The cover of the morning's Prophet displayed another picture of Harry, although the article below simply rehashed the same news they had been doubling down on for the last several months. Voldemort returned and had set foot in the Ministry. Voldemort was back. Harry had been right.
With every new issue, Harry expected they had run out methods of repeating the news without providing new information, and every morning, they surprised him with the same information in new wording. Once, he nearly wrote in to demand they stop attaching his photograph to the front page, but he called Hedwig back. If his picture meant more people learned the truth, how could he demand they stop?
A war had begun and he sat in the Great Hall, picking at breakfast and trying to convince himself there was a compelling reason to study.
He felt a glare on him, and glanced up from his half-eaten bowl of porridge, but by the time his gaze landed on the Slytherin table, Malfoy was smirking at something Zabini must have said. They leaned in together, not giving the Gryffindor table a second thought.
"I think we should write our own article," Hermione said, chewing on the tip of her fork. She hadn't looked up from the Prophet since Hedwig flew in with Harry's copy, which she co-opted from him right off.
"I've dealt with Rita Skeeter enough for a lifetime."
"There are other reporters, mate," Ron said. "When are Quidditch trials this term?"
Another thing on his list to deal with. Here he was, staring at a dozenth article about Voldemort's return, and Ron wanted to chat about sport. Harry wished he could invest himself in this school year, make the most of finally being named as captain, but whether Ron would make Keeper again landed low on his list of priorities.
And he hated that.
"I have to talk with McGonagall about booking the pitch," Harry said.
"Katie's been asking about it."
"When'd Katie have chance to say anything?" Hermione asked, breaking away from the paper for the first time since starting to read it.
"Around the common room," Ron said, cutting into his breakfast tart. "I practiced a lot over the summer."
"I bet you'll do great," Harry assured him, "What with last year's nerves out of the way."
"These articles don't paint you in the best light," Hermione said. She pointed out a sentence that claimed Voldemort might be inside Harry's head, and that people should watch for Harry in the event he attempted to rise as the future dark lord.
"At least they're acknowledging he's a real threat. Who could stand another year of Umbridge-types running around?"
Saying her name brought back a flood of memories from the previous year. Last year, Harry never could have fathomed reminiscing about the months under her abysmal leadership, but he would have given anything to go back to that time. Sirius had been in his corner, just a fire call away.
Now he only had a broken mirror.
He took a bite and stared at the wood grain on the table, trying to redirect his focus. He supposed he no longer needed to worry over the distance between him and Dumbledore. With the promise to keep Harry involved this year, perhaps he could find it a distraction. He only met Slughorn in brief during their Potions class, but didn't see how there would be much difficulty getting to know him. Dumbledore must have wanted something more.
Harry needed to keep himself busy. Thinking too long on what had been taken from him, what had been lost in the Ministry, would only set him off. The Death Eaters and Voldemort staged that entire ordeal for a vague prophecy that could clearly be influenced by outside action, and in the end, all they managed to do was make themselves known and kill the only family Harry had left.
Could a person be twice orphaned?
Across the room, Malfoy still smirked.
His father held the majority of the responsibility. His father, who should have been arrested after Cedric's death, who had nearly gotten Ginny killed back in second year, who led the crusade to get Buckbeak killed. How could they let Malfoy into school knowing where he came from? Even if Malfoy had done nothing more than bully and mock, he was almost of age now. If he hadn't taken the mark already, he would before the year was out. He got to laugh while Harry mourned.
If Malfoy was able to sit there and joke with his friends, he couldn't be too torn up about Lucius being thrown into Azkaban.
"Harry?"
He broke his reverie on Malfoy, and glanced to Hermione, who was looking at him expectantly.
"Sorry, spaced out there a bit."
"I was only asking if you had time to start your Charms homework yet," she said. "It's really going to pile up this year unless we stay on top of it."
"It's the third day of class."
"And we already have two essays and a practical due."
"If I'd know Snape would start us off with so much homework, I might not've signed on for Defense," Ron said.
"Of course you would have, Ronald. We're at war."
"Not everyone seems to think so," Harry said, glaring at Malfoy once again.
They were only three days into class, but since their run on the first day, Malfoy hadn't so much as acknowledged Harry. While last year, it was a daily occurrence to look up and see Malfoy glaring over the other house tables, all day yesterday and so far that morning, Harry hadn't caught him looking.
Maybe the incident on the train scared him off. If Harry'd known that was all it took, he would have poorly transfigured Malfoy years ago.
"He doesn't have Umbridge's backing this year," Ron said, and helped himself to a second scone. "He's all talk now."
Ron spoke so dismissively. Malfoy's sins weren't confined to their past, and with another year gone, he wouldn't become less a threat. His father served thedark lord until it got him thrown into Azkaban. That sort of loyalty didn't just fade away at the source. It trickled down.
"And you have bigger concerns," Hermione said. "Like these stories in the press, and Dumbledore's plans."
Rita Skeeter wasn't an issue unless she started sneaking into the school again. Harry bit his tongue before pointing out Malfoy had been involved in that too.
"I suppose until he calls for me, I can focus on what he's already mentioned."
Harry ran his gaze down the staff table until he spotted Slughorn, who chatted brightly with Professor Vector. Harry couldn't fathom why it was important for him to let Slughorn collect him, but for Dumbledore to have gone out of his way to stress the importance, Harry would do his best. Having impressed on the first day of Potions gave him a chance at starting a relationship, and hopefully feeling out exactly what was so vital about Horace Slughorn.
"Do you think you'll try talking to him during Potions today?" Hermione asked.
"Maybe after. Don't want an audience."
If they were paired with Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw for Potions, then he might have considered an in-class conversation.
"I wish you'd sent me over an owl the moment he suggested this to you. I could have read up on him, found articles."
"Trust me, Hermione. I don't think he's shy to brag on himself."
Harry pushed back his plate. "I should've been practicing nonverbals before Defense."
"Maybe he won't have us doing them again," Ron said.
"After one botched lesson? Doubt it."
"You managed to disarm me plenty."
"I've got a good feel for disarming, don't I?" Harry said. "Just wait until he picks something I don't have practice with."
"Like a bat-bogey?"
"I'll have to ask Ginny for tutoring there."
He gave her a little glance as he stood. She was still eating, sitting with the other girls in her year. She didn't look his way.
Hermione finally put down the paper, and Harry realized he didn't see her eat anything. She had been too engrossed in the paper to stop for a bite.
"We've got a few minutes before Defense. Take a scone," Harry said.
Hermione startled slightly, then took one from the table. She gave Harry a fumbling smile.
"She just frustrates me so much."
"If the Prophet takes your appetite, you'll never eat."
Ron took a large final bite before standing to join them on their way out. He had been sitting opposite Harry and Hermione, and they walked the length of the Great Hall with the Gryffindor table between them. It gave Harry the chance to listen in on pieces of the conversation as they drifted by, from classes to Quidditch to crushes to oddly enough, the Weird Sisters' newest release. The topics never seemed to steer into Voldemort, the war, or what was certainly coming for them.
He couldn't get it off his mind, and here was his own house, casually talking about the Holyhead Harpies' starting line up.
"It's like nothing's changed," Harry said when they stepped into the Entry Hall. If not for the rampant thoughts controlling his consciousness, Harry might have believed there was nothing amiss about this year.
"It helps that Hogwarts is one of the safest places around," Ron said. "No one will try anything with Dumbledore here."
"We won't always be students."
"Chosen One or not, they can't expect a student to do the fighting for them. They've been keeping you mostly out of it."
Harry didn't want to be kept out of it. He'd been a part of it since Voldemort killed his parents, and it wouldn't end until one of them did. Hogwarts couldn't protect him forever.
They passed through the courtyard and towards the suspension bridge near the Defense classroom. With time left before the first bell, they camped out on the bridge for Hermione to have her breakfast, knowing Snape would strike points from Gryffindor if she brought anything to eat into his classroom.
"Do you think having Snape teach us Defense this year is intentional?" Hermione asked. "That Dumbledore assumes he knows more about what we'll be facing?"
"I think it's more to get Slughorn here," Harry said.
"But more than one thing can be true at a time."
"We could ask the seventh years what all they covered in Defense last year," Ron said.
"When Umbridge was teaching us all year one concepts?" Hermione asked. "We'd be better off owling to your older brothers to ask what they covered."
"Bet Charlie would love a break from the dragons to chat about his schooling."
"At least the nonverbal element will be useful," Hermione said.
Harry agreed, although he would rather do anything but. "When Voldemort and Dumbledore dueled at the Ministry, it was entirely nonverbal. The people we'll be up against won't telegraph their moves with an incantation."
Seeing them face each other had been an awakening. He faced Voldemort in the graveyard, but it had been a short duel. Their wands took over the fight for them, but Harry couldn't bank on his wand to save him the next time. He knew the truth about the prophecy, as much as anyone could know a prophecy's true meaning, and understood he would need to face Voldemort again.
Others came to wait outside the classroom. On a late summer morning, there was no reason to sit inside a stuffy castle, and the bridge drew the biggest crowd. Their class was small enough they could all camp out on the bridge until the first bell of the day rang.
"I think we should stop in on Hagrid this weekend," Hermione said. "To catch up."
"Can't believe the school lets students into that hovel."
They turned at the insult, and spotted the Slytherin group standing a few pillars down. Harry didn't recognize the voice straight off, but knew it wasn't Malfoy's. Maybe it was either Crabbe or Goyle.
"I don't imagine any of you would be invited anywhere," Hermione said.
"Not like we were talking to you lot," Ron added.
Malfoy leaned back against one of the pillars, thumbs playing with the strap of his book bag where it crossed his chest, and stared out at the stone wall of the castle. He might not have been saying anything, but he was surrounded by Slytherins.
He was always surrounded.
"They never should've let that oaf teach," Goyle said.
"Just because you're too thick to understand his class doesn't mean he's a bad teacher," Hermione said.
"Mudbloods and giants sticking together these days?" Crabbe asked.
Ron took a step forwards, but Harry stopped him. "Snape will be here any minute."
And Snape would always favor his own house, despite what they said or did.
"We really should teach English classes here," Hermione said. "They clearly need to expand their vocabulary."
Malfoy's only reaction was to close his eyes. And Harry had seen him joking over breakfast, so he couldn't attribute the silence to him being ill or feeling poorly. Harry supposed he had to let the rest of his house practice insults, or else they might forget how.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned their back on the Slytherins, and returned to their own conversation until the first bell rang. Everyone returned to their seat they had chosen before, although they had only used them for the first few minutes of class.
Although this time, when Snape took his place behind the podium, it was for a lecture. He presented on nonverbal magic, which Harry reluctantly took detailed notes on, knowing it would help his essay receive better marks.
It was just boring.
They all kept their heads down and wrote, and despite his best effort, he knew he would still end up borrowing Hermione's notes to fill in the gaps. He never figured out how she managed to write so quickly. Maybe she had another time turner tucked away somewhere and attended the class multiple times.
Part of him thought it was good they were all destroyed, but also knew having one could've been handy in facing Voldemort.
Harry scratched down his notes and withheld a yawn. He couldn't bother with additional detentions this early in term, especially not with Quidditch trials on the mind.
He couldn't shake the sensation someone was staring at him all during the class period, but in the few brief glances he made around the room, he didn't catch Malfoy or Snape looking his way. He tried shaking the sensation, but couldn't manage to.
To distract himself, he let his thoughts wander, searching his mind for anything that might have been out of place. After last year, having thoughts not his own forced inside his mind, he worried that it might happen again. Did he think someone was watching him because Voldemort wormed his way inside Harry's mind? Instead of dreams, would Voldemort fill his mind with paranoia?
Was his scar burning, or was that in his head too?
He'd let himself drift, and only realized how far he'd gone when chairs scraped and people began packing their things. Harry really would have to rely on Hermione's notes again to fill in the final however-long of the lecture he missed.
"I think I prefer having you disarm me a dozen times over," Ron said, falling into place at Harry's side.
"Might've dozed a bit in the middle," Harry admitted.
"Harry," Hermione chided, "The lecture is just as useful as the practical."
"Useful, but not as engaging."
Harry didn't linger, in case Snape still felt vindictive from their previous lesson. He had a free period before Herbology, which didn't give them enough time to do anything beforehand. Even if Hermione had her way and they all went to study, they'd hardly have time to open their books before they needed to start to the greenhouses.
"Why did we agree on five classes?" Ron asked. "Could've gotten on fine with three or four."
"Not to be an Auror."
"We didn't even expect Potions."
"Can't very well stop it now."
"Not when you're the teacher's pet," Ron said. "Seriously don't get how you managed that advanced a potion."
"I'd like to know that as well," Hermione said.
Harry refused to take the Half-Blood Prince's book out of his bag. He flipped through it the last two nights, curtain drawn and with snores as a backdrop, reading the neat handwriting tucked into the margins and between the lines. He didn't understand most of what it meant, but he did understand the significance.
What were the chances of happening across a Potions text so thoroughly used that Harry could pass as the best in their class, right after Dumbledore hired on a new professor specifically for Harry to get close to him? Could he consider it a coincidence? Had Dumbledore arranged it?
It gave him an advantage. How could he use it to get Slughorn's confidence?
"Harry?"
He blinked back to attention, and found Hermione waiting on an answer.
With so much going on, he supposed he shouldn't hold onto more secrets.
So he glanced to either side, and led them back across the bridge to the courtyard, where they could sit under one of the covered pathways and speak with relative privacy.
"Remember that tatty book you and I fought not to take?"
Ron nodded. "Sorry again about that, mate. Didn't like the look of it."
"The previous owner left notes all through the recipes."
"What sort of notes? Let me see it," Hermione said.
"Don't have it on me," Harry lied. "But they're just adjustments to the recipes. Three of these instead of two. Stir anti-clockwise on odd stirs. Things like that."
"You brewed a perfect potion."
"Which is hardly a crime, Hermione. If anything, it just goes to show we haven't been taught properly all these years."
Ron reached for his bag, and took out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. "This is the current edition, and none of the rest of us got it right."
Harry could only shrug, because he couldn't explain it. Snape was considered a potions master, but the books he always assigned hadn't been half as useful as the years-old copy Harry found stashed on a cobwebbed shelf.
"If your book is different, you really should order a new one."
"Why?" Ron asked. "It isn't like his first attempt brewed up something poison."
"It was a poison brew."
"Well, not poison through the air, I mean. It didn't hurt anything."
"It isn't right."
"Don't worry so much," Harry said. "It's only a book."
And one he didn't intend to hand over this early doors. To keep from having Hermione haranguing him over a textbook, he changed the subject.
"I've been thinking I should research the nature of prophecy," Harry said. "I know Divination isn't your favorite class, but I was hoping you'd help, if you've got the time."
"What were you hoping to find?" she asked, leaning forwards in eagerness. Always the researcher, Hermione.
"I want to know how flexible they are. Voldemort managed to alter one, supposedly. What if I could do the same? And given we know the person who made the prophecy…"
"Right," Hermione said. "If there's ever a prophecy up for challenge, it's one of hers."
Harry couldn't attest to that, but also needed her help sweeping through the library. Voldemort chose Harry based on what he presumed the prophecy meant, and that supposedly predestined a specific meaning. But if it could be changed once, could it be again? Could there be alternate methods of understanding it?
"Prophecy wasn't really talked about too much in her class," Harry said. "Knowing how to read tea leaves won't help me here."
"I don't know how much help I'll be, but I can find some resources," Hermione said.
"You at least can navigate the library a lot better than I can."
"And teachers are always willing to write you a pass for the restricted section," Ron added.
"It may not turn up anything," Harry said, "But it may help me understand what I'll be facing."
He didn't want to repeat the words of the prophecy here, but they bounced around his thoughts unrelentingly. Him or Neville. Neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish.
Harry had understood it to mean he or Voldemort would end up killing each other. Dumbledore agreed to that. But if there was another way?
How could anyone expect Harry to come out victorious against a wizard five times his age, who had an entire force behind him? Harry hadn't even been able to convince the general public that Voldemort was alive. He couldn't keep Voldemort out of his head, but was somehow expected to defeat him?
Either her prophecy was predicting his death, or there was an interpretation he couldn't see. Or maybe prophecies were only true if people put their belief in them.
"We have an entire year to figure it out," Hermione said assuringly.
"You don't know that."
"Dumbledore won't let anyone near the school. We'll just be cautious with trips to Hogsmeade."
It was as reassuring as anything could be given their current knowledge. Harry wanted to believe the best, but how could he after everything? Voldemort could confuse his thoughts. Dumbledore's plan seemed to involve a Potions professor who spent his last several months hidden as various furniture. No matter what the prophecy said, or what Harry uncovered about it, eventually, he would have to face Voldemort.
"Never thought I'd see the day you were asking to study more," Ron said.
"Certainly can't say this isn't practical."
"Just don't go slacking on Quidditch with this newfound will to study."
"I'll get the pitch booked."
Ron's segue let them drift into simpler topics. Harry's mind kept drifting towards prophecy and war, but Ron and Hermione patiently redrew his attention, guiding him back to friendlier topics. There were times during the conversation when Harry could forget. If he devoted himself to the topic at hand, he could ignore the war looming at the back of his thoughts.
It was his task of the day. When Hermione left for her Ancient Runes class, Harry told himself he would see her again shortly. Nothing would happen to her. Nothing would happen to him in the meantime.
During lunch, he didn't let himself glare across the Great Hall, despite he fact he was confident Malfoy was staring. Malfoy wasn't nearly the threat he once had seemed. What were insults in the face of a dark lord?
By the time Potions came around, Harry nearly managed to lose himself in the thrill of the start of a new term. He and Ron watched the first years struggling to work the moving stairs, joked about the three-headed dog they'd had to face after their first missteps with the stairs. They had made plans for Quidditch trials and for their shopping list for the first trip to Hogsmeade.
And taking his seat in the classroom, Harry got distracted by the Half-Blood Prince's book. Slughorn assigned them to make a Manegro Potion, which had a long list of alternate steps associated with. Although Hermione shot him a scathing look, Harry followed the modified steps rather than the printed ones.
The room warmed as the potions brewed, and Harry put in more effort than he ever had in a class before, genuinely curious if the Prince's notes would improve every potion he made throughout the entire year. And when his potion turned out the correct color and consistency, Slughorn praised him for it.
He intended to gloat through a gaze when he turned to Malfoy's table, but rather than get the typical sneer, Malfoy only began to clean his station. But even with no response, Harry felt the smugness rising. For years he'd been stuck listening to Snape praise Malfoy's work, awarding Slytherin unmerited points, and then being belittled for his own efforts. Having the situation flip so completely and so quickly made it impossible not to feel a bit cocky.
As they were all preparing to leave, Malfoy came close enough for Harry to say, "Don't worry, Malfoy. I'm sure you just need a bit more study."
Malfoy finally met his gaze, and Harry could see the anger behind his eyes. But the moment came short-lived, ending when Malfoy rolled his eyes in apparent frustration, worked his jaw, and stormed out of the room.
Ron looked after him. "Weird bloke," he mused, and then turned to Harry. "I've been thinking that perhaps we should wear the uniforms to trials. Those of us who played last year, I mean."
Harry stared at the door a while longer, even after Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins had gone. That wasn't hurt pride. Harry didn't know what it was, exactly. But it certainly wasn't like Malfoy.
"Harry?"
"Right, no to the uniforms. I don't want to alienate the new students by making them think the team's set."
Relenting, Ron started for the door, but paused when Harry didn't follow.
"I'm hanging back," Harry said. "I'll meet you both at dinner."
Maybe before then, but he didn't want to rush himself. Professor Slughorn was sitting at his desk, and Harry wanted to have some progress to tell Dumbledore, whenever Dumbledore called him to talk.
He'd promised not to keep a distance this year.
When the rest of the class left, Harry approached Slughorn's desk.
"Harry, I'm so pleased you were able to join us, even if it was a bit last minute."
"I'm sorry for our tardiness during the last class, sir," Harry said. "I hadn't expected to be able to take Potions this year."
"I don't see why not, you're clearly a talent, just like Lily," Slughorn said. He took heavy steps around the desk to stand across from Harry, and put a hand on his shoulder. Harry couldn't read its meaning.
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, debating briefly whether he should explain Snape's harsher standard, but ultimately decided against it. He didn't want it to come across as if Slughorn was in any way a lesser teacher.
"I did think a lot of your mother, your father too, naturally, but certainly your mother."
Even without Dumbledore's request for Harry to get close to Slughorn, he might have regardless. Harry knew so little about his parents, and Slughorn taught them both for seven years. He knew them, and could provide stories Harry never heard before. He could offer new insights and maybe, let Harry feel even closer to them.
Snape might've done the same, if only his stories weren't all negative and desparaging.
"She got her NEWT levels then?"
"Yes, yes. I dare say there wasn't a potion she couldn't brew, with the proper instructions, of course."
The book on his table seemed illuminated in Harry's mind, as if a beacon shone down on it, pulling attention to the table. Had he taught the Half-Blood Prince? Could he tell Harry who had written in his book?
Harry couldn't ask without risking losing the book, and it also risked the continuation of the conversation.
"Have you enjoyed returning here, Professor?"
"Quite well. Though I'll say, I could do without having to lesson plan," Slughorn answered with a laugh. "It can be quite the challenge, when you need to plan around what ingredients you can buy."
"Some of them are difficult to come by?"
"This year, it seems. I can't find anyone to restore my stash of proper fluxweed."
Harry let Slughorn go on about his former rare herbs dealer, who came down with a case of dragon pox and contaminated an entire selection of wares. That led into a conversation about a former student who went on to be the top distributor of Cowbane. While the conversation carried on, Harry helped Slughorn clean the desks, since they had been the last class of his day.
Slughorn did most of the talking, and Harry could work on tidying the classroom while he rambled. As much as he didn't enjoy Slughorn's seemingly endless self-praise, when the conversation drifted back to his mother, Harry listened, enraptured. Slughorn's memories of Lily were so detailed, if minute. He recalled how thoughtfully she chopped her ingredients, contrasted to her impatience with waiting for the brew to complete. Slughorn had invited Lily to his Slug Club, which meant the stories veered into what foods she liked, what jokes she laughed at (and which laughs were faked), and what aspirations she had at Harry's age.
But the discussions too-rarely drifted to Lily, and even more rarely to James. Harry cautiously guided him back to the subject of his parents, although navigating Slughorn's roundabout conversational style took more discretion than he possessed. Even still, by the time the tables were clean, he knew his parents just a little better. He knew Lily picked olives out of her salads although she never complained about them being there. He knew that James spent his lessons staring across the room at Lily, leaving his potions to burn to his cauldrons. He knew Lily liked to pin her hair back out of her eyes, and that James once bought her a clip that transfigured into a different flower for each day of the week.
The details were small, but intimate. Slughorn's memory was sharper than Harry had anticipated, and he knew he would play the images over in his head until he could visualize them as if they were his own memories.
Getting close to Slughorn wouldn't be the trouble he had expected.
Saying goodbye, Harry went straight to the Great Hall, hoping to find Ron right off. Although nothing truly happened, he wanted to get his mind off his parents, or else he might run back to Slughorn for more stories. It was almost like sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised, having the closest possible look at a family he would never know.
Ron would understand and wouldn't expect him to talk about it. Harry couldn't get lost in the reflection again.
Supper already had begun when Harry arrived, and he squeezed into the bench beside Hermione and across from Ron.
"How did it go?" Hermione asked.
Harry met Ron's gaze, subtly shaking his head.
"I just helped him clean, and he mentioned some of what he'd like to do with his Slug Club."
"Still think that sounds preferential," Ron said, tearing a dinner roll in two. "I mean, shouldn't all students get invited to any events?"
"I don't know how interesting dinner parties will be," Hermione said.
"Not quite fair still, is it?"
Hermione and Ron debated the fairness and whether there was anything the school would need to do to accommodate the uninvited students. Harry didn't think Ron really cared, but it kept Hermione from pressing about his meeting with Slughorn.
Later on, he would tell them what they really discussed, but for now, the new information about his parents was his. He could replay Slughorn's tales as much as he liked, without any outside influence. The last place he wanted to discuss it was in the Great Hall, where anyone could overhear something that personal.
Just thinking about the gossip brought his eyes up, where he stared across the room.
But for the first time in six years, when Harry glanced at the Slytherin table, he saw the back of Malfoy's head. One small, but essential constant at every meal was Malfoy facing the rest of the room.
Something registered then that he hadn't let himself linger on all day. The thoughts of Quidditch, Dumbledore, Slughorn, and even Voldemort slid somewhere quiet in his mind, making room for the nagging thought that refused to be stifled.
Something was going on with Draco Malfoy.