AN: I know some of you won't be happy with how this chapter goes. I debated a long time over how to go about it, but this was the only way that I believe is realistic. When I write, I try to write what I think *would* happen and not what I want to happen because I love the characters. Kill your darlings. Still, I hope you enjoy it and forgive me in time.
Chapter 23
Sirius Black watched intently as his godson stepped into the arena for the second time. His first match had been extremely impressive, and Sirius was dumbstruck to find that not only were the rumours about Harry true, but that they were an underestimation. He couldn't help the flickering glow of pride in his chest as he watched his godson, the spitting image of his late best friend, beat a grown Death Eater. The crowd had been holding it's breath in those final moments, and when Harry had beaten Shafiq there had been a wild roar of approval from the audience. Some had cheered a little too enthusiastically even, and Sirius suspected there were more than a few rebellion sympathisers in the audience.
When the second match began, Sirius was confident of Harry's victory. The muggleborn girl was talented, but it wouldn't be enough. By the end of the first minute she was little more than his play thing, and he noted the wild joy in Harry's face with familiarity. James had looked just like him in the heat of a duel, and his heart gave a sharp pang. Harry's face was being projected onto large screens across the stadium. Every moment seemed to show an image of Harry's grinning face, his impressive spell-work, and the increasingly haggard expression of the girl. Just as Sirius was growing concerned that the boy was playing with his food a little too much, he saw Harry turn and smile impishly up at the top box. The screens projected it all, zooming in on his face and it drove the breath from Sirius. The boy was looking up at the box full of death eaters with an expression of triumph. Burning hatred for Voldemort flickered in his veins; they had stolen the love, and the loyalty, of his best friend's child.
A moment later, Harry flung back his wand and cast. Bright yellow light filled the space between them and Sirius had just a moment to be puzzled. One could tell a lot about the relative danger of a spell by it's colour, intensity and movement. It's colour and movement made it appear minor, easy enough to sidestep and light in nature. The intensity however, was blinding. The grin on Harry's face was still being projected to all when the spell hit Simmons, and the girl fell to her knees. There was a roar of triumph from the stadium; Harry had won again.
Then the thunderous applause stuttered and ground to a halt. The screens were projecting Simmons now, and her dull, lifeless eyes.
A siren began to sound and healers rushed onto the pitch. Sirius couldn't see Harry's face, the screens had abruptly turned off leaving everyone in the stands in panicked conversation. What had happened? Was the girl dead? People began to stand, blocking Sirius' view of Harry. He stood up too, just in time to see the boy being swept from the stadium floor and towards an exit by none other than his infamous, crazed cousin. Sirius turned to Lupin, speechless and alarmed, a churning feeling deep in his gut as he replayed the last minutes in his mind.
Lupin's disguised face was very pale and drawn. "He's killed," Lupin began, gravely. "Killed a muggleborn girl."
Sirius stood silently, the world tilting on it's axis. In the silence, he distinctly heard the voice of a nearby witch talking to her companion.
"Did you see that smile?"
Harry was numb. The world around him had become utterly incomprehensible. People spoke to him, but he couldn't understand, draw meaning from familiar sounds. People he seemed to know; his friends and family, urged him to do something, but he didn't know what. He was pulled somewhere, but he gave no mind to the direction and even if he had, would not have been able to comprehend it. Lights flashed as he moved. The whole world seemed to be deep, deep underwater. All he could see was her face. All Harry knew was that the light had left a young witch's eyes, and he had done it. He had done it.
Someone was trying to get him to do something again. He was vaguely aware that he was sitting now, in a small room with no natural light. Someone was pressing something against his lips, but he'd forgotten how to swallow. A sharp pain in his cheek began to clear the fog. Another, and he was back, unwillingly, in reality.
"Drink this, Potter," came the voice of Bellatrix. Her tone was tight and sharp, but not unkind. Dimly, he took the vial from her hand and felt an unnatural calmness spread over him as soon as the potion hit his stomach. She gave him another, and he downed it unquestioningly, and the world regained clarity.
"Listen, Po- Harry. I have to ask you some questions now, and there will be others who come and ask you questions later. I need you to focus. Do you understand?" she was speaking to him like he was ill, or mad. He vaguely wondered if he was, as a memory of Simmons blank, pale face hit him and a wave of nausea rippled through him.
Another slap brought him back. He nodded dumbly.
They were in some sort of cell. He didn't think he could have travelled far, and a little voice in his mind wondered if this was Azkaban. He cast the thought from his head as the logical part of his mind reminded him that Azkaban had been destroyed years ago, the practice of imprisonment – of torturing people's souls for all their lives was deemed too inhumane even for the worst of traitors. Death was cleaner. This cell was clean, and bright, and he was sitting on a bed. He couldn't for the life of him remember how he'd gotten there.
"That spell you used, what was it?" Bellatrix asked clearly. Calmly.
"Demolio Magi," he whispered, haunted. He realised that the words had come from his lips of their own accord, the effect of truth serum. He felt nothing but relief, not knowing if he could speak of his own volition now.
Bellatrix was frowning. "Demolio Magi is a non-lethal spell. It's child's play – what else did you use?"
"Nothing," he said, instantly, letting the potion take over him.
"Harry-" before she could finish her sentence, the cell door banged open. Harry need not even look up from where he was inspecting the floor to know who it was. He could feel the man's presence, like an icy hand around his throat.
"Leave us," came the harsh words of the Dark Lord. Bellatrix, evidently seeing something in the wizard's countenance that did not brook argument, stood immediately and withdrew without comment. Harry fought a childish impulse to call her back, to not leave him alone with Voldemort.
Seconds past. Harry began to feel dizzy again.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Harry couldn't lift his chin. His eyes were watering with unshed tears. He'd killed her. He'd killed her, and it was all his fault, and she was dead. Dead.
"Look at me."
The words were harsher, more demanding and frightening than any words he could recall having heard before. His head shot up. He was suddenly glad to feel so numb, of the calming draught, that he was not as scared as he ought to be.
"You used a parseltongue spell," Voldemort stated menacingly, and Harry knew the man had switched to their shared tongue. The man's eyes were a deep, furious red. The room seemed to quake with the weight of his rage and Harry sank back a little across the bed, his back reaching the wall.
"Yes, my Lord," he said quickly.
"You used a parseltongue spell in the middle of a public arena," he growled. Voldemort didn't raise his voice, but the dangerous, low tone was somehow worse than any amount of shouting. "After I expressly told you to keep the ability hidden."
Harry only nodded, shaking, beginning to breath heavily as his heart pounded. "I… I killed her. I did it, and it killed her."
"You used a parseltongue spell without knowing the effects," the Lord spat, his tone disgusted. "Whilst thousands of spectators looked on."
"I'm a murderer," Harry whispered, broken.
Voldemort paused, and Harry dared to look at him. The rage was still present in his eyes, dancing like twin fires, but there was something else there. He seemed to be taken aback by Harry's reaction, as though he had not been expecting the tears that were now tracking silently down his face.
"Worry for yourself, little boy," Voldemort ground out after a moment. "The mudblood is already dead. You, however, are still in danger."
"I'll be executed,"
Harry said firmly. His voice was fearful, but largely resigned. "I should be executed. I killed her. I don't know how, but I killed her. I should have- I should have checked. I should have asked..."Voldemort was glaring down at him. Looking furious enough to do said executing himself, but with it there was something akin to frustration. As though the conversation was going in a direction he hadn't anticipated. Harry was suddenly reminded of Tom, and the thought of Tom robbed him of his breath once more. What would he tell him? Tom hadn't told him what casting in parseltongue would do, hadn't warned him, but he had as good as told him not to do it. Now he was doomed for his recklessness.
"You will not be executed, you foolish brat," Voldemort sneered. "You represent the House of Malfoy," he gestured to the crest emblazoned on his robes. "You are publicly affiliated with the Malfoy's and the Blacks. Executing you would be as good as convicting them."
Harry looked up, wide eyed. Flabbergasted.
"But-"
Voldemort's gaze, angry and dismissive, seared into him. "Miss Simmons had a birth defect, inherited from her muggle parents. The magical exhaustion of the duel overwhelmed her and she died of a heart attack," he said this firmly, calmly. Harry understood at once that this was the line for the press. Nausea overwhelmed him once more.
"That-that's not true! I killed her!" he shouted, returning to english. His fist balled at his sides and he stood "I killed her and I have to pay for that! I-I did something terrible, irredeemable- I-"
Voldemort grabbed him by the hair, forcing Harry to the tips of his toes, to look up at him. It was clear Harry's weight was nothing to him, and he wondered once more what made the man so strong. "Simmons died of natural causes. That is the line, Potter, and may the Gods help you if you cross it," he hissed. "As for paying for what you have done – worry not. You are going to be punished most severely."
Voldemort released him, letting Harry stumble and fall back against the bed. There was silence for several minutes as Harry collected himself, forcibly calming down and facing the Dark Lord. He felt none of his usual need for defiance, just utter self-hatred that threatened to swallow him whole. Voldemort was regarding him closely, his intelligent demeanour calming.
"You will be dropping out of the tournament," Voldemort said, finally. Harry nodded quickly, viciously batting down any disappointment he may have felt as selfish. He didn't deserve to be in the IDC. "The official story will be that you, being so young, have been traumatised by today's events. In actuality, I don't care how traumatised you are. I merely don't trust you to behave appropriately."
Harry worried his lip, glancing away. "Yes, my Lord."
"You will be transferring schools," Voldemort continued.
Harry's face shot up. "My Lord?" he asked, reeling.
Voldemort continued as if there had been no interruption. "You will be attending Durmstrang for the remaining duration of your school years. You will be forbidden from leaving the school grounds, and will stay with Bellatrix during the summer months and spend the time in quiet contemplation."
Harry wanted to argue. He couldn't leave Blaise, and Hermione, his friends and his life. Again, the shame ate at him. He didn't deserve to be with his friends. He had killed someone today. He kept his mouth shut, even as a deep sadness settled inside him.
The Dark Lord continued. "I will have the teachers be particularly strict with you, child. You will not step a foot out of line without suffering my wrath."
Harry's shoulders sagged in defeat. Still, he thought. It isn't enough. Not enough, for what he'd done.
Another silence followed. From somewhere within him, Harry gathered up the courage to speak.
"I'm sorry, my Lord. I didn't… I didn't know it would be like that. I just-" Harry willed himself not to cry, and managed it. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He would not be weak, wouldn't be self-indulgent and seek comfort where he did not deserve it, and would not find it. As much as he wanted to lay down and weep, he wouldn't allow himself that. "I will accept the consequences of my actions."
Voldemort eyed him, a little of the heat leaving his gaze. Tears only seemed to anger the man, but Harry's resolve seemed to have some effect.
"You're too young," Voldemort said, finally. At Harry's inquisitive look, he continued. "You're more powerful and gifted and clever than the vast majority of the adult magical population," somehow, Voldemort didn't make this seem like a compliment. Merely a statement. "But you behave like a sixteen year old. You're immature, reckless, and lack both wisdom and common sense. Power is good, and immaturity is usually harmless. Power and immaturity together are dangerous."
Harry said nothing, afraid that if he interrupted, Voldemort would stop his uncharacteristically calm reflection. The wizard appeared to be almost talking to himself.
"You lack discipline, you do not respect the judgement of your elders and you are all together too sure of yourself. You've learned to circumvent the rules and structures that keep your lessers at bay and so, you're running wild. You are a hazard to my world, and I will not tolerate it," at this Voldemort looked up, levelling Harry with a piercing stare. "I will bring you too heel, Harry Potter, or I will crush you beneath it."
Draco sat by the window, watching as the dawn light began to filter into his small, dreary bedroom. He had been unable to sleep, managing only a few fitful hours before resigning himself to wakefulness. He had attempted to use the hours pragmatically, devoting some time to his studies, but had found himself unable to focus. Instead, he studied the walls and sat in silent anticipation. He was waiting for the morning post. In his hand, he held the two letters he had received yesterday. Both of them were from Hermione, and both had made his heart race for two utterly different reasons.
The first was written in an elegant, thoughtful cursive. Hermione always wrote this way, as though she had deliberated on each word. When he'd received it, a mere glance had made his chest ache. He'd read the thing like a starving man at a feast, drinking in each word as quickly as his eyes could follow. Then he'd read it again, and again.
Dear Draco,
I've spent hours trying to pen this letter. No matter how I try to phrase my thoughts, they seem to come out inarticulate and childish. However, I believe I owe you this, so you'll just have to forgive the lack of eloquence that follows.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for how I've behaved, sorry for how I reacted, sorry for assuming things about you that I perhaps shouldn't have. It goes against my nature to show this kind of vulnerability, but I feel I must. I fear what it would mean to be married to you I fear losing my independence, I fear losing my identity – but most of all, I fear losing my heart.
You're intelligent, refined, kind and loyal. At your side, I fear I would appear as nothing more than a country witch who didn't know her salad fork from her pumpkin spoon. When
all this came out, all I could think was how disappointed you must be. I realise I've done nothing but make that assumed feeling worse.
If you're still willing to try, then so am I. We have much in common, and I am proud that you may one day be my husband.
Yours sincerely,
Hermione Cassiopeia Black
P.S: Mother insisted I pick out a 'more appropriate' middle name. What do you think?
He did like it, Draco mused. It suited her. If his Greek and knowledge of family history wasn't too rusty, it meant 'she whose words excel' and Hermione's words had him bound. He'd spent hours formulating a reply after he'd read it what felt like thousands of times, but finding the right words felt near impossible. He'd had to go to classes too, though he was too distracted to learn anything of worth. His teacher had reprimanded him and he scolded himself to be so distracted by his overwhelming affection for a girl – no, a woman. No, a witch. A hell of a witch.
He'd had little time to revel in his relief and excitement. When he'd returned to the room, another letter had been waiting for him. This had arrived by International Floo Delivery by the colour; whomever had written it had not the time to wait for the complicated system of international owl post. IFD was expensive and unusual, and so he'd cast of his bag carelessly and ripped the thing open. It was Hermione's writing again, but this time her elegant script was a messy scrawl, written in a hurry.
Draco,
Harry is in trouble. In the final round of the IDC something went awry and his opponent was killed. He's been taken away and I can't find my Mother or your parents. I don't know what to do. The press are asking me for a comment from House Black. It's bad, Draco. It's really bad.
Hermione
Draco was too alarmed to give notice that Hermione had come to him for help as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He had immediately left the room and gone to the Headmistress, demanding an International Travel Pass. To the old witch's credit, she didn't even question him after seeing his expression. Still, he had to wait until the morning, when the Floo network reopened. It had seemed the longest night of his life. Deaths happened in the IDC, but not often, and the fallout largely depended on the victim.
As the light in his room brightened, he finished throwing the last few essentials into a bag and waved his wand before the fireplace. Green flames erupted, and he stepped inside.
Harry was sent back to Hogwarts in the early hours of the morning, before dawn had even broken. He was instructed to sleep, and that someone would be along to collect him first thing in the morning. Professor Black had been the one to escort him to his dormitory, and the man had a calming effect on Harry. He said little, but at the door to his room he had stopped and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, giving him a sad smile.
"The first time is the hardest," he said, quietly. "It gets easier."
Harry's stomach soured at that. He never wanted to see the light leave someone's eyes again. With dawning comprehension he realised that his life's ambition, to join the Death Eater's and distinguish himself in combat, would involve quite a lot of that. His whole life seemed to be tilting on it's axis. Simmons eyes were branded on his soul, and it felt as though nothing would ever be the same again.
Black had left him at the door, gently warning him not to speak to anyone about what had happened and try to rest. Harry wanted nothing more than to sink into a dreamless sleep, perhaps never to awaken, but he couldn't face the inevitable thoughts that would plague him as soon as he was alone in the dark. Plus, he had things to do tonight. If he was leaving Hogwarts in the morning, he had loose ends to tie up.
Casting the strongest disillusionment charm he knew upon himself, he fled Gryffindor tower, focusing only on the tasks ahead of him.
First, he visited the Marauders Room. As he crossed the threshold he was hit with a strong wave of of emotion. This place had become his private sanctum, his sanctuary from everything else. He had spent hours reading here, experimenting here. He'd often slept here when he needed time alone. As an orphan, he'd never had a space that was truly his, and this felt like the closest thing. He saw the room now with fresh eyes, committing it to memory. Moments later, he set to work. Conjuring a bag, he set to work packing his various books and belongings. The bag had an infinite extension charm; Hermione's work. At the thought of Hermione his stomach gave another jolt; what must she have thought, watching him kill that muggleborn girl? He shook his head to clear the thoughts. Focus. With some trepidation, he picked up the diary of Tom Riddle and placed it gently inside. He couldn't face the boy now, but the idea of leaving him here alone to fester for another five decades did uncomfortable things to his chest. He picked up the journals of Moony, the man who had hidden here during the war and packed those too, but not before disguising them. He did the same thing with the muggle books; both those that had been here originally, and the one's he had taken in his ventures to the muggle world.
He hesitated at the letter from Michael. He wanted to keep it, to remember that he'd had someone once, but it was too risky. Harry was cold tonight; forcing his emotions into lock down. He burned the letter quickly and efficiently, vanishing the ashes into oblivion. When he had finished his work, he left the room and set a powerful ward. It was selfish, but he didn't want anyone finding his little home whilst he was alive.
Bag in hand, he'd made his way down to the second floor girl's bathroom and with a quick word, was down in the Chamber. Where once the place had filled him with trepidation, he felt no nerves. Serefen stirred as he entered, seemingly surprised to see him there. He rarely came without warning.
"Ward, are you under attack?" came the deep, resonant voice of the basilisk. At some point in recent months, Serefen had stopped referring to him as 'speaker' and began to call him 'ward'. Although he didn't understand it, Ember had snippily informed him that this should be taken as the highest compliment.
Harry shook his head, trying not to let the misery in his heart shine through in his expression. "No, Serefen, but I'm leaving tonight."
The shrewd eyes of the basilisk observed him suspiciously. A distant part of Harry's eyes noted he was probably one of only two people to know that basilisks were so expressive.
"Leaving? Leaving where?" demanded Serefen. In his peripheral vision, Harry saw Ember entering the chamber from a nearby pipe.
"I made a grave error today, and killed someone," he said, finding it difficult to get his mouth to cooperate with the words he was trying to say. "I've been transferred to Durmstrang."
Serefen hissed with frustration, and Harry resisted the urge to finger his wand. He trusted the basilisk, but Serefen had an expectedly fiery temper.
"What error?" Ember asked, unusually serious.
Realising the company he was in, he felt embarrassment. Still, Serefen was waiting expectantly an answer and he didn't feel like arguing with the ancient snake. "I cast a spell using parseltongue. I didn't know what the effects would be, that it would be so overpowered, and it killed a witch," his voice barely grew louder than a whisper.
Serefen was quiet for a long moment, and Ember perplexed. Clearly his snake didn't know that a spell cast in Parseltongue would do such a thing either. Serefen began to speak carefully.
"Your spell was not 'overpowered' in the conventional sense, ward."
Harry glanced up, surprised. "Can you tell me what happened? I don't understand at all, Serefen. The spell I used was harmless."Serefen seemed to collect their thoughts, before continuing. "Do you know what evolution is, Harry?"
Harry nodded.
"Wizards and witches, over time, have developed a natural protection to magic cast on them; it's effective so long as the magic cast is not too strong, or dark. A powerful witch or wizard tends to have stronger internal protection, and that protection grows with age. As you no doubt know, conscious defensive magic is more effective against magic of the same language-" Harry nodded, surprised as he had never seen Serefen so talkative. "But unconscious magic is the same in all languages."
Harry felt only confusion. "So casting that spell should have been more effective against a latin defensive spell, but not to effective that it would kill her."
"That would be true," Serefen said patiently. "If Parseltongue were merely a magical language, but it is not. At least, not a magical language used by wizards."
Harry was perplexed. "I don't understand."
Serefen went on, unusually patient and forthcoming. Perhaps he looked as pathetic as he felt. "Parseltongue is not some dead wizarding language that a freak of nature allows you to know, ward. It is a birthright, and cannot be learned. It is a creature language, unusual in that it is transferable wand magic, powerful because ordinary wizards have no natural protection against it."
Harry thought for a moment, trying to discern what he was being told. "So I'm a creature?" he asked.
Serephen considered for a moment. "No," he said after a long, speculative pause. "The Parsel Magi died out millennia ago; they were a different species, and for the most part could not – and did not want to – breed with your kind. There were exceptions, however. You and Tom Riddle are descended from them, it would seem, but thousands of years have passed and that blood has diluted considerably. Salazar was only one sixteenth Parsel Magi himself. However, it would seem that you have enough of their genes to give you the gift of Parseltongue, and with it, it's power."
"Why have I never heard this before?" asked Harry, amazed. He was a thorough and well-read historian, and this wasn't the kind of thing Harry would miss. He'd even read many of the books he'd found in the chamber, where such information would surely be.
"Partly," Serephen said, "Because even a millennia ago, creature blood carried with it great stigma. Especially because the Parsel Magi rarely bred consensually. It was better to say it was merely a rare magical gift. The early descendants of the magi were exceptionally talented in the Dark Arts and so the powerful families excepted the young from these unions, but hid their parentage. Much of this was lost through time, and what remained was destroyed by Tom many years ago."
Harry had sat down. The conversation the best distraction he'd had all day. "Of course," he said, awestruck. "If Tom can cast in Parseltongue then defending yourself against him would be impossible. The magic is as strong as wizard magic but far enough removed that counter spells would be useless, and as you say, wizards have no natural protection against it. No one can stand against him if he uses parsel magic."Serephen did something then that Harry wasn't even sure a snake could do. He seemed to smile, or at least there was sufficient mischief in his yellow eyes to give that impression. "Not no one, ward."
Harry's eyes widened, as a rush of realisation swept through him like icy water. "Of course. That's why he's kept such an eye on me. I'm the only one who could possibly, even vaguely, stand a chance against him in a duel. This is how he took over the world."
"Careful, little one. Tom Riddle is still powerful in his own right. He's still a Dark Lord, practised in Magicks you have yet to even imagine. But yes, you are correct. Your language is the secret to much of Tom's dominion."
Harry laid back, staring at the ceiling of the Chamber in bewildered wonderment. "Why on earth as he let me live?"
"That," said Serephen. "is a very good question."
Harry had finished packing shortly before dawn. With Serefen's permission he had taken various artefacts from the Chamber, with a promise to return them when he could and arrange their return should he die. He had given Ember the option of remaining there, where she seemed to be happy. The snake had seemed affronted by the mere suggestion, and was now asleep in Harry's pocket; a comforting, warm weight.
He'd taken a walk across the fields to the broom-sheds where he'd retrieved his Firebolt, a gift from Draco, and packed that too. The early morning air seemed to clear his head and he began to calm down. Guilt still pressed against him, but he could only move forward now and deal with the fallout. Before he could truly be calm though, he needed to speak to his friends. He needed to break the news to them.
When Harry had finally returned to Gryffindor tower, shortly before the break of dawn, he found three figures waiting for him. Hermione, Blaise and Draco were sat keeping vigil by the portrait of the Fat Lady, who seemed to be under some sort of stasis charm. Probably to keep her quiet. He stood watching their drawn, worried faces for almost a minute before taking a deep breath and dropping the disillusionment charm. It took them a heartbeat to respond.
"Harry!" Hermione said, leaping up from her sitting position and into his arms. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug, and he held onto her for as long as he could hold his breath. Blaise and Draco were right by him, both looking concerned.
"Are you alright?" Draco demanded, paler than usual. "Father told me you'd been returned to the castle, but you weren't in your room."
Harry offered them a strained, fragile smile. "I had a few things to pack," he said, gesturing to the bag in his hand.
"Pack?" Blaise said, sharply.
There was a pregnant pause, before Hermione let out a breath of air. "You've been expelled?" she said, devastated. Merlin knew Hermione would see a premature end to his education as the worst possible outcome.
"Transferred," he said, quickly. "I'm being sent to Durmstrang."
Draco's eyes widened. "Fuck," he said, simply.
"What about the competition? Are you in a lot of trouble?" Hermione asked, frantic. "What even happened, Harry? I know you didn't mean to, but..."
Harry held up a hand, making Hermione taking a breath before she fainted from her frantic line of questioning.
"I'm to drop out of the competition, but the official story is that Jennifer Simmons died from complications from a birth defect. The real story is… I-I fucked up. I really fucked up- I didn't-"
He was losing the ability to speak, and his throat burned. He didn't seem to be able to get the world out. Hermione took his hand gently.
"Harry, it was an accident. Whatever happened, I know you, and it was just a tragic accident," she said urgently.
"I wasn't careful," he whispered. Strangely, it was Blaise's eyes he sought. "I tried something without even fully knowing what would happen, and then the worst happened."
Blaise held his gaze for a long moment. Somber, and serious. "Then honour that witch's memory, and never be so careless again."
"Blaise-" Draco began, angry at the perceived recrimination. Blaise didn't break eye contact with Harry, and strangely, it was the most comforting thing he'd heard all day. Harry nodded seriously.
There was a tense moment. "Harry is there no way around this?" Hermione asked, softly. "Durmstrang is a harsh place, and you'll be alone. Perhaps if I speak to my Mother-"
"No," Harry said immediately and firmly. "The Dark Lord ordered it himself. It's my punishment, Hermione. A girl died because of me, and the only reason I'm not before the wizagmont is that she happened to be muggleborn."
The idea had been playing in the back of his mind all day. At first, he'd imagined he'd be castigated for his actions. That society would cast him out, that he'd be executed for what he'd done, whether he'd intended it or not. As reason had returned, he realised how foolish he had been. Jennifer Simmons had been a muggleborn orphan and a barmaid; Harry was a half-blood, best friends and affiliated with the Malfoy's and the Blacks. Though his parents were traitors, his surname was as old as wizarding Britain. There was no way that even the press would blame him once Voldemort said he was innocent. And wasn't that just terrible? Ultimately he'd face no repercussions for what he'd done beyond what was essentially an extended grounding. No trial, and nor would there have been if he'd done it on purpose. Jennifer Simmons' stolen life would be forgotten, because the wizarding world hardly even accepted her existence. The thought put him in a black mood.
His friends didn't respond to that, but they crowded nearer to him, offering him comforting pats and awkward silences.
"Hermione, I'll be staying with you over the summer it seems," he finally said, his voice as bleak and tired as he felt. "I'll try to write before then, if I can. The Durmstrang representative will be here in less than an hour – I should go up."
His friends took it in turns to hug him, murmuring encouragements and consolations and promises that he barely heard. Draco, the last to say farewell, pushed something into his hand. Harry looked down to see a small compact mirror.
"Two-way," Draco said at his look. "I brewed the potion for it myself. Took a month. You don't need to be lonely, Harry. Don't isolate yourself."
His throat burned again. He could only nod, pull his friend into a second one-armed hug, and force himself through the portrait hole. His new life began tomorrow.
Please review so I know you don't hate me for this 3
