Fire
Un, deux, trois
Breathe.
Pain
Un, deux-
Breathe.
Please
Un, deu-
Breathe.
Help
U-
Me
Breathe.
"Rise, Death Eater Draco and be greeted by your betters."
He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the haze over his vision. His arm is coated in sticky liquid, dripping onto the white carpet in dull splats. Tremors shake through his body, threatening to send him to the ground. His eyes sting with tears from the pain he just went through. The metallic scent of blood fills the air. He struggles to breath as he tries to regain his composure and take in his surroundings.
Spines of steel.
His body stills. His emotions drain out of him. His fist tightens around his wand. He ignores the howl of pain that goes up his arm as he raises it above his head, forcing his expression into one of triumph. A roar of approval shoots through the assembly as if he cast a spell. His deranged aunts are the loudest.
Malfoy's are not good. They are not brave. They are not tough.
But they survive.
They have spines of steel forged in the blood of their ancestors. The same ancestors who never flinched in the face of danger, fighting to protect what was rightfully theirs.
He meets his mother's dead blank eyes across the room, trying to convey the message back to her. Her reflective twin mirrors flare once then blink out, a morse-coded message to show her support, as weak as it feels.
He knew from the beginning he was alone in this.
A masked stranger thrusts some bottle of alcohol into his free hand and and he feels the weight of it in his palm. With determination, he clenches his fist around it, hiding the trembling from sight.
He holds the bottle up to his lips, pretending to take a long drink. He wants to dump entire thing down his throat, but he resists due to the performance he needs to put on tonight. The thought of failure sends shivers down his spine - one wrong move, one slip-up, and both he and his parents will be dead. Bracing himself, he walks with measured steps towards his mother, offering her his uninjured arm.
She takes it delicately, threading her frail arm through his. He ignores the thinness and fragility of her touch, focusing on keeping his performance flawless.
They make it to his parents' bedroom before they break apart. Their bodies wrap around each other, supporting each other. His blood stains her dress as they wrap their arms around each other, their chests pressed together. She murmurs meaningless words into his ear in a soft detached voice, his distant brain half floating in the air.
"Shh my dragon. I've got you. We're alive. We will always be together. I promise I won't let you go. Shh."
She doesn't bother saying they will be okay; they both know it's a lie.
After a few minutes of repeating the familiar soothing words, a variation of the same ones she used when he woke up from a nightmare as a child and his fingers trailing over her spine, they pull away. He keeps up the motion of his hand as he guides her to the bed. The skin of her back stretched over each nobs, making them hard against his fingertips.
Spines of steel.
A dark chuckle slips out of his mouth, but he stops it before it becomes a mad cackle.
He lays her down and pulls the covers over her skeletal body with trembling hands. He kisses her forehead.
"I love you. I promise I will save you." He whispers his voice quiet enough to only be heard by the ghosts of the manor.
Her reply is so quiet that he almost misses it, "It is I who must save you."
He returns to his room and opens a potion book Severus sent him. He tries not to track the time; he tries to lose himself in the book. Five hours later his ward chimes, letting him know someone is trying to dismantle them. Draco waves his wand to dismiss them, noticing with dull surprise blood still stains his arm.
The door opens, and Draco forces himself not to flinch. His survival matters more than ever now. Yaxley's ugly leering face intrudes through the opening.
"The Dark Lord requests your presence, for your initiation young, Malfoy." he sneers, taking in his schoolbook and bloody arm.
He opens his mouth to call for his parents…
If his father were here and not in-
If Father were here, he would stop them, stand in front of him and remind them that he was a Malfoy not a toy for their amusement. If his mother hadn't relinquished her power early on at the altar of her marriage she would slice them in half with a single glare. Demand why they dare throw this burden on his shoulders. But there is only him. He is the only one who can bring them back their power and influence, their honour. The only one who can save them.
He closes his mouth. He slides off the bed and stands up.
Breath in. Un, deux, trois. Breath out.
He spells the forgotten dried blood that crusts his arm off with a flick of his wrist and walks the distance out into the hallway. Yaxley closes the door behind him and leads him down once-familiar winding halls, where he experienced his best and worst memories. Now it looks foreign, its beauty warped by curse burns, claw marks and unidentifiable spilt liquids.
"The Dark Lord has something special planned just for you."
His stomach curls in on itself. Anytime the Dark Lord took special notice of you horrible things happened. This morning was proof of that.
Breath.
Un, deux
Un.
U-
The hallway that Draco and Yaxley exit spill into what their 'guests' refer to as the throne room, but what his family once claimed as their most grand receiving room.
The floors are a cold, unfeeling black marble veined with gold, each step bringing the chill of death closer to their bodies. Silver viper statues coil and writhe around the furniture, poised in striking positions with gleaming fangs bared. The ceiling is a gruesome depiction of the fall of Adam and Eve, punished for daring to possess knowledge of magic. Mirrors line the walls like silent sentinels, reflecting every minuscule shift in their expressions back at them. And it is always fear that stares back at them, haunting reminders of their miscalculations and threats against his family.
Draco's gaze falls upon the pathetic creature cowering at the Dark Lord's feet, his head bowed in submission. It is the only place Draco allows himself to look, unable to bear witness to the true terror in those eyes. But as if sensing his presence, the creature looks up and meets his gaze.
Draco's heart stops in his chest as he takes in the arresting green eyes and jagged lightning bolt scar etched into its forehead. The same image that haunts his memories, burned bright into his mind from the day that hand first recoiled from him in disgust. In that moment, all Draco can see is a reflection of himself, twisted and broken by the cruel hands of fate.
Breathe, Draco. Un, deux, trois. Breathe. The memory of his mother's soft voice whispers in his mind.
When he dares to take a closer look, his heart picks up. The glamour falls away as he examines the muggles' fear-stained eyes, clouded with hints of murky brown, and streaks of blue. The muggle's eyes lack the cocky overconfident swagger Potter shields himself in like armour, the desperate burn to prove his greatness that ignites them in fire. They lack the arrogant desire to come off as good and fair. To show how being crippled by such weakness makes one a worthy martyr.
The windows of the soul, the hardest part of a doppelgänger to fake.
Draco knows that the real Potter rests warm and coddled with his muggle aunt and uncle. Guarded safe and sound behind the impenetrable walls of the Order of the Phoenix. This pitiable mockery of the Golden Boy, snivels like a scared child, for once aware of the danger he faces.
"Your father told me about your childish rivalry with the Chosen One," the Dark Lord hisses and the assembled Death Eaters titter like mad werehyeenas, Nagini curled around his ankles, "I thought my newest recruit deserved a gift after the great task he agreed to take on for me."
I didn't agree, you bastard, Draco thinks probing his Occlumency shields, with frayed nerves when the thought slips in.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Draco imagines a taunting sneer spreading across the Dark Lord's face, stretching the skin on that skull-like face even tighter.
"You may begin."
The muggle cowers under Draco's intense gaze, fully comprehending the terror that awaits him. Draco feels his grip on his wand weakening, his resolve unraveling like the delicate threads of his mother's prized crochet pattern. But he forces himself to stop, to take a deep breath and steel his spine. Spine of Steel he thinks. With unwavering determination, he directs his glare at Potter, the insufferable git who always seems to have everything handed to him on a silver platter. Fury courses through Draco as he raises his wand, aiming it directly at the scar on Potter's forehead - a constant reminder of his own shortcomings in comparison. He channels all of his pent-up hatred and frustration out of the tip.
"Crucio."
Flash.
Pop.
Flash.
Pop.
The pounding thuds of his heart echo in his head as he tries to comprehend the voiced and unvoiced barrage of accusations and demands being hurled at him.
Wretched
" over here." a voice shouts among the chaos.
Thud
Worthless
"No over here."
Another voice demands.
Thud
Lying
"Is it true?"
Thud
Self-serving
"Is he back?"
Thud
Apathetic
"How do we keep our children safe?"
Thud
Murderer
"What are your plans to stop him?
Thud
Say something
Harry opens his mouth.
Anything
Adrenaline pumps through Harry's veins as he is pushed and pulled by a mob of frantic witches and wizards, his heart pounding in his ears. Blinded by the intense flashing of wix cameras and consumed by the weight of everything being thrown at him, Harry feels like a statue. A strong arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him away from the overwhelming crowd. For a moment he thinks it's Mr. Weasley, saving him once again like he did when Harry tried to follow Sirius through the veil. But then reality sets in as Dumbledore guides him out of the Ministry Atrium.
"You did good, Harry."
I didn't say anything, he thinks, but keeps silent, nodding along.
Dumbledore knows best and Harry trusts him to answer the public questions for him, but those words only intensify the feels inside of Harry - guilt, anger, and fear, all crashing together threatening to consume him. He doesn't recognise himself anymore. He doesn't deserve a voice. Whenever he tries to help all he ever manages to do is get people injured and killed.
"Just your presence alone reassures them. You are their brave golden light of hope in these dark times."
Muggle Death Tolls Rise After Bridge Crash
Malfoy's Blacklisted After Trial of the Century
Greyback on the Loose and Reigning Terror
Harry's heart races as he looks down at the defeated figure of Draco Malfoy, unable to move or defend himself. Memories of their fierce rivalry resurface but are quickly overshadowed by the mixed feelings Harry feels for causing Lucius Malfoy's imprisonment in Azkaban. He doesn't regret doing it, but the sight of Draco's devastated face reminds Harry that they are both just human, despite their animosity towards each other. They both have lost important figures in their lives due to their involvement in the war. Harry's godfather, Sirius, and Draco's father, Lucius. As he remembers his troubled expression during the press release announcing Voldemort's return, Harry can't help but wonder if Draco is feeling the same turmoil and confusion he still feels.
"That's a funny newspaper." the waiter says as he peers over the side, his eyes settling on the picture of the Malfoy.
Harry gives him a nervous smile, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He remembers Hermione telling him about a similar thing happening to her when she read their newspaper in the muggle world and forgot to glamour it.
"It's for a project for a Journalism class. We had to create our own newspaper." He says remembering her answer.
The boy's eyes light up and Harry feels his cheeks grow hot.
"I get off in five minutes, I would love to hear more about this project of yours." the boy says, giving Harry a friendly smile.
Harry starts to reply, but his gaze drifts towards the window.
His eyebrows furrow and his mouth twists into a look of utter confusion as his eyes land upon the figure of Professor Dumbledore. The renowned wizard stands tall and imposing in his vibrant magenta robes, a stark contrast to the dull backdrop of oblivious muggles surrounding him.
"Umm… one moment, I think I see someone I know outside." he says standing up as if in daze and walking outside.
Dumbledore smiles at Harry in his grandfatherly fashion and extends his arm out to him.
"I'm afraid I will have to interrupt your date. We have places to be."
"It wa-sn't a date, sir." Harry stutters out.
Dumbledore gives Harry a knowing look but doesn't say anything more about it.
"Hold on tight," he says as Harry grabs his arm, desperate to go anywhere but here.
Dumbledore apparates them to a street lined with houses. He hands Harry a small trunk that looks just like the one Harry keeps packed at the foot of his bed in case he needs to make a quick escape.
"I hope you don't mind but I took the liberty of packing for you," Dumbledore says.
"I won't be returning to the Dursleys after this?" Harry asks, feeling his heart beating in nervous excitement.
Dumbledore's lips curl up into a small, mysterious smile instead of offering a direct answer, and Harry shrugs it off as typical Dumbledore's behaviour. The old man was notorious for his love of surprises. A chill breeze sweeps over Harry's body, causing him to shiver in Dudley's thin t-shirt. The streetlamps above cast eerie shadows across the dark pavement, giving the scene an otherworldly feel. Feeling uneasy, Harry edges closer to Dumbledore, still shaken by the Dementors' unexpected appearance at Privet Drive last year. He can sense the weight of Dumbledore's intense focus and knows better than to distract him with questions about their destination. After all, Dumbledore will reveal their purpose in due time.
"Just a little further," Dumbledore says breaking the silence of the night around them.
"Yes, sir," Harry says feeling a bit like one of Dudley's toy soldiers, welcomed into Dumbledore's army at last.
He tries not to remember how all of them lost their heads.
They come to a sudden halt in front of an eerie, dilapidated house. The shades are drawn, and the entire place is shrouded in darkness. The overgrown grass and dirt-covered cars in the driveway suggest that the occupants have been gone for quite some time. Without hesitation, Dumbledore opens the rusted metal wire gate, his wand held tightly in his other hand. Harry follows behind him cautiously, his senses on high alert as he keeps a watchful eye for any hidden Death Eaters lurking in the shadows. As they approach the door, Dumbledore casts a powerful Lumos spell, illuminating the entryway with a blinding white light. With a loud creak, he pushes open the door and reveals the aftermath of a fierce battle. The once elegant furniture lies broken and strewn across the floor, dishes shattered into pieces, and deep gouges mar the ceiling above them. A thick, metallic smell hangs heavily in the air - blood. Dumbledore's curiosity gets the better of him as he reaches out to catch a drop of it on his finger, seemingly fascinated rather than repulsed by the gruesome scene. He brings his blood-stained finger to his lips and licks it thoughtfully before pointing his wand at a relatively unharmed upholstered chair and muttering a dark incantation.
Harry jumps in surprise when the chair transforms into an old man, wearing similar robes to the fabric of the chair.
"Horace, my old friend!" Dumbledore says in a friendly voice.
"Albus." Horace's voice trembles as he looks around anxiously, his hands wringing in nervousness. "I never know who to trust anymore. These are truly dangerous times we live in."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkle and his wrinkles crinkle as he smiles.
"Quite the opposite. Horace Slughorn, may I introduce you to Harry Potter."
Slughorn seems to notice him for the first time and his eyes seem to bug out of his head as he sees Harry's scar. He takes a step forward and then stops himself as if coming to his senses.
"Oh no, I know what you are trying to do Albus, but you can't convince me to come out of retirement, I like my life of leisure too much to be tempted."
"Nothing like that, Horace we just came to visit, but if you would excuse me for a moment, I have an important Patronus to send," Dumbledore says ducking out of the backdoor.
Slughorn walks towards Harry like he is a mirage in the desert and if he moves too quickly, he might disappear.
"Hello, sir, did you used to teach at Hogwarts?" Harry asks to make conversation.
Slughorn seems to buff up like a frog with pride and a slimy smile crosses his face.
"Oh yes, I used to teach Potions. I have a lot of fond memories of teaching at Hogwarts. I gained most of my collection during my time there."
Harry gives him a confused look and Slughorn gestures him over to a cabinet by the wall lined with moving photographs.
"Who are these people?" Harry asks, watching as a Beater hits a Bludger and man waves around a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Slughorn says in a excited voice pointing at the picture Harry just looked at, "They are all part of my collection! That's Gwenog Jones captain of the Holyhead Harpies, who is always happy to let me free into any game I want."
"And that's Barnabas Cuffe editor of he Daily Prophet. I have a free subscription of course."
"Who is that?" Harry says pointing to a picture of a pale man with his arms around a handsome dark skinned man with tiny red braids.
Slughorn peers closer at the picture that Harry gestures to, and his eyes grow wider.
"That's Eldred Worple author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires. He lived with Sanguini Ashe the king of the vampires as his consort for years. I wonder how old Sanguini is doing? I should write to him, it's only polite."
Harry gives him a absent minded nod, rapidly losing his attention span as his eyes land on a new photo with a familiar laughing face.
"That's my mother!" He says in a shocked voice.
As Slughorn regards the faded picture with a wistful expression, a wave of nostalgia and longing washes over Harry. It's a feeling he's all too familiar with - the ache in his throat that always arises when someone speaks of his parents. It's like a hunger, desperate for any scrap of information or connection to them. He can almost feel their presence in the room, ghosts hovering just out of reach. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like to have grown up with them by his side. But then reality come bwck, and he swallows hard, pushing away the thoughts.
"What was she like?" Harry asks in a longing voice.
"Your mother was one of a kind, a genius in the potions lab, but not arrogant bone in her body." Slughorn says in a quiet reflective voice his eyes going glassy.
"Harry is just as talented in Defense as his mother was in potions. With all the battle experience against Voldemort he has gained a celebrity following. He will make a fine Auror one day, maybe even the Head."
Slughorn's greedy eyes grow conniving and Harry guesses he was once a Slytherin during his Hogwarts days. The expression reminds him too much of Malfoy not to be true.
"Is that so?" Slughorn says.
"I would even venture to say he would be the he would be your crowning jewel, but we see you are busy so we will be on our way," Dumbledore says with a bow of his head.
"Come along, Harry." He says, and Harry follows him to the door.
There is a moment of quiet before Slughorn makes a worried noise.
"Wait Albus I have reconsidered, I think I can find the time to start teaching again." Slughorn says.
"Excellent." Dumbledore says as they walk out.
Dumbledore apparates them in front of the Burrow with a sharp, ear-splitting crack that shatters the stillness of the night. Harry stumbles to the ground, his insides churning with the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tube. As he struggles to regain his balance, a surge of conflicting emotions washes over him - the overwhelming need for answers about his mother, mixed with a sense of comfort and belonging as he takes in the welcoming sight of the humble house that has become his second home. Dumbledore gives the door a firm knock, causing frantic footsteps to sound from within. Molly flings open the door, her usually warm expression replaced with one of shock at seeing their unexpected guests. Ginny appears behind her, equally surprised and wary.
"Hiya, Harry," Ginny says in a bright voice, her face flushing a bright red.
Harry's heart swells as he watches her, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. He can't tear his eyes away from her disheveled hair and rosy lips, complemented by her delicate nightgown. She e has such life and vitality, a contrast to Harry's summer of self-loathing and isolation. But with Ginny by his side, there is hope of truly living again.
"Hey, Gin." He says feeling a little shy for some reason.
"Harry, dear, come in, come in." Mrs. Weasley says shooing Ginny away so Harry can fit through the door.
"I think I am leaving young Harry here in capable hands, Molly," Dumbledore says, making his goodbyes.
Harry nods to Dumbledore as he raises his wand to apparate, disappearing with a crack, leaving nothing but the faint scent of lemon drops behind. Harry feels a wave of sadness at how much he already misses Dumbledore, after not seeing him all summer and him already leaving so fast.
"Do you need anything, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asks, fluttering around him in the neat but cluttered kitchen, pulling out bags of tea, "No thank you, Mrs. Weasley, I just want to see Ron and Hermione."
As if called, he hears the sound of two sets of footsteps on the steps.
"Harry!" Hermione cries, launching at him and giving him a massive hug.
Harry stumbles, nearly losing his footing for the second time that night. His heart races as he regains his balance and pulls her in for a tight hug, feeling the weight of the world slide off his shoulders. Ron smacks him on the back with a loud thud and they exchange glances before making their way back upstairs.
Once safe from prying ears behind Ron's door they huddle on top of his Chudley Cannons bedspread, discussing Harry's night.
"Did you battle Death Eaters?" Ron asks in excitement.
Hermione sighs through her nose.
"Ronald, Harry is underage, Dumbledore would never be so irresponsible,"
Harry doubts that remembering first through fifth year and everything Dumbledore turned a blind eye to but feels too tired to argue with her.
"Nothing that exciting. He wanted me to convince Slughorn to join the staff as the potions master this year."
"He used your fame for his benefit?" Hermione asks in a disapproving voice.
"Hermione, I was happy to do it. Dumbledore does so much for me it's the least I could do to help."
"But Harry, it's wrong of him to put you in that kind of situation, where you feel like you owe him. Real kindness doesn't need to be paid back. A relationship shouldn't be transactional."
Hermione's eyes widen in shock as Harry's voice grows louder, his words strained with determination.
"It's not about that at all," he insists, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
"I would do anything for Dumbledore, for what it means to defeat Voldemort and protect the world. He doesn't make decisions without reason – this is just one small piece in his strategy, and I'm grateful that he believes my actions can make a difference."
Both Hermione and Ron flinch as he says the name with conviction.
Hermione looks near tears at his words and hugs him. Ron gives Harry an awkward shoulder pat, even worse at handling emotions than him and changes the subject.
"Wait so you mean Snape is getting the boot?" Ron asks.
When Harry extracts himself from the hug, he shrugs.
"Dumbledore didn't say, but one can only hope."
Hermione shakes her head and frowns at them but is too used to them hating on Snape to put up much of an argument.
"I wonder who is going to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts position," she asks instead.
"Another wanker, I'm sure. We haven't had anyone decent since Lupin."
As they throw out absurd suggestions for professors, Harry's contentment slips away. Sirius finds his way into his mind and how much he would enjoy this conversation. Probably adding how no one could be a worse professor than Snivellus.
The image of Malfoy flashes in his mind, the only one who might understand what he's going through. If he could lower himself to think about someone else outside his family that is. But the thought twists in his gut, in a mix of longing and disgust. Did Malfoy's summer with his father in Azkaban change him? Does he blame Harry for how it all turned out? Or has he finally seen the corruption in his family? The weight of responsibility is heavy, suffocating Harry as he realizes that one summer could never make that big of a difference . Yet, the thought persists...maybe if Harry could just talk to him, appeal to his reasoning, convince him to consider the side of Light. That's what a true Chosen One would do. But the doubt lingers, and Harry can't help but wonder if their fate was sealed long ago.
"Harry?" Hermione asks, sounding like this is not the first time she called his name.
"Oh…yes what?"
"We are going to bed," Hermione says.
"Oh, sorry I got lost in my head."
Hermione gives him a kind smile.
"As long as you don't stay in there," she says, slipping off the bed and into the hallway.
Harry and Ron get ready for bed and turn off the lights, Malfoy's sneering grey eyes, still lingering in his head as he falls asleep.
He wakes up hours later with the weak light of sunrise coming through the window. He groans and rolls over cursing the Dursleys for getting his body used to waking up at the asscrack of dawn. He stumbles out of bed and into the attached bathroom in the hall. He spy's his toothbrush he unpacked last night sitting next to Hermione's and realises what he forgot. Toothpaste.
Harry wonders if wix uses toothpaste or if they rely on charms to keep their teeth clean. After years of dorm life Harry should know but he never always waited until the bathroom was empty before going in. He opens up the cabinets that line the walls rummaging through bottles of shaving potion and containers Sleekeazy. He feels triumphant when he pulls out a tube of Floris Flaming cinnamon-flavoured tooth cream. He squirts some on his toothbrush and brushes until his mouth is full of foam.
He jumps when he hears the door open and sees Ginny looking bleary at him in Quidditch gear.
"Harry?" She asks, sounding confused.
As he begins to speak, his voice is engulfed by a blazing inferno that shoots out of his mouth. His eyes widen in horror in fear for Ginny's safety, but she only laughs in amusement, unaffected by the heat he just let out. The flames dance wildly around her, casting an ethereal glow on her face as she enjoys the chaos.
"Did you use my tooth cream?"
As Harry reaches for Ginny's toothpaste, he can feel his face burning with humiliation. The thought of using something that's close to her mouth every day makes him squirm with embarrassment. His mind races with thoughts of shame, knowing that he is supposed to be leading a revolution against Voldemort. But deep down, Harry knows that he will have to play a much bigger role than anyone else in the Order or even Dumbledore.
The words echo in his head: "Neither can live while the other survives." \p As he squeezes the tube of toothpaste in his hand, he can't help but think of all the times he may forget something crucial in battle - a life-saving potion, a special spell book - and lives will be lost because of his imperfection. Cedric's face flashes before his eyes, followed by Sirius'. Who else will die because of his mistakes? As Ginny notices the shift in his mood and stops laughing, she reaches out to grip his shoulder.
And just like that, tears begin to form at the corners of Harry's eyes as he mutters, "I forgot mine."
"Harry," she says in a soft voice, "You can use my tooth cream anytime you want."
He sniffs and wipes his runny nose.
"Yours is no good anyways toothpaste is supposed to be mint," Harry says, attempting a wobbly smile.
Ginny makes a scrunched-up face at him and sticks out her tongue, shuddering.
"It's tooth cream you prat. And mint? Mint is cold and bitter, who wants to put that in their mouth? Cinnamon is far superior! It's sweet and warm."
"Who wants to be burned to death by their toothpaste?" Harry shoots back.
"Only cool people know how to handle the heat."
"Ha…ha." Harry deadpans.
"Are you heading out to play Quidditch?" Harry asks, gesturing towards her outfit.
A wick grin spreads across Ginny's face as she senses his excitement.
"Fred and George bought the new Nimbuses and told me I could practise with one while they are visiting if it's before they wake up. Up for a game?"
Harry nods in excitement rushing back to his room to get changed, Ginny's hand on his arm stops him. He looks back at her surprised to see an embarrassed expression on her face.
"I didn't always see it when I was younger. I was too busy idolising you and thinking you could do no wrong. But I see it now, the pressure people put on you to be the perfect soldier. To save everyone." she says as she looks at his fragile expression.
"I just...I hope you know," she stammers, her cheeks flushing with emotion, "you don't have to carry that burden alone, Harry. We love you for who you are, not for what you can do or save." Her words hit him like a physical blow, breaking down the walls he had built around his heart.
A warmth spreads through his chest, melting away the coldness that had taken root inside him. His grip loosens on his wand. He knows the feeling will not last but it's nice believe for a moment that he doesn't have to be the hero all the time. He can be vulnerable, flawed, and still be loved.
"Thank you," he whispers hoarsely to Ginny, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
For the first time in a long while, Harry feels truly seen and accepted for who he is.
"No problem, Harry."
The next day, they venture to Diagon Alley to complete their school shopping, their hearts heavy and their steps cautious. The once bustling street is now a wasteland, with dark clouds hanging over them like a curse. A sense of foreboding hangs in the air, and the few people who scurry by cast fearful glances at each other, as if expecting danger at every turn. Harry's heart sinks as he takes in the bleak scene. This is what he wanted, wasn't it? For people to finally believe him about Voldemort's return. But seeing the despair etched on the faces of those around him only reminds him of how he felt this summer. Hermione's quick spell to keep his hair in place feels like a small comfort against his downtrodden emotions. He can't help but wonder if this is what life will be like from now on - constantly on edge, always looking over his shoulder for signs of danger. His grip tightens on his wand as he prepares himself for this new way of life.
After a quick trip to Gringotts for money they made their way to the shops.
"Where should we go first? Flourish and Blotts, maybe? Textbooks are always a good place to start. I also wanted to pick up Marietta Gifford's book about the meaning of constellations and how they overlap with muggle myths that I've been dying to check out," Hermione says in a falsely cheerful voice.
It seems she is determined to keep up the cheer even though Harry wants to tell her it's pointless. They both nod their consent and follow her to the dusty bookshop, neither of them wanting to linger on the haunting street longer than necessary.
An hour later, laden with shrunk books they stand inside Madame Malkin's.
"Ow! You foolish woman, that was my skin." Draco Malfoy hisses at Madame Malkin's as he stands on a platform in front of a three-sided mirror.
Harry feels a flash of deja vu to his first-time meeting Draco Malfoy. With all that has happened since it feels like a lifetime ago rather than five short years. Narcissa Malfoy watches her son with a wary expression a few feet away, sparing Harry only a mere glance of agitated disdain. Grey eyes meet the reflection of green in the mirror and Malfoy scowls. He turns around and gives Harry's clothes, a once over, his gaze lingering on his torn oversized shirt that once belonged to Dudley, his disgust prevalent in his features.
"This shop doesn't carry insipid mudblood clothes, Potter, I'd suggest your mudblood and blood-traitor companion see yourselves out."
He feels his already loose grasp on his anger fray, as he takes in Malfoy's sneering face.
"Take that back!" Harry yells, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Malfoy.
Ron is quick to follow suit.
"Careful, Potter, it almost looks like you are threatening me and away from the safety of the tottering old fool, Dumbledore. I'd watch who I pulled a wand out on these days, you never know where their true allegiance lies."
"Sounds like something someone with the mark would say!"
"Harry, stop, it's not worth it." Hermione hisses at the same time that Madame Malkin's tuts, "Young man it is dangerous to throw around accusations like that."
"Why don't you come over and find out, Potter, if you are so sure." Malfoy taunts, tugging at the edge of his sleeve, his silver eyes cold and calculating.
Dark clouds seem to permeate out of Malfoy's very skin. Harry's eyes zeroed in on Malfoy's black silk-covered arm, unable to focus on anything else. Malfoy smirks as he notices.
"Unless you are scared?" he says in a soft voice.
His mothers' eyes grow wide with fear, "Draco, we need to be moving along."
"You wish," Harry whispers in another echo of the past.
Harry takes a determined step forward only to be tugged back by Ron and Hermione who each grab onto one of his arms.
"Harry, we should leave. I don't like the look in Malfoy's eyes, he's up to something."
Harry fights against them trying yet again to move forward.
"He's always up to something and this time I'm going to stop him before he hurts someone." Harry growls.
"Malfoy is only capable of low-level evil, save your energy for You know who, mate," Ron says, dragging Harry out the door, Malfoy's eyes never leaving his.
The door closes with a quiet click.
A couple days later after bidding the Weasley's goodbye at platform nine and three quarters, Harry spots a wane, grey-faced Malfoy on down the platform.
"There's your baby Death Eater." Ron whispers.
"Cut it out, he's not mine." Harry says in irritation, looking away as Malfoy disappears onto the train, his parents nowhere in sight.
Well, his mother at least, since Harry put his father in prison.
Once on the Hogwarts express the three of them pick a compartment and get comfortable. Molly loaded them with chores all week as if that would distract them from all the Order meetings they were missing. They haven't been alone the rest of week and never had a chance to discuss all that they discovered when they followed Malfoy to Borgen and Burkes. The empty compartment provides the perfect space.
"This confirms my theory." Harry says his blood alight with lightning.
"This confirms, nothing Harry," Hermione says with an exasperated sign.
"He is a Death Eater."
Ron sniggers causing Harry to glare at him.
"I'm serious." Harry growls.
"Mate…it's just hard to picture Malfoy as anything other than a little bully. He really is just pathetic."
Harry remembers how Malfoy's hungry eyes roamed over his body in the shop a few days ago and shudders, thinking he is anything but pathetic.
"We saw Malfoy trying to buy a cabinet. That hardly makes him a criminal."
"But it was in a wizard back alley, where criminals go to do dirty dealings!" Harry insists.
Hermione gives Harry a look full of disappointment.
"Harry, you should be ashamed of yourself, Knockturn Alley is a slum where the poorest of the poor go to live. Not everyone has the same options that we do. You of all people should know that." Hermione reprimands.
Harry flinches at the reminder and Hermione looks like she is about to apologise, but Harry waves her off.
"You're right Hermione, I shouldn't have said that. I still think he is up to something, and you can't convince me otherwise."
Hermione gives Harry a hopeless look and sighs.
"As long as it doesn't interfere with your studies, you are free to think whatever you like, but don't you think you have wasted enough time obsessing over Malfoy."
"I don't obsess over him!" Harry exclaims.
"Mate the only time you took a break from wondering what Malfoy is up to in the last five years is when you were obsessed with Cedric." Rons says with a laugh.
Harry scowls feeling a cold spot open in his chest at the mention of Cedric.
He crosses his arms over his chest and mutters, "I did not."
Ron thankfully lets it drop and the carriage descends into silence. That is until Hermione pulls her new book out the bag and Ron catches sight of the title.
"I thought you didn't believe in Divination. You said it was a load of nonsense for people who wanted to give their directionless existence some meaning. Are you saying you were wrong?" Ron says a shit-eating grin on his face.
Harry scans the midnight blue cover dotted in silver stars. The title says, "Charting the Course of the Prophecies of the Stars."
"After last year I figured, it couldn't hurt to explore all avenues of research," Hermione says with a grimace as if it pains her to admit Divination as a subject worthy of further study.
"Or your usual methods turned up nothing and you have been forced to admit that maybe you were wrong."
Harry shrinks in on himself at the mention of last year and the discovery of the prophecy that Hermione alludes to.
Hermione as if noticing bustles on, "Gifford's book comes highly recommended by the top experts in the field."
When she returns to her book, Ron mouths at Harry, 'She was wrong.'
Harry fights to stifle a giggle.