In the time of the Order of the Phoenix, a mysterious transfer student from the United States of America comes to Hogwarts. With hair to rival Hermione's, and a tongue to rival Draco's, the suspicions and tensions rise in Professor Snape's classroom. And we thought Dolores Umbridge was the problem...
This story will be told in many different parts, in many different times. It will jump from the years at Hogwarts to the years after the war, and it'll be up to you to figure out the puzzle.
Harry 16
The wind was cutting into Harry's cheek as climbed to the owlry. It was a particularly blustery winter day and he worried about Hedwig flying in this weather, but he also had a great amount of faith in her, for she never failed him before. The significance of this owl was great, and Harry was certain that Mr. Weasley would be able to help identify that weird-looking cabinet Malfoy had been so interested in at Borgin and Burkes. He tied his scarf tighter around his face, his glasses fogging a bit from the heat of his breath rising, and stumbled in.
He removed his glasses when he knew he was in the safety of the owlry and cleaned the lenses with the hem of his jumper. When he put them back on, he found Ella Zamora sitting on the ledge of one of the stone windows, Hedwig at her side, along with her own owl, which was the largest brown owl he'd ever seen. She was sitting and reading, with a few parcels and envelopes at her feet, which were wrapped in impractical heels of cranberry red suede. It was Wednesday, which meant that there were no classes for N.E.W.T. students, so she was wearing—he assumed—her Ilvermorny robes, which seemed similar to Hogwarts school robes, except they were a fine prussian blue with gold buttons and bright cranberry scarf over her shoulders. He was about to turn around and leave, but she noticed him before he could.
"Hello, Harry," she greeted, neutral, going back to reading her letters. Hedwig fluffed up her feathers in greeting and flew to his arm. "She's been going on and on about you," she mentioned, scribbling something on a scroll of parchment at her side with a white peacock feather quill. Her owl shook its great head and cleaned his feathers. "She and Phoebus seem to be good friends."
"Is that your owl's name?"
"Mm-hmm," she said. She then looked up and nodded pointedly to the large horned owl. "He chose it. He said he didn't have a name when he came to me and had a number instead. M20. Weird." She shrugged. "Ah, well, I guess big-name Owl Breeders do that. Right, beastie?" She smiled at scratched his belly. Harry couldn't help but smile. "Did you like your hot chocolate?" He recalled the other day, at the contest.
"Oh, er, yeah."
"Good," she said with a grin. "Sorry about the Dueling Club. I've told them to remain professional from now on." She opened a large parcel and pulled out what Harry recognized as her ukelele. She grinned. "Yes!" she whispered, then looked up with a grin. "Had it fixed," she explained. "And had my name carved on the neck." She strummed the strings, filling the owlry with the lofty chords.
"Oh." He felt a little tense, recalling last weekend. She strummed again, then hummed in harmony with the chord, then sang a few 'la la la's before strumming out a bit of a song, which sounded familiar, but Harry couldn't place it.
"You play any instruments?"
Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. He pulled out the letter and a treat for Hedwig. He fed her from his palm, trying to keep his sealed envelope concealed in the sleeve of his robe.
Ella gave a tiny laugh. "Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have had any lessons... My mother wanted me to play the harp, you know. Daddy wanted piano, since we already had one at my Nana's house..." She trailed off. "But we all settled on the ukelele." She strummed a few more tones. Harry figured if he remained quiet and just let her talk, he could get in and out without too much of a conflict. "Actually! I had initially wanted to play the bagpipes, but then we all settled on the ukelele." She strummed again, humming.
Bagpipes? Thought Harry. "Why bagpipes?" He oughtn't to have engaged, but who in their right mind would want to play bagpipes? Phoebus and Hedwig seemed to be having a rather lively conversation as well, for the way they were chirping and hooting. Zamora patted his head gently, and nodded along.
"Well, frankly, I didn't want to be stuck inside learning music when I could be outside playing, so I decided to choose the most annoying thing I could think of."
Harry couldn't help but laugh. He looked over his shoulder. "Didn't they try to insist either way?"
"Of course!" laughed she, pulling out a cranberry ribbon from the box the ukelele was in and looping it around her gold charm bracelet, she tied the instrument's neck, too. With a tap of her wand and a flick of her wrist, the ukelele shrank to be a tiny gold charm that dangled like a little bell. "But my dad's a lawyer so I grew up learning how to argue." She looked up at him. "But when that didn't work I yelled and screamed and threw a big tantrum until I got my way." She smirked. Harry cringed in disdain, reminded of Dudley's tantrums in that moment. "Plus, a ukelele is small, so you can take it anywhere with ease." She shook her charm bracelet at him, the glimmering gold catching the pale light on that December day. "And the Ilvermorny school song was originally written with a part on the ukelele! And I can play little songs; "Over the Rainbow" and "Can't Help Falling in Love" when I feel like it. It's pretty easy to play. I just like singing better is all." Phoebus chirped and hooted, and Hedwig hooted back in answer. Zamora laughed a bit. "They sure do like each other. I'm glad that Phoebus makes friends so easily. I was worried about him, coming all the way here..."
Harry frowned and looked at Phoebus, big and brown and gray and speckled, with horn-like feathers atop his head. "Where did you get him?" he asked, petting Hedwig's head.
"Draco," she answered. "'He came all the way from America just to be with me,'" she recited, her voice a bit lofty. Harry guessed that she perhaps felt it was a bit odd to have a pet owl, considering she could turn into a raven at will. "He had him shipped over from Maine for Christmas last year so we could keep in touch. He's a Coastal Great Horned Owl, one of the largest birds of prey in America. I guess Draco felt I needed something American." She then looked up at him. "All the owls in school say you two have been at each other's throats since day one." Harry tensed. "I guess it explains why he was so keen to make those Team Zamora buttons for me. I mean, I know he cares, but nobody cares that much." He almost mentioned that Malfoy had been the one to make and sell the 'Potter Stinks' buttons when he was competing in the Tri-Wizard tournament two years ago. "By the way," she said, "Hedwig also told me why you're cheating at Potions." His mouth went dry. "I won't tell. I do think you've got the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair. But I won't tell, even though I'm a Prefect now and legally obligated to..."
"What do you mean, you won't tell? There's nothing to tell," he insisted, his fist clenching.
"Oh?" she snapped. "You mean there's nothing to tell about you cheating by using the genius of those before you in order to get ahead? There's no unfair advantage at all?" The skin on his back felt tight, and his face felt rather hot. "Look, I just said that I wouldn't tell. And I won't be torturing you personally anymore. We're cool." She looked back to her letters and parcels. "But you're still cheating and making Slughorn think you're a genius—when you're not—so I won't be telling everyone to leave you alone. They're free to torment you all they like, as far as I'm concerned."
"Oh. Thanks," snapped Harry. "You're really making a genuine effort to make peace, aren't you?" It was hard enough balancing homework and Quidditch with taking private lessons with Dumbledore, now he was the victim of a constant onslaught of pranks from the entirety of Slytherin house.
"They like me and they hate you," she simply stated, with the confidence of a serial killer. "It's not hard to convince them to make your life hell." She looked back at him. "You've got nobody but yourself to blame, by the way. What are you doing picking a fight with me on my turf, huh? You've got Quidditch and I've got Potions. You don't see me trying to outdo you for Seeker, do you?"
"No, you've left your boyfriend to do that for you—"
"—Well, you know, there are three things in life that he truly seems to love: Quidditch, me, and making you miserable. And who do I think I am to rob him of that?"
"Oh you're so generous," he spat.
"Just shaddup and listen to me, will ya?" Her New York accent came out a bit just then. "I know you're cheating and I know why." Harry tensed. "I know you need to get Slughorn to like and trust you. I also know that you Gryffindor types tend to not care about anything else so long as the ends justify the means—"
"—That's a lie!" he shouted, his cheeks feeling as if they were on fire.
"Is it? Is there literally no other option aside from cheating?" A beat. "You know you're letting him believe that you're way better than you actually are because it's going to make you seem more appealing to him. And you know that I'll eventually beat you because I actually am good at potions. And you're a jerk for doing it, probably moreso because you've convinced yourself that you're right, completely lacking of any reasonable amount of self-doubt."
"Yeah—? Well—?!" His face felt very hot and red, and his mind was full of thundering booms of anger. He was quickly sobered when he saw the silver gleaming prefect pin on her cranberry red tie. He then recalled what it meant to get on her bad side, considering her impressive dueling and transfiguration skills. He wasn't going to be the one to back down if she drew her wand first, but he knew that she was too smart to do that. She was too calm, and it was too scary.
Zamora snorted through her nose, then puffed her bangs off her forehead in annoyance. "I know you want to be in the Order." He was quickly snapped back to reality at her words. "If you can swear that you'll keep this between us—which means no telling Ron and Hermione—I'll tell you..." Harry then quickly nodded, his heart skipping a beat a bit. Was Hermione right all along about her being a spy from America? Did the Order of the Phoenix stretch across to America? "Seriously. Swear? I'll know if you lie." She gestured to the many owls that were perched, half-asleep, in the owlry's rafters. "I've got no less than fifty feathery witnesses."
"I swear," he said.
"Good. Because I'm in the Order, too." It shouldn't have sounded so much like crashing glass, but to finally hear it, from her own mouth, was shocking to say the least.
"So you are a spy!" gasped Harry. "You're a spy for MACUSA!"
"I didn't say that," she shot. "I said I was in the Order. I'm studying under Professor Snape."
"From America?" She gave him a very tired look. "So you want to help, then!" he said. "So you know what we're up against!"
"Everyone knows what you're up against," she stated cooly.
"But then why are you hanging round with someone like Malfoy if you're on our side?"
"How do you know he's not on our side?"
"How—! What?" Of all the ridiculous— "He couldn't possibly—!" She shot him a very unfriendly look. "He's not on our side, he's a Death Eater," Harry insisted. She narrowed her already thin eyes. "His father's a Death Eater. It only makes sense." Her jaw tightened. "He's..." He thought back to Diagon Alley; he didn't want to bring up Borgin and Burkes, even if she was claiming to be on their side. "He's got a Dark Mark." She guffawed; she actually guffawed. "It's on his left arm—"
"And when did you see a Dark Mark on his left arm, huh?!" She looked more than perturbed. Harry knew he was in trouble when she stood up and stormed to him. He reached for his wand but she grabbed his wrist—and the next thing he knew he was face-smashed into the cold stone wall of the owlry with his hand wrenched painfully up and behind his back. Hedwig screeched in protest, but didn't fly up. "It doesn't matter, because whatever you say, I know you're lying," She growled into his ear, his anger flaring. "Wanna know why?" A beat. She lowered her voice to a whisper, her breath hot on his ear, against his hair and neck. "I have seen - every - inch - of his body and I can guarantee—there is not a Dark Mark to be found." She let go of his wrist and stormed back to her perch next to her parcels and sat down as if nothing happened. Harry spun around, his wand at the ready, thunder in his brain. She was sitting, looking at her mail, as if nothing had happened. "Four years ago," she began, her tone rather even, "when you first met Dobby, and the Chamber of Secrets was opened, Hermione Granger was petrified by a Basilisk."
"How do you—?!"
"How do I know about that?" She shook her head. "I could shock you with all the things I knew, that everyone knew."
"'Everyone?' Who's 'everyone?'" He lowered his wand.
"And, yet," she continued, as if Harry had asked nothing, "you two fools figured out what had happened, and how the basilisk got through the castle. Right?" He felt his chest tighten, his heart begin to race. How much does she know? "What was written on that sheet of parchment? Except, it wasn't just a sheet of parchment that was clutched in her hand, was it?"
His mind raced back to his second year. He remembered Hermione lying in the hospital, her face frozen, holding a mirror in one hand. And in the other... "It was a crumpled page from a book. It was about basilisks. And it had 'pipes' written on it. Hermione—"
"—would never rip out a page from a book, would she?" Harry paused. "Nor would she write in it, would she?" She tilted her head. "You're her best friend, right? You would know what she would or wouldn't do with books...which is harm them in any way... Would she, Harry?"
The world felt as if it shifted. "No," he said, almost too softly to hear. "No, she wouldn't. Hermione loves books. She'd never..." He frowned. "Then who?"
"Let's explore that, shall we?"said Ella, who pivoted to face him then uncrossed and crossed her legs again, looking rather elegant on her throne of wood and perched owls. "Who knew about the details of the chamber when you were still figuring it out? Or, rather, who did you suspect?" Harry frowned. "Go ahead. List them off. This is how you solve a mystery."
"Er..." He supposed there was no real harm in talking about it now, all things considered. "I suspected people knew about it so they could get..." He frowned. "I thought that Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin. I thought he was the one that opened it."
She seemed annoyed, but nodded. "Okay. Why?"
"Because his father's a Death Eater—!"
"Did you know that at the time?" Harry paused and then decided that he didn't, so he shook his head. "Okay, what did you know at the time?"
"That the Malfoys had been at Hogwarts since it was founded, I guess?" She nodded, then gestured for him to continue. "That, er, they're the oldest Pureblood family that we know of?"
"That's technically not true," said Ella with a glint in her eye, scrunching her nose up a little as she grinned. "But continue." Phoebus ruffled his feathers and stretched out his wings before retracting them again. He hobbled on to Ella's lap, who patted him on the head, like a supervillain would pet a cat in an old spy movie. "Go ahead. What else did you know about who knew?"
"Er, I just suspected Malfoy at the time..." It was long ago. Harry was struggling to uncover all of the memories in the back of his mind. They seemed buried, stones at the bottom of a muddy stream that he was groping about blindly to find the right one to turn over.
"And who actually opened it?"
Harry suspected that she already knew, but was talking to him this way in order to get him to say a specific something. "Ginny," he finally said. "But it wasn't her fault! She was being controlled by Voldemort." The American Slytherin nodded, then gestured for him to continue. "And...she was able to open it because of Tom Riddle's Diary..." She didn't seem confused by this, so he continued. "And she got it from...Lucius Malfoy." She seemed to puff up, much like Hedwig did when she was annoyed. Her face went unnaturally red. She must have realized how she was looking, however, so she cleared her throat and composed herself quickly, again, with the confidence of a serial killer.
"You're on the right track. Now, let's look back. We know that Lucius Malfoy was plotting this whole thing, don't we?" Harry nodded. "He's a jerk, but he's still a dad. What do we know about dads?" A sore subject for Harry... "Well, whether they want us to or not, we hear lots of things from them, right? At the top of the stairs, we hear them. We hear them when they're at work. Right?" Harry didn't know; he felt a familiar sort of malaise creeping over his shoulders. "Dads say things we aren't meant to hear sometimes. So why should Lucius Malfoy be any different? The man's awful, but he's still a dad." A beat. "Don't you think Draco would have heard about the basilisk? The plans?"
"But why would he try to stop it if he did?" He didn't want to repeat that awful word that he kept on hearing from Malfoy's mouth all that year, that foul name that he called Hermione. "I guarantee he felt the same way as his father did towards—"
"—But can you guarantee that?" Harry frowned. "Are you sure that's actually how he felt?" This was getting dangerous. If he admitted that they'd penetrated the Slytherin Common Room using Polyjuice potion in their second year, there's no way that Zamora wouldn't tell everyone. "What if he was just saying that he was to save face? After all, what is the most-important thing to a Slytherin?" Harry had no idea. "Their pride! Duh! A Slytherin would do anything to save face, even when—" She stopped herself. "—especially when they're scared."
"What are you getting at?" Harry demanded.
"I'm getting at this: what person knew about the basilisk, knew about the plans, and would also rip pages out of a book?" A beat. "What person gets scared?"
"It—!" Harry shook his head. "It couldn't have been!" he insisted. "Malfoy couldn't have—!" He looked to Hedwig, who must have been the one to tell Zamora all of this. He realized just then that she must know everything about everyone because of the owls and all of the other birds. They were right smack in the middle of a forest; birds were everywhere, and so were snakes, to which they could both speak. Hedwig, who had been neatly perched on his shoulder this whole time, ruffled her feathers and began cleaning Harry's hair, almost as if to say not to be cross with her for telling. "You—" He frowned, scratching Hedwig's chest, a slow realization over him. "You can understand her?"
"That I can, just like all birds," she said, seeming rather satisfied. She uncrossed her legs, rather pleased with herself, leaning down and opening the parcel at her feet, which was rather small in size, to reveal a blue Chinese fan with painted red poppies, which she snapped open and fluttered, then snapped shut again. Harry set Hedwig down on a perch and reached into his pocket to feed her a treat, which she ate happily, even though he was more than annoyed with her for blabbing. "You shouldn't blame her for telling me. She didn't, actually." He looked up. "Blame Phoebus. He's a terrible gossip." Phoebus hooted loudly.
"But—" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "Are you really saying that Malfoy was the one to plant that ripped page on basilisks in Hermione's hand?"
"That's what the birds say," said Ella. "They see everything, you know."
"I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "Why would he do that?"
"I don't know," she admitted, neutral. "He was twelve. I guess he was scared. People do funny things when they're scared." Harry's mind was reeling. If this was true—if any of this was true—then the entire school owed a debt to that git Draco Malfoy? To a single act of good will from the worst person he could imagine? "Professor Hagrid sure does miss you in class, by the way," she mentioned, turning her attention back to her parcels and envelopes.
Jarred, Harry felt a tiny pang of guilt when he remembered the first of the year when they were getting their schedules from McGonagall, and Hagrid said that he noticed that he, Ron and Hermione hadn't enrolled. "Oh, er—" He stumbled a bit over his thoughts, still reeling from the thought that Malfoy might have actually done something good in his wretched life. "The N.E.W.T. classes are—er—a bit much, so—"
"—Yeah, I figured that's what you told him," she said, still looking at her parcels, opening another and smiling. She then looked over to him and grinned. "That's okay. I guess I wouldn't want to be in a class that my dad was teaching, either." Harry blinked in surprise.
"Er, Hagrid's not—" Ella looked up and frowned. "He's just—."
"—Oh, I know he's not like...your biological dad, but Hedwig says—"
"Hedwig?" he repeated in confusion. He looked to Hedwig, who was looking up at him happily. "Hedwig says Hagrid—?" Harry couldn't recall the last time he felt so confused. This certainly was quite a bit to take in, and he frankly didn't know how much more he could take. Harry sat on a rickety stool nearby that was by the wall, taking in a deep breath to calm his racing heart. The wind howled outside, almost violently, and he felt trapped in that room with her.
"Well, sure, all the owls do," she stated matter-of-factly. "I mean, that's what they all say." A beat.
"So...you can hear them all?" She nodded. He then wondered if it was something like what he had experienced with that Burmese python at the zoo, where animals just seemed as if they were speaking plain English. He almost immediately wondered why she was being so nice to him all of a sudden. She seemed just as violently cross with him at Potions the other morning as she always did, so the change in tone was jarring, to say the least. "How do you...?"
"How do I understand them?" Harry nodded. "You know, I really couldn't tell you. They just...I hear them. And they seem to hear and understand me, so..." She shrugged. "Wish I could tell you more. I don't fully understand it, myself. Nobody really does. Animagi like me, ones that were born with the gift, are real oddities. To become an Animagus, it involves a crazy-hard spell and a potion and all this other junk. I'm the odd-one-out."
A beat. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
"Honestly?" Zamora shrugged. "I think I just wanted someone my own age that I could talk to about it. I can't really talk to my friends about it because they're not involved. And I can only talk to Tonks or Professor Snape so many times about it. This whole Order business is...a lot." She looked up at him. "I know we've only just now smoked a peace pipe, but since we're relating to each other... Don't you get tired of feeling like you're alone in this?"
"Erm..." He was at a loss. Gryffindor and Slytherin were rivals; it never occurred to him that they could ever be friends in any way. He wasn't sure if he was ready to be friendly at all with her, especially if she wasn't going to call off her cronies. He wasn't sure if he truly believed anything she said, either. Zamora was a brilliant wordsmith, and he guessed that she wasn't above lying, even though Harry didn't know if she'd ever done it for certain. He didn't know what game she was playing. "I'm not alone," he said. "I've got my friends."
She looked away. "Lucky you," she sighed, then went back to reading her letters. How could she possibly feel alone? She's the most popular witch at Hogwarts...
"So..." He cleared his throat. "Hedwig really thinks that Hagrid's my...dad?" The thought of it was just so weird; they didn't look a thing alike. Zamora nodded, her right arm still cradling Phoebus, who looked rather content, like a stuffed toy, on her lap.
"All of the birds do, like I said. I mean, it makes sense as to why she would." She then looked up at him and frowned. "Do you not think that he is?" Harry didn't know what to say; he somehow felt a strange tinge of embarrassment, no matter the ridiculousness of the situation. "Wow, not even the tiniest bit?" In her voice, there was a real tinge of sincerity. "Don't you remember the day you got her? It's Hedwig's favorite story to tell."
A beat. He recalled his first day in Diagon Alley, and looked down at his snowy owl, who looked up at him adoringly. "Hagrid," said Harry, softly. Hedwig nibbled at Harry's fingers affectionately. She started chirping and hooting and cawing, as if she were speaking. Zamora laughed a little, as if hearing a favorite old joke. She then sighed and smiled, looking at Hedwig. The other owls cawed and hoot-hooted in response. Harry never thought of them really conversing, but it truly didn't seem unusual, now that he was thinking about it. All creatures could talk; snakes could talk, so why couldn't they talk with each other?
"Aww, that's so nice..." sighed Zamora. She looked up at Harry, and then shook her head a little with a tiny laugh. "Sorry, um..." She cleared her throat and looked to Hedwig. "Would you mind repeating that, please?" Harry looked to Hedwig, who started hooting again, as if orating a book. "She says 'I was in the shop on an autumn day, watching the students come and go, and it was so noisy that I couldn't sleep...'" She hooted and chirped as Zamora translated, nice and slow. "'And a big, kindly wizard with a big black beard came in. He came to my cage...'" Hedwig hooted softly. "'And stopped...smiled...and said "You look mighty bright! I've got a very special young man that could use a good friend while I do my work at Hogwarts. He's getting his wand right now! You'd be his birthday present. How would you like that?"'" Zamora then laughed. "She says 'I thought I was excited to go home with someone, but it didn't compare to how excited you were when we first met.'"
Harry felt his chest swell. How could he had forgotten that? Hedwig was the first birthday present he'd ever gotten. All at once, he remembered the first day at Diagon Alley. He remembered Hedwig's cage being so big he couldn't wrap his arms around it. He remembered that she'd fallen asleep as they left Ollivanders, where Hagrid had surprised him with her. He remembered how he couldn't thank Hagrid enough. He remembered how Hedwig was the only real reminder that Hogwarts, his friends, his new life wasn't just some dream. How could he have forgotten? Hedwig nibbled on his fingers. Harry wanted so much to pick her up and crush her close to his chest, to crumble to the floor.
"Who introduced you to the Wizarding world?" she then asked.
Harry gulped, his neck and shoulders tensing, a strange feeling of ants crawling up and down his legs washing over him. "Hagrid," he croaked.
"Who always invites you for tea and sweets once per week and makes sure you go to bed with a full stomach when you do go?" He was about to ask how she knew that, but it was likely that it was from Hedwig. "Who bakes you a birthday cake every year?"
Mrs. Weasley, of course, and so did Sirius, but... "Hagrid," Harry breathed, the weight of everything beginning to crush his chest. A peeping and cooing from above was heard, and it was an eagle owl, which seemed to be talking. Zamora's eyebrows raised, as if she were reminded of something.
"Sunny says: 'Who always is at your Quidditch games, cheering you on, no matter how busy his job is taking care of the grounds? Who rushes down like all Hell has broken loose when you get hurt on the field?'"
Hermione and Ron, of course, but... "Hagrid." A barn owl swooped down and hooted, perching next to Phoebus. Zamora nodded in agreement with whatever it was saying.
"Amaranth says: 'When Ron got himself hexed in your second year, who did you instinctively know to go to for help, instead of going to the hospital wing?'"
The slugs... He remembered how he wiped Hermione's tears away. He remembered how he took care of Ron. He remembered how Hagrid was always there when Harry needed him...always. "Hagrid." An old screech owl swooped down at Harry's feet, and then hobbled up to him, chirping and hooting, its eyes boring into his soul.
"Archimedes says: 'When you found out about Hogwarts, who was there, to make sure you felt safe and happy before he threw you into the wizarding world? Who made sure you were fed and taken care of? Who answered all of your questions, as openly and honestly as he could?'"
He felt a crack within his chest, and he felt as if his legs had turned to jelly. Every owl knew. "Hagrid..." Phoebus hoot-hooted, and Zamora nodded, as if he had brought up a good point.
"Phoebus says "Who took the time to make you a photo album of your birth parents so you could see what they looked like? Who asked all around for pictures of them from their friends, just so you could have it?"
"H-Hagrid..." stammered Harry, tears stinging his eyes. Phoebus hoot-hooted again, and several other owls hooted in agreement.
"They say: 'Who always picks you in Care of Magical Creatures class, and makes sure to encourage you when you do something right?'"
A terrible yowling guilt filled Harry from inside his gut, and he suddenly felt a horrible twist within him. "Hagrid," he whispered, his voice now cracking. Hedwig hopped a bit closer and hoot-hooted, then chirped, then hooted again, nibbling at Harry's sleeve. The old screech at Harry's feet hoot-hooted in agreement. Zamora gave a tiny giggle, and then Hedwig looked to her and chirp-chirp-chirped, then back to Harry, almost smiling.
"Aww..." Zamora sighed. "Hedwig says: 'When we first met, your dad said "I can't wait for Harry to meet you, he's gonna love you.""
Harry swallowed the hard lump that was growing in his throat. "She really remembers all of that?" breathed Harry.
"Owls are smart," stated Zamora. "They wouldn't be a wizard's best friend if they weren't." Harry's vision blurred with tears of shame, full of bile and regret, feeling so foolish and blind. He had always felt Hagrid was a dear old friend, but never anything more than that. But what friend did all the things that Hagrid did for anyone? Zamora must have sensed his swelling tears, his aching heart, for she adopted a rather joking tone and asked "Who bakes you treats and wears a frilly pink apron around the house?'"
His voice felt raw as he choked out a tiny laugh. "Is that something exclusive to dads?"
Zamora laughed. "At least the dads that cook," she replied. "They're always wearing the frilly pink apron. My dad makes tortillas and jamon for breakfast and he always wears my mom's pink apron. It's amazing," she chortled. "When I would go to sleepovers at friends' houses, I'd always see a frilly pink apron in the kitchen. I think they hand them out at the hospital when you have your baby, along with the cigars and beanies." Harry couldn't help but laugh, the sting of tears in his eyes. "Listen, I know we're not friends, but..." She cleared her throat. "I feel like I need to say: As someone who had a parent that she knew, and then lost, you don't want to wait until it's too late to tell them how grateful you are for everything they did for you."
Harry gulped. He felt her sincerity; he could see it in her normally steely-cold, shark-like eyes. "Your mother?" Zamora nodded.
"We fought endlessly," she admitted. "The last conversation I had with her was about sending cupcakes for my birthday..." She then wiped away what Harry assumed to be a tear, and her face went dry and almost jovial, likely in an attempt to mask any pain she may have been feeling. "I told her how sick I was of her stupid red velvet cupcakes and that I was too old for them." She sighed a bit. "It's funny, the things you take for granted. I really would like to have one of those cupcakes again. I know how to make them, too, of course, but...there's just something about the way your mom makes stuff that you can never recreate."
"I guess I wouldn't know," said Harry bitterly.
"Sure you would," Zamora argued. "You can't fool the owls. Hagrid sends you treats all the time over the summer. There must be something that comes to mind."
The wind howled outside, echoing the bitter cold in Harry's heart. His mind raced, and he thought back to the first birthday cake, a sticky chocolate cake with pink icing and green letters. He thought then to the cake Hagrid had sent some years later, when Dudley had been put on a diet...it was a custard sponge sandwich, and it was the one that Harry had saved for last. He'd recalled eating Hermione's first, and then the one from Mrs. Weasley for he didn't want it to stale. Sirius's cake had arrived just in time for it to be a relief of light mango filling, and it had seemed so exotic and exciting that Harry almost didn't eat Hagrid's until he thought it might have gone bad...but it didn't. It was still moist and more filling than the rest had all been, full of thick custard that was flavored with vanilla. It was the plainest of the cakes, but it had satisfied and sustained him the longest.
Harry thought, and thought, and escaped into his mind, a memory of the food Hagrid had given him, the first real meals he'd had, that wasn't just scraped off of Dudley's plate. He thought of the burgers in Paddington station, which looked comically tiny in Hagrid's giant hands. Harry recalled the smell of the grilled onions and the floppy lettuce. He remembered asking Hagrid questions, who answered them patiently. He remembered the first time at Gringott's, and how he had clung to Hagrid's coat in fear when he saw the goblins. He remembered the tea and sweet buns. He remembered Hagrid insisting that he take extra treats in his pockets for the trip back to the castle in case he got hungry.
"Yeah..." He didn't know what to say. He felt like screaming; he felt humiliated for being so blind, and quite dizzy for how violently his view of what he knew had been shifted so quickly. He almost felt sick, and his insides ached for all the years of pain he'd felt. Harry gulped.
"See?" He looked up; Zamora was now grinning, looking more than satisfied with herself. "You realize it. I do, too, of course. It's not just because of the birds; it's also because I've got a dad that's a lot like yours." She then laughed. "As someone with the daddy-est dad in all of Dad-dom to ever dad, you have a dad, and his name is Professor Hagrid." Harry looked up at her. "Maybe you should tell him thanks, or something, before it's too late. You never know what'll happen in the war to come. You don't want to have anything left unsaid. It's...a pretty awful feeling."
"I—" He choked a bit. He should have said something. He should be saying 'thank you,' absurdly. But to think Hermione was right about Zamora all along shouldn't have been so surprising. Hermione was almost-always right about...well, everything. But did that mean that Dumbledore knew? It must have been why she was even allowed to come here in the first place. Hogwarts wasn't akin to accepting exchange students, especially after the debacle of the Triwizard Tournament. The exchange program was set to allow the students to choose which school they attend. It was unfolding in his mind on why Hogwarts hadn't been chosen; who would want to come to the school that Lord Voldemort graduated from? It made sense that the program was a perfect ruse, or perfect cover, to admit a new student in to Slytherin, to learn the inner-workings of Death Eaters. It all slowly made sense that she really was on their side. But was it true that Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater? Could Ella Zamora be trusted?
"You gonna send that?" He snapped out of his daze. He noticed that the letter to Mr. Weasley had fallen to the floor in the skirmish.
"Oh." He bent at the knee and picked the envelope up. It seemed...trivial now to send it and ask about the weird cabinet. He pocketed the letter. "No, er..." He rose. "It's too windy to send anything now," he croaked. "I think I'll go..." He trailed off and pulled his scarf tight around his throat and over his face, then turned on his heel and left the owlry. The wind and snow violently gusted at him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
"Calmoviento!"
The wind slowed, then stopped, and Harry opened his eyes to see Hogwarts castle, draped in white, the snowflakes suspended in the air. Everything looked like it was in a snowglobe, too tranquil and picturesque to be real. All of it looked like a scene from a movie. Zamora appeared in the doorway, packages under her arm, her wand in hand. Phoebus swooped out and landed on the stone railing, cawing and stretching his wings. Hedwig came out, too, and Harry held out his wrist for her to land on.
"Seriously," she said, her face showing no sign of joking. "This whole conversation is just between us. No Ron. No Hermione. No nobody." A beat. "Right?" Harry paused and considered all that had happened just then. Finally, he regained some semblance of composure and nodded silently. Zamora smiled. She then reached under her arm and handed Harry a parcel. "Don't open until Christmas. And don't ask where—or how—I got it. I'm probably in big trouble for it, but it doesn't belong to me, anyway, so it may as well go to you."
"What's that mean?"
"It means 'don't open until Christmas and don't ask where or how I got it.' D'accord?"
Harry wasn't sure what 'dah-koh' meant, but he nodded anyway. He looked down in his hands at a large envelope made of brown paper, all tied up with string. He couldn't pull together enough coherent thoughts to create a sentence. Zamora seemed content enough with his silence, though, and grinned as she walked passed him down the steps. Phoebus flapped his wings and landed on her shoulder, rubbing against the top of her head affectionately.
"Wait!"he called. She turned around and looked up at him. He wanted to say 'thank you,' to say 'sorry,' for everything. There was still quite a bit between them that was difficult, but that didn't mean that she was necessarily bad...did it? If she really was on their side, and if she really was trying to help... "Er—I-I didn't get you anything for Christmas!" he said, absurdly.
She laughed a little. "That's okay, I have everything I want." And then turned around and walked down the stairs.
I had initially intended to do a lighthearted chapter, with a tiny bit of crossection of Hogwarts life, but you know I had to sprinkle some emotions in there...
Rubeus Hagrid is my absolute favorite, and I cannot STAND how a good deal of the Harry Potter fandom sees Sirius Black as the closest thing Harry has to a father. Sirius is the cool gay uncle that gets listened to and gets to have all the fun. Hagrid is the dad that takes you shopping and feeds you and you just get to be an ungrateful little teenager that doesn't go to his class when he's teaching. Hagrid was a GENUINELY nice guy that did everything he could for Harry, and went unnoticed for it, just like dads do.
Your dad is never as cool as Sirius. Your dad is a weirdo that gives you hugs and feeds you burgers and has a bunch of half-finished home improvement projects lying around, constantly reminiscing about how little you used to be. Ginny and Harry should have named their daughter Ruby... ANOTHER THING!
In the beginning of Chamber of Secrets, we see a young Draco Malfoy in the book shop, reading a book before ripping out a page and stuffing it in his pocket. Why show that? What's the point of that, except to spark the fan theory that it was Draco that stuffed the book page in Hermione Granger's hand. When you're 12, you go through rebellious phases, and maybe his was trying to be good?
So Harry knows that Ella's part of the Order, now, and is on their side. He's slowly beginning to flex those investigative muscles of his, which will someday turn him into a first-rate Auror. One of the best things about Harry Potter books is that they are, in fact, mystery books that are disguised as fantasy books. Who opened the Chamber of Secrets? Who is the Half-Blood Prince? What are the Deathly Hallows? If you strip away the magic, it's a prep school mystery novel series. At every turn, the plot thickens, just like this story will. Bwahaha.
Big thanks to HeartofAspen, Pancakestack, SabrinaJasmine, and all my other reviewers!