Harry has to bat Sirius's hands away before he tries to straighten Harry's collar for the fifth time in about ten minutes. "It's fine, Sirius."
"Well, if you're sure," Sirius mutters, looking a little hurt. "I just want you to look your best."
"I do," Harry says. "I'm sure I look fine, and anyway, they're not going to care that much about what I'm wearing. Most of them will be looking at you!"
"Excuse me for being a bit anxious," Sirius says. "This is more or less your society debut, you know. I'm surprised you're not more nervous."
Harry shrugs. "I know some of the people who'll be there already, and I can deal with the rest." Hopefully. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if he shouldn't have tried harder to discourage Sirius from coming along with him to the Farley Yule Ball. He'd made it clear when he'd written to Sirius that the invitation extended to him only reluctantly, but Sirius had been pretty determined to come. Two weeks of letters back and forth about it had only yielded a very annoyed Hedwig, so Harry had given up and told Farley just before they left for the holiday that he and Sirius would both be coming.
Truthfully, having the support to fall back on if something does happen is welcome, though it'll make conversations with people like the Flints and the Malfoys—who Gemma had warned him would likely be in attendance, despite her lobbying her mother not to invite them. Harry's not especially excited to have to talk to people who'd seen him kneeling in front of the Dark Lord only a few months ago with Sirius standing right there, but he's pretty sure he can count on their own senses of self-preservation to keep them from doing or saying anything that would lead to their exposing him.
And coming together means that they'd been able to run the gauntlet of a short-order high-quality tailor together in order to acquire the robes they currently wore together as well. They'd only had a few days to get themselves together: Harry returned from Hogwarts on the 18th, and the Yule Ball was on the night of the solstice; fortunately, with magic and a few extra Galleons even such a quick turnaround on tailoring was made possible, and both Harry and Sirius had new clothes. They weren't as matching as they had been for the Wizengamot session in August, because Harry had been invited as himself rather than as Heir Black, and Sirius was coming as his plus-one rather than the other way around. That meant that while Sirius was, of course, dressed in the colours of the House of Black, his robe a traditional cut made from shimmering obsidian fabric, embroidered with angular patterns in silver thread all down its front, Harry wore black only as an accent to the House of Potter's dark red. Specifically, his had his over-robe open over a muggle-style white shirt, black trousers, and unadorned black silk waistcoat. A little more mature, Sirius had told him, and a definite statement at such a heavily pureblood event. But Harry had looked at himself in the tailor's mirror, considered robe and jewelry and his hair, now long enough that it lay in something like order around his face, though he'd had a trim before it got long enough to tie back, and decided that it was the right mix. A hint of muggle fashion, but enough magic that he'll fit in fine. And with the colours of House Potter around his shoulders, his father's lily pendant under his shirt, and both his wands in their holsters, he feels ready for anything.
Now they're just waiting for the clock to strike seven so that they can Floo to Farley Manor. Sirius had already spelled Harry's clothing impermeable so that the ash wouldn't stick, even if he tripped coming out of the fireplace as he often did, and so they're quite ready to go. Sirius is anxious; Harry is just impatient.
"Are you going to be crazy all night?" Harry asks, glancing at the clock again; just a few more minutes. Remus will be back shortly after they leave, currently busy closing at the bookshop where he works part-time. "Because I'm leaving you alone if you are."
Sirius rolls his eyes. "I'm not being crazy," he says. "These people are cutthroat, pup, and don't forget it for a minute. They'll be sizing you up, and a misstep here could have serious consequences."
"I know," Harry says. "Honestly. It's like that in Slytherin, too, you know."
"I've heard you complain, but I'm sure this will be worse. Really: take it seriously, Harry."
"I am." Harry turns and fixes Sirius with his most sincere look. "I know how important this could be. We'll have better luck in the Wizengamot if we don't alienate the other side, right? So we have to play by their rules sometimes."
Sirius nods. "I believe in you. Just… allow me my nerves, alright? These gatherings rarely went well for me when I was your age."
"I promise I won't muck it up," Harry says, and when Sirius reaches out one arm, he goes easily into the half-hug, leaning against Sirius's strength and borrowing some of it, using it to shore himself up. He's not Occluding, except for the now ever-present level of mental organization that helps his recall, but he's ready to call up his walls and slam shut his doors if it seems like he needs to. For now, though, he thinks he can rely on himself and on Sirius to keep his composure and do this right. More is riding on it than Sirius knows, and Harry's determined to live up to his own expectations for himself as well as soothing Sirius's worries.
"Alright," Sirius says, letting Harry go after a long moment. "I think we'll be on time if we go now."
Indeed, the clock is about to strike 7 o'clock, so Sirius goes to the fireplace and murmurs the incantation that will allow a single traveller through the wards on the Floo; Harry will go first, and Sirius will have to cast the spell again for himself once Harry's gone through. There's no fire in the fireplace at the moment, so Harry goes to stand on the tiles with the fist-full of Floo powder that he takes from the jar on the mantlepiece.
"Ready?" Sirius asks, his hand still resting on the mantle.
"Yup," Harry says, and takes a deep breath just in case. "Farley Manor!"
He throws down the Floo powder and green flame flares up around him; his heart skips a beat even as he's whirled away into light and darkness, swirling confusingly along through the magical pathway. It's both more and less disorienting to Floo while fully conscious than it had been to do it half-concussed and bleeding. He can see more clearly, but the sickening sensation is clearer too—and so are the memories of the last trip he'd taken through the Floo. Before he can completely forget himself, though, he's unceremoniously flung from the fireplace on the other end, and takes a few stumbling steps forward. He doesn't trip in the fireplace, but he very nearly loses his balance as his toe catches the edge of a rug just in front of him. It's only luck that he manages to keep his feet.
"Harry!" calls Gemma's familiar voice, and Harry blinks hard a few times to clear his vision and dispel dizziness before looking up to see her standing not far in front of him, her hands stretched out to catch him if he'd fallen. Standing just behind and to her side is an older man about her height and with her strawberry blond hair—her father, Lord Farley, or so Harry has to assume. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," Harry says, straightening. "Just not good at Flooing—sorry about that."
"No need to apologize," she says, and comes over to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Is—"
As she begins to speak, Harry hears the fire flare behind him again, and turns to watch Sirius step gracefully out of the green flames with no sign of Harry's own disorientation and lack of coordination.
"Ah," Gemma says, and lets go of Harry's shoulder to make a deep curtsey to Sirius. Interestingly, Harry notices, she seems to be wearing partially muggle fashion herself: though she wears a magical Heir's short tunic in her House's forest green and a white woman's over-robe, she's wearing muggle-style skirts. Her hair, usually tied back in a plain high ponytail, is coiled up into an elegant style; she looks like the Heir and noblewoman that she is. "Lord Black, welcome."
"Good of you to remember your proper manners," Gemma's father says, approaching as well, and he echoes Gemma's bow—to Harry first, and then to Sirius. "Lord Black; Heir Black. Be welcome to the home of our House."
"Sorry, father," Gemma mutters, and she makes her curtsey to Harry as well.
"Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality, Lord Farley," Sirius replies, returning the bow. "I only feel sorry not to have been able to meet your House properly before now. But I thank you on behalf of the House of Black for the extension of your goodwill to my Heir."
"It was the least we could do," Lord Farley says, "given his friendship with our own Heir."
Gemma and Harry exchange an exasperated glance, and Gemma cuts in, "Indeed, friendship—and I would like to hear from my friend how his first few days of holiday have been. May I be excused, father, from greeting further guests for the moment?"
He sighs in a restrained way, but with a wave of his hand dismisses her, and smiling Harry offers Gemma his arm. She accepts it with a returned smile, though his height next to hers makes for a slightly awkward position; Harry shoots a forbidding glance over his shoulder at Sirius, who falls in behind them and would probably be chuckling at the image if he were any less constrained by manners at the moment—he's got that glint in his eye.
"So," Gemma says, as they walk out of the receiving room in which their Floo was installed and into a large foyer with a high ceiling and a wide staircase that leads up to a set of open double doors, from which light and music stream. "How have your first few days of break been?"
"Restful," Harry says honestly. "It's easier to wake up in the morning when there's some natural light."
"True enough," Gemma agrees. "And after tonight the days will begin getting longer again! That will be nice."
"And it's a relief not to be dealing with Umbridge all the time."
Gemma laughs. "Tell me. You seem recovered." And she glances down toward his left hand, bandage-free at present—which had been a real quandary, one that had only occurred to Harry a week or so before term let out. Fortunately, however, that had been just enough time to owl-order a cosmetic potion that was advertised would cover blemishes and spots. With Gemma's Dittany treatment finally closing the wounds, he'd been able to rub a tiny dab of the cosmetic over the scars. He'd nearly been sunk anyway, because Remus had clearly noticed the scent of it—he'd given Harry a look up and down after their reunion hug on the platform at King's Cross, his nostrils flaring a little, but then he'd just given him another look, this one knowing, and said nothing. Probably he'd assumed Harry was actually hiding spots.
"It's nice not to feel frustrated all the time," Harry says in an agreeable tone, as if that's what she'd been talking about. "You seem more cheerful too, Gemma."
"I am," she says, and smiles. "Things have been looking up a bit lately, I suppose."
"I'm glad to hear it."
By then, they're drawing close to the door, and Gemma steps away from Harry to turn and look over at Sirius. "Lord Black," she says, "you and your Heir should go together into the room. I should return to my father. Enjoy the ball, and, Harry, I'll come find you later, hm?"
"That sounds good," Harry says with a nod, and Gemma sweeps off in a rustle of skirts.
Once she's gone, Sirius turns to Harry and grins. "I'd forgotten how much I liked her," he says. "She was a good student—she has a lot of potential."
"She's very smart," Harry says. "I've been lucky to have her on my side."
"No kidding. Come on, let's go face the music—ha!" And with his barking laugh ringing in the foyer, Sirius turns and steps toward the doors. Harry goes at his side, and they walk together through the doorway and into a brightly-lit ballroom. Above their heads, crystalline chandeliers hang, refracting magical light around the room in rainbow shards, casting warm colour everywhere. The walls are hung with tapestries depicting magical creatures, either at peace or, in the cases of dangerous creatures, in battle with wixen. And of course, the floor of the ballroom is filled with people. From the doorway Harry feels like he can only grasp half the scope of the crowd; there are too many people in sweeping robes of every colour, some lavishly embellished or accessorized with extravagant jewelry, hairstyles, or both. He glimpses, here and there, faces he recognizes: Marcus Flint lurking in a corner, watching the door; Lucius Malfoy holding court near the middle of the room; Higgs, Warrington, and Hussain standing together in a small clump near the refreshment table. There are surely others he knows about too, but he can't see any of them at a glance.
"Where shall we begin, pup?" Sirius asks, also looking around. Heads have turned their direction, and many then ducked close together to whisper. Unsurprising; for all Sirius had been forced to court some Dark-leaning Families and Houses to maintain Ancient and Noble status, he'd not appeared at many events like this.
Harry hesitates for a moment, then says, "I'd like to greet my friends, first, if that's alright."
"Certainly. Lead on."
Harry does so, cutting across the floor and nodding politely to the few folks he recognizes in the crowd as he passes, mostly Wizengamot Peers whose faces he remembers, if not necessarily their names. He heads first for Higgs, Warrington, and Hussain, and reintroduces them to Sirius as Lord Black instead of Professor Black, after which Sirius makes his excuses and goes to find some conversation of his own. Harry stays and chats for a while, sharing dismay with Higgs and Warrington about the loss of Quidditch this year, and, careful to seem casual, mentions the pick-up game he'd played with Diggory and the others in November. There hadn't yet been another, the weather uncooperative, but Harry suggests to his older friends that there might be another few games in the spring, if they're lucky enough to gather by chance again; Higgs and Warrington both seem enthused. Hussain is quiet, often glancing at the door, and Harry expects that she's waiting for Gemma. But it's nice to catch up briefly, and Harry feels bolstered again by knowing his allies are here as he steps away and heads toward one of the conversations that he expects to be more difficult. He glances around to locate Sirius and finds him talking to Amaryllis Greengrass, Daphne and Astoria's mother and the current Heir; things seem amicable enough, and with the assurance that Sirius isn't going to say anything egregious to anyone, Harry turns and makes his way toward the corner where he'd spotted Marcus Flint earlier.
There are already more people in the ballroom than when Harry and Sirius had arrived a short while ago, so it takes him a minute to pick through the crowd, and pointedly avoids the area near the centre of the room where Lucius Malfoy has gathered several Heads of Families and Houses around himself. He winds past various people, a greater portion of whom he doesn't recognize than when they'd arrived; apparently most of the Peers had made a point to be early or precisely on time, where others were less concerned, or perhaps more concerned with fashionable lateness than they were with adherence to protocol. Whatever the reason, Harry marks faces in his mind but is careful not to catch anyone's eye for too long, wary of getting drawn into a conversation with strangers without Sirius there to back him up.
Finally, however, he breaks out of the bulk of the crowd and finds Flint where he'd been before, still watching the door, though now in the company of Adrien Pucey. He notices Harry moving in his direction quickly, and nods as he approaches.
"Heir Flint," Harry says, and makes a polite bow, then a slightly shallower one to Pucey. "And Pucey. Hello."
"Heir Black." Flint makes a bow back, equally polite, Pucey following. "Surprised to see you here."
"Gemma invited me. It seemed like… a good opportunity," Harry says. "Though Lord Black did insist on tagging along—a bit overprotective, you understand."
"Prudent of the Lord to keep a close eye on his Heir," Flint says, "but I can imagine it being annoying."
"A little. But I know it comes from a place of care." Harry shrugs, negligent. "What can you do?"
"Not much." Flint's smile is sharp. "Have you been formally introduced to my father, Potter?"
Harry blinks. "No. Though, ah, I'd welcome an introduction." He really, really would not; he'd not expected Flint to come on so strong. The little verbal dance they'd engaged in was one thing, but offering an introduction to his father… and not even any polite smalltalk like what he'd been making earlier with Higgs and Warrington. It seemed… brazen in a way that Harry wasn't used to seeing from taciturn Flint.
"Pucey, keep an eye out for Lord Nott?" Flint says, and when Pucey nods, says to Harry. "Come on."
Harry follows him back into the crowd, and with some resignation realizes quickly that they're headed for Malfoy's crowd. He looks around again for Sirius as they walk, but he's vanished into the crowd somewhere—or, Harry thinks, seeing that the shape of the crowd has shifted to make space for an opening dance floor, maybe Sirius has gone to stoke his reputation as a flirt. He and Remus don't exactly hide their relationship, but Harry knows that certain people are still under the impression that Sirius is a bachelor and a bit of a rake, as he'd apparently been in his youth, and that Sirius has made some effort to keep it that way. Easier than dealing with people who would disapprove of his committed long-term relationship with a werewolf, with whom he'd never be able to conceive a blood Heir to the dying Black line.
For whatever reason, though, it means Sirius is nowhere to be seen, and so Harry is on his own as Flint leads him to the edge of the gathering of Lords, Ladies, and Heads who stand in the area around Lord Malfoy and, Harry now sees, Lord Nicodemus Flint. They aren't precisely standing in a circle; there are too many of them for that, a good dozen at least, and they'd have created a large circle of empty space in the middle of the ballroom, which would have been very rude. But the way they stand makes it clear that they're engaged only with one another and listening as well to the conversation of the highest-ranking Lords at the centre of the group. A faction; a bulwark against the rest of the crowd. But Flint—Heir Flint—cuts through the group easily with Harry at his side, and comes to his father's side without hesitation. Lord Flint and Lord Malfoy both turn to look down their noses at Harry, as does Lord Malfoy's wife, who stands at his side—though Draco is notably absent. Narcissa Malfoy, Harry observes as he makes a bow to them all, doesn't look a great deal like her sister or her cousin, but there's definitely something of the House of Black in her aristocratic good looks.
"Father," Flint says, "I would like to formally introduce Harry Potter, Heir Black. You might remember my mentioning him in letters last year."
"Indeed," Lord Flint says. His voice is calm and low, similar to his son's though not as harsh. He's equally unhandsome, too, but has a commanding presence. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance properly at last, Heir Black."
"And mine to make yours, Lord Flint," Harry says, and then turns to bow to the Malfoys as well. "A pleasure to see you again as well, Lord Malfoy—and to meet you, Lady Malfoy."
Lord Malfoy nods politely, but Lady Malfoy returns the bow with a tidy curtsey, executed well even in restrictive traditional women's robes, which are gleaming white and silver; she looks a little like a ghost in her formal clothes, pale from the top of her blonde head to the tips of her pale fingers. "A pleasure indeed to finally meet my cousin," she says. "And did I see that you managed to coax along Lord Black?"
"Yes," Harry says. He's not sure where she's going with this, and isn't sure either that he's excited to find out. "I understand that he's been a rare attendee at events like this."
"Often for lack of invitation," Lord Flint says bluntly. "Sirius Black is not precisely… of a shared temperament with many of those in this crowd."
Harry considers that for a moment, and then says, "I think you might find yourself surprised. His temperament is more like yours than you'd think, Lord Flint; it's a lack of shared politics that's the issue."
"And a political division can disguise many things held in common," Lady Malfoy interjects smoothly. "Like blood, for example—so as I said, it is a pleasure to meet a cousin. Please, I hope you will call me Narcissa."
That's interesting. "Of course, Narcissa," Harry says quickly. "Though only if you'll call me Harry."
"It would be my honour." And she smiles, seeming sincere. Next to her, Lord Malfoy looks ever so slightly sour; Lord Flint and his son both wear a similar stoic expression. "Perhaps later you'll have the opportunity to greet your other cousin; or I'm sure he'd be very happy for a dance."
"I shall take that under consideration," she says, and though her hand is still wrapped delicately around her husband's elbow, he can tell that she has some agenda of her own. Perhaps simply a reconciliation with the House of Black? But who knows—Harry doesn't know her, can't read her, and has more dangerous wixen facing him at the moment in any case.
So he turns back to Lord Flint and Lord Malfoy, and says, "In truth, the opportunity to meet you and others of all political mindsets was one of the reasons I so eagerly accepted Lady Farley's invitation."
"Oh?" says Malfoy.
"I'm still new to the magical world, really," Harry says, bashful and earnest. "And though I've certainly formed some opinions already, and I take Sirius's part in a lot of things… well, there's always more to know, isn't there?"
"Indeed there is," Lord Flint says. "You're smart for your age, to be willing to see other perspectives."
"If there's anything I've learned from being in Slytherin," Harry says, "it's that there's always more than one side of the story."
"Being in Slytherin but having Gryffindor friends, according to my son," Malfoy interjects, an eyebrow raised. "More than one side of the story there may be, but no one person can be on all sides."
Harry shrugs, trying to channel Sirius at his most innocent and guileless. "No," he says. "But there are advantages to having… friends in alternative places, I suppose you could say. And to no one really knowing what side of the story is your side. I've always thought that you knew a thing or two about that, Lord Malfoy."
Malfoy's eyes go narrow and hard, searching Harry's face; Harry just smiles back. "Indeed," he finally says. "Life is often full of ambiguities."
"As is politics," Harry agrees cheerfully. "One of the reasons I don't tend to like them so much—I like to pretend that it's possible to know right from wrong. But I suppose admitting that it's more complicated than that is part of growing up, isn't it?"
"And you seem to be growing well," Lord Flint says. "I look forward to seeing what you become, Heir Black." There's a subtle emphasis on his title and the name of the House: Harry isn't Harry Potter here, the son of a muggleborn and a blood traitor. He's Heir Black, of the House of Black, one of the darkest and purest of the Ancient and Noble Houses. And they see that in him—though he's not sure yet whether they've decided to believe it. Maybe because Harry doesn't believe it himself, and isn't afraid of letting that show. There's more than one way to create ambiguity, after all, and only one of them is calculated doublespeak.
Harry, still smiling, just bows, first to the two Lords and the Lady, and then, shallower, to the younger Flint. "I appreciate your faith and your curiosity, Lord Flint. For now, I think I had best head off and find my guardian before he gets himself in trouble. Narcissa, I hope you'll find us later?"
"Certainly," she says, and Harry accepts her curtsy and the bows of the Dark Heads of House before he slips away, back into the crowd. Carefully he ignores the heavy gazes of those in the crowd surrounding Lords Malfoy and Flint; he doesn't want to talk to anyone else who's probably—or certainly—a Death Eater tonight if he can manage it. To his relief, he seems likely to get that wish, because he manages to spot Sirius quickly once he's free of the thickest part of the crowd. He's on his own now, no longer talking to Lady Greengrass, and is sipping a champagne flute and looking around at the crowd. When he spots Harry, his expression brightens and he heads in Harry's direction; they meet somewhere in the middle.
"Harry," Sirius says, as soon as they're close, and wraps one arm around his shoulders to guide him over toward a wall where they can talk a little more easily. The volume in the room has risen as music started up for the dance floor. "I was wondering where you'd got to."
"I got snagged by Marcus Flint," Harry says, and doesn't have to pretend dismay. "I made nice with the Dark Houses for a minute. You'd have been proud, I didn't say anything stupid at all—I think, anyway. At least Malfoy didn't make too many snobby faces at me."
Sirius's face is doing something complicated, caught between amusement and pride and worry. "Well, I'm glad you held your own," he says, "though I'm sorry I wasn't there to help. Is the brattiest—I mean, youngest Malfoy present?"
Harry shakes his head. "Not unless he's slunk off somewhere. Narcissa Malfoy is nice, though. Or she's at least good at pretending."
"Interesting," Sirius says. "Tell me about it?"
Harry relates the exchange he'd had with her, including her apparent willingness to re-identify herself with the House of Black. Sirius makes a considering noise, hearing that, and agrees with Harry's earlier thought: that she's clearly got something up her sleeve.
"Cissy always was the sneakiest of the sisters," Sirius says. "She's certainly got a head on her to match Lucy's, which is both good and bad. Hm." He shakes his head. "Well, so long as she doesn't try to recruit me, I'd be happy to speak with her."
"I don't think that would happen," Harry says, amused. "They don't think much of you, do they?"
Sirius shakes his head. "Being the ah, white sheep as it were, means that a lot of them like to forget that I had just as strict a pureblood upbringing as all the rest of them. I know all the airs and graces, all the obscure laws and rites of blood… but I don't act like that's all I care about, so they think I don't care at all."
"More fool them," Harry says, knowing exactly how good Sirius is at wielding the power that being pureblood gives. Politics is only part of it; a whole other part is his deft skill with ritual and with family magic. But they'll learn.
"Fools indeed!" Sirius crows, and downs the last of his champagne glass. "Alright, kiddo—let's see how much you remember from your dancing lessons, hm?"
Harry groans. The lessons over the summer hadn't been too bad, but he's pretty sure he's forgotten most of it. "Fine," he sighs, put-upon, and follows a laughing Sirius to the dance floor.
It's a little silly for them to dance together, but it gives Sirius a chance to put Harry through his paces and remind him what he's doing. They just do one song's worth of spinning around the dance floor together, Harry trying not to step on Sirius's toes while Sirius leads, and then they pause at the edge of the floor to applaud the band. The next song is just starting up when Sirius pats Harry's shoulder, says, "I'm going to go see if I can't steal Cissy from her odious husband," and summarily abandons Harry again.
"Got abandoned, did you?" someone says from beside Harry, and he glances over to find that he's been joined by none other than Theo.
"Theo!" he says, pleasantly surprised, and then seeing the crest of the House of Nott worn proudly on Theo's chest, remembers himself. "Or, Heir Nott, I suppose."
Theo waves him off with a gesture similar to Blaise's. "Oh, don't start. I'm surprised to see you here."
"Gemma's mum invited me," Harry says. "And I brought Sirius as my plus-one. I think she wanted to get a sense of me, not that I've seen her yet."
"Well, even just showing up says a lot," Theo says. "And I'm sure she's watching for who you talk to, and so on."
"Her business, not mine. I'm just here to, uh. Eat the snacks, avoid dancing, and talk to Malfoy's father, I guess."
Theo raises an eyebrow. "You talked to Lord Malfoy?"
"Flint dragged me over to meet his dad; Malfoy was there." Harry shrugs. "Honestly, meeting Narcissa Malfoy was more interesting."
"You just got lucky—got out of there before my dad showed up," Theo says. "We only just got here."
"Can't resist my company, huh?" Harry says, and laughs.
Theo just rolls his eyes and gives Harry a shove. "You're just the first person I saw that I already knew."
"Fair enough," Harry says, and then gestures at the dance floor. "Well, since we're here and all, wanna dance?"
Theo looks out at the floor, then at Harry, and then says, "Sure."
The two of them take a slightly awkward turn around the dance floor, tense until Harry nearly trips over Theo's feet and lands them both in a heap, and then shared laughter carries them into an easier rhythm. It's a little strange to dance with Theo, but ultimately fun; he's a good dancer and confident in the lead, to Harry's relief, his hands steady on Harry's waist and clasped in his own hand. When the song ends, they end up back at the edge of the dance floor near where they were before, and disengage to bow, both grinning.
"You're good," Harry says, as by mutual silent agreement they head for the refreshment table to grab a drink. "I still feel so clumsy."
"Well, you've only been learning for what, a year?" Theo asks. "You'll get it eventually."
"Thanks," Harry says. "Though I'm not sure I'm that confident."
To Harry's pleasure, there are plentiful drinks and snacks, and they both grab glasses of juice and little paper boats filled with some sort of… vegetable crisp thing, and go to loiter by the end of the table. There's not really anywhere to sit, but they lean against the wall side-by-side and enjoy the break, talking lightly about Quidditch and their hopes for Christmas, about Snape's overly-long winter homework assignment, and about how nice it is to get away from Umbridge for a while. Once Harry's juice and snacks are gone, he glances around at the crowd and, not seeing Sirius, says, "Was there anyone else you were hoping to find?"
Theo shrugs one shoulder, tilting his head. "Blaise isn't going to be here—he and his mother are back in Rome, of course. Not really anyone else I care about talking with, to be honest, though if Farley and her gang are around I should probably say hello."
"Sounds good."
The two of them make their way side-by-side through the crowd, and eventually Harry spots Warrington and Higgs a short distance away, closer to the dance floor. He points them out, and then leads Theo over in their direction. Gemma and Hussain are nowhere to be seen, but he still greets them again warmly and listens as they greet Theo and exchange pleasantries. Perhaps predictably, they end up talking about Quidditch again, really the only thing all four of them have in common, and a few songs' worth of time pass before Gemma appears out of the crowd, her face flushed and smiling, tugging Hussain behind her by the hand.
"Oh, Harry!" Gemma says. "I'm so sorry—Ayesha and I were on the dance floor. How are you, how are you enjoying the party? And, hello, Nott—pleasure to see you."
Theo nods and offers a bow, while Harry says, "I'm good. It's a lovely party. My compliments to your mum."
Gemma nods. "Thanks. She's quite pleased with herself—has she pinned you down yet?"
"No, but I'm sure I'll speak to her at some point."
"No doubt," Gemma says, laughing. "I'm sure she'll appear to attempt to inveigle you into something political at some point."
Harry tucks away inveigle to ask Sirius about later, but he understands the gist. "I'll watch myself."
"Never a bad idea in this crowd," Higgs says, amused. "Saw you talking with Lord Flint earlier—Marcus snagged you, I take it?"
"Yeah," Harry says. "Not my first choice of company, of course."
"I can imagine."
"I'm really still a bit of a fish out of water when it comes to all this," Harry says, with a gesture at their grand surroundings. "But I know how to be polite, at least, and that means saying yes when people want to introduce you to their very scary fathers."
That draws a laugh, and Higgs starts up with an anecdote about the single most terrifying introduction he'd ever had to endure—hilariously, in Harry's opinion, to Augusta Longbotton—and they chat for a while about the horrors of polite society. Eventually though a more upbeat piece of music starts up, and Warrington smiles and says, "Gemma—come dance with me? My father will have my head if I don't ask at least once."
"Oh, fine," she says with a put-upon sigh, but her smile belies it and she takes his hand happily enough.
Harry, watching them go, hesitates a moment and then decides to suck it up and turns to Hussain. "Would you like to dance, Hussain?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Interesting. Certainly, Potter."
He offers her his arm and leads the way to the dance floor. They have to wait a moment to find a gap in the dancers where they can join the dance, but fortunately it's a pattern Harry knows and he's able to lead with reasonable confidence. For a long moment, Hussain doesn't say anything, just studying him as they proceed through the steps. Then she says, "Why ask me to dance, Potter?"
He shrugs, then resettles his hand in hers. "We don't talk much, but you're important to Gemma, and she is to you, too, I think."
"And you care about what's important to her?" Her look sharpens a little as she speaks.
Abruptly, he realizes she might have mistaken his words. "Not like that. She's—I mean, uh, she's pretty and all, but—"
Hussain laughs, just a little; the soft sound startles Harry enough that he shuts up. She's usually so reserved. "Alright, alright. I should have realized it was silly as soon as I said it, I suppose."
"She's… not my type," Harry says. Not that he's thought about it much, but he's heard ribbing among some of the other third years about crushes and so on. He's just not interested; he doesn't have time.
"Fair enough," Hussain says. "Do you prefer men, Potter?"
"I don't think I prefer anyone, right now," he says. "We're still young, and… there's a lot of other things to worry about at the moment."
She just nods, her gaze going distant, and then she looks back at him and she's all of a sudden sharp again, her brown eyes dark and piercing as she meets his gaze. "Gemma is a good person," she says, "and you're right, I do care about her. I don't want to see her get hurt."
"Neither do I," Harry says. "She's my friend, and I'll do what I can to protect my friends."
"Good." Hussain glances around, checking who's dancing near them; Harry follows her gaze and notes that the other couples closest to them seem absorbed in the dance or in one another, so it's not a surprise when she feels safe enough to lower her voice and say, "She's going to fight in this war of yours, Potter—I wish I could stop her, but I can't. I can't protect her, either. So if you have any surety you can offer me—"
"I'll talk to some people," Harry assures quickly. It's not a surprise to hear that Gemma wants to do something; she's the type not to sit idle. It's one of the reasons he trusts her so much. "I can't promise anything, Hussain. My position is complicated. But I'll do what I can."
She nods, approving, and says, "Good. Thank you. I—I'm sorry."
"It's okay." Harry understands; he feels the same desperation to see Neville and Hermione safe. There's even less that he can do for them, though. But with Gemma… well, at least he can ensure she has backup if she's determined to fight.
The dance ends, and they disengage to exchange bow and curtsey. Hussain really does look elegant, wearing a floor-length dress in a green so dark it's nearly black, with white lace at the collar, sleeves, and hem, complimented by a forest green hijab, also embroidered. Though her dress hides almost all of her skin, it doesn't disguise her grace, and the green of her headscarf is a pointed match to Gemma's tunic. Harry and Hussain rejoin the group, and he observes how well-matched they truly are. A study in opposites in some ways: Gemma is taller and broader, blonde and pale, open with her smiles and broader in her gestures though never anything less than polite; Hussain is petite and dark-skinned, her hair always covered and ever in floor-length skirts, much more reserved in manner as well as dress. But next to Gemma Hussain smiles more easily, and Gemma's attention is always a little bit on Hussain when she's near.
One day, Harry thinks, listening quietly, he'll have that too. Maybe, anyway. With his place in the war, it's as likely he'll die before he can fall in love… but he can dream. He can dream of having what Gemma and her girlfriend have, what Sirius and Remus have, what his parents had before the Death Eaters came. What Neville's parents had, the bond of love that led them to sacrifice their lives for one another and for him. Maybe it's morbid to aspire to having someone he would die for, but truthfully, there are already people he would die for. Less than a year ago at Easter he'd been ready to die for Neville, and he knows that he would throw himself in front of an Avada Kedavra before watching Sirius die. But dying only protects once, he reminds himself; living, he can protect them again and again.
So he'll live. He'll fight, the way Gemma wants to, and he'll do it to keep those he loves safe.
The night wears on, Harry drifting in and out of his group of friends. He dances with Theo a couple more times, both of them laughing. Sirius finds him again a few hours into the night and they do a tour of the room, greeting a few other people who Harry hadn't spoken to yet. Lady Michaela Bulstrode is there, sadly without Millicent, and Harry introduces himself politely, Sirius watching on in the background. She doesn't have much to say to him, to his relief, and after that Harry insists that Sirius dance with him again so that he can stop talking to people for a while; Sirius obliges with a laugh.
Eventually, Harry starts to yawn, and after the second or third time he has to apologize to Sirius, Sirius says, "I think you're about cooked, pup."
Harry considers, and then, sheepish, says, "Yeah, probably."
"Alright. Well, let's go make our goodbyes to our host—I just saw her near the door—and get you home to bed, hm?"
"Sounds good."
Harry's just on the right side of too tired to be embarrassed about leaning on Sirius, so he keeps his own feet as they make their way through the crowd. Luckily, when they come to the end of the ballroom Gemma is standing with her parents, having a quiet but fierce conversation.
"Should we interrupt?" Sirius asks quietly, seeing that, and Harry peers at the conversation going on, trying to judge Gemma's body language.
After a moment, he says, "Yeah." He's not exactly sure what's going on, but he doesn't think interrupting will be bad, anyway.
So Sirius steps up toward the Farleys, and when they break off talking and turn to him, he bows. "I apologize," he says, "for interrupting. Only, I'd forgotten how exhausting these shindigs could be and would very much like to return home to bed, so we've a need to make our goodbyes."
Lady Farley had raised a delicate eyebrow at 'shindig', but only returns a curtsey and says, "Of course, Lord Black. I apologize—I had meant to greet you and your Heir earlier."
"Not a problem," Sirius says, smiling what Harry recognizes as his 'look how charming I am' smile. "You have a lot of guests tonight! I'm sure your attention has been devoted to worthy subjects."
"Indeed," she says, smiling. To Harry's eye, it looks insincere; Gemma's mother, tall and thin and polite in a practiced way, reminds Harry a great deal of his Aunt Petunia. "Well, I'm very glad you came to say hello—and goodbye. I hope you had a pleasant evening."
"Very pleasant," Sirius says. "Your taste is impeccable, Lady Farley. And your home is beautiful."
At that she looks more genuinely pleased, and nods her head. "Thank you."
"And I appreciate your inviting Harry," he continues. "I'm aware that you likely don't think much of me," and he waves her off before she can demur. "It's fine, I don't care. But your interest in my Heir is noted. The House of Black has struck out independent of past allies, that's true—but no Ancient and Noble House can be a monolith. We must be aware of all paths, and I see that awareness in my Heir, though still growing. But no Lord, no matter how powerful, can create that awareness on his own, and so I am dependent on the generosity of other Houses in holding out their hand to my Heir in order to nurture his knowledge of the scope of our wider world."
She looks taken aback, but nods. "I... thank you for your words, Lord Black. I feel the same—that my Heir should know and understand all of the world, which is why I have not... limited her as perhaps I might have, had I chosen a more traditional style of upbringing."
Sirius inclines his head, glances at Gemma, and says in a grave tone, "I was raised in a strict household—to the point of abuse, in fact. Walburga Black was quite insane, and mistook tradition for necessity. But it is possible to be both traditional and give your children the freedom to learn, live, and love as they will-a line I'm trying to learn to walk myself. I became a parent at a rather... delicate stage in the process of upbringing, as you can probably imagine."
"Hey," Harry says mildly, making Sirius laugh.
"Don't pretend that being adopted when you were was anything other than a challenging transition," Sirius says fondly. He looks back at Lady Farley. "You have raised an excellent daughter, as I learned last year at Hogwarts and from the things my Heir has told me. I sympathize with the difficulties of raising someone with a keen mind and a strong sense of honour; they learn to think for themselves in ways that are hard to argue with rather too young."
She's gone back to looking a little sour. Harry wasn't raised in a pureblood household and isn't a parent, of course, so he's sure he missed some of the undertones of Sirius's speech-but he knows he got most of it, and he wants to grin. Gemma looks happy, and Lady Farley doesn't seem to have much of an argument, for all she might not like Sirius's implications.
"Thank you for your wisdom, Lord Black," she says, and turns abruptly to Harry himself. "Heir Black, I apologize again for my earlier failure to greet you—I hope my daughter acted well as hostess?"
"Oh, yes," Harry says, probably laying the earnestness on a bit too thick if the amused expression on Sirius's face is anything to go by. "Gemma's wonderful, as always, Lady Farley. I'm very lucky to have her as my friend."
"Quite," Lady Farley says. "She speaks so warmly of you in her letters, you see—and after our brief encounter in August I had hoped to get to know you a little better. But perhaps another time."
"I'd be honoured," Harry says. "If Gemma is anything to go by, the acquaintance of any member of the House of Farley is a valuable thing to have. She's been an excellent guide and patron to me at Hogwarts, and I only hope to be able to return the favour some day—to help her as she's helped me."
"You've always been more than worthy of my help," Gemma says. "As Lord Black said: a young man with a keen mind and a strong sense of honour. It's a compliment that he sees the same in me."
Sirius tilts his head and smiles in acknowledgement. "I certainly see no less, Heir Farley. You honour your name and your House in all your actions."
She curtseys deeply, and then says, "But you were trying to get out of here. Perhaps I could escort you back to the Floo room?"
"Certainly," Sirius says, exchanges round of polite and meaningless pleasantries with Lord and Lady Farley, Harry following his lead, and then they're finally able to walk out of the hall with Gemma.
As soon as they're fully out of earshot and eye-line of her parents, Gemma releases a sigh. "I'm sorry about them," she says mildly to Harry, strolling down the hall toward the Floo room.
"It's alright," he says. "The Wizengamot is just... that, constantly, but with a thousand times more protocol—I've come to expect it, really."
She laughs. "You aren't wrong."
"Not at all," Sirius says, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry takes the excuse to lean into him a little, letting tiredness seep the tension from his body. "You dance the political dance well, Heir Farley."
Gemma glances at him. "Gemma, please, my Lord."
"Then Sirius," he offers in return. "Though maybe not in public until you've graduated; I can imagine all the biddies in there gasping at the inappropriate familiarity."
"Of course," she says, smiling. "Merlin. May I just say, Sirius, that we miss you terribly at Hogwarts? I'm not sure what Harry's told you, but your replacement is not up to your standard."
"I've heard tell," he says, dry. "Well, if you need resources to study from for your NEWT, feel free to owl me."
"Oh, that would be lovely," Gemma says. "I was genuinely concerned, but if you have any recommendations..."
"Plenty," he assures. "Umbridge might be a bint, but Pince isn't—for all she likes to pretend."
Gemma stifles a very unladylike snort in her fist, and then composes herself and opens the door to the Floo room, which they'd come to. She ushers them inside, and seems prepared to make her goodbyes at the door, but Harry gestures for her to close the door.
"Gemma," he says, and then puts a finger up to his lips and raises an eyebrow. She looks surprised, but draws her wand out of her sleeve and casts her muffling spell—this time the buzzing sound that the spell produces is nearly silent, unlike the time she'd cast it in front of Harry last year.
Sirius's eyebrows shoot up, surprised. "That's well done," he says. "Muffliato, correct?"
"That's right, sir," she says, and then turns to Harry. "What's going on?"
"I figured I should seize the moment while I had it," he tells her. "Hussain told me that you're not planning to try to sit out the war."
She looks startled. "Really?"
"Should she not have?" Harry says. "Because I think I—well, we—can help you."
"I'm just surprised," she says. "She doesn't approve."
"She wants you to be protected," Harry says. "And I don't know if that's really possible, not for any of us, but... you can have help." And he turns to Sirius, who's watching them both with a measuring expression.
"Interesting," Sirius says. "Well, Gemma, Harry's right that it's probably me you should be talking to. But what is it that you hope to do?"
She shrugs, but she meets his eyes squarely. "At this stage, I don't know. We don't know yet what shape the war will take, unless there's something more happening than I know about... which is possible. Umbridge has banned all papers other than the Prophet from the school, and neither it nor my parents are always entirely honest."
"That's for certain," Sirius says, and runs a hand over his hair—it's tied back neatly, otherwise Harry is sure that he'd be running his hand through it. "No, things have been quiet, other than the breakout at Halloween. He's... preparing. And we're doing the same."
"That's what I thought. So, for the moment I'm not sure what I can do—certainly nothing until I graduate. But when I'm free of Hogwarts, I'll be here," she says. There's a steel in her voice, in the straightness of her spine, that reminds Harry of what he sees in Neville when the lion in his shy friend rears up. "I'm not foolish enough to think that my blood will spare me, unlike my parents."
"No, you're right about that," Sirius says, with a sigh. "Not that anyone on the other side would talk about it, but blood didn't spare anyone last time, and it won't spare anything this time either—perhaps even less so. Guerilla tactics and fear-mongering failed Voldemort and his lackeys last time, and I suspect they'll be more willing this go 'round to spread mayhem."
She nods. "Which means open combat. I understand. I've been practicing duelling in my spare time, with those I can find who're willing to hide it from Umbridge." She cuts her eyes at Harry, but says nothing about his absenting himself entirely from their little club. "I'll be ready. Should I contact you after my graduation, or when the situation is clearer?"
"After you graduate," Sirius says firmly. "Dumbledore is of the opinion, and I agree, that schoolchildren should not be fighting in this war. Of course, I'm not as optimistic as him about our ability to keep Hogwarts safe entirely, which is why I taught you the way I did last year—but I won't abide child soldiers. My generation lost our innocence far too early, and yours is set to lose it even earlier. I would spare you if I can."
"I think all of us are thankful for your care," Gemma says, "and those who aren't don't understand what a gift it is. I look forward to your owl, Sirius. And to fighting at your side."
"And I at yours, Gemma," he says, and bows deeply: a bow of equals. She seems briefly taken aback, but steps forward once he's straightened to offer him her hand.
"I'm only the Heir," she says, "and can't promise anything on behalf of the House of Farley. But I and what resource I have are at your disposal, and when the time comes and I assume my place at the head of the family, I hope I'll be able to call the House of Black an ally."
Harry nods, grinning at her. "If Sirius won't promise that, I will."
"Good," she says, smiling back, and then waves her wand again and murmurs a Finite Incantatem. "Have an excellent Christmas, Harry, and a very happy new year. I'll see you back at Hogwarts in January—do try not to get in any trouble between now and then, hm?"
Sirius barks a laugh. "That's like asking chewing gum not to stick. But I'll keep an eye on him for you, Gemma."
"Oy, pot," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "We'll be looking out for each other, thank you very much."
"Then I'm sure you'll arrive back at school safe," Gemma says. "Now off with you—curfew for third years is eleven pm!"
Both of them laugh at her playfully wagged finger, and then make their way swiftly to the Floo. The wards at the Doghouse will be closed again, but it's easy enough to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron and then Apparate from there, Sirius laying a Disillusionment Charm over them to hide their strange clothing from muggle gazes as they walk from the Apparition Point back to the flat. It's cold and heavily overcast in London, though luckily not currently raining, and it's in good spirits that they arrive home. Remus is sitting on the couch and rises to greet them, Sirius with a kiss and Harry with one of his enveloping hugs. Then, seeing Harry yawn once again, he bends to kiss Harry's forehead and tells him that they can fill him in in the morning.
"Thanks, Remus," Harry says sleepily. "G'night."
"Good night, pup," he says, and sends him off to change out of his party clothes and sleep.
Harry and Sirius do fill Remus in on everything that had happened at the ball over the few days spanning between the ball itself on the 21st and Christmas. It's interesting to compare stories from the periods that they'd been separated—Harry had mostly been with his friends, of course, though his story of being introduced to Lord Flint had caused Sirius to ask several concerned questions. But Sirius had done a good job of making the rounds, talking to members of various Dark and Grey Houses and Families. He'd gotten a good sense of the political temperature in the room—nervous, was what he'd decided was the feeling of many people, though hiding it well. Everyone was anxious to feel everyone else out. Harry'd gotten some of the same impression, but he isn't an entity in the world of magical politics in the way Sirius is, so he'd seen less of it.
Still, it's interesting to talk through what he had seen and done, to hear Sirius's impressions—including about Gemma. It was gratifying to know that she'd find a place with Sirius and the others fighting on Dumbledore's side to stop Voldemort, and Sirius seemed enthused, for all that he and Remus had both expressed some sadness that "such young people" had to be involved.
"I'd hoped to protect you and your schoolmates better," Sirius had said at one point. "I'm sorry that we've failed."
Harry had just shrugged. "Not all of us want to be protected, you know."
"No. But you still should be." And Sirius had kissed the top of his head and directed the conversation elsewhere.
They talk about other things, too: Umbridge and school politics, including Neville and Hermione's defence club. Harry admits to knowing about it, and then also to purposefully not joining.
"Umbridge pays too much attention to me," he says. "I'd either get them all caught, or she'd finally use me acting suspicious as an excuse to expel me, or... something."
"I'll have to do something about that woman," Sirius mutters, and Remus reaches out to pat his shoulder, though he doesn't disagree, which makes Harry suspicious. Not that he's interested in stopping them if they decide to... do something. Who knows. Between the two of them they're far more creative than Harry could ever dream of being; he actually sort of looks forward to seeing what they come up with.
It's nice to catch up and to relax. Harry loves Hogwarts, feels safe there, but… not like he does at the Doghouse. It's warm and easy, and he laughs at Sirius's jokes and Remus's stories about the strange customers they've had at the bookshop leading up to Christmas. Harry, in turn, talks about his impromptu study dates with Luna Lovegood and the Quidditch match with Cedric, about how he'd gotten busy with homework—and Umbridge's detentions—and sort of stopped spending time with Neville and Hermione and Ron but was back at it now, and about looking forward to the spring term. He has high hopes for some Weasley Twins pranks on Umbridge; he's not seen them scheming, but their restraint so far into term makes him suspect that they have big plans.
Christmas Day comes, and is pleasantly mellow. They have plans to make a visit to Saint Mungo's tomorrow to see Harry's parents, but for today they laze about in pyjamas and have a small exchange of gifts—Harry receives, among other things, sweets, a new planner from Hermione to replace the one from last year that he'd filled, some books, and a few pieces of jewelry, including a particularly nice leather cuff bracelet embossed with twining vines from Neville that sits perfectly just above his wand holster. Remus cooks dinner, ham and sweet potato and roasted brussels sprouts, with a nice bread pudding for desert, and Harry retires to his room full and happy—to find an owl waiting for him at his window.
Instantly nervous, Harry opens the window and lets the bird in, but it only drops its package on the bed and then takes off again, not waiting for a response. Uncertain if he's feeling more or less nervous, Harry picks up the parcel and turns it over, inspecting it. His name is written on the outside of the packaging in Snape's familiar spidery handwriting, and Harry lets out a breath. It might still be bad, but at least he now knows what kind of bad to suspect. Gingerly he pulls the dangling bit of twine to undo the bow around the package holding shut the paper. The item is a flat rectangle, and peeling back the paper reveals it to be a black box with a folded note stuck on top. He opens the note first, and reads, Mr Potter. I am not usually one given to gifts, but I suspect you will find this useful in the coming days. Use it well. Then Snape's slanting signature. Harry remembers the gift of the Invisibility Cloak at Christmas in his first year, the similarity of that note and this one, and thinks that if whatever's in the box is as helpful as the Cloak has been, he'll owe Snape a great debt.
So he turns to the box, and carefully slides off the top. Within, nestled in fabric, is a knife—no, a dagger. The blade is maybe four inches long, double edged, and he doesn't have to do anything as foolish as trying it against his finger to knows that it's very, very sharp; the edge gleams in the low light of his bedside lamp. The metal has a wavering shine that might be from its forging or might be magic, and the handle has a plain guard and a simple hilt wrapped with black leather. When he picks it up and weighs it carefully in his hand, he finds that it fits his grip comfortably, with a little room to grow, and isn't overly heavy. When he looks at the box again to return it to its place, he finds that there's a sheath included, and a set of straps, and a moment of fiddling informs him that the straps are meant to bind the knife to some part of his body—his leg or his upper arm, he decides, depending on his clothing and whether or not he plans to wear the blade openly. Which he certainly isn't, but he doesn't have any idea how to wear it, and resigns himself to experimenting tomorrow with binding the blade to his ankle and keeping it hidden in his boot, or under his shirt at his back, maybe. But that's for tomorrow, and tomorrow after their visit to the hospital, even, because Harry's fairly sure that the wards on the Janus Thickey Ward won't let in someone armed with anything other than a wand.
So he goes to sleep, and rises in the morning feeling fresh, if not ready for the day to come. He never quite feels ready for visiting his parents, but he wouldn't skip it for anything. Remus is already up when he goes for breakfast, and he makes himself a slice of toast and accepts a cup of tea happily, and they sit in the gentle morning quiet together and wait for Sirius to rouse himself. Which he does, about a half-hour after Harry gets up, and he sits and reads the paper while he eats his own breakfast. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he sets it down and says, "Well, that's about enough masochism for one day. How are we feeling?"
"I'm ready," Harry says, and gestures at his empty breakfast plate. "Should we go?"
"No time like the present," Remus agrees, setting aside the crossword page which Sirius had handed him when he opened the paper. They get up and set about putting on boots and coats together, and then head out into the chilly Boxing Day morning. It's drizzling gently, so Remus subtly draws his wand and casts an Impermeability Charm on Harry's coat, then does the same for his, while Sirius does his own. They make their way briskly to the Apparition Point, and from there Sirius takes Harry on his arm directly into the warm interior of the Apparition Point at St. Mungo's. They exchange their usual quick but polite greeting with the witch at the welcome desk, and head up to the fourth floor in the lift.
It's quiet as always in the Janus Thickey Ward, the silence disturbed only occasionally by the murmurs of patients or nurses. Not many people here get visitors, Harry knows, and though it's a shame… he can sort of understand. If he didn't love his parents as much as he does, he wouldn't come. It's too hard.
Their curtain apartment is open to the light and the air when they arrive down at the end of the ward, but to Harry's dismay both of his parents are lying in their beds. Of course, that's where his father has always been, but his mum seems to be sleeping and his father's blank stare has always been harder to bear. Subdued, he goes to sit in silence at his mum's bedside and watches her sleep while Sirius and Remus go to talk to his dad in hushed voices, updating him on the year as they always do.
Sleeping, his mum doesn't seem as ill. Her face is peaceful, and her eyes move and shift as she dreams, offering a natural sort of animation to her features. She doesn't stare or shift in discomfort as she does when she's awake; she doesn't move like a puppet manipulated by an amateur puppeteer. She just… sleeps. As anyone would, without any sense of the madness that holds her in its grasp.
Harry doesn't know how long he watches her sleep for, just sitting in silence. He tunes out Sirius and Remus talking to his dad, falls into meditative breathing, and just sits with her. It's nice, in a way. Less stressful than grasping for the bits of hope that come from interacting with her, seeing the moments where it's almost like she's whole. At the same time, there's a sense of loss, of knowing that he might not get to talk to his mum again for a year—maybe for even longer, depending on what happens. But at least they'll be safe here. They'll wait for him to come back, and probably not notice at all the time that's passing. Or maybe they will, but if they know how many days they spend along, they've gotten used to it by now.
He's jerked from his thoughts by the soft touch of a hand on his shoulder, and he looks over to find Remus standing behind him. Sirius is at the entryway to the curtain apartment, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Ready to go?" Remus asks gently. "Or did you want to sit with your dad a bit, too?"
"I'm fine," Harry says. He stands, hesitates, and bends to kiss his mum's cheek. Her skin is soft and warm; she doesn't stir. "Let's go."
They make their way back out into the Ward and then into the hospital, and Sirius insinuates himself between Remus and Harry so that he can sling an arm around Harry's shoulders and take Remus's hand at the same time, their fingers laced together between them as they make their way in silence back to the lift. As they head down, the lift chiming softly as it passes each floor, Remus says, "Harry, I had a thought the other day but wanted to speak with you, rather than put it in a letter."
"About what?" Harry asks. His voice sounds dull even to himself, subdued, and Sirius squeezes him gently.
"The Patronus Charm," Remus says. "I realize it hasn't yet become a problem, but… well, knowing it offers several advantages, and you're very strong for your age. I think you'd be capable."
Harry looks over, past Sirius, who also has an interested look on his face—clearly Remus hadn't mentioned this to him before. "What made you think of it?"
"Halloween, really," he says. "I realize that was some time ago. But the Azkaban breakout… I don't think it would have been possible if Voldemort didn't have at least some of the Dementors on his side, and I had the thought that many people would be defenceless against them—the young especially. Which means you and your friends, so in learning this you might have one more useful tool in your arsenal."
"They're also an excellent trick for communication in an emergency," Sirius adds, enthused. "Dumbledore worked out a way in the last war to use them to send a secure message that can't be intercepted or mistake its recipient. Very handy, really."
"Huh," Harry says. The Patronus Charm is notoriously difficult according to Defence books he's read, and specifically useful for defence against Dementors and Lethifolds… but if Voldemort really does have Dementors on his side, there's not much else that can protect anyone from them. It probably would be a good thing to at least try learning. "Alright."
"We'll start this afternoon, if you feel up to it," Remus says. "It's unlikely you'll be able to learn the charm entirely before school resumes—there's only another week or so until you go back, after all—but I can teach you the trick, at least, and after that it's only practice."
"Okay," Harry says. Remus is usually conservative in his estimates of how long he thinks it'll take Harry to learn something, but at this point has gotten pretty good at it, having taught him and watched Sirius teach him any number of spells and duelling tricks over the past two summers. "Sounds good, Remus."
"Excellent." Remus sounds pleased, and Harry feels it as well as they make their way out of the hospital and back to the Doghouse. It's something to take his mind off his parents, something real, that will actually be able to help.
By the time they get back to the flat, Harry's feeling a bit better about the world in general, ready to get to work. Whatever it takes, he reminds himself. Every tool he's given to help protect himself and those he cares about is a tool he needs, and he'll work as hard as he has to to master all of them. He meets Remus in the den, helps him push the sofa back a bit to give them more space, and listens carefully as he explains the wand movement and teaches him the incantation: Expecto Patronum.
And then he practices.
Two hours later, Harry is feeling substantially less good about his mastery of all the tools available to him. The Patronus Charm feels impossible; he just can't make it work. Remus's explanation of the trick, that he has to conjure a happy memory, just isn't helping: the more joyous things he can think of have produced, at best, a little bit of light at the end of his wand, more like a Lumos than a Patronus. That much, Remus had said, at least meant that he was capable of the spell, had the magical power and had the incantation and wand movement correct at least most of the time—a failure of the technical elements of the spell produced no effect whatsoever. Power and will made a Patronus strong, enabled a wix to produce a corporeal Patronus, and those were present, creating the bare minimum of effect. But the potency of memory, of emotion: that was what produced a full Patronus, turned it from light and wisps of silvery smoke into a spell with real effect.
"You can't have one without the other," Remus explains, having come to sit down next to Harry on the floor of the den. "Can I ask what memory you're using?"
"Different things," Harry says with a shrug. "Spending time with my friends, or flying."
Remus hums. "Those are certainly joyful memories, but perhaps not purely happy in the way the spell demands—if such a distinction makes sense."
Harry considers that, turns over in his mind the moments of happiness he's felt. "I think I understand."
"Think it over some more. I'm sure you're tired—it's been an exhausting day. Practicing the charm takes a lot of energy, on top of the emotional ringer of the hospital," Remus says, and reaches over to pat Harry's shoulder gently. "We'll try again tomorrow, alright?"
"Alright," Harry says, and pries himself up off the floor, then offers Remus a hand.
Remus accepts it, groaning as he rises, and dusts himself off. "I'm getting old," he says, shaking his head. "Creaky knees, sore back… honestly."
"Not fair, is it?" Sirius says, sticking his head through the door to the kitchen. "Are you two academics going to come have tea, or shall I drink it all myself?"
Harry perks up. "I'm coming!" he says, and darts off for the kitchen, because when Sirius makes tea he always sets out biscuits, too.
Remus, laughing, follows him, and while Harry sets about pouring tea and dunking a biscuit with bliss, pauses at the doorway to kiss Sirius. "You'll have the charm in no time," Remus assures Harry, when they join him at the table. "Truly: it's only practice."
"If you say so," Harry says with a sigh, and takes a long sip of tea. Maybe it is only practice, but if that's the case, he suspects he's going to need a lot of it.