A/N: Chapter Warnings for; explicit language, blood, gore.
Next update Saturday, 18th July.
Chapter Eleven: Let's Remain Calm
…
"Your 'let's remain calm and stay put' speech would be a lot more convincing if you weren't giving it in front of a pile of burning skeletons."
-David Wong
...
Ron is tired of pretending his life is a chess game.
It's not that he hates the game itself. Chess isn't just a game to him, to begin with. It's fluid, morphing, filled with endless possibilities and endings. That's what it's all about, the strategy. Ron himself favors changing his own strategies constantly. Unpredictability is a sufficient strategy in itself. He never starts a game the same way he had before, not when he's playing with the same person anyway because if chess has ever taught him anything, it was that repetition was to be avoided at all costs.
Ron sees the strategy in choosing sausages over pancakes at breakfast or cherry-picking which essays will keep his grades a dull constant that will give him an easy pass with the least amount of effort while he's occupied by other things.
In many ways, Ron is very similar to his late uncle Morris, he was the one who taught Ron how to play, or in his words, 'How to think the proper way' when he was only a child. He remembers the day vividly when the man had dropped by, sitting perfectly still and wildly out of place in his three-piece suit with his legs crossed and eyes narrowed. Morris was waiting for Mum to get back from the markets with Ginny. That was the day Fred and George reenacted their old prank and turned Ron's favorite Chudley Cannon Keeper action figure into a tarantula.
Ron had been terrified, screaming, and sobbing as he raced down the stairs, and Morris had been sitting right there, passively staring as the seven-year-old appeared in the living room.
'Why are you crying, Ronnie?' Morris was frowning and Ron inconsolably toddled over to the man, rubbing his eyes.
'Fred and George are mean!' He had said, opening his arms to be picked up by the other man.
Morris had picked him up, managing the act with grace in spite of his official-looking manner. 'Then why do you play with them?' he had asked. 'You don't have to,'
'No?'
Morris had shaken his head. 'No. You needn't play with them if they are mean to you. Now be it your brothers or a friend.'
'But I have no one else to play with, Uncle Morris!'
'You don't always need a playmate, Ronnie. How about I show you how smart people play?'
'Smart?'
Morris had nodded, patiently settling Ron next to him on the sofa. 'Yes, like you and me.'
Then he had waved his wand to conjure a chessboard out of thin air and started setting the pieces and Ron's crying stopped, and the small boy watched, transfixed as Morris began explaining the game to him. His voice was patient and low the entire time, and by the time they were ready to play, Ron had all but forgotten about the spider in his room.
Ron was nine years old when Uncle Morris passed away, and he hasn't stopped playing chess since.
'Chess isn't a game, Ronald,' Morris had said the last time Ron had seen him before his death, he was in the hospital, had been for the last year, he looked just as composed as that day in the Burrow, even in a hospital gown. 'Chess is a lifestyle. An eye-opener, once you start seeing from a player's point of view… you never stop.'
Ron had brought his own set, a gift from Morris. He was the only one who visited anymore. His mom couldn't bear to watch her last brother succumb to a magical defect. A ticking bomb.
'I'm a bad bishop, Ron,' he had said as he and Ron were setting their pieces. 'One that is blocked in by its own pawns, betrayed in a way, as they're blocking the way.' Ron's head had snapped up, and he was staring at Morris, the man looked thoughtful.
'At least, I think that's how your mother thinks.'
'Mom doesn't play chess, ' Ron remembers how he started their last game, he began with the 'Dunst Opening ', his uncle's favorite. The Queen's knight was the first piece to move to a good square where it attacks the central e4 and d5 squares.
'Exactly, Ron.' Morris mirrored his opening. 'Chess isn't everyone's cup of tea, most choose ignorance,'
They do, and Ron has gradually come to learn why. Uncle Morris had been right, being a chess player didn't mean the game stopped once the chess set was away, it meant that Ron had been playing since. And he's getting tired of it.
Meeting Harry Potter was a move from the Universe that Ron wasn't expecting, getting to know Harry Potter was a double attack that much to Ron's astonishment, knocked the whole set away, and started a brand new game. A game which is still ongoing, and will be for the rest of Ron's life, as long as he has Harry by his side. A game at which Ron severely screwed up last night.
"Did he talk to you at all this morning?" Hermione asks, trying not to sound as timid as Ron knows she is. Neither of them is eating much breakfast at all. Hermione's plate is empty, and Ron hasn't touched his oatmeal, which should be a cause of alarm by itself. They're staring at the doors. Harry might walk in any second now.
And Ron needs to figure out his next move before he does. "We were too rough with him last night."
Hermione shrugs, fiddling with her fork. "Were we, Ron? He knows how worried we are."
"But we should have stopped when we saw him zoning out. You know he always does that when he's uncomfortable. I told you to stop. We should have." And instead of trying to keep placating the two, Ron had kept fanning the flames.
The product of five years worth of observing, subtly picking up measly detail out of the other, five years of playing without stepping on Harry's toes even once, of being the best friends they could be, and now this. This is a blunder.
He groans again, shaking his head as he remembers last night's disaster. Harry wasn't likely to forget those words any time soon, or at all. Ron isn't sure sometimes when it comes to Harry.
Last night, Ron made a rookie's mistake. And he broke a promise. He needs to resolve both today, or he'll take the fall. One stumble isn't enough to lose a game, but with Harry, every single twitch counts.
"We should apologise," Hermione finally says, waving a hand at Ginny to indicate that they're fine. Ron looks away from the doors. They don't have much time left until Charms begin, and Harry cannot afford to run late. He's behind on an essay already.
Ron had run into him this morning, during shower time, but Harry hadn't said a word and neither did Ron, he gave Harry his space and rushed through the shower to meet up with Hermione before Harry came down.
It takes him a while to register Hermione's words.
"Yes." he replies, distracted by watching the gates. "Should."
Hermione isn't impressed. "You're distracted."
"Harry's not gonna be placated with an apology. We both know that." Or maybe he would be, but maybe he'd just pretend to be. Ron could never predict him.
He starts tapping his foot against the stone tiles, impatiently stirring his oatmeal. Hermione waits for a beat and then sighs. "I'm sorry for the way we approached him, but you have got to admit Ron… something is going on. He's not telling us what. It might be harmful."
Ron does know. He's not blind.
"Are you familiar with the term 'blunder'?" he asks instead, the bouncing in his leg comes to an abrupt stop.
Hermione flicks an eyebrow at him. "In the literal sense?"
"No, the chess setting." Ron lets go of his spoon with a sharp clank. "Although they're mostly similar." She waits for him to elaborate. "We did the single worst thing we could have done with Harry last night. A catastrophic move that almost throws the game. That's a blunder. We've been doing this for five years, we know how self-conscious Harry is about himself," and we made it worse.
He picks up his spoon again with the same desolate note of failure playing in his head. His footing is still lost, and what's worse is that Ron doesn't know which player he lost last night. Whether it was a knight or a pawn. Blind chess. That's the term he's looking for.
She sighs again, "And we blew that away last night, I know."
"We should have stopped."
"Too late for that."
"Is it though?" Ron still hasn't looked up from his uneaten bowl of oatmeal.
"No, I meant he's here,"
Ron turns to look, and sure enough, Harry finally enters the Great Hall, his bag slung over one shoulder as he fiddles with the front of his robes. Without even looking where he's going, as if fueled by muscle memory, Harry dodges moving students and other tables and drops across them, not really looking as he reaches for his plate.
Ron and Hermione only stare at him for a moment, before Hermione slowly reaches for a piece of toast herself.
"Good morning," she says, buttering her toast as if it's the most vigorous of tasks. Ron stirs the spoon in his bowl.
Harry doesn't answer, but that's not too odd for Harry. That did take them a while to get used to at first, especially when they were all awkward eleven-year-olds with no talent in socializing. But they learned, and it's easier now, to predict Harry's moods, almost as easy as eating the oatmeal he's avoiding. Ron keeps biding his time, watching Harry butter his toast, and Hermione only repeats herself once more.
"Good morning,"
"Are you talking to me?" Harry finally looks up.
Ron and Hermione exchange a glance. "Yeah. Good morning," Ron says.
Harry holds their gaze. "Good morning," Then he turns back to his breakfast.
Not too bad, Ron thinks. At least Harry is responding to them. And he doesn't seem to be zoning out right now. Ron himself had been on the other side of the spectrum too many times to count. It's not something that Harry consciously does, at least, not that Ron's noticed. He has no idea what goes through the other boy's mind when he's away, but he also knows that when Harry doesn't want to be somewhere, he doesn't let his body hinder his wishes.
Hermione and he are used to it now, they see the signs, the sudden stilling, the slightly glazed eyes, distracted distorted responses, sometimes none at all.
Other times, when he's not doing his thing, Harry is just being… Harry.
He's the sort of person who'd wake people up two hours after midnight to ask a ridiculous question, such as "Do fish blink?" Or something he had actually woken Ron up about when they were thirteen, "Do you think your Dad would like a flock of rubber ducks as a Christmas present or a single giant one?"
The sort of person that Ron has heard of, but hadn't met before, the sort his mother mentioned Uncle Morris hanging out with. The loony type, that's what his mother called them before meeting Harry.
Harry is an angel in her eyes though.
Ron and Hermione don't have an explanation for it yet. They don't talk much about it at all. They just follow the set of unspoken rules forged between the two of them reserved just for the other boy. An array of glances that varies from 'let's leave him alone' to 'He's distracted, you pair up with him during potions'.
It used to be exhausting. It still is, but it's a part of life, a part of the game and Ron feels obligated to do it the same way he's obligated to breathe, even by his body's insistence. Even though he's tired of playing.
"Are you in the mood to talk?" Hermione idly asks, munching on her toast. Harry shrugs.
"What about?"
Ron leaves his spoon in the oatmeal. "We both owe you an apology."
"Yes, you do." Harry then proceeds to take a bite out of his toast, not really looking at them.
In spite of the glum mood settling over the three of them, Ron exchanges a small grin with Hermione. Harry's bluntness was a refreshing attribute. Ron himself, personally never tires of it.
"Right," he says, trying to hide his smirk.
Hermione gives up on her toast and clears her throat, nervously brushing her hair out of her face as her fingers drum upon the tablecloth next to the empty plate. "We're sorry," she finally blurts out. "We shouldn't have-"
"No," Harry cuts in. "You're apologising because I'm mad. Not because-"
"We mean it." Ron cuts him off. "Trust me, Harry. We went too far last night, we had no right to do that, to talk to you like that, or crowd you in that way. We were all tired and we all said things we shouldn't have."
Harry puts his tea down with a peculiar look in his eyes, the one Ron's noticed Harry having when he's trying not to look upset. "You don't… you're not entitled to deal with me, Ron. I've never asked that of you two. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around, but neither you or Hermione are forced to take care of me."
Ron struggles to hide a wince. This is it. This is the root of their problems. Harry never asked them to look after him, Ron and Hermione never felt compelled to think too deeply regarding the matter, they've spoken about it, once or twice, in passing, but never in-depth. Never as the elephant in the room. Never as an issue.
Never about how much of a handful Harry is, because the truth was, that he really wasn't. He just had certain quirks, small things really, measly traits that before Ron even could get annoyed about them, most had been resolved already. He knows him now, he and Hermione probably know him a lot better than anyone else, the same way a muggle machine fixer is proud of knowing what he's built and knowing the kinks better than anyone else.
"Hey," Hermione says. "We only tolerate you as much you tolerate us, Harry. Ronald's right, we shouldn't have behaved like that last night. It was rude, and… unacceptable. We're sorry."
"I acknowledge your apology."
Ron frowns. This is going incredibly well. He wasn't expecting that. Of course not, one can never predict things when it comes to Harry. "How long 'till you accept it?"
"We'll see," Harry shrugs and then gulps down his tea in a long swig.
##
Draco knows he isn't chopping the Passiflora leaves as finely as he should be, and Blaise has already reprimanded him about it twice. But that doesn't make him do it any better. It's not like he doesn't know how to, it's just that he doesn't want to.
Severus has been looking at him discreetly- or so he thinks- for the past twenty minutes. Doing his rounds but always coming back to hover near him. It's driving Draco crazy, and it's spiteful enough that it's making him brew his potion without making any efforts to salvage the results. He's not sure if Severus would be keen on giving him an E or an O again after last night's conversation, and if Draco were feeling better, he might even have felt guilty for bringing Blaise's grade down, but he isn't feeling better. He is feeling positively awful.
Draco had always loved Potions, and the class, the room, the whole environment, along with all the pleasant and not so pleasant smells of potions ingredients should have been soothing. But this too, brings back painful memories. While Draco has known Severus for as long as he can remember, it was his mother who had first introduced him to Potions. Severus had taught him most of the time, but Narcissa had liked to oversee his lessons. Draco still remembers the serene days, where his mother's smile was only a glance away.
And so Draco chops in a less than perfect way, something which would have made him sneer if he were the Draco of 'Before'.
His eyes flit across the room, landing on Potter and Weasley, bumbling about their cauldron. Draco had watched Potter when he had entered the classroom, or specifically, his hand. Only to find smooth, unscarred skin.
For a second Draco wondered if last night had merely been a dream before realisation had dawned. Of course not, he knew last night had been real in the uncomfortable crispness of his school robes, the ones he never wore unless in emergencies. Glamours, probably. Draco is no stranger to them, after all.
He also spies Potter favoring his right hand, even pulling away once when Weasley grabs it. So, Potter still hasn't told his friends. Not that Draco had expected him to.
A sharp pinprick of pain makes Draco look down again before he purses his lips. He has nicked his finger with the knife. And now a droplet of blood was seeping into his freshly chopped leaves. Blood could seriously affect the potion results, and however little he may care for his grades right now, Draco isn't keen on getting to know what an additional ingredient might result in.
With a sigh, he collects the leaves and tosses them away, earning a cocked eyebrow from Blaise, in response to which Draco just lifts his finger. Blaise shakes his head before he goes back to the cauldron. Draco restarts with new leaves, feeling Severus' eyes on the back of his head.
He wouldn't have been so uncomfortable if they were the only pair of eyes on him. He can also feel Pansy staring at him now and then, and compared to Severus, she is not being discreet at all. Quite the opposite, really. At this rate, her potion is going to be more botched than Longbottom's.
This time, he does an even worse job of cutting up the Passiflora leaves than before, uneven and large. And he does sneer looking at them, although he doesn't bother with correcting them even a little. Blaise seems resigned as he collects them and adds them into the potion, turning it into a deep purple instead of the desired lilac. Hm, not so bad. Not perfect, of course, but close enough.
A lot better than Pansy's black concoction. Or Longbottom's solid block of… something. Potter doesn't seem to be doing too bad either, his and Weasley's potion an unbecoming shade of hot pink. Not that Draco cares, even as Potter runs his hand through his hair before flinching and quickly putting it down, out of sight. The action was small, almost imperceptible, but Draco had been looking for it.
Because some part of him is still wondering whether last night was merely a dream.
When Severus is done with his tongue lashing to Longbottom, leaving the boy near tears, he erases the board with a wave of his wand, and new instructions appear. The next steps for the potion. Decidedly harder than the first half.
There are a few groans and moans around the class, only Granger looking even remotely happy at the prospect of a 'challenge' as she bustles about her worktable, much to, from what Draco can see, the Patil girl's annoyance.
Draco just huffs and returns to his own potion. What did they all think? It's their O.W.L.s year, of course, Potions would be difficult. All classes would be. One would think that almost one month into attending said classes, they'd have realised that by now.
"Don't you put those in the cauldron Draco," Blaise mutters, eyeing the mess Draco was making of the sunflower seeds.
"They're good enough," Draco waves him off, dropping in the fistful of crushed seeds in the cauldron and Blaise scrambles to stir it counterclockwise as he counts the rounds. Severus is going to give him an O anyway. Probably. Blaise is lucky he has Draco as a partner.
There's a knock on the door only a minute later, and Draco turns to look in spite of himself, watching as little Creevy timidly makes his way to Snape and hands him a note as he points at Potter. Discreet, Draco thinks.
Draco follows Creevy's finger back to Potter and sees the other boy intently staring at the duo, his face pale as Weasley desperately tries salvaging the goo in their cauldron. Potter is wringing his hands on the tabletop.
"Potter," Severus barks and Draco watches with narrowed eyes as Potter jostles in place, even though he shouldn't have been startled in the slightest, he did seem to be cogitating quite deeply before, and now his eyes are clearer, and already he seems to be contemplating why could he be in trouble.
"The Headmaster has requested your presence. Leave now, and get your homework from Granger."
Potter nods and stands, grabbing his bag as Creevy is exiting the classroom to run off to his own class. Draco drops his gaze then, and doesn't wait to see Potter leave the dungeons, he doesn't want Pansy to think that he is even remotely interested in Potter.
He doesn't like hand-feeding her information, if she has the audacity to openly skulk around him like an amateur then Draco still isn't going to treat her like one. Blaise elbows him in the side and they turn back to their potions, and Draco spares a second to think of the vials clinking in his school bag. For the first time in a very long while, the Draco from 'After' is starting to feel useful.
##
The kettle whistles, a loud, high shriek that is followed by a jet of steam and a bubbling sound. The kettle remains on the stove, whistling, burning up under the heat as the wind blows a gentle breeze to rustle the curtains.
The window is open, only ajar, and a bowl of unmixed eggs is set next to a plate of raw bacon. The mixer is on the floor, casting a ghastly splash of egg yolks against the otherwise clean kitchen floor. The smell of ready toasts wafts around the room and frame a quaint picture of a lazy family breakfast. The clock on the wall is frozen and has been for a while. No way to tell the exact time.
The adjoining living room is in the same state as the kitchen, unfinished, as if the painter had forgotten to add in the final finishing touches of his portrait, except that this isn't a portrait and the telly is on. The images are rapid on the telly, but a deep voice is singing, accompanied by a jazz band in the background, couples can be seen haphazardly dancing to the tune.
It looks all but spotless, the patio door is open as well, despite the chilly weather, and the fireplace crackles with a low burning flame, the aspen patterned rug is slightly shifted as if someone had run over to the patio and dragged the rug in the process.
Even so, it all looks normal, untouched. And that's exactly what's wrong with it. The hallway is the focal point of this unnatural painting. The door is wide open and people can be seen, distraught, and gaping at the plumes of smoke that rise from the house, none of them actually look through the open door to see the real cause of horror.
Three bodies lie in a pile, hapless, and drenched in blood, torn to bits and oozing a disgusting, stifling odor that could only be the result of rigor mortis, only a foot away from their door, Petunia's bony hand is extended to the doormat, as if she intends to claw her way out of the dead pile of bodies, except she cannot do that because she's just as dead as the rest of them.
Harry cannot tell the difference between the other two bodies, Dudley and Vernon were roughly the same weight before Harry left the house in summer, and they're too mutilated now to discern. Harry cannot do anything but stare, he's fascinated. Horrified too. But mostly fascinated.
"-Such a tragedy! Oh dear lord!" One of the neighbors is crying against a paramedic's chest who looks awfully uncomfortable as he pats the woman's back.
"Everything will be alright, ma'am,"
"A gas leak? Should we evacuate too? Oh, Henry!"
Harry lets their words run past his ears in a constant stream and walks closer to the Dursleys, which the muggles clearly cannot see, the wind brushes the disgusting scent of death right into Harry's face, and he gags, his eyes stitched to Petunia's hand.
They're dead. Beyond dead and Harry somehow cannot fit the enormous weight of that statement into his head. His muggle relatives aren't alive anymore, and they don't look as if they willingly went about to accept such a fate. To be fair, not too many people embrace death like an old friend, but this...This is heinous.
What is more heinous is the first thing that Harry feels as he contemplates the bodies. Relief.
Harry is relieved.
Suddenly a rough hand seizes Harry on the shoulder and starts shaking him, wheezing into his ear like a stubborn fly in a hot summer afternoon. "Harry?" he hears as the wheezing clears.
"I don't understand, Albus," the voice addresses the other person in the room. The room. Harry is in Dumbledore's office. Not standing in the Dursleys house. "This has never happened before!"
Harry rapidly blinks to clear his vision. "This is shocking news," Albus Dumbledore replies, his voice tinged with concern. They both sound concerned. Harry brings a hand to fix his glasses and Sirius squeezes his shoulder. Harry can finally see the man, looking frantic as he searches Harry's face for recognition.
"Should we be calling Poppy? Harry?"
"I'm fine," Harry tells him and shrugs the man's hand off his shoulder. He is fine.
"Harry, you do not look fine, I know this seems like shocking news, and upsetting-."
"I'm not upset," Harry is supposed to be disturbed by that revelation; but he isn't. He's relieved. He's still relieved, even confronted by the thought- image, of his dead relatives. That says a lot of things about him, most of which Harry avoids exploring. He needs to focus.
"Harry, my boy, are you quite sure we needn't call for Poppy? I'm sure a calming draught wouldn't go amiss," Harry shakes his head at Dumbledore again. He's feeling a bit irritated at himself for zoning out in front of the two. He had never done so before today.
"I'm fine," he really is. He feels calm, and content, and maybe a bit high from his surreal experience, but otherwise he's fine.
"Alright, bud," Sirius pats Harry on the head, and Harry has the sudden urge to flatten his hair down afterward. "So…"
"The Dursleys died," Harry tells the room, voicing his thoughts, just making sure that he didn't get that part wrong. Sirius curls his lips and then settles down in a chair set next to Harry's, and Dumbledore takes his own seat again.
"Murdered, Harry." the Headmaster gently reminds Harry, "The Death Eaters responsible for their murder and ten other muggles have left the dark mark hovering above the scene, a muggle mall, it seems."
That shouldn't be new information to Harry but it is. He must have been too out of it to register these tidbits, he sort of stopped listening by the time Sirius had blurted out that the Dursleys are dead.
A public execution.
That doesn't seem fitting at all. Both Petunia and Vernon were fanatically private people, and for their deaths to be this public… It's mocking them, the notion seems ridiculous since the death eaters actually knew neither and only targeted them because of their relation to Harry, but still. They're sending a very clear message.
"The Muggles believe it to be a gas leak, and Obliviators were sent to the scene immediately,"
"Yes," Harry pretends that he knew all that.
"Listen, Harry, I know the Dursleys weren't the best people around," Sirius starts, shuffling in his seat to face Harry, "But I know that their deaths could be upsetting, I was actually quite upset when I found out about my Mother's death… so if you wanted to talk—"
"I don't," Harry oddly is telling the truth. He's alright. He feels alright, at least.
"If you want me to take you back to Grimmauld place for a while to deal with this I'm sure Albus wouldn't mind,"
Dumbledore inclines his head. "If that is required,"
"No," Harry shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. I don't need to go anywhere. I think I'm actually late to Transfiguration?"
'Liar,' Imaginary Sirius calls him on it. Harry pointedly ignores the jab even though it's true. He has a free period now, with the Ravenclaws, while the Slyhterin-Hufflepuff crowd is sitting through Transfiguration.
Harry needs an out. He's ashamed of himself, and he cannot even imagine Sirius or Dumbledore getting a whif of what's going on in his head. They would be revolted.
"At least take the rest of the day off!" the real Sirius exclaims.
"No, no. I'm fine. Great." Harry winces. That was a mistake. "Not great," he scrambles to explain. "I mean...considering. But I'm fine."
"And do you want to be present for the funeral? Get in contact with the undertaker?"
No, Harry wants to snap quickly, but what would it say about him? So he settles for a hesitant, "Um, I have school…?"
"Harry," Sirius begins, his voice gentle, "Albus will let you leave school to attend a funeral." he places his hands on Harry's shoulders, looking at him with concerned eyes.
"I will," Dumbledore says, but then he continues, "But you don't have to attend the funeral, Harry. I know it must be difficult."
"Yeah," Harry says, good excuse, "I don't want to."
Sirius still looks worried, but he just nods and pulls Harry in close for a hug. Harry hesitates for a split second before wrapping his arms around Sirius. When they pull away, he has a soft smile on his face as he looks at Harry, "You'll be okay, right? You really don't want to come to Grimmauld Place with me?"
"I'll be fine," Harry's eyes flick over to Dumbledore, who is looking at them with a grim face. He startles a little when Fawkes gives a low trill, and looks around for the phoenix, spotting it perched atop the bookcase.
"I think," Harry turns away from the bird, not meeting Sirius' eyes anymore, "I think I should go to Transfiguration now."
Sirius' frown is back in place, and he doesn't let go of his shoulders for a few moments, before nodding once and taking a step back.
But just as Harry is leaving for the door, he realises something. The dark mark was seen over the mall, then- "Does that mean Voldemort is out in the public now? You said they left… the dark mark hovering over the bodies."
Dumbledore gives a sigh and leans back a little in his chair, looking weary. "Yes Harry, even the Ministry cannot ignore them anymore."
'So, I won't be called a liar anymore?' He wants to ask, but he knows how it sounds so instead he says, "What does that mean for us, sir?"
"We're not sure yet," Sirius interjects instead, his eyes pruned with concern for Harry. He already looks so worn. Harry has the decency to feel a bit ashamed of causing the man this much pain and stress.
"But don't you worry at all, Harry. This is the safest place for you," Sirius hugs him again and Harry lets him, mostly for his benefit than Harry's. "We'll keep you and the others as safe as we can."
"That's great," Harry stifles a wince again. He really should stop using the word 'Great' altogether.
"Are you sure you don't want to come back with me? It'll be only Moony and me, you can have your privacy, come back when you're feeling better."
"No, I'm alright, Sirius. Really I am. Was that… all you were going to tell me about?"
As if there was anything even slightly more jaw-dropping than this. 'Harry your relatives are dead, and also we're banning you from Quidditch indefinitely. ' or something as equally ridiculous as that.
"No, that was all." Albus Dumbledore gives Harry a peculiar glance and Harry avoids his gaze, feeling overwhelmed by being in the man's eyes after weeks of being ignored. He fidgets in Sirius's arms and the man finally lets him go, slightly smirking.
"Just like you were as a baby," he says. Harry blinks.
"Huh?"
"You were a wriggler," Sirius briefly explains with a small chuckle and then awkwardly trails off, clearing his throat as Harry and the Headmaster stare at him.
'Ugh the nerve of this guy,' Imaginary Sirius rolls his eyes, standing shoulder to shoulder with the real Sirius, except he's in a Hawaiian shirt, holding a beer bottle, and this Sirius looks as if he hadn't been sleeping in almost a month.
"Right," Harry pats the man on his arm, and then hesitantly gestures at the door.
"Can I? I really don't want to miss a class. The O. are already taking a toll on us,"
"Yes, yes, of course, Harry."
"Just remember… You can write to me at any time, Kiddo. Remus and I basically don't have a life, so yeah, don't worry about stupid notions like bothering us or anything."
"Okay,"
"And uh… I actually have a gift, waiting for you," Sirius looks very self-conscious all of a sudden. "The next time you'll be coming over. It could be sooner than Christmas if you liked. Any time-."
"Not any time, Sirius," Albus gently interrupts. "He has school,"
The man winces and then rubs his neck. "Well yeah, maybe Christmas then. Write to me,"
"Right," Harry says again with a gulp, exchanges a manly handshake with his godfather, and nods at Dumbledore before power walking out of the office as calmly as he can manage.
He makes it to the stairs when he realizes that he has no intentions of joining the rest of the class or dealing with any of the messy things he's supposed to be dealing with. He could head to the dorms, but Ron would find him in a heartbeat, and Harry cannot deal with his friends right now. He cannot even deal with himself at the moment.
What even is he? To be so relieved, even comforted at the sight of his dead relatives! Everyone has their own can of worms, their own skeletons in the closet, meanwhile Harry feels as if he's the can filled with worms, in the most literal sense. Something slimy, and disgusting. Something must be wrong with him, severely wrong with him.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are dead. Dudley is too. There goes three names added to the list of people Harry's killed. These three, he didn't even love that much.
Harry steps down the stairs and contemplates his lack of guilt. He isn't guilty for not loving them, he's sure that they didn't love him all that much either. Harry still remembers his days in the cupboard, trapped in with spiders, hungry, and yearning, yearning for a life Dudley was living just two feet away from him.
Harry is still in a way jealous of his cousin. Not because of his spoilt upbringing or obesity. Well, former obesity, he's a sack of bloody flesh now, but that's… besides the point. Harry is jealous of the way Aunt Petunia sang him to sleep when they were too small to talk, he's jealous of Uncle Vernon teaching him how to ride a bike.
Because if Dudley gets to have lullabies and a bike, then he still had more than Harry ever will, even in death.
"You slimy can of worms," Harry rolls his eyes at himself and finally reaches the end of the stairs, completely avoids the nosy portraits, and heads to the girl's bathroom. At least he knows he'd have a moment of solitude there, to do anything that resembles grieving.
If the Dursleys' death has proven anything to Harry, it's only one thing; people don't have to love him in order to die for him. All it takes is knowing him, and that by default means the entire population of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix, and Merlin knows who else.
When Harry enters the bathroom, Myrtle isn't there, but he's not alone. Draco Malfoy stands, casually leaning against a wall and cocking an eyebrow at Harry as if he was late.
Is Harry late to something he isn't aware of?
"You have Transfiguration," he says and Malfoy only looks at him, his eyes narrowed as if he's reading Harry like an open book. "You aren't in Transfiguration."
"You're regressing. Stating the obvious now, are we?," Malfoy uncrosses his arms, Harry frowns at him. He really isn't sure if he wants to deal with Malfoy right now. He needs to get rid of the mixture of feelings racking up a storm in his chest. He needs to scrub the relief away from his skin.
"I knew you'd come here," Malfoy says yet again, and Harry just watches him, transfixed and puzzled by Malfoy's presence. He doesn't look upset, he doesn't look disheveled or as if he were crying. He looks triumphant, smug. Harry has never seen Malfoy with that peculiar look before.
"Am I being that predictable?" Harry heads to a basin and turns the taps, he'd feel better after washing up a bit, he knows that splashing his face with water will start the waterworks going, and he'll finally feel a bit miserable after crying, if only for the sake of crying and not the Dursleys.
"Not really," Malfoy is incredibly polite today, Harry notices. No insults have been exchanged so far. No sarcastic jabs. He's probably waiting for Harry to give him the perfect opening. "I'm just that good an observer."
"Right," the water is hot and it stings Harry's cheeks and the tips of his fingers, but he splashes his face once more, impatiently waiting for the familiar sting to form behind his eyes.
"Did Dumbledore have you rubbing your face in a mud pit?" when Malfoy asks this, Harry almost jumps right out of his skin. The bastard is standing right next to him! Harry didn't hear him approach from behind, he was too busy trying to cry.
"What?" he asks, and he tries not to sound as breathlessly startled as he feels.
"You're washing your face quite vigorously. You should at least take your glasses off."
Oh. His glasses. Harry almost hadn't noticed the mottled spectacles before Malfoy pointed them out. He brings a hesitant hand and rips them off his face, then runs his hand under the steaming rush of water once more. His hands turn pink from sheer hotness, and Harry lets them.
Malfoy is still watching him, much to Harry's bafflement. "What are you doing here?"
"If I remember correctly Potter, you and I had a deal the other night."
It takes Harry approximately seven seconds to realize what the blond is talking about.
"The detention doesn't start now,"
The other boy shrugs. "I know." Then he curls his lips at Harry's pink hands.
"But look at what you're doing to those hands, Potter, really,"
Harry snatches his hands out of the steaming water and frowns at Draco. No matter how hard he tries, there's something about Draco that Harry cannot figure out. Something that feels so obvious, right on the tip of his tongue, and yet, Harry cannot put his finger on it.
"Potter, do you hate your hands that much? I know I would have hated those gangly fingers and bitten nails too, but really… boiling them isn't the answer."
"What are you doing here Malfoy?"
"I want to know what Dumbledore told you,"
Harry blinks, "I'm sorry?"
"If the man actually disrupted a class to call you into his office it must have been important. You certainly looked startled, so you weren't made aware of a possible meeting beforehand. Conclusion; Dumbledore came into possession of a bout of information he couldn't sit on and it somehow involved you. Further concluding, it's either got to do something with Umbridge or You-Know-who." Harry blinks. Well, supposedly it wasn't quite that hard to figure out.
"And what in the world makes you think I'll tell you?"
Draco shrugs. "You won't. I'll tell myself. You're still going to that hag's detention, aren't you?"
Harry stays silent.
"There's my answer. Right there. Chances are Dumbledore wouldn't have allowed that woman to teach a class of second years at the moment if he knew." He's got a triumphant look in his eyes that Harry wants to wipe out, but isn't really in a position to care about.
"I don't want to talk about this. And with you of all people," he huffs instead, turning back towards the mirror, scrubbing at his face.
"So it was about You-know-who. I wonder what could be urgent enough for him to drag you to his office in the middle of a class." Malfoy's voice is closer now, and Harry pauses for enough of a moment to see that he has moved closer.
"You might want to shut up now."
"You don't want to talk about it." No shit, Sherlock. Harry grits his teeth, why can't Malfoy leave him alone.
Harry turns the taps off. "No. Not with you anyway."
"If you wanted to talk to Granger and Weasley, they'd already be here."
"That does say a lot about me at the moment,"
"Listen, Potter, I have no desire to know about your secret meeting with Dumbledore. We had a deal, and I'm sticking to it." Harry loosens his jaw enough to answer calmly, drying his hands with a quick spell.
"By skipping Transfiguration."
"I'll study here, while you're ripping your hand open."
"But you skipped because you wanted to find out about the meeting,"
Malfoy scowls. "Don't misunderstand me, Potter. I skipped because I wanted to, I came here because I wanted to play. And I did, all things considered."
"So I'm a game," Harry says flatly, still not looking away from the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises.
"Isn't everyone?" Malfoy is now leaning against a wall casually, his arms crossed at his front, wand dangling in one hand. There is a smirk playing on his lips. Of course, he thinks everyone is a game.
"You know what… whatever. Do whatever you like, I'll have to be ready for my detention in ten minutes, I really don't have the time to deal with you." Harry finally turns away from the mirror, stalking towards the door.
"I'm offended, Potter. Truly," Malfoy calls out as Harry reaches the door.
Harry doesn't answer him as he walks out of the bathroom, frowning. Maybe he should just go ten minutes early. Umbridge couldn't possibly complain about that, right?
With a sigh, he lets the glamour on his hand drop as he knocks on the door of her office, his heart already sinking. Why couldn't she have been one of the people who died? He certainly knows her, like every other person who died because of him.
When he enters the room, she is sitting beside her desk, a self-inking quill, and a stack of papers in front of her. She looks at him and gives him her sweet, poisoned smile. "You're not too late today, Mr. Potter. Looks like my detentions really are having an impact."
The other Sirius is back, standing behind her and making strangulation gestures around her neck. Harry eyes the clock. One minute past five. The strangulation gestures become more frantic and murderous. But all he does is give a small, polite looking nod.
"Have a seat," Umbridge says, turning back to her papers as she corrects them. Her quill makes a grating, loud scratching noise on the paper as she scrawls over it.
He trudges over to his regular chair, doing his best not to sneer at her. He wonders if anyone else has sat here, writing with the cursed quill, drawing blood from their own bodies to satisfy this toad's sadistic urges.
Or perhaps she reserves this special punishment just for him. He wouldn't be surprised, since when had he ever been normal, after all?
"I heard about your relatives, Mr. Potter." She says down the quill, and steeples her fingers, looking at him intensely, "This must be a very hard time for you."
Harry blinks. He found out about the Dursleys only an hour ago and she knows? News certainly travels with the speed of light in this place. He's as taut as a bowstring, feeling like he'd snap at any moment. Surely, if she knows, she won't let him remain in detention any longer?
Harry scoffs, who is he trying to fool? Of course, she will.
"But," she interrupts his thoughts, "You must know the value of routine and everyday activities. They should not change merely because of one unfortunate event. It will keep you distracted." Umbridge gives another small smile, dripping with so much venom Harry wonders why her lips aren't burnt with the sheer acidity of it. "And I'm here to help you with that, Mr. Potter. As an attending student of a prestigious school such as Hogwarts, and me as your Professor, your well being is my concern. So, can we start with today's detention?"
Harry has been trying very hard not to gape at her in incredulity. Does she honestly believe all the crap that comes out of her mouth? How is carving words into a student's hand, making them almost bleed to death, considered showing concern? Harry is very tempted to go with imaginary Sirius' suggestions. Which has been getting more creative the more she spoke. Death from blood loss after cutting out her tongue doesn't sound as horrific in his head as it would have, once. But now everything is dulled. Except for his hatred for this woman.
The only outward reaction he shows, though, is an almost polite enough "Yes, ma'am."
Umbridge bares her teeth into another one of those godawful smiles and waves a hand to gesture at the blasted quill resting on the desk. "Get to it, then. No dawdling." And then, finally, instead of staring at him, she returns to her papers.
The soft scratches of Harry's quill against the paper is nothing compared to the harsh ones Umbridge makes, almost as if she's trying to cut straight through the paper. And it's grating on Harry's nerves. The pain is distracting, but her presence is so outrageously revolting that it nearly drowns out everything else.
After a while, the parchment, his hand, and the quill are so bloody Harry almost can't make out the words anymore. Still, he writes, and still, his skin splits, over and over and over.
His eyes are blurring by the time Harry turns his eyes towards the clock; and, assuming it's showing the correct time, or at least something near it, it's twenty minutes past eight. He blinks, he has been here for over three hours now. He's sure he'd pass out again today.
Harry clenches his jaw and tries to ignore imaginary Sirius shouting insults in his ear at Umbridge, very creative ones. Harry is almost sure he's never heard some of them before. His suggestions sound so tempting, and Harry has to tighten his grip around the quill to try and ignore him, bringing tears to his eyes which he furiously blinks away.
'Molten lava,' the man shrugs. 'It's gonna work like a charm.'
Oh for Merlin's sake, Sirius.
'I'm not saying you cannot pull it off, Kiddo, it's just getting a bit frustrating. It could be lava, a wire. Hell, you could do it with the quill!'
"Mr. Potter?" Harry almost jumps.
"Yes?"
She smiles at him. "You're free to leave. I'm letting you go a bit early today, as I'm sure you've noticed, my condolences for the loss of your relatives."
"Thank you, ma'am." Early, Harry almost snorts, breaking his blank expression. It's almost curfew. Hell, with her clocks, he is never sure. It could be past curfew for all he knows. He doesn't dare check the time on his wristwatch in front of her. Almost throwing the Quill back on the desk, he stands up, picking his bag and makes for the door.
Soon, he is stumbling through the corridors, down to the girl's bathroom. There is also a sense of uneasiness as he walks, which has nothing to do with his throbbing headache, blurry vision, and the hand which feels like it's on fire. Will Draco even be there? If not, he really doesn't want to pass out in the bathroom again, he'd rather do it on his bed. He's fairly certain he'd be able to cast a brief glamour on himself, and he doubts Ron and Hermione are going to try and needle him again.
His conditions worsen as he walks; staggers, really. He has to shake his head several times to see, and for one terrifying moment he almost wonders if he's going blind. 'I won't be able to play Quidditch' is his first irrational thought. Would he see just pitch black? Or would there be colours? Would it be permanent? Harry doesn't recall ever seeing a blind wizard, but then again, wizards still have to wear corrective glasses. Dumbledore himself wears one.
His train of thought is interrupted when he stumbles again and throws out his mauled hand to balance himself, stifling a strangled yell as pain flares up not only in his hand but up to his elbow. He hisses, peeling his hand away from the wall, grimacing at the bloody handprint. Huffing for breath, he pulls out his wand to clean it up. He can't just go around leaving blood on the walls. It reminds him of his second year, with those writings on the walls. Although it had been chicken blood at that time.
Right. Draco. He is probably waiting for him in the bathroom. He better be. Because Harry isn't sure how long he can last. Doing that spell taxed him, and he feels like crawling to the bathroom would be easier than walking.
His breath is shallow as he approaches the familiar and somewhat comforting doors of the bathroom, vision swimming, and head spinning. Before he can open the door, though, they fling open themselves, revealing Draco Malfoy. Who freezes at the sight in front of him. Harry probably doesn't make a very pretty picture right now.
But before either of them can say anything, Harry's vision tunnels, greying out completely, and he collapses.
Silver. That's what he'd like to see if he were to be blinded.
A perpetual pool of silver.