Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
Long chapter ahoy.
Chapter Nineteen: A Most Tumultuous First Day
Refusing people seems to have become a regular feature of my life, Harry thought. "No," he said aloud.
Camellia frowned and let one hand smooth across her head. She would probably regrow the hair that had burned in Snape's Ardesco at some point in the future, but Madam Pomfrey hadn't managed to save it. "It's true that we wouldn't have much to do in the school," she said, "but it would be a comfort for some of us to be close to our alpha. And—"
"There are many reasons I'd like you to stay away from Hogwarts," said Harry. "Most are practical. There are parents who won't like you so near their children. You won't have much to do there. Where you would stay becomes a problem. What happens if someone offends you near the full moon becomes a problem." Camellia flushed. Harry clenched his hand into a fist briefly, wishing that either Camellia or Snape would tell him what they'd said to each other. So far, though, Snape had refused with his silence and Camellia had simply refused. I cannot force it from them. "And what you would do if someone threatened me becomes a problem."
Camellia blinked. "It does?"
"Of course it does," said Harry. "The majority of the people who might threaten me at Hogwarts are children, Camellia. They do it because of a sudden flash of temper or because I've hurt a member of their family, not because they're Death Eaters." He resolutely pushed away the memory of those Death Eaters who had turned out to be present in Hogwarts last year. "They don't deserve the pack to pile snarling on them for that."
"You need someone to protect you," Camellia said.
"I'll have that," Harry said. "Peter will be there. Henrietta Bulstrode, whom I believe you mentioned being impressed with, will be there. McGonagall will be there, and while she can't protect me at the expense of other students, she won't let them hurt me just for amusement, either." He almost said Snape would be there, but he wasn't sure how much he wanted Snape to think about defending him. Better for him to concentrate on his healing. "Draco will be there, and he keeps a closer eye on me than anyone else. And Connor will be there. He's rash, but he's got much better at dueling now, and he's my brother."
For a moment, Camellia paced in a circle. Harry folded his arms. They were in the middle of the large room where the pack liked to sleep all together in a pile, but it was empty now. Harry supposed the others had wanted to leave him and Camellia some privacy. That wouldn't stop them from demanding to know what he had said when Camellia left the room, of course.
"Take a few from the pack with you," Camellia murmured, pleading. "Including me. And Trumpetflower. She's a pureblood witch. She could help you with your alliances. She knows things about wizarding society that I never will."
Harry let out a long breath, doing his best not to make it sound like a sigh. "I'm sorry. No. I've thought about this. If the werewolf situation wasn't so delicate right now, and if I thought I was in serious threat of bodily harm at Hogwarts, then yes, I might consider it. But not now."
Camellia dropped to a knee abruptly and bowed her head. Harry jumped and glanced over his shoulder, wondering if someone else had come in, but the study door was still firmly closed.
When he turned back, Camellia murmured, "Loki never—separated from us for as long a period as you plan on. He understood the closeness of pack to alpha, and why we need it. Please, I beg you, Wild, do as he did."
"Choose another alpha?" Harry asked.
Camellia jerked her head up, eyes frantic. "Of course not! Stay here with us, or allow us to follow you where you go."
"I'm sorry," Harry said softly. "I am willing to pass on the position of responsibility, but not to put you in danger, as you would be if you went out in public right now—especially as Loki's former pack." His letters and articles had not done the good Harry hoped they might. The Prophet exploded with more and more reports of fear each day, wondering if werewolves were conspiring to murder the whole of the Ministry and speculating that each unusual magical crime was the work of "werewolf anarchists." The full moon had passed, but the hysteria had not died out. Harry doubted it would any time soon.
"Most alphas would not do this," Camellia said, rocking back on her heels and staring at him.
"I know," said Harry. "Which might make me a good alpha for the summer, but not otherwise. But we should discuss this with the rest of the pack, Camellia. Allow them to make the decision whether they want me to remain in this position, or choose someone else."
Camellia bit her lip until a small trickle of blood ran down her chin. "There is no simply yielding to what we want, is there?" she asked.
Harry shook his head. "I used to do that," he said. "I've even done it recently. But not only is it impossible now with so many conflicting claims on me, it's insulting. Who am I to think that someone else can't function without my presence? Who am I to try to just offer comfort when comfort might not be what that other person wants?" He caught Camellia's eye. "If someone refuses to come to me and say what I can do to aid the festering wrong in her soul, then who am I to presume that I know what that wrong is and how to deal with it?"
Camellia's face flushed utterly red. She said, "There are—links that can be made even without your being a werewolf, Wild. A share in the packmind, for example. Then you could know what we think without our having to speak it aloud."
"I've read about that," said Harry. And he had, as he spent whatever free time he had in the last few days researching on the werewolf cure potion. "It means that I would consider the pack's priorities mine. Doesn't it?"
"Yes," said Camellia reluctantly. "Its purpose is to drown insecurities and help new werewolves feel welcome among their peers."
Harry reached down and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't. I can try to give you what you need, but I can't be just your alpha."
Camellia muttered something, but then stood, padding across the room to open the study door and summon the rest of the pack. Harry braced himself. He knew whom he would choose as alpha if the pack wanted a new one, but he had the sinking sensation that they would not.
Draco winced as the slam of a trunk lid echoed down the hall. Harry had been packed before last night, and Draco had carefully tucked his clothing and his textbooks away this morning. That left only one candidate who would have to make so much noise.
Draco slid out through the door of his and Harry's room and made his way towards Potter's. It stood half-open, so, satisfyingly, Draco was able to slide around it and into the room before Harry's brother noticed him. When he caught a glimpse of Draco from the corner of his eye, he yelped and stumbled over his feet, sitting down hard on his arse.
Draco fought to keep from laughing. In the end, he found that letting a small smirk cross his face got his point across so much more efficiently.
"Prat," Potter hissed at him, standing up. "What do you want?"
"I thought a herd of rampaging hippogriffs had broken into the house, and I was coming to defend Harry's property," Draco said lazily. His hand dropped to rest on his wand. "I see that wasn't necessary." He eyed Potter's trunks. One was shut, but barely so; the locking spell on it might falter at any moment. The other still stood open, and despite being filled with many shrunken packages, was near to overflowing. "Honestly, Potter, couldn't you pack with a bit more class?"
Potter twisted his head as if he intended to gnaw at himself like a dog with fleas. Draco did so hope that was his Animagus form; it would be amusing. "Am I disturbing your delicate sensibilities, Malfoy?" he asked. "Of course, that wouldn't be hard to do given that I'm a halfblood, would it?"
Draco felt most of the amusement leave him in a moment. He narrowed his eyes. Infuriatingly, this just made Potter smirk.
"I forgot that just being in the same house with someone like me made you disgusted," he mocked. Draco said nothing, but the effort it took him to do was enormous. "I forgot that you hate people for who their ancestors are, until, of course, you have to apply that hatred to yourself. Then you just insist the shagging didn't happen. Too late this time, I think. What with it splashed all over the front page of the newspaper—"
"Shut up," said Draco, and the effort it took him to do that instead of cast a curse was almost inhuman.
Potter rolled his eyes. "When you wake up to reality, Malfoy." He took a step forward. Draco wondered if this combination of rage and frustration was what Snape had felt before he cast Ardesco at the werewolf. "It's simple, really. You can't go on singing about your pureblood superiority the way you used to do without being a hypocrite. What's so hard to understand? Would you rather go on being a hypocrite? Or would you rather wake up and admit what the rest of us have known for two years—that you love someone who's part of that world you hate so much, so singing about pureblood superiority is just a bit of a conflict of interest? Doesn't it comfort you, your newfound heritage? It makes you more like Harry, after all, and that was what I thought you wanted."
Draco breathed through his nose, fighting away the temptation to leap out of his body and take possession of Potter's. Those words distracted him too much, bringing up memories of fourth year when he was desperate enough to risk his life on the chance that he could become magically equal to Harry, and made it the more likely that he would hurt the git if he controlled him now.
Potter took another step, and then his eyes went over Draco's head. Draco knew who was standing in the doorway, even before he smelled the scent of roses. This smelled like rose petals, actually, brewing in a potion. Draco congratulated himself for noting that subtle difference. That meant that Harry was quietly angry, and incredibly disgusted.
"That will be enough, Connor," said Harry. "Enough. Merlin. Do you use a Time-Turner that replaces you with your third-year self on occasion?"
Potter frowned, then swallowed, obviously dealing with painful memories of his own. "It was just insults," he said. "Not curses."
Harry came forward to stand next to Draco, and slip an arm around his waist. Draco again didn't have to say anything. He just raised his eyebrows. Potter flushed to the roots of his hair.
"Incredibly vicious insults, aimed to hurt," said Harry. "Aimed to push Draco over the border into striking at you, I should think. And that's just stupid, Connor. I might end up angry with Draco, but you'd also be hurt, and I don't think Draco would be as reluctant to tell me the truth about what happened as Snape was."
He glanced at Draco from the corner of his eye for confirmation, and Draco shook his head. Harry let out a sighing little breath, and then turned a look on Potter that made Draco chuckle. Potter glared. Harry didn't appear to have heard his laughter at all.
"And then I'd be angry with you." Harry's voice had dropped lower. "The way I am right now, as a matter of fact. This kind of stupidity ought not to happen even if you didn't have Snape and Camellia's example right in front of you. That you do makes it inexcusable."
"I'm sorry, Harry." Potter's eyes had lowered, and his face burned with such vivid color now that Draco wished Weasley was standing in the same room for comparison's sake. He'd always thought Weasley was the reddest blusher he'd ever seen, but now he wasn't sure. "But he did start it. He came into my room and asked me why I couldn't pack more quietly, and I said—"
"I heard what you said," Harry interrupted. "And the fact remains that you went too far, Connor. And it was calculated, not something you did innocently. I hate that. I'm not in the mood to talk to you much right now."
"I'm sorry—"
"Apologize to Draco, not me."
Potter glanced away. Draco looked at Harry in time to see his mouth tighten.
"I thought not," said Harry. "You really didn't care about hurting him." He let out a few controlled breaths, then said, "I thought the other things you did, the prank and the teasing the day the Grand Unified Theory was published, were either to try and make me have fun, or innocent, the mistakes of a child. Now I'm not so sure about that."
"Harry, I'm sorry, I said that—"
"And not to the right person." Harry shook his head, then turned away, speaking to Draco as if Potter had ceased to exist. "Are you all packed? I think we should leave for the station in fifteen minutes at the most. Granted, it won't take us a lot of time to walk from the Floo connection, but—"
Draco moved gracefully along at Harry's side, this time ignoring the temptation to glance back at Potter. Self-control made winning an argument so much more fun. His glee was the sweeter when he didn't show it.
Harry slipped the school robe over his head, grateful for the fact that the ride on the Hogwarts Express—the first one he'd taken since his first year—had been quiet. He doubted that would continue once he arrived at the school, but a period of time in which he could just talk to Draco, without someone appearing to demand his help or insult his boyfriend, was priceless.
He swallowed back anger at Connor. It was no use yelling. That wouldn't work. Lashing out with his magic was even less productive. Silent treatment and cold waiting worked best with Connor, giving him nothing to latch onto so that he could convince himself he was the poorly treated one—and giving his temper time to cool down, so he could actually think.
Harry would rather the whole insulting session this morning hadn't happened, of course. He had listened in growing disbelief; he had thought his brother more mature than that. And now it turned out he wasn't, and it had forced Harry to evaluate several things about the last few weeks that he had thought were innocent.
He was not pleased.
To keep himself from sliding back into brooding, he laughed wryly and shook his head. Simultaneous living. That's what has to happen. I'll have to change my mind all the time in the process of living. I keep saying that to people. It just struck a little closer to home this time than normal.
A swift movement outside the window caught his attention. Draco had gone to the loo, so Harry was alone in their compartment. He frowned and turned, keeping his body back from the window even as he craned his neck to look. Old lessons drummed in his head. If you're standing behind glass when it shatters, you'll take glass in the face, and won't be able to fight.
He could imagine that it was his own voice and not Lily's sometimes, if he concentrated.
The large, graceful shape that curvetted past the window, moving incredibly fast, couldn't be imagined to be anything other than what it was. A Granian, Harry thought. The swiftest of the flying horses, and probably the most beautiful; this one was dapple gray.
Harry remembered the symbol carved on the wooden coins that the attackers in the Ministry had thrown at him and Draco, and prepared a Protego to shield himself against flying glass. A hoof could cave in the window quite easily.
The Granian didn't kick it in, however. It flew past again, or perhaps that was a different one. Harry could make out a rider in robes on its back, but not much else, given its speed. The rider had his hood pulled over his face, anyway.
Harry narrowed his eyes. What in the world are they trying to accomplish? It's not as if attacking me would do much good now, when they've forewarned me. And they can't see much through the windows if it's simply regular spying. Accompanying the train until it enters an ambush? Once again, they shouldn't have shown themselves. What are they—
"Harry!"
Argutus settled like a warm loop around his head and shoulders. Harry put up his hand to stroke him, while watching as the same Granian, or another, went past a third time. No, definitely not spying, not when they don't slow down enough to peer in the train. "Not now, Argutus. I'm watching—"
"There's an omen!"
Harry glanced down at the shimmering coils wreathed around his neck, and caught his breath. Gray shapes moved above a long, dark one vaguely recognizable as the Hogwarts Express; the vision sharpened as he watched. In the midst of it was a crouching figure with white-blond hair.
And Harry remembered the angle of the wooden coins thrown during the attack in the Ministry, and understood what Shield of the Granian wanted.
The coins came from the side. They could have thrown them more directly at me, if I'm really the one they wanted to hurt, or at Camellia and Rose, if they were the targets.
They were aiming for Draco. And swooping around up here keeps my attention away from what's happening in the back of the train.
Harry turned and held out his hand. The door of the compartment came flying open, and almost off its hinges. Harry ducked out and past the students who were traveling from one compartment to another as the Express slowed, or seeking a private place to change into school robes. He felt his elbows impact with ribs, and he stumbled on cloth, and there was indignant squealing from throats all around him.
Shit. They're going to keep me from getting to Draco in time, Harry thought.
Then Argutus reared up on his shoulder, and gave a hiss that echoed up and down the train. The students nearest to Harry wasted no time plastering themselves against the walls. Harry ran up the corridor towards the back of the train. Over the clatter of the wheels on the track and the shrill whistle, he still thought he could hear a sharp, scraping sound—like the impact of hooves with metal.
A burly Gryffindor seventh-year loomed in front of him, the Head Boy badge gleaming on his chest. Harry had no time to stop and see who it was, and he didn't care about the arm lifted to stop him. He simply dropped and rolled under it, then came back to his feet just beyond and pounded on.
A pale flash from the side, and then he heard a fired curse, followed by one of the more ordinary variety. Harry whipped himself around, feet skidding as he halted his momentum, and Argutus hissed in protest as his shoulder impacted hard with the wall.
Draco was crouching in an empty compartment, his wand lifted and still trembling with the aftermath of cast magic. He wore his school robes, tie, and the Prefect's badge that had come to him since Blaise Zabini had left the school last year. A small hole had been stamped in the roof above him, and Draco had probably thrown his spell through that. Given the speed of the Granians, Harry wasn't at all surprised that he'd missed.
"Draco!"
He turned and glanced at Harry, and at that moment something small fell through the hole, aiming straight at him. Harry caught a glimpse of glass, and all his senses trembled with ringing magic of the kind he had faced in the Ministry when the Unspeakables cast a similar globe at him.
He didn't have much time to make a decision. He thrust out his hand and shouted, "Accio globe!"
The glass projectile changed direction in midair and flew at him. Harry ducked to avoid letting it touch his bare skin, and heard it hit the compartment door above him and shatter.
Whatever had been inside it fell on him. Harry twisted again, trying to make sure the brunt didn't hit Argutus. He felt some kind of wet dust drape his face, and a bruising sensation grabbed his belly.
The sensation quickly grew worse, and Harry felt his head roll towards his belly, as if he were a carpet. He braced his own magic against it.
And felt, impossibly, his own magic drain away from him. He might as well have tried to grip running water.
"Harry!"
Draco could have been shouting for help, or shouting his name in distress. Harry didn't know. What mattered was that he had to understand what was happening to him before he could stop it.
His magic continued to run away from him, contracting inside him. Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on his scar. No, Voldemort was not nearby, and he didn't think any other absorbere existed in Britain right now. It wasn't that.
Golden light filled his vision, and deafening phoenix song his ears. And then there was familiar pain in his head.
The phoenix web, Harry thought in incredulity. No. How is it returning? I didn't hear anyone say the incantation, and it would explain why my magic is diminishing, but—
And then he realized his body felt strangely light, except for an unfamiliar weight at the end of his left wrist. Opening his eyes confirmed it. His limbs were smaller, and he had—
He had two hands again.
They're turning me younger. And putting the phoenix web back on me at the same time.
The dust in the globe!
He lifted a frantic hand to wipe at his face, and then felt a tongue sweep past his fingers, picking it up. Argutus let out a surprised hiss a moment later, and his weight on Harry's shoulders abruptly lessened, but he didn't stop licking at the dust.
Draco was shouting somewhere in there too, and water struck Harry's face, sluicing off some of the dust. Harry spat, in case it had got in his mouth, and rubbed his back and shoulders frantically against the wall. He couldn't do anything with his magic, which kept slipping away from him when he reached it. He suspected that the changes the phoenix web had gone through when he was thirteen or twelve were so numerous that his magic couldn't keep adjusting to them so fast, and couldn't remain available to him.
Draco shouted again, and then Harry hissed as all the moisture vanished from his skin—the dust, his sweat, the slick wetness Argutus had left behind as he licked at him. His mouth hurt terribly, as dry as it was, but he had stopped changing. He had control of his magic again.
He opened the gulf of his absorbere ability as wide as it would go, and began to swallow the foreign magic of the dust that still lingered on him. It was an odd sensation, as if the snake he envisioned the magic-swallowing gift as were steadily lengthening. The magic gushed into him, and Harry felt his bones creak as he grew again. The phoenix web blew past his eyes in a confused flurry of light and song, and vanished.
And the hand he had resting on his left cheek vanished.
Harry grimaced, but didn't allow himself to stop draining the magic until he was sure there was none of the dust left. Then he could open his eyes and nod to Draco, licking his lips to urge some saliva into his mouth.
"Clever, with the dehydration spell," he murmured. "Thank you."
Draco nodded, and turned around to stare at the hole in the ceiling of the compartment again. "What was that?" he demanded. "Why in the world were they attacking us like that?"
Harry shook his head, unable to talk more right now. He looked at Argutus. The Omen snake was smaller, but not as young as Harry had feared. He was darting his tongue out thoughtfully now.
"It tastes like mice," he explained, when he caught Harry watching him.
Harry snorted in helpless laughter, even as he scanned Draco once more. "They didn't hit you with anything?"
"No, only you." Draco had put his wand away, but the hand he touched his face with shook. "Why did they do that?"
Harry waved his hand at the wall of the compartment. "Speculum caelum," he whispered, and a small, transparent mirror appeared in his palm. Harry studied it closely. It showed the sky outside the Express, and while the sky gleamed with gray clouds, as was usual this time of year in Scotland, he could see no sign of Granians.
"I suppose they attacked trying to deage you," he said. "But they didn't have any other weapons that would do it, and they didn't want to attack the train as a whole. They probably have some children on here themselves. When they realized the attack had failed, they fled."
"That was aimed at me?"
Harry looked up. "Of course it was," he said. "So was the attack in the Ministry. They threw the coins from your side. I was near enough that I could have been hurt, but you're what they wanted."
Draco's mouth tightened. "Trying to cripple you?"
"I would assume so," said Harry, "but assumptions are stupid at this point. It could also have been a strike at your father, or trying to remove you from the game. If someone had heard rumors of your possession ability, for example, they might think you're too dangerous to live."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "I used it on the battlefield with the Death Eaters," he said. "And I told Scrimgeour about it."
"I don't want to think that the Minister told anyone," said Harry. "But with the Unspeakables involved? That globe they flung was an Unspeakable artifact. I think we can safely assume that. They could have read it out of Scrimgeour's mind, or he might have told them because he assumes he can trust them." He hesitated, then added reluctantly, "Or perhaps they sensed you moving through their minds that day I visited Scrimgeour with the Pensieve, and just waited until now to get their revenge."
"They can't have been responsible for that first attack, if that's the case," Draco reminded him.
"I know," said Harry. "But I think this is an alliance between Shield of the Granian and the Unspeakables. The Unspeakables would have used a more direct kind of attack if they were working on their own, after what happened at the Maenad Press."
Draco nodded. "So we can't be sure what they want, but we can be sure that they want to attack me as well as you."
"That's right." Harry studied him again. Draco still remained unwounded, but the look in his eyes… Harry held out his arms.
Draco shook his head, but came over and embraced him. Argutus wriggled out of the way with a complaint about being smothered. Harry focused his magic on the Omen snake for a moment. He could sense no adverse effects from the dust. Argutus had grown younger again, smaller, about the size he'd been before the last time he shed his skin. But the dust didn't appear to be a poison.
Of course not, Harry thought, remembering the facts Honoria had learned from Hornblower. They seek to capture, not kill.
He gave a violent shiver and tightened his hold on Draco. Draco didn't move, didn't object, didn't say anything, but Harry could feel the tension in his muscles as he leaned his head on Harry's shoulder.
All they've done is earn themselves another enemy, Harry thought, and used that idea to distract himself from thoughts of what would have happened if Draco had died or been captured.
Harry couldn't help keeping an eye on the heavens as they climbed out of the carriage near the front doors of Hogwarts, but he still saw nothing. It was evening, anyway, and the clouds were drawing in, spitting rain. Not ideal Granian flying weather, but then, the Express was hardly an ideal place for them to attack.
He stepped up to the front of the carriage and spent a moment touching the noses of the thestrals who drew it. The great horses turned their heads and watched him. Stroking their fur left a slick of cool dampness on Harry's skin, but he didn't mind. It grounded him, and made the thoughts chasing around his head settle.
"I have to go to the Headmistress before the Sorting Feast begins," he explained, when he saw Draco watching him. "She needs to know about the attack on the Express, and I don't think it can wait until tomorrow."
Draco nodded. "I'm coming with you."
Harry relaxed. Stupid as it might be, he didn't want Draco out of his sight right now.
He strode into Hogwarts, making for the Headmistress's office, Draco keeping pace with him all the way. People called out his name, and Harry waved at them distractedly. He wanted to talk about multiple things with everyone around him, yes, but informing McGonagall was his priority for right now.
"Harry!"
That was Connor's voice, coming from behind him. Harry's back tightened, and he heard Draco make a noise like a tiger interrupted at dinner. But he kept walking, counting footsteps in his mind, and ducked away neatly just as Connor's hand tried to clamp down on his shoulder blade.
"Where were you going so fast?" Connor demanded, sprinting around in front of him. His hazel eyes were too bright, his cheeks flushed with more than the effort of running. "What happened on the train?"
"An attack," said Harry shortly. "If you really want to hear about it, come with us so that you can be there when we tell McGonagall. We don't want to linger now, and we don't want to tell the story twice." He heard Draco's noise stop. Well, good. Perhaps it's knowing I won't make an exception for Connor.
"I wanted to apologize," Connor said. "And see if you were all right. And, Harry—"
"Later, Connor. Come with us or stay behind." Harry turned intently towards the stairs. He didn't look back to see if Connor was following or not. McGonagall might already be on her way down with the Sorting Hat, and he didn't want to delay the Feast too long, either.
He met her on the stairs a few meters from her office. McGonagall wore slightly fancier robes than she had last year. Harry wondered if she were moving slowly into the role Dumbledore had occupied before he fell, then dismissed the notion. He had a story to tell first.
"Harry," McGonagall said, frowning. "Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter." From that last, Harry knew Connor must have followed them after all. "What happened?"
"An attack on the train," said Harry, and saw her eyes darken. This was the Headmistress he remembered from the time Rovenan had used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on him last year. "Several Granian-riders cut a hole in the compartment where Draco changed his robes and then dropped an artifact at him. I'm sure the artifact came from the Department of Mysteries. It was a small globe filled with the magic of time, and when it shattered, it dropped a wet dust that succeeded in reversing time for me to the point where I was twelve or thirteen. By the time I fought free of it with Draco's help, the Granians were gone." With each word, it seemed, the Headmistress's face grew grimmer, and Harry finished with, "I'm not sure if another attack like that will happen again. I did want to warn you."
"You did the right thing, Mr. Pott—Harry," said McGonagall, shaking her head. She had been one of those who had a hard time adapting when he renounced his last name, Harry thought, and the habit of four years was still difficult for her to break. "We will speak more of this later, when the Feast is done. There are things I have been meaning to discuss with you anyway." She paused, studying him. "For now, I will say that I take your safety as seriously as I take the safety of any student here. I will not tolerate your enemies following you onto Hogwarts grounds in order to take revenge or pursue their political disagreements. I ask that you take reasonable precautions, and keep your sworn companions or others with you as much as possible."
Harry nodded. Owen and Michael would be happy to take up the slack where they could, and he had no intention of doing without their guardianship, if only because it would also provide protection for Draco. "Thank you, Madam."
McGonagall nodded, and then swept past them. She wasn't quite as intimidating as Snape, Harry thought, but she looked regal.
He turned around, and Connor was staring at him. "All of that really happened?" he asked in a small voice.
"Yes," Harry said. He wondered if he should refrain from saying anything else—he was still angry at Connor because of what had happened this morning—but decided that a few words would do him more good than silence right now. "I don't appreciate threats to Draco," he told Connor. "Of any kind."
Connor flushed as he had that morning, and nodded, stepping out of the way. Harry paused, but he made no apology as he'd said he wanted to. Harry hissed between his teeth and headed back down the stairs.
Draco waited until they were away from Connor to speak, at least, which was an unanticipated courtesy. "I can defend myself, Harry. Does that mean I can hex him with your approval, if he threatens me again?"
Harry glanced at him sideways. "You're more likely to get in trouble for it here," he said. "House points taken, and all."
"Mother taught me to recognize that," Draco said, his face relaxing into a smile for some absurd reason. "It's called 'dodging the question,' Harry."
Harry sighed. "As you pointed out, you can defend yourself," he said. "And I concede the point that Connor's motives are not what I thought they were. On the other hand, think about the consequences of hexing anyone who annoys you, Draco. There are more Slytherin ways to go about things."
Draco considered that as they passed into the Great Hall and headed for the Slytherin table; they were nearly the last to arrive, but Millicent had saved them places next to her. Just as they sat down, the smile returned, a near-smirk this time, blossoming across Draco's face.
"Hmmm," was the only thing he said.
Harry shook his head and turned his attention to the first of the first-years, sitting under the Hat. He couldn't plan ahead for what might happen between Draco and Connor. That was insulting to them, too, at least as much as to imply that Draco couldn't defend himself. He could only react as things happened, and hope they didn't hurt each other too badly.
And that neither of them crosses the alliance oaths, and forces me to cast them out. Connor had sworn to the Alliance of Sun and Shadow the day after Harry brought him back from Lux Aeterna.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat shouted. The small, dark-haired girl whipped it from her head, beaming, and ran for their table.
Harry shouted a welcome as his contribution to the applause of his Housemates, and decided to think about nothing for a time but guessing where the first-years would go.
Minerva nodded as the last of the first-years went into Ravenclaw, and then stood. For a long moment, she scanned the Great Hall, letting her eyes rest on an anxious face there, a perturbed one here, someone red-faced and on the verge of crying—that was a first-year in Gryffindor, obviously stunned by his Sorting into that House, whom she would make sure to bring to Peter's attention—and then sweep down the head table. Peter gave her a calm look. Henrietta Bulstrode was grinning; she did that often. Severus sat in silence with his Seer beside him, white to the lips. That, too, had become usual in the past few days.
She looked at Harry last. He had a composed mask on, and seemed to be waiting for her speech with as much impatience as any other teenage boy, so that he could eat.
Minerva let out a deep breath, and began.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," she said. "Welcome to our new students and our old—and to our new professors as well. Peter Pettigrew will be taking over from Acies Merryweather as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts and Head of Gryffindor House." A smattering of polite applause for that, mostly from the Gryffindors; they hadn't had the time to get to know Peter last year, as he'd only been at Hogwarts for a few short weeks before the Midsummer battle. "Hilda Belluspersona is our new Transfiguration Professor." That brought some more clapping. Minerva wondered if it came from the fact that Henrietta looked more approachable, or from the fact that Peter had a criminal record.
She braced her hands on the table and leaned forward. The easy part of her speech was over.
"The events of the end of last year have revealed a few simple truths," she said. "I hope that you will keep those truths in mind as you attend Hogwarts this year." Albus, she reflected, would have arranged for the older students to hear this in private—but then, Albus had recruited the older students, mostly Gryffindor ones, as soldiers in the last war. Minerva did not intend to do so, and she also did not intend to let her charges die for lack of information.
"We are at war," she said, and heard some of the first-years suck in their breaths. "Some of you have fought in that war. Others were victims of it, or related to its victims. Lord Voldemort may attack again. The wards are strong, and our determination to protect you is stronger, but if we forget we are at war, terrible things may happen." She suppressed a grim smile she doubted her students would understand, and made sure it came out as more comforting. Alastor Moody had spent a good amount of the summer at Hogwarts, setting up wards that mimicked the ones on the secure portions of the Ministry. She supposed his theme of constant vigilance had worked its way into her own head.
She had reason of her own to believe it, of course. She had lived through the war with Grindelwald, though she had been a student herself at the time, and then through the First War with Voldemort. It had been Albus's leadership she'd looked to for comfort two decades ago, but the first time, she had invented and repeated her own maxim to herself, again and again. Lions do not sleep in times of danger.
And if she was a lioness now, all these children were her cubs. She was not about to close her eyes and leave them vulnerable.
Or to each other.
"Those terrible things often involve students at Hogwarts turning on each other," Minerva told her students, who were listening to her in a silence that seemed to ring with other voices shouting her words. "Traitors can break the strongest wards, the most vigilant guardianship. Traitors are not doubters, I would have you understand. Doubting, thinking, questioning, are necessary to keep our heads in war.
"Fear makes good traitors. And anyone in the school who become so afraid as to curse another student on purpose, hurt someone else over politics, or try and give up Hogwarts to Voldemort and his servants in return for personal safety is a traitor."
Minerva cocked her head, feeling the weight of all those stares on her. But she would not become bowed by that weight, as Albus had. She would make sure that her choices were made with eyes open.
"I will not ask you not to be afraid," she said. "I will ask you to come to us if you fear, and talk to your fellow students instead of using your wands on them. We would always rather hear of terror now than suffer the consequences of it later. We are at war, and ripping ourselves apart from the inside, no matter how good the apparent cause, solves nothing."
There. That speech should tell them that she wouldn't tolerate attacks on Harry for "causing" the war, or the agitations between Light and Dark families being fought out inside the school, or those students afraid of werewolves attacking those sympathetic to them.
Harry might still hold his strength back. I will not. My school will not become a battleground.
Hermione lingered at the Gryffindor table even when Ron glanced at her a time or two, obviously expecting her help with leading the first-years up to the Tower. Hermione waited until she saw Zacharias approaching her, and then made a shooing gesture at Ron. He frowned, but turned to the first-years—especially the small boy who had begun to cry when the Hat shouted his House name—and began explaining the route.
Zacharias was almost to her now. Hermione could make out the thunderous frown on his face. She braced herself. She had expected something intense to happen when Zacharias refused to discuss GUTOEKOM in his letters to her, and simply ignored her when she did try to broach the subject. From his expression, it was not going to be anything good.
What he didn't seem to realize was that he couldn't intimidate her.
Zacharias halted, and kept frowning. The badger scar high on his cheek, which he had received when he summoned Helga Hufflepuff's spirit into his body during the Battle of Hogwarts, made him look stronger and more serious than Hermione remembered, as if it diminished the lines sarcasm had carved on his face. He had also grown during the summer, and stood taller than she did. Hermione didn't care. She waited.
She had acquired a copy of the entire book about the Grand Unified Theory before she came back to Hogwarts, and devoured it in three fascinated days. If it was true—and no one had yet managed to prove it wrong—then it meant she belonged in the wizarding world just as much as any pureblood who might despise her for being born of Muggle parents. She didn't have to keep her eyes on the ground and apologize any more for not having the right "blood," or even have her only source of satisfaction be that she could learn the dances well and thus trick other wizards into thinking she did have the right blood.
Magic chose me to wield it, she thought, heart beating hard with wonder. Who are they to dispute that choice?
"You know what I feel about the Grand Unified Theory, I think," Zacharias said, in that pompous manner he had.
"You think it's a load of bollocks," said Hermione.
Zacharias blinked, then gave a short nod of acceptance. "I do. And I just want to make it clear that I haven't changed my mind about marrying you as soon as we leave school, Hermione." She fought to keep from gritting her teeth at the smug assurance in his voice that that would happen. He hasn't changed so much after all. "There's some anti-Muggleborn sentiment running high even in my family right now, but it'll pass. Just don't insist that it's true to my mother, and—"
"Why shouldn't I insist it's true?" Hermione asked, not loudly. Her voice was still keen enough to make him shut up, even to surprise a gape out of him. She went on. "I've read the research, Zacharias. It's brilliant. And it makes so much more sense than trying to say that purebloods always breed true—except when they suddenly have Squib children, or when magic suddenly shows up in a family that's never had magic before. They had statistics, Zacharias. The number of times that Muggleborn witches and wizards turn out to have Squib ancestors in the last five generations is just above zero. And did you know that the births of Muggleborns increased during those years when the purebloods almost interbred themselves out of existence? Magic was going to return to the world somehow, even if it wasn't in the families who thought they should always have it."
Hermione was aware that her voice had risen. She didn't care. What Thomas Rhangnara and the others had done was brilliant, and she hadn't seen any defense against it so far that didn't consist of covering one's ears and bawling.
Including, it seemed, Zacharias's. He was puffed up like a cat about to attack. He snorted. "That's not true," he said.
"Yes, it is," said Hermione, and took a step towards him. "Have you read the report?"
"Of course not. It's—"
"A load of bollocks, yes, I know," said Hermione. "I know you think that. I was just trying to determine whether that came from direct experience, or the load of bollocks that determines one can know the contents of a book without having read it."
Zacharias's face was such a deep red that Hermione might have been tempted to fear for his health, except that she knew he didn't have any heart problems; he'd told her so himself last year, when bragging about the physical and magical health of his family. He'd wanted her to know so that she didn't have to worry about her children carrying any taint, he'd said.
Except the taint of having a Muggleborn mother, apparently, Hermione thought, as she watched Zacharias try to wriggle out of it.
"It's more complicated than purebloods never having problems, of course it is," he said, voice obviously on the verge of snapping like rotten ice. "But that doesn't mean the research is true, Hermione. If it were, it would mean that the old families really aren't anything special—"
Hermione smiled.
It was all she had to do. Zacharias jerked as if stung, and said, "You can't think that. Not with everything I told you about the Smith family, everything my ancestors have done."
"I wasn't impressed with your blood," said Hermione. "Never with that. I was impressed because you were intelligent, and because you rode into battle and gave yourself over to Helga's spirit without knowing if you would come back, and because you told me that you loved me and thought I was intelligent." She lifted her chin. "I never cared about who your parents were, Zacharias, and I thought you didn't care that much about mine. I was wrong, wasn't I?"
"It's more complicated than that," Zacharias said.
"I can see that," said Hermione. "That's the great thing, don't you see?" She had to fight the impulse to extend a hand to him. One couldn't compromise when arguing with Zacharias, or he would mistake it for capitulation. "That magic doesn't just follow bloodline, that it means so many different things and chooses so many different people to wield it. That's so much more interesting and marvelous than just trotting along with blood. It's brilliant."
Zacharias shook his head, lips pursed and nostrils flaring, and turned away from her.
Hermione became aware, then, of how many people were watching them. She lifted her head, though she flushed when she saw Hannah Abbott's eyes shining, and Colin Creevey looking at her the way he usually only looked at Harry or Connor. It was the first time she could remember that people had admired her for something other than her marks or how much she could help them with their homework.
And it will go on that way, she thought. I have no plans to abandon what I think any time soon. Especially if Zacharias continues to insist on the research not being true without ever having read it.
Draco supposed he should have helped the other Slytherins Prefects take the first-years down to the dungeons, but there were plenty of them who could do that, and it wasn't as though the dungeons were very far away from the Great Hall. He would much rather accompany Harry to the meeting with McGonagall he had after dinner, and when he mentioned that, Harry nodded without hesitation.
"As long as the Headmistress doesn't object," he said.
"I can't imagine why she would," Draco murmured, eyes on Harry as they stood and walked towards the gargoyle again. Perhaps they would make it without being stopped by Harry's prat of a brother this time. Draco would prefer that.
He had thought about what his vengeance on Potter should be while eating dinner—well, while he and the other Slytherins ate dinner, and Harry ate from a case of food he'd brought along with him from Cobley-by-the-Sea. (Harry was really taking this determination not to live on any house elf labor too far). McGonagall talking about what she would do to students cursing other students meant hexing was out, even before Harry had reminded him that there were more Slytherin ways to take vengeance. And Draco had to admit, his experience with Potter that morning had reminded him how enjoyable it could be to hand his victims just enough rope to hang themselves with.
He now thought he could get to Harry's brother by flaunting how close he was to Harry, and slowly taunting Potter into rages. Much the same tactic the git had used on him, actually, but with Draco in control this time.
It would have to be a careful plan, because Harry would hate it if he found out, and there was the strong chance Potter would tell Harry if he figured it out. But it couldn't be too subtle, or a Gryffindor wouldn't notice in the first place. Draco found himself getting more interested in the challenge the more consideration he gave it. It would occupy him whenever he wasn't bedding Harry, studying for classes, working his contacts in the Ministry, or trying to figure out who had wanted to kill him.
Draco frowned slightly as Harry caught the Headmistress just outside her office and spoke to her in a conversation he didn't need to hear, since it included unnecessary apologies for the inconvenience to her. Did he really believe Shield of the Granian had come after him because of his possession gift?
No, he thought. The Unspeakables likely wouldn't have let me leave the Ministry that day if they'd sensed me in their minds. I still think they were doing it to hurt or cripple Harry somehow. Merlin knows he goes a bit mad if he thinks I'm in danger.
"Mr. Malfoy, follow along, please."
With a start, Draco looked up and realized that he'd missed McGonagall speaking to the gargoyle and opening the moving staircase. With a short nod, he stepped onto it after her and Harry, and heard the gargoyle grind shut behind them.
"In truth, Harry, I was concerned about your safety at Hogwarts even before you reported this attack," McGonagall said.
Only last year, Draco thought, Harry would have done something idiotic like insist that Shield of the Granian had been after Draco, and not him. Instead, he just nodded in resignation. Perhaps he's remembering that he actually did get hurt in the attack, Draco thought. Watching Harry shrink and lose his magical strength had been bloody terrifying.
Watching his left hand appear and then disappear again had been—painful. Draco shook his head to get rid of such thoughts and focused on the conversation in front of him.
"I don't see what else can be done about it though, Madam," Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We have the wards. We have my magic. We have Owen and Michael, who've sworn to me. We have Peter, and Mrs. Bulstrode, and Draco." He smiled at Draco, who smiled back. "But if my enemies plan enough, then all of those advantages can be bypassed."
They reached the office, and McGonagall walked in ahead of them, sitting down behind her desk with a nod. "I know that, Harry. But there are a few options I wished to ask you about. For one thing, Mrs. Gloryflower has contacted me. She wishes to present Hogwarts itself with a gift of artificial animals, watching over the students. They would help anyone in danger, but, of course, they would be focused on you in particular."
"What kind of animals?" Harry asked, as he and Draco took chairs in front of McGonagall's desk.
McGonagall reached behind herself. Draco was impressed to note that the office looked different than it had last year, when McGonagall had still had the odd artifact from Dumbledore's days about, and plenty of his paperwork. Now she had emptied the office of the artifacts and lined the walls with neat bookcases instead. The Sorting Hat went to the highest shelf, in a place of honor. A richly-decorated sword Draco remembered seeing clutched in a phoenix's talons in the Chamber of Secrets hung in a glass case on the wall behind her. The perch that phoenix, Fawkes, had once graced stood in a corner, in silent memorial to the bird who had died at Midwinter. Draco restrained himself from peering under the desk to see if there was a cat basket and balls of yarn there. All in all, it was a room that his mother might well have called elegant.
"Butterflies," said McGonagall now, turning around and holding her palm out.
Harry laughed in delight. Draco snapped his attention back, and saw that the butterfly in question was silver, ornamented with delicate blue-green tourmalines along its wings. It rose into the air with a quiver, and then darted up in front of Harry, hovering there.
"They would roam about the school," McGonagall said, "watching, and able to alert any professor at once if there was danger. Mrs. Gloryflower also said that they could harm those who might attempt to harm another, if no help can come in time." She took the butterfly back and touched its wings. When she held it up again, Draco could see thin, sharp blades springing out from beneath the tourmalines. He blinked, then did another once-over of the butterfly sitting in McGonagall's palm. Light families can create some dangerous creatures when they want to, I suppose.
"And they can't be fooled into attacking an innocent person?" Harry asked.
McGonagall shook her head. "Nor is that all," she said. "Mrs. Gloryflower said that you had written her at one point before the Midsummer battle, and asked if she had any ideas for making you appear more Light and less Dark in the eyes of your Light allies."
Harry exhaled, and nodded. "Yes. What did she decide on?"
"She has a young cousin who has been tutored out of Hogwarts to become a war witch," said McGonagall carefully. "I have agreed to let the girl transfer here. She would be a sixth-year, as you are. Her name is Syrinx. Mrs. Gloryflower asks whether you would be willing to accept her as a sworn companion, as the Rosier-Henlin twins are."
Draco scowled. He had almost forgotten about the twins, even with Harry talking about them. He disliked the idea that they would be around Harry most of the time, and that now a stranger would be joining them. At least the twins were a year older than he and Harry were, and Syrinx was a girl, so they couldn't share the same room with them.
Draco smiled. He had plans for that room empty of everyone but Harry and himself, given that Vince, Greg, and Blaise had all vanished as the years passed.
"Of course, if she was willing." Harry's voice was resigned, but not actually resentful. "What else, Madam?"
"I give you a certain amount of leeway," McGonagall said. Draco looked at her, and realized her eyes were half-lidded, so that she looked more like a cat watching a mousehole than she usually did. "For example, allowing your allies to meet on school grounds, and permission to attend the alliance meeting that you organized in the spring, though it meant missing several days of classes."
Harry nodded. "I know, Madam."
"I will continue to grant you that leeway," said McGonagall. "As long as you remember that you are also a student, Harry, and subject to the rules of Hogwarts, particularly the ones I detailed at the Sorting Feast. Do well in your classes. Defend yourself as you must, but I would prefer that you curse no one, and do not attack."
Draco opened his mouth to protest. What would happen if the student in question was a legitimate threat to Harry, as several of the Ravenclaws had been last year, and twisted what had happened around to make it look as though Harry had attacked them?
Harry's face, though, registered actual admiration, and respect. "Thank you, Madam," he said, bowing his head. "It's good that Hogwarts has a Headmistress who cares more about the safety of her charges than her image, as Dumbledore did. Don't worry. I won't have trouble restraining myself."
McGonagall nodded, a sharp gleam entering her eyes. Draco wondered if she had already known that Harry was extremely unlikely ever to need the warning, and had used this as a test of sorts.
He must have made some discontented little noise, because abruptly the Headmistress was looking at him. Draco strove to put his chin up, despite his discomfort. He was just as glad that he wouldn't have to have this woman for his NEWT Transfiguration class.
"Mr. Malfoy," said McGonagall coolly. "I am still not entirely sure how far I can trust you, but circumstances being what they are, you are also in a position to cause more trouble than the average student. I expect you to abide by the rules of conduct I spoke of at the Sorting Feast, as well."
Draco inclined his head stiffly. "Of course, Headmistress," he said. I'm hardly going to let you catch me, you old cat.
McGonagall went on staring at him long enough to make him wonder if she had been a Legilimens all along, and then nodded. "Good." She looked back at Harry once more. "I think you may go to the dungeons now, Harry."
"Thank you, Madam," said Harry, and stood. "I'll speak to Mrs. Gloryflower myself and thank her for the butterflies and Syrinx's presence. I'm glad you've agreed to them."
Draco kept his face smooth as they left the office. He wondered if Harry would say something to him about the attack, or the talk with McGonagall, or even her parting words to him, but Harry said, apparently out of the air, "Are you all right, Draco?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Draco frowned. Did I show something on my face? I didn't mean to.
Harry turned to face him on the moving staircase, holding his arm and staring into his eyes. "Because you looked upset when McGonagall mentioned Syrinx Gloryflower. I wanted to make sure you'd agreed to her presence."
Draco felt a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't feel bad about Harry noticing that, even though it did confirm that he needed to keep his face more controlled. He leaned nearer Harry and kissed him. Harry accepted it, languidly moving his hand from Draco's arm to the nape of his neck, but pulled back a few moments later and gave him a serious look.
"I'll survive," Draco said. "And if you treat her with cool consideration, and no more than that, I'll have no reason to get jealous."
Harry smiled. "There's no chance it would be more than friendship, in any case," he said. "Why should it be, when I already have the one person I really want?" He kissed Draco again.
Draco let thoughts of vengeance go for right now. "About our bedroom," he began.
"What about—" And then Harry caught on, and his eyes widened. "We could Transfigure the beds, if we wanted," he breathed. "No one else will be in there."
"Exactly," said Draco. "I have a lot of plans for that privacy. And a brand new book on locking charms, in case anyone interrupts us."
Harry seemed to be trying to be serious, but his grin was fighting its way out. "We can use the privacy to study, can't we?" he asked. "Or to discuss battle strategies no one else can overhear. Or—"
"Wanker," Draco muttered, and kissed him again, glad that, by the time they returned to the dungeons, the first-years should have been herded into their bedrooms, and determined that not even Millicent wanting to talk to them would keep him and Harry from their bedroom for long.
Connor punched his pillow.
Then he decided that wasn't enough, so he pulled his wand out, aimed it at his pillow, and shouted, "Concutio!"
The pillow blasted apart in a mass of cloth and feathers. Connor stood panting and glaring as they drifted down onto his bed, now and then shaking his head so that his fringe would get out of his eyes.
Why would Harry think I was trying to just bait Malfoy into cursing me? his thoughts said, for the thousandth time. I could have defended myself, and I would have.
You didn't let him know that, his thoughts pointed out, also for the thousandth time. You didn't deny what he accused you of.
"I shouldn't have to," Connor muttered, flopping down onto his bed and making the feathers rise and flurry around him. "Why? It was just insults, and it's Malfoy's fault that he reacted so badly. And Harry took my side when that article about the theory came out. Malfoy's just a wanker."
"No arguments there, mate."
Connor rolled over and watched as Ron approached his own bed, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "He is," he told Ron earnestly. "He gets me in arguments with my own brother."
Ron gave him a quick, curious glance, started to open his mouth, then shut it and shook his head.
"What?" Connor demanded.
Ron watched him for a long moment. Connor scowled. He always hated it when Ron did that. It was the same look he gave chessboards, right before he moved his piece and won. Always won, in fact. Connor had never managed to beat Ron in a chess match, and didn't know anyone who had.
"Well, it's like this," said Ron at last. "Brothers fight. All the time. We fought with Percy, Ginny and the twins and me, when we found out that he wasn't going to take the Ministry job our dad got for him. And I fought with the twins for pranking me. And Bill and Charlie fought something awful the first year Charlie was at Hogwarts, to hear Mum tell it, because Bill didn't like having someone there with the same last name as him. And then there was the time Fred sneezed in Dad's food, and Charlie got blamed for it, and then Charlie came outside and found Fred, and—"
"What's your point?" Connor demanded, knowing he sounded sulky, and not caring.
Ron shrugged. "We made up again," he said. "We usually didn't want to, and sometimes it took months, but we always made up again. But we did it by either explaining everything—Ginny picked that up from Mum, too, she's an absolute terror for it—or just agreeing to forget about it. And you and Harry don't forget it, and you aren't talking to him about Malfoy being a wanker. And he doesn't talk to you about this prank, either, you said, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt him. He probably assumes you would have told him if you had a serious problem with his boyfriend." Ron grimaced as if he'd bitten into a sour apple. "So talk to him, Connor. If you don't, then he'll just go around thinking you don't feel guilty, and that'll drive the fight deeper, and you'll get upset at him for not realizing you're upset and keep silent, and things will get worse and worse."
He paused, a long moment, chewing his lip. Connor waited.
"And the thing is, mate?" Ron tilted his head and studied him for a moment. "You are being a git about this. Just a little. Even though Malfoy's a wanker and doesn't deserve him, he's Harry's boyfriend, and arguing with him hurts Harry. It's like if Harry argued with Parvati all the time. You'll have to make peace sooner or later. "
Connor's mouth fell open. He tried to say, "Ron—"
Ron began digging through his trunk, and ignored him.
Connor fell back on what used to be his pillow and stared at the ceiling again, thinking fiercely. Could that really be true? He'd assumed that Harry knew which behavior of Malfoy's was ridiculous and agreed to things like the prank because he agreed that Malfoy's head needed to have the air taken out of it. He hadn't considered it in the light of Harry trying to balance his brother and his boyfriend.
Not just his boyfriend. His partner. And that means that Malfoy's probably not going to go away.
Connor shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. Then he stood up, shook his head, and walked to the door of the bedroom. He didn't want to think about this right now.
He would go and find Parvati. She always made him feel better.
He could feel Ron's eyes on his back, but he ignored that. Ron could be wrong, too, just like Harry.
