A/N: I am extremely tired and worn out, so I will simply say thank you very much to all those who reviewed last chapter and welcome to you newcomers.
"He sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief," Lestrange says, finally putting down his copy of Witch Weekly and grinning at Harry, who starts from his reverie at Lucius' bedside.
"What?" Harry asks, confused.
"That's Shakespeare for 'Don't you have anything else to do, loser?' Seriously, Potter, are you watching Lucius heal cell by cell? Don't you have hobbies?"
"No," Harry replies shortly.
"Didn't you play Quidditch or something?"
"I haven't played Quidditch in years," Harry replies. He hasn't played since the war started. There was no time for Quidditch between battles with Death Eaters. After the war, Quidditch had seemed empty, so trvial. He hadn't missed it really.
"But you can still fly, can't you?" Michael asks, a bit of a challenge in his voice.
That Harry does miss. It's been far too long since Harry has flown. The longing must be visible on Harry's face, because Lestrange smirks. "C'mon, Potter. I'll race you." Their eyes meet, green on green and then the two of them are running through the halls of Malfoy Manor, much to the dismay of several portraits. Lestrange leads the way to the manor grounds, but once Harry has summoned a broom to his hand, Harry is clearly in the lead.
Some things are in one's blood. Flying is in Harry's and he takes to the air like an exotic bird. He dives, swoops, and rolls as if Dobby's mad bludger was on his tail, but this time there is no sense of danger, just exhilaration. Lestrange keeps pace, even echoing some of Harry's acrobatics. Harry is momentarily surprised, but he then he remembers hearing from someone that Lestrange had played chaser for Durmstang.
"So that's the famous Potter flying that I've heard so much about," Michael says, once they have landed. "Impressive, I must say." Harry grins ear to ear. He knows he must look ridiculous next to the cool Lestrange, but he can't help himself.
"Thanks. You're pretty good yourself," Harry says truthfully. Lestrange dismisses this with a wave of his hand.
"I'm a hobbyist. If you didn't have a career cut out for you in destroying evil, you could've played professionally." Harry listens for bitterness or sarcasm in Lestrange's voice, but there is none. There has rarely been any detectable bitterness or sarcasm or anything of the sort in Michael's voice when he has spoken to Harry.
"Why don't you hate me?" Harry asks suddenly. It's Lestrange's turn to break out in a grin.
"What, you mean the vanquishing my lord and killing my mother and landing my father in St. Mungo's Ward for Incurable Maladies thing?" he asks, heading across the lawn to the manor.
"Yeah… that," Harry says, shifting the broom on his shoulder and struggling to match Lestange's long, easy stride. Lestrange shrugs.
"How can I hate you for that? I deserted Voldemort before the war ended."
"Why did you leave?" Harry asks. The Order had never been able to figure out the reason for Lestrange's abrupt abandonment of Voldemort just when he was at the height of his career.
"I was there the night he did—what he did to James. I begged him to stop; I couldn't bear to watch anymore. He hit me—gave me this," Lestrange says, pointing to the scar across his cheekbone. "Then, he tortured me— hit me with the Cruciatus long enough that I couldn't move. I listened to him torture James until James couldn't scream anymore. I thought that silence meant that James was dead. I couldn't help him. I was a coward when James needed me most."
"You found the courage to leave Voldemort," Harry says quietly. Michael's bark of laughter is derisive.
"I found the courage to crawl into a hole to die." He pulls up his sleeves to reveal a network of silver-white scars that run almost decoratively up his forearms. "Gabriel found me. Said that he could smell me bleeding from halfway across the Forbidden Forest."
He lowers his sleeves with a flick of his wrists. "When you serve him, you give everything and you hope that it's enough to protect the things you care about. Voldemort left Draco alone, knowing that he would lose Lucius if he caused anything to happen to Lucius' son."
"You said that Voldemort thought the idea of the Malfoys and me—"
"Yes, he thought that you were the only thing tying Draco to the other side. He didn't actually realize that Draco had strength of conviction. Draco was proud to be Pureblood, but he didn't think that non-Purebloods should eliminated. He most definitely didn't approve of Voldemort using Pureblood pride to further his cause. He thought Voldemort only succeeding in cheapening Pureblood heritage, but you know, the Gaunts had been crazy for generations before Voldemort. Riddle just happened to be good-looking and brilliant, but he was still a nutter," Michael says. Harry agrees wholeheartedly.
"The whole lot of them thought they were so wonderful because they were descended from Salazaar Slytherin," Michael continues. "But you can be proud of blood to the point of madness when you don't have anything else, and that was them. All they had was the blood in their veins and they never let anyone forget it."
"That's insightful," Harry says dryly. Michael chuckles.
"Hindsight is 20/20, isn't that what they say? When I was younger, I thought I had to be a death eater. I thought it was what Lestranges were supposed to do."
"What cured you of that delusion?"
"Becoming a death eater… and meeting my parents." Harry looks at Lestrange curiously. "It wasn't until I met them that I started to wonder what kind of parents would abandon their only child to serve Voldemort. I had no love for them, or for the master they served. Why should I hate you for destroying them when I hated them myself?"
Michael shrugs elegantly. "Of course, you destroyed them all before I took my own revenge, but why should I begrudge you that when you were so much more thorough than I could have ever hoped to be?" he asks with a smile.
Harry doesn't know what he could possibly say to that, so he settles for looking at Lestrange as if he just sprouted a second head.
"I am, if nothing else, a practical man, Potter," Michael says in his own defense.
"You're also a bit of a nutter," Harry retorts.
Lestrange laughs. Harry cracks a small smile.
They encounter James in the hall. At the sight of James standing at the foot of the stairs, with his long hair loose and his face looking at once sweet and somber, Michael's expression softens immediately. Harry tries to ignore the slight, jealous wrench of his heart. "Harry, you have a visitor," James says.
"I have a what?"
"A visitor—in Lucius' study."
Harry swallows hard before opening the door to Lucius study. He has no time to process the interior of the room before he is caught up in a rib-crushing hug.
"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!"
"Hermione?" Harry asks in disbelief. She looks as they did when they were eleven and he was about to go face Voldemort—her face frantic with worry. She hugs him again.
"Harry, I'm sorry. Ron explained everything and—I had no right to say what I did. It was mean and hateful and I'm sorry," she says in a rush.
"What did you come here for?"
"I came to make it up to you," she says simply.
"Hermione, now is not the time—"
"I went to see Ginny," she continues, ignoring him. "You know that she works for St. Mungo's, in the intensive care unit?" No, Harry had not known that about Ginny. "Well, Ron told me about Malfoy and I went to see Ginny this morning and she gave me these." Hermione pulled from her purse four small vials wrapped in a navy blue scarf for safekeeping.
"What are those?" He can feel his hopes rising almost despite himself.
"Ginny says that they've been using them since the war. Of course, they've been refined since then, but she says that they work where other healing potions won't. She says they're particularly effective at repairing damage due to poisons." Harry's mouth goes dry. He swallows, hard.
"Why?" he asks. His voice is thick.
"Because I can't stand the thought of you losing anyone else that's important to you—even if it is Lucius Malfoy." She presses the package into Harry's hands. "Take them. He's supposed to receive one every six hours. Do not mix these with other potions. After he's taken all of them, you should be able to use healing magic on him as necessary."
"Mione—" Harry stares at the vials as if they are the best present he's ever received. Then he gapes at Hermione. She laughs.
"Harry, it's worth everything to see the look on your face right now. Go on!"
"Hermione, what about McGonagall?" Harry asks, remembering that he hasn't been at Hogwarts in three days.
"Don't worry about that. I told her that you were sick. I even got Ginny to write a note. Now go. You have an invalid to look after." Harry cradles the vials to his chest.
"This is brilliant, really," he says, trying to think of more words of gratitude.
"It's no more than what you deserve," she says.
"What I deserve?" he echoes.
"A shot at happiness, Harry."
She beams at him and in that moment, Harry loves her very much.
You know the drill. Review!
Love,
J. Silver