Part 8
It pained him to admit, but Harry wasn't particularly looking forward to Christmas, nerves building in his stomach as he thought of their imminent departure to Grimmauld Place in two days' time. If he dwelled on the idea for too long, he knew there were a number of factors contributing to his unease.
Christmas would be the first time he would be surrounded by the Order members again. And considering the last scene that brought them all together in that house, it was a discomforting thought: encountering them all once more. And to add insult to injury on the matter, of course, last year he had been with Sirius – his head filled with the potential for years of familial gatherings ahead.
It was a painful reminder of all that had come to pass.
…
However, that wasn't to say that he didn't have a family.
He glanced over to Ron, who was scooping up porridge with gusto, focus solely on the Chudley Cannons scores laid out in the magazine in front of him. The redhead's spoon had missed his mouth several times, so engrossed in the announcements, leaving splatterings of oats around his bowl.
Harry shook his head fondly before returning to his own breakfast, now thoroughly disliking the line of thought his treacherous mind had trodden down so early in the day. He should take comfort in the normalcy around him.
Sitting up straighter, he willed his self-pity away, at least for now. He should be grateful to have all those people in the Order who cared for him, not feel awkward at the thought of spending time in their company.
Deep in thought as he was, he jumped slightly at the first owl screech that signalled incoming post, glancing up to see Hedwig flying toward him with a dignified swoop that not all the school owls could quite manage. He furiously quashed the nerves that so often teetered on the edge of his consciousness now when receiving mail, resolved to stroke her head and gently remove the neat envelope from her leg.
The fact there was no newspaper in front of him helped immensely.
His owl gave a simple 'hoot' in farewell before taking flight again, leaving Harry frowning at the obviously muggle design clutched between his fingers.
His pause must have caught Hermione's attention, for her quill stilled on the ridiculously long parchment she had unfurled all over the house table – glancing up at him with a question in her eyes.
Harry shrugged before she could speak and ripped it open.
Bizarrely, tucked inside was a very bright Christmas card – a snowman sitting at its centre with a ridiculous hat perched atop its icy head.
Bewildered, he wondered who would send muggle stationery for the upcoming holidays, flipping it open to reveal a messy three lines that he immediately knew to be Dudley Dursley's, even before reading the unruly signature.
Harry,
Happy Christmas.
Your cousin, Dudley
He must have had a quizzical look on his face because Hermione seemed to jump to panic mode, possibly conjuring up all sorts of ideas of the evil that could come inside childish, Hallmark-inspired correspondence.
"Harry, are you alright? Who is it from?"
Answering made it click more than seeing it in writing. "It's from Dudley."
Her face instantly softened, whilst Ron's head rose up from his reading.
"As in, your cousin?" he asked, eyebrows high.
A nod left the other boy shrugging, looking to Hermione to say something. But she didn't, she simply smiled and went back to her intense essay – her countenance a little bit brighter than before, as if the card had somehow cheered her up.
Ron scowled at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out, before turning back to Harry and gesturing to the card.
"Bit weird," he said.
"Yeah," Harry mumbled. "Bit weird."
But as he read over the simple message a few more times, turning the card over in hand as if to check it was real, something inside felt a little lighter. Confusion reigned, but a part of him was glad at the garish sight of his cousin's well-wishes.
x
x
"Honestly, Ron. I told you to have your assignment finished before today! We have an entire evening planned."
Harry paused on the final step of the dormitory stairs at the raised tones of his friends, peering into the common room to see Hermione hovering over a furiously scribbling Ron, the redhead seated in front of the fire with papers scattered all around.
"I know, I know," he kept repeating, head darting from the open book in front of him and back to the parchment. "Merlin, I'll be ready in a minute, Hermione!"
Classes had only finished two hours before and it wasn't quite dinnertime yet, so why all the panic? Raising his eyebrows, Harry made his way over to them, somewhat amused by how oblivious his two friends were to the annoyed stares they were receiving from the seventh years each time their bickering rose above an acceptable level.
"Harry had his finished on Monday and he's still catching up. What is your excuse, Ronald?"
Luckily, Ron muttered his next words so low that Hermione couldn't make them out, writing faster and throwing his name down at the top of the parchment. "Done!"
"What's all this?" Harry finally said, Hermione swivelling to face him with a bright smile.
"Perfect timing!" she announced.
"For what?"
"We have a surprise, mate," Ron said cheerfully, rolling up his poorly finished essay and flinging it into his bag carelessly, much to Hermione's frustration.
Taken aback, Harry looked at them blankly. "A surprise?" he questioned, quizzical expression sliding into place.
He simply got two eager nods in response.
x
x
Things became no clearer as he was steered out of the common room by his two friends, who refused to say anything further as they wandered the corridors.
He assumed the destination would reveal their bizarre plans and intentions, but when they finally stood outside the hidden doorway to the Room of Requirement, he was still at a loss. Ron did the pacing and mental requesting in front of the seventh-floor wall, until the entrance finally revealed itself and Harry was dragged inside by an excited Hermione.
As the door closed behind him, Harry's mouth fell open.
Instead of the large space they had used for the D.A., or indeed the vast storage room of forgotten things, before him was a small sitting room, fully decked out in Christmas décor – right down to the glinting tree in the corner by the roaring fireplace; real candles perched atop its branches, covering all seven feet of its tall stature.
Confused still, green eyes scanned the cosy furnishings, landing on the three velvet armchairs set out in a neat half-circle near the flames, a low table laid between them. Literally as he watched, plates, platters, bowls and glasses popped into existence – filled to the brim with everything delicious. Steaming roast potatoes, soft cuts of ham, ice-cold pumpkin juice and sticky treacle tartlets among the offerings.
He barely acknowledged his mouth watering, turning to his friends with a weird look.
Ron looked suddenly embarrassed, his eyes darting to Hermione for help. Ever confident, she stepped further into the room, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him along.
"We thought it might be nice to have a little private Christmas celebration, just the three of us. So, we asked Dobby to help us out with the food and asked the room for a cosy space to host it."
A surprising shyness came over her then. "What do you think? Just, with the craziness of this year so far, we thought it would be good to enjoy Christmas together at Hogwarts, without anyone else, before we head off for the holidays…"
There was a pause before Harry returned her smile.
"I think it's brilliant," Harry said, his voice brighter than it had seemed in weeks, turning to them with a grin. "Absolutely brilliant. Seriously, thanks."
Ron grinned and Hermione beamed.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's eat!" Ron cheered, descending on their mini feast. "Merlin, Dobby did us good. Look at these mince pies. Do you think he would have gotten us some firewhisky if we'd asked?"
Harry couldn't help it, he laughed. Dropping into the centre chair, Hermione and Ron taking their places either side of him, he reached for a plate and filled it with a welcome hunger he had almost forgotten.
x
x
The cheer his friends had given him sustained Harry through the holidays, smiling softly at Mrs Weasley's fussing and trying his best to take part in any conversation offered to him as they sat down to a Christmas dinner that rivalled the feast Hogwarts could provide.
Grimmauld Place was often busy on the days that preceded Christmas, with Order members flitting in and out on business and social calls alike. He found the traffic of constant footsteps slightly stressful, trying to ignore the curious and bewildered looks one or two fringe members directed his way, yet even with the hesitant stares it was preferable to the silence he knew could possibly descend upon the house.
He still, despite the cowardly feeling that crept up his spine when he noted his behaviour, consistently avoided the upper rooms.
It was over several meals that his thoughts naturally fell back to Dumbledore's question on who he would like to stay with during his summers; in essence, who he would choose as guardian. On the day Remus sat across from him, Mrs Weasley's legendary Shepard's pie served between them, he came to an immediate decision that he could not burden the older man with the responsibility. Remus' clothes and travelling cloak were new, his sorrier looking knitwear nowhere to be seen, but Harry caught the drawn length of his face and its pale complexion. Despite his crinkled smiles, there was a tiredness there that sat in every line; making him seem older than his years. The sight hollowed out a faraway guilt in Harry's stomach for some reason, and he tried to fill the hole with a second helping of pie – which only led to him feeling ill for the rest of the evening.
Mr and Mrs Weasley presented a very different argument in comparison to Remus. They were both so bright in their interactions with him, their warmth unmatched in how they approached him; whether that be a pat on the shoulder or a fond smile – all tentativeness having evaporated.
Ron's dad, despite his thin stature, was a picture of resilience to Harry. He grinned at him over stories of past Christmases and chortled at the heated discussions between his wife and their children, until a withering look from her direction pushed him to her side. Harry admired them all really. Once over the initial shock of what had happened, they treated him as before; as their own.
And yet, that familiarity and warmth was exactly why he had decided against them too. Much as he wanted to say yes and picture summers spent at the Burrow, the very real danger of his presence anywhere weighed too heavily to allow such dreams. If he were honest with himself, he doubted he would be spending the summer anywhere pleasant. Time was ticking down in his head. What exactly the countdown foreshadowed, he wasn't sure. Death or survival. But regardless, he sensed that normality, or whatever was left of it, would soon be behind and beyond him. Outside of school, he was permanently in hiding, shielded from Voldemort as he had been since his arrival on the Dursley's doorstep. But when would 'in hiding' transform into 'on the run'? He suspected that the only thing keeping things in the former was having Dumbledore on his side.
Though this line of thought should sit alongside a weighted gloominess, he found it just sat on him with a sense of reality instead.
Snape's words to him that day had solidified his state of affairs. If he didn't survive, then he didn't. That was that.
He could never say that those words gave him comfort, but they did feel solid and real in a way that the comforting murmurs of those around him did not, no-matter how genuine and well-intentioned they were.
Perhaps it was from that point on, when he was promised answers about Snape and Petunia's relationship only upon the condition of not dying, in times where the war was over – if such a thing was even imaginable – when the inner countdown had truly started.
Either way, he knew the answer to Dumbledore's question.
He would have to become a ward of the school. Even if he didn't spend his entire summer there, it was the most neutral choice, one he would have loved several years back but now only felt general acceptance toward. This is what was needed. He hoped it wouldn't hurt Remus' or Mr and Mrs Weasley's feelings, but he had an inkling they would understand.
Hogwarts was his home, for as long as it could be. Grimmauld Place might have been his new home in another lifetime, perhaps even The Burrow. But here, right now, with his godfather dead and the threat of a Dark Lord still poised at his back, growing ever closer to power, he couldn't afford to be anything but sensible and direct about the decision.
And if he felt petty satisfaction in achieving what Tom Riddle had not, namely being granted permission to be a ward of the school… well, he'd take the little victories he could.
x
x
Harry jolted awake at low thud of a door in the depths of the house, his too-sharp senses and light sleep forcing him into wakefulness, fumbling for his glasses and righting them on his face to take in the early morning light filtering through the once-handsome curtains of Sirius' old bedroom. He stilled as soon as his sight was restored, body tense, waiting on instinct.
Something felt off.
Another thud had him on his feet, grabbing a jumper and tossing it over his head before slipping out onto the landing with wand in-hand.
A series of hushed whispers bled up from the hall, reaching his careful ears as he leaned over the banister.
Tense shoulders relaxed at hearing the low murmurs of Dumbledore's voice in the mix, his wand arm lowering as he cautiously made his way to the dimly lit stairs, peering down with curiosity more than alarm.
Three sets of eyes turned on him as soon as his foot hit a creaking floorboard.
Dumbledore was standing the closest, dressed in a rich set of maroon robes; decadent in their velvet design, yet slightly more crumpled than would be expected from the well-dressed wizard. Though the piercing eyes on him softened in the wake of silence between them, Harry could clearly see the seriousness in their depths.
Glancing to the headmaster's left he met the dark depths of Snape's beetle gaze, his face not betraying his preferred sneer, but the line of his mouth tight and evidently irritated.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was the remaining party, his expression ever-strong even though he looked beyond tired. He offered a friendly nod.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "Ah, perhaps it's better if you come down for this conversation as we have clearly disturbed you. But quietly, I have no intention to cause an uproar so early in the morning, despite the news we have received."
Swallowing hard, he descended the remaining steps and followed the headmaster into the living room, feeling oddly closed in when the door snapped shut behind them.
"Shall I gather the others?" Kingsley's deep voice offered.
"Arthur and Remus are already at work on that, they should all arrive within the hour."
There was a moment of tense silence, Dumbledore striding over to the empty fireplace, waving his hand before it and summoning wreath of warm flames inside the grate. Harry appreciated the heat, edging closer.
"Sir, what's going on?"
His question was strong, but there was a growing concern in his mind.
"I will wait until the Order arrives to discuss the matter in full, Harry. However, it is with regret that we have learned of Rufus Scrimgeour's death."
The sharp delivery of those words straightened Harry's spine.
He didn't know all that much about Scrimgeour, having had to put up with Fudge as Minister for Magic before the disastrous events of last year, but he nonetheless felt a little strange at the news, his face forming a natural frown. "What happened?"
And here Dumbledore sighed softly, a hand moving to rest against the mantlepiece.
"I'm afraid he was murdered at his home in the early hours of the morning."
Murdered.
And then he knew.
"This is Voldemort's next move, isn't it?"
Dumbledore looked at him appreciatively for just a moment, before turning away.
"Oh yes, it was Voldemort. Or, at the very least, actions on his command. I believe we're seeing Tom's first true step onto the political stage. We knew it was coming, but I didn't expect him to be so brazen considering his inactivity these past few months. Clearly having the advantage of the public turning a blind eye was no longer enough to stay his hand."
A chill ran down Harry's back where he stood, but he didn't move.
"But, he can't take the position himself, right?"
It seemed a silly question as soon as he voiced it, and a scoff from Snape's corner of the room forced an involuntary blush to form up Harry's neck, but he kept his gaze solid. Dumbledore didn't look as though he thought it was a wholly ridiculous concept.
"No, he cannot and will not. But the alternative is much more dangerous. No doubt he will seek to plant one of his own in the position. Which leaves much of our world and the powers than govern it within his control."
Harry remembered hearing the term 'puppet government' once on the news many years ago, but he only now realised exactly what it meant, picturing some generic, faceless politician dancing to invisible strings under a pale and cruel hand.
He shivered.
This was bad. But just how bad?
"What of Draco and Narcissa?"
Harry's head turned so fast it might have broken clean off, those names and the urgency with which they were spewed from Snape's mouth raising an internal alarm
"Narcissa wasted no time. As soon as we secured Lucius she accompanied him back to my office where they are awaiting my return to organise their affairs. Though, no matter what is decided, I fear we can expect a repeat of what occurred tonight. I admit, I am concerned for the security of the situation."
Harry was lost at this statement, glancing back and forth between Snape and Dumbledore, waiting for the appropriate moment to voice his confusion. But Dumbledore clearly had no intention of leaving him out of the subject, turning on him once more.
"It is with regret that I tell you Lucius Malfoy broke the rules of the safehouse he and his family were assigned to and attempted to contact the Death Eater inner circle only a few hours ago."
The Gryffindor stared, a bewildered 'why?' dropping from his mouth.
"News of the minister's death reached one of the Order members on duty at the house. I believe Lucius panicked when he discovered Scrimgeour's demise, seeing it as a sign of the shifting powers at play."
"But, even still, he knows Voldemort won't forgive betrayal. He's proven that enough times! Why would he do that, put his family at risk?" Harry didn't expect the anger in his own voice or the disgust he felt in that moment. He had always despised Draco's father, for good reason. But even he didn't expect the man to betray his wife and son and put them in harm's way in such a stupid move. He had thought the arrogant blonde smarter than that, at the very least. However questionable his morals were.
"Ah, I'm afraid Lucius is not the man he once was. His pride and self-importance took a considerable hit in the last year. He is growing more fearful and desperate by the minute. I expect in his clouded mind he saw his actions as an attempt to remedy his family's situation; not put them in further danger. He was a fool."
There was no edge in the headmaster's tone, his words truly seemed full of pity, which tempered Harry's own feelings, conjuring a picture of the shaken figure Draco Malfoy had presented that day in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
Something akin to sympathy welled up in his stomach too, despite the protests of his mind.
"And what of Draco? Snape interceded, his face serious and more drawn than it had been moments ago.
Dumbledore 'hmmed' quietly in response, eyes gazing into the flames rising from the fireplace.
"Narcissa does not trust her husband with the safety of her child, she has requested he be protected elsewhere for the time being, while she manages Lucius as best she can. A plan I agree with wholeheartedly. Draco will agree with her thinking in the long run, I hope."
Things fell silent again, the crackling and snaps of the flames the only sound between the foursome.
Until…
It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"He can stay here."
The words were firm, no hint of the regret he felt only moments later at his own suggestion.
Three pairs of eyes turned on him in unison once more, their expressions varying from kind approval (Dumbledore), mild surprise (Kingsley) and curious mistrust (Snape).
They said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, as if waiting for him to change his mind.
And maybe he even wanted to, but Harry found himself reforming the words once more instead; repeating and reaffirming his previous statement.
"Malfoy – er, Draco, I mean. He can stay here."