Chapter 23 – Developments
"It is about time you arrived."
Peevish. Impatient. Demanding. It is unlike Harry to be so… petulant, so arrogant and imperious in his demands.
Harry? Is it truly Harry? The question has no meaning. He is.
Location likewise has no meaning. The room is large, but poorly lit, with flaming lamps at intervals along the wall, which sputters and smokes, filling the air with a miasma and adding to the feeling of the abyss—a hell on earth. The chair is high backed, situated in such a way as to give the appearance of a throne.
But such details are extraneous. More impression than reality.
A murmur or two of conversation undulates in the distance, though indistinct—nothing more than the distant crash of waves upon a shore. The denizens of this place know the consequences of interrupting their lord and master.
Lord? Master?
The thought is shaken off almost as soon as it appears. It too is unimportant. Irrelevant. The blond figure of a Death Eater quickly approaches from the entrance to the room. His face is craggy and worn, and his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Again, his appearance is fuzzy and almost indistinct. Unimportant.
The answers he hopefully possesses are not inconsequential.
"I apologize, My Lord," the figure says, making his obeisance. "I was detained by Amelia Bones on a matter of DMLE business."
He spears the man with a sharp gaze. "Anything about which I should be concerned?"
"Auror budgets, My Lord," the other says with a snort. "With Fudge in control, the flailing in the Auror department has not let up. Madam Bones is trying to make the most of her limited means, but her success is middling at best."
Satisfaction. Contentment. All is as it should be.
"Very well, then," he says with a negligent wave of his hand. "I sincerely hope you have some news for me."
The blond man shakes his head with some regret. "Unfortunately, My Lord, the news I bring is not good."
Settling back in his chair, he eyes his underling with some exasperation. The temptation is there—it was always there—to give the man a taste of the fate of all those who fail. Pain. Suffering. Humiliation.
Still, it is likely not his fault, after all. He was sent to procure a specific piece of information, and if the information is not to his benefit, it is hardly the man's fault. Object lessons are all well and good, but it is also necessary that there be some reason for dispensing them. For now it is better to listen and wait—punishment can be administered later, should it be warranted.
"What have you discovered?"
"The Hall of Prophecy is virtually undefended, My Lord. Unfortunately it does not need to be, as the prophecy globes are all protected by a series of protections which render them untouchable by any but the subject of the prophecy contained therein."
"And what is the nature of these protections?"
The Death Eater spreads his arms open in supplication. "I am sorry, My Lord, but I am unsure. The unspeakable with whom I was speaking would not elaborate, and I felt it wise not to press."
"Undoubtedly," he murmurs, knowing it was only the truth. The importance of his spies in the Ministry was not to be underestimated, regardless of how critical he now feels obtaining the entire prophecy is. It will not do to have his servant discovered amongst them. "What can you tell me?"
"Only what I have said before—the subject of the prophecy is the only one who may safely remove the orb. Anyone else who attempts to do so will be driven insane by the enchantments."
"The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord…" Technically, the Dark Lord has been mentioned in the fragment of which he is aware. Did that then mean that he is able to remove the orb himself, or is the subject the only one with the right to do so?
Calm. Patience. Prudence. This matter will take more study. More planning. It will not do to rush in without due consideration and activate the magic protecting the orbs. Careful deliberation will be required.
"If I may, My Lord," the Death Eater continues, breaking his thoughts, "you have a servant in Azkaban who would likely be able to tell you more of what you seek."
"That matter does not concern you," he says. "You had best focus on the tasks I have entrusted to you—I do not wish for your cover at the Ministry to be compromised."
"Of course, My Lord," responds the Death Eater.
"I think we must proceed under the assumption that I cannot touch the orb," he muses, half to himself. "And if I cannot, then the only one who can is…"
Harry jolted awake.
Confused, he peered around, seeing the still-sleeping forms of his dorm mates huddled under their blankets. A glance toward the window revealed blackness of the Scotland night. It could not be later than perhaps two in the morning.
Groaning, Harry pulled himself upright, and slumped on the bed with his face buried in his hands. What a perfectly dreadful night! Sleep had been a long time coming, his rest had been fitful, and the appearance of the Dark Lord in his dreams had been the final indignity.
What was Tom Riddle up to now? This word of a prophecy, protections which would drive a man insane, and a clearly plotting Dark Lord was discomfiting. If only Harry could have stayed asleep a little longer—perhaps he would have been able to hear what Voldemort was planning. It was frustrating.
Sighing, Harry looked around at the others before he once again hunkered down into his bed. The Headmaster would need to know about this new development, obviously, but given the time, Harry would attempt to sleep again. Surely it was not critical enough to wake Dumbledore in the middle of the night.
Though his mind would have worked over the problem for some time to come, Harry's fatigue was enough that he soon slipped into the blissful embrace of sleep. And if his sleep was still somewhat fitful and restless, at least it was not invaded by Dark Lords and their minions.
The next morning, Harry left Gryffindor tower before any of his friends had awakened; the fact that it was a Saturday meant that most students would be sleeping in that day, though likely not too late. It was a Hogsmeade day, after all. And though Harry was not precisely avoiding everyone else, he knew that his generally tired demeanor would raise questions and he wanted to discuss the dream with Dumbledore before deciding whether it should be shared with his friends. Besides, some time with the headmaster would help him wake up and appear more like his normal self.
Knowing the man's habits to a certain extent, Harry found him in the Great Hall at breakfast and, after grabbing a few bites to eat, Harry approached him and requested a few moments of his time. It was not long after before Harry was seated in the head's office across the desk from his mentor, explaining what had happened the night before.
As the explanation wound down, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, deep in thought. Harry thought he detected a glimmer of understanding on Dumbledore's face as he was explaining his experience, but whatever it had been was gone in an instant, replaced by the expression of contemplation.
"What does it mean, sir?" Harry asked after enduring a few moments of silence.
Dumbledore started and peered at him—Harry had the distinct impression that the man had forgotten all about his presence. He smiled in his congenial manner, obviously trying to help Harry feel at ease. "The Hall of Prophecy, you say. And Voldemort was asking for information about one of the prophecies."
"Yes, but he seemed to think that one of the prophecies was about him too," Harry responded. "If it was about him, wouldn't he be able to remove it?"
"No Harry," replied the headmaster, "though that is a very good question. Just because one is mentioned in a prophecy does not make the prophecy about them. If the prophecy the Dark Lord is interested in is specifically about someone else, and only mentions Voldemort, then he will not be able to remove it."
"He did think that he had to be cautious about it. He thought he would have to study it more before taking any action. He seemed to think that there was someone else who could remove it, but I woke up before I could find out who it was."
Leaning forward, Dumbledore rested his elbows on his desk and he gazed at Harry, who felt more than a little uncomfortable at having the professor's attention on him with such intensity. "Harry, the Dark Lord may have information about a specific prophecy, but you must not think about it. It is good that you brought this information to me as I may make some attempt to find out what he is searching for, and if necessary, prevent him from doing so.
"I must warn you," Dumbledore continued sternly, "not to take anything you hear through your connection to the Dark Lord at face value. If he is aware of the fact that you visited him in your dreams, he may try to trick you, hoping that you would act rashly. He can use this to hurt you, Harry, and it is not something you can take lightly. You must not respond to him in any way, or give him any reason to suspect that you are hearing his thoughts. And above all you must not be goaded into falling into a trap. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," Harry responded automatically.
"Good." Dumbledore once again leaned back and his eyes lost their focus in his concentration. "Remember that you are still young and though you are very mature, that there are things about the world which you still do not know. Please approach me with any questions you may have, and I will do my best to answer them"
Once again Dumbledore's eyes focused on Harry, causing him to feel a little uncomfortable. "For now, I believe this is something about which you do not need to concern yourself. Let me handle it."
"I understand," was Harry's reply. There was nothing he could do about it, after all, and he trusted the headmaster—Dumbledore would not lead him astray.
"I do have one more question for you. Is this the first such occurrence of seeing Voldemort in your dreams?"
Harry ducked his head in embarrassment. "No sir."
But Dumbledore's countenance was not so stern as Harry would have thought. "I understand it can be difficult, Harry. You want to be responsible for your own life and feel like you have some control. I was not unlike you as a young man.
"However, as we are dealing with the Dark Lord and his minions, I would ask you to trust me and tell me of any other instances where you overhear what he is thinking. Not only can this help us gain critical information, but as I stated, I am concerned that Voldemort may try to use this seeming… connection for his own purposes."
"It doesn't happen very often," Harry was quick to say. "Only on occasion, and often when he is really angry or happy."
"That may very well be," replied Dumbledore. "But he may become aware of you and seek to use it for his own gain.
"Now," Dumbledore continued in a kindly voice, "why don't you tell me about these other experiences?"
The next hour was spent in earnest conversation with Harry speaking of the times he had seen Voldemort in his dreams, and Dumbledore offering advice and guidance to the young man. He particularly focused on the dream Harry had had the previous year, and the figures who had appeared in that dream, though he made no comments about what any of it meant. The experience was somewhat draining for Harry and by the time he was finished he felt even more tired, though somewhat relieved at having unburdened himself to a sympathetic ear.
At the end of it, Dumbledore dismissed him, admonishing him to enjoy his day in Hogsmeade with his friends. But he once again encouraged Harry to come to him whenever he had any similar experiences in the future. "Remember, Harry, to always come to see me if you find Voldemort in your dreams. It may be that at some point we will be required to act in order to close this link between you and Voldemort. Let me think about it for a time."
"I understand, sir," Harry dutifully replied before he stood and exited the office.
The frustrating thing about Dumbledore was that he played his cards very close to the vest, Harry mused. It was not that he was second guessing the Headmaster—Dumbledore had fought the good fight for longer than Harry had been alive, and Harry knew the man deserved his respect. It was more that he wished that he would be considered more of an adult, and worthy to be trusted as such.
Sighing, Harry wandered through the hallways of the school for some time, thinking on his dream and the discussion with the Headmaster. He did not return to the common room until quite a bit later, and when he did, he brushed off all questions about where he had been or what he had been doing. He needed to sort things out in his own mind before he was ready to talk about anything which had occurred. Instead, he insisted that the friends leave for Hogsmeade immediately—all the easier to avoid questions he did not want to answer.
In another part of the country, Jean-Sebastian Delacour sat in the study of the Ambassador's Mansion, scowling at everything and nothing all at once. The previous week had not been a good one, regardless of the fact that that blasted woman was now gone from Hogwarts, never to return. The situation in England, though Voldemort had as yet made no overt moves against the government, continued to deteriorate, completely due to the fact that the Death Eaters, he was certain, were preparing for an all out conflict, while the Minister continued to do nothing.
The thought of Fudge in particular caused the ambassador to clench his hands into fists of rage. To Fudge, Voldemort was dead and gone, never to return. The Dark Lord had been proven to be dead most conclusively, the man averred. He would not return and the stories told by Dumbledore and Potter were nothing more than scare tactics designed to destabilize the government and consolidate more power into their own hands. The fact that one of the two wizards he accused of making a play for power was only fifteen years of age did not faze the man in the slightest. His paranoia was beyond belief.
The worst part of it was that he would not even do anything based on the possibility that Harry was telling the truth. No investigations were being conducted—though in truth Jean-Sebastian suspected that Madam Bones was keeping her eyes open, given what he knew of her—the Auror budget had not been increased, and there was a sense of complacency about the man which Jean-Sebastian found infuriating. With this much of a head start, it would be very difficult to defeat Voldemort and his forces with out much hardship, pain and death.
And it was this environment that particularly worried him, especially when it came to the safety of his family. He would much prefer that Apolline and Gabrielle had stayed in France at the castle where it was safer, but though he had raised the possibility of their return with Apolline a number of times since their arrival, she stubbornly refused to see reason and insisted that she would not run from the danger to which her husband and eldest daughter would continue to be exposed. She even offered to send Gabrielle back, but refused to leave herself.
Of Fleur, Jean-Sebastian was only mildly concerned. Fleur was an adult, and a very competent witch in her own right, and she had Harry and rest of his friends to back her up, not to mention being behind the most impressive set of wards in the country at Hogwarts. And though the mansion appeared to be secure, and well protected with a number of highly trained Aurors assigned to their protection detail, Jean-Sebastian worried that it would not be enough should Voldemort decide that the Delacours had become a serious threat to his plans.
The fireplace in Jean-Sebastian's study flared, and Dumbledore's face appeared in the green flames. "Ah, Jean-Sebastian, may I step through?"
Thinking uncharitably that Dumbledore only wanted to speak when he had bad news, Jean-Sebastian gave his consent, and waited until the aged Headmaster stepped through.
"There has been a development," Dumbledore stated without preamble when he arrived in the study.
Jean-Sebastian wearily waved his guest to a chair, before sitting down himself and massaging his temples. "Can I assume that this news of yours is not something I would wish to hear?"
A chuckle met his cynical and somewhat petulant statement, prompting Jean-Sebastian to glare at the headmaster. "This negativity is most unbecoming, Jean-Sebastian," Dumbledore admonished. "Surely the situation is not that dire yet."
"You try talking some sense into Fudge," Jean-Sebastian growled in response. "His willful obtuseness and his inability to see reason is amazing and infuriating all at once."
"But you forget, Jean-Sebastian," said an amused Dumbledore, "I have been dealing with the man virtually the entire time I've been Chief Warlock. I assure you that I am very familiar with the Minister's quirks.
"However, that is not why I am here today," Dumbledore continued in a more solemn and serious tone. "Harry came to me this morning with a matter of some concern. I believe you should know of it."
Proceeding from there, Dumbledore laid out the entirety of his conversation with Harry, concisely and without embellishment. And though Jean-Sebastian felt a little sick at the thought of having such an insane despot roaming around in Harry's head, he concentrated on what Dumbledore had to say. Harry, no doubt, was very used to the Dark Lord's interference in his life, and though Harry was, by Dumbledore's account, worried about the insight he had gained this morning, he was likely much more accepting of the situation than Jean-Sebastian could be at the moment.
"So, he's after the prophecy."
"I believe he is," confirmed Dumbledore. "It was inevitable that he eventually would turn his attention to it. By now, he must have realized that he does not have the prophecy in its entirety, and I believe that we can his less than aggressive actions since his return to that lack of knowledge. His failure to kill Harry at the end of the third task must have made him more cautious."
Sitting back in his chair, Jean-Sebastian directed a long look at the Headmaster, wondering what the man knew but was not sharing at this time. Yes, the thought of the Dark Lord seeking the missing part of the prophecy was troubling, but at the moment, Jean-Sebastian was much more concerned about the fact that Harry had been able to witness him in his dreams at all. It was this aspect which he focused on.
"Why was Harry able to see Voldemort at all?" Jean-Sebastian asked. "That is the more troublesome development in my mind."
"I am uncertain," replied Dumbledore, frowning. "It appears as though Harry has some sort of… connection, for want of a better term, with the Dark Lord. He has always had strong reactions when in proximity to Voldemort, though until this morning I was unaware of the fact that he has seen Voldemort in his dreams. The silver lining in all of this is that Voldemort does not seem to suspect that this connection exists."
Jean-Sebastian scowled. "That's hardly a silver lining. He could become aware of it at any time."
"Perhaps. If Harry does nothing to betray himself and does not go trying to exploit the connection while he is awake, the Dark Lord should remain oblivious and the situation should remain as it is."
"Do you think he should be taught Occlumency to close the link?" asked Jean-Sebastian after a moment's thought.
Dumbledore pursed his lips and his eyes unfocused for a moment. "Not at this time," he answered at length. "For now Voldemort does not seem to be aware of it, and if Harry were to learn Occlumency, he may sense a block he was not aware existed. Occlumency training may become necessary, but for now I suggest we leave it be."
"And what of the globe? Is it safe?"
"For the time being, the globes are protected. Voldemort's source was correct in that the globes are protected by extensive enchantments which will prevent him from simply removing them."
"So Voldemort cannot touch them?"
"In a word—no," said Dumbledore. "It is not enough for a person to simply be mentioned in the prophecy. The prophecy has to be about them, or they will not be able to remove it.
"In the future I cannot say. It is possible that Voldemort may find some way to circumvent the protections. However, I do not believe we need to concern ourselves with that eventuality for some months—it would take him a great deal of time to do so, and it's not as though he can move about freely in the Ministry."
Absorbing all that Dumbledore had said, Jean-Sebastian considered the situation and the fact that Harry was beginning to be pulled ever tighter into the Dark Lord's web. Events were building toward a confrontation, and knowing what he did about the prophecy and Harry's ultimate fate in the coming struggle, Jean-Sebastian was becoming convinced that they would need to prepare for that showdown.
Beyond that, Jean-Sebastian had begun to experience a steadily growing feeling that Harry should have been told exactly what was happening in his life. He deserved to know.
"Headmaster," Jean-Sebastian began slowly and deliberately, "I think that with this most recent development that Harry needs to be told of the prophecy."
Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore scratched his beard in some thought. "I believe that it is still too early to worry Harry with this knowledge, Jean-Sebastian. Harry is still young—too young to carry the burden of the entire world upon his shoulders."
"I think you may be putting a little too much stock in this prophecy, Albus."
"While I would have, at one time, tended to agree with you, I firmly believe in the accuracy of true prophecy. I would like to give Harry a little more time to mature and grow before sharing this information with him."
Jean-Sebastian was silent for several moments, thinking of all that Dumbledore had said. It was a substantial burden for a young man, but Jean-Sebastian also knew in his heart that to keep it from Harry was not only unfair, but perhaps even dangerous. He was uncertain from where this feeling originated, but he was certain it was the truth.
"Dumbledore, I understand you have Harry's best interests at heart," Jean-Sebastian spoke in a very soft tone of voice. "But I believe he needs to know. He is mature and competent, and he deserves to know the truth of why this insane wizard has fixated upon him.
"During the summer, I promised Harry and my daughter that I would not withhold any information from them, and immediately after I broke my word when you told me of the prophecy. I cannot in good conscience delay much longer."
"I suppose you cannot," Dumbledore responded with a sigh. "However, I would urge you to keep silent a little longer. We shall choose the best time to tell Harry everything—I don't want to burden him any more than is needed."
"Very well," said Jean-Sebastian. "But we cannot wait long. Very soon we will have to tell him, and if you do not, then I will."
With this statement, their conversation was over. Dumbledore bid Jean-Sebastian farewell and left to return to Hogwarts, leaving Jean-Sebastian alone with his thoughts. With this new knowledge, they could not be any lighter than they had been before Dumbledore's arrival.
For Harry, the next week could not pass swiftly enough. Though the dream of Voldemort and the information it imparted left him somewhat out of sorts for several days, a new and exciting diversion soon took over and all Harry's attention was focused toward this new goal. The next Saturday was to be Gryffidor's first Quidditch match of the year, and as it was to be against Slytherin, it heightened his sense of expectation and excitement. And this did not even touch on the fact that Fleur was a part of the team, though she would likely not play at all. Slytherin was their most difficult opponent, after all, and Angelina would wish to field their best team with the best chance of winning.
To be honest, Harry was nowhere near the Quidditch freak that many assumed him to be—certainly nothing next to Ron who often could not be turned from the subject. It was more the excitement, the roar of the crowd, and above all, the ability to fly, which Harry loved more than anything else. Still, the competition was welcome, and the ability to rub the little Pureblood's face in the fact that he had never managed to catch the snitch against Harry was not unwelcome either. Win or lose, Malfoy did not have the talent to beat him to the snitch, unless the golden ball appeared right under his nose. And even then it might be a close thing.
Harry chuckled a little under his breath at his own hubris and confidence, knowing that it was not exactly an attractive character trait, while also understanding that in this case, it was entirely the truth. As with many other things, Malfoy's talents as a seeker were grossly exaggerated in his own mind. Harry had the superior broom and the superior skills—he was supremely confident in his ability to beat the blond ponce.
Glancing around the table, Harry gauged that no one had been paying attention to his introspection, nor his sudden quiet laughter. The library was quiet on a Friday night, with only a few tables occupied, mostly by seventh years, focused as they were on their NEWTs at the end of the year. Hermione's table was crowded as all the friends had settled in for a bit of late evening study, and though their ages and personalities were disparate, Harry felt the heady feeling of camaraderie which had not always been present in his life, even since he had come to Hogwarts.
Ron and Hermione were, of course, mainstays; their friendship had endured through all of their adventures, not to mention the discord sown by Harry's inclusion in the tournament the previous year. And Fleur, though new to Harry's circle, and admittedly only present because of the enactment of the betrothal, had quickly become an integral part of Harry's life and wellbeing. Neville had always been there, though somewhat separate. Now he was an insider to their group, and a welcome one at that. Still shy and somewhat awkward at times, Neville had nonetheless grown in many ways, and Harry valued his calm and rational demeanor. And though both Luna and Ginny were a year younger than everyone else at the table, they were no less valued as friends. Luna's spacey personality and tendency to talk about fantastical creatures was now looked on as a personal quirk, rather than an overt oddity, and Ginny, while Harry did still catch her peering at him longingly at times, was now comfortable in his company, and her sense of fun and sunny personality were appreciated.
The final three at the table, Harry reflected, were very recent additions, though quickly becoming an integral part of the group. Susan Bones, though not intimate with the rest of the circle, had always been known to be friendly and open, and her abilities and knowledge, not to mention her Hufflepuff loyalty, were now accepted by all of Harry's friends. The other two, though, were so unlikely, that a few weeks ago, Harry would have laughed if told they would even be sitting at the same table without a frigid drop in temperature as a result.
The six Slytherin entries into the club had fit in from an ability standpoint, but had, for the most part, continued to be aloof from the rest of the club. The exception, however, was the two fifth year girls, who had gravitated towards Harry's circle in defiance of any expectation, or any protestations by the rest of their house, if any such existed. Harry's original impression of the two girls appeared to have been spot on—Tracey Davis was rather chatty once she felt at ease with the company and Daphne, though certainly much more reserved, was friendly and outgoing. They were still very much in the formative stages of their inclusion in the group and their friendship with the group members—a few weeks, after all, did not a lifelong friend make. But they were certainly making progress, and their friendliness and their competence at once made them welcome members of their little clique.
The reaction of Harry's friends to their presence was varied. Fleur still held them at arm's length to a certain extent, likely in part because she did not know them, and in part because of her knowledge of many British Purebloods' opinions of her. Neville seemed to take their presence in stride, and while Hermione was at times as cautious of them as Fleur was, she seemed to have found somewhat of a kindred spirit in Daphne. Daphne was in all the same elective courses as Hermione, and had even begun to take part in Harry's ongoing tutoring sessions in Ancient Runes, much to Harry's surprise.
But perhaps the most astonishing response of any of his friends was Ron. Ron had spent the first few study sessions with the Slytherins grumbling at their inclusion, though he had enough tact to try to hide it. Tracey responded in kind, distrusting him and his well-known abhorrence of Slytherins, and generally refusing to talk to him. Daphne simply ignored him.
Within a week, however, Harry was amused to find out that Ron's grumbling had largely stopped, and his attention toward the black-haired Slytherin had begun to become noticeable. Ron, never really subtle about much of anything, appeared to be captivated by the young woman—who was very attractive—and though Daphne had certainly noticed it herself, she had never called him on it, or given any reaction to his admiration whatsoever. She merely changed her treatment of him to mirror how she treated everyone else—that of an acquaintance becoming a closer friend—once the evidence of his obvious disdain had disappeared.
It was an unlikely circle of friends to be certain, but Harry was beginning to value each and every one of them. Having this many people in his group of friends was an alien concept to Harry, as he had never had any friends as a child—due, of course, to Dudley's influence—and had spent most of his time since coming to Hogwarts with only two close friends. He found that he was truly enjoying the experience. And though some would say that Daphne and Tracey were still too new to truly trust, Harry felt that he could do so; his senses told him they were trustworthy, and he simply had a hunch that they were true friends. It was a heady feeling.
"Harry!"
The sound of an exasperated voice startled him out of his introspection and he turned his head, noticing Hermione's stern expression.
"What?"
A few muffled giggles sounded from around the table, and more than one set of eyes rolled in response to his obvious inattention.
"You'll never get his head out of the clouds," Neville said with a snigger. "At least not until after the Quidditch match tomorrow."
"That's the way it should be," said Ron with a grin. "We want our star seeker to concentrate on the match, you know. And come to think of it," he continued with a sly glance at the two Slytherins, "it will be much worse tomorrow after Gryffindor pastes Slytherin."
"Oy!"
"Hey!" the two Slytherins protested at almost exactly the same time.
"Come on," Ron scoffed. "You don't think Malfoy will actually catch the snitch tomorrow, do you?"
"I'll have you know that our chasers and beaters are well able to overcome such a… disappointment at seeker," was Daphne's prim response.
"And besides," Tracey continued with a smirk and a sly glance at Ron, "I've heard that Gryffindor's keeper makes Malfoy look positively competent."
"Oy!" It was Ron's turn to protest.
The two Slytherin girls just grinned at Ron, though to Harry it was not much of a laughing matter. Ron was capable as a keeper, but sometimes suffered from confidence issues—even though this discussion was not intended to be one of malice, he sensed, he was still worried that Ron would take it to heart and lose his confidence for the upcoming match.
"Nah," Neville came to the rescue. "Malfoy takes bragging without being able to back his words up to a new art level. We've got nothing to worry about."
Ron appeared to be taking it all in stride. With Neville's declaration, he leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head, smirking at the Slytherins all the while. "Too right, mate. And besides, with the ponce at seeker, and because your house has a less then stellar shot at winning—and now that you have Gryffindor friends—maybe you should switch allegiance and cheer for Gryffindor."
"That will be the day," said Tracey with a snort. "Cheer for Gryffindor? I'm happy cheering for my own house team, regardless of blond and brainless, thank you."
"But you'd have so much better chance of being happy with the outcome," said Harry, getting in on the teasing.
"That's beside the point," said Daphne. "House unity may not go much further than Quidditch, but that, at least, is sacrosanct. Can you imagine the outcry in the Slytherin dungeons if we openly cheered for Gryffindor? It would almost be as though the Holyhead Harpies entire fan base suddenly defected and start cheering for the Chudley Cannons!"
"Hey, what's wrong with the Cannons?" Ron protested.
"Other than the fact that they've never won anything?" Daphne retuned incredulously.
"Nothing is wrong with Chudley," said Tracey with a straight face, though the twitching at the sides of her mouth almost gave her away. "We're trying to illustrate a point here. The club is nothing. Even a hint of us cheering for Gryffindor would give Malfoy all he needed to go after us, and have the backing of the house."
"Suit yourself," said a mollified Ron with a shrug and an evil grin. "Don't say we didn't warn you."
The banter ratcheted up and the friends began discussing which house truly had the best team was this year. Hufflepuff, having lost Cedric Diggory the previous year, was not expected to do well at all, but that did not prevent Susan from getting into the discussion, while Luna, the only Ravenclaw, was not really interested in Quidditch. Given the rest of the table was comprised of Gryffindors, with Daphne and Tracey being the only Slytherins, the Gryffindors shamelessly used their numbers to claim that theirs was the best team.
Partaking in the conversation only peripherally, Harry sat back to watch his friends as they teased each other back and forth. This friendship and being part of a group definitely had its benefits, he decided. It was what he would have had, had he not grown up with the Dursleys. Hopefully, the friendships he had formed here would last for a lifetime.
By the time the weekend rolled by, the Gryffindor team felt fully prepared and ready to take on their arch rivals, confident in their ability to not only win the game, but that a win would almost certainly vault them onto the fast track to secure the Quidditch and house cups that year. Slytherin had always been the main competition—the two houses together had won more than three quarters of the Quidditch Cups since the inception of the Quidditch Cup more than five centuries earlier. This year would likely be no different, though Ravenclaw would certainly be no pushover. Unfortunately, though, the assessment of the Hufflepuff team the previous evening was likely spot on—Cedric had given them a chance to win with his play at seeker, but without his steadying presence, Hufflepuff would likely find itself completely overmatched.
As Harry sat in the locker room before the match, he only half listened to Angelina's pre-game pep talk. The strategy was simple enough, and as his job was to catch the snitch, a lot of what was said really did not pertain to him. Normally, part of the strategy would be for the beaters to distract the opposing seeker in addition to their normal activities against the other team's chasers, in an attempt to ensure your own seeker was the first to spot the snitch. In this game the decision had been for the beaters to ignore Malfoy altogether, and concentrate instead on the opposing chasers, partially to help Ron as much as possible, and partially because they did not truly see Malfoy as a threat. It was not uncommon to utilize such a strategy when the opposing seeker was not particularly skilled, but Harry could only chuckle at the thought of how Malfoy would act if he knew of their game plan.
Instead of the game, Harry considered the Malfoy heir. Draco seemed to have been on a slow burn ever since the day of Dumbledore's first defense class. Surprisingly he had said very little directly to Harry or any of his friends since then, but on his looks alone the boy could almost be charged with murder. He had gone from being more of a nuisance than a true enemy, to being a dangerous enemy, regardless of what Harry thought of his capabilities. He would bear careful watching.
"Harry!" a voice from his side hissed. "Pay attention!"
Glancing at his betrothed, Harry winked at her. "Don't worry, Fleur. I know the game plan."
"Maybe so, but you really should pay attention to what the captain is saying."
Smiling, Harry shook his head slightly, and focused back on Angelina who was wrapping up her remarks. She had apparently noticed the quiet exchange between the two, but other than a frown, she said nothing to them directly.
Soon, the Gryffindor team filed from the room and, mounting their brooms, soared out into the stadium to the roar of three quarters of the crowd. Slytherin, with all their bully tactics and braggadocio was not well liked, even by Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Generally the three houses cheered for each other when playing Slytherin, leaving the snakes outnumbered, not that they particularly cared.
"And here comes the Gryffindor team," the voice of Lee Jordan rang out over the stadium. "Led by the lovely Angelina Johnson, Gryffindor has to be considered the favorite for the Quidditch Cup this year, the entire team—with the exception of Ron Weasley, the new keeper—having been together for four years. Or it would have been four years, had the faculty not broken our hearts and cancelled Quidditch last year."
"Jordan, if you don't mind," a muffled Professor McGonagall's voice broke in to the seventh-year's comments.
"Of course, Professor."
Harry grinned—it was far from the most outrageous statement Lee had ever made during a Quidditch match.
It was a perfect day for Quidditch. The sun shone in the sky, illuminating the brightly colored stands and warming the air to the point where the Scotland afternoon was merely chilly, rather than the bone-chilling frigid temperatures in which Harry had played in the past. The warmth of the day also seemed to be an omen, though Harry almost laughed at his own fanciful turn of mind. Why the bright and sunny weather should favor Gryffindor any more than Slytherin was debatable.
Soaring to a point high above the pitch, Harry watched as the two teams took their positions on their own ends of the pitch. Across from Harry, Malfoy also took his position, his eyes drilling holes in Harry's armor, as usual. Harry merely smiled insolently at him, and peered about the stadium, plotting his strategy for finding the elusive golden ball.
A moment later, Madam Hooch began the match, and Harry watched as the Gryffindor chasers immediately gained control of the quaffle.
"And the game is under way! Johnson controls the quaffle, passes to Spinnet, back to Johnson, over to Bell who swoops in and scores!"
The roar of the crowd echoed out over the stadium and Harry, caught up in the emotion, pumped his fist in response to the quick Gryffindor tally.
A movement out of the corner of his eye prompted Harry to bank sharply to the right on instinct, as Malfoy swooped through the space Harry had just occupied. Harry was then forced to dodge in incoming bludger, hammered in his direction by one of Malfoy's beefy bodyguards. Though the Gryffindor beaters were going to ignore Malfoy, it obviously did not mean that Harry would receive the same treatment from the Slytherin beaters. Harry soared in a wide arc, and turned to face Malfoy, who once again charged him, an expression of grim determination mixed with loathing adorning his face. Harry directed an insolent leer at the Slytherin seeker—if that was the way Malfoy wanted to play it, Harry would certainly oblige him.
Thus began a game of cat and mouse between the two seekers. Malfoy appeared to put very little effort into finding the snitch, instead seeming intent upon knocking Harry from his broom. Between Malfoy and the beaters, Harry was kept very busy avoiding their attacks, though he devoted as much time as he could to find the snitch. In between his opponents' attacks, Harry also led Malfoy on a merry chase, feinting and diving, and taking a few runs at the Slytherin himself. Through all of this, Malfoy continued in his tactics, his determination never slipping.
While Malfoy and Harry, with the assistance of the Slytherin beaters, continued to play their game, the Gryffindor chasers continued to perform as a well-oiled machine, quickly racking the score up on their less experienced opponents. Harry was able to get a general sense of how the game was proceeding, though the specifics continued to elude him. Periodically, phrases would come to him as Lee continued to call the game.
"…Warrington is hit by a glancing blow! That will leave a mark…
"…and Weasley let in another one, which perhaps he should have stopped…
"…Johnson passes to Spinnet…
"…Pucey passes to Warrington, who… oh that's got to smart! Weasley gets Warrington with a bludger again!
"…and Weasley makes a nice toe save. If only he'd make a few more…
"…perhaps the Gryffindors should sub, if only to get the lovely Miss Delacour into the game…"
"Jordan!"
An hour into the game, Harry had a brief respite, and took the opportunity to look at the scoreboard. Gryffindor was leading Slytherin 120 – 90, and Harry still had no glimpse whatsoever of the snitch.
"What, are you scared, Potter?" Malfoy yelled as he passed close by Harry in another attempt to knock him from his broom.
"In your dreams, Malfoy," Harry yelled back.
The two circled about one another warily for several moments before Harry, feigning excitement, suddenly dove toward the pitch with Malfoy following close behind. Pouring more speed into his Firebolt, Harry surged toward the ground, pulling up at the last moment, almost brushing the ground with his boots. Malfoy, unfortunately, was not quite so lucky, as his panicked attempts to stop resulted in his catching a boot on the turf, throwing his broom sideways. He managed to gain control again before crashing into the ground, and once he righted himself, he once again chased after Harry, a positively poisonous expression on his face.
Harry grinned in response to the cheer which erupted over the stands at the sight of the famous Wronski Feint, though Harry knew that Hermione was probably almost pulling her hair out over the sight. She had always been a little nervous when he pulled his aerial acrobatics and stunts.
Harry's personal game of avoidance with Malfoy continued, though the blond was obviously a little more careful in pursuing Harry—a situation which met Harry's wholehearted approval. In the meantime, the score continued to mount below until it was 260 – 190 with Gryffindor steadily pulling away.
"Hey Malfoy!" Harry jibed, swooping out of range of another of Malfoy's attacks. "You'd better hurry and catch the snitch! Your team will be too far behind if this keeps up!"
Merely snarling in response, Malfoy once again shot at Harry, which Harry avoided deftly, while charging away from the Slytherin and looking down on the pitch below.
"Fine!" he yelled at a pursuing Malfoy. "I thought I'd give you a chance, since you don't have one on your own. I guess I'll just have to catch it myself!"
The Malfoy scion, though, did not give any indication he had heard Harry's words, and Harry reflected that given the speed and the noise of the wind in his ears, that it was entirely possible that he had not.
Their confrontation continued for several more minutes, Harry continuing to dodge Malfoy's attacks and random bludgers, before Harry saw a hint of gold from below. He was careful not to react overtly, and instead dodged another pass by Malfoy and made for the area above the Slytherin keeper. There, hovering behind Bletchley, the Slytherin keeper, was the prized golden ball.
Harry immediately went into action. He turned abruptly and charged Malfoy, who dodged a little raggedly, and then Harry soared high into the air, prompting Malfoy to follow. When he had climbed high enough, he changed tack and sped into a dive toward the pitch. As he had intended, Malfoy, obviously remembering his near miss with the ground was much more cautious in following.
Dimly Harry heard the roar of the crowd as he approached the Slytherin posts, prompting a startled look from Bletchley. Harry ignored him; he roared by, missing the keeper by mere inches, as he reached out and snatched the snitch in his hand, raising it aloft in triumph.
The packed stands erupted into even greater cheers as the game ended, and Harry, smirking at a clearly enraged Malfoy, opened his mouth to taunt at the blond ponce—
WHAM!
Harry nearly pitched off of his broom, righting himself after a moment while keeping hold on the snitch.
"Harry!"
Angelina soared up to him, an expression of concern etched on her face. "Are you all right?"
Looking around, Harry spotted the bludger which had struck him in the back, and the dark of look of glee which adorned Goyle's face.
"It was Goyle," Angelina said unnecessarily. "He hit the bludger at you as soon as he saw you had the snitch.
Harry shrugged and tested his back—it appeared no damage had been done. "Don't worry about it. We won!"
The Gryffindor team took a victory lap around the stadium, before they landed in front of the Gryffindor stands where their housemates were waiting. Hugs and congratulations were freely flowing when trouble of a most familiar sort approached from behind.
"Hey scarhead, you got lucky again, didn't you!"
"I guess I must be really lucky, Bad Faith," Harry shot back. "I seem to have that luck every time I play you."
Malfoy's face turned almost red with rage. "You're a bit cocky for a jumped-up Halfblood."
"And you're cocky for someone who has never caught the snitch against me."
"Maybe we should just leave," said Fleur, nervously looking at the students who had drawn closer to the confrontation.
"In fact," Harry continued, grinning at Fleur, "I figure you must enjoy losing. What is this now? A four year losing streak to Gryffindor, and you've lost to me three times in a row. Your tally would be four if we had played Quidditch last year. Too bad—you could have had another loss to me on your resume!"
In a rage, Malfoy whipped out his wand. "Locomotor Mortis!" he screamed, following that up with a stinging hex aimed at Harry's face.
Harry dodged the incoming curses, and pulled his own wand, but was stopped by the arrival of the Headmaster, who had already disarmed Malfoy.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
In a moment the story of what had happened had come out, prompting Dumbledore to fix both antagonists with a stern glare. "I believe I have spoken to you both before about this rivalry of yours. It is getting out of control. If you cannot behave with decorum, I would ask you both to avoid the other from this time forward. If you cannot do that, then perhaps detention for you both would help you see the error of your ways."
Neither spoke—Harry tried to appear a little shameful, though he could not, in truth, say that he espoused any such feelings, while Malfoy had adopted that smug self-important smirk for which he was so famous.
"Now, I will deduct ten points from you each. In addition, Mr. Malfoy, you shall have two more nights' detention due to your starting a fight and casting hexes at another student. If you do not wish to be suspended, I suggest you leave your wand in your pocket from this time forward."
Sneering, Malfoy turned and walked away without any further comment. Harry did not give the boy a second thought—they had won the match, setting themselves up for the rest of the year. Tonight, Gryffindor tower would no doubt be in a celebratory mood and Harry just wanted to savor the win.
"Let's get you cleaned up and head back to the tower," Fleur said, directing him toward the changing rooms.
"Are you offering to help?" was Harry's cheeky reply.
Fleur's smile turned sultry. "If you want."
The beet red color which bloomed on Harry's face prompted laughter from the assembled Gryffindors and Harry, now thoroughly embarrassed, made his way from the pitch, his image of the conquering hero completely destroyed by Fleur's comeback. He couldn't help but imagine, though, his mind turned completely from the completed Quidditch match, just what Fleur was offering, though not she was not truly serious, he sensed. She was a very beautiful woman after all.
Embarrassed all over again, Harry firmly pushed those thoughts away, though his mind did betray him a little as he watched his betrothed out of the corner of his eye. She was, he reflected, very pleasant to watch.
Updated 06/21/2013