Title: In Memory I
Author: Becka
Chapter 6: Two Long Weeks
o
Harry dozed lightly on and off for about an hour. At 11:30, Samson hissed softly in his ear, and he sat up sharply.
/ Samson? / Harry asked, rubbing his eyes.
/ You don't want to missss your assstronomy classss, ssskin-brother, / the little snake replied as he slithered up Harry's arm to coil around Harry's neck. / I wish to come along. /
Belatedly, Harry remembered that he did indeed have a late-night astronomy class with the Gryffindors. His roster mentioned that the students would be met in their house common room by a professor and led to the astronomy tower.
Harry didn't think they'd send anyone to Slytherin to guide him, so he had no choice but to join the rest of the Gryffindors in the common room. No one knew about his room, but he hoped his appearance wouldn't cause too much trouble.
It only took him a moment to change into his school robes and gather his parchment and quills. Taking care not to jostle Samson, Harry took a deep breath and hesitantly opened the door that led to the Gryffindor dorms.
As he stepped out into the hallway, someone let out a startled exclamation and Harry was knocked off his feet. He landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor, and resisted the urge to tuck his face into his arms, thereby presenting the smallest possible target.
"Sorry 'bout that, mate. I didn't see you and – hey, is that you, Harry?"
Harry glanced up into Dean Thomas' concerned face.
"It is!" Dean exclaimed. "I thought you roomed with the Slytherins..."
Carefully, Harry pulled himself to his feet. Dean peeked his head into the open doorway and gave a low whistle. "Quite a room you've got. All that red and green makes me think about Christmas."
Harry shrugged as he brushed off his robes. He rarely thought about Christmas – the only difference between Christmas and every other day of the year was that Petunia usually ordered him to make more food.
"Are you going to Astronomy class?" Harry finally asked softly.
"Yeah!" Dean exclaimed, grinning wildly. "I always thought boarding schools were really strict, you know? But Hogwarts is great! I mean, taking a class at midnight? It's brilliant!" Dean paused. "You've got Astronomy with Gryffindor, then?"
Harry nodded. He reached out and gently shut the door to his room.
"Well, we're just supposed to go to the common rooms and wait for a professor, right?" Dean grinned. "I'll walk down with you."
"Thank you," Harry said. He fell into step beside the dark-skinned boy.
When they reached the Gryffindor common rooms, Harry saw that most of the first years were already there. When Ron caught sight of him, he stormed over and hissed, "What are you doing here?"
Harry shrugged helplessly. "I have Midnight Astronomy."
"How'd you get in?" another boy asked. Harry blinked at him quizzically, trying to remember the Gryffindor's name – Sean, perhaps? No, he remembered, Seamus. Seamus... Finnifart? Finnigerth?
Dean piped up, "Harry's got a room here, same as you an' me."
"I've never seen him here before," Ron insisted, glowering.
"You know that door by the front of the corridor that no one could open?" Dean said. "That's Harry's room."
The redhead gave Harry a measuring look, then turned away. "Whatever," he muttered.
A moment later, the portrait swung open and Professor McGonagall stepped inside. Her piercing hazel eyes swept through the small crowd of Gryffindor first years, and she called out, "Everyone here?"
There was a general mumble of assent. Professor McGonagall nodded her head and said formally, "For the rest of the semester, I'll meet you here at 11:55 sharp. Anyone who tries to sneak away from the group as we go to the Astronomy Tower will be severely punished when caught. Now then, follow me."
The students trailed obediently after their Head of House, and Harry found that even if he lost sight of the older woman, her shoes fell precisely and clearly on the stone floor, much in the same manner as her voice. It was simple to following the regimented click, click, clicking.
When they arrived at the Astronomy Tower, another middle-aged professor greeted them at the door. She was slender, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, which crinkled up when she smiled at them. Professor McGonagall exchanged a few words with her, too softly for the students to hear.
Harry's eyes swept across the room. The walls and ceiling were made of the same stone as the rest of the castle, and the area was sparsely furnished. The only indication that class could be held was a ring of chairs that lined the walls.
Professor McGonagall clapped her hands twice to get their attention and said, "I will be back in exactly one hour to bring you to the dorm." She excused herself and swept from the room.
The other professor smiled at them again, and indicated the chairs. "Well, then, have a seat."
They did so, and Harry ended up between Dean and a pretty girl with chestnut hair.
The older woman continued, "My name is Professor Sinistra, and welcome to Midnight Astronomy. There is much to explore in the vastness of space; we will be studying planets and their moons, stars and the constellations they make up, and the cycles of these heavenly objects."
With a wave of her wand, the roof disappeared, and the Gryffindors were left gawking at a beautiful night sky. Harry was more interested in the spell she'd used; his eyes followed the thread of magic, and he realized it was a simple transparency spell. He idly wondered if it worked from both directions; could someone on a broom see into the tower as he could see out?
Allowing a moment for the novelty of the spell to wear off, Professor Sinistra continued, "This class is a stepping stone in your time at Hogwarts; it applies to many of the subjects you will take in your following years. For example, Divination often uses the stars as an aid, and there are several potions that require a certain alignment of the planets or a waxing moon to brew properly. There are also magical creatures that can only be found during these cycles. But, to properly utilize this class, you _must_ apply yourself. Do not make the mistake of believing that once you are through here, you won't need to remember what you've learned."
"Now," the woman waved her wand again, and one of the constellations projected itself into the circle. "This particular constellation is known as Sagittarius, the Archer..."
o
By the end of the class, Harry had a small pile of parchments full of labeled sketches of constellations. He gently tucked them into his book bag.
At one o' clock exactly, Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway, and led the students back to the dorm. Harry was extremely tired, and it didn't help that Samson was softly snoring around his neck; the little snake hadn't found the astronomy lesson very interesting.
Just before he slipped into his room, Dean called out, "G'night, Harry."
Harry paused, glancing back to find the dark-skinned youth staring at him. He replied softly, "Goodnight."
Thursday's classes were a mix of good and bad. During flying lessons, Ron tried to knock him off his broom, twice. Madam Hooch, distracted by the flying disaster that was Sally-Anne Perkins, hadn't seen either attempt.
Charms was unbelievably boring; Professor Flitwick's lessons couldn't compare to those Harry had had with Crabbe and Goyle. At the end of the class, they'd created simple good luck charms with rabbit feet. After their work was graded, Draco had shyly offered Harry his charm, and Harry – having concluded it was one of the things friends were supposed to do – gave his charm to Draco.
During lunch, Blaise had noted the Bloody Baron's absence, and when questioned, Harry shrugged and responded simply, "Maybe he lost interest."
The biggest disaster of the day though, came during Double Potions.
Rather than working in pairs, Professor Snape had ordered them to brew their potions separately. Their assignment was a very simple potion designed to eliminate mild acne, and after a moment's debate, Harry decided to watch Draco work.
By slowing down his pace to that of his blonde friend, the rest of the students wouldn't be suspicious. And by purposefully botching the potion in small ways, Snape would gain the impression that while Harry might know a bit about theory, he was hopeless in the actual practice.
Thanks to Avery, Harry was familiar with what would happen to various potions if too much or too little of an ingredient was added. He knew what would happen if the potion was stirred in the wrong direction, or if ingredients were added too slowly or too soon. There were all sorts of tiny ways to spoil a potion that _didn't_ result in the cauldron exploding.
A common mistake when brewing this particular potion was alternately stirring the potion. Because it required exactly ten minutes of non-stop stirring, Avery had told him that most students stirred clockwise, then switched to counter-clockwise, then back again.
To brew the potion successfully, it had to be stirred clockwise for the full ten minutes.
By not stirring the potion properly, it induced acne rather then eliminating it. However, since the change in color was evident – the simmering surface turning a pale green instead of a pale yellow – this particular mistake was easily identified.
As Harry stirred the potion, taking care to alternate the direction, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of one eye. He turned his head just in time to spot a small lump of horned slug arching gracefully toward his cauldron.
The slug tumbled into his potion with a small plop, and his cauldron instantly exploded, spraying Draco and himself with a foul smelling, puce liquid.
From the other side of the room, Harry heard Ron snigger.
Professor Snape stormed out of his office, and when he saw Harry's cauldron, his face darkened. "Mr. Potter," he said in a silky tone as he advanced, "if I may ask, _where_ in the instructions does it say to add a horned slug?" He sneered, "Five points from-"
Abruptly, Snape paused. He recovered himself immediately and continued smoothly, "Detention with me, eight o'clock tonight. Go clean yourself up."
"Yes, sir," Harry responded softly. He stood and headed for the bathrooms. Draco glared at Ron for a moment before following.
"I can't believe Professor Snape gave you detention," Draco complained as he washed the goo from his hands and face. He glanced at Harry. "Aren't you going to clean up?"
Harry studied Draco intently. He flicked his wrist and his wand slipped from its holder into his hand. After a moment of consideration, he murmured a complex cleaning charm on both of them. The failed potion vanished from their robes, skin, and hair.
Draco blinked. "Y'know," he said, "I can't believe I didn't think of that."
The words sparked a thought in Harry. How could he have been so dense? He didn't need to go to the common bathroom to shower in the morning; he could just use a spell!
Draco continued, oblivious to Harry's internal epiphany, "The Weasel is seriously pissing me off, though. Just 'cause he's a Gryffindor, all the professors are going to think he's brave and noble, but he's just a snotty git." The blonde paused, then asked suddenly, "Hey, Harry, when's your birthday?"
The abruptness of the question caught Harry off-guard. "July thirty-first," he replied.
"Hm. Maybe I'll get the rest of the Slytherins together and plan a prank on him. Since I didn't get you anything for your birthday, it can be your belated gift." Images of Ron with pastel-pink hair and neon freckles danced merrily in Draco's blue eyes.
Harry found himself almost looking forward to it. An uncharacteristically bright smile tugged his lips, and he murmured, "Don't get caught."
Draco stared at him, eyes mockingly wide. "What do you take me for, a Gryffindor?"
Belatedly, the blonde added, "No offense."
Still smiling, Harry replied, "None taken."
They returned to class just as the rest of the students had finished bottling their potions. Professor Snape had taken the liberty of storing Draco's potion, but he informed Harry, quite maliciously, that if he wanted credit for the day's work, he'd have to complete the potion on his own time.
What Harry was coming to recognize as his Slytherin mindset read the statement's implications – he'd have to schedule time in the dungeons, secure the ingredients on his own, and deliver the potion to Snape personally. For a normal first year, it would take a week at best. The dungeons were probably already booked with sixth and seventh years completing independent studies.
Besides, to get the ingredients would require a trip to Diagon Alley; from what Harry had read in the Student Handbook, that meant a petition to both his Head of House and the Headmaster. The pass to Diagon Alley was pending approval, which took anywhere from three to five days, and required a chaperone to accompany him. Once he acquired the ingredients, he'd have to actually brew the potion.
Professor Snape was obviously trying to make it difficult for him.
What the older man couldn't possibly know was that Harry already had a lab of his own, courtesy of his shadows, and that all he needed to do was open the fifth lock of his trunk to access it. He knew his store of ingredients had everything that was needed to brew the simple potion.
As he silently listened to Professor Snape lecture, jotting the notes down neatly, Harry decided to wait a few days before turning in the potion. Though he could probably complete it in the half-hour before his detention, he decided such a display would be a bad idea.
Even if it would be satisfying to wipe the smirk off the older man's face.
o
After dinner that night, Harry found himself inside the Potions classroom. He quietly made his way to the door that lead to Professor Snape's office, raised his hand, and knocked softly.
"Enter," came the cool, controlled voice.
Harry pulled the door open and slipped inside. Snape was sitting at his desk, paperwork piled in neat, regimented stacks. The older man glanced up at Harry, then at the clock on the wall which was labeled "Detention." The hour hand pointed to, "Precisely on time."
The clock featured other labels as well, including, "Five minutes late, but late nonetheless," "Five minutes early. Don't you think I've got better things to do?" and "Late, late, late! Perhaps another detention is in order."
Snape quirked his brow and said, "Surprisingly punctual, Mr. Potter. I'm amazed."
Harry remained silent. He stood ramrod straight, with both hands at his sides, and he did not fidget. It was a position he'd often adopted with Uncle Vernon when the older man was yelling at him.
Seeing that Harry wasn't about to say anything, Snape continued, "School has been in session for less than a week. In that time, exactly fifty-three cauldrons have been ruined by various students' pathetic attempts to brew simple potions. You will do the cleaning by hand. You have two hours."
"Yes, sir," Harry replied. After a moment, he added, "Excuse me, sir?"
Professor Snape glanced up from his desk, plainly irritated. "What is it, Mr. Potter? I believe even you have the capacity to understand what I just said, though if you'd like, I can translate it for you – get to work."
"Yes, sir, but you didn't tell me where the cauldrons are," Harry said, fixing his gaze on the floor.
Had he been looking up, he would have seen a flash of surprise flicker across Snape's face. The professor obviously hadn't been expecting a legitimate question.
"Both the cauldrons and the cleaning supplies are in the closet next to my office. You may use one of the workstations to situate yourself."
Harry nodded and excused himself, taking care to quietly shut the door behind him.
Many of the cauldrons were in bad shape, with all sorts of residue crusted along their insides. Harry immediately went to work, pulling on a pair of worn Dragonhide gloves to protect his hands. The solvent and the coarse rags made cleaning the cauldrons fairly easy compared to the slop he usually cleaned off plates after dinner at the Dursleys'.
It took Harry a little more than an hour to complete the assignment, and when he'd finished storing the cauldrons and supplies neatly back inside the closet, he knocked on Professor Snape's door.
"Enter."
Harry opened the door, but did not cross the threshold. "I'm finished, sir," he said softly.
Snape's expression was a mix of disbelief and scorn. "I highly doubt it, Mr. Potter, unless you did an extremely poor job."
The older man stood, swept by him, and opened the closet. His dark eyes surveyed the tidy room, and he stared at the immaculately clean cauldrons.
"Sir?" Harry asked.
"Detention," Snape said, still staring at the cauldrons, "for using magic to aid you, despite my warning. Next Tuesday, eight o'clock."
Harry didn't protest. If the professor believed he'd used magic, there was nothing Harry could say to convince him otherwise. It didn't matter that a Prior Incantato on his wand would reveal otherwise; Snape would likely be angrier if Harry proved him wrong.
"Get out of here, Potter."
"Yes, sir," Harry said, and he quietly left.
o
Friday's classes went much the same as those on Thursday. There was a pop-quiz at the beginning of Herbology; of the twenty questions, Harry answered seven wrong. The lesson itself was rather boring, as they did nothing but noting lectures and bookwork.
Ron was insufferable, partly because whenever Harry looked at him, he couldn't suppress a small smile when he remembered what Draco was planning. Neville told Ron how they'd decided to split the research, and the redhead had reluctantly agreed to meet them in the Library on Wednesday night.
Harry had earned ten points for his houses during Magical Theory, and five more during Transfiguration. By that time, most of the class had successfully transfigured their matchsticks into needles, but Harry continued to purposefully botch his attempt to change his needle back into a match.
By the end of Friday night, the events of the week had caught up with him. The minute he laid down in bed, he found he could barely keep his eyes open.
Beyond exhaustion, he was also frustrated. Because everything had been so hectic, he hadn't had an opportunity to finish cataloging the books in his study. His class assignments, while nothing he couldn't handle, were shaping up to occupy a huge chunk of his time. He didn't have any time on the weekends to spare because he'd been informed during dinner that he had special Quidditch training until the actual practices started.
He'd been at Hogwarts for almost a week, and he _still_ hadn't gotten to the Library.
A sinking feeling slowly wormed into Harry's stomach.
What if he failed his shadows?
o
The next morning, Harry cast a cleaning spell on himself, pulled on his robes, and collected both of his brooms from the back of his armoire. It was early enough that most students were still in bed, and he only passed three or four on his way down to the practice pitch.
Professor McGonagall met him on the pitch. An older Gryffindor Harry hadn't met stood beside her.
"Good morning, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, smiling. She introduced the other boy with a wave of her hand and said, "This is Oliver Wood, captain for Gryffindor's team."
Oliver extended his hand, and Harry reluctantly took it. The older Gryffindor pumped his hand furiously up and down, grinning like a madman. "Pleasure to meet you, Harry. If you're half as good as the professor here says you are, we'll have the cup for sure."
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "Oliver, due to circumstances beyond my control, Harry is Seeker for Slytherin, as well."
The grin faded from Oliver's face. "So, Slytherin and Gryffindor will be using a reserve Seeker for matches against each other, then?"
"That," McGonagall said, "is what we are here to determine." She glanced at Harry, "You know the rules for Quidditch, yes?"
Harry nodded slowly.
"Excellent. Professor Dumbledore suggested we do a trial run of you using your spell to fly. It's possible that you might have some difficulty, in which case we will need to call in the reserve Seekers for the matches where Gryffindor versus Slytherin."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied softly.
Oliver glanced between them, confusion on his face. "What spell?"
In response, Harry flicked his wand into his hand. He murmured, "Alteralius."
The intense feeling of being pulled apart lasted only a moment, and Harry heard Oliver gasp.
"Well then," Professor McGonagall said primly, "shall we begin?"
A thought suddenly occurred to Harry. Originally he'd thought the damage he'd done by casting Alteralius couldn't be repaired, but this practice run was the perfect opportunity to discredit himself.
The plan forming in his mind might just work.
As Harry's two bodies each mounted their own broom, he kicked off. The double vision was a bit bothersome, but he found it a pleasant challenge. As he soared, feeling the wind tugging his robes, his last tangible thought was that he hoped Dumbledore was watching.
o
Minerva McGonagall's eyes narrowed marginally as she watched Oliver test Harry. The boy was a brilliant Seeker, and she had no doubt that after he graduated Hogwarts, several of the professional teams would try to recruit him.
Oliver stood on the ground, pegging golf-sized balls all over the field. Harry alternately switched which body he used to catch them, and Minerva was amazed to see that he hadn't even missed one.
However, as she watched the boy play, she could clearly see that he wasn't fully prepared to use the Alteralius spell. While he might be able to cast it – perhaps a side effect of truly wanting to play Quidditch? she mused – his control over his bodies was shaky at best.
When one of his bodies swerved abruptly to the left, his other body moved to the left as well, even if the movement pulled him further away from what he was catching. The same went for diving – when one Potter dove, they both dove.
It seemed he could control both bodies fairly well, unless one of them had to move without premeditation. Sudden swerving or diving seemed too difficult for him to master.
Minerva sighed, shaking her head. She knew the spell had been too good to be true. After all, what eleven-year-old boy could have that sort of control? It was amazing enough that he'd even managed to cast the spell properly – though she supposed his abilities could also be attributed to the fact that he was "the" Harry Potter.
She noted to herself to inform Severus that whenever Slytherin and Gryffindor played against one another, they would need to employ their reserve Seekers. On a more positive note, the boy would only need one broom for his matches, which meant that no one's purse would suffer the added expense of a second Nimbus 2000.
As the practice ended, she made her way out onto the field to inform both boys of the news.
He was just a child after all, her mind whispered.
And with that thought, the tiny part of her that had been concerned about Harry's uncanny abilities quieted, fading to the back of her mind.
o
Not an hour later, Harry found himself back out on the Quidditch pitch. Severus Snape and the captain of the Slytherin team, Marcus Flint, stared at him with expressions he couldn't read. Professor McGonagall had already informed them that it would be better for their houses to employ a secondary seeker when playing each other.
"Mount up," Marcus said. "I want to see why the Gryffindors made you Seeker."
Harry did so. His practice with Oliver Wood couldn't even compare to the harsh training Marcus put him through. Where Oliver simply threw the small practice balls all over the field, Marcus used magic to levitate them in an approximation of the snitch.
At any given time, at least six balls were flying through the air, doing their damnedest to avoid Harry's outstretched hand. By the end of the session, Harry had to consciously will himself not to pant in exhaustion, and it was only through sheer force of will that he remained standing.
He'd caught all of the balls thrown – each and every last one.
When he dismounted his broom, he found that the cold, impersonal air about Marcus had vanished, leaving a grinning, giddy sixth year who talked about their upcoming matches with the same zeal as Oliver Wood.
Professor Snape's glare, on the other hand, had raised several notches. "I suppose," the Potions Master drawled, "that it runs in your blood."
Something in Snape's voice irked him, and Harry found himself responding before he could bite back the words. "It's possible, sir, but then, I wouldn't know."
Harry's jaw clenched and he waited for the older man to hit him. He couldn't believe he had lost control of himself like that. He could hear Uncle Vernon in his head growling – "Disrespectful freak. I won't have any of your cheek in this house; I'll bloody well beat it out of you."
Surprisingly, the blows didn't come, and Harry glanced up at Professor Snape.
"Ten poi... detention with me, Thursday, eight o'clock, Mr. Potter." Snape's sneer covered his initial slip.
It wasn't particularly fair, Harry mused as he made his way back to the Slytherin dorms. Apparently Professor Snape refused to take points from his own house, which meant that Harry would get a detention with the man no matter what his indiscretion was.
Still, it was an improvement over being beaten.
When Harry was safely inside his room, he opened the sixth lock of his trunk and descended into his study. The rest of the day was spent cataloging and organizing the rest of his books, with a small break in which he brewed and bottled the potion for Professor Snape.
Draco stopped by briefly, and handed Harry a small pile of books and another letter from Lucius. "The package showed up this morning," the blonde said with a smile.
Harry opened the book on the top of the pile and a tiny square of parchment slipped out.
Harry –
Hope you're enjoying yourself at Hogwarts. We found a few extra copies of these in our libraries and thought of you. Enjoy them, and we'll see you at Christmas break.
Crabbe & Goyle
Touched, Harry carted them down to his study and filed them away. At the bottom of the pile, he found the book about the ghosts of Hogwarts that Lucius had promised him.
Harry locked his trunk with care, then settled down onto his bed. Hedwig flew from her perch and situated herself at the head of his bed, and Samson curled around his wrist. He read aloud to them, soaking in their comments and questions, and by the time he fell asleep with the book resting on his chest, he was halfway through it.
Sunday entailed another rigorous workout – Marcus prepped him in the morning, and Wood instructed him in the afternoon. By the time he stumbled back to his bed, he really was so tired that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
o
After classes finished on Monday, Harry decided it was time to fulfill his weekly promise to the Bloody Baron. With detention on Tuesday and Thursday, and his research meeting for Herbology on Wednesday, he decided it was better to make sure he took the time to seek out the Slytherin ghost on a day he was sure he had no other responsibilities.
Much as he would like to go to the Library, he didn't think the Bloody Baron would take well to broken promises.
He made his way through the dungeons, and when he reached the Baron's room, he knocked once, softly. As before, there was no answer. He opened the door and peeked inside. The Baron was sitting in his chair, staring up at the portrait.
"Boy," the Baron said softly. "Sit with me."
Harry slid into the empty chair.
"Your shadows," the ghost began, "have taught you well. They have given you many of the tools you will need to survive, and yet, I find there is one thing – one very important thing – in which they have failed you."
"Baron?" Harry let the question creep into his voice.
Instead of answering, the Baron asked, "What is it you wish to accomplish, boy? In your own words."
"I want to change the world into what my shadows believe it should be," Harry replied.
"And what changes would you wish?" The Baron tilted his head marginally. "What specifically would you change?"
The question was so like the debates he and his shadows had engaged in, Harry found himself leaning forward and answering passionately, "The current Ministry is full of corrupt officials, and the laws they enforce are prejudiced and self-serving." He nibbled his lip thoughtfully. "Like what they decree to be taught in wizarding schools. Muggle Studies, for example – I've read the texts, and they're completely misleading. They make Muggles out to be some sort of stupid animals. Muggles can't do magic, so they're inferior. Period.
"There aren't any books that show the advances that Muggles have made _without_ magic. Every time someone mentions something Muggles have created, like the telephone or an airplane, wizards titter about how barbarian they are, how mundane. Because of what's been taught to them, wizards have _no_ idea how dangerous Muggles can be. They dismiss them simply because they can't believe Muggles are a threat."
Harry paused, then asked suddenly, "Do you know what an atomic bomb is?"
The Bloody Baron shook his head.
"It's made with Muggle science. It's dropped somewhere and when it explodes, the fire and the backlash wipes out a huge area in _seconds_. Only it doesn't stop there, because what the Muggles use to make it is like a slow acting poison. Whoever survives the blast is affected by it, and it spreads to people miles away. It takes years to kill, and causes all kinds of illnesses. And if someone who was in the explosion has children, it spreads to the children like a virus, and sometimes the babies are born deformed, and sometimes there's no outward sign at all, but years later, they die and no one understands _why_."
The ghost's eyes widened slightly, and Harry concluded angrily, "So how can someone who creates something like that _not_ be considered dangerous. How can the Ministry promote the idea that Muggles are stupid when they can be just as deadly as Voldemort himself."
"You have a very valid point," the Baron said softly. "But what would you do to change that?"
"Have people who understand write _new_ books about Muggles," Harry replied easily. "Instead of talking about them like they're animals, talk about them like they're another culture, every bit as valid as our own. Don't focus on the fact that they can't perform magic – focus on what they've done without it."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "But _don't_ let wizards walk around completely ignorant of what Muggles are capable of. If the Ministry is so concerned about keeping the wizarding world a secret from Muggles, make sure wizards know how to _act_ around Muggles. Not just 'don't be seen,' but a backup for 'if you are seen.'"
"What else?" the Baron urged gently.
Harry held up his index finger. "The Ministry's classifications for Dark Magic. There are all sorts of spells – useful spells – that they forbid people to learn because someone misused them _once_. There are other spells that aren't forbidden which are far more dangerous. There are combinations of spells that mirror what the Unforgivables do, and there are lesser degrees that aren't dealt with as harshly during trials despite the fact that the effects were the same as if someone _had_ used an Unforgivable."
He raised a second finger. "The use of Veritaserum during trials. Why is it that some people are granted the right, while others are denied? They have the means to insure that the right people are being sent to prison for the crimes that are committed, but they don't _use_ it. Considering what an awful place Azkaban is, shouldn't the people sent there actually _deserve_ it?"
A third finger joined the other two. "The department that deals with the disposal of dangerous magical creatures. Most of the creatures they destroy are perfectly harmless - _if_ you know how to deal with them. What gives them the right to destroy living things just because they're too ignorant to know how to treat them?"
With a sigh, Harry slumped back into the chair, letting his hand fall to his side. "There are hundreds of rules and departments that don't serve any purpose other than securing votes for the next election or lining the pockets of Ministry officials. There are all kinds of loopholes and inconsistencies. It's a mockery of what a government should stand for."
The Baron nodded. "Your understanding is a credit to your shadows. Now, how can you change anything if you do not know the rules by which your enemies play?"
Harry blinked.
A rare smile graced the ghost's face, pulling gaunt lips into an expression that would have ruined his reputation. The Baron continued, "Politics, boy. My only fault with your shadows is that they failed to teach you politics."
At Harry's stunned expression, the ghost said, "My title, boy, is truth. While I lived, I was a Baron, and as a Baron, I earned the right of Master in the game of politics. I will teach you."
Still stunned, Harry couldn't find any words to describe his gratitude. He settled on, "Thank you."
If the tiny twist of the Baron's lips was any indication, it was enough.
o
The next day, Harry was surprised when Hermione Granger walked over to him before breakfast. She stood proudly by the Slytherin table, ignoring the whispers from Gryffindor, and smiled at him. "Have you managed to reverse your needle yet?"
"No," Harry lied. "Have you?"
She shook her head.
Harry carefully offered, "Would you like to work on it with me during the weekend?"
Her smile was brilliant. "Yes, thank you."
As she walked away, Draco made a face and poked Harry in the side. "I asked my father about her, you know. She's a Mudblood."
"So?" Harry replied. He took a piece of toast from his plate and spread a bit of strawberry jam on it. He remembered the conversation on the train and wondered if any of it had stuck with the blonde.
Draco rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. "So you shouldn't get too close to her."
Harry took a small bite of toast. "Why?"
"Because she's a Mudblood!" Draco said in exasperation.
"You said that already," Harry replied. "Why does it matter?"
"Her parents were _Muggles_!"
"At least she has parents," Harry said with a shrug. He turned his attention back to the rest of the table and completely missed the stricken expression on Draco's face. The blonde excused himself a moment later, leaving his housemates to stare at his untouched plate.
The rest of the day was a blur. All Harry knew was that Draco didn't sit by him in Charms and wasn't at lunch. By the time Potions came around, Harry wasn't surprised to see that while Draco had to sit next to him, the blonde didn't glance in his direction even once.
What did surprise Harry was the strange, tight feeling in his chest. He touched his fingers to his breast, right over his heart, and rubbed, but the feeling didn't go away.
Before his detention that night, Harry made a quick detour to his room and picked up the potion he'd brewed on Saturday. He slipped the bottle into his pocket and made his way to the Potions classroom. Once there, he knocked on Professor Snape's door.
"Enter."
For a moment, Harry wondered if Professor Snape was even aware that every time he invited someone into his office, he used the same word and the same tone of voice. He decided that it was probably intentional; Snape was a Slytherin, after all.
Harry opened the door and stepped inside. The clock on the wall read, "Precisely on time."
Professor Snape glanced at the clock, then back to Harry. "The idiot students here seem to believe that the workstations in my classrooms clean themselves," he said in a bored voice. "This, however, is not the case. The cleaning supplies are in the closet. You have two hours."
"Excuse me, sir," Harry said softly.
The Potions Master's mouth curled unpleasantly. "Mr. Potter, don't tell me you can't find the desks."
"No, sir," Harry replied. He pulled his potions assignment from his pocket, then stepped forward and hesitantly placed it on the desk. "I've finished my assignment, sir. I wanted to give it to you before I forgot."
Snape started slightly. He gave Harry a measuring look and replied. "Is that all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then leave. I've work to do."
Harry exited quietly, carefully shutting the door behind him, and pulled the cleaning supplies from the closet. Rather than repeat last week's mistake and earn another detention, he took his time, and made sure to use the full two hours as he cleaned the desks.
Professor Snape swept out of his office at the end of Harry's detention, and watched with narrowed eyes as Harry finished storing the cleaning supplies.
"Finished, Potter?" Snape asked, scanning the stone desks for any stain that Harry might have missed. There weren't any.
"Yes, sir," Harry replied.
"Dismissed."
Harry returned to the Slytherin dorms. When he arrived outside of his room, he found Draco was waiting for him.
The blonde boy was sitting on the carpet, leaning back against Harry's door. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Harry approaching.
"Draco," Harry greeted softly.
"Harry," Draco replied. His cheeks were red and his hands were balled tightly at his sides. "Can I, um, talk to you for a minute?"
Harry nodded. He opened the door to his room and inclined his head in invitation.
As they made their way into the room, Harry noted that his heart was pounding, and that the tight feeling in his chest seemed to intensify. He wondered if he needed to see Madam Pomfrey.
"I, ah..." Draco bit his lip and looked away. "I'm sorry. About what I said this morning."
Harry blinked. "Why?"
The blonde turned and glared at him. "Because it hurt you. Because it was wrong, and stupid, and it took me all day to get up the nerve to say it, but I'm sorry, okay?"
Harry played their morning conversation over in his head, wondering what Draco was apologizing for. Nothing the other Slytherin said had bothered him. He wondered if he should tell Draco that.
Draco continued, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "I don't care that Granger's a Mudblood, and I don't care if father will be mad at me for associating with her, because if you want to study with her, then I'm going with you because... because you're my friend."
At this, Draco seemed a little uncertain. He stared at the floor and said, "You're still my friend... right?"
After a moment of consideration where Harry tried to figure out what the right response was, he hesitantly extended his hand. Draco took it, and Harry was surprised to find that he didn't want to flinch away. "Of course we're friends, Dray."
Draco smiled shyly. "Thanks, Harry." He grinned impishly and raised Harry's hand to press a kiss against his knuckles, the way people did in Victorian movies.
As Draco did so, Harry's sleeve fell back a little, baring his arm – his scars. Harry quickly pulled his hand away and tugged the sleeve back down.
"Just kidding, Harry," Draco said softly, but the expression on his face seemed a little tight. He didn't seem to have noticed the scars, for which Harry was extremely grateful.
"Do you want to stay for a while?" Harry asked. "Samson said he liked talking to you."
"Sure!" Draco replied, and his expression lightened considerably.
They settled down onto Harry's bed, and as they chatted with the tiny snake, Harry found that the strange, tight feeling in his chest had all but disappeared.
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