Chapter 5
"GET THAT MAN!"
The words ripped from behind the wall of Remus' conscience, which had at this point been crumbling with frustration and fatigue; that sick bastard was going to get away because Remus was too ill, too slow, and, dare he say it, too old. Shards of pain rendered his leg stiff and incomprehensible to urgency, and the cloaked figure phased through the barrier as though a fading memory. Not even seconds later did Remus follow, wand outstretched and a spell swarming behind clenched teeth.
A man clad in crispness and haste swept by, nearly knocking Remus' wand from his fingers, leaping swiftly onto a train's retreating step. Modern steel curved perfectly around cars more reminiscent of barrels than carriages of old, echoing high archways above him. Indecipherable tones clambered across the tracks. As a uniformed officer rushed through the crowd after the moving train, Remus lowered his wand. King's Cross Station. Muggle London. Adrenaline tapped insistently at his wrists, his chest, his temple. His legs tingled with the predatory instinct to stalk, to run, but he kept still. This time, he had a greater need for stealth.
"Do you see him?"
The voice had startled him, authoritative over meaningless murmurs of herded travelers, but he'd stopped outwardly reacting to such small stimuli since the age of twelve, numbed by the exponentially more ridiculous antics of his late school friends. He hadn't expected anyone to respond to his plea, and yet, someone silhouetted in his periphery.
"There's too many," Remus muttered. People were shadows in the daylight filtering through the glass ceiling.
"What does he look like?"
It was a young man: streaked with confidence and independence, something only present in those believing wholeheartedly in their invincibility, in their abilities, their wit. Sirius had sounded like this before Azkaban; James, before his death. The young man at his side couldn't have been anything but an Auror.
And yet, despite the similarities to his late best friends, Remus hesitated. He could hardly tell a complete stranger—one who worked for the Ministry, no less—their current nemesis looked like Harry Potter.
"He's wearing a cloak," Remus offered instead as he pushed into a brisk walk. It was an obvious answer, but to many wizards raised ignorant of the Muggle world, such an observation would have been commonplace enough to forget. His eyes narrowed as he mapped the most direct path, quickly calculating movement patterns of the crowd. From there, he would slip into vacated places.
A presence clung near his shoulder, and Remus hid his surprise behind determination. At least half of those on the Platform would have recognized him for what he was, and if they didn't know his face, they would know his name. Certainly a Ministry employee wouldn't want to aid a class five dangerous creature? Kingsley and Tonks could not risk breaking cover, no matter how much they wanted to, nor how much he needed it. As for Moody, his warped peg did not allow for much running. Remus had not expected any response to his plea. And yet, the young Auror dogged him half a step behind.
"He could've taken it off," the Auror suggested.
The thought had already occurred to Remus, but he know he would have found the man already had that been the case.
The crowd thinned, Muggles young and old tucking deeper into their coverings as the light breeze teased here and there, attempting to shove chilly fingers down coat collars. Remus' sharp ears drew apart waves of conversation, but there was nothing of importance, nothing linking to the imposter. The platform stretched endlessly before them, light crossing through shadows on the concrete to dimly imitate the glass ceiling above. Just as Remus was about to give up his search and return to say a proper goodbye, the Auror darted forth with an unintelligible shout and dropped down to the tracks as a condor to a lower branch, arms spread wide as though to catch the air. The Auror cut a nimble figure as he toed between live rails, battle robes feathering his shoulders and the back of his legs as he ran. Merely moments later the Auror heaved himself onto the opposite platform, rolled to a stand, and dashed the pattern of civilian movement to unpredictable pieces.
Remus' leg twinged. He wasn't exactly in his prime anymore, nor was he reaping the benefits of male maturity. Still, all misgivings about his physical limitations were forgotten while witnessing the Auror giving chase, following as the cloaked imposter vaulted over a fallen trolley on the other side. Remus stumbled onto the tracks, hissing at his dissenting leg. They had something of an audience now: noses pressed to quickly fogging windows, well-wishers re-christening him with creative slights to his intelligence, angered shouts of Muggle authority figures quite unwilling to follow in his path—and, in spite of all this, Remus could only hope that the Auror had better sense than to draw his wand under such attentive eyes.
As Remus pulled himself up to the next platform (using the built in ladder, unlike his extremely athletic aide), the Auror fell hard just inches from the imposter's feet. The Auror rolled to his back and sat up, yanking feverishly at his robes, and as though by magic the outside door opened, allowing the imposter to escape. Remus growled. Fire lined the muscle in his legs, licking his wound until he could no longer feel it. Quickly he leveled with the Auror and passed, leaving the other man cursing loudly—somehow, the hem of his robes had roped around his ankles, constricting tighter with every attempt to free it. Indecision tore at Remus' conscience for a breath, but his aching body had made the decision before he'd finished thinking the logic through. Nonetheless, the door was a meager five steps away when it swung shut unnaturally fast.
The funny thing about wizards, Remus had always thought, was their inability to think logically. For example, most wizards would be stopped by a single obstacle if magic could not be used, such as unlocking or blasting clean through. In a way, wizards raised to abhor of the majority of the world—the Muggle world—were limited by the laws of magic.
Blasting through the door, Remus acknowledged, would be his fastest move. It was also the dumbest, given his current surroundings. It was the move expected of him.
Remus excelled in breaking expectations.
As Muggle London sprawled through the shine of mid-morning, the imposter glanced over his shoulder, glasses glinting under a dark hood. Remus simply stepped through another door. He expected the curse thrown at him, and he blocked it with ease. Surprise, however, slowed him at the top of the declining steps. Surely a dark magic practitioner could have thought of something more vicious than a tripping jinx; the imposter had thrown much harsher magic in the past.
Remus then remembered where he was. Wind pulled his faded jacket in opposite directions. Everything within him screamed to catch the man who'd been mocking both he and Harry since summer's start. To follow the imposter now, after having used magic in a very public area within sight of a Ministry employee, would ensure his guilt, and they would have grounds to arrest him without allowing him to explain. It didn't matter than none had seen him—a feat of pure luck. It didn't matter his actions were purely defensive. Werewolf laws had become twisted, ghosting behind basic human rights and biting hard into those for magical creatures, until they, in the eyes of the law, had become snarling beasts that needed to be put down—or, at least, put in their place—in the thirty-something years since Dolores Umbridge had become a name in politics. In the near twenty since Fenrir Greyback had become famed for his savagery. In colloquial terms, Remus Lupin was fucked. It had only been through a loophole he'd been able to (lawfully) keep his wand.
So Remus let him go. The imposter rounded into an alley, and there was a crack like a backfiring car. Muggles ducked momentarily. Tires sang shrilly on narrow streets.
"Shit," the Auror said, jogging to Remus' side. The young man breathed heavily, his robes torn horribly at the hem, which curled in toward exposed and raw ankles. "Gone, then. I almost got him on foot—you know, the Muggle way—but he got me. I didn't think he would curse me out in the open like that." He shook his head. "Rookie move."
Remus' throat cracked, and his words filtered through the fissures. "Constant Vigilance."
The Auror's mouth quirked. "A Moody survivor, then?"
"Not me." Remus cleared his throat. "A friend."
"Really?" The Auror's dark brows peaked in disbelief. "You're quick. I'd thought you were a retired Hit Wizard or something; you've got incredible reflexes."
So he had seen it. Remus pocketed his wand, attempted to release the hostility in his stance. In this moment mind held no water over matter; instinct resisted in his shoulders and knees, buffered by buzzing remnants of the chase.
"Auror Marcus Reddy." The Auror held out his hand. Remus hesitated slightly before taking it.
"Remus Lupin."
"Ah." Reddy made the sound Remus feared upon detection, but before he could fret and lock away the terrified little boy within him, Reddy's voice took a strangely light inflection. "That explains why the Ministry hasn't snatched you up already."
"They might still." Remus had yet to repair his filter.
Unexpectedly, Reddy threw back his head, bellowing infectiously. Good humor cracked through Remus' quiet horror, and he couldn't help but allow a sheepish hand to ruffle the hair at the back of his head. Something of Remus' unease must have been present, nevertheless, for Reddy added, "Don't worry, Lupin. I'm not about to report you for a little protego."
Relief stretched Remus' mouth unwillingly.
"Who was that guy, anyway?" Reddy asked as they re-entered King's Cross Station. Gears shrieked into motion as the nearest train woke. Suited men read today's Telegraph on benches as worry-creased parents grasped tightly the hands of small children. Previously disseminated patterns restored to a new tune, responding to new arrivals. Fallen bags had been reclaimed. The tracks were clear. Policemen hardly scanned their features. It was as though they'd been forgotten.
"I don't know," Remus said truthfully. "But he was a threat to Harry Potter."
Recognition blotted dark eyes with shining spots. "So you're not wasted, then." Approval colored his tone grey. "Potter's guard, are you?"
Was that what people thought of him whenever he took Harry to school? That he was his guard? It made sense, in a way; not many would bother Harry with him around.
"No," he said at last, but uncertain himself. Harry didn't have a specified guard, though the Order had taken it upon themselves to escort Harry to and from school. Dumbledore had fought the Ministry for Harry's privacy, but the Aurors at the Station told Remus how much they thought of Dumbledore's word.
Reddy shrugged. "Dora said you were close."
Dora? Did he mean Tonks?
Remus stared at the young man. They were about the same height, and though Reddy was thin, he was much healthier than Remus; arms corded, angular jaw, each muscle in his neck a strong cable keeping a strong posture. Reddy stood like a soldier, feet shoulder-width apart, and his arms alternated from behind his back to a controlled swing as he walked. Nothing could be gleaned from his face, which, although open, did not yield to thought or emotion.
"Did she, now?" Remus said mildly, but concern welded the words to his teeth. Was he an ally?
"She says good things about you all the time," Reddy continued. "And I've actually been rather curious; I've never met a werewolf before."
Such words would have inspired ire in Lily Potter, who had championed equality amongst people even before she knew Remus' darkest secret. But Remus knew Reddy meant no harm. "In all honesty, I'm afraid I'm rather boring," Remus said wryly, side-stepping to avoid a rather harassed looking mother. "I read books. I keep a garden. I organize my socks by color."
"Shame." Reddy's grin was comically wide.
Before Remus could change the topic, to ask how long he'd known Tonks, a vaguely familiar adolescent called his name:
"Professor Lupin! Ahoy, Professor Lupin!"
Ahoy? Sirius' humoring disbelief drifted in Remus' inner ear as he surveyed King's Cross, curious about the source and berating himself for the small amount of joy that teased at his liver whenever bestowed with the title. A boy of about fifteen trotted towards them, layers of coats peeling off his shoulder with every bounce, and another quite a bit smaller puttering in his wake. Dark blonde locks rebelled from what was once a careful combing, pricking at clear eyes that betrayed happiness. Both boys dragged trunks, which rolled heavily upon the concrete.
A line of sun illuminated the elder's smooth face, and sparked a forgotten memory. "Colin Creevey," Remus said in greeting, pleasantly surprised. Colin had grown much since he'd last seen him.
Colin was murmuring excitedly to what couldn't have been anything but his brother: ". . . that's my Defense professor before you came, Dennis. He's a real live werewolf . . ."
Ah, the innocent ignorance of Muggleborns. It was relieving, in a way, but it was also kind of sad.
Reddy cleared his throat. "Aren't you boys running a little late? It's five till."
Stress blotted the excitement from Colin's eyes. At the moment, they stood between platforms one and two. "We won't make it; the walk's too far—"
"Nonsense." Authority clipped Reddy's tone. "You'll make the train with time to spare. I'll escort you myself." He moved to take Dennis' trunk, which probably weighed more than the small boy, but Remus stopped him with an arm weighted with racing thoughts.
"I'll do it," Remus said. When Reddy raised a thick eyebrow, he clarified, "You can trace our quarry's path, so you have a reason for leaving the Platform; I can't imagine Scrimgeour will be thrilled by your independence. Besides, it will give me time to catch up with my former student."
Skepticism washed away from Reddy's visage, leaving behind the stoic acceptance that was following orders. "Right. Catch you on the other side, Lupin." And with that, he was gone.
Once Reddy was out of range, Remus subtly cast silencing charm and turned to the boys, gears oiled with brilliance and face ticking with gravity. "I'm afraid I must ask something very important of you. It shouldn't be dangerous, and you're perfectly free to refuse, but it will be an enormous help to Harry Potter."
Surely rousing such happiness in children wasn't manipulation. At least, that's what Remus told himself.
The train shuddered beneath Harry, and the tremors of something much larger than he resonated through the filthy soles of his trainers. Having been nearly completely isolated from the magical world since the abrupt end to his fifth year, it was difficult for Harry to believe he was headed to Hogwarts at all. It was almost like waking up from a very long, banal dream. He was finally going home.
And yet, he'd wanted nothing more than to follow Lupin back into the Muggle world, back into that hated banality. There would be no more deaths on his behalf. But Moody stood in his path, trunk arms crossed and premonition stitched from ear to ear, prepared for Harry's predictability. That Cheshire smile had set Harry's teeth on edge, and the knowledge that he could do nothing seethed within him, pushing his sanity until it staggered along the crumbling cliff of reason. He hated being treated like a child. He hated how others made decisions for him. He would be of age next year, and until then . . .
He'd permitted the train's steel to collect him into the sudden hush of the nearest car and chose a compartment at random. Thankfully, it was empty. He knew Moody's magical eye watched his every move, and he pointedly ignored it. Settled his belongings above faded red upholstery. Rubbed his arms. Ran a still shaking hand through his hair. Once sitting Harry calmed considerably, and his previous ire mutated into an odd concoction of mulishness and nerves. All summer he'd thought of his friends, about when he could leave Privet Drive end escape to the Burrow, but now that he was here, all he really wanted was to be alone.
The window's dampness had numbed Harry's nose as he watched the barrier. Many passed through that brick wall as time ticked closer to eleven, cluttering the Platform. It had been an enlightening experience as he watched the Weasleys arrive, Hermione in tow, as an outsider at five till: Mrs. Weasley's cheeks dappled puce as she dragged a severely gangly Ron by the elbow; Hermione giggling into her hand behind them, then turning to whisper conspiringly to Ron's younger sister, Ginny; and lastly, an overly tired Mr. Weasley behind them, hunched meekly as though desiring to escape his wife's notice, but his brown eyes were oddly alert, lighting upon each Auror, each train carriage, each possible entrance. For a moment, Harry almost expected to see the jubilant duo that was the Weasley twins, but then he remembered they were two years his senior, and would not be returning to Hogwarts this year.
At the sight of his two best friends his heart shuddered against his ribcage, and his nerves left him unpleasantly lightheaded. He pulled away from the window.
"Mum—bloody hell, let go." Ron's voice carried to the train as they got closer.
"If I ever hear you talk like that again—"
"I was just giving her a compliment. Is it my fault she had a nice pair of—ow!"
"Do I have a troll for a son? You have a sister, for Merlin's sake. Charlie's never said a thing like that in his life!"
"Yeah, well, Charlie wouldn't know a girl if one danced naked in front of—Mum, that hurts!"
"You do know the shaming and objectification of women was a precursor to Rome's downfall," Hermione commented airily. She sounded as though she was enjoying herself very much.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Ron said.
"I'm just saying that today's societies have a thing or two to learn from history," Hermione said. Their voices thinned with distance now; headed toward the middle of the train. "You can think about it on our way to the Prefect's compartment. Do you think we have time to find Harry before . . . ?"
When Harry could no longer hear them, he returned to the window. The Creevey brothers made a mad dash to the train, laughing wildly through the race as their trunks floated behind them. Moody still watched him, but there was something off in his expression now. Before Harry could identify it, the train sighed, shifted back, and rolled into motion. Lupin hadn't returned.
It was hours later, and Harry had been surprisingly unbothered as he rested his temple against the cold window pane, watching forests and fields blue under the influence of speed and self-reflection. Burdened with chores and the constant plague that was guessing at Voldemort's next move, the strange business that was the imposter had taken a plunge on the list of Harry's worries. And, perhaps, Harry hadn't really wanted to know. The thought of someone using his face as protection (flimsy as that protection may be—Lupid did have a point there) made Harry more nauseous than the thought of Umbridge still working at the Ministry of Magic. Who was he? What did he want with Harry? And, more importantly, what did he think he would accomplish wearing a Harry Potter suit around Godric's Hollow and the like?
And Lupin . . . Harry had never seen the man more angry. Had Lupin chased the imposter to Russia? (What was he doing in Russia?) Had he done something to Lupin in the past? When Lupin and Moody arrived on the doorstep on number four earlier that morning, Lupin had been the thinnest he'd ever seen him, but Harry had been so irritated with him, so angry at Uncle Vernon, he'd shunted it to the side. Was this was grief does to a man? Or was it something more?
Knowing Harry's luck, the imposter was just fucking with the both of them.
The train rumbled more fiercely, displacing Harry's head momentarily before knocking it into the glass. The resulting headache sliced clean through his thoughts, and he groaned underneath Hermione's muffled voice through frosted glass: ". . . and I honestly don't know why you're so surprised, Ronald. He's always been—oh, he's in here, Ronald . . ."
The compartment door rolled open until the handle caught soundly on the wall, and Harry's two best friends stumbled across the threshold, violating the dry silence he'd been enjoying since the beginning of the journey. Hermione was already in her school things, Gryffindor scarf draped across her shoulders slipping to her elbow as she struggled to lift her trunk onto the storage rack. Harry stood to help, and together they managed the task. He should have expected Hermione's enthusiastic hello as she attacked his sore ribs, her arms locking at the back of his neck, chin resting on his shoulder. Predictably, he'd a mouthful of very curly hair. Ron chuckled as he closed the compartment door, Adam's apple wavering as though the laugh pressed sharply at his throat. Summer had brushed a few layers of freckles over his cheeks and nose.
Hermione pulled back. Her smile faltered briefly before returning, doctored with a small amount of forced cheer. "How was your summer, Harry?" she asked, choosing a seat across from Harry. Her tone bordered on sympathetic.
"Compared to last year? Kind of boring, actually," Harry said. "Snape's essay was a terror, so thanks for the notes. You're a lifesaver."
"I thought it was rather fun," Hermione said, eyebrows peaked slightly in defense. Only Hermione would find tedious research fun.
Ron threw himself on the bench next to Harry, and his long limbs sprawled awkwardly, like a sapling timbered before its time. "Snape, fun? That's a laugh." He rubbed at his long nose, sniffled once, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm glad I'll never have to see that great ugly git again. You two have fun with that bastard."
Harry paused, unsure he heard his friend correctly. "You're not taking Potions this year?"
Fiery hair swept into blue eyes, flame upon deafening waters. "Only takes Outstanding students, doesn't he? Good job on that mark, mate, by the way."
Harry ignored the compliment. "What about being an Auror?"
"I'll have to think of something else, then, won't I?" Ron shrugged. "It wasn't that important to me, and I don't envy you. That class is going to be hard, and I doubt more than ten people got in."
Hermione, who had busied herself with the contents of her trunk, turned and frowned at him. "The O.W.L. exam wasn't terribly difficult—"
Ron snorted. "Speak for yourself."
"—and I think you're underestimating the abilities of our class," she finished primly, book in hand as she settled the brass clasps of her trunk.
"I think you're overestimating Snape's teaching," Ron returned. "Mark my words: that class will be tiny."
Sensing a fight, Harry interjected, "How was Diagon Alley? Fred and George set up shop there, right?"
"It's bloody amazing," Ron exclaimed, straightening instantly. "While Mum and Bill went to get your stuff, we got to check out the store. And it's enormous—" And Ron, with knowledgeable interjections from Hermione, illustrated a colorful, multi-level shop packed to the brim with jokes and gags, trick candies, and a dubious-sounding 'Wonder-Witch' product line of daydream charms and love potions, and more customers than any other store in Diagon Alley. Harry was sorry to hear that the wizarding shopping center of his youth was no more, scared into a cowering, submissive version of itself. Shops boarded up, kiosks gone from the streets, and an altogether feeling of gloom. Ollivander's had closed, as had a few other well-known businesses, but when Harry asked what had happened, Ron grew boorish and said, "They know, but they won't tell us anything."
"Actually, Harry," Hermione started, hesitant as she marked a place in her book, "we were hoping that you knew something."
A moment passed. His heart thudded loudly, once, in his ears. He'd known they would ask, but he'd hoped it could have waited a little longer. At least, until he understood all the facts himself. Harry had always known, somewhere deep inside him, that he would be the one to end it all, or die trying. That he would have to defeat Voldemort so that he could live. So that others could live. But the knowledge of the prophecy itself was a dangerous thing to carry, and he wouldn't place that upon his friends.
"Harry?"
He didn't know what to say. The prophecy. The imposter. They couldn't know either of those things. Not while the danger was so very real. Heat crawled up his throat, and he swallowed against it. All he could taste was bile.
"You think the Order talks to me?" he said, and it wasn't a complete lie.
Ron and Hermione looked at each other, something grim pulling similarly at their features.
"The Prophet's been calling you 'The Chosen One,'" Ron prompted, straightening from his slouch.
"Bloody hypocrites, aren't they?" Harry spat. He didn't have to fake his ire at the wizarding press; it didn't matter how accurate they were. "They're just trying to make themselves look good after dragging my name through the mud all of last year."
"You have to know something," Ron said, frustrated.
"We saw Professor Lupin over the break," Hermione said, plucking absently at the cover of Advanced Potion Making: Revised, and hesitated over her next words, lips pulled downward, "and . . ."
"He got the shit kicked out of him, mate," Ron said, eyes wide. "All cut up and bruised and, Merlin, you remember, don't you, Hermione?"
"When was this?" Harry asked. Whenever he saw Lupin, the man always looked relatively healthy. Thin, poor, but healthy nonetheless. "Did you speak to him?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances again.
"Not . . . exactly," Hermione said.
"We weren't supposed to know he was there," Ron added. "We were degnoming the garden, and we wanted some water because it was hot as fuck, but he was in the kitchen so we kinda just stayed outside and listened at the door."
Hermione worried the button at her cuff. "He must have known we were there—he was extremely cryptic—and he wouldn't even tell Mrs. Weasley what'd happened to him. Only that he lost their trail, like he was tracking something."
Epiphany straightened Harry's spine, clearing his head with the sense of two puzzle pieces coming together. "Lupin said something to me in July," Harry said. Ron's usually slack face showed a rare attentiveness, and Hermione perched on the edge of her seat as though in class already. Abruptly it came to mind that Hermione's parents may have placed her in etiquette school in her youth. "I don't think he meant to, because he wouldn't say anything more after that, but he mentioned that Voldemort—Christ, Ron, it's just a name—was looking for something. A powerful magical object."
While excitement rolled off Ron as easily as it would an overactive five-year-old, Hermione seemed rather exasperated.
"They gave us the weapon excuse last year," she explained after Harry's questioning look. "But it wasn't a weapon at all. Just a prophecy Voldemort wanted to hear." There was an odd lilt to her voice, as though she'd sharpened her words on accusation before their release.
Harry shook his head. "I don't think Lupin was being misleading, Hermione. Not this time."
Her large brown gaze both doubted and pitied, and Harry's lips sealed with the petty urge to say nothing more to his friends. Hermione wasn't wrong to think Harry was keeping things from them, and he wished, for the first time, that he'd made friends with less observant people.
Hours passed. The lunch trolley came and went. Blustery wind beat at the windows, but the Hogwarts Express remained undeterred upon its one way trek. Harry and Ron were in the middle of a rather rambunctious game of Exploding Snap (after the third round, Hermione—hair singed and fingers blackened—opted out in favor of reading) when the compartment door crashed open; a rolling sound like rushing water that dragged Harry almost completely to the backdoor at the Dursley's. Harry had accidentally slammed Dudley's fingers in the door once. Uncle Vernon did the same to Harry until the little bones in his hand splintered and snapped. He was six.
The sliding door hit the stop with a loud bang, and Harry came back. He was sixteen. He and Ron dropped their cards, which exploded black smoke into their faces upon touching their discard pile. Orange cinders streaked across the compartment. Hermione shrieked with alarm and beat a small flame into a charred dot on the upholstery with her Potions text. Paper aged with heat floated gently to the floor.
"Merlin, you lot are pathetic," Malfoy sneered as blackness swept out the open window, clearing the compartment with a breath of rain and pine. At the pale sight of Draco Malfoy, the anxiety Harry's past normally inspired fluttered into nothing, and the immediate discontent Harry felt pulled callously at his features.
"Pathetic?" The word touched a soft nerve in Ron. "What gives you the right—?"
Hermione snapped the window shut, and the gale whispered its power against the glass.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" Hermione said primly, bringing her book delicately up to her nose. Though her face remained as blank as it usually did when studying, her normally expressive eyes had narrowed to slivers, taking in nothing of the world on her pages. "Bullying the first years, perhaps?"
Malfoy leaned casually against the doorframe, pointed nose tilted upward, adapting a pained expression better suited to misunderstood artists. "Too much filth in one room," he simpered, arms crossed over a white silk button-up. "I didn't want to chance it—do you think Mudblood is catching?"
Ron jumped to his feet, wand brandished into the grinning face of Draco Malfoy. A snarl slashed through Ron's freckles. And in the background Hermione pleaded with their red-headed friend, arguing rationale into his ears. She may as well have been reasoning with a brick wall.
"How'd your father like Azkaban, Malfoy?" Harry asked before Ron had a chance to do anything foolish.
There was an instant change in Malfoy: the smile fractured into something strange—gone was the smug patrician who knew his worth, twisting with an animalistic rage only summoned by a festering wound. It was almost disconcerting to watch; Malfoy was usually so composed.
Despite this, anger zipped from Harry's veins to his heart, overriding his nerves, his usual compassion, bleeding darkness into his words: "I don't know exactly what goes on there, but in Muggle prisons it's more than just foreplay."
"Harry!" Hermione was scandalized.
"That's because Muggles are disgusting vermin." Slate eyes hardened. "Speaking of disgusting vermin, I saw you and Lupin today."
Harry felt anger slide his features sideways, the right corner of his mouth yanking downward.
"No wonder this country's going to the dogs," Malfoy continued. "Their savior keeps company with them. First the precious dogfather, and now the werewolf. I don't get it. Is it a sniff your ass you sniff theirs kind of thing? Or is it more—" Pale brows popped upward briefly, "Invasive?"
Something within Harry snapped. "You son of a bitch—" he started lowly, and it was only a stinging jinx to the knee that kept him from swinging. He toppled into his seat, scattering Pumpkin Pasty wrappers and unopened boxes of chocolate frogs to the carpet.
"Leave, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped, wand in hand, as Ron bellowed, "Get the fuck out!"
Malfoy sniffed mockingly and backed into the empty corridor, stumbling only slightly as the train rumbled over a groove in the tracks. He smirked at them over his shoulder, then strolled leisurely away. Harry got up, rubbed his knee to the tune of Hermione's quiet apology, and peered into the hallway. Malfoy's slender figure ambled toward the middle of the train, silver and green prefect's pin echoing in subsequent compartment windows with the same self-assurance as his slicked platinum hair. He no longer smiled.
Harry closed the door.
"What an asshole," Ron said, slumping into his seat. For once, Hermione did not berate Ron for his language. "You'd think he'd get tired of bothering us every year."
"I think he likes the tradition of being kicked out of our compartment," Harry said. "He must get off on rejection."
Hermione looked up at the ceiling momentarily. "Why am I friends with boys?" she asked no one in particular.
"I'm serious," Ron said. "He's a slimy little fuck. Take today's prefect meeting: he threw around some shit—probably 'cause the new Head Girl's a Muggleborn, you know? The Head Boy looked about to punch him. Even Greengrass, Malfoy's partner, told him to shut up, and she's a stone cold bitch."
Hermione sharpened her glare on Ron's face. "I'd hardly call her that," she said. "She's just quiet. And she knows her stuff. But apparently, whenever she tells someone they're wrong it's an epidemic of male castration."
"She could be nicer about it!" Ron threw up an argumentative palm. "Right, Harry?"
Harry swallowed uncomfortably when Hermione and Ron simultaneously turned to him. It was a rare occasion he was called in to settle their bickers. Instead, he shrugged. "She's never said anything to me," he alleged.
"Traitor," Ron mumbled, but Harry knew it was in jest.
"Men are such babies." Hermione rolled her eyes. She checked her watch, then the sky, which had been smeared with dusk. "You both should probably change," she said. "We'll be arriving soon."
Changing into their school robes was more of a challenge this year than in the years before. Ron, who had surpassed six feet, seemed to encompass the entirety of the compartment as he shuffled about, knocking into the door and ceiling as he contorted his limbs to the amorphous shape of the Hogwarts uniform. He apologized whenever he bumped into Harry, one of which nearly toppled Harry into to opposite window. Hermione giggled at them all the while.
When the train hissed to a stop, Harry led the way out of the compartment and onto the small brick walkway that was the Hogsmeade Station. The moon had turned her face away this night, and magical fire licked glass lantern cages, lining contours of each student as they passed in dim triangles of shadow and flame. Lumos beams crossed cobblestone like searchlights. Distant porchlight bled into the darkness, becoming dim stars in the night leading travelers to warmth, food, and drink. And above the level of students' chatter Hagrid called gruffly for the first years. Harry perked at this; he became a periscope over the bobbing heads of younger years, neck turning in all directions for just a glimpse of his first and largest friend. And perhaps an 'Alrigh', Harry?' as well.
Nevertheless, like the crooked grey clouds across the dusk drifted Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice:
"Harry! Harry, over here!"
Luna's bright hair shone through the gloom as she waved, a halo about her pale features from beneath the bluish lantern of the line of carriages. Neville stood almost behind her with a shy smile, though his eyes would shift toward the thestrals locked in with iron chains, and he would clutch his colorful plant closer to his chest. Relief breathed through Harry, and he urged Ron and Hermione into a light jog to catch the next carriage. They clambered up, settling into old seats of mothballs and fade.
"You're looking quite thin, Harry," Luna remarked candidly as the carriage rocked forward to hum over the dirt path. She tilted her head, and the wispy blonde cloud of her hair shifted. "Be careful not to let bariaeths into your dreams. They can be greedy in that way."
Harry carefully avoided exchanging a look with any of his friends: Ron had snorted, Hermione was rather stony-faced, and Neville was now coughing into the crook of his arm. Unsure of himself as he indulged in his Ravenclaw friend's peculiar brand of sanity, Harry asked, "What's a bariaeth?"
"You can't see them," Luna informed him brightly. She didn't seem to have heard Hermione's 'Of course you can't,' as she continued, "But they enter your body through your nose in your sleep and feast on everything, leaving just bad dreams behind. Judging on your size, I suspect there's more than one. I can check, if you like."
Luna pulling out her wand and lit it with a rushed lumos, leaning across the carriage to where Harry sat now. He leaned carefully out of reach, the back of his head knocking against the sliver of window at the back.
"Thanks, Luna," he said, very conscious of Neville, whose full cheeks were flushed in a triangle of red from his ear to his chin. "But I think I'll chance another night."
She returned to her seat, but earnestness blew her eyes wide. "Just don't give up, okay? That's how they gain control."
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said at last, but he was grinning now.
"How have you been, Neville?" Hermione interjected almost immediately.
"I got a new wand," Neville offered, and his previously still plant snapped grumpily at his fingers when he nearly upturned it in the haste to retrieve it. Resting on his palm was handsome stick of smooth auburn, and it gleamed under the blue glow of the carriage's shaky lanterns.
"Nice," Ron said, nodding with approval as Neville passed it around.
"Cherry and unicorn hair. Gran's strict about the underage laws, but Ollivander let me levitate that old chair that's always in there. Works better than my dad's old wand."
"She wasn't angry, then?" Harry asked.
The blonde boy grinned, dark eyes of chocolate and caramel and other happy things. "Said he'd be proud of me—my dad, I mean," he said, stowing away his wand. He sounded as though he could never be awarded a higher compliment. "Said I'd earned a new one. It must have been one of the last Ollivander ever sold; he disappeared the next day."
The conversation navigated more distant waters of the others' experiences with the odd wandmaker, and Harry drifted into a cavern, distracted again by what he hadn't told his friends. The imposter. The prophecy. How different would it have been, had Voldemort chosen Neville Longbottom as his opponent, his equal? Would it be Neville across from him, bolt of lightning striking just under his fringe, while a scarless Harry shared this carriage, warmed and loved by a parental kiss and ruffle of the hair before he'd left for school? Would he have Neville's path, still orphaned despite living parents, but raised by old school friends and a traitor? Would he have still been raised by the Dursleys? Or would Neville's seat be empty, the result of an infant dead before his time, exposed in a way Harry had not been because of old magic's touch?
Did Neville have a right to the prophecy?
Harry opened his eyes, and they were at the castle. Hermione had reached forward as though to shake him awake, and appeared startled upon realizing he hadn't been asleep. He continued to ignore her invasive stare as he dropped from the carriage, absorbing the compacted earth's shock with a slight bend of the knees. His cloak swept forth over his worn trainers. Stone drenched with mist and night towered above them, cobbled together with the strength of a millennia's magic. Conjured flame softened the arch above the solid entrance doors. And beneath it hunched a slight figure, age and shadows tugging loose skin from a near hairless skull, a cat upon its bony shoulder like a parrot, tail sweeping behind the overlarge coat. Yellow eyes flashed from its mangy face.
"Merlin, that's scary," Ron commented under his breath. A closer distance to the school revealed the figure as none other than Mr. Filch, the school's caretaker, and his cat, Mrs. Norris. Intense dislike crept along Filch's chronic pout as he recognized Harry and his friends, and he patted his cat with consoling hands as he muttered, "Don't worry, my pet. One of these days . . ."
With such an ominous greeting, they followed the crowd of students through the front doors.
The Great Hall during the opening feast was always a welcome sight to behold: four polished tables stretching towards an elevated and much smaller one, at which the professors sat chatting amicably with the exception of a select few. Candles flickered above their heads, flames licking the dark clouds imitated from outside's gloom. After a cheerful goodbye from Luna, Harry and the others settled in the middle of the Gryffindor table amongst their peers, who all greeted Harry with an optimism that had been absent the year before. Something sullen bit at his mood, and he did his best to ignore it. Katie Bell waved at him from the far end of the table, and Colin Creevey's excitement had eclipsed that of his younger years, evident in his enthusiastic handshake before sitting with the rest of the fifth year Gryffindors. Dean Thomas and Ginny's faces were very close.
Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron. Irritation burned Ron's ears red, and his knuckles whitened around a fork.
"Slimy, licentious, gnathonic, back-stabbing git." Ron was practically spitting.
Harry had difficulty suppressing his laughter. Hermione didn't even bother.
"My, Ronald, I didn't know you knew such big words," Hermione giggled. "You should be angry more often."
Harry checked under the table. "Alright, where are you hiding the dictionary?"
"It's not funny!" Ron protested, turning his head away as though his sister had done something more heinous than a chaste kiss. "If he so much as looks at her wrong, I'm going to tear him apart with my bare hands."
Neville swallowed uncomfortably. He had taken Ginny to the Yule ball during their fourth year.
Harry took pity on him. "How pissed do you think Snape is this year?"
Dread whitened Ron's skin beneath his freckles. "Merlin, please tell me he didn't get the job."
"No." Harry shook his head. "Lupin told me Dumbledore hired a foreigner to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts." He scanned the Head Table for a new face. Professor Dumbledore sat at the center, seemingly lost in thought as he stared up into the charmed ceiling of the Great Hall, chin resting upon the triangle of his fingers. It surprised Harry that he felt not anger, but dejection at the sight of the headmaster, and with such hurt threatening to clutch at his lungs, Harry looked away. The seat to the headmaster's right was empty, but on its other side was a man whom Harry had never seen before, and yet struck a slight chord of familiarity within him. However, the more Harry stared at this man, the less familiar he became until it washed away with the details: deep midnight blue robes embracing a somewhat diminutive frame, made all the more delicate by immaculate skin of ivory. Hair the shade of merlot wine poured over his shoulder in a plait just passed his collarbone.
"A bit young, isn't he?" Ron said. "Looks like a nancy."
"As long as he teaches a good curriculum, I couldn't care less for his looks," Hermione stated primly, though pink brushed her cheeks.
"Snape looks greasy as usual," Ron commented, eyes turning towards the empty golden gleam of his plate. "Slytherin trash."
Harry allowed his eyes to stray from the stranger, and almost jumped, startled: Snape's dark eyes pinned him to his seat, hatred lingering within each line on the man's face. Petty and cruel, the potions professor would have always been unlikable, but ever since Harry'd set foot in Hogwarts he seemed to have a special place for him: at the top of his shit list. The feeling was mutual, and seemed to grow with every passing year. Harry scowled, rubbing the scruff of his neck. A smirk pulled Snape's lip upward, and he looked away, eyes curtained by his shoulder-length hair.
"Harry? I asked you something."
Snape didn't look his way again. His lips moved in response to something Professor Sprout said.
"Sorry," he mumbled, turning back to his friends. "What was it?"
"We wondered if Lupin said anything else about him," Neville said quietly.
"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat. "Er—His name's Dupont—I can't remember his first name."
"He's French." Hermione sounded both delighted and surprised.
Ron shot her an ugly look. "I dunno why you're so happy about it."
"France is such a lovely place, and so fascinating—I get to go every year."
"Well, bully for you," Ron said sourly. "But a Frenchman on British soil? That can't be good news."
Harry regarded the red-haired stranger once more. Ron's prejudice may have been inherited through history, and, perhaps, cultivated by France's superior Quidditch team, but Harry had other reasons for casting suspicion on Dupont. He'd had few good experiences with past Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. And Lupin's caution flavored his thoughts.
Just as Ron had started to protest in hunger Professor McGonagall led the first years through the front door, this class much larger than those previous. The Sorting Hat lulled the Great Hall into silence with his song, punctuated by applause at its end, and watched as it sorted small strangers into each of the four houses. He recognized a few surnames from old and current classmates. Keeping his attention on the Sorting, however, proved a difficult task as the hollowness within him groaned. More than anything else, Harry wished for soup, hot and steaming, with just enough spice to satisfy his taste buds. The thought was enough to drive him mad, and he knew better than to dream of food when he was cold and hungry. Staring at the empty plate in front of him did no good, either; he tried not to be reminded of his early childhood, but the symbolism was strong with this one.
At last, the Sorting ended, and Dumbledore stood. White beard tucked into his crescent moon belt, he gracefully held out his arms and said, "Enjoy the feast."
Food faded into existence on golden platters, piled high with sustenance and delectable smells that embraced his nose until he could no longer bear it. Roasted steak, charcoal skin sliced to reveal a tender middle. Steamed vegetables, sorted by bright colors and sprinkled with tasteful herbs. Crisp salad, dewed with a thin brown dressing. A cold chicken drizzled with a speckled oil. Garlic potatoes. Hot soup. Baked apples. Harry scooped up a serving of everything in reach, more focused on stuffing himself stupid than the conversations around him. And yet, as he filled himself, the more he felt something was missing.
Hermione must have detected his disquiet, as she placed her fork on her plate and lowered her voice: "Is something wrong?"
Harry swallowed his spoonful of hot liquid, but he couldn't taste it. ". . . I'm not sure," he admitted. The Great Hall bustled with activity, most of it endorsed by children smaller than he. He could tell the Feast was about to conclude, as the chatter no longer echoed back to them from the stone walls, but for what he could see, there was nothing amiss, nothing to suggest—
"The ghosts," he said at last. "They're not here."
Brown eyes widened, a mirror to the shock that whittled through his spine. Hermione twisted in her seat, mouth twisted downwards in disbelief, but she returned to face Harry when she reached the same conclusion.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Harry pressed.
"They probably had something else to do. I wouldn't worry about it," she said at last, but bewilderment ticked at her eyebrows.
"They've never missed the Welcome Feast."
She bit her lip. "Maybe they had trouble with Peeves?"
"Maybe," Harry said, but he was convinced that something wasn't completely right. Sir Nick usually greeted Harry every year, as though trapped in a ritual. The Bloody Baron wasn't present to do what he did best: terrorize the Slytherin first years.
He was still thinking about it even after Dumbledore dismissed them.
.
.
.
Updated: October 2016