Author's note: I was planning on editing this chapter some, but then I realized how much time that would take, and I decided to postpone it until a later date. (What she's saying is that she's lazy.) No I'm not! I'm considerate. I figured we've neglected you enough, and that you would appreciate something. So I can't promise that it will be good, just that it will be there.
Disclaimer: Can't you just pretend to have read a disclaimer? I'm out of creative ideas...
--Tamara
5: realization
Hermione had not expected the invitation to spend Christmas with Harry. She wondered at it for several days, before finally asking him. She hadn't planned on going anywhere else, but she wondered where Harry wanted to go, and why he hadn't asked Ron. His answer surprised her. "I'm going back to Grimmauld Place."
Hermione hadn't thought he ever wanted to see that place again.
"I didn't, but I have to go back someday. I can't let it keep having power over me like that. It's my home, and I intend to use it as such."
"And what about Ron?"
Harry looked a little uncomfortable. He glanced around to make sure they were alone, then said quietly, "Hermione, please don't blow up when I tell you this, okay?" She nodded, confused and suspicious. "I'm inviting someone else as well."
She blinked. That was not what she'd been expecting. "Who? Ginny? Why wouldn't you want Ron?"
He shook his head. "No, it's not Ginny. It's… I've invited Malfoy."
"Malfoy?!" she demanded, her voice rising on the name.
"Not so loud!" he hissed, glancing around again in a scared manner. "Please, Hermione!"
"But why Malfoy?" Hermione demanded, controlling her voice again.
Harry sighed. "Look, Hermione. Remember at the beginning of the year when McGonagall put both of us in detention for dueling?"
Hermione nodded. It was hard to forget.
"Well, the two of us started talking, and we've actually become pretty good friends."
Hermione looked deeply skeptical.
"It's true! At first, we shouted at each other and tried to curse each other, but after we ran out of nasty things to say, we realized that we actually had other things to talk about. I don't even remember how we really started talking, but we did, and he's a lot more interesting than you'd think. But then, well, you know what happened in October."
Hermione nodded. It had been hard to miss the blond Slytherins decent into depression, and she knew that Snape was still worried about him. She firmly put all thoughts of Snape out of her head and listened to what Harry was telling her.
"He doesn't have anywhere to go for Christmas, and, well, people aren't really very welcoming here. I invited him to come with me, but I don't actually feel comfortable enough with him to spend two weeks alone. I hope you don't mind my asking you."
Hermione's mind was a whirl of confused thoughts. She couldn't make a decision, and she knew Harry well enough to know how much he hated asking for help. He wouldn't be practically begging her to come if he didn't really need this. But could she? Could she bear to spend two weeks cooped up with Malfoy? She knew that he hated her, not only for the crime of being Muggle born, but also because she was the best in all their classes. Most people might not notice, but Hermione Granger was an acute observer of others, and she'd seen how much Malfoy resented her success. Would he agree to spending Christmas with her?
"Have you asked Malfoy if I could come?" she asked Harry.
"Not yet," he admitted. "I wanted to make sure that you could before I did."
"What if he says no?"
"Then none of us will go. Hermione, you're one of my best friends. I'm not just going to abandon you."
She smiled her thanks, then took a deep breath. If he was willing to stand the whispers and rumors about him that thrived everywhere for her sake, then she should be able to endure one snotty Slytherin for his. "I'll ask my parents if I can go," she promised. The look of gratitude that he gave her was almost worth it right there.
Two days later, Hermione received permission and a moderate amount of spending money. She was careful to hide it from Ron, who didn't know yet that they were leaving, and who might not take it well. She dreaded his reaction when he found out what they were planning. She slipped next to Harry in the stream of students going to class, and hissed, "I can go."
He grinned at her. "I'll tell Draco," he promised, then extracted himself to go talk with Ron. Hermione didn't realize what has been strange about that last reply until she was almost to Arithmancy. Harry had used Malfoy's first name: they were obviously more than just casual friends.
Harry had thought long and hard about the invitation. On the one hand, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to talk to Draco again. Things had been said that were irreversible as well as uncalled for and unacceptable. He didn't know if Draco could forgive him, didn't know if he could forgive Draco, and didn't know if he really wanted either one.
But he also knew the pain of anger. He'd had to bear Ron's silence all through his fourth year, and Hermione's through the year before. He knew how much it could hurt, and he knew just how few true friends Draco actually had. Would he really allow what boiled down to a misunderstanding to destroy a friendship? He didn't know if he would, didn't know if he wanted it to, and didn't know why he was so suddenly insecure. If it had been with Ron or Hermione, he would have given them a couple days to cool off, then had a long conversation that would end with both sides apologizing and being friends again. Could he take that route with Draco as well? Maybe…
Of course, there was always the option that Draco would refuse to start the friendship again. Harry knew from experience just how proud the blond Slytherin was, and Harry had basically slammed a door in his face. Harry tried to tell himself that it was all Draco's fault in the first place, but, with his anger mostly spent, he could see that he'd overreacted and that there was no way Draco could have known. The anger that was left was yelling rather loudly that Draco hadn't had to insult Lupin, but even that made sense. If Harry had known that Lupin was a werewolf without knowing of his connection with his father and Sirius, he might have felt the same way. Even so…
Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. All the thinking and turning things over in his mind was giving him migraines, and he was getting seriously tired of indecision. He considered himself fairly decisive, and this inability to come to a decision was scaring him. Obviously, he and Draco needed time to get to know each other, but could he stand to be in the same house together? Because it was quite plain that they would have to go somewhere away from Hogwarts. It was impossible to talk properly here, and they had to talk. But where?
He was stalling, he knew. There was only one place that they could go to be alone, after all. But could he bear it? Could he bear to spend three weeks there, especially when some of his memories were of Sirius there over Christmas? But he had to. He had no choice. He couldn't allow the place to conquer him. It was legally his, and he couldn't just leave it to Kreacher. It was the ideal solution, after all. Well, it was as ideal as was possible.
He slipped Draco a note in Potions the day he finally made up his mind. He didn't look at Draco's expression, and he hoped that it was one of gladness. They hadn't spoken since that day, and Harry had gone out of his way to avoid contact with the blond teenager. That was why he'd written the note: he couldn't bring himself to actually offer verbally. His fear of being rejected prevented his doing it properly. He hoped that Draco would understand.
He couldn't pay any attention in class, and it was only the fact that Hermione realized this and did all the work herself that made them scrape a passing grade. Harry expected her to reprimand him for not paying attention, and he was surprised when she only smiled at him encouragingly. He wondered just how much she knew. Not, of course, that there was anything to know. He and Draco were friends, that was all. Best friends, true, but still only friends. Or at least, that was what Harry told himself.
As Draco swept out of the class, Harry felt a ball of parchment transfer from the other boy's hand into his own. Snape eyed Draco sharply, but didn't stop him. Harry gathered up his things and left as well, waiting until he'd exited from the stream of traffic to uncrumple the note and read the words written on it.
I would be delighted. Plans will be made during detention.
Harry crumpled the paper back up, and steadfastly ignored the warmth that was rising through him at the sight of Draco's handwriting.
As Hermione had feared, Ron had not taken the news of their departure well. She'd felt that it was necessary for her to be with Harry as he told Ron, offering her friend moral support, but she wished she could have avoided the argument. She liked both boys a lot, and she hated to see them angry at each other. But both Ron and Harry were proud and stubborn, and neither would back down. Harry avoided mentioning the reason that Ron couldn't come, and that just angered Ron more. Hermione didn't know which would have been worse: allowing Ron to know who the third person was, or making Ron feel like Harry wasn't friends with him anymore. Whichever it was, both were dauntingly unpleasant prospects.
Harry had left the dormitory in an angry silence, and Ron had pointedly turned his back on both of them. At the door leading out into the common room, Harry turned to Hermione. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said quietly. "I know he's your friend."
"He's your friend too, Harry," Hermione reminded him.
Harry's shoulders slumped. "I hope so. I really do hope so." He walked out through the door and deposited himself in a red plush armchair, and Hermione knew that he wouldn't be going back up to the dormitory. She climbed the stairs to her own, reflecting that Harry actually had very few true friends. She hoped that Malfoy was as good a friend as Harry insisted he was, because Hermione knew how much the loss of friends hurt Harry.
She pushed open the door to her dormitory, finding both Lavender and Parvati already there. Lavender was reading some anonymous fashion magazine, and Parvati was applying some equally anonymous colored substance onto her nails. She looked up when Hermione entered, then carefully corked the bottle and applied a quick drying charm to her nails. Then, she stood and tilted her head in Hermione's direction. "What's wrong, Hermione?" she asked.
Lavender lifted her head from her magazine and called out a greeting, then reimmersed herself into the world of celebrities, both Muggle and Wizarding. Hermione shot a quick glance in Lavender's direction, and Parvati chuckled. "Don't worry about Lav, Hermione. She knows how to keep her mouth shut. Now spill! What have they done to you this time?"
"They haven't done anything," Hermione said, moving over and carefully arranging her books on her bedside table.
"Well someone has," Parvati commented. "You look as though you've been run over by something large and heavy. Repeatedly."
"It's nothing, Parvati," Hermione assured her, wishing that, for once, the Indian witch would keep her nosiness in check.
"Nonsense," Parvati said briskly. She walked over and lowered herself gracefully onto Hermione's bed. "Something is wrong, and it's not healthy to keep it bottled up like this. I promise that neither of us will say anything to anyone else."
Lavender reluctantly put her magazine down, carefully folding over the corner of the page she was reading (Hermione tried not to wince at that) and nodded.
When Hermione showed no sign of saying anything, Parvati sighed in impatience. "You're making this harder, Hermione," she chided. "Give me your left hand." Hermione did wince at that. Parvati was firmly convinced that she had an Inner Eye, and she was inordinately fond of attempting to read their fortunes on their palms, or in the ridiculous crystal ball that she insisted on keeping on her bedside table. Hermione firmly kept her hand to herself. With an indistinguishable mutter of annoyance, Parvati reached over and physically kidnapped Hermione's hand. She held it with an iron grip, and Hermione was forced to admire the other girl's strength. Parvati examined Hermione's hand in minute detail, then put out a palm to receive the other. This time, Hermione gave it up reluctantly, but of her own free will.
Finally, Parvati looked up. There was a slight grin on her face. "You see," she informed Hermione triumphantly. "I knew that you were hiding something."
"What did you see?" Lavender asked breathlessly, leaning forward on her bed.
"They had a fight," Parvati recounted, her eyes closed. "Harry and Ron had a big fight and Hermione here witnessed it. She's worried about her friends, and she hoped that they won't fight for very long." She opened her eyes and looked at Hermione. "Am I right?"
Hermione was forced to concede that, yes, Parvati was indeed correct. She refused to believe that Parvati had seen it in her hands, though. More likely, Parvati had already known all about it from one of the younger minions that she had, and had only been waiting for the right way to inform Lavender of what she knew.
Lavender looked at Hermione pityingly. "Why do you spend so much time with them, anyway?" she asked. "You need some friends of your own, girl friends." Parvati nodded.
Hermione didn't answer. They'd already had this conversation several times, and the result was always the same. She stated flatly that she had no wish for girl friends, and Parvati managed to turn Lavender's attention back to whatever they'd been talking about. Sure enough, Parvati soon asked Lavender a question about the person on the cover of her magazine, and the two of them were once again swept away into a sea of faces and gossip. Hermione refused to admit that she was very slightly jealous.
The next day dawned blindingly bright and freezing cold. It was Hermione's last chance to pack her trunk for Christmas, and she spent the entire morning selecting what she would bring and folding it perfectly. When her trunk was halfway full of all the clothes she could think of wearing, she turned her attention to her books. Once again, she wished that she had a private room. She'd love to have her own bookshelf, not just the bedside table. There were books all over it, and many many piles surrounding it on the floor. She sorted through the piles, carefully returning all the books to their proper places when she'd gone through them, and finally selected about ten of the ones she knew that she'd absolutely need. Many of them were schoolbooks, but there was one muggle classic that she was always careful not to reveal: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. Hermione loved Jane for her spunk and independent spirit, and she'd read the book so many times that the only reason it was still together was that she'd learned a very useful book binding spell from Madam Pince in her third year.
She lovingly put it into her trunk, then topped the container up with parchment and quills and inkbottles. As an afterthought, she slipped a blank notebook in with the rest of the books: her before New Year's resolution was to keep a journal, and holiday might be the best time to start. Then she clicked the lid of her trunk shut and preformed a series of charms that rendered it weightless and easily portable. She'd learned from experience that shrinking something did not necessarily diminish its weight, and after the first few tries, she always made sure to remember to render it weightless before trying to lift it.
She checked the clock on her bedside table, and realized that the carriages to Hogsmeade would be leaving in just under twenty minutes. She lifted her trunk, now reduced to the size and weight of an average book, and walked down the stairs to deposit it among the other reduced trunks that were haphazardly piled in front of the common room door. She saw Harry, and gave him a grin. He came over to talk with her, eyeing her trunk suspiciously. "Hermione, how much of that is things you'll actually need?"
"All of it!" she said, indignant. "Did you think that I'd pack things that I won't need?"
"How many book did you bring?" he asked, a smile growing on his lips.
"Ten," she admitted.
He laughed out loud at that. "And are you going to actually read all ten?"
"Of course!" she retorted. "Who do you think I am, anyway?"
They both laughed at that, then sobered. "Have you talked to Malfoy?" Hermione asked.
He nodded.
"And?"
"He says that he doesn't mind, as long as he doesn't have to touch you and you don't do the cooking."
Hermione grimaced. "Tell him that I'd rather not touch him either, and that I have no intention of cooking."
"Tell him yourself," Harry said. "And I'll make Kreacher do the cooking." His voice hardened on the name, and Hermione wondered how he'd make it through the holiday without killing the House Elf.
"Harry," she began, but he cut her off.
"I know, Hermione. I know what you're going to tell me, and I don't care. I can't be nice to Kreacher, not now. He's a traitorous piece of filth, and he killed Sirius."
"Bellatrix killed Sirius."
"It was Kreacher who told her how to get him, wasn't it?" Harry's voice had been progressively rising, and he made a tremendous effort to quiet down. "I'm not going to kill Kreacher, Hermione. But I'm not going to be nice to him, either. He doesn't deserve kindness."
She knew better than to argue with him, and they spent the remaining fifteen minutes playing a spirited game of exploding snap, which he won.
When the time came to leave, both of them gathered up their trunks and entered the milling mass of students. Hermione felt Harry stiffen next to her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Ron was standing at the door to the common room, glaring at them both. When he saw Hermione, he turned away and walked pointedly up the stairs. Harry sighed deeply. Hermione wanted to comfort him, but she had no idea what to say. Instead, she asked, "How are we getting to Grimmauld Place?"
"We're taking the underground," Harry answered, looking relieved to have something else to think about. "Do you have any muggle money?" She nodded. "So do I: you can get Gringotts to change some from Galleons, and I owled them a couple weeks ago. I'm pretty sure that Draco has his own as well, but if he doesn't, I'll pay for him." She nodded.
"Have you given him access to the house? You know that only Dumbledore can let him in."
Harry dug out a piece of paper from his robes. Hermione recognized Dumbledore's spidery writing, which told the reader that number 12 Grimmauld Place was the home of Harry Potter. "Not the Order?"
He shook his head. "They're still meeting, but not there. Most of them are working, and no one really wanted to spend much time at the house. There might be a few visitors, but Dumbledore's basically told them to leave us alone over Christmas."
"Good. There are people that I'd rather not run into." Snape, she added privately, but for reasons that Harry wouldn't expect.
"I agree," he said, and she suspected that he also meant Snape. Harry's hatred of Snape hadn't diminished, and she was finding it harder and harder to put up with bad attitude. Of course, he was probably getting fed up with her hatred of Malfoy, as well. She made a mental note to remember not to keep insulting Malfoy in Harry's presence.
They streamed through the corridors to the entrance hallway, where they deposited their trunks. House Elves would load them onto the train and a porter at King's Cross would unload them. Harry and Hermione walked over to one of the carriages, and Hermione still felt a start of surprise at the sight of the Thestrals. She'd been able to see them at the beginning of the year, but she still hadn't gotten over it. They were a constant reminder that she'd witnessed atrocities last spring, and that they'd left lasting marks on her. They found themselves with Neville and Luna, both of whom were going to be spending the holidays with their respective families. Neville was asking Luna what she was going to be doing with her father, and she was explaining in great detail all about going off to India to search for some imaginary creature or other. She broke off to greet them, and Neville gave Hermione a shy smile, which she returned.
The journey to the station was uneventful. Hermione spent much of her time watching the Thestrals move. They were surprisingly graceful, for fleshless creatures, and they seemed to move in perfect synchrony with each other. She was entranced, and wondered how such beasts could have been thought of as ill omens for centuries. But then, she remembered that Wizards were even more superstitious about death than Muggles. It was only natural that the Thestrals would be misunderstood. For the first time, she realized what Hagrid saw in all of his foundlings and "harmless" pets. Not that she agreed with his choices, but she could almost understand his reasons.
At the station, Hermione looked around for Malfoy, wondering how they were going to find each other. "We're meeting at King's Cross," Harry told her, when she asked him in a low whisper. "It's better for all of us that way."
Neville and Luna, who'd come over to join them, interrupted them. Hermione had to grin inwardly at the pair. Neville, just like every other boy in their year, had shot up over the summer, and he now stood about a head taller that Luna. His down-to-Earth expression was a perfect counterpoint to Luna's head in the clouds attitude, and she had to wonder what they saw in each other. But if they'd each found a good friend, then she supposed she shouldn't complain. She wondered idly if Luna would consent to helping Neville with his homework.
They boarded the train and found an empty carriage. The four of them were soon joined by Ginny, who'd been invited to a friend's house over Christmas. She pointedly ignored Harry, who pretended not to notice, and soon struck up a conversation with Luna. Neville listened attentively, leaving Hermione free to talk with Harry. "She isn't being fair," Hermione murmured, gesturing slightly towards Ginny.
Harry shrugged. "He's her brother. She's mad at me for his sake."
"It's still not fair."
"Life is so often fair, isn't it Hermione?"
"It'd be lovely if it was, wouldn't it?"
"Fabulous. Write to me when you find the spell that does it."
"Somehow, I doubt it'll be that easy."
"It never is."
They spent the rest of the trip talking with each other and Neville and Luna. Ginny soon left to sit with her fifth year friend, and the atmosphere in the carriage became much more relaxed. Hermione despaired of convincing Luna that the Golden Bridge Creature was totally imaginary, and was forced to listen to the younger girl rattle on about how Muggles had known about them at one time, and how it was perfectly obvious if you read some of their fairy tales. Hermione, having read said fairy tales, thought that they sounded suspiciously like River Trolls. When the trolley witch came along, Harry and Neville both purchased boxes of sweets, which they passed around. Though Hermione loved most wizarding food, she would never get used to every flavor beans, or chocolate that moved. She liked her chocolate to be stationary, so that she didn't feel guilty about biting off its head.
They changed out of their robes about halfway there, with Hermione and Luna slipping into the girls' bathroom to pull their robes off and put on muggle clothing. Hermione emerged wearing a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt, and sent her robes flying into her trunk. She pulled a hair tie out of her pocket and efficiently bound her hair up, then leaned back to enjoy the view. Crookshanks, who was rather fond of jeans, curled up on her lap and went to sleep, purring loudly.
"Your cat's a Finder, isn't he?" Luna asked, looking at Crookshanks with interest.
Knowing that she would regret it even as the words left her lips, Hermione asked, "What's a Finder?"
"It's a very intelligent creature," Luna said enthusiastically. "They can take the shape of any creature that they want, and they only appear to very gifted people. People say that they only come when the country's in danger, and they will lead their chosen witch or wizard to victory."
"Sounds a bit like King Arthur," Harry remarked, looking at Crookshanks. "He will rise again, and all that. You gave him the wrong name, Hermione. You should have called him Art."
"Wart, maybe," Neville put in. "Wasn't that what Ector called Arthur when he was a kid?"
Harry shrugged. "I didn't actually ever read the book," he admitted. "My cousin rented the movie, though, and I watched bits of it."
"Crookshanks isn't King Arthur," Hermione said firmly. "He's just a cat, and his name suits him very well."
Crookshanks, as though agreeing with this statement, gave an especially loud snore. Everyone laughed.
When the train pulled into King's Cross, everyone was more than willing to leave. Pleasant as the journey had been, sitting in a train for nine hours is tiring, and everyone was eager to get up and stretch their legs. Harry and Hermione collected their trunks, stuffed Crookshanks back into his traveling basket, bid Luna and Neville farewell, and got down onto platform 9 ¾. Hermione saw Malfoy get off several carriages earlier, and wondered how he would know where to go. There was only one way off the platform, though, and in the milling of students and regular travelers, Hermione supposed that they could meet up without being noticed.
Sure enough, as they passed through the barrier into the muggle world, Malfoy was next to them. He sneered expressively at the two of them, and Harry scowled back, but Hermione knew Harry well enough to realize that some sort of message had been transmitted between them. Harry paid no further attention to Malfoy, but Hermione could see that the blond Slytherin was following them, though from a safe distance.
Finally, they made their way out of King's Cross and into the outside air. It was cold and damp, and Hermione shivered, wishing she'd remembered to unpack a sweater. The train was always very warm, and she'd completely forgotten that the outside world did not benefit from heating spells. Malfoy, who was wearing a black cashmere sweater, smirked. "Chilly, Granger?" he asked.
Hermione shrugged. "Not really." She refused to let herself be provoked, and she knew that insulting Malfoy would hurt Harry. She hoped that Malfoy had realized the same about her, and that he cared enough to remember it. Apparently he did, because he didn't say anything more to her on the short walk to the underground. Like all proper Londoners, Hermione owned an Oyster Card, and it had enough credit on it to see her through the holiday, if she used it sparingly. Harry did not have one, but he had enough muggle money that it didn't matter. As promised, he paid for Malfoy, explaining in an undertone what all the machines did. Once they'd purchased their tickets, Harry led them through the turnstiles and onto the platform. It was packed with people, and most of them had luggage with them. Hermione wondered if they would manage to get onto the first train, or if it would be far too full for them and their trunks. Luckily, Harry had foreseen this problem and, as the train approached, he managed to maneuver the three of them to the front.
They managed to cram into the train, and it took off again, rattling over the underground tracks at full speed. Malfoy was gripping the handlebar so hard that his knuckles turned white, and he demanded, "People actually do this every day?"
Harry nodded. He too seemed to be ill at ease on the train, and Hermione wondered just how often he'd had occasion to take it. She herself was used to the movement, and, though she held on for safety's sake, she moved easily with the rhythm of the train.
Malfoy shook his head in amazement. "Utterly out of their minds," he remarked, as the train slowed to a jerky stop.
I wondered why anyone in their right mind would choose to ride this horror every day. Surely muggles had discovered some better means of transport, hadn't they? I was gratified that Harry seemed to be having as much trouble with it as I was, but the easy way that Granger rode the train infuriated me. She thought she was so clever, did she? I wanted to shove her, to nock her off balance and send her flying into the tall black man behind her, but I didn't. Harry had told me to be decent to her, and I'd promised that I would. His trust was worth more than my pride, but it was hard.
At long last, Harry announced that we had arrived. I grabbed my trunk and pushed my way through the people, lurching with relief onto the solid platform. We threaded our way through the crowd of people and wrestled our trunks up the stairs. "It's at times like these that I wish we were allowed to use Levitation charms," I remarked in an undertone.
Granger looked around in alarm. "Are you mad?" she hissed. "People could hear you!"
I shrugged, the quickly grabbed my trunk before it slipped back down the stairs. "They'll just think that I'm wishing for the impossible. Isn't that what they always think?"
She sighed, and didn't comment any farther. I supposed that Harry had asked her not to snap at me too much. He had, after all, given me similar instructions regarding her.
We finally made it into the open air, and walked briskly down the three blocks to Harry's mysterious house. He hadn't told me where it came from, only that it was protected by the Fidelius charm and that only Dumbledore could let me in. I wondered if Harry had managed to get Dumbledore's permission, then realized that he must have, to be bringing us here. Sure enough, he pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans and passed it to me. "Memorize this," he said. "Dumbledore wrote it for me."
I looked at the paper, memorizing the line of writing. When I looked up, there was another house squeezed in between numbers 11 and 13. I wondered why the muggles didn't notice the gap. Harry walked up to the gate and pulled it open, gesturing for us to follow. We headed into the house, and I looked around in interest. It was obviously a very expensive, very grand house that had fallen into disrepair of late. The shabby interior was proof of that, as was the garden full of weeds that we could see through the small window in the door. There was a set of curtains on the right side, and I advanced towards them. Harry caught my arm and shook his head. He led me on, and we soon emerged into a large kitchen area. "Those curtains are covering a picture that we really don't want to set off," he explained, letting go of me. "I'd rather you not try and open them, if you don't mind." I shrugged, resolving to find out who was behind the curtain at the soonest possible opportunity.
Harry turned to Granger. "D'you want to go put your stuff in the room you shared with Ginny? I'll be up in a second, I just need to make myself known to Kreacher."
She shrugged. "Please try not to kill him, Harry," she begged. "He doesn't know any better."
Harry snorted, but didn't answer. She left the kitchen and walked up the stairs. When we could no longer hear her footsteps, Harry scowled and called sharply, "Kreacher!"
There was a pop, and an ancient House Elf appeared. He was dressed in an incredibly grubby tea towel, and his tennis-ball eyes glowered up at us. He seemed to recognize me, because he bowed deeply. "Kreacher is honored that decent folks have come to his house at last," he said. "Kreacher will introduce young Master Malfoy to his Mistress as soon as he can. Kreacher's Mistress will be so happy!"
"You'll do no such thing," Harry snapped.
Kreacher turned to him with a scowl and an even lower bow. "And here is Kreacher's new master, filth that he is. Oh, Kreacher's poor mistress would be so sad if she only knew what kind of filth was invading her family's house. Blood traitors and mudbloods."
"Shut up, Kreacher," Harry said, in such a cold voice that I was actually shocked. I'd never heard Harry that angry before. The house elf stopped talking, and looked at Harry with hate-filled eyes. "While I'm here, I'm your master," Harry went on. "You will do what I tell you to do, or else. Do you understand me, Kreacher?" At the house elf's nod, Harry continued. "You are not to talk to any of us unless we ask you a direct question. You are not to leave this house under any circumstance. You are not to show yourself to us unless we call you. You are to have no contact with anyone outside of this house in any way shape or form. You are not even to set eyes on anyone but the three of us. You are not to fawn over Draco unless he asks it expressly, and you are not to introduce him to her. Do I make myself quite clear?"
Kreacher muttered, "Filth in my mistress's house." Harry fixed him with an icy stare. "Kreacher understands."
"Then get out of my sight!" Harry snarled. Kreacher scowled horrible, then vanished with a loud crack.
"Why are you so vicious?" I asked curiously.
"He doesn't deserve kindness," Harry said shortly. "Come on. I'll show you the rooms."
We walked up the ancient stairs, looking at all the paintings that lined the staircase. Or at least, I did. Harry kept his eyes firmly in front of him. All the pictures seemed suitably impressed by my presence, and I was starting to realize just what kind of house we were in. But why Harry had inherited it was a complete mystery. He was obviously not in the mood to answer questions, though, so I kept quiet.
When we reached the landing, Harry nodded towards the door on the right. "You can have that one if you want," he said. I shrugged and pulled the door open. I found myself in a Slytherin haven. Everything was green. There were green pennants hung on the wall and the walls were painted bright emerald. A large trophy was prominently displayed on the shelf opposite the door, with the words, "Quidditch Cup" written in large letters. The bed, though not canopy, was large and comfortable looking. The fireplace was bare of any ornament, and it was obvious that no one had lit a fire there in ages. I wondered if we were allowed to do magic in the house. The fact that it was protected by the charm suggested that we could, but I supposed that there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. Not that I cared about the risks, but Harry might.
I left the room, having pushed my trunk to the foot of the bed and closed the door behind me. Only then did I notice the nameplate on the door. Regelus Arcturus Black.
That explained some of it, I suppose. The Blacks had been a respectable family, and very involved with the Dark Arts. But why would Harry be here? What would draw him to the home of such a family? The way he looked around suggested that I shouldn't ask, and as I had only recently regained his friendship, I wasn't willing to test the bounds of that friendship any farther. I would have to hope that it would eventually be revealed. As soon as possible. The two of us walked down the stairs and turned into the kitchen. "I would make Kreacher cook," Harry said as he got out an assortment of pots and pans, "But I don't trust anything that he would make. I forgot to tell him not to poison us."
I didn't comment, only watched with interest as Harry moved around the kitchen. I realized that I'd never actually seen a meal cooked from scratch before. The way he did it was much like the way we did potions: measuring the ingredients carefully and cooking them for precise amounts of time. I wondered if his utter failure at potions was indeed solely the fault of Professor Snape. I admitted that the possibility was quite probable. No one could miss how Professor Snape looked at Harry, and the extra venom that infused his voice whenever he spoke to him. Of course, Harry hated Snape right back, which didn't help, but even so…
Granger, who came down the stairs, interrupted my reflections. She looked a little surprised at seeing Harry cook, but wisely chose not to comment. Obviously, she knew exactly what it was about this house that disturbed him, and, unless I missed my guess by a long shot, she was disturbed for the same reason. Unfortunately, I did not share the feeling, and the aura of pain and anger was irritating me in the extremes. I knew that it wouldn't be long until I cracked, and I hoped that they would deign to tell me before then.
We ate in a rather taut silence, and Harry vanished up the stairs as soon as we'd done. I hoped that we wouldn't spend the entire holiday like this. It was almost worse than being at Hogwarts. Granger moved to clear the table and wash the dishes. I stayed where I was. She didn't comment, but I sensed the disapproval coming off her in waves.
"So is anyone going to let me in on the secret, or am I going to be guessing what I can and can't say all holiday?" I demanded, finally tired of the unspoken feelings.
She stopped and turned to me in surprise. "You mean Harry didn't tell you?"
I rolled my eyes. "If he'd told me, Granger, I wouldn't be asking you, now would I?"
She returned to her cleaning, but I thought that she was choosing her words, not ignoring mine. Finally, she began to explain, in a quiet, controlled voice that I knew so well, having used it often myself. By the time she'd finished the history of the house and their relationship with it, I was actually shocked. I'd known, of course, that Sirius Black was Harry's Godfather, but the fact had slipped my mind over the years. His reaction last spring suddenly seemed much more understandable.
I didn't say anything to her, and after a moment, she turned the water up again, but as I walked up the stairs to the Slytherin green room, I knew much more than I had when I first arrived.