HARRY
It was the first week of May in 1997, and Harry Potter was on his Firebolt, hovering a hundred feet off the ground, savoring a crisp inhale of spring Scottish air. Something like nostalgia drew his eyes towards Hogwarts castle, its turrets taking on a golden fire-like glow that reflected the setting sun. This place he called home stood like a fortress, looking about as old and solid as the mountains that surrounded it, as if having been forged as part of the original landscape.
Harry readjusted on his broom, watching as several windows lit up from inside the castle against the darkening sky.
For the first time ever, he felt one step ahead of Tom Riddle. At last, he knew the reason why his parents had gone into hiding, why Voldemort had hunted him since birth, the secrets of Tom Riddle's past, and most importantly, the necessary steps to finish him.
Six Horcruxes.
Two had already been destroyed.
With Slughorn's memory secured, Harry figured he could spend more time attempting to catch Malfoy at whatever it was he was doing in the Room of Requirement. If Dumbledore refused to confide in Harry the real reason for his blind faith in Snape and didn't give a second thought to Harry's theories about Malfoy, that was fine. However, Harry would continue to seek the truth. The more time Malfoy was left uncontested, the easier it would be for him to complete Voldemort's task.
A strong gust of wind caused him to drift several inches to the left. Harry pushed thoughts of Horcruxes and Malfoy from his mind to refocus on the pitch below.
He was supposed to be scanning for one of three Snitches he'd released at the start of practice. With Katie back, each of his teammates was playing at the top of their game, he rarely had to worry about giving directive notes anymore. Theoretically this allowed him to focus on catching the Snitch.
The trouble was, flashes of long red hair pulled his attention more easily than tell-tale tiny glints of the Golden Snitch.
At this point, he was convinced it was involuntary, the way his eyes and attention kept returning to Ginny and how focusing on anything else was the distraction.
It wasn't only on the pitch. He was constantly aware of her whenever she was around, or if there was the slightest possibility that she might be. Like in the common room, the Great Hall, those times on Tuesdays and Thursdays when they'd pass each other on his way to Herbology. She was usually surrounded by others, laughing at a joke she'd made or chanting her name in anticipation for the Championship match.
All day, and especially at night, his subconscious churned out scenarios where he'd catch her on her own, they'd share a laugh, and he'd ask - in a very cool way - if she'd agree to go out with him.
Laughter rang up at him from fifty feet below, calling his attention back to the team. Ginny was spinning on her broom, apparently mocking a clumsy dive block that Ron had just fumbled.
Even if he could find Ginny alone, Harry was sure he wouldn't be. Ron was everywhere now, all the time, at his shoulder wanting to comb through Quidditch details ad nauseam.
This would have never bothered him before. In fact, before Lavender he and Ron had always been nearly inseparable. However, Harry was not appreciating the frequent pangs of guilt that shot off whenever Ron interrupted his daytime fantasies about Ginny.
Maybe after practice, Harry could make up some excuse to keep her behind. Ask her to help him tidy up the pitch, or go over her position on the plays. If he timed it right, everyone would leave back up to the castle and it'd be just the two of them. He'd find some right combination of words, she'd get that irresistible gleam in her eye, and they'd inch closer and closer until he was pressed against her, kissing her, discovering just how soft her lips were and he'd get to weave his hand through her hair and -
She's Ron's sister.
So what?
He'll find you together.
And?
He'd hit you.
It'd be worth it.
To lose your best friend?
I'll have Ginny.
What if you're never invited back to the Burrow?
He'll get over it, he's my best mate.
Exactly, and she's his sister.
He wished there was someone he could talk to about it all. Hermione was out, obviously, with all her smug looks and side remarks about whether Harry had noticed how "gorgeous the weather was lately… How funny and fanciable she - it - is today."
If only Sirius were still here. He'd understand what it might mean to risk losing a friend, and by extension an adopted family. Or his dad. Harry would've liked to ask how he'd finally convinced his mum to agree to go out together.
Harry's leg had started to go numb. He shook it and took a lazy lap around the pitch.
At the very least, Harry wanted advice on what the bloody hell he was supposed to do when dating a girl. Harry couldn't stand the thought of his relationship with Ginny ending up like it had with Cho… Uncomfortable dates, painful silences and awkward endings.
Yet, it was all so different with Ginny. He was sure she felt the same way without ever having to say so. Since break at the Burrow, she'd gotten physically closer and closer to him in ways that felt intentional: brushing past him in hallways, giving him pokes and nudges, and sitting close beside him even with her family walking by. It felt incredible, yet terrified him that one of the Weasleys would notice and yell at him for touching her.
Now, back at school, she'd catch him staring at her while she studied and she'd go out of her way to join him, Ron and Hermione. At practice, she had started flinging flirty jokes at him that made him feel hot and uncoordinated. She kept testing the boundaries, blushing herself and it was all becoming too much. He wanted to bring that blush up close and feel the warmth of it on her skin as it spread across her cheeks, down her neck, across her chest and -
THWACK!
Harry swore loudly.
He doubled over on his broom so his forehead rested on the handle. He clutched his right arm, wincing and waiting for the pain of the Bludger across his back and shoulder to dissipate.
"Sorry, Harry!" Peakes shouted as he flew closer, looking apologetic. "I couldn't get there in time. I was trying to warn you!"
Harry wheezed. "Not … your … fault," he forced out, taking shallow breaths and trying to straighten up, clutching the broom with his other hand to avoid falling sideways.
Back in the locker room, Harry struggled out of his shirt to inspect the newest Bludger injury in the mirror. The worst of them from last week had been on his left side and one that had cut up his elbow, but they didn't bother him anymore unless he accidentally rolled over the wrong way in bed. This latest one, however, had made a rapidly reddening mark on his right shoulder blade. Breathing even hurt, and he wondered if he'd cracked another rib.
"That looks painful."
Harry whirled around, bringing his arm across his chest in a protective movement that made him wince. He leaned against the cool countertop of the bathroom sink. Ginny was standing several paces away, holding a practice Quaffle in one hand, her broom resting against the wall of the bathroom..
Harry shook his head. "It's not that bad," he lied, bending over to clutch for his shirt on the floor.
"What happened to being so good at defense?"
"I suppose Bludgers are the limit."
Ginny started taking steps closer. "That's the seventh one this week, Harry."
"That's Quidditch," Harry shrugged, as if four avoidable Bludger injuries in one day were an accepted occupational hazard of the sport.
"It's only Tuesday," she said, scrunching her nose ever so slightly before giving him a teasing grin.
His mind cast out for words, but came up nil, so he resorted to giving another stupid shrug and shaking his head. They were alone, and the air of the empty locker room seemed to vibrate. He knew at any moment someone could walk in, but his brain decided to remind him of the fantasy that had sent him here.
Harry started to feel extremely self-conscious with his shirt off, but his hands made no effort to put it back on, his brain too busy trying to work out what he should do. Pieces of her hair danced loose from flying, the brightness of her eyes and cheeks gave her a kind of windswept glow. Merlin, she looked pretty. His heart sped up, maybe this was his moment.
The new Bludger injury had started to throb, he was sure a lump was forming. Ginny tilted her head to the side to examine it and he could feel her breath on his shoulder.
"What the hell?" Ron's voice echoed against the tiled walls of the Quidditch locker room. At first he looked affronted, but then spotted the multitude of angry bruises across Harry's back reflected in the mirror. Harry struggled with numb hands to get his shirt back on over his complaining right shoulder. "Bloody hell, mate. What's going on with you lately? Forget how to dodge?"
"Dunno, mate… Just been … distracted."
Ron's expression softened as if stumbling upon some deep understanding, probably figuring that Harry had been preoccupied with Horcruxes or prophecies or dark genocidal wizards.
"Something been on your mind, Harry?" Ginny said in sweet curiosity, still standing close at his side.
"Ginny, we've told you a hundred times," Ron said with protective impatience. "We can't say anything about it."
"Riiiight, of course, the Dumbledore lessons." Ginny nodded so the strands of hair brushed past her face. She was so close still, she could smell her hair's fragrant scent. "Silly me," she said, rolling her eyes in mock self-depreciation.
"Top secret information," said Harry, leaning closer to mumble in her ear: "I know all his favorite flavored sweets. Very important stuff."
Ginny grinned and whispered back, "So that must be why you've not seen any of Katie or Demelza's shots in the past two weeks."
"It's hard to focus on more than one thing at a time," Harry said, his heart still hammering away in his chest, having practically admitted the true reason for his distraction. By the look on her face, he suspected she already knew.
"What does Dumbledore have to do with Quidditch?" Ron asked, head tilted to one side, eyes scanning the floor side to side as if reading. "Am I missing something?"
"You'll have to be more specific, Ron," Ginny said, finally distancing herself from Harry to retrieve her broom. "For instance, Katie puts a left curve on her overhead shots, but you keep missing it and going right. You can tell by which way her elbow moves."
Ginny tossed the Quaffle to Ron to demonstrate, and when he caught it she turned to give Harry a wink before heading back onto the pitch.
—
"Look who it is, the Prince of Potties and his two pet weasels," Malfoy said, passing by Harry, Ron and Ginny at dinner an hour later. His whole aura seemed to be turning progressively more grey over the weeks. Dark circles populated under his eyes, he was becoming increasingly short with professors and his band of brutes. This was good, Harry reassured himself, it meant Malfoy was still unsuccessful with whatever he was working on in the Room of Requirement.
"Watch yourself, Malfoy," Harry said back. "Don't want to go causing trouble without any little girls on the lookout for you."
Whenever Harry went to stake out the Room, he had to divert either Crabbe and Doyle under Polyjuice Potion, who often chose to disguise themselves as young first year girls.
Malfoy sneered. "Careful, Potter. One more crack to your precious skull and you'll have less brains than the Longbottoms put together."
"Oh, fuck off, Malfoy," Ginny said, turning around in her seat to face him. "If you need a scar to make you feel special, I'll gladly give you one."
Malfoy raised on eyebrow and paused to glare at Ginny, as if testing to see if she'd back down or take it back. When she didn't, he bent forward with a twisted look on his face. "And who gave you permission to sssssspeak?" said Malfoy, hissing the last word.
Ron, who'd been sitting next to Ginny, shoved Malfoy and shot up to grab the front of his robes. "Don't you dare talk to her like that," he said, giving Malfoy a shake.
Harry and Ginny were standing too, each reaching for their wands.
"Weasley!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice rang through the now-hushed hall. "Unhand Mr. Malfoy this instant," she said, striding down from the head table.
Ron did as she said, but not gently. He pushed Malfoy, sending him stumbling backwards into several Ravenclaws observing the scene from seats at their table. They tried to help Malfoy get back to his feet, but he pushed them away. He straightened his robes and smeared his hair back as if trying to force back on his dignity. Harry continued to glare at him, wand clutched in his hand until Malfoy took long, fast paced strides to exit the hall.
Hushed whispers rose up around them as McGonagall lowered her voice and said sternly: "If I see behavior like that again, it'll be detention -" she pointed between Ron and Harry "- for the both of you."
"I didn't do anything, Professor," Harry argued back.
Professor McGonagall straightened her glasses and eyed him in a way that made him regret it. "You'd better keep it that way, Potter. This is not the time to go picking fights."
"But Malfoy -" Ron started, but stopped abruptly. Harry knew Ron was about to say that Malfoy had started it, and McGonagall put up a hand to silence him. She turned instead to Ginny, who hadn't said a word since Malfoy left. She was gripping her wand too, standing stone-still, staring at the floor as if it'd personally insulted her. McGonagall placed a hand on her shoulder and said, not unkindly, "You too, Miss Weasley."
Harry could feel the eyes of the other students on them as he and Ron lowered back into their seats, both breathing heavily.
"McGonagall wouldn't really give me detention, would she?" Ron wondered aloud when the professor had returned to her seat at the head table. "Not with the match coming up."
"I don't think so. She only wants to stop us from giving Snape the chance," Harry said. He looked up at Ginny, who was still standing. "You alright, Ginny?"
"Mhm," she replied, as if snapping out of being Petrified. She snatched her bag up from the floor and shouldered it. "He's always been jealous that his father gave me the diary instead of him." Harry and Ron exchanged a look while Ginny downed the remaining water in her glass. "Next time you have the chance to punch him, make sure no one else is around, hm? See you two tomorrow," she said, giving a flicker of a wave goodbye.
Harry watched her walk away and he wondered whether or not he should follow her to make sure she was alright.
"You wouldn't know it to look at her, but the Chamber still upsets her," Ron said, looking grim and leaning over to pick up his fork from the floor.
"How d'you reckon?" Harry asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral while he thought back to his time spent talking with Ginny in Myrtle's bathroom.
"Mum and Dad told me," Ron said, he reached for a new fork and lowered his voice. "Listen, I never told you because you were about to take Felix, but you know that dickhead Zabini? Well, the day of the Apparition exam…" and Ron told Harry how he'd nearly gotten in a fight with Zabini after he'd threatened Hermione and Ginny.
Harry took in the information, asking Ron to repeat exactly what Zabini had said. "That's odd because I heard him say something similar on the train back in September, when I'd followed him back hidden under the Cloak. He said… he said he'd 'never touch a blood traitor'… Like, as in…" Harry nodded side to side, hoping Ron would get his meaning.
"The hell he will!" Ron nearly shouted. Harry watched his face turn scarlet as he clenched the clean fork in his fist until his knuckles went white.
Ron looked in the direction Ginny had gone. She was still in the Great Hall, but had stopped to talk to a tall, ominous Ravenclaw boy who had a stiff-looking neck. Ginny said something and they both smiled, causing a clawing irritation to itch across Harry's chest, on the alert and threatening to rampage.
"What the hell does she think she's doing?" Ron said, straightening up in his seat. "It's not right to be talking with one of them, not when we've got the match on Saturday."
"Yeah," Harry agreed.
"Oi! Ginny!" Ron called out to her. When he got her attention he flapped his hand to signal her to move along. Ginny peered between Harry and Ron for a moment before rolling her eyes and, to Harry's annoyance, returned to her conversation with Stiff Neck.
"Get too friendly off the pitch, and she won't be able to give them the shove when it matters," Ron said, shaking his head as if disappointed in her. "That's just human nature."
Harry tried to remember if he'd ever seen Ginny hesitate to shove someone on the pitch, but couldn't. He told Ron so, but got only a grunt in response.
Harry picked at his dinner, but found he didn't have much of an appetite until he saw Ginny and Stiff Neck separate, him to his rightful house's table, and Ginny presumably headed for the common room. Every so often, Ron muttered a few more verbal abuses about Slytherins, but got tired of it by the time dessert appeared on the table.
"Hermione's been in a good mood recently, have you noticed?" Ron asked.
"Mhm."
"Why, d'you reckon?" Ron paused to watch Harry shrug unhelpfully. "Probably looking forward to the match on Saturday," said Ron, answering his own question. He scanned the Gryffindor table, as he did so several third year girls waved at him, a seventh year gave a fortifying nod of encouragement and made a fist bump flexing motion of his arm. "Everyone else seems to be…"
Ron turned vaguely pale and returned to considering the dessert options without the usual enthusiasm.
"You're doing it again," Harry said, interrupting what was sure to be a mental spiral.
"What?"
"Winding yourself up. Just relax, you're better than ever," Harry said, clearing his plate of mashed potatoes and cutting up a slice of treacle tart.
He'd been worried about Ron's pre-match nerves for days now, but hadn't yet found the best solution or confidence boosting pep-talk. Last week had been fine, Ron having been distracted by his fresh new sense of post-Lavender freedom, but as it got closer, Ron began to fixate on his performance in the match.
Harry decided on a meager attempt at changing the subject. He looked down at the last quarter of his slice of treacle tart. He always ate the last chunk in thirds, taking a piece of crust with an even bit of tart.
"This is so good," Harry said. "You should have some."
Ron raised his eyebrows. "Nah, I bet Dobby made it special for you," he said, reaching instead for a decadent chocolate cake.
"Don't make it weird."
"'The great Harry Potter must have his tart!'" Ron said, in a poor squeaking impression of a house elf.
"Stop," Harry said, but grinned. "Let me savor this one comfort."
Ron sniggered.
"I could eat this whole thing," Harry said, taking another slice.
"Wager you can't."
This had been their new game over the past month, starting as a bet to see who could lob the first paper airplane into a rubbish bin at the front of History of Magic class without Professor Binns noticing. Neville, who sat at the front of the class, had helped by vanishing their failed attempts. It made the hour and a half pass more quickly, Hermione being the only one of their classmates who hadn't been amused. Ron won with five minutes remaining, meaning that Harry had to carry both their backpacks for the rest of the day.
Harry considered the full dish of treacle tart, then looked up at Ron, then back to the tart.
"If I can't?"
Ron thought for a moment while stroking his chin, thinking, then snorted in laughter.
"You'll wear a shirt that says 'Dobby the House Elf is My Best Friend' for an entire day… A day of my choosing… Oh! And he'll have to get a matching one with your name on it… there'll need to be a photo, of course and… you'll keep it by your bedside for five years."
"Blimey. That's all, is it?"
"Yeah," Ron said, grinning. "What happens if you eat it?"
Harry thought back to his daydream of Ginny today, interrupted by visions of an irate Ron and the blunt pain of blunger injuries.
You won't punch me for snogging your sister.
Instead, he said: "You'll get an eighty percent save stats for the match on Saturday."
"Aren't I already at eighty?" Ron said, looking offended, as if Harry was low-balling him despite the stats being higher than any of the other Keepers that season. Including, Ron often. mentioned, McLaggen.
"Fine, eighty-five," Harry countered.
"Eighty-two point five," Ron said, then seemed to realize what he was agreeing to. "But what happens if I don't get the stats?"
"We'll probably lose and Gryffindor'll come in last for the first time in two centuries."
"Fuck."
As they walked back to their dorm an hour later, Harry thought that he really should've known it all would backfire. Shoving down the treacle tart seemed to distract Ron with a kind of humored fascination at the time, but as they got closer to the common room, Ron's preoccupation with his performance became increasingly distressed.
"Forget it, mate, I shouldn't have -"
"We shook on it, Harry. I can't back out now."
Harry clutched his stomach and moaned while carrying on with shuffling steps, thinking only of getting to a recumbent position and chastising himself for lack of foresight.
"You know it won't count if you throw it up, right?" Ron said, as they entered through the portrait hole. Then he asked, with a trace of hope: "Do you think you might?"
Harry groaned.
"What's that?" Ron asked when they entered their dorm and found a parcel sitting on the edge of Harry's bedside table.
"Dunno," Harry replied, trying to think if he had been expecting a delivery.
Harry took the parcel and read the note attached, immediately recognizing Ginny's loopy handwriting.
Ron persisted. "Harry, if someone's sending you suspicious packages, I don't think you should be opening them, it could be -"
Harry disregarded him and tore open the package to pull out a bottle of thick, orange paste that he recognized as Bruise Balm. Spell-O-taped to the front of the bottle was a note from Ginny:
As the protection of Harry Potter is a matter of national security, it's only right that you should have some on hand. Madam Pomfrey is overworked as it is. She sends her regards, but doesn't want to see you at least for another two weeks.
Uses: ambushing Bludgers and red-headed fits of temper.
- Gin
P.S. That seemed like a tough spot to reach. If you need any help, let me know.
Harry could feel a flush creeping under his skin and a goofy grin plastered itself across his face.
"Who's it from?" Ron asked.
"No one, it's fine," Harry said, trying to straighten his face.
Neville came out of the bathroom, toweling off his wet hair. "Oh good, you got it, Harry. Ginny asked me to drop that off for you."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Thanks, Nev."
"It's from Ginny?" Ron asked, coming around to read the note over Harry's shoulder. Harry folded it quickly and shoved it in his pocket. "What is it?"
"Bruise balm," Harry whispered, highly aware of Dean listening in, despite feigning fluffing up his pillow. "From that Bludger today."
"Oh, right," Ron said, chuckling. "Well at least it wasn't your head." Ron gave Harry a light slap on the shoulder, making him wince, before he turned to throw his own bag down on the floor by his bed. Almost as an afterthought, Ron added, "Mind keeping your shirt on around my sister? Or else she'll get ideas. You know how she's always been about you."
Dean closed his hangings with such force that one of the rings broke off, leaving a slight space between the hangings. The aggressiveness of it drew Ron's attention, and he began considering the rustling curtains and slowly looked back to Harry.
"Right," Harry said, turning to hide his face, and feigned shuffling through his trunk.
Harry closed his own hangings, but stared up at the canopy with wide eyes, his stomach complaining from the treacle tart, but he was not tired in the slightest.
Every time he was with Ron, Harry convinced himself that it was Ginny he should talk to first. And whenever he was near Ginny, he felt as though Ron at least deserved a fair warning.
He re-read Ginny's note by wand light, biting down on his finger to stop himself from laughing.
Thoughts of Ginny walked on the perimeter of his consciousness all day, waiting to enter through a crack in his focus or a lull of conversation. The longing, pleasurable ache to be close to her ebbed and flowed constantly, and he knew he had to act soon. He let his thoughts of Ginny through now, surrounding him, like he was giving into temptation.
The fire that caught inside him when they shared a laugh, that curious stretch of freckled skin along her back he'd seen when her kit pulled up the other day, the curved slopes of her waist and hips when she mounted her broom, the way she pulled her hair over to one side when studying. And now, the imagined feel of her hand on his bare skin, rubbing balm all over him and what might've happened in the locker room this afternoon if not for her brother.
The details he gathered throughout the day formulated and spilled over into his dreams of her at night.
How he thought about her sometimes made him feel disrespectful the next day. Almost as indecent as he felt every time he tried to fill out her Quidditch Applications Recommendation Form.
Honestly, where did it get off asking him to rate her in detail for questions such as: "Best Assets to the Team … Unique Skills and Experience … Passion for Sport…" and especially "Physical Fitness."
All innocent enough questions, he supposed, if the appraiser hadn't harbored an unexpressed pining attraction to the player for months.
"What're you scribbling over there?" Ginny asked the next day at practice, trying to peer over his shoulder. It was their last practice before the match on Saturday, but the team carried a mood of relaxed confidence - well, except Ron.
Harry angled away from her to hide the clipboard. "C'mon, Harry. Is it a love letter? Got a secret girlfriend back in Surrey?" He smirked down at her, giving her just enough time to catch sight of the paper he held. She gasped and asked: "My Quidditch application forms?"
"How d'you think Gwenog'll feel that you've been mocking your team captain about his near death experience?" He asked, referencing the impression she'd done earlier of him hollering at McLaggen just prior to being knocked out.
Ginny rolled her eyes and said, "It was hardly your first."
"Let's see… 'Respect for Authority' … better make that one out of five."
Ginny swiped at it, but he turned on the spot. She continued in pursuit of it with grabbing hands and throwing elbows until finally he held the clipboard up high enough so she had to grab his shoulder, making several leaping attempts to reach it. "You're really short, you know that?" said Harry, blocking her next attempt to jab him in the stomach.
She narrowed her eyes and reached into her robes to draw her wand and said, "Accio clipboard!" It zoomed into her triumphant hands. With a devilish grin, she add, "You're really dense, you know that?"
Harry lunged for it, but she spun quickly to block him. He reached his arms around her, trying to pry it out of her arms.
"Harry! Ginny! Stop flirting and get back on your brooms!" Demelza shouted, making Katie, Peakes and Coote laugh. Across the pitch, Ron hovered in front of the goal posts, shouting to ask what was happening.
With Ginny's attention divided Harry was able to tug the clipboard from her hand and tuck it safely under his arm.
He clicked his tongue. "I should keep you after practice for that, Weasley."
"Oh?" Ginny murmured in a voice that sounded like caramel. "And what will that involve?"
His heart lurched wildly. He turned around to face her, taking several steps while still facing her to reply. Only he didn't get the chance, because his foot met the handle of his Firebolt, sending him stumbling backwards, hands out wide, sending the clipboard careening across the fresh cut grass.
He managed to catch his balance, only to find Ginny bent double, laughing so hard that tears streamed out of the corner of her eyes.
"Smooth moves, Potter," Ginny said several minutes later, wiping away tears.
Harry's hand jumped to his hair, but he instantly forced it down. His latest embarrassment only fueled more of Ginny's jokes and impressions of him falling, but he didn't care. It was all in good fun, and it thrilled him to see her laugh like that.
He wanted to be the first one she'd share a joke with, the one she came looking for to sit next to, the one she confided in, the one she was with all the time. He couldn't remember ever being around anyone with so much life and soul...
Soul.
Lately Harry had been turning the word over in his mind, observing at it from all directions. He had never really considered the substance of souls before learning about Horcruxes last week.
Now he knew the secret of Voldemort's immortality - and mysterious vanishing fifteen years ago - could be explained by Tom Riddle's fractured soul.
Before now, Harry had always figured people simply had a soul or they didn't. The image appeared in Harry's mind of the voided stare of Barty Crouch Jr's after his soul had been harvested by dementors, leaving behind an empty living corpse.
Yet after observing Slughorn's memory during the lastest lesson with Dumbledore, Harry learned that a person's soul could be ripped apart by murder… "the supreme act of evil."
Tom Riddle had intentionally shredded pieces of his soul, dividing them among physical objects, and leaving behind a distorted image of the sixteen year old Riddle who had materialized from the diary.
That terrible, inhuman face of Voldemort frequented Harry's nightmares: colorless skin stretched over a skull-like face with red eyes the color of blood.
This concept of a higher quality, or even quantity, of a soul was new to him. Dumbledore - who had spent years gathering information on Riddle's past, who'd been the first to know of Harry's prophecy - believed this measuring up of souls explained Harry's "power the Dark Lord knows not."
After thinking about it, though, Harry still couldn't exactly see the tactical advantage of having a whole soul. How would it help him survive against Voldemort?
Sure, having an ability to love and seek vengeance for his parents' death gave him more than enough reason to hunt down Horcruxes. But weren't there any powerful, protective skills he could practice? He supposed he'd have to wait for Auror school.
Secretly Harry held a quiet hope that the prophecy still indicated more for him. Perhaps he'd gain more powerful skills, learn some great branch of defensive magic that he could use in the inevitable final duel against Voldemort.
—
On Thursday before the match, Harry, Ron and Hermione walked to dinner following a grueling Defense lesson in which Snape had continued to pair them off to practice more and more challenging non-verbal spells.
"Maybe we can nip down for a few extra practice shots after the Ravenclaws finish up," Ron suggested, hurrying them along a blustery, open-windowed hallway.
"I told you," Harry said, for the third time since lunch. "Madam Hooch said that if she sees any of us down at the pitch she'll have us play a player short."
"Oh, right!" Hermione said, turning to Harry. "How was seeing Cho this morning? You never said."
"Fine... Awkward," Harry said honestly. That morning, Madam Hooch had called both him and Cho - the two team captains - into her office to discuss sportsman-like behavior leading up to the match given the increasing tensions between the rival houses. Harry suspected the talk might've also been inspired by McGonagall's warning earlier this week. "She sort of tried to apologize for the whole Marietta Edgecomb thing."
"She did?" Hermione gasped, sounding incredulous.
"Yeah. She offered to be friends again," Harry said, and Hermione sniffed at this. "But judging as she's still friends with Marietta, that doesn't seem to hold much weight."
"Friends, huh?" Ron wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Is that what friends do? Give each other a good healthy snog in moonlit rooms." Harry noticed Hermione turn faintly pink and mess with the shoulder of her bag.
"It was once a year and a half ago," Harry said. "Besides, I'm not interested."
"Well, at least you know you won the breakup," Ron said.
"What do you mean he won the breakup?" demanded Hermione.
"You heard him, she admitted it was her fault it ended."
"I'm sure that's not what she meant," Hermione said, leaning across Harry to talk at Ron. The wind blew her frizzy hair into her face. Swiping it away, she said, "You're also forgetting that Harry wasn't exactly blameless, was he? Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault it ended. They simply weren't right for each other."
"Yeah, but she apologized to him," Ron said as if trying to explain precisely what happened when mixing water based potions with alcohol based ones. "Which means she knew he was right in the end."
Hermione forced a mirthless laugh. "So, in your opinion, who do you think won your breakup with Lavender?"
"Tough one…" Ron said, considering the question as the three of them reached a more sheltered corridor and slowed down to enjoy the sudden warmth. "I suppose that depends."
"On what?"
"Which one of us dates someone else first."
"You can't be serious," Hermione said, taking a deep breath to launch into her next argument.
Ron cut her off and asked, "By the way, Harry, who are you interested in?"
"What?" Harry said quickly, having tuned out of their exchange. He had been wondering what class Ginny ended with on Thursdays and if he might see her at dinner.
"Hey, Weasley, think fast!" Someone shouted from across the hall, and the next second a great, wobbly water balloon soared across the hall, headed for Ron. He reacted to it on blind instinct, but it was too late, the balloon fell at his feet, splashing sticky black-dyed water across his legs.
"That's just awful!" Hermione cried, spinning on the spot to see the escaping perpetrator, who was now bellowing a chorus of: "Weasley cannot save a thing!"
"Did you see who it was?" Harry asked, tapping his classes to clean them off. When he put them back on, Ron's face was contorted. Harry and Hermione observed him, careful to keep their voices calm to avoid spooking him further. "You alright, Ron?"
Ron's nerves about the match had reached precarious levels that day, causing him to visit the bathroom several times a day to empty the contents of his stomach.
"Bathroom," Ron said finally, clutching his stomach and sprinting to the nearest bathroom.
Hermione waved her wand, cleaning the mess on the floor and opposite wall, muttering about taking sports too far and meaningless rivalries. "It's only a game, it doesn't actually mean anything."
Harry strongly disagreed, thinking back to the hours of work sketching up plays and organizing team practices, and how Ritchie had been working at his left spin block for months and finally mastered it on Monday this week. Harry kept the thoughts to himself, thinking better than to voice them aloud.
He and Hermione continued on in silence, turning down several empty corridors while Harry considered for the hundredth time what he could tell Ron to restore the level of confidence he'd had at the start of that week.
Hermione stopped short and gasped.
"What?" Harry said, looking side to side and reaching for his wand.
"I'm so stupid!" She said, using her hands to cover the sides of her face. She muttered a series of no's and stamped her foot on the ground.
"What's wrong?!"
Hermione seemed to return to herself and saw Harry with his wand drawn. He gestured for her to explain. "Oh, it's nothing like that… It's just that my Runes essay, I've forgotten that I exchanged the Runespoor example to -"
"Fuck's sake, Hermione, you nearly gave me a heart attack," Harry said, stuffing his wand back into his pocket and bending down to pick up his bag.
"It's our biggest assignment for the year, and I can't believe I forgot to replace it with the other draft I'd written."
"It's just an essay, Hermione, I'm sure it's not that big of a deal," he said. She remained quiet, obviously having taken offense to the sharpness in his voice. Harry's guilt seeped in now that he knew they weren't being attacked and said, "I'm sorry, that was … I didn't mean to say it like that."
"I'm going to talk with Professor Vector. See you later," she murmured, whipping her hair over her shoulder and making a beeline in the opposite direction.
Harry groaned. Irritated with himself, he pulled out the Map for a distraction while he headed for dinner. He saw Malfoy's name on the sixth floor. Beside his dot, floated the name of Moaning Myrtle.
For months now Harry had tailed Malfoy, following his dot as it walked free through the hallways.
Seeing as his attempts to open the Room of Requirement had so far been unsuccessful, on several occasions Harry even considered sneaking in behind Malfoy while under the cloak. Perhaps if he took the smallest swig of Felix, it'd allow him that five minutes for a successful breakthrough. But that would also mean waiting outside the Room of Requirement all day and night, sometimes Malfoy skipped sleep and meals to be there.
Curiosity taking over, Harry took a detour to the sixth floor men's bathroom.
Harry would remember every detail of what happened next. The fury on Malfoy's face and readiness to draw his wand on Harry. The missed curses, Myrtle's high pitched screams, the dented waste bin, the exploding cistern letting out a geyser of water.
He'd remember shouting "Sectumsempra!" as he fell to the floor.
How the first cut sliced diagonally across Malfoy's face, the second across his chest, followed by a quick succession of shallower slices.
How the blood spurted, then seeped forth in an uninterrupted stream down Malfoy's already pale face, caking the front of his robes while Malfoy's limbs twitched and convulsed in desperate attempts to cover the gashes.
Panic seized Harry. He desperately tried to recall if there'd been a counter curse in the Prince's book.
He crouched in inch deep water, trying to think of anything to take back his spell as Malfoy bled to death in front of him, thick flaps of severed skin looking like a fake rubber Halloween mask instead of a human face.
Malfoy's twitching started to slow when Snape burst through the door.
"Stay here," Snape demanded after stitching up Malfoy's skin, draping Malfoy's arm over his shoulder and assisting him to the hospital wing.
Harry remained rooted to the spot. His shoes and socks soon waterlogged with a mixture of water and Malfoy's blood. His wand hung loosely in his hand. He stared at it, as if floating high above himself where Myrtle's screams continued to pierce the air: "MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!"
Murder… Harry thought, remembering Dumbledore's words. Murder… the supreme act of evil …
When Snape returned, Harry followed his impulse to lie despite never having mastered Occlumency. He fought against it as Snape called forth an image of the Prince's book. When Snape demanded to see it, Harry sprinted through the halls, thinking fast. Snape had seen the cover of the book, but not the name inside. So Harry took Ron's new copy of Advanced Potion-Making and ran flat-out to hide his own.
He paced through the cathedral-like quiet of the Room of Requirement, his squelching of his shoes breaking the silence and leaving a trail of water blood stains.
For enemies , the book had said.
He stuffed the Prince's book behind a caged creature's skeleton, slammed the cabinet door and topped it with a dusty old statue wearing a tiara so he could find it again when he came back for it.
What was a spell like that doing in the Prince's book?
Back in the bathroom, Harry second-guessed himself as he handed over Ron's copy of Advanced Potion-Making. But it was too late now, not after he'd hidden the Prince's copy and stood up to Snape's line of questioning.
He was sure, considering everything, Snape's punishment could've been worse. However, after Snape left and Harry continued to gaze at the distorted image of himself in the cracked mirror, he wasn't sure how.
Malfoy had thrown the first hex, he'd used the Cruciatus Curse. Harry had only meant to defend himself.
Harry continued to stare at his reflection as if for the first time while around him, the crimson edges of Malfoy's blood blurred. It swirled and spread through the water like smoke.
Usually ignored, he could now see the dark outline of his lightning shaped scar poking out from under his fringe. How would people react if they'd heard Harry Potter, the Chosen One, had killed Draco Malfoy in a duel?
Messier than normal, his black hair stood up in all directions, damp from the water still spraying out of the broken cistern. What would his father think of what he'd done? If he were still here?
The water on the floor was entirely stained red now.
Snape said the spell he'd used was part of the Dark Arts. Harry wondered if it was like the Unforgivables, if you really had to "mean it," as Bellatrix Lestrange had said. What if Snape hadn't been there in time and Malfoy had bled to death on this bathroom floor?
Harry looked back at the mirror, seeing his bloodshot eyes behind glasses, giving his skin the illusion of a deathly pale glow.
A cruel, high pitched laugh echoed in a deep corner of his mind, and Harry felt a prickling across his skin and suddenly felt as though he was going to be sick.
—
Back in the common room, after enduring McGonagall's upbraiding and the shocked, disappointed look of his teammates, the last thing he needed was to have it out with Hermione, who was still more suspicious of his potions textbook than she'd ever been of Malfoy. On some level, he knew Hermione had a point. What was that spell doing in the margins, as if an afterthought. If Harry had known what that spell was capable of, he'd certainly put more description than "For enemies." Had the Prince used, or planned to use that spell on someone?
But if the Half-Blood Prince had supplied one dark spell out of hundreds of helpful ones that saved Ron, secured Felix Felicis and therefore Slughorn's memory - it couldn't be entirely corrupt. The only consolation that night was Ginny. Not only for defending him against Hermione's attacks, but for understanding and not blaming him for what he'd done to Malfoy or hurting their chances for the Championship.
When Harry lay on top of his covers later that evening, he replayed what happened in the bathroom over and over in agonizing detail.
At first Harry had been on the defense, but if Harry was honest with himself, the years of loathing resentment for Malfoy's taunting, bullying, and threats did amount to a desire to hurt him… But not murder him.
He hadn't used the spell intentionally, but there was intent behind it.
His hatred for Malfoy aside, what bothered Harry more was crossing a line he'd drawn for himself. Part of him felt corrupted, like after seeing the truth of his father humiliating Snape unprovoked.
He had memorized what Sirius had said that day in Umbridge's fireplace: "James - whatever else he may have appeared to you, Harry - always hated the Dark Arts." Harry repeated what Sirius had said a hundred times since then, taking them as comforting words that at the root of things, his father had been good. Knowing that, at some point, James had changed, was even promoted to Head Boy. Harry wished he had asked Sirius what made James change. Was it that day he'd observed in Snape's memory?
Despite Hermione's opinions, Harry owed Ron's life and Slughorn's memory to the Prince and he would go back for the book.
Growing up with the Dursley's, the only real defense he had was speed on his feet, a humor that sometimes got him into more trouble, or else the hideouts of his mind where he could go to wait it out.
People had a right to defend themselves and the ones they cared about against cruelty.
No matter how he looked at it, Harry's future involved violence. The prophecy and Voldemort made sure of that. A year at Hogwarts hadn't gone by without a reminder of how much he had to lose.
However, as Harry rolled over in bed and finally pulled the covers around him, he was determined to remember which side of violence he wanted to be on.
—
Hermione mostly ignored Harry throughout Friday, occasionally speaking to Ron as if he weren't there. Being one of Uncle Vernon's favorite tactics, this didn't bother Harry, and he took it as a good sign that she wasn't avoiding him completely. Harder to swallow, though, were the disappointed looks from other Gryffindors as word spread that he would miss the Championship match the following day.
The only person he wanted to talk to was Ginny, but he didn't see her until Saturday morning when he caught up to her in the Entrance Hall before breakfast.
"Ginny, wait up a minute?" Harry said, catching her arm and pulling her off to the side out of the stream of decorated spectators. She looked much calmer than he felt, but he still had trouble making direct eye contact, not wanting to see any trace of blame for missing the match. "I wanted to give you this," he said, pulling the captain's badge out of his pocket.
Ginny blinked down at it, but made no move to take it. "You're still the captain, Harry," she said.
"I can't be there, and they need a leader … It's your chance to put all that mocking me to good use," he said, causing a ghost of a smile to flicker across her face. He continued holding the badge out for her, but she looked at it like it might bite her. "Go on, Gin. Don't pretend like you haven't been badgering me about this all year."
She snorted. "More puns? At a time like this?" But she finally reached her hand out to take the badge from his open palm with a whispered thanks. He watched as she pinned it to the front of her robes.
"Looks good on you," he said, and he thought he saw her blush. They shared a shy, lingering smile before she turned to rejoin the crowd. "Wait, there's one more thing," Harry said, holding out his hand again to stop her. "I'm not sure I deserved what you said to Hermione the other night… but, thanks."
"You're welcome," Ginny said, pulling at the sleeve of her robe. "She probably could've done without the personal insult. That's what Mum would say, anyway," she said, sounding like she'd been having her own internal debate since then. "But you felt bad enough, and she didn't need to have it out with you... Besides, Malfoy's a sneaking, evil twat."
"What was that about personal insults?"
"It doesn't count for Death Eaters. I'm sure Mum agrees," Ginny said, grinning up at him. She waited for several other students to pass by them before continuing. "If any other teacher had caught Malfoy trying an Unforgivable Curse, he'd be in Azkaban right now… Or at least expelled."
Harry looked down at his shoelaces. There was a dark red circular bloodstain that remained on his shoe despite the several cleaning charms he'd used.
"I could've killed him," Harry said.
"You didn't."
"What if I had?"
"What if I had a pet hippogriff who shat chocolate galleons?" Ginny said, tilting her head to catch his eye. "It'd be brilliant, and I'd name her Trufflefeathers, but we can't have everything we've got coming to us."
Harry couldn't help laughing. She had the very Weasley-esque trait of holding a straight face when saying something hilarious, but he was starting to pick up the tells in her face, the little raise of her chin, the quick movement of her eyes. He looked into them, holding back the urge to tell her she was adorable.
Realizing he'd been staring too long, he tore his eyes away to refocus on his shoes.
"You had to defend yourself, Harry. You can just use a different spell next time… Let's go in, I'm starving," Ginny said, and squeezed his elbow before encouraging him to follow her into the hall, fighting against the crowd of crimson and sapphire supporters.
Next time.
Not "If there's a next time" … they both knew there would be.
The team made space so Harry and Ginny could squeeze onto the crowded bench shoulder to shoulder. Those that surrounded him were just colors and voices, blurring out, fading away until all he could hear was Ginny's Next time.
A rooted guilt grew with every passing year as more people he cared about were pulled into the uncontrollable circumstances of his life. He'd always expected them to behave like the Grangers had when they learned what Hermione was involved in. He would never forget the way Mr. Granger looked at him, like he was some poisonous insect that carried unfortunate foreshadowing of a household infestation.
Ron, Hermione and now Ginny knew there'd be a next time. They all knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened to him again. But he couldn't figure out why it was bothering him so much right now.
"You're not eating," Ginny whispered in his ear. He felt her shoulder brush his, making him aware that he'd been staring at an empty plate.
"Not hungry."
A piece of buttered toast slid onto his plate. He knew he should eat it, he had no idea how long Snape would keep him in detention, or what he had planned for it. Probably some grueling physical labor without magic. Harry's knee started bouncing in dreaded anticipation.
Ginny's small, warm hand covered his under the table. For a moment he thought he might've imagined it, until her thumb started tracing along the still sensitive skin of his Umbridge scar.
He slowly turned his hand over, as though carefully opening a door to see what lay on the other side. Their fingers laced together in one smooth easy motion and she gave him a gentle squeeze.
His breathing slowed, nearly stopped. As if moving too much would break the spell she placed there. Because surely this was magic. Nothing else could explain the expanding, dazzling warmth that filled him. Like the first time he held his wand or rode a broom…. The stuff of Patronuses.
He couldn't remember ever holding someone's hand like this, where he wasn't pulling them along, running from Death Eaters or falling out of flying cars. Just… holding.
The crowded seating at the table gave him an excuse to press closer to her side, turning towards her as if warming up by a fire.
It took a few moments, but Harry became aware that next to him, Ginny was carrying on talking with the team. His stomach rumbled and finally agreed to accept a piece of toast.
"Cheer up, Ron," Demelza said, sounding the most upbeat out of any of them. "Here, we made you this." Over the last few nights, she and Ginny had stayed up making rosettes and ribbons for the team. Demelza cast a Sticking Charm on the one labeled "His Majesty, King Weasley" and pressed it to the front of Ron's robes with a definitive pat, and began handing out the rest to the team.
Harry cleared his throat. "You're going to be brilliant, Ron," he said. "Block out the crowd and focus on the Quaffle. Eighty percent, remember?"
Ron forced a laugh. "Eighty-two point five."
"Exactly," Harry said.
Harry stuck the "Lightning Speed Seeker" rosette to the front of his jumper, letting go of Ginny for the first time so she put her "Red-Hot Hands" one on the side opposite to the captain's badge. The only team member who didn't get a personalized slogan was Dean, whose rosette simply said in a hurried scrawl: "Dean - Chaser."
"Sorry, Dean, I didn't have much time," Demelza apologized. "We can't compete with them on, anyway, so I figured it wouldn't be-"
"It's fine. Thanks," Dean said, forcing something like a smile and stuck the rosette unceremoniously to the front of his robes.
Although he would've given anything to be out there with them today, Harry felt touched that no one on his team seemed to blame him, at least outwardly, for missing the match. No matter the results today, he couldn't remember ever laughing so much at practices or feeling like he truly knew each member of his team at his level before.
The closer it inched towards ten o'clock, the more the team looked nervously around, wondering whether or not they should head down to the pitch. Harry could tell that Ron and Ginny tried to hang around with him as long as they dared, but he urged them with the rest of their team to get to warm ups. Ginny looked back to smile at him before shouldering her broom and jogging to catch up with the team.
The crowds of students and teachers made up a lively procession as they marched towards the pitch.
Although every impulse urged him not to, he turned his back and fought against the grain of the crowd, headed towards Snape's dungeon office.
Harry counted the steps as he descended the stairs, each footfall a heavy impact. The pre-match cheers were still audible behind him, but thinning into echo with each step.
Sixteen… Seventeen …
He made a wide turn on the landing, hoping to add more time to his descent to the bowels of the school. Dean and Katie had never played Chaser together, Harry wondered how they'd handle the plays and hoped Dean wouldn't try to throw the match for any reason.
The scuffing of his shoes was now nearly loud enough to drown out the sound from above and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees.
Twenty-one…
It struck him that asking Ginny to take on a different position and team captain responsibilities might have been too much to put on her. He wished he could've found her yesterday to give her more notice.
Harry shivered involuntarily as he descended further down the stairs. Cheerful as a crypt in the dim murky light, the dungeons were now silent as the grave apart from his footsteps.
Thirty-six …Thirty-eight …
Harry held out his hand, giving a stiff knock on Snape's office door.
"Enter… Ah, Potter," said Snape, spotting the rosette on the front of Harry's robes. Snape's face contorted into a double expression of disgust and grotesque satisfaction that Harry was missing the match.
While Snape explained the task - copying out aged detention slips from Harry's parents' school years - Harry tried to keep his eyes from wandering around Snape's familiar darkened office, not wanting details of Snape's gloomy office to remind him any more than necessary of their failed Occlumency lessons.
Accepting Snape's diabolical detention with contempt, Harry opened the first box and stifled a cough from the cloud of dust that came with it.
Although his body was in the dungeon, his thoughts were up on the pitch with his team. Did Peakes and Coote do their full warm up routine? Sometimes they skimped on them. How was Ron handling the pressure? He looked alright after breakfast.
October 27th , 1976
Sirius Black and James Potter. Apprehended shutting Regulus Black and Amycus Carrow in Slytherin Quidditch Locker Room with two loose Bludgers. Carrow sent to the hospital wing. Month's detention.
Harry remembered Sirius talking about his younger brother being an early supporter of Voldemort. Of course, they'd be at school together at the same time. He had a fleeting wish that he'd asked Sirius more about their school days. The other name was new to him.
The clock showed that only a half hour had passed by the time he'd gotten through about thirty cards. His wrist started to ache, so he slowed down. He remembered with a rush how Ginny had reached for his hand this morning. No matter what happened with the match, he decided he would finally try to pull her away when he got back.
He flipped to the next dust-caked card.
December 3rd , 1976
James Potter and Sirius Black. For placing Flatulence Jinx on Artemius Motty's shoes. Obscene sounds, duration: 24 hours. Single detention each.
Really mature, Harry thought, smiling internally. But no less so, he reasoned, than consuming an entire treacle tart to earn imaginary approval to date his best friend's sister.
Ginny versus Cho… he should've told Ginny about Cho's tendencies to tail the other seekers, but she'd find out easily enough. Cho had more experience reading Snitches, but Ginny was a better overall flier, faster, more daring, wouldn't be afraid of knocking Cho around a bit.
Another fifty or so cards went by before he saw his father's name again.
January 30th , 1977
James Potter. Considerable damage to school property, caught rearranging furniture in Gryffindor Tower. Two dress code violations, holding sign inscribed "Birthday Kiss." Double detention.
He recognized the date as his mum's birthday from newspaper clippings. He did quick mental math. Her seventeenth.
Harry reread it, trying to picture what had happened. He repressed a small smile and lingered on the card as long as he dared without drawing suspicion from Snape.
With each new card he checked the clock again, but time seemed to crawl. His stomach started to complain, feeling the lack of breakfast from this morning.
When Snape finally dismissed him, he practically ran out of the dungeon office, taking the stairs two at a time. The sun was bright, high in the sky, illuminating an empty Quidditch pitch as he half ran, half walked past the windows overlooking the grounds.
When he turned the corner to the Fat Lady's corridor, his heart was beating fast in anticipation of what he'd find when he opened the portrait door. A random thought crossed his mind, making a mental note to remember to ask Lupin what happened on his mother's birthday in 1977 when James had presumably threw her a party and offered her a birthday kiss.