August wears on, the last few weeks before school now upon them, and Harry doubles down on his reading and preparation. The rest of the magical world has decided to be stubborn and keeps its collective head buried in the ground. Fine. He'll be ready, even if no one else is. The papers aren't saying anything about Voldemort any more, which at least means Harry is no longer being slandered, but it also means no one knows, and most of them probably still think he and Neville are liars, because no further articles about them doesn't exactly mean they've printed a retraction. Sirius growls about it a lot, but there's not much he can do.
Harry has already got his school books, at least; he'd insisted on going as early as possible to get them. He's going to be busy, he knows; he doesn't want to waste any time, or risk falling behind. Besides, it's not like it isn't interesting. Arithmancy is actually fascinating, he learns—though he doesn't have nearly as much a head for it as he does for Ancient Runes. With runes, the interactions are just… intuitive for him—they make sense intrinsically, he doesn't have to struggle to memorize them like he does the different meanings assigned to numbers, and runic sentences just click together in his mind, whereas he has to sit and work out each arithmantic equation bit by bit. But he likes it, the same way he remembers liking maths in primary school—especially now that he doesn't have to dumb himself down to keep behind Dudley in class.
He also spends a lot of time practicing duelling with Sirius and Remus. Partly it's because there was no assigned Defence Against the Dark Arts text, and he wants to be ready, but also he just wants to be ready. His reflexes are good, and his spellwork is powerful, but both of them scold him on his reliance on certain spells (Expelliarmus becomes a quick favourite) and the sloppiness of his wandwork. He's never been very good in Charms or even in Transfiguration for the same reason; he's just not good at the regimented motions and memorization of arbitrary incantations. It's not as intuitive as certain defensive spells, or flying, or runes.
Halfway through one of these lectures on trying to expand his repertoire, Sirius stops and slaps his forehead with a groan.
"What?" says Harry.
"I'm a bloody idiot," Sirius says loudly.
"Not arguing," Remus says, from where he's sitting on the grass, watching. They've come out to the same bit of magical park space that Harry had first visited on his birthday last year, where he often comes to fly—there's a fenced off grassy area for those practicing friendly duels, shielded from the rest of the park. It's not very often in use, and the weather's been so nice that they come here often to practice.
"It's your Inclination," Sirius says to Harry. "I hadn't even thought of it, but you're quite powerful—it makes sense your Inclination would show this strongly."
"My Inclination?" Harry asks, frowning. Blaise and Theo had explained a bit about magical Inclination in his first year, but he'd never asked further about it. They'd said it wasn't really that important—basically everyone was capable of all common magic, at least the sort taught at Hogwarts.
"Yes," Sirius says. "I, well, it does make sense. The Black family magic accepted you so easily—Harry, you're Dark, of course you are."
Harry's frown deepens. "What does that mean?"
"Well, aside from meaning you're all the more well-suited as Black Heir, it'll effect the… the way you access magic, I suppose. Dark magic is, fundamentally, any magic that comes from its own wellspring, for which you are only a channel; Light magic is… invented, I suppose, created by the act of speaking and wand motion rather than directed by it; and Grey magic is magic that comes solely from the self, fuelled by the wix's own personal power and shaped by it at the same time. The weakest versions of all of these are accessible by all wixen, but your Inclination still effects what you're good at, to some degree. The more powerful the wix, the more Inclination tends to show."
"Oh," Harry says, processing that. "So… what makes you think I'm Dark?"
"You're such an intuitive user of magic," Sirius explains. "And you're drawn to magics that lean Dark—certain defensive spells, and Ancient Runes. You don't like memorizing lists of runes, but you're good with the connections and their meanings; I suspect you'll find something similar in Care of—oh, bloody hell, of course you're Dark, you're a Parselmouth!" Sirius slaps his forehead again, probably just for effect; he's already got a red mark in the middle of his face. "It's a Dark gift. It didn't even occur to me that your Inclination would be having this effect, though, especially not when you're still so young."
"Okay." Harry frowns down at his hands, one still clutching his wand. "So… Dark arts are going to come easily to me?"
"More or less," Sirius says. Remus, by then, has gotten up and walked over. "Certain magics are, as a school, more Dark or more Light, though the spells within aren't all really so strong as to be classified strictly."
"Oh," Harry says again, feeling rather like a broken record, thinks about that for a moment, and says, "So, Charms are mostly Light spells, right? Because all of the wand movements and incantations are really specific to each spell, and if you get it wrong, it doesn't work. But… a Disarming Charm—well, a lot of defensive spells, at least that you've taught me—can be done even if the wand motion's a bit sloppy, you just have to try really hard. They're easier if the motion's right, though."
"Exactly," Sirius says, nodding proudly. "Expelliarmus, Protego, and a bunch of other defensive hexes, jinxes, and curses are really about instinct, about magic that's already been shaped—you just have to access it. And your ability to access it, Harry, is very strong."
"For you," Remus cuts in, "the difficulty is going to be in keeping that access controlled. Most spells will simply fizzle if you lose your grasp on the magic; Expelliarmus is like that. If you can't grasp it, if your hand is too loose or too tight, it just doesn't work. But other Dark or Dark-leaning spells will consume you if you lose control."
Harry thinks back to the way the family magic had felt last summer, when Sirius had adopted him into the family. He hasn't tried to use it since, but he can see how something like that could take control of him, rather than him having control of it. He'd felt wide open to something much larger than himself, a door only barely on its hinges; he'd managed to shut that door then, but if he opens it again, he's not sure what will happen—he's not sure if he's strong enough to stand against the flood. So he nods, because he thinks he does understand what Sirius and Remus are saying. "I'll be careful," he promises. "So, what else is Dark? Or Light, or Grey?"
Remus takes over, launching into a small lecture that turns to a discussion, all three of them sitting on the grass and talking about magic, what it is, where it comes from, what it can do. Harry is full of questions, and Sirius and Remus both full of answers—sometimes even different answers. Sirius subscribes to the school of thought that says that wixen are gifted with magic by magic itself, a pseudo- or even truly sentient entity, or maybe deity, made up of all of the higher energy of the world. Remus, on the other hand, thinks that while such a pool of magic may exist, it's more that wixen end up with the ability to manipulate magic at differing levels of strength more or less by genetic lottery—otherwise, he says, why would Squibs be born? Why muggleborns? Why a strong child in a family of weaker wixen, or a weak one to strong parents? And besides, if it is a gift from some sentience, what does that say about magic's criteria of choice?
Sirius and Remus argue lightly about that for a while, and Harry listens, fascinated. Some of their disagreement comes down to difference in upbringing—Sirius is from an old, an Ancient pureblood family, while Remus is a halfblood born to a muggle and a pureblood, raised with understanding of muggles and their ways, similar to Harry himself. Neither of them had ever lived in the muggle world full-time, but Remus had some muggle science in his childhood education and works in the muggle world now, whereas Sirius was raised not precisely religious, but with magical spirituality, superstition, and ritual. Harry's own childhood again had been very different from theirs, and he's not sure who he believes; he resolves to ask around once he's back at Hogwarts and see what others think. He's especially curious as to Hermione's opinion, and decides that perhaps he should write her, though of course he'll get about six pages back of speculation and footnoted research, knowing her.
There are a lot of things Harry wants to ask Hermione, and he gets as many of them out in his letters to her as he can, because he knows that once school starts things are going to have to be different. He's heard in a very strange letter from Marcus Flint (the subtext of which, he suspects, had been what the bloody hell are you doing, Potter?) that Flint has been held back a year, having thoroughly failed his NEWTs—probably on purpose, for some reason, or so Harry thinks, because Flint had never struck him as an idiot. But his being there, and Theo, and Draco Malfoy, all of them, it all means that Harry is going to have to be very careful about who he associates with, and how he associates with them. He's not exactly a Death Eater, but he's trying to keep Voldemort thinking he's an asset and not a threat, and that means he's probably not going to be able to spend much time with the Gryffindors this year. That burns like acid going down, and he turns it over again and again in his mind as the final weeks wear on, lying awake late at night, staring at his dark ceiling and trying to find some lie he could tell that would justify keeping his friends. But the only one Voldemort cares about is Neville, and even that relationship is going to have to change.
The truth is, Harry doesn't want to have information for Voldemort, because if he has it at all he's going to have to give at least some of it up in order to keep himself alive. The best way, then, to keep from telling anything is to keep from knowing anything, and the best way to avoid knowing anything is to not be there. He remembers first year, when the Gryffindor Trio hadn't quite trusted him yet, hadn't told him about the Philosopher's Stone, and he thinks that perhaps that's how things will have to be—the three of them plotting, and him on the fringes, knowing something is going on but not quite what it is. It's infuriating; he'd worked for that trust, for his reputation in the school as someone not able to be swayed or influenced by anyone other than himself, someone who doesn't care about House divisions and stupidity in social politics, and now he's got to go back on all of it and bend over backward for Voldemort if he doesn't want to die—and he doesn't. He doesn't want anyone to die, which was the whole point of all of this.
It's worth it, he reminds himself over and over again. It's worth the duelling practice and the long hours spent reading under his covers, the practice meditating to get just a little further with his Animagus transformation, the Occlumency and the lies and the fact that he's going to lose all his friends. He already feels like he's losing himself. But how much worse, really, could it get? And the current state of affairs is worth seeing everyone he loves live through this war.
So he studies and he prepares and he doesn't tell Sirius and Remus anything, other than that he's frightened, to which they give soft sighs and warm hugs and tell him, yes, of course he is, and it's okay. It'll be okay. They'll protect him.
(They can't.)
And then comes the end of August, and Harry scurries around the Doghouse getting all of his things together for school. It's the night of the 31st, and still early for bed, but it's also the night of the full moon, and so Sirius and Remus are saying goodnight early before they head off to a park or something to have a frolic and keep Moony busy until the sun returns; the moon is still an hour from its rise. Harry packs his truck, with Sirius or Remus occasionally summoning misplaced items from other rooms, and Harry tucks things away carefully, one-by-one. At the very bottom of his trunk, he packs his most precious items: his dad's necklace and his mum's perfume, wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak and secret, a secret heart to him that no one else gets to see. Sirius shrinks his broom for him—"Get Madame Hooch to resize it," he advises—and Harry makes sure that his rowan Potter wand is in his leg holster, which he sets aside to strap on in the morning.
And then everything's more or less ready, and Sirius stoops to kiss Harry's forehead. Harry is sitting cross-legged on his bed, and he cranes up a little to receive the kiss.
"Love you, pup," Sirius says.
Sirius has said those words a thousand times by now, but they never fail to make Harry's heart feel full of warmth. "Love you too," he replies, and looks over to where Remus is lingering in the doorway. "You too, Remus."
"I love you as well, Harry," Remus murmurs, and then, "Sirius."
"Alright," Sirius sighs, gives Harry one more hug, and says, "I'll check in on you when we're back—don't stay up too late."
"I won't," Harry promises, and Sirius steps back. He pauses to kiss Remus's cheek in the doorway, and Remus smiles at him, but waves him onward.
"I'll be there in a moment," Remus murmurs, and Sirius glances between him and Harry, then nods and slips away.
Remus turns his gold-amber gaze on Harry, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim light of Harry's lamp, and then he prowls across the room. There's something lupine in his walk—in his every move, no matter what he does—this close to the moon. Harry sort of likes it, even though it should seem dangerous. But to Harry, it's just Remus. It's Moony. He knows Moony would probably destroy just about anything that tried to hurt Harry. He's even growled at Sirius in the days leading up to the moon; he's banned from duelling practice any time within three days of the full moon, because he gets too snarly about anyone casting spells at his pup, even his lover. Sirius had laughed about it; Harry knows Remus is a bit embarrassed, but… being so treasured, it's nice.
Remus comes right up to the side of Harry's bed and crouches so that they're level, and he touches Harry's face and the side of his neck, and then leans in to rest his forehead against Harry's briefly. "I'm going to miss you when you're away," he says softly. "Be careful, alright?"
"I will," Harry promises. I'll try, anyway, he thinks.
"I'm sure you'll try," Remus replies, because he's really too perceptive this close to the moon—or maybe he just knows Harry. "I'll probably be too tired to see you off in the morning, but I need you to know that I love you. War is scary, and hard, and it draws lines of division between people, even those who love each other. I do not want you to be divided from me, Harry; you are my pack, as much as James and Lily are, as Sirius is, and…" He trails off, seeming a bit frustrated. He doesn't have the words, maybe, for what he feels.
Remus has talked about this a little with Harry, when Harry had asked careful questions about his lycanthropy. The wolf feels things differently from the man, and this close to the moon, there's some bleed-over. Remus hasn't got all of his usual eloquence, and there perhaps aren't human words for what he's feeling anyway.
So Harry just hums and reaches up to grab Remus's shoulder and hold on hard for a moment. He wants to stay, too.
Remus smiles. "I love you. So much. So does Sirius."
"I love you too, Remus. Now go on, before you get any more wolfy—I don't want to be cleaning fur out of my blankets all night," Harry says, trying to lighten the mood.
Fortunately, he succeeds; Remus snorts, rises, and goes, leaving Harry alone with a single last lingering look over his shoulder. Sirius calls a goodbye from the front room, Harry calls back with his own goodbye, and then with a click the front door opens, shuts, and they're gone.
Harry sighs and settles into his blankets. Tomorrow he goes back to Hogwarts. Tonight he gets to enjoy the quiet, one last time.
He ends up going to sleep early and rising early, even before Sirius comes to get him up, though he doesn't get out of bed until Sirius sticks his head through Harry's door and tells him breakfast is ready. They eat quietly together, careful not to disturb Remus's post-moon slumber, and head for King's Cross. It's busy when they arrive, of course. Half the magical world seems to be crowded onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Harry and Sirius end up saying a somewhat rushed goodbye in order to get clear of the madness. Sirius kisses Harry's forehead, hugs him hard, and tells him to be careful. Harry promises he will, and then he turns away to get to the train. When he looks back again, Sirius is gone in the mess of people, vanished, and Harry is alone in the crowd, with nowhere to go but forward. Not even Hedwig is with him; he has her cage, but he sent her to fly on ahead. Maybe, he decides, he'll go visit her tonight in the Owlery. It'll be nice to spend time with someone who has no expectations of him.
He clambers aboard the train, his trunk already charmed for lightness by Sirius, and looks around. It's early enough that there are still a few empty compartments, and after a moment's hesitation he ducks into one, deciding that whichever of his friends arrives first will be fine to sit with, even the Gryffindors. After today, he'll figure out how to distance himself from them, but one more afternoon can't hurt.
But the Gryffindors don't arrive. Instead, a soft tapping at the door and then the rattle of it opening heralds the appearance of Luna Lovegood, dressed in orange robes and wearing her bottle-cork necklace. She has radishes hanging from her ears, only just visible through her loose tumble of wavy blonde hair, which he remembers from the one time he'd actually properly met her over Christmas last year. That feels like a small age ago; he smiles tentatively at her and privately wonders why she's not sitting with her friends. Then he remembers her missing shoes, and then his own primary school days with Dudley, and thinks, Right.
"Hello, Lovegood," he says, as she comes in. He gets up and helps her with her trunk, sliding it into the overhead rack.
"Hello Harry," she replies in her soft, sweet voice. "You should call me Luna."
"Alright," he says. "How was your summer?"
"Oh, good," she says. "Daddy and I went looking for fairy eleuthids—they're quite rare."
"Oh," Harry says. He has no idea what a fairy eleuthid is, and isn't sure if he should ask. "Well, that's… nice."
"It was," she says, sounding pleased. "And how was your summer, Harry? You seem better than you did at the end of term, but also quite tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?"
"Er, I suppose." Something about her calm and insightful inquisition sets Harry on his back foot; he remembers this, a bit, from their encounter at Christmas and the few times he'd seen her in passing since. "I did get a lot of rest this summer." In between the worrying, anyway.
"That's good," Luna says. She smiles at Harry, then says, "Did you do anything else?"
"Mostly just read," Harry says, and he reaches down for his satchel to pull out the book on Greek runes he's bought, because she's a Ravenclaw and he figures she might be interested. "Stuff like this. And lots of Defence."
"Because of You-Know-Who," Luna says calmly, accepting the book. Harry startles a little, and she pats his hand. "Don't worry, Harry. I believed you from the start. I don't think you'd lie about something like that."
"Thanks," Harry says. Something like that, she said. But she believes he'd lie about other things? Really, she's far too perceptive. But there's not much he can do about that. He goes to say something else, but she's got the book open in her lap and looks engrossed already, and he gives a wry smile and digs out another book for himself.
Eventually, the train shifts beneath them and begins to move, and Harry glances up. None of his other friends have arrived, a little strangely, but he decides to accept the gift of peace and Luna's strange company. They can just read and be quiet, and he won't have to put on a face of any sort; she doesn't really seem to expect anything from him. And hadn't he been thinking just a little earlier how nice Hedwig's company could be for just the same reason? So he takes it at face value, lets himself get absorbed in his book, and waits to see if anyone else will come by.
In the end, a few do. Millicent wanders past and pauses to stick her head in and greet Harry, and invite him down to the compartment she's sharing with Blaise, Theo, Greengrass, and Greengrass's younger sister Astoria, who's a first year this year. Harry politely declines, nodding to Luna and saying that he's got a companion already, which Millicent accepts with an amused smirk. Gemma also comes by, and she and Harry exchange pleasantries briefly before she says that they'll need to talk more later, with a glance at Luna that tells Harry she wants privacy. He suspects he'll have a lot of people pulling him aside for one reason or another in the first week of term: Gemma, Theo, Neville, and Hermione are all certain to want to talk, and perhaps also Blaise, the Weasley twins, Marcus Flint… the list goes on. Harry's still bracing himself.
He doesn't see Neville, Hermione, or Ron on the train. Probably, he decides, they're wrapped up in their own business—for all Neville's retiring nature, he's still the Boy-Who-Lived, and people want his attention. They also have their own full complement of Housemates to keep busy with; Harry tries not to feel their absence, reminds himself that this is how it's going to be until his deception of Voldemort has ended, and buries his attention in his book until the time comes to change into robes and clamber off the train.
Harry and Luna drift together up the path toward the carriages that will take them—both of them, now that Luna's in her second year—up to the castle. They come around a small bend in the road, and Harry stops dead, staring at the line of carriages; behind him, another student protests and then shoves past him. But he stays still, his eyes fixed on the strange creatures hitched to the fronts of the black carriages: skeletal horselike creatures, with ash-grey skin stretched thin over bone, their black eyes gleaming in the low light of the lamps that illuminate the street.
"You can see them now?" Luna says, stepping close enough that her shoulder brushes Harry's arm. "It's okay, Harry. They're nice."
Nice isn't the word Harry'd use, but he suspects she means they won't harm anyone. "I… why didn't I see them before?"
"Only someone who's seen death can see them," she says. "Did you see them in June?"
Harry shakes his head—but then, he thinks, he'd still been in a haze in June. Maybe he would have noticed them… or maybe not. Maybe he hadn't really thought about it then, the way he'd had to to prepare for the Wizengamot: that the woman he'd seen transformed during the ritual was dead. That she has been a person, and now she was ash, if even that.
"I've always seen them," Luna explains. "My mum, you see. But Hagrid told me about them. I'm sure he could answer any questions you might have."
"Okay," Harry says, his voice a whisper, and wonders if Neville had gone through this same realization at the end of term last year, and Harry had just… missed it.
Luna tugs gently on Harry's sleeve at his wrist, and he follows her up to one of the carriages and inside; there are already a few Hufflepuffs in there, and once Harry and Luna are seated and the door is closed, the carriage begins to move, now full. The ride up to the castle is filled with the quiet chatter of the Hufflepuffs; Harry stays quiet, and so does Luna, watching him with her pale blue eyes.
By the time they reach the castle, at least, Harry has managed to convince himself that he's okay—okay enough to get through dinner and get to bed, at least. He thinks he might have nightmares; he loves Hogwarts, but it no longer feels as safe as it had last year. Not as safe as the Doghouse does, at least. But his friends are here, and his teachers, and the lingering memories of long chats with Sirius and flying in the Quidditch pitch and running along the edge of the lake with Blaise or Padfoot or both by his side. That's enough to bolster him, that and the bright shining stars high in the ceiling of the Great Hall, unhidden for once by autumn cloud cover.
Harry slides into place beside Theo and smiles at him when he glances over, says hello quietly; Theo, and Blaise on Theo's other side, greet him in return and the three of them make their way to the Slytherin table as the column of returning students files into the Hall, people finding Housemates and friends and chatter beginning to rise up toward the high ceiling and fill the air with the excitement of a new term.
"How was your summer?" Harry asks, once he and Theo and Blaise are seated. "Sorry I missed you on the train."
"Not a problem," Theo says, and there's something a little stiff, a little distant in his voice. He looks paler than usual, his cheeks a bit sallow, and there are dark circles under his eyes—not so very noticeable, but enough. "My summer was fine."
That's about right, Harry thinks, remembering letters he's exchanged with his friend over the summer. Theo is frightened, though he's not showing it now that they're back at school. And he's been asking questions that Harry can't give him answers to. "What about you, Blaise?" Harry asks, instead of pressing.
Blaise glances between the two of them; he's clearly picking up on the tension, but he doesn't pry. Not right now, anyway. "Good," he says, and launches into a story about his and his mother's trip to South Africa, the magical zoo they'd visited there and all the interesting people they'd met. He gets most of the way through the story when a hush falls. Dumbledore has risen and gestured to the Great Hall doors, and much like last year they open promptly to admit the small crowd of tiny new first years, huddled together, staring around with wide eyes and open mouths at the grandeur of Hogwarts arrayed around them. Professor McGonagall is tall and stately at the front of the column, as always, and the clearing of her throat carries throughout the crowd as she comes to stand behind the stool with the Sorting Hat, which opens its mouth and begins to sing as soon as it's settled.
"Welcome, welcome, one and all
Come sit down, have a chat
I may look like a bag of rags
But I'm the Sorting Hat!
You may think I'm now too old
Scuffed and torn by time and wear
To know my stuff, my this from that
But have a listen, have a care.
I will sort you, House by House
But in times of trouble, four join as one;
You are the heart of Hogwarts now
By you must battle here be won.
With badgers' claws fight Hufflepuff,
Great builders, loyal friends
Tireless and steady as the tides
They'll defend their home to the very end.
And none may stop keen Ravenclaw
From seeking truth down every path
They'll never let a question lie
Try to stop them; meet their wrath.
Slytherin, who know their own minds,
Who pursue desire without shame
Who hold the world in their palm
And fear nothing that can be named.
Gold Gryffindor with bared blade
Will never bend to whisp'ring voice
That comes to share a tale of fear;
They stand tall, certain in their choice.
I read your minds, I don't make them up
You must do that each yourselves
The tools we place into your hands
… Well, don't leave them on the shelves."
There's a pause, and then at the same time as other whispers begin to fill the Great Hall, Blaise says, quiet and dry as dust, "That bodes well."
Harry and Theo snort in unison, share a glance—uneasy, uncertain, but shared—and then Harry says, "It's not like this school ever isn't a battleground, at least for Slytherins."
"True," Blaise sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. He's only gotten more handsome over the summer, starting to come into the sharp aquiline features he inherited from his mother. She's a renowned beauty, Harry now knows from Sirius, and one equally renowned for her black widow tendencies, not that anyone has ever been able to prove anything. Whether Blaise will grow up to emulate her, only time will tell, but he'll surely have the same number of eager suitors, courting death or no.
In the background, the Sorting starts up, all the tiny first years being sent to their new homes. Harry listens with half an ear, but the only name that catches his attention is Astoria Greengrass, Daphne's sister, who of course ends up in Slytherin. Blaise and Theo have both fallen quiet, so Harry looks around, up and down the Slytherin table, taking in who's present.
Gemma and Hussain, sitting near the end of the table with Warrington and Higgs, as usual—Gemma's made Head Girl this year, which surprises Harry not at all. Her counterpart, he'd heard on the train, is Percy Weasley, whose rigidity she will hopefully balance. Marcus Flint, as promised, is sitting a little further down the table among the rest of the Quidditch team. Harry isn't sure if he's been made Captain again, given that he failed his exams, but Snape might slide around the rules in some way; he surely suspects as much or more than Harry does that Flint flunked on purpose. As if noticing someone watching, he glances up and meets Harry's eyes. A rare flicker of expression passes over his stony features, but Harry doesn't have time to identify it before it's hidden again. Flint nods, and then looks away; Harry moves on as well, skimming his gaze past the other members of the Quidditch team—he knows where their loyalties lie.
Draco Malfoy is holding court among his remaining faction of sycophants, near the middle of the table—Pansy Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle, as well as a small handful of second and fourth years. Harry showed him up last year, but power is a slippery thing in Slytherin, and if he wants to hold onto it he'll have to do something, especially after the mess with the papers over the summer. It'll depend a little on what the Death Eaters with children have told them about Harry; he'll have a week or two to feel that out before he needs to make any decisions about what to do, he thinks.
And of course the neutrals, mixed in here and there. Harry exchanges a polite nod with Iuliana Urquart, who's sitting across the table from Millicent; interesting. It's all… interesting. Harry sighs, rubs his forehead, and then shakes his head when Blaise shoots him an inquiring look. "It's nothing," Harry says. "Just… somehow I always manage to forget over the summer how complicated Hogwarts is."
"Not like your summer was quiet, though," Theo points out. "You've been in the papers an awful lot."
"I know," Harry says. "Not by choice."
"Well, yes, they were calling you a liar and mad, or implying it," Blaise says. "I can understand why you'd not want that."
"I don't care what they call me," Harry says intently, "so long as they tell the truth about the Dark Lord."
Both Blaise and Theo stare for a moment, and Harry sighs internally. The Dark Lord is the phrasing of a Dark-aligned wix and Harry knows it; he'd much rather just say Voldemort, but he has to be careful. Before he's forced to answer any questions, though, the Sorting ends and Dumbledore rises amid the last of the applause for the final first-year (Zhou, Annie; Hufflepuff).
"Thank you, and welcome back, one and all," Dumbledore says, once silence falls. "A few brief—"
"Hem hem," says someone at the staff table. Harry looks up that way for the first time—in truth, he'd been avoiding meeting Snape's eyes, but he'd also been wanting to put off finding out what manner of person had taken over Sirius's job. He knows they won't be as good. And, indeed, it looks like the new addition to the staff table is a real character, but not the type Harry would expect to be much good at Defence. A small woman with a round face and curled hair wearing an incredibly pink outfit rises from her seat, folding her hands in front of herself as she does so. She has the features of a particularly grumpy toad: round eyes and wide thin lips which she somehow folds into a simpering smile.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," she says. She makes headmaster sound like a dirty word. "Perhaps I might address the students?" It's not really a question.
"Of course, Professor Umbridge," Dumbledore says, with a shocking amount of grace. Harry doubts he would have been able to restrain some amount of sarcasm if he were in Dumbledore's shoes.
Umbridge, apparently the woman's name, turns her slimy smile on the student body. "Hem hem," she says again. Her voice is high but reedy, as if her girlish tone is affected rather than natural; Harry already hates it, and can't imagine a year of listening to her give classroom lectures is going to be enjoyable at all. "Dear children, my name is Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, and I am to be your new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts! You see, children, there is no higher priority for your Ministry than the nurturing and molding of the young minds of the next generation, and so I have been appointed here by your caring Minister to ensure that each of you is well-taught. I will act in the fullness of my authority as your professor to ensure that each of you is able to get the most out of your education, and that you are not distracted from this vital task! Each and every one of you has been given the gift of magic, and must learn to use it to become fruitful members of our society.
"I understand that in years past you have been given some unorthodox instruction, but I assure you all that I will do my utmost to get you back on track. There are important traditions of magical society that have been neglected in your education so far, and it is these that I will emphasize! I cannot wait to see all your smiling faces in my class, eager to be prepared for the world as it truly is!"
Harry decides at that point to tune Umbridge out. He's gotten the gist already: she's here to make sure that no one is saying anything at Hogwarts that the Ministry doesn't like. He doesn't doubt that this is in response to Sirius and Dumbledore's more inflammatory remarks over the summer about the return of Voldemort, combined with their mutual influence in the school last year. Well, she'll just have to deal with it—if he hadn't been willing to let the papers lie about Voldemort all summer, he's not going to let her lie about Voldemort to him or anyone else during the school year, no matter how much the audience for those lies has shrunk. Inside, he wants everyone to be ready when the war comes; on the outside, well, he did make a promise to Voldemort that he'd spread the message.
"This is nonsense," Theo whispers to Blaise and Harry, once Umbridge has gone on for a few more minutes about the noble traditions of the magical world and molding young minds and whatnot.
"Of course it is," Blaise drawls, also in an undertone, though he doesn't bother to whisper; all around them others are starting to talk quietly, ignoring the long-winded and repetitive speech. "It's the Ministry."
Harry snickers. "You've got that right."
"Children!" Umbridge trills from behind the staff table. "Your attention please! I am not done speaking! Listen to this important message." Then she keeps going on for another few minutes, over top of the rising tide of chatter. Finally, she says, "And we will certainly have a very good year, if you are all good and obedient children, yes? Yes!"
"Thank you, Madame Umbridge," Dumbledore says, before she can say anything else or leave an awkward silence hanging for too long. "I agree, it will certainly be an interesting year." That, Harry notes, is not the same thing as a 'good' year. Not that anyone ever said Dumbledore was an idiot.
Dumbledore goes on to his usual announcements—the Forbidden Forest is forbidden, blah, blah; Harry watches Umbridge. She's glaring at the Gryffindor table. In part, he suspects, because they'd been ignoring her with the most gusto a few minutes ago, but probably also because Neville is there. Of the two of them, he's the easier target for her vitriol if she's going to try to push that they'd been lying about Voldemort—which he has no doubt she will. She seems like a head-in-the-sand type.
The worst part, Harry thinks, is that if she comes after Neville he won't be able to stand up for him. He can stand up for himself and for the truth, but he has to distance himself from his Gryffindor friends. Maybe it won't make a difference, but… it'll be safer for him and for them if they're just not friends for a while. It'll be fine, he thinks. They're really closer with one another than they are with him, the same as Blaise and Theo; he's gotten by without friends before, and he can do it again.
It's not going to be a good year, but Dumbledore was right: it'll be an interesting one.
After the Feast, Harry and his friends head for the Slytherin dormitory. There's a small crowd gathered in the common room already when they arrive, and they snag a space leaning against the wall by the doorway to the boys' dorm rooms. As usual, not long after the first years are ushered in by the fifth year Prefects, Snape appears, swooping in with a swirl of his black cloak and coming to stand at the centre of the group. Silence falls, everyone seeming to hold their breaths as they all wait for him to speak.
"All of you should be aware," Snape begins, after a pause where he sweeps his gaze over the group, "that things may be different within Hogwarts this year. The Ministry's presence within these halls will change the dynamics: between student and teacher, and between each House and all of the others. For us, as the perpetual outsiders at Hogwarts, this may be an opportunity… or a significant threat. Each of you, indeed, may find that that pendulum swings differently, and even differently at different moments. Such is the way of things within Slytherin.
"The clever know how to go with the tides… and when to resist them. I hope you will all choose well. I hope also that you will not fear to use all the resourcefulness that comes naturally to this House. I do not doubt that each of you will learn that being clever and quick in order to protect one's own interests sometimes also requires bravery, or wits, or stubborn immobility."
There's a laugh, and Snape tilts his head slightly, but he doesn't smile. "The other Houses pretend that their own way is the best and only: the Ravenclaws believe they can think their way out of any box and so rarely see what is beyond the bounds of their own minds; the Gryffindors will bull through any obstacle even if it means breaking themselves to do it; the Hufflepuffs persevere through all adversity, clinging until they've been worn to dust. We know that there are many ways to a goal. That is what being clever is. Know yourself. Know your resources. And never, ever be afraid to use what you know."
There are nods all around the room, Slytherins absorbing their Head of House's words. Harry smiles, and doesn't hesitate to meet Snape's eyes when the professor looks his way; the brush of Legilimency that comes is expected, and Harry receives a nod of approval when Snape touches the edges of his shields. Then Snape looks away, nods to his collected Slytherins, and strides away again, leaving the Prefects to finish the job of ushering the first years to their new rooms. The rest of the crowd disperses quickly, students seeking dorm-mates and then their beds, and Harry goes with Blaise and Theo, the three of them sharing a companionable silence as they return to their cozy dorm, with its familiar dark furniture and green bedspreads. Harry sighs contentedly when he lays eyes on his bed once more, and jumps up to flop onto it, making Theo laugh.
"Tired already, Harry?" he says, teasing.
"A bit," Harry admits, and shuffles to lie down properly on his back. He tries very hard not to react when something under his pillow makes the soft sound of crinkling paper when he lays his head upon it; Blaise and Theo both seem not to hear, and Harry shifts cautiously. He hears the sound again, and thinks, What now?
Blaise stretches and goes over to his trunk. "Well, I'm going to get ready for bed."
Theo shakes his head, but he begins unpacking, and Harry rises to do the same. If whatever it is that's under his pillow were urgent, it would have come to him another way; whoever left it (Snape? Dumbledore? some unknown other?) had to have known that he would need to wait until he could look at it away from his friends.
After unpacking, Harry gets ready for bed too—Theo complains about Blaise and Harry's early-to-bed-early-to-rise outlook, but after the huge meal at the Feast and the long train ride, he must be feeling sleepy as well, because he crawls into bed at nearly the same time as they do. Harry closes his curtains after bidding goodnight to his roommates, glad that his frequent insomnia (and subsequent late-night reading) have made that a normal habit of his already, and then waits in the enveloping darkness of his bed until the room outside has fallen quiet. Then he waits a little longer, until he can hear Theo's soft, nasally snores. Then, as quietly as he can, he slides a hand under his pillow and extracts the scrap of parchment and lights his wand, still clutched in his hand, with a soft, "Lumos."
Potter, says the parchment in Snape's spidery handwriting. You have been summoned. Seek me tonight, as soon as possible; do not be seen.
Harry's mouth twists, and he squeezes his eyes tight shut. He's back at Hogwarts. He was supposed to be safe. Maybe not from the politics, from having to be alone without his friends and from suspicion and stress, but from this.
But, he reminds himself, nowhere is safe. Hogwarts isn't safe, the Doghouse isn't safe, there is no person or place in the world that is safe for him any more; Voldemort has been inside his mind and will be again, and everything is different for him now. He has to be stronger than this. So he scrubs a hand over his face, whispers, "Nox," and in the darkness slides out of his curtains and over to his wardrobe. He moves as silently as he can, and fortunately both of his roommates do seem to be asleep; he manages to dig out a robe and then, from his trunk, his Invisibility Cloak without either of them stirring. The rowan wand is still in its place in the holster on his thigh under his pyjama pants, and he steps into his boots without socks. His holly wand he retrieves from his bedside table, along with his glasses, and then he slings his Invisibility Cloak on over his shoulders with a near-silent shush of fabric and slips out of the dorm.
The common room is empty, somewhat to his surprise, but he supposes it has been some time since Snape gave his speech. Perhaps an hour, an hour and a half—he doesn't have a good sense of it. No point casting a Tempus; it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that he gets to Snape as quickly as possible; best not to keep the Dark Lord waiting.
As he walks down the silent black stretch of hall between the Slytherin common room and Snape's office door, Harry checks his Occlumency construct, layering the shadow he walks through even now through some of the halls where he keeps parts of his inner self, hiding the windows to his heart in the shroud of night, letting not even a shred of pale bright moonlight shine in. Voldemort hasn't looked there yet, but better that he never has the chance to get curious; better he be preoccupied seeking in the darkness for Harry's other secrets. He buries his loneliness there, the tension between himself and Theo, the knowledge he'd just rediscovered within himself that nowhere is safe. That, he thinks, will be convincing: a boy's insecurities, rather than a spy's falsehoods.
Then he's at Snape's door, and he greets the snake portrait hiding the entrance, taps on the frame, and enters as soon as the door swings open, pushing his Cloak off his shoulders as he goes; by the time he's within line of sight, he's fully visible and the Cloak is once more only a slippery silver piece of fabric. Snape is waiting, standing by the fire, and he says as Harry steps into the room, "Leave anything you could not bear to lose. It will be safe here."
Harry nods, even though Snape's not looking at him, and folds the Cloak neatly, then leaves it on the visitors' chair in front of Snape's desk.
"Are you prepared?" Snape says, turning finally to face Harry. "The Dark Lord will grow impatient if we delay."
"I'm ready," Harry replies simply. He wills it to become true, as if saying it were like casting a spell.
Snape nods and then walks to the door, brushing past Harry's shoulder as he goes. Harry turns and follows him back out into the black halls. He wants to light his wand, because Snape, all in black, is a shadow among shadows, but he knows it would be foolish. Instead he just listens as hard as he can for the faint tap of Snape's bootheels on the stone floors of the dungeons and follows that until they reach a corridor with windows, where he's finally able to see again. They emerge onto the ground floor some distance from the Entrance Hall, by Harry's reckoning, and then make their way through a narrow side-door that Harry has never seen before onto the grounds, and then on and on, around the outside of the castle by a winding path, through a courtyard, and then across the covered bridge. It's a long, cold walk, and the wind whistles through the open windows of the bridge and between the trestles below them, a hollow and pained noise. Harry shivers in the cool air, his robe over his pyjamas doing little to prevent the breeze from blowing right through him, and he wishes he'd brought a cloak beside his Invisibility Cloak.
Finally, they make it across the bridge and some distance further, out into the edges of the forest. There, Snape stops, turns to Harry, and says, "We are beyond the ward boundary. Take my arm."
Side-along Apparition, then; Harry had been wondering. He sighs and does as he's been told, and in the next moment is wrung by the teleportation. They land hard, and Harry's knees buckle before he can stop them; he lands among dewy grass and stays there a moment to catch his breath. When he looks up, Snape is waiting once more, impassive. They're in the middle of a grand lawn outside the fence of an estate of some kind; not the Flint manor, Harry thinks. The fence is tall and filigreed, fancy and decorated with swirling patterns that after a moment Harry thinks he might recognize from one of his runes books, though these are much more complicated and very stylized. Wards, he thinks, intricate ones. Beyond the fence there's more lawn, manicured and tidy and dotted here and there with fancy topiaries, most shaped like magical creatures.
Harry rises to his feet and Snape turns away again; he makes for the fence, and as they approach the metal shimmers and then shifts, forming a gate. It's narrow and arching, and swings open at a gesture from Snape, who leads Harry in; when he glances over his shoulder, the gate has closed behind them and once more become part of an unbroken fence. Harry shivers, the air here warmer than at Hogwarts but still cool, and turns to follow Snape without looking back again.
The manor at the centre of the grounds they cross is huge and imposing. It has high, square walls and a few stately turrets, halfway between a country manor house and a small castle; Harry thinks that whoever lives here must think very highly of themselves. The entrance is a set of double doors, surrounded all around by stained glass panels depicting abstract patterns that recall the fence, though Harry isn't sure if they're further wards or if it's simply aesthetics, and Snape opens it and leads the way inside.
The foyer is a long, high hall with a spiral staircase at the far end leading up in a half-turn to the first floor; there are doors on either side of them, and between those doors stand white marble statues that look vaguely Roman to Harry's untrained eye. The floor, too, is marble, and the walls are whitewashed, giving the whole space the sterile atmosphere of a museum. Harry hides a grimace, and lets Snape lead the way to the end of the hall and up the spiral stairs. The hall they emerge into on the first floor has walls covered in a long line of portraits, and as they pass them Harry realizes whose house this must be, because most of the aristocratic wixen who stare down their noses at them from their painted seats have sleek platinum blond hair. The Malfoys. Of course.
Harry sighs, and Snape glances briefly over his shoulder at him, then says, "Indeed, Mr. Potter. Welcome to Malfoy Manor."
"It's very… big," Harry says, as politely as he can. One of the portraits scoffs.
Snape says nothing more. They progress in silence, and finally come to an open door, from which light spills out into the hall. Thus far, everything has been lit by a dim ambient light emanating from the ceiling, the result of some enchantment, Harry imagines; this has the warm colour of firelight, and as they turn into the room he can see that, indeed, there is a fire lit in the fireplace of this large parlour room.
It's well-appointed, with antique-looking furniture and a handsome tapestry covering one of the walls. The floor is covered with a huge Persian rug, and the fireplace is constructed out of grey stone that glitters in the light. Standing in front of the fireplace are two men, both familiar to Harry, and he takes them in. Lucius Malfoy is still dressed in tidy robes despite the late hour, and turns to look at them the moment Snape crosses the threshold. This close, it's clear to see where Draco got his narrow features; perhaps once he reaches his father's age, he too will have made it past pointy to something more closely resembling aristocratic, though the sneer when he lays eyes on Harry is exactly the same.
Voldemort, on the other hand, continues to study the dancing flames as they draw near. His profile is gilded by the firelight, but he doesn't turn his red eyes on Harry and Snape until they've drawn close enough almost to touch. Snape halts a few steps away from the Dark Lord and bows deeply; after a split second, Harry remembers to do the same. When they straighten again, Voldemort says, "You are dismissed, Lucius."
Malfoy purses his lips but bows and goes without a word, though he does shoot Harry a poisonous look. There's a long pause, and then Voldemort says, "How is Hogwarts, Severus?"
"The Minister has stuck his nose in, my Lord," Snape says, his tone derisive. "He has installed his Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge, in the school—I presume as a spy, though likely also to quell any thoughts of preparing the children for your rise. Not that he realizes, I'm sure, that that is what he is doing."
Finally, Voldemort turns around and looks at them both with his garnet-red eyes. "Such an extreme measure… Interesting. Do keep me informed."
"Of course, my Lord," Snape says, and bows again, less deeply. "Is there anything else you would have of me?"
"Keep your finger on the children of my Death Eaters," Voldemort says. "I would know where they stand; they are, after all, the precious next generation of the society we wish to create. Ensure that they understand this."
"Yes, my Lord."
A pause, and then Voldemort's gaze shifts to Harry. "Harry Potter. You continue to obey my summons."
Harry nods, then bows. "I know you still doubt my loyalties, my Lord, but I don't."
Voldemort is smiling when Harry raises his head, the red of his eyes glimmering like gemstone—like the Philosopher's Stone, with an innate fire. "Perhaps I am beginning to believe that you mean that. Severus, wait out in the hall. I shall return your charge to you in one piece."
Snape nods, glances once at Harry, and then walks away. He shuts the door to the parlour behind him, and then Harry and Voldemort are alone together, as they haven't been since the moment of Voldemort's resurrection—no, not even then; they'd been surrounded by unconscious Death Eaters. Harry swallows, can feel his hands trembling finely, and knows it's foolish to betray even that much fear, but he can't help it. He finds himself staring at Voldemort's collarbone, bared by the open collar of the simple shirt he wears, unwilling to meet those red eyes again.
"You are a quandary for me, Harry," Voldemort says. His voice is low and silky smooth, and he steps forward until they're within arm's reach of one another. One of his hands comes up, and Harry flinches minutely; Voldemort smiles again. Those long fingers come to rest against the bottom of Harry's chin, and he tilts Harry's face up to look at him squarely. Harry expects the stab of Legilimency, but it doesn't come. The Dark Lord simply studies him for a moment, and then lets go, steps away and retrieves a small object from the mantlepiece.
"I believe, however, that I have decided what to do with you." When he turns around again, Harry sees that Voldemort is now holding a small leather-bound book. It's clearly old, worn, and he grasps it with a certain confident familiarity that makes Harry think that it's his, and has belonged to him for a long time. "Tell me, Harry, have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"
Harry begins to shake his head, then hesitates—it does ring a bell. "I—I'm not sure, my Lord."
"Perhaps you heard a ghost story in the Slytherin common room," Voldemort says. "That is how it began for me. I, too, dismissed the idea as such—Salazar Slytherin's secret chamber, his monster, the quest for purity and safety that resulted in his split from the others… a fairy tale. But later, as I grew to know Hogwarts better, I sought her secrets—one of them being, indeed, the very Chamber of Secrets. And I found it, you see. Now, Harry, I task you to do the same: find Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, and hide this there."
He holds out the book, and Harry takes it. The leather is soft and weathered, and before he thinks about it he flips it open and thumbs through the pages. To his surprise, the book is blank—he'd expected it to be some sort of grimoire, or maybe a diary, not that he can easily imagine Lord Voldemort keeping a journal. Then he realizes he's just casually thumbed through what could have been the Dark Lord's secrets right in front of him, and he looks up to meet Voldemort's eyes.
Fortunately, the Dark Lord looks amused, rather than furious. "For a Slytherin, you do have a streak of boldness," he says. "That may serve you well in your hunt."
Harry swallows hard and nods. "So, you want me to… find this Chamber, and put this there?"
"Indeed," Voldemort says. "You have until the end of your current school year. And I hope that you are under no illusions about what happens to those who fail me."
"None, my Lord," Harry says, and bows deeply with the book tucked close to his chest.
"Good." The Dark Lord flicks a hand when Harry has risen, and says, "Begone, then, before your doting Headmaster makes note of your absence."
"Yes, my Lord," Harry murmurs, bows again once more, and turns on his heel to head for the door.
He makes it almost all the way there when, from behind him, Voldemort calls, "Oh, and Harry: feel free to record some of your thoughts in that journal. When I was your age, I found such a practice helped me to… maintain my self-possession."
Harry glances over his shoulder, nods as respectfully as he can, and then darts out through the door. He relaxes a small bit when he realizes that Snape is waiting right outside, stationed by the door like a guard. He turns his head to look at Harry as Harry comes through the door, and Harry nods to him.
"Onward then, Potter?" Snape drawls, and Harry can tell he's looking at the book Harry is clutching, but he doesn't remark on it—not yet.
"Yes, sir," Harry says.
The walk out of Malfoy Manor feels much shorter than the walk in, and soon enough they're beyond the wards and Snape is taking them both back through the crush of Apparition to Hogwarts. They walk back to the castle side-by-side, Harry's eyes fixed on the distant dark silhouette of the only fortress he's ever known; at this hour only a few windows here and there are glowing gold. Most of it is black against the cloudy sky, looming above them. They come to its walls and walk alongside them, and then slip into the same narrow doorway they exited from, down into the dungeons and the inky pools of shadow there, and then finally, finally, back into the tight and familiar quarters of Snape's office, now dimly lit by a dying fire.
Snape pauses to stoke the fire back up slightly, enough so that they can see one another, and then turns to Harry and looks at him for a long minute.
"What did the Dark Lord give you?" he says, when he finally speaks.
Harry holds up the book silently, but when Snape reaches out to take it, he draws it back. "It's his," he says. "A diary or something."
"What does it say in it?"
"Nothing." Harry opens the book to demonstrate, showing Snape the blank pages, each leaf of paper a little brittle and browned with time. "It's empty."
"Hm," says Snape, watching as Harry flips forward through the book to show that each and every page is blank—until he reaches the front cover, which Harry hasn't seen before. Scratched there faintly is what looks like a name: T.M. Riddle, in slanting schoolboy's handwriting. The name is faintly familiar.
"Is…" Harry starts, staring at it. This book, he knows, belongs to Lord Voldemort. So: was T.M. Riddle the original owner? Or is T.M. Riddle the current owner?
"Not a question for midnight on the first night of term, Mr. Potter," Snape says abruptly. "Did he have any task for you? Or did he simply give this object into your keeping?"
Harry hesitates, and then says, "I don't think that's a question for midnight on the first night of term, either, Professor. If you don't mind my saying so."
Snape lets out a long breath through his nose. Then he says, "Indeed. Go to bed, Potter."
Harry isn't going to argue with that; he goes, taking his Cloak and the diary. His dorm, when he finally reaches it again, is quiet and still. Theo and Blaise are still sleeping, and Harry shucks his boots and his robe and joins them as quickly as he possibly can—not as quick as he'd like, not with Voldemort's red eyes and the soft leather cover of the diary with T.M. Riddle written on it warring for attention at the front of his mind.