A/n: I'm free, you guys! I had my last exam this morning, finally! I can concentrate more on the story. I'll see if I can maybe make the chapters longer, I'll try ^^


Chapter 19.

What Friends Are For

He stood still in the hallway and strained his ears. There were voices coming from the kitchen.

Aunt Petunia was home.

The raven hesitated. If aunt Petunia hadn't been there, he would've gone to the kitchen to snatch away some food before uncle Vernon could ask him to prepare his oven-dinner. But that was no longer possible.

Furthermore, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do instead. Usually, it was better for him not to be seen. The Dursleys had the inclination to forget him if he didn't appear in front of them, and so both he and they were in peace.

The raven couldn't explain it to himself. It was inexcusable even. What was possessing him? But his feet brought him into the living room, where Dudley sat, watching what looked like an anime-series. Harry could tell by the abundance of pointy blue and pink hair. It was the same kind of art he'd glimpsed from his cousin's many console games.

He was actually curious about it. He'd never been allowed to watch or play with Dudley, not if the latter didn't wish it (so always), but today was different. The atmosphere that reigned in the house was out of the ordinary. It was probably because of the voices of his aunt and uncle that were getting louder and louder, so different from the undisturbed and perfect routine Petunia held up.

"What are you doing?" Dudley asked as Harry sat down as far from him as possible.

"Watching." The raven replied flatly, fixing the screen. But he could see Dudley squirm in his seat from the corner of his eye.

It took a few minutes for the larger, older cousin to speak up about what was troubling him. "Mum and Dad are fighting."

The younger boy now turned his attention to Dudley. But as no question had been asked of him, it didn't occur to him to respond. He glanced back at the door that connected the living room with the kitchen. He couldn't make out what was being said behind it though.

"Mum has been crying a lot when we were at Sicilia's." Harry assumed Sicilia to be the friend they'd stayed with. "Why does she cry?"

Harry stared at Dudley. For once, he couldn't accuse his cousin of stupidity. Dudley was the most dense creature he'd ever met with in his life (and the way his parents treated him really didn't help his case), but in this instance, he just lacked the experience and the clues to understand any of what was happening. Harry himself wasn't entirely sure, but from uncle Vernon's questions and aunt Petunia's behaviour, he'd been able to form a vague picture.

The seven-year-old boy had no clue about how love and relationships worked, or how life and marriage often turn out differently for adults than what they'd imagined at the start of it. However, he had been a witness to the relatively happy life his parents had led together, and added to that were the passages and glimpses he'd had from 'adult' books, that talked of passion and betrayal, of love and hate. These elements were what formed the unknown concept of 'love' in his mind.

The Dursleys didn't fit the image at all. The raven had therefore inferred that 'love' as he knew it was not a part of the relationship. What it was, he had not cared to find out. He cared not enough for the people who rejected him so harshly, judged his losses so casually. He was still wondering why in the world he'd come to sit with Dudley, when he could have been in his room doing anything; even acrossword puzzle would still have been infinitely more interesting.

"What's going to happen?" Dudley asked Harry, who was preparing to shrug in response; but then the door flew open from the kitchen. In marched Petunia, her face red and in tears, followed by Vernon, also red, though rather from anger and embarrassment.

"Don't you dare go back to that witch!" He threatened, waving his finger.

His wife pursed her lips in an attempt to stop her tears. Dudley and Harry completely forgot the television, or their conversation. Their eyes were fixed on the scene playing behind them. Aunt Petunia seemed keenly aware of it, and regretted having come into the living room. She glanced anxiously at Dudley, and then her eyes fell on Harry.

Harry tangled and untangled his fingers. This was one of those situations where he keenly felt he had no place here. This was not his family, this was not his home, and this was not his tragedy. On the bright side, it meant he was very little upset by what was going on. The 'less bright' side was that he did feel the tiniest amount of sympathy for his relatives. The boy himself wasn't aware of it, his mind was invaded with thoughts of hate and resentment, but the underlying pity was what had brought him into this room, at this moment.

The raven had not so long ago known suffering (still did of course). He could no longer actively remember it, but his heart was still broken. It would never be the way it was before. Now he had been witness to a sad and pathetic Vernon, unable to feed or entertain himself, a Petunia distressed and in tears, and a Dudley so lost he had actually been inclined to use his brain for once. How could Harry not be affected?

Knowing how suffering felt, how could he be indifferent when he recognized signs of it in others, regardless of how he felt about those people? It was nothing other than humanity speaking through his heart. The humanity that (somewhat paradoxically) had been so praised by Harry's favourite fictional character (and assumed mentor): the great wizard Albus Dumbledore.

"Don't push me, Vernon!" Petunia threatened back, but her voice sounded much weaker than his. She looked very pale and her hands were in search of something she could lean against.

"How could you, Petunia? What will the neighbours say?" Harry's uncle seemed to be doing a great effort to keep his anger in check. The veins under the bald skin of his head were evidence of that. Harry cringed as he saw them.

"I don't know!" She screamed, then flattened her hand against her mouth, as if shocked by her own loud outburst. "I…I…" She whispered, seeming hopelessly lost. "These last few months have been too hard."

"Why? I've had my promotion." Vernon answered, as if this simple fact ruled out any possible unhappiness.

"Yes…" Petunia agreed weakly. She'd found a little decorative table to lean against.

"And Dudley has been accepted to Smeltings."

"Yes, of course, it's not your fault Dudleykins." She hastily added, addressing a ghostly smile to her son. "And it's not you, Vernon…" Aunt Petunia continued. Then her eyes found Harry again, who had pulled his knees up to his chest and made himself as small as possible.

Something passed between the dull-brown, and bright-green orbs. Petunia's expression seemed to light up for a split second as she recognized that gaze, recognized for the first time the sister she'd grown up with. But then she remembered the resentment, the jealousy that had sprung from that relationship. How Lily had always done so much better than she had, how she had been actually happy with her husband whom she loved very dearly.

Patunia Dursley had a moment of weakness. At a time of despair, of hurt and of need to find her familiar old ways back, the clean-obsessed woman yielded. Harry saw it in her gaze, the moment she made her decision.

"It's his fault." She nodded towards her nephew. More sobs escaped her throat. "We took him in because of that social worker, but the neighbours have been wondering ever since, and he has such a bad reputation, and he's not normal, I don't know what to do anymore…"

That was the spark that was needed, the one element that could unite the broken family again. They just needed a common goal, in this case: a common enemy. Harry was just too perfect a scapegoat. At the wrong place at the wrong time, as they say.

It didn't stop him from feeling, once more, betrayed. All sympathy, whether conscious or unconscious, flew out the window. Anger made his pitch-black feathers stand up and his face contort in a grimace of shock and rage.

Uncle Vernon jumped on the opportunity. It was just so very easy. He didn't even really care about the boy. It was more than easy. He turned redder than red, and the veins in his head looked like they would explode any moment. His loud and heavy steps would have made Harry cringe if he'd not been in an extreme state himself.

"Whatever made us agree to take such an awful little monster in our midst!" He rumbled loudly as he picked up the child he spoke of by the collar and dragged him off the couch, out of the room, all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he flung him to the floor without ceremony and slammed the door so hard that the knob on the inside fell off.

It made a loud metallic noise as it hit the carpet and rolled between Harry's feet. But the child took no notice. He was in a blind rage and scrambled up, unable to feel any pain. He began banging on the door with his fists and screamed "LIAR!" at the top of his lungs. "Liar! I didn't do anything! You FILTHY LIARS!"

It was impossible for anyone to ignore such hellish noise, and quickly, Vernon had stepped back into the room, holding the tiny boy at arm's length.

"Stop this or you'll gather the whole neighbourhood!" He boomed just as loudly, but then lowered his voice to a threatening hiss. "Listen well, my boy. You will not breathe a word of any of this to anyone, or you will wish I had only deprived you of food. Understood?"

Harry didn't answer, he hadn't even listened. He just kept struggling to get closer to uncle Vernon, to inflict any kind of pain within his reach.

"UNDERSTOOD?" Vernon roared, and threw Harry once more far into the room before locking the door behind him. The boy landed with his side against his wobbly desk, which toppled over and struck the top of his head.

Though not that hard, the pain of the blow was just sharp enough to stun Harry out of his blind rage. He lay still for a moment, panting heavily. There, on his bedroom floor, he felt he'd reached a new low.

It took him quite long to get the anger out of his system, to gather his wits about him, though the deep hate settled even deeper than before. Once he'd calmed down, he became aware of the pain in his side, his head and his hands. He'd struck his door with his fists so hard that they'd started to bleed. The skin had been chafed, torn off in places where he'd struck the wood. Splinters were lodged between the cracks. It was a bloody mess. What was worse, he could not do anything about it. He could not get out of his room. Vernon had locked it of course.

Harry stood his desk upright again, and started looking in his closet for anything useful. Sheets were too large, for he had nothing to cut it, and was not in any shape (and had not nearly enough strength) to rip a piece off it. So he settled for two pillowcases, and wrapped each hand in one, holding it in place by clenching his fists. He looked a little like a boxer with white boxing gloves.

He lifted his shirt to look at his side. It would leave a significant and large bruise. And is head felt sore. But the worst were his hands. It was hidden now, but he'd seen the bits of skin hanging loose, and the splinters. He'd always hated splinters, and the image of skin and blood, his own skin and blood made him shiver.


Narcissa Malfoy. An independent woman, a hard-working woman, a responsible mother, a perfect host, and a publisher and journalist. She loved her work and was aware of how lucky she was to have been able to wipe away her past, of how she could never have gotten this job if things had been different.

But before all that, the main reason she'd decided on this career were the flexible hours, and the possibility of working at home. She wrote most of her articles in her study and sent them in by mail. This she did in order to care for Draco. She brought her son to school, picked him up, helped with homework, made dinner… Rare were the times that she still needed to call in the help of Severa' only when there was an absolute emergency at work.

Narcissa spent as much time with her son during the day as she could, and often worked late hours into the night, after Draco had gone to sleep. This meant that she was always aware of what was happening in the blond head's life.

Lately, she found that Draco had seemed upset. And not in the usual, grumpy, childish way. There seemed to be something serious bothering him. She had never seen him so quiet and thoughtful.

"Draco, do you want some pudding?" She asked as she came into the living room, where he sat on the floor doing his homework. It was after dinner, so he was allowed something sweet.

Draco kept staring at a sheet of paper lying in front of him, as if there was a problem there that he could not solve. But when his mother looked over his shoulder, she saw that all the problems had already been solved. Moreover, they looked perfectly correct to her.

Narcissa sat down next to him and stroked his back tenderly. "Draco? Is there something wrong, dear?"

Draco looked back at her, as if only just realising she was there. "What?"

"Is there something you want to talk about?" She tried again.

Grey-eyes looked back at his paper. He came to the same conclusion as she had: there was nothing left to be done. So he looked back at her, understanding she was not talking about maths.

"Mum?"

"Hmmm?"

"At school…everyone is talking, saying things…about Harry."

About the object of his worries, Narcissa was not surprised. "What are they saying?"

"Things about his parents…how they died and such."

"Did you tell them?"

"No!" Draco protested vehemently. "No! But… I think Harry thinks I did."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No…" Draco felt embarrassed. His mother sounded somewhat berating.

"Then you cannot assume whether he's thinking such things." She lectured. Then she thought about the little black-haired boy, and frowned in worry. "How did the others know?"

"Pansy says her mother heard it from the neighbours. But now everyone is saying many different things… How can I know if it's true?" He looked up questioningly at his mother, his role model.

"We can only know for certain what Harry told us himself." Narcissa affirmed. Draco nodded. That made sense. It also relieved him. Some things had been truly horrible. "People are often carried away." Narcissa explained as she combed her son's pale hair with her fingers. "Rumours are amplified and deformed every time they're passed on. You will see that adults are no better judges of the truth than your schoolmates." She added with a sigh. The truth was only rarely pursued in Journalism these days.

Draco was deep in thought again, seemingly oblivious to his mother's presence.

"Draco," she tried to gain his attention back, "you should talk to Harry."

"Why?" He asked, bewildered.

"Well, isn't he your friend?" He nodded with some hesitation. She knew it to be true though. Otherwise he would have made a grimace in disgust, just like his father used to do. "Don't you think it's hard for him, having these things said about his parents, who can no longer defend themselves against these rumours? Friends help each other during such times."

Draco thought about this. Harry's in trouble? He remembered how the younger boy had looked on the playground that day: pale, mouth slightly hanging open, eyes wide at first, then narrowed and burning holes into him. Draco hadn't known what to do. He was with his friends of course, he was on their side. They were loyal to him, and he, as the 'leader' was supposed to be on their side. But that day, it hadn't felt good. Pansy had scored a victory, and everyone had been excited, but it had not felt nearly as good as it used to for the blonde.


Hi, everyone! It's been a while.

I've been wondering actually, since we're all part of the Harry Potter 'fandom' (whether you like it or not, are proud of it or not), how you guys stumbled into the books?

I saw the first movie when I was 6 years old, and then my parents started reading the books to me. My father read it to me in French, since I couldn't speak English back then.

I remember we read all four books before the second movie came out, and then I had to wait for the fifth book to come out. When it did, I had no patience and just started reading on my own, which is actually why I started reading books (thank you again JK Rowling) in the first place.

For the sixth and the seventh volume, I waited before reading. I was scared, because I'd heard of everyone who died, and I didn't want to read that. I couldn't wait forever of course, and I cried my heart out at every damned death :p

I've never bonded as much with characters as in Harry Potter. I just grew up with it, it shaped a part of me, made me who I am today.

I'm really, really curious. If you don't want to leave a review, you can send me a PM, please just tell me. :)