Posted 1/19/2014, Typos fixed 2/25/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Seventeen - The Fallout of One's Actions
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The first week of school since the holidays had passed in a blur. Hermione had put together some tests to study Harry's talent for detecting magic; she had hoped that he might also feel spells being cast around him. Unfortunately, that seemed to be outside of his abilities –not for lack of trying, but likely in part due to limitations of range as well. Hermione had been very put out by it, mainly because she had judged it as a huge advantage in battle. Harry wasn't too sure about that. In theory, it would have given him a slight edge, but in combat, a couple of spells would be cast at the same time by both sides and at multiple targets. Learning how to separate the nasty kind from the harmless or protective spells reliably would probably take months and still wouldn't tell him about the intended targets. He could just as well use his eyes without the complications of keeping track of two different senses. He still had to learn better offensive and defensive magic if he wanted to survive. And he still had to keep up with his school work, take care of the Quidditch team, work on his lessons with Dumbledore... he had enough on his plate, hadn't he? No, for the time being, he was happy just having the rather fun, but ultimately limited skill to sense magic from close-by.
Hermione had also taken the time to test herself for magical affinity using the method Harry had shown his friends. Predictably, she hadn't noticed anything; even the most glaring of spells that had the air humming with so much power Harry half expected a mist to rise from the enchanted object –a feather transfigured into parchment, spelled water-repellant and fire-proof,shrunken down as well as subjected to colouring and feather-weight spells and every prank spell Ron had picked up somewhere. That Ron had helped enchanting it should have made the spells even more blatant, as Harry had noticed Ron's magic was more noticeable. If Hermione's was like a whisper in the ears, Ron's was a marching band blaring in the ears. After Hermione had confirmed the enchantment's existence with a few diagnostic spells of her own, she had been very put out about her assumed lack of talent. Harry wasn't as sure about it, though –was it possible her logic mind simply kept her from listening to her senses?
But it didn't matter. Although neither had said it, both Harry and Ron thought it to be good for her. She was brilliant, yes. She was usually the best, yes. But she still had to accept that sometimes she wouldn't be, even if it was something as minor as a trait that could very easily be substituted. She was still the smartest witch around. She worked exceptionally fast and, Harry had realized when he had paid attention to it, with frightening accuracy. Her speed and skill when learning spells was in fact a result of her talent to follow the instructions precisely from the start. She didn't need magical affinity to be incredibly powerful.
Ron's test had revealed no extraordinary talent. Sure, he had noticed roughly a tenth of the enchantments, but for every correctly identified object, he had also pointed out twice as many clean items. Ron had been happy to find at least some, Hermione had been disappointed it hadn't been more. Harry had been happy Hermione had something else to keep her occupied –Occlumency –while Ron and he went to Quidditch training to entertain themselves.
Harry had also been alert for any rumour about his engagement with Daphne Greengrass, but had heard nothing about it, curiously enough. Far too many people knew about it to stay secret for long, but he was glad for every day it did.
The more time passed, the more obvious it became the negotiations had gone quite well. Mr. Greengrass had proposed a modified contract which included the heir clause Daphne had outlined beforehand almost word for word –for Harry, it had meant not having to bring it up himself. After a short discussion, both sides had agreed on the important parts –of course, it had been mostly for appearance's sake anyway, but Mr. Greengrass hadn't known about that. Daphne had apparently done a good job of steering her parents behind the scenes, and in the end, they had signed the actual contract on the 2nd, the Thursday before the return to school. It had been a quiet affair. The Daily Prophet had not written anything about it yet as Harry had feared and expected, an unusual experience for him, but welcome all the same.
Harry had expected the news to leak out, had mentally prepared for the headline, probably something along the lines of 'Boy-Who-Lived Boy-Who's-Hitched'. There were enough possible leaks, and it wouldn't have been surprising to find out someone had sold the story to the highest bidder. Someone at Gringotts. Unlikely, but not impossible. Daphne's sister, at least according to Daphne herself. The Malfoys, of course. They would get a kick out of it; he had feared what they would tell. But they hadn't, strangely. Then that foolish worker at the Ministry. They had had to file the contract at the Department of Familial Affairs, subdivision Marriage. Of course it hadn't been that complicated, but the bloke working there had read the copy of the personalized contract to be filed very thoroughly, occasionally glancing at his visitors. Harry had expected him to gossip, but apparently not.
And so, he was engaged without the wizarding world knowing any better. Neville had asked the first evening back. He knew, and Ron, having walked in during said talk, knew that Neville knew. The Greengrasses knew, naturally. Daphne hadn't talked to him since they had left the Ministry. Her sister hadn't approached him at all. Then there had been the Weasleys. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had alternated between helpless griping and courageous attempts of consolation. Had it not been a ruse, he would have found those insufficient. Instead, it had been more hilarious than anything. The twins had been great, of course. After the first shock, they had cracked jokes about it, started planning different, laughable bachelor parties, and drawn up detailed plans for wedding presents. Half of them Harry hoped they would actually invent, just to see whether they would really work. Ginny had kept to herself, hardly speaking to Harry. In fact, he had seen her only at mealtime, as far as he could remember. Well, she had her O.W.L.s coming up, Harry reasoned, so of course she'd be busy.
Ron had been strange. Ron tried to be as normal as he could, tried to joke and speak with Harry as if nothing had happened. But he hadn't quite pulled it off successfully. He had seemed rather reluctant, throwing him odd looks. Harry could guess why, of course. He had trouble matching his best friend Harry with the young man contractually obligated to not only marry, but to marry a Slytherin.
Truth be told, Harry too found it weird to think of himself as an engaged man. He also considered it strange just how bizarre his life was. He was a young man, carefully planning for the event his own death fated to happen soon, but he still viewed his engagement as weirder. What did that say about him, he wondered. Probably nothing.
Fleur and Bill had been reluctantly supporting. She probably resented the development since Harry's contract had redirected the attention away from her own upcoming wedding. She'd come around, though, he was sure of it. Bill had been another issue. While he had kept up his appearance about it to everyone else, he had strongly disliked being used for such a ploy. He was still Harry's strongest supporter, mainly because he had actually approved of the plan after he had had a night to sleep about it, but had also sent Harry odd looks every now and then. He had seen the reasons Daphne had motivated to suggest the deal. He had understood why Harry had agreed, but he would perhaps never agree with their solution to the problem.
Hermione had been another issue. She hadn't been at the Burrow. She hadn't been present during the agreement. She knew nothing about it. Somehow, Harry hadn't found the moment to talk to her about it. He deemed it important to tell her –she was one of his best friends for a reason –but he waited for the right moment, preferably a quiet one with no one around so they wouldn't be overheard. Evenings would have been ideal, but she had taken up rigorous reading, had begun forcing herself through her homework and Prefect duties at an alarming speed only to skip up to her room, leaving little time to sit her down. She had Smith's book about the Mind Arts. It had become something of an obsession for her to learn Occlumency as fast as possible to cope with the setback she had had to suffer.
Still, he had not found the right moment to tell her and was wary of her reaction.
Naturally, her busy schedule and Ron's lack of attention also allowed Harry to skip out of the Common Room often and sneak to the Room of Requirement. There he had begun his own training. Spell after spell he tried to teach himself, from tricky hexes to advanced shields and the inclusion of conjuration in combat. He had, due to his tendency to get hurt from time to time, even tried to add a few healing spells. It had ended with mixed results. Some he had gotten a hang of. Minor injuries were actually not that hard to fix. But on the other hand, some spells simply didn't work properly. One of them had kept Harry for hours on end until he had shelved it for another day. There was likely something he was forgetting about them, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
He had also tried to include some counter-curses. It had seemed like a good idea. If he would have to face Death Eaters during the ongoing war, he would need more than just shields. Unfortunately, without a cursed target he couldn't be quite sure whether he had done the counters correctly. Tricky business indeed.
Coming out of his thoughts, he glanced sideways to Hermione. Just as he had expected of her, she worked diligently on her potion. She had decided to prove her superiority over the Half-blood Prince by outperforming Harry. She did a good job, and he was willing to agree she was the better potioneer, but unfortunately, the Half-Blood Prince still seemed to outperform her. Harry's Rejuvenation Draught for Spotless Skin had the same colour, but the bubbles dancing in the fumes over it looked just a bit more bouncy. Harry was happy about it. Professor Slughorn had loudly praised Harry's work, had winked at the brilliant idea of cutting the leaves diagonally, and had smiled at the marvellous smell. Since the potion usually stank of day-old simmering sick, which was indeed an ingredient, Harry's –or rather the Half-blood Prince's –minty scent did help slightly.
"Well, then, boys and girls, time to pack up, I say!" the portly teacher announced. "A bottle of your potion on the desk, if you please? Yes, Mr. Macmillan, you too. Ah Mr. Malfoy, yes, always a delight. Good work. Miss Granger, yes, yes. Ah, Mr. Weasley. Please, do yourself a favour and read up on the preparation of Kula berries. They will turn up in other potions, I assure you." He smiled genially at Ron, who nodded curtly and left grumbling. Harry waited for the class to leave. It was time to approach the teacher once more.
"Sir," he began.
Slughorn cast a quick look around, realized what was going on and jumped to his feet. "No, Mr. Potter! I told you the last time and I tell you again: I do not have anything of interest for you. I will not give you that memory, now even less than before! Stop trying to convince me, I will not give it to you!"
"Sir, I don't think you understand the importance," Harry tried.
"And you overestimate both your influence and importance. I am still a teacher, and you an impertinent student. Good day, Mr. Potter!" And he stormed into his office and closed the door loudly.
"Just great," Harry mumbled. He left.
"Well, any luck?" Ron asked him as soon as he had left the room.
"Don't be silly," Hermione laughed. "If he had been successful, he wouldn't be here right now. Really, Harry, I doubt you could pay him enough to buy the memory from him. I told you before, both of you, he prides himself too much as a teacher to fall for bribery. Appeal to his noble nature..."
"Does he have one?" Ron asked, fingering his earlobe in boredom.
"Or try sentimentality," Hermione continued with a glare. "Remind him of his past students. People he owes it to to help you."
"Like my Mum, you mean," Harry said.
"I... yes, like her. Like your Mum. He should help you for her sake."
"But the problem is," Harry pointed out, "he did teach Riddle as well, and quite a few of his students ended up becoming Death Eaters."
"But they weren't back then. They changed later in life," she said. "A chance your mother didn't have, thanks to Riddle, so why wouldn't Slughorn help you? Repay his debt for helping the monster on his rise to power."
"Very nice. Just twist the knife, why don't you?" Harry grumbled. "But it doesn't matter. He didn't let me finish my first sentence. I think I blew it completely. There has to be a way to get that memory."
"Likely, yes. Well, unless you manage until Wednesday, you will have nothing for Dumbledore," Hermione told him. "And it is your own fault. You should have put more effort in it from the start. If you want success you will have to work for it."
"Ah, Dumbledore won't mind too much, I'm sure. Maybe he has an idea, he's, well, ancient and knows Slughorn far better," Ron said. "Now let's go, I think I can smell dinner already."
"You can always smell dinner," Hermione rebutted. "Honestly, it's like you have a heightened sense or something. But then, how could you and not cringe at your own stench? Really, you should look into it."
"That's simply boyish charm, nothing more," the redhead claimed.
"Not really. Neville is far better. Even Seamus, loathe as I am to admit it, doesn't stink as much as you," Hermione told him with a frown.
"And what about me?" Harry enquired.
"Like roses and honey," she replied with a roll of her eyes, "but you could do with a bit more, too. I know you are busy as a bee, but..."
"Mr. Potter?" Professor McGonagall's voice sounded behind them. All three whipped around.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry asked.
"I would like a word with you for a moment," the Head of House told him, gesturing to a classroom nearby. "Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, you can go, dinner is waiting. I won't be holding him for long."
Harry scratched his chin. "Err, alright, I guess." To his friends, he waved. "Go on, I'm sure it's alright. I'll come when we're finished."
Once inside the room, he heard McGonagall close the door. "Mr. Potter, do you know about the Hogwarts Fund for Underprivileged Children?"
"Should I know anything about it?" he replied, but he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face.
"I do believe you do, seeing as I have heard from Madam Longbottom about the donation her grandson made in your company on Christmas Day," she told him. Her tone was stern.
"Ah, that fund you mean. Yeah, I've heard about it. It's something to do with giving students who are in a tight spot a little help, right?"
"Indeed. I also know for a fact Mr. Longbottom didn't donate nearly the sum the fund received that day, or else Mrs. Longbottom would have been far more upset about it." She raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't that also the fund the Deputy Headmaster of the time has to manage? In this case you?"
"Mr. Potter, is there something you want to tell me?"
He sighed. "It's not as if the gold won't be wasted otherwise, is it? It's from the Blacks, mostly, and we both know there's enough where that donation came from."
Pressing her lips together, she narrowed her eyes. "While I welcome the sentiment, I urge you to be more careful with your money. Yes, it will be very useful. But you cannot throw your money at everything you deem in need. Mr. Potter, hasn't anyone ever taught you about money management? You have to think about your future!"
"No one taught me, but don't worry. There's still a lot left in the vaults, enough to live a few lifetimes, and I learned it on my own well enough. Don't you want it? I'm sure I can find some other cause to donate it to and every other donation I'm planning to make in the future."
She blinked. Harry could tell she was fighting with herself over whether she should accept or return it. Finally, she nodded briskly. "See to it you will not give me another shock like that."
"Well, the next time won't be such a shock, will it?" Harry told her, smiling. If there would be another time, of course, but then, should he die before that day, then McGonagall would realize it all by herself.
"The next time, I will be forced to return it, Mr. Potter." Then she sent him a smile of her own. It looked nice, he thought, even for a stern woman like her. "Your parents would have been very proud of you."
"If my parents were still alive, I doubt I would have made such a donation in the first place. And I'm sure Sirius would be even prouder –I gave Black gold to fund underprivileged students. I can imagine what his parents would have thought about that, which is all the more reason to give as much as I can –someone's got to honour Sirius' memory and continue to go against everything the Blacks stood for."
She sniffed, and said with a constricted voice, "You are probably correct. Yes, Mr. Black would have been even prouder."
"Ah, Harry. I hope you are in good health? After the Christmas holidays, Madam Pomfrey usually notices a sudden rise in sicknesses. Very curious."
"Yes, sir, thank you." He wondered whether he should return the question. But then, asking the Headmaster seemed weird. The man looked weaker every time they met, and Harry still hadn't forgiven him for his secrecy over the years. Yes, was willing to work with him, but it was work, not enjoyment.
"That is good. I found the days to be restful, before you ask. Did you have any success with the memory?"
"No, sir," Harry told the headmaster, "unfortunately not. Professor Slughorn doesn't even let me finish the sentence anymore; he didn't invite me to his party for fear of being ambushed by me..."
"Something you wouldn't do, since we need to keep it secret," Dumbledore told Harry in a steady voice.
"No, sir, I don't intend to use peer pressure. I'm currently out of ideas."
"I will think about it. Maybe I was wrong to place my hope in your impressive talent to manage the impossible." The Headmaster nodded slightly. "I heard about your generous donation."
"It felt right, sir. The school can use it, I have enough where it came from; Sirius would have found it hilarious." And Harry meant it. Yes, it had been a clever plan to activate the contract. But he had still done it mainly because it had been a good idea to help those in need. The way he had seen it there was nothing against combining two purposes, especially if one was the excuse for the other.
"And you met the Greengrasses." Dumbledore smiled at Harry.
"I... yes. Who told you?"
"Molly Weasley asked for my advice. I couldn't intervene since, as you know, the contract was quite inescapable. Congratulations, Harry, your plan has worked." The Headmaster raised an eyebrow in challenge.
"Wait, you know about that?" Harry yelled. Some of the paintings snickered.
"Harry, I know a lot of what goes on around school; we talked about that before. Some of the paintings noticed your meeting in December. I didn't know about the contents, no, but you just confirmed my theories. So, you and Miss Greengrass conspired, then."
"The boy used my contract to his advantage?" the portrait of Phineas Nigellus raged.
"Quite cunning," another painting replied with a wink. "He might be a Gryffindor, but he could have easily been in Slytherin, Phineas."
"I am curious about your plans, Harry. It is a very unusual step, and risky if you do not pay the necessary attention."
"There isn't much to say. Greengrass didn't want to marry Malfoy. She feared he would hand over everything he could get his hands on to Voldemort. I agree."
"As do I," Dumbledore told him. "And so you volunteered to take his place."
"We arranged for me to activate the contract..."
"The donation," Dumbledore interrupted. "Ingenious, if I may say so. Yes, it does provide a reasonable explanation and diverts much of the potential danger away from her. Or at least as long as she plays the reluctant bride."
"Yes, that's the plan. Once he had realized what was going on, Bill helped me on my end. Daphne convinced her parents to use a rough draft she had written beforehand. She claimed to have prepared it for Malfoy. It includes an heir clause, termed for seven years."
"Brilliant. Yes, that way you will both regain your freedom in a few years, provided you are careful."
"The boy intends to disrespect the alliance with the Greengrasses?" Nigellus asked, still angered.
"I intend to think of House Black. On Daphne's birthday 2004, her family has to repay House Black a loan; I lent her a Galleon, she'll repay me a lot more than that. Incredibly high interest, you see? That's a separate contract she signed, which is filed at Gringotts." Harry glared at the painting. "And just to make it clear, both Daphne and I could have lived without the added stress you sent our way, thank you very much."
Dumbledore laughed. "That is really a brilliant strategy. Yes, I can finally see why you would have decided to go through with it. And maybe you do feel something for her, so you may get along reasonably well."
"Not really, sir. I don't hate her, no, but I also don't think I feel something for her. Why would you think that?"
"You called her by her given name, Harry. I assumed..."
"Only because there are a few Greengrasses running around. She has a sister too, so calling her Miss Greengrass wouldn't have worked. But apart from that, I don't think it really matters, sir. It's not like it is meant for eternity."
He was about to tell the Headmaster about his revelation, that he knew about the Horcrux in his scar. But then, he suddenly couldn't say it. He hadn't told Hermione and Ron, his best friends whom he trusted. He couldn't tell Dumbledore, whom he didn't trust completely. He was sure Dumbledore had come to the same conclusion. He knew already, of that Harry was sure, but had decided to keep it secret. Again, the Headmaster withheld crucial knowledge from Harry. And it stung too much to not return the favour.
Instead, he pursed his lips. "I toyed around with the magical affinity. I told Hermione. She did some tests with it."
"Ah, yes. I should have expected you to tell them. You didn't speak about the purpose of incantations, did you?"
"No, sir. I thought she would have enough to do with affinity to keep her busy and happy. I also told her about the relation between accidental and wandless magic. Oh, and I also gave her my... the instructions for my Charms project. She wasn't happy about the restrictions placed upon that branch of magic."
"I can imagine. I am not fond of them as well, but as a long-time member of the Wizengamot, I cannot ignore it completely –I have to look as if I'm enforcing the laws. I'm guessing Miss Granger has been busy?"
"I think so. She excused herself rather earlier than usual the last few days."
"She will have no problems with it, I'm sure. How about your own project, though? Did you finish it?"
The moment of truth. "Yes, sir, I believe so."
Dumbledore peered at him for a long time. Then he steepled his fingers. "Would you mind if I decided to confirm your belief?"
Harry stared back. He didn't want anyone poking around in his head. But between a Death Eater bent on uncovering Harry's secrets and the Headmaster taking a peak... He didn't trust Dumbledore completely, but enough. "Feel free." He sat down on a chair and drew up his protections.
"Very well." The Headmaster pulled his wand out. "Legilimens," he incanted, smiling at the futility. Both knew the truth about incantations, making the word completely unnecessary from a technical point of view. Yet it helped set the stage; it served as a starting signal.
Harry concentrated on his defences. It wasn't easy, especially since he knew they would be tested, the first time really forced to work. He noticed the gentle prod from the Headmaster's probe. From time to time, he saw flashes of memories, but they were too short to be identified. After a while, the intrusion into his mind receded.
"Yes, quite good, Harry. You still have work to do until its completion, but I think you have learned the skill. Congratulations, Harry, you are now an Occlumens." He smiled, ignoring the polite applause from the portraits. Nigellus seemed torn between cheering for his descendant and disapproving of a measly half-blood learning the skill. After a while, Dumbledore raised his voice slightly. "But I think we should turn our attention to the actual topic of the night. I have two other memories for you, something I believe you should see. As you will remember, the last time we had one these lessons, I showed you a young Tom Riddle visiting his maternal uncle. I also showed you the tampered memory of him talking with his teacher, Horace Slughorn. Now we proceed to the years it was difficult to find much about him. You see, he left school with the best marks anyone could hope for and offers for the most prestigious of jobs. He began work at Borgin and Burke's..."
"Can you imagine that?" Ron asked his friends. "A teen-aged Riddle is bad enough, from what Harry said. Him working for those Dark Arts experts down in Knockturn Alley does make sense, in a twisted, completely idiotic way."
"Well, he tried to fit in with the purebloods, didn't he?" Harry pointed out. "Smart decisions would have marked him as different. Smart isn't the pureblood's way."
"Oh, very funny, Harry," Ron grumbled. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a pureblood." Then he ate a spoonful of pudding, followed by another bite from his greasy bacon sandwich.
"You just proved it," Hermione added with a smile. "So, have you eaten quite enough? I wanted to do something more worthwhile with my day than watch you eat."
"Well," Harry spoke up, "I think he knew what he wanted. And if Dumbledore is correct, then he had been in just the right place, wasn't he? Lots of Dark Arts going around him, access to the rarest of poisons, the secretest of books. Some very rare objects going through the store." He gave both of his friends a meaningful look. "It was like a school for dark wizards, and all he had to do was work for two slimy, corrupt businessmen."
"True," Ron agreed. "But even after three whole days, I still can't believe he'd come here to teach. Can you imagine that? Walking through the corridors thinking about nothing or the awesome Quidditch practice, and then –BAM! Voldemort."
"He would be Professor... err," Hermione began.
"Professor Voldemort, Hermione," Harry reminded her. "He would never have accepted being called Professor Riddle, he hated that name." He grabbed a slice of bread.
"You know," Ron began, "maybe we should make a holiday, Elf-Appreciation Day or something. They make good food and take care of our needs, after all."
"Without getting paid, Ron," Hermione told him sternly. "They don't need a holiday, they need fair treatment."
"Granted," Harry pointed out, "since they enjoy it most to do work for magicals, their ideal holiday would probably include loads of tasks. A dozen different meals to be cooked at the same time. Or maybe for everyone their own, personalized dinner. So, not a good idea."
He took a healthy bite. His time at the Dursleys' had taught him to not only get by with meagre meals, but also to eat when food was available. And with his high energy demand for his hobbies, including Quidditch and his secret training in the Room of Requirement, he really needed the food.
"Or," Ron started again, "imagine that, you're in some broom cupboard, snogging, you know? And then, the door is ripped open and –BAM! Voldemort. Huh. Somehow, I imagine him sniffing like McGonagall."
"When has McGonagall ever caught you snogging someone?" Harry asked.
"Never! I meant, well, you know, you remember when I made that mistake in her class?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You will have to be more specific."
"Oh, har, har. I meant when I mixed up the incantation and instead of vanishing the rat, blew it up."
"Oh, yes," Hermione answered with a frown. "Thanks for that, by the way. It took forever to get it out of my hair."
"Well, she sniffed like that," Ron imitated it as good as he could, which resulted in an impressive attempt, "and glared at me the rest of the lesson."
"She didn't even move or look away, yes," Hermione said with a dreamy expression. "You were so frightened of her. That was brilliant."
"For you, maybe." He stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. "She didn't talk to me or anything, just stared. Creepy, I tell you."
"Haven't I told you not to speak with a full mouth?" she asked, frowning.
Harry glanced up from his own plate. Not bothering to swallow, he told her, "Yesh, you –Hrmghpf! –have."
"The same goes for you," Hermione told him with a roll of her eyes. "Come on, chew faster, you two, we do have something to do."
"Are you kidding?" Ron complained. "No hurry, most of the school is still here, aren't they? You'll have enough time to get to your class. Why don't you go without us, anyway? We don't have Arithmancy, do we? So skip along, have fun, and we'll see you later."
"Well, you could still get a head start on your homework. Snape's essay will be really tricky; you both know he won't have made it easy."
"Does he ever?" Harry asked. "But I think you're exaggerating a bit. Five minutes won't really matter, will they?"
"I also have to go to the common room," Hermione pointed out. "I have to get Ginny's homework, I looked it over. Do you think you could give to her from me? That way she can get started before we return."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Really, Hermione? You could just leave it on her bed or something. And if you need to inform her about something, why not write her a letter? Or talk to her, she's," he looked around, but failed to find the girl in question, "well, she's bound to be around."
"So you won't do it?" she challenged.
"Of course I will do it. I just wanted to point out there are other ways to get your revisions to Ginny than have either of us deliver it to her."
"Well," Ron grumbled. "If Harry goes, then I'll have to as well, don't I?" He moodily stuffed a sandwich into his pocket. "But you owe us, Hermione."
"Oh?" she asked with a slight smile. "And just what would you want from me, Ronald?"
"Stop calling me Ronald," he grumbled.
"All right, that's fine. I'll stop for a while," she agreed, rising from her seat, grinning.
"Wait! You tricked me!" Ron yelled, drawing some eyes, and causing smirks around the Great Hall.
"I did no such thing," Hermione claimed gleefully. They continued their bickering, from tricking each other –Harry couldn't remember the last time Ron had been successful in that respect –to their Prefect duties to homework and sports as well as personal quirks.
Harry had half a mind to silence them. Yes, he loved both of them, they were his best friends, but they were still really getting on his nerves from time to time. But perhaps that was the price he had to pay to be friends with them. They had to live with his selfless tendencies, his hero complex. Being friends with Hermione and Ron might just mean living with their quarrels. And it was their disputes that got on his nerves, he decided, as Ron imitated Hermione's superior sneer to prove a point, followed by Hermione accusing him of grunting instead of speaking in reply, which was true from time to time, but nowhere near as frequent as she claimed.
They had reached a landing about halfway up the hall and turned to walk to the corridor ahead, when Harry saw a black mass with a white and red blotch fall down outside the corner of his eye. Before he had truly registered what it had been, it was gone, stopping him in his tracks out of surprise. Then, he heard a crunch slightly resembling a melon hitting the ground resonating in the hall. The two events connected in his head, and curiosity made him look down.
There, on the floor of the hall, lay the weirdly distorted black mass. But even from the height, Harry could see the red of blood rapidly pooling and the hands sticking out. Close to the doors to the Great Hall stood a couple of students, their faces splattered red, eyes wide open.
"I don't believe it." Ron said.
"I know." Harry stared off into space. Two deaths in little more than four months.
"I don't... I can't believe it," Ron told his room-mates. "McLaggen? I can't... that doesn't make any sense."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Somehow I can't see it."
"Lucky you," Ron grumbled.
"You know what I mean," Harry spat. His nerves were as raw as those of most. "I can't say I know a lot about him, but..."
"I'm feeling for Grant and Cooper," Seamus interrupted, and all fell silent.
"Do you think they... do you think the... has his..." Dean tried. He loved his family dearly, from his mother to his stepfather and the sisters. The thought of losing one of them hit him too hard. Seamus placed an arm around his shoulder.
"I think we should do something," Harry told them. "I hate sitting around, doing nothing." He looked over to the girl's staircase, wanting Hermione to be with them. But she had gone to her dorm, Harry knew. He guessed she felt guilty for not preventing the death, though how she figured that, he didn't know; she couldn't have stopped the fall in time. Well, if anyone knew about feeling guilty, it was him.
"And what did you have in mind?" Seamus asked.
"I... I don't know. Something. I want to know what happened."
"They won't let you poke your nose in that business. You can't do everything on your own," Seamus answered. "And you heard what they said. McLaggen sent that painting away to get someone, and next thing we know..."
Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "All right. How about we try to... I don't know... sneak into the Hospital Wing and try to speak to Cooper and Grant. Try to take their minds off things?"
Dean snorted. "As if they'd let you close to them. Do you even know them?" It sounded harsher than he had probably intended, but he didn't apologize.
"Why'd he jump?" Ron asked everybody and no one. He received numerous glares from around him, but soon people turned to their own sorrow.
"We should do something," Harry announced once more. He felt it. The restlessness. Everything in him screamed to get moving. He wanted nothing more than to act. It might have been a remnant of his time at the Dursleys. Whenever something bad had happened, it had almost always been his fault. The draught had been his doing, the storm that had cut the power lines as well. Dudley's abysmal marks had been his fault as well. Staying in one spot had meant being caught back then and having to bear the punishment. Of course, moving somewhere had meant running away as far as the Dursleys and their neighbours had been concerned which had meant a guilty conscience and therefore a perpetrator. But the impulse was still present. He felt restless. Something was ordering him to do something.
Seamus smiled weakly. "Want me to get the Firewhiskey? I had saved it for a special occasion, but..."
Ron laughed humourlessly. "Didn't think anyone did that anymore."
Dean and Harry shared a look. "What do you mean, 'Didn't think anyone did that anymore'? Did what anymore?"
Ron blushed, which stood out even more as he was unnaturally pale from the shock of the day. "Oh well, there's this... stupid tradition, you know? Among purebloods. Boys mostly, I think, to drink Firewhiskey when they come of age and... anyway. Only, you know, teachers were young once, and they know it too, so a lot of students were caught."
"Yeah, and I had planned for a special night," Seamus explained with a shrug. "You know, my birthday, some Firewhiskey, a girl... I could use something to lighten the mood at the moment."
"You'd need to celebrate getting a girl to not slap you," Ron chuckled.
Harry frowned. "Wait. You have Firewhiskey?" Receiving a nod as confirmation, he added, "As in, here at school?" Seamus nodded again. "But... didn't anyone find it? I mean, the teachers will know about it, Ron said so, yet you still brought it here?"
"Well, Harry, it's not forbidden in the strictest sense," Seamus pointed out. "And we're all trying to break a rule or two here and there. It's not like you can talk, is it?"
Still, something bothered Harry about it, but he couldn't place his finger on it.
"Come on, Dean," Seamus told his friend. "Let's see how Leanne is doing. I think they were somewhat friendly." They left.
"I'll see what I can find in my trunk," Ron said and left too.
"What a day," Neville began. "I never expected something like that. It's..." He shook his head and stared off into space.
Harry agreed with his friend. He too had trouble putting into words just how wrong it felt. He had known McLaggen. Not well, but still enough to have a face in mind when thinking of the name. And he had little love for the braggart. But he had shown up for the try-outs and Harry knew him somewhat. Why would he jump? Harry thought about it over and over. He knew next to nothing about the other boy. He might get his answers from his friends, true. But even he knew just how tactless that would have been.
Once more the school was in shock, only this time it was worse in Harry's opinion for a number of reasons. Far more students had seen it before anyone could intervene; it hadn't been a neat body, but a mess of shattered bones, blood and flesh, the rumour mill was far more active, and more people mourned him. Back in October with Brooks, some people had been shocked by the sudden death, but some had not thought about it too much. With McLaggen, members of all four houses cared and mourned. His death had become the topic among the students, easily outstripping Flitwick's supposed secret life as a spy for the goblins in preparation of the next war, and Dumbledore's dubious dealings with Danish drug dealers.
The teachers had tried to adjust accordingly. Professor Slughorn had taught a delightful brew in every class after the event. Its delight was mainly due to the amusing reactions during the actual brewing process –dancing drops on its surface, colour changing puffs of smoke, bubbles whistling merry tunes, and the odd little shapes of dancing figures were meant to lighten the mood. Professor McGonagall had taught the conjuration of flowers with mixed results. Flitwick had tried his own brand of charms, but his heart hadn't been in it. Professor Sprout had wrung her hands shortly, then, after a small speech, had set them very tiring, but rewarding work. Even Snape had postponed his lecture about a well-known attack with Inferi for one lesson. It had probably been the best he could do, and for once Harry agreed with the foul man, having looked up such attacks for his own war preparation. Lacking means other than blunt force, Inferi usually left their victims horribly maimed and far too closely resembling the dead McLaggen.
As the week had gone by without any more deaths, Harry had felt the restlessness leave him. But in its place, uneasiness spread. Another student dead, another suicide. First Brooks had drowned, first in Firewhiskey, then in the tub. It had been a shock, yes, but school had returned to normal shortly after for most. Then, shortly after the holidays, McLaggen had jumped. It was a secret so naturally the whole school knew about it. No one had seen it, but he had to have climbed onto the railing and jumped. Nothing more, nothing less. A suicide, if there ever had been one. With N.E.W.T.s coming up and adding to the general stress, and the tutoring he had done, most assumed he had simply cracked under the pressure. Harry was inclined to agree. The boy hadn't been a very strong character, more words than actions.
Still, Harry felt unease, even if he couldn't pinpoint the cause. A part of him still resented his actions during try-outs, and he felt horrible because he still felt that way. Another part was trying to hate McLaggen for traumatizing other students with his death. Maybe Harry wanted to so much because it was easier to hate him for that than to feel for him. There was something more, however. Had he truly cracked from school and tutoring? There he was, trying to deal with childish worries, and here Harry was, preparing for the war, ready to shoulder the burden of the wizarding world, fighting for the betterment of society, settling his affairs, and confronting every death, knowing it might just be his responsibility for not acting sooner. If McLaggen could crack from his laughably little struggles, what about Harry? Shouldn't he too fall into despair? He still held strong.
Or did he? Maybe it was just a question of time until he too passed the point of no return, until he lost hope. He had lived through a lot more troubles than most. He had had to live with isolation all his time at the Dursleys. He had suffered times of near starvation, had withstood abuse and neglect. It had toughened him up, he guessed, but he wasn't perfect. Now that he knew friendship, now that he was aware of his responsibilities, he wasn't the same scrawny boy who had known just how worthless he had been, had realized at around nine that he could only be worth anything if he actually lived on. He was a symbol for the wizarding world, with everyone looking to him for guidance. He was in the spotlight, with their expectation on his shoulders.
Yes, he told himself. Yes, that was probably why he felt uneasy. It made him question his own strength. He was strong emotionally, a surprise to him, but it could change very fast. Then again, he realized with a grim smile, his source of strength was special. In the past, he had drawn it from his friends. It had changed somewhat since his realization. He would die one way or another. It didn't matter, did it, when he would fall, his end was drawing near. He didn't have to plan for a faraway future, for children playing on the lawn, for investments or a promotion. He would die, nothing more, nothing less. Since he couldn't change the fact, what did it matter if the focused all his strength towards the fight? He had strength to spare since he knew it didn't matter. He could jump, drown himself, run into the closest Death Eater he could find, feed himself to a dragon –ooh, that one had potential! A heroic battle with a beast –it didn't matter. He had to die.
Careful to keep an eye on the map, Harry slipped in behind a bulky boy from Hufflepuff. Yes, she was still alone, he could see it.
Of course he didn't want to. He rather liked the idea of little Harrys and Whatevers running around. He liked the idea of going out on the town with his friends and returning far too late. He liked the idea of getting dressed down by his boss, because he had botched something. He liked the idea of inviting his friends to a family dinner. Yes, he wanted to live, but as long as he was a Horcrux, he had to die. And Dumbledore had said it quite clearly. The Killing Curse, Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, highly destructive potions or spells, perhaps creatures as well... well, and regret, yes. So, one that wouldn't apply to him and all the other solutions he wouldn't survive. No, he wanted to live, but he had to be realistic. He would die.
With one last look at the map, he confirmed it. She was still alone. One could never be too sure about it in a school full of witches and wizards. He stepped around a shelf, quickly ripped off his cloak, walked over to her, and sank into the chair opposite her. "Evening, Greengrass."
She looked up from her book. Harry could see large runic layouts in minuscule writing painting the page almost completely black. "Potter," she greeted with a glare. "Any reason you come over here? Where we could be seen?"
"Unlikely, but I won't be long. Just wanted to check whether you had any problems after the return to school."
Rolling her eyes, she sighed tiredly. "I'm a big girl, I can look out for myself, can't I?"
"So, no troubles from anyone in the house?" he asked.
"I didn't go around spreading the news," she told him. "Draco kept to himself, disinterested as he was during the holidays. I'm starting to think we made a mistake. I might have overestimated the danger. He busies himself with his tutoring project, mostly organizing. So maybe he simply doesn't have that much time. He leaves me alone, I am happy. There. You can leave now."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "And your friends?"
She pursed her lips. "Not that it is any of you business, but they took it well. Millicent kept back, Tracey was laughing herself silly, Pansy was thrilled and pitying me at the same time. I think she had hoped she'd get back with Draco, but he's too busy, it seems. We're enjoying seeing the little pest suffering, though. She doesn't dare tell anyone, but she wants to blab."
"It will come out though, won't it?" Harry asked. "I'm not so familiar with the procedures in cases like these."
"Oh, it will come out, yes. My mother will probably run around the pureblood society and spread the tale. Did you know my father doesn't like you, thinks you are not good enough for me? While she is very upset about handing me off to 'an uncultured swine'? Her words, not mine." A smile spread across her face. "She got on my nerves so much I had half a mind to tell her something about a secret passionate love affair with some tanned Muggleborn boy."
"Not even one month and you're already replacing me?" Harry returned her smile.
"As if you wouldn't." She schooled her features.
"As a matter of fact, no, not really." Seeing her disbelieving stare, he shook his head. "Honestly! I don't swing that way. Tanned? Blergh."
Greengrass frowned playfully. "Too bad, and I had my hopes up already." Then she cast an eye around. "But seriously, you should leave. Someone's bound to come."
Harry nodded slowly. "Well, have fun, then. See you in class." He dived behind a bookshelf and threw the cloak over himself. Well, that plan seemed to have worked out alright, he guessed.
Nothing gets past Dumbledore. He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he's got the painting spying on you wherever you go. Unless, of course, you send the paintings away. See, Harry? That's how you get a bit of privacy at Hogwarts.
