climb from the ground to attack him, but Snape's wand flicked, and he was still. In a Body-Bind, Harry thought, until he squinted, and saw Burke twitching with small, swift jolts of pain traveling through him.

"Sir!" he hissed at his guardian.

Snape converted the spell to an ordinary Body-Bind without a word, but the expression on his face was fixed, and he never took his eyes off Burke. Harry sighed and stared at his ally for a moment. He could guess why the old wizard had done this, but it would be good to have confirmation.

"Why?" he asked, and gestured for Snape to relax the spell on his jaw.

Burke was more than anxious to tell him, it seemed, perhaps because his cover had been blown and this was the only chance to air his grievances he would ever have. "Because you're tainting the Black bloodline," he said, staring at Harry as if he could bore holes in him with his eyes. "Because you're going to bring Mudbloods into our world and this alliance, and you act as if you don't understand what a—a blasphemy that is! Because you just had to resurrect the Black heir, and then become his heir! Because you're going to corrupt us and tear us, rend us and shred us, and cause our deaths at the hands of the Muggles!" His hands twitched as if he could break the Body-Bind and grope at the air. "At least His Lordship has the right idea about keeping our worlds separate! I bear his Mark with pride, and he was good enough to accept me, even though two heirs of my bloodline betrayed him and should have tainted it in his eyes!"

Harry concealed a sigh. Perhaps he should have thought twice about becoming Black heir, but that wouldn't have stopped him from bringing Regulus back, and he had had no idea that Burke felt this deeply about Harry's becoming heir. "And that was really all of it?" he asked softly.

"I thought I'd give you a chance to prove that you respected me," said Burke. He spoke so violently that spit flew with his words, and Belville moved a step away to stop the saliva from getting on his robes, face twisting in disgust. "I made contributions to the meetings. But you ignored them, and you never looked at me for more than a few seconds. You overlooked me, in your eagerness to let your pet Mudbloods and werewolves and Light wizards have a say. I refused the Dark Mark, at first. I didn't tell my Lord everything. I wanted to keep my options open. It was a test. And you proved that you didn't care. You granted my relatives more respect than you ever granted me."

Harry controlled his breathing with an effort. Burke's confession opened its own set of problems to him. He could feel eyes boring into him, resting on him. And no matter what he did, someone would account it the wrong decision.

If he drained Burke of his magic, it would frighten some of the people here. If he killed him, it would frighten them even more badly, and he could wind up being charged with murder by the Ministry. Dosing Montague with Veritaserum was pushing as it was. If he simply turned Montague and Burke over to the Ministry, then some people would think he was too lenient.

So, since he could not please everyone, he might as well please himself.

"Mr. Rhangnara," he called, raising his voice.

Thomas hurried through the crowd a moment later, his face flushed with something that might have been excitement. He was such an optimist that Harry could see him treating this as an opportunity for observing traitors as a sub-species of wizards. "Yes, Harry?" he asked breathlessly.

"Would your wife be willing to take charge of Montague and Burke?" Harry asked. Priscilla Burke wasn't here; since she was the Head Auror, attending this meeting might have sent the signal to Scrimgeour that she had greater allegiance to Harry than to him. But she had proved useful after the Woodhouse battle, taking charge of the captured Death Eaters after Harry and his allies had left. She might prove useful now.

Thomas beamed. "She would like nothing better. I'll Apparate with them to the Ministry, if you'd like."

Harry nodded. "I'll give you their wands." A flick of his hand sealed Montague's and Burke's jaws again. "If they need additional proof of their crimes—though the Dark Marks should be enough, really—then I can provide that."

"It sounds like enough to start with," said Thomas, and smiled at the two Death Eaters. It wasn't a pleasant smile. Harry shook his head as Thomas floated the bound Burke into the air. He wasn't going to be as easy with them as Harry had thought. Well, he had saved the man's children from Durmstrang. Perhaps he was less sympathetic to Harry's enemies as a consequence.

He turned back to the people staring at him, some of them clutching at their ruined robes. Belville was examining his missing left sleeve with a mournful air.

"I use justice when I can," he said, raising his voice again. "I won't kill them, because they haven't hurt me, though not for lack of trying." His mind flashed back to Fergus Opalline, who had died in the attack on Woodhouse, and he wondered if Paton would claim justice on Burke for that. There was no direct proof that Burke's information had led to Fergus's death yet, though. "I do try to offer justice, and not vengeance, to my enemies. I try not to act hastily." He took a deep breath and met pair after pair of eyes. "That doesn't mean I won't strike quickly if you battle me, or come after someone under my protection."

Reluctantly, he dropped the barriers on his magic for the first time. Most people here would have been able to feel that he was powerful, but not how much; Harry had been holding back so as not to intimidate them into allying with him. But now, it was necessary to show strength, so he would counter any unfortunate perceptions that mercy was weakness.

The chatter went silent as waves of magic washed through the tent. Harry blinked as he saw the walls of the tent briefly start to lose their form, and stabilized them. Then he shook his head when he saw how many of the watching eyes had gone wide.

"I don't enjoy having to do that," he said quietly, and raised his barriers, and went off to be by himself for a while, and think.

---

Draco spoke his name quietly. The last thing he wanted to do was startle a jumpy Lord-level wizard who was brooding on what he would consider his latest failure.

"Harry?"

Harry turned his head and nodded, which Draco took as permission to approach more closely. He sat down next to Harry, who'd taken a seat on the stone steps of the stage and tilted his head back to watch the slender sliver of moon rise among the stars. It was a wonderfully clear night, though still cold enough to require warming charms. Draco could see lights coming from Lumos spells cast inside the tent, and the tent's walls themselves, which glowed softly where golden streaks marked the deep green cloth. A softer radiance seemed to shine from inside the Antipodean Opaleye, who was curled, a glowing diamond heap, not far from the stage.

"Why did you leave?" Draco asked at last, even though he thought he knew. At least it would get Harry talking. He'd sat for ten minutes in silence already, and it was getting on Draco's nerves.

Harry shrugged. "Thinking on what I could have done differently," he said. "I'm not good company when I'm like that. And, well, all anyone would have wanted to talk about were Burke and Montague. I didn't want to discuss them."

Draco snorted. I know why he thinks like this, but honestly, it's ridiculous. "Of course they would want to talk about it, Harry! One of them just tried to kill you, and the other admitted to being a traitor to your cause."

Harry shrugged again. Draco stifled the impulse to hit him, or to argue that Harry should have killed Burke and Montague instead of letting them go to the Ministry. There were people here who would be horrified that Harry had killed in cold blood, and some of them might be wizards Harry would need in the future. And Harry wasn't the kind of person to respond to lethal force with lethal force, more was the pity, or he could have slain Montague in the moments after he cast the Killing Curse—Draco would have done that—and then they could have searched his body and found the Dark Mark. Draco supposed the information they'd acquired from him was valuable, but he'd be dead.

And Burke would still be hidden.

Draco stifled a sigh this time. Perhaps there wasn't an answer for that, after all.

"Well," he said, forcing lightness into his voice. "I didn't come to talk about them."

Some of the tension melted from Harry's shoulders. "About what, then?"

Draco snorted. "Oh, you know very well, Harry," he said. "You accepted the courting ritual in public today. You kissed me in public. You acted as though we were acknowledged partners already, which I didn't have any idea you were thinking about." He felt the exhilaration that had gripped his heart like claws then, along with the exasperation. He would have enjoyed a moment like this in private beforehand. Harry could have told him what he planned, and Draco would have still played the part of stunned and thrilled boyfriend to perfection. "Why?"

Harry turned to face him. "Because I did want other people to see that you're important to me, Draco," he said. "Because I want anyone who thinks to offer me marriage or joining to see that I'm already claimed." Draco was fairly sure he would have gibbered if he opened his mouth then, so he kept it shut. "Because, just maybe," Harry added, a faint smile playing around the corners of his lips, "you looked so fetching in your dark blue robes that I couldn't resist."

"Prat," said Draco, but without much heat. "You planned that."

Harry nodded.

"But it wasn't just a political stunt?" Draco pursued. "You do mean to accept my courting when it starts on Walpurgis Night?"

Harry blinked, then hissed, "Idiot! Would I do something like that if I didn't mean it? You know me better than that!" He shoved Draco's shoulder, hard enough that Draco could tell there was genuine anger behind the motion.

Draco reached out and caught both his hand and his left wrist. "That was all I wanted to know," he murmured. "I did think that, Harry, but when you avoided me all afternoon—"

"I did not avoid you all afternoon! Other people got in my way all evening and wanted to talk about other things—"

"But now we're alone," Draco said, pitching his voice deliberately low, "and other people aren't here to talk about other things. So, Harry." He leaned closer. "When joined partners and marriage partners are acknowledged, they're perfectly free to touch each other, you know, even when the ritual isn't complete yet."

Harry flushed. Draco marveled that he could have such courage in front of a crowd and not now. Of course, there, Draco thought, he's conscious of dozens of different pairs of eyes dividing consideration of him with other people. Here, I'm the only one focusing on him, and he does seem to have a problem with that.

Draco didn't intend to let that deter him, though, not when Harry hadn't let other people deter him from the kiss in public today. He leaned nearer still, lifted a hand to slip it behind Harry's neck, and brought him closer.

Harry initiated the kiss with an awkward lunge, as if to prove that he wasn't afraid, but Draco was the first to open his mouth. Harry made a soft sound in the back of his throat, startled. He was relaxed enough to yield, however, and Draco gently pressed him backward onto the step they sat on, pooling Harry's robes beneath him. Harry was far enough gone that he didn't seem to notice Draco removing his robes, but he definitely noticed when Draco slid a hand beneath his shirt. Draco sat up and looked down at him. Harry, his breath rushing in a mixture of panic and pleasure, held his eyes.

"Well?" Draco whispered.

Harry swallowed. "Go ahead," he said, and lifted his head and opened his mouth in invitation for another kiss.

Draco obliged, and obliged himself, at least, by unbuttoning Harry's shirt. Harry was flushed all down his chest, too, making his skin an odd color in the yellow-green light of the Lumos charm from Draco's wand. Draco moved his mouth gently from Harry's mouth to his neck, and then down towards his chest.

Harry was gasping, and then he seemed to decide this wasn't fair, and murmured a charm Draco couldn't make out. In an instant, his own dark blue robes were folded neatly beside them, and then Harry was unbuttoning his shirt with fingers and magic made clumsy by haste and, Draco thought, looking into his clouded eyes again, by arousal.

Draco lay down gently beside Harry, and closed his eyes as Harry skated nervous fingers over his chest, and then leaned forward and placed something that was half-kiss, half-bite on his collarbone. Draco groaned, and had the thought, only relevant in another time and place, that his father would be mortified to hear that sound coming from a Malfoy. His impatience danced and strained at its leash, and he wanted to roll on top of Harry, uncomfortable as that might be with both of them on a stone step. Merlin, he felt so good, and the cold air had vanished, they might have been bathed in sunlight, and he reached for Harry again—

Harry shuddered, and gasped, and then gave a sharp cry that woke Draco from his daze at once, because that was a cry of fear, not of pleasure. "Harry?" he asked. He was talking to Harry's shoulder, though, because he'd rolled away.

"I'm all right," Harry whispered into his hand. "Really. Just—a little too far, that's all." His voice was shaky, but it gained steadiness quickly. He rolled over again and smiled at Draco. "I can see why you have a hard time waiting," he murmured. "And yes, I'll accept the courting ritual on Walpurgis Night, and—and everything that comes with it." He lifted his chin as if daring his mother to appear out of the night and tell him that no, he couldn't have this.

Draco's body boiled and churned with impatience and pleasure, and he wished that Lily Potter was there, too, so he could kill her for having trained Harry the way she had. But they had come further this time before Harry felt too good to continue. He'd have what he wanted, they'd have what they wanted, sooner or later.

He was about to say something like that when a strange noise erupted from beside him. He raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"Um," said Harry. "While I was talking to other people about other things, I might possibly have forgotten to eat anything." His stomach rumbled again, to confirm this.

Draco was relieved to have an excuse to claim Harry was a prat, an absolute idiot, and needed a minder almost as much as he needed a boyfriend, while they both put on their shirts and their robes again. It slid him past the moment when he had the instinct to just watch Harry, and his flushed cheeks, and his hair which was sticking in several directions, and grin like a fool.

I'm not a fool, I'm a Malfoy. But I think I can be excused, just this once. Harry is going to join with me, and share a bed with me. The second sooner than the first, in fact. That bit of advice about waiting until the joining ritual is complete is sheer and utter nonsense, and Malfoys don't need to listen to it.