Lightning Amongst the Stars
Chapter Seven – The Empty Cage
Beta-reader: Aeoncs
A/N: Ladies and Gentleman, I am delighted to announce that there is a new beta-reader for 'Lightning Amongst the Stars' - allow me to introduce Aeoncs! They have been very kind enough to offer for the position and pick up my spelling, grammar and punctuation mistakes, as well as offer creative input. They will be my beta going forward and help me shape this story into the best version it can be. Aeoncs, once again, thank you!
Enjoy, dear readers!
Dearest Grandfather,
The start of term has been droll, to say the least. Hogwarts is stifling and, as usual, filled with the same tedious and incompetent fools. After less than two months of being back at Hogwarts, I already cannot wait to be free from lessons and the idiots, for both are proving to be as insufferably dull as I anticipated. Honestly, the level of magical ability amongst the student body is appalling. One wonders how half of them even manage to tie their own shoelaces, let alone perform a simple Levitation Charm. Their talents would be better suited to tending to Kneazles.
Professor Slughorn continues to fawn over his precious "Slug Club," which the sycophants and social climbers, whose only talents lie in their ability to polish his ego, naturally thrive on. And while I always attend his insipid gatherings, there are certainly better things I could do with my time.
Thankfully, my own pursuits provide a welcome distraction from the surrounding incompetence. Professor Bodie has taken an interest in my development and has agreed to provide me with private tutelage. He is a demanding instructor, and his methods are certainly unconventional, but he possesses a keen understanding of the nuances of magic. He recognises my potential, Grandfather, just as you always have. He pushes me, challenges me, and under his guidance, I feel myself growing stronger every day.
You may be aware there is a new student amongst our number, who transferred from Durmstrang. His name is Harry Sayre, and he was sorted into Slytherin. A curious case, to be sure, as he claims to be from some unknown branch of the Sayre family and his skills in a duel are surprisingly adept, even if his technique is utterly barbaric and lacks finesse. We had a rather spirited duel in Defence Against the Dark Arts not long ago and it is clear he relies on brute force and instinct, rather than technique and strategy. He is infuriatingly arrogant and disrespectful, although some of his casting hints at an effortlessness that some adults I know struggle to achieve - he managed to conjure a corporeal Patronus during a previous Charms lesson, greatly impressing even Professor Flitwick.
For a Slytherin, he seems to have an odd fondness for Gryffindors. He intervened on behalf of Remus Lupin and the blood-traitor during a confrontation in Hogsmeade, and I believe he even physically assaulted Lucius! Imagine that. The audacity of Sayre is astounding. He seems to have made a habit of involving himself in matters that are none of his concern. But by all accounts his motives seem to be driven by a need to play the hero, as I also witnessed him intervening some time back on behalf of the half-blood Snape, stopping James Potter and the blood-traitor from hexing him.
As for the rest of the school, it is as dull and predictable as ever. Cissy continues to make the talentless oafs trip over themselves, for but a second of her attention - I do hope Lucius is not too injured, which I am sure would burden her heart.
I will, of course, continue to keep you apprised of any further developments. Please give my regards to Grandmother - I trust you are both well. I eagerly await your response, and I'd be grateful for any advice you may have regarding my current studies.
Your devoted granddaughter,
Bellatrix
"Work, you stupid, sodding thing!"
Vince hissed his frustration, which echoed throughout the Great Hall. He hunched over a small, intricately carved metal box, its surface inlaid with silver filigree and strange, swirling symbols. He had been wrestling with it for the past hour, his face contorted in a mask of frustration. The box — a peculiar antique he acquired from a rather dubious merchant in an equally dubious and infamous Alley — was proving to be more trouble than he'd anticipated. He had thought, perhaps foolishly, that he could operate it easily enough; after all, he had a knack for these kinds of things. But it seemed this box was indeed different, and it was rapidly becoming a test of patience because so far, it was winning.
Vince knew he was supposed to be studying and preparing for his upcoming Potions exam, but the allure of the mysterious box had proven to be far more enticing than Professor Slughorn's tedious homework. Besides, it had been a long day, and he felt like he deserved a bit of light distraction.
He reached out, tracing the lines of silver that bisected the lid. There was a pulse, a barely noticeable thrum, and then silence again. "Right," he said to the box, "let's try this again…" He muttered another incantation, his wand glowing with a soft, blue light, but the box remained obstinately closed, its secrets as hidden as ever. He slammed his fist on the table. "Honestly!"
"Having a bit of trouble there, Pinner?" a familiar voice drawled with amusement.
Vince jumped and nearly sent the box flying. He turned to see Penny leaning against the table with her arms crossed. She was dressed in a simple pair of trousers and a loose sweater, her eyes sparkling in a way Vince knew all too well. She was beautiful, even when she was mocking him, and that, Vince knew, was a dangerous thing. She looked at him, her head tilted slightly to the side, her gaze both curious and judging.
Vince sighed as he absently rubbed his face with his hand. "Merlin, Pen, you'll be the end of me, sneaking up like that. What are you doing here?"
"Just came to see what you were up to," replied Penny with a playful tone that did little to soothe Vince's ruffled feathers. "I was hoping to find some study company, but I came across you. It seems you're preoccupied."
"Just a bit, but I've always got time for you, Pen."
Penny shoved her hands into her pockets as she quirked an eyebrow. She sighed and then shook her head, before nodding at the box. "I think it's broken."
"I hope not, I'm a vandal."
Satisfaction glimmered within Vince's stomach as he watched Penny unsuccessfully cover a smirk. She shook her head again and moved closer to Vince, down the opposite side of the table.
"Don't be silly, Vincent. What is it, anyway?" she asked with a genuine curiosity. "Where did you get it?"
"You're a nosy one, aren't you?"
"Vince, if you're going to be diffic-"
"Hold your Hippogriffs, Pen, I'm only yanking your wand. It's just something I picked up somewhere from someone who somewhat knows someone about something that fell off the back of a broom," Vince replied nonchalantly, as if acquiring strange objects from questionable sources was a perfectly normal and acceptable activity. "This being the something. I thought it might be interesting."
"Interesting would be the right word. What does it do?"
"I've no idea. That's what the opening it up is about, you see."
"Vincent!"
Vince held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You set yourself up there. It would have been remiss of me to not take the opportunity."
Penny shot him a look that clearly said she didn't believe him, before she turned the mysterious box over in her hands again.
"Hmm. Well, despite your infernally dire wit, I might just try this myself," Penny said, a thoughtful expression on her face, "and maybe I can help." She drew her wand, her movements precise and confident as she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the intricate carvings of the box, her eyes fixed on the silver inlay. "Let's see if we can't unlock this little mystery."
She studied the box as her brow furrowed in concentration. Her wand tip glowed with a golden light as she traced the outline of a particular symbol, her lips moving silently as she attempted to decipher it. She moved with grace, her movements fluid, her hands precise as she scanned the box for any clue, anything that would reveal its secrets.
Vince, meanwhile, seemed to have lost his tongue, his earlier bravado completely vanished. His gaze darted between Penny's face, her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes gleaming with an almost feverish intensity. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it — a sudden, unexpected vulnerability washing over him. He watched her, mesmerised by the focus in her eyes, by the way her lips moved as she muttered the incantations, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he even realised what he was doing, Vince reached out, his fingers hovering just above the table near her hand.
Their fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity, unexpected and intense, shot through them both, sending a shiver down their spines. Penny's hand jerked back as if she'd been burned, her breath catching in her throat, as she dropped the silver box and stared at Vince with wide eyes, her mouth open in a shocked, silent 'O'.
Vince shuffled his feet, his gaze darting between Penny's face and the well-worn wood of the table. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his easy grin replaced by a strained grimace.
Penny sat frozen, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. A faint blush crept up her neck, staining her pale cheeks a delicate pink, making the freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out in contrast. She looked as if she wanted to bolt, to disappear into the shadows and flee from the sudden and unexpected intimacy of the moment, but she remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on Vince.
"Pen," Vince finally managed, a little rougher than usual. Her name seemed to tumble out on its own, propelled by a nervous energy he couldn't quite control.
"Vince," she replied softly, almost hesitant.
Vince saw it, the vulnerability that lurked behind those eyes he knew better than anyone's. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was holding something back. He wanted to understand what was going on behind those guarded eyes, what she was really thinking, what she was really feeling, but he hesitated, afraid of pushing her away. Vince took his chance. "Look, Penny, about last year-"
"I should go," Penny suddenly interrupted, choking back something he couldn't quite decipher. Sadness? Regret? "I've got that-"
"Wait," Vince said, reaching out as if to stop her, but letting his hand fall back to his side. "Can't we- can't we talk? Properly, I mean."
He looked at her, his heart aching with a sudden, intense longing. He missed her. He missed their easy banter and shared laughter, the way she used to look at him before everything got so complicated. Penny hesitated, her eyes searching his. He could see the conflict in her eyes. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, he thought she might say yes. He held his breath, hope flaring in his chest.
Then, she shook her head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, but it felt like a physical blow. "I can't, Vince," she breathed. "Not now. Not here."
Penny took another step back, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond his shoulder, as if she couldn't bear to look him in the eye any longer. "I have to go," she repeated, her voice trembling slightly.
And before he could say anything else, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the deserted corridor. Vince watched her go, his heart sinking, a cold murmur sludging through his veins. He didn't understand what was happening, what had changed between them, but he knew one thing for sure: he was losing her. And he didn't know how to stop it. He didn't know if he even could. He was left standing there, alone with the silence pressing in on him, the emptiness in his chest a stark reminder of the girl who had just walked away, taking a piece of his heart with her. Vince wasn't sure how he was going to get it back.
The disused classroom seemed to sizzle from the leftover spell residue that tinged the air that Bellatrix breathed. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight that filtered through the grimy windows. Her face was illuminated by the ethereal glow of moon as she went through her standard repertoire of spell-chains that she knew by heart.
She moved fluidly, the ending swish of the wand for one curse flowing like mercury into the opening flick of another — her body shifting with the precision and elegance of a dancer, her movements sure and accurate. Bellatrix flung herself down as she envisioned an enemy at her right flank firing a spell at her, her black curls bouncing around as she twisted and turned, responding with a pivot and thrust curse. Each spell was executed with an almost effortless precision, her body moving in perfect synchronisation with her wand, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, her mind completely focused on the task at hand, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of the magic that flowed through her veins.
A sharp rap at the door broke her concentration. The spell she was weaving dissipated into thin air, the energy scattering harmlessly. Bellatrix lowered her wand, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face.
"Who is it?" she called out, cool and clipped.
The door creaked open, revealing her cousin, Regulus, his face pale and drawn in the dim light. He looked hesitant, as if unsure whether to enter.
"Regulus," Bellatrix said, her voice softening slightly. "Come on in."
Regulus stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He still did not speak, just standing there, his gaze fixed on the dusty floor, his shoulders slumped slightly, as if carrying a heavy, unseen burden.
"What brings you down to my humble abode, Reggie?" Bellatrix asked, attempting to inject a note of levity into the tense atmosphere, though her own unease was growing with each passing second of his unusual silence. She rarely used his nickname, reserving it for moments of genuine affection or, as in this case, when she sensed a vulnerability she felt compelled to protect. "Lost your way back to the Slytherin common room?"
Regulus finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like fear in their depths. He shook his head slowly. "No," he mumbled, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the scattered books and the scorch marks on the walls.
She saw the nervousness in his eyes, and the tightly clutched envelope in his hand. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Regulus took a step, eyes cast downwards as his fingers fidgeted with the envelope.
"Reggie," Bellatrix said again, her voice gentler now, concern creeping into her tone. "You're making me nervous. Just tell me what's going on."
"It's Grandfather," Regulus murmured.
Bellatrix felt a sudden jolt of apprehension, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Her grandfather, Arcturus Black, was a formidable figure, a man of immense power and influence. He was also a man who rarely, if ever, communicated indirectly with his grandchildren, especially if he had something to tell them. The fact that Regulus was here, in person, delivering a message for her grandfather meant that something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Grandfather?" she repeated. "What does he want?"
Regulus hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting nervously between her face and the envelope. "He sent this," he finally said, extending the letter towards her, his hand trembling slightly, his earlier hesitation replaced by a sense of urgency.
"He wouldn't say what it was about," Regulus added. "Just… that it was important. And that you needed to read it immediately." He paused, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and a hint of something that looked suspiciously like pity. "Be careful, Bella."
And then, without another word, he turned, opened the door and left, his footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridor.
Bellatrix closed the door, her carefully constructed facade crumbling. She paced restlessly, holding the crumpled piece of parchment in her hand. She ripped open the envelope, her eyes scanning the familiar script, her grandfather's words like a hot poker, searing themselves into her mind.
She snarled, crumpling the parchment in her fist, her knuckles white with barely suppressed rage.
Bellatrix strode towards a large, ornate mirror, her reflection staring back at her. She saw not precious china, but a witch of immense power and a force to be reckoned with. She had dedicated years, countless hours stolen from the stifling confines of social gatherings and tedious etiquette lessons, to honing her magical abilities, pushing herself to the very limits of her capabilities, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge and an unwavering determination to surpass even the most accomplished wizards of her time. She would not be confined, not by her family, not by tradition, and certainly not by any man.
She unfurled her fingers, the crumpled parchment falling to the floor. Bellatrix raised her hand, her wand appearing in a flash of light. With a flick of her wrist and a whispered incantation, a jet of black flames erupted from her wand, engulfing the letter in a fiery embrace. The parchment disintegrated instantly, reduced to a fine, black ash that drifted to the floor like fallen snowflakes.
A cold smile played on her lips. She would play the game then. She would do what was necessary and play the dutiful daughter. But not even the combined might of the Black family would stand in her way. She would be free.
The biting October wind whipped across the Hogwarts grounds, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and impending snow. Harry pulled his robes tighter around him, his breath misting in the frigid air. The castle, in its late autumnal splendour, was a breathtaking sight as the first signs of winter made themselves known. Gargoyles, dusted with a fine layer of frost, leered from the towering rooftops. The Forbidden Forest, a dark and brooding presence at the edge of the grounds, wore a cloak of ice-laden branches. However, the picturesque beauty did little to alleviate the knot of unease sitting deep in Harry's stomach. He had been living under the alias of Harry Sayre for two months now, navigating the treacherous currents of Slytherin House and the ever-present weight of his secret — his true identity and the burden of future knowledge.
He ducked into the warm embrace of the castle, shaking the frost tips from his hair. He made his way towards the Slytherin common room, his mind preoccupied. He passed a few students, exchanging courtesies with them. The Bloody Baron was wandering the Entrance Hall and he gave Harry a curt nod that was responded to in kind. Eventually he was deep enough into the dungeons that he was outside the Slytherin common room. He muttered the password and stepped inside. With its low-slung ceilings, greenish glow from the enchanted underwater view, and pervasive air of quietness, it had become Harry's unlikely sanctuary. Two months into the term, and he had finally carved out a niche for himself within the complex social hierarchy of the house. It was a far cry from Gryffindor's boisterous dynamics, but it had its own peculiar charm. Harry found an unexpected camaraderie within a small, eclectic group of friends, each as different from the stereotypical Slytherin as he was.
His friendship with Vince Pinner, an affable, if somewhat clueless, half-blood, had been unexpected. Vince, with his perpetually ruffled hair and knack for attracting trouble like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, was a constant source of amusement. His interactions with the subject of his on-again, off-again relationship, Penny Warrender, a sharp-tongued Hufflepuff, provided endless entertainment. Linda and Lenny rounded out Harry and Vince's little group, offering a welcome dose of intellectual conversation and friendly banter amidst the usual Slytherin power plays.
His interactions with the Marauders, however, remained complex. A comfortable rapport had developed between him with Sirius and Remus after the incident in Hogsmeade, although Harry had seen little of Pettigrew outside of him tagging along with the rest. James, however, remained at arm's length. Harry understood James' reserve; he was an unknown quantity in their midst, and the Marauders, despite their outward bravado, were surprisingly perceptive. The fact that Harry was a Slytherin only deepened their suspicions. He hadn't pushed for any kind of relationship with James, the emotional weight of interacting with his teenage father still too heavy to bear. Harry, therefore, kept his distance, content to observe from the periphery.
He went to his dormitory, shedding the cloak and ruffling his hair quickly. Grabbing a few books and stuffing them into his bag, Harry headed to the library.
As he entered the library, the warm glow of the enchanted lamps illuminating the rows upon rows of towering bookshelves, he spotted a familiar group huddled around a table near the back. Vince, his brow furrowed in concentration, was hunched over a thick tome, his fingers tracing the lines of text as if trying to decipher some ancient code. Linda and Lenny, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of a floating orb, were engaged in a hushed debate, their voices barely audible above the gentle rustle of turning pages. Lenny spotted him first and waved him over with a wide, welcoming grin
"Harry! How goes it?"
"Ah, you know - delightful as always, Len."
He approached the table, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished wooden floor, his gaze shifting from Lenny to Linda. Linda offered him a small smile and patted the seat next to her. Settling into it with a quiet sigh, his gaze sweeping across the table, taking in the scattered books, the parchment filled with complex equations, the various magical texts that lay scattered amongst them.
"What's all this for then?"
"That blasted Potions exam that Slughorn sprung on us! Honestly, who does their own students' legs in like that?" Vince moaned. "A week's notice? It's practically barbaric!"
"It's not that bad, Vince," said Lenny gently. "It's just a bit of extra revision. And besides, the NEWT potions are fascinating. Think of all the amazing things we can brew!"
"Fascinating, yes," Linda said dryly, shifting on her seat, "but also incredibly complex. And Slughorn has a tendency to demand high standards. Remember the Draught of Living Death? The ingredients alone are a nightmare to memorise, let alone the brewing process."
"Oh, come off it!" exclaimed Lenny. "It's not that difficult. Just a bit of infusion of wormwood, sloth brain, sopophorous beans and a dash of powdered asphodel root. Simple!"
"Simple for you, perhaps, Lenny," said Vince in frustration, his voice muffled as his face was buried between crossed arms on the table. "You practically live in the Potions classroom. I, on the other hand, would rather face a horde of angry trolls than try to remember the difference between a billywig stings and bubotuber pus."
Harry chuckled with Lenny as Linda smirked. "You'd be surprised what you can remember under pressure, Vince, especially when you're not being a diva," said Linda, evidently amused. "Remember that time you accidentally set your robes on fire during that Charms practical last year? You managed to extinguish the flames with a perfectly executed Aguamenti, even though you'd sworn you'd never be able to master it."
Vince grinned, his earlier frustration fading slightly. "Yeah, well," he said, "desperate times called for desperate measures."
"Speaking of desperate measures," Linda said, her expression thoughtful as she looked at Harry, "how are you feeling about the tryouts, Harry? Vince said you were amazing."
Vince perked up. "Oh, you bet your galleons he was - Harry here would given Potter a run for his money on how effortless he looks on a broom!"
"Really?" queried Linda, one eyebrow quirked. "I'm not usually one for Quidditch, but we may stand a decent chance this year."
"Better than decent," beamed Vince as he pointed a finger at Harry, who had taken his quill and books from his bag. "I can tell Harry's gonna be the finest Seeker we've had for years. Don't get me wrong, I liked Vanity, but she couldn't find the Snitch with a Lumos and a Point Me."
Lenny snickered. Harry rolled his eyes and opened his own book, before dipping his quill in ink. "Vince, you're being a tad dramatic. Yes, I think the tryouts went well, but I'm still waiting to hear back - hopefully soon."
"Before the Potions exam would be nice," said Lenny, pointing a finger at Harry.
"Yes, the exam! Enough with the distractions, or Slughorn's really going to have it in for me! Oh - son of a Bludger! Where's my textbook?" cried Vince.
"Honestly, Vince," Linda sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically as she grabbed a rough, dog-eared book and handed it to Vince, "you'd lose your head if it wasn't attached to your neck."
"I haven't lost it yet, have I?" Vince grinned as he took the textbook. "Besides, if I did lose it, I'm sure you'd be kind enough to find it for me, wouldn't you, Linda dearest?"
Linda scoffed, but a faint blush coloured her cheeks. "In your dreams, Pinner," she muttered, returning her attention to her notes.
"Speaking of dreams," Lenny chimed in, "did you know that in Divination, the-"
"Fascinating, Len, really," Harry said, stifling a yawn. "Though I'm not sure how relevant that is to our Potions revision."
"Knowledge is never irrelevant, Harry," Lenny corrected him, his tone serious. "Besides, Professor Slughorn might ask a bonus question about the magical properties of dreamless sleep. You never know."
"Oh, to hell with this, I can't concentrate," sighed Vince, throwing his quill down.
"I'll take my chances," muttered Harry in answer to Lenny, finishing a doodle of a Nundu with oversized fangs, in the margin of his textbook, that he had started earlier.
Vince leaned closer, peering at Harry's drawing. "That's a rather menacing-looking Nundu, Harry," he commented. "Looks like it's about to devour my entire Potions textbook, which, let's be honest, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."
"You'd fail the exam, though," Linda pointed out.
"But think of the freedom!" Vince exclaimed, throwing his arms wide dramatically. "No more Potions! No more Professor Slughorn! I could spend my days working for Dad at the business…"
"And getting into trouble," Linda finished for him, her tone dry.
"Precisely!" Vince agreed, beaming. "But what a life it'd be!"
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. He'd grown accustomed to their constant banter, their easy camaraderie a welcome distraction from the darker undercurrents that ran beneath the surface of Hogwarts life. He was still an outsider, of course, with his true identity a carefully guarded secret, but within this small, unlikely group of friends, he felt a sense of belonging and normalcy that he hadn't experienced since arriving in this strange version of his past.
"You'd be bored stiff within a week," Lenny said, looking at his book as he turned a page.
"I'd find plenty to stimulate me in Knockturn Alley," said Vince, winking at Harry. "Besides, who needs Slughorn's cryptic pronouncements when you've got the real-world experience of brewing questionable potions in a dimly lit basement?"
"That's not exactly something to boast about, Vince," Linda said disapprovingly. "And besides, if you got caught, your father would have your hide. And then where would you be?"
"Probably scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons for the rest of eternity if Slughorn had any say," laughed Harry.
Vince shuddered. "Don't even joke about that," he said. "Facing a Hungarian Horntail would be preferable to spending a single minute cleaning those cauldrons. My hands still haven't recovered from last week's mishap with the Swelling Solution."
"That was your own fault, Vince," Linda pointed out, her tone matter-of-fact. "You weren't paying attention to Slughorn's instructions. Again."
"Details, details," Vince said, waving his hand dismissively.
Harry chuckled, but was cut short by a sudden hush that fell over the library. He glanced up, following the direction of Lenny's suddenly wide-eyed stare and felt a familiar lurch in his gut. Bellatrix had entered, her presence immediately changing the atmosphere of the room. She moved with her usual fluid grace, her dark robes swirling around her like shadows, her gaze sweeping across the rows of bookshelves with a cool, detached air. Even in the quiet sanctuary of the library, she exuded an aura that commanded attention.
"Wotcha," Vince muttered under his breath. "What's she doing here?"
Linda simply shrugged. "Probably looking for more ideas on how to torture Muggles," she offered.
Harry watched as Bellatrix approached a particularly dusty and neglected corner of the library She scanned the shelves, her fingers trailing lightly across the spines of the books, her movements precise and deliberate, as if she was searching for something specific, something she couldn't find in the more well-trodden areas of the library. After a few moments, she pulled a thick, leather-bound volume from the shelf, its title obscured by years of accumulated dust. She clutched the book tightly, her knuckles white against the dark leather, and turned towards Madam Pince's desk, her expression unreadable.
Harry exchanged a puzzled look with Vince. He watched as Bellatrix spoke to Madam Pince, their conversation hushed and intense, their voices barely audible above the gentle rustle of turning pages. Madam Pince, her expression as severe as ever, examined the book, her lips moving silently as she deciphered the faded title. After a moment, she nodded curtly, stamping the book with a sharp, decisive thud and handing it back to Bellatrix, who turned and swept out of the library, the heavy book clutched tightly in her hand, her figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
"What was that about?" Vince whispered, laden with curiosity.
"I don't know," replied Harry, trying to make sense of Bellatrix's unusual behaviour.
"I'm going to find out," Linda announced, rising to her feet, her expression determined. She walked towards Madam Pince's desk, her gaze fixed on the stern librarian. They conversed and after a brief, hushed exchange, Linda returned to the table, surprised and confused.
"It was a genealogy book," she whispered. "Wizarding families. Bloodlines. That sort of thing."
"Genealogy?" Vince repeated, his brow furrowed in thought. "But why? The Blacks practically invented pure-blood mania. They've got more family trees than the Forbidden Forest."
"Maybe she's helping someone with their family history project? You know, like a tutor?"
Linda snorted. "Bellatrix Black? Tutoring someone in genealogy? That's about as likely as Snape winning a 'Least Greasy Hair' award."
"Oh, who cares? Let Miss Misery do what she wants," Vince yawned, stretching back in his seat as he covered his hand with his mouth. "Right, I'm bored! I've had enough of this for one evening. My brain feels like it's about to explode. I'm going back to the common room. Anyone coming?"
Lenny, without looking up from his book, shook his head. "I'll stay a bit longer," he murmured, his voice muffled by the pages of his textbook. "I'm close to cracking this. Just need a few more minutes."
"Linda?"
"I suppose so. How long will you be, Len?"
"Well, Linda, that depends on just how much you can get him exci-"
"Vincent Pinner, if one more word leaves your mouth-"
Harry laughed loudly as Vince shielded himself from Linda's whacks to his head, just as Madam Pince came bustling over to them all.
"Out!" the vulture-like librarian screeched. "Get out! This is a library, not a… a… common room! And as for you, Mr. Pinner," she continued, her voice rising slightly, "if I hear one more inappropriate comment, you'll be spending your next free period cleaning every single book in this section! Is that understood?"
Vince, chastened, nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Yes, Madam Pince."
Linda, stifling a smile, gathered her things, her movements brisk and efficient. "Come on, boys," she said, her eyes filled with mirth. "Before Madam Pince decides to lock us all in the Restricted Section."
Harry grinned, grabbing his bag and rising to his feet. He nodded a quick farewell to Lenny and followed Linda and Vince out of the library, still laughing as he did.
Before Harry had realised where the time had gone, it was Halloween. The Great Hall buzzed with the festive energy of Halloween. Floating pumpkins, carved with grotesque and comical faces, shed an eerie orange glow across the chattering students. The air was thick with the aroma of pumpkin pasties, treacle tart, and roast chicken, a blend of sweet and savoury that always seemed to permeate Hogwarts feasts. Harry sat at the Slytherin table, flanked by Vince and Linda, with Lenny on Vince's other side. Vince seemed preoccupied, his gaze drifting towards the Hufflepuff table every few minutes, his brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown.
Harry glanced around, when his attention was caught by a flash of red hair amidst the Gryffindors. He spotted Lily Evans, her back to him, engaged in a heated conversation with someone he couldn't quite make out. He watched them for a moment, his heart aching with a familiar pangs of longing. Avoiding his parents to spare himself from the turmoil had been difficult, but despite this, Harry was drawn to them by a desperate yearning to connect with the parents he never knew and lost so long ago. As he watched, Lily's voice rose slightly, her tone sharp with an edge of anger. He saw the way her shoulders stiffened, her hands clenching into fists. He'd seen that same expression on her face countless times in photographs, in Pensieve memories, a fierce determination that she was famed for. He leant forward slightly to try and get a better view of what was causing her distress. Was it James?
He finally recognized the person she was arguing with. Snape, his greasy black hair hanging limply around his face, his pale skin almost translucent. He was leaning towards Lily, his expression intense, his words inaudible against the backdrop of the festive chatter. Lily seemed unmoved by his pleas as her expression hardened.
Harry strained to hear their conversation. He knew of the complex and often fraught relationship between Lily and Snape, the childhood friendship that had soured and the tragic consequences that had followed. Harry saw Lily shake her head. She pushed her chair back, rising to her feet, her movements abrupt, her body language conveying a clear message of finality. Snape reached out, his hand grasping her arm, his touch light but insistent. Lily flinched as she pulled away from him, a flash of anger in her eyes. She turned and walked away, leaving Snape alone, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
Harry watched her go, before he picked up his fork and continued pushing the food around his plate. The festive atmosphere of the Halloween feast seemed to mock Harry. It was never his favourite time of year. He took a deep breath and turned back to his own table, forcing a smile as Vince nudged him playfully.
"Oi, Harry," Vince called. "Earth to Harry. You've gone all pensive on us."
Harry rolled his eyes, forcing a chuckle. "Don't be ridiculous, Vince. I was just watching Snape," he said. "He looked like he was arguing with Evans and it didn't look particularly pleasant."
"Probably trying to apologise for calling her a Mudblood again," Linda said dryly, whilst fixated on a floating pumpkin carved with a particularly grotesque face. "That or moaning to her about Potter. He seems to have a penchant for self-sabotage."
"He's just misunderstood," Lenny countered. "He's had a difficult childhood. It's not easy being different."
Linda scoffed, her gaze shifting to Lenny. "Different how? Last I checked, being a whiny, self-pitying git wasn't a protected characteristic. He needs to grow up."
"He's brilliant at Potions," Lenny offered, sounding as if unsure whether to defend Snape or not. "He's not all bad, just misguided."
"Misguided?" Linda repeated, her voice laced with scepticism. She nodded in the direction of the other end of the table. "He hangs around with Avery, Lestrange and Mulciber, Len. They're practically card-carrying Dark wizards in training. There's no 'misguided' about it. He's made his choice."
Harry listened to their bickering, his mind still preoccupied with the argument he'd just witnessed.
"It's just sad," Harry said quietly, his voice barely audible above the chatter. "From what I understand, they were friends once, weren't they? And now… well, look at them."
Vince nodded slowly, his attention drifting towards the Hufflepuff table again. "Yeah, it's a shame. Like watching a Kneazle stalk a Puffskein. You know it's going to end badly, but there's nothing you can do."
Lenny frowned. "People change. It happens."
"Not always for the better," Linda muttered.
Harry nodded, thinking about how much he had changed, how much he had to change in this twisted version of his past. He picked at his food, the buoyant atmosphere of the hall grating on him. He did not belong here. Not really. He was an imposter, a ghost haunting the edges of his own history.
He pushed his plate away, the rich smells of the feast suddenly nauseating. "I'm going to head out," he said flatly. "Lost my appetite."
Harry stood up and pushing his chair back with a scrape against the stone floor. He didn't bother with excuses or explanations. He just needed to get out, to escape the noise and the forced cheer and the suffocating feeling of being surrounded by people who didn't know the real him.
"I'll see you back at the common room."
The others muttered their agreements and Harry left, dark thoughts clouding his mind.
"Ooh, that's a nasty foul there from Warrington, completely uncalled for! Penalty to Gryffindor!"
"Captain Potter is taking the shot - he's moving quick - going left - no, right - no, it's a feint! - Potter's outsmarted Warrington! Gryffindor's still in front, 260 points to Slytherin's 220!"
"And look at Sayre! He's weaving through the Chasers! He dodges a nasty Bludger hit by Sanders, but he's got an eye out for that Snitch, I can see it!"
"But Flynn's not letting him out of his sight! The Gryffindor Seeker is shadowing him, matching him move for move. This is what we've been waiting for, folks, a real Seeker showdown!"
"And there's a shot from King! Blocked by the Slytherin Keeper! The rebound is caught by Potter, he's heading for the goal… and… YES! He scores! Ten points to Gryffindor! The Lions are widening the gap!"
"But Slytherin is answering back! A beautiful pass from Prescott to Prescott, Prescott to Talkalot, Talkalot shoots… and SCORES! We're back to a fantastically fought game, ladies and gentleman! 270 to 230, Gryffindor in the lead!"
"Look at Sayre and Flynn! Both are moving to the stands… Could it be? Yes! The Snitch! The Golden Snitch has been sighted!"
"And they're off! Sayre and Flynn, neck and neck, both chasing after the Snitch! This is it, the moment we've all been waiting for!
"Flynn's gaining on Sayre! He's pulling ahead! Sayre's doing some wicked moves on that broom, by Merlin! He's got the speed, he's got the determination… but Flynn's not giving up! He's got the better broom and he's right on Sayre's tail!"
"Sayre dives, and Flynn's right with him, neck-to-neck! Sayre's reaching, his hand outstretched… but Flynn's there, too, his fingers just inches away… This is it, folks, it's all down to this! Both are going for the Snitch, it's too close to ca- DEAR MERLIN! Flynn's crashed! Flynn's crashed and Sayre has the Snitch! Slytherin wins! Slytherin wins against Gryffindor, 380 points to 270! A phenomenal debut for Sayre, but not the result any of us were expecting! What a game!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over Harry as he landed, the captured Golden Snitch clutched tightly in his hand. He had done it. He had actually done it. He had won the match for Slytherin. He'd beaten the Gryffindor seeker, Flynn, securing a resounding victory in his debut match. 380 points to 270. He raised the Snitch above his head, the small golden ball glinting in the afternoon sun, and a fresh wave of cheers erupted, this time even louder, more intense. He could barely hear himself think over the thunderous applause and the chanting of his housemates, the sheer, unadulterated joy that seemed to vibrate in the very air around him.
Sayre, Sayre, he's our man!
Slick as a snake with a cunning plan!
From Durmstrang's halls, he came to our side,
To thrash the Lions and hurt their pride!
Green and Silver, Snitch in hand,
He's the best damn Seeker in all the land!
He was mobbed by his teammates, the Beaters Morris and Moore hoisting Harry onto their shoulders, his body jostled and bumped as they carried him triumphantly off the pitch through the roars of their ecstatic housemates. He could just make out the Slytherin stands — a sea of green and silver, banners waving wildly, students jumping up and down, their faces a blur of triumphant motion. He thought he saw Vince, his face split by a grin so wide it looked painful, punching the air and yelling himself hoarse. Even the usually stoic faces among them were alight with excitement, their expressions almost manic as they joined in the celebration. The sound of the Slytherin chants filled his ears, and Harry could not help but feel a sense of pride.
As they carried him away, Harry caught a glimpse of the Gryffindor stands. They were a stark contrast to the jubilant Slytherins, a mass of crimson and gold now subdued and dejected. He saw Flynn being helped off the field by the Mediwitch, his arm in a sling, his face pale and drawn. A pang of guilt shot through Harry, momentarily dampening his own elation. He hoped Flynn wasn't seriously injured. He had been a good flyer.
The crowd's cheers and chants faded slightly as Harry was carried closer to the Slytherin stands, which were a vibrant, pulsating wave of pure victory. Harry, despite the lingering guilt about Flynn, couldn't help but feel a surge of pride that warmed him from the inside out. He had won. He had led Slytherin to victory.
The cheers gradually subsided as the crowd began to disperse. The Beaters set Harry down and helped steady him, his legs feeling slightly shaky, his body still buzzing with adrenaline. He made his way with the team towards the changing rooms.
As he entered the locker room, the air thick with the smell of sweat and soap, the noise of the earlier celebration was now replaced by a more subdued chatter and a low hum of conversation. His teammates were milling about, their faces flushed with victory, their voices animated as they recounted their favourite moments of the match.
Harry opened his locker, the metallic clang echoing and began to strip off his Quidditch gear. The leather of his gloves was damp with sweat and his robes were heavy with the dust and grime of the pitch. He carefully placed his broom, a loaned and slightly battered Comet Two Sixty, into his locker. It was not as good as his Firebolt in his own time, or even his Nimbus Two-Thousand, but it had done the job. He would need look about getting something better if he was to keep this up - he had only just beaten Flynn to the Snitch.
As he peeled off his sweat-soaked undershirt, he winced as pain shot through his shoulder. He had almost forgotten about the lingering ache from Bellatrix's curse. He reached up and gingerly touched the spot, his fingers probing the tender muscle. It was still sore, a dull throb that flared up every now and then. Harry pulled on a clean shirt, the soft fabric cool against his skin. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly. He put it down to the adrenaline and the after effects of the match. He tugged his boots off, letting out a small sigh of relief. He finished getting changed, pulling on his outer robes with a deliberate slowness, before finally collapsing onto the wooden bench, his body suddenly feeling like a lead weight, the exhaustion hitting him like a Bludger to the chest.
"Bloody hell, Sayre," a voice boomed from across the room, drawing Harry from his semi-conscious state. It was Lucinda Talkalot, the Slytherin captain, her usual scowl replaced by a wide, almost maniacal grin. "That was some flying back there! You've got the reflexes of a bloody Niffler on fire!"
"You were amazing, mate!" crowed Morris. "Unbelievable!"
"Thanks," Harry mumbled. "It was close though."
"Close? That's one word for it!" one of the Prescott brothers chuckled, tossing a towel over his shoulder as he headed towards the showers. "You had the whole stadium on their feet. Even the Gryffindors were impressed. Well, maybe not impressed, but they were definitely something!"
"Best Seeker we've had since - well - ever!" Moore interjected, his grin widening even further. He clapped Harry on the back, almost sending him tumbling off the bench. "We have got to celebrate this properly! C'mon - there will be a feast in the common room!"
A chorus of cheers erupted, the players patting Harry on the back as they congratulated him. The Slytherin locker room was a raucous, joyous celebration of their hard-won victory. Harry felt a sense of belonging that he hadn't expected to find within the confines of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the changing room wash over him. The lingering chatter of his teammates, the hiss of the showers, the clanging of locker doors - it all seemed distant, muffled, as if he were underwater. He was tired, more tired than he could ever remember being. He drew a slow, shaky breath, gathering his strength, pushing himself to his feet.
"Right, Sayre," Prescott boomed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Common room! Drinks are on me!"
A fresh wave of cheers went up, and before Harry could protest, he was hoisted onto Morris and Moore's shoulders again, his feet dangling off the ground. He grabbed onto them for balance, a helpless grin spreading across his face. He was too tired to argue, and the genuine enthusiasm of his teammates was infectious.
The journey to the common room was a blur of cheering, jeering, and near collisions with startled first-years. As they approached the Slytherin common room, the noise level intensified, the muffled cheers and chants now a deafening roar. The heavy wooden door swung open, revealing a scene of absolute pandemonium.
The Slytherin common room was a throbbing mass of green and silver. Victory, it seemed, was a potent intoxicant, and the house was thoroughly drunk on it. Absolute pandemonium reigned. Laughter, shouting, and celebratory spells filled the air, the usual dungeon elegance replaced by a raucous energy. The low ceilings echoed with cheers and the off-key strains of the Slytherin anthem. Harry was lowered to the ground and grinned despite himself. It was chaos, but it was their chaos. And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to be swept up in the celebration.
Someone thrust a bottle of butterbeer into his hand, and Harry took a long swig, the sweet liquid a welcome relief to his parched throat. He was surrounded, Slytherins clamouring to congratulate him, ruffling his hair, their faces flushed with excitement. He was pulled into the middle of it all and could not help but be caught up. Around him, his housemates were a blur of motion, celebrating their victory with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic.
"Harry! You absolute legend!" Vince yelled, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "I'll never forget the look on Flynn's face when you caught that Snitch! Priceless!"
"You were sodding brilliant!" shouted another voice.
"Three cheers for Sayre!" someone else roared, and the room erupted in a chorus of cheers, followed by a hearty rendition of the rude songs regarding Gryffindor.
A grin split Harry's face. He took another swig of butterbeer, the sweet liquid doing little to quench the thirst that had built up during the match. Vince, his face flushed with excitement and possibly something stronger than butterbeer, was holding court in the centre of the room, reenacting the final moments of the match with dramatic flair, complete with sound effects and commentary. A group of older Slytherins roared with laughter, their merriment punctuated by the clinking of goblets.
"Did you see the look on Flynn's face?" bellowed Vince, mimicking a look of abject horror, earning him another round of laughter. "One minute he's reaching for glory, the next he's kissing the dirt! And Harry swoops in like a bloody son of a Niffler, grabs the Snitch, and it's game over!"
Harry chuckled. Vince's enthusiasm was catching and it was hard not to get caught up in the mood. He had to admit, it felt good. He noticed a group of sixth and seventh-year girls, including Bellatrix, huddled in a corner. Bellatrix caught his eye from across the room. She raised her goblet in a silent toast, a smirk playing on her lips. Harry nodded back, lifting his own drink in response. He wasn't sure what the silent communication meant, and it intrigued him as Bellatrix held his gaze before turning away. He was brought out of his thoughts when he felt a nudge to his side.
"You were incredible out there, Sayre," a voice said. He turned to see Lucinda Talkalot standing beside him. "Truly incredible. Best Seeker I've seen in years."
"Thanks, Talkalot," Harry said, "but it was a team effort."
"Team effort, sure," Talkalot agreed, her gaze sweeping over the celebrating students. "But you sealed the deal. You brought us the victory." She clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You've got a bright future ahead of you, Sayre. On the Quidditch pitch, and beyond."
Harry watched her go, then took another sip of his drink. He looked around the common room, at the celebrating students, their faces flushed with victory, their eyes shining with house pride. He saw the camaraderie and friendship. It was tempting, he had to admit, to just let go. To forget about his problems and just be a teenager and a student.
As the night wore on, the party showed no signs of slowing down. The music grew louder, the dancing more frenzied, the laughter merrier, the air thick with the scent of butterbeer and firewhiskey. Harry felt a pang of something akin to longing, a yearning for Padma. The way her laughter used to light up a room, the way her hand would fit perfectly in his. He closed his eyes for a moment, the memories both a comfort and a torment.
He opened his eyes and that was when he saw them. A Slytherin couple, tucked away in a dimly lit corner, their bodies pressed close together, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. It was a simple, almost mundane act, a common sight at any Hogwarts party.
It was like a punch to the gut.
Her lips were pressed against his, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body warm and soft against his. The taste of her lipstick, the scent of her perfume, the feel of her hair against his cheek, the warmth of her breath on his skin felt as real to him as the gentle pressure of her hand against his chest, and he missed the way Padma's heart beat in time with his own. Harry stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat, his body trembling with the sudden onslaught of emotion and memory. He felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, the room tilting slightly, the noise of the party fading into a dull roar in his ears.
He needed to get out.
Harry excused himself from the main group, muttering something about needing some fresh air. He slipped away unnoticed, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor.
His heart pounded as he moved aimlessly, his thoughts a tangled mess of conflicting emotions – exhaustion, longing, and a growing sense of isolation. He found himself drawn to a small, deserted alcove tucked away behind a massive tapestry depicting a rather gruesome battle scene. Harry sank onto a nearby stone bench, the cold seeping through his robes. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a slow, steadying breath, trying to clear his head. The distant sounds of the party faded.
"Harry?" a voice called out softly, breaking the silence and startling him from his thoughts.
He opened his eyes to see Vince standing at the entrance to the alcove, his expression one of concern and curiosity, his usual jovial demeanour tempered by a more serious air. He leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Harry.
"What are you doing here, Vince?" Harry asked carefully, not wanting to betray the turmoil he felt.
Vince shrugged, a casual gesture that didn't quite mask the concern in his eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just checking on you," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You disappeared pretty quick. Thought you might have, y'know, had enough of the party. Reckoned you might need a break from all the noise, so I followed you." He paused, then added, with a slight hesitation, "You alright? You look a bit rough."
Harry shrugged, unsure how to respond. He knew he could trust Vince, but revealing the truth about his feelings, about his real reasons for being here, was a risk he wasn't sure he was ready to take.
"I'm fine," Harry lied. "Just tired. It's been a long day."
Vince didn't look entirely convinced. He cleared his throat. "Bit of a mad one, eh?" he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the common room. "Warrington's gone completely bonkers — reckons you're the best Seeker Slytherin's ever had since the founding of Hogwarts."
Harry gave a small, noncommittal grunt. "He's exaggerating."
"Nah, you were brilliant," Vince insisted. "That last dive? Bloody amazing."
Vince pushed himself off the wall and walked over, settling onto the bench beside Harry, but leaving a decent space between them. He didn't speak, just sat there, fiddling with a loose thread on his robes, the silence stretching between them, punctuated only by the distant echoes of the ongoing celebration.
After a moment, Vince said, "You know, you don't have to pretend with me. Something's up, isn't it, Harry? You can tell me, y'know. We're mates."
Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing, the weight of what was unspoken pressing down on him, threatening to suffocate him. He had been carrying it for months now, a heavy burden that he hadn't dared to share with anyone. He had tried to bury it and push it down, but it was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, a constant ache in his chest, a dull throb of loss that intensified with each passing day. For one reason or another, Harry felt the beginnings of the dam break and he was powerless to stop it.
"I- I had a girl," croaked Harry, barely above a whisper. The words were raw, ragged, each syllable a physical effort, as if speaking or even just thinking it was too painful to bear. "I loved her, Vince, I really loved her. She was everything to me. And she's gone. I can't - I can't ever get her back." His voice cracked and the memories came flooding back, sharp and vivid and agonisingly real – shared laughter, whispered secrets in the dead of night, the warmth of her hand in his. It was a tapestry of moments that now ceased to be, lost forever in the tangled web of time and circumstance.
Vince looked shocked. "Harry," he said hesitantly. "It can't be that bad. I mean, there are other girls. Loads of them."
Harry shook his head slowly. "You don't understand, Vince," he said, tired, resigned and heavy with a weariness that belied his years. "It's not - it's not just about finding someone else. It's about a life I'll never get to have. A future that's gone." He paused, his voice cracking again as his throat tightened up. "I had it, Vince. I had it all with her. And now - now it's just - gone. Like it never even happened. All gone."
Harry drew a shaky breath, trying to compose himself, but the tears threatened to spill over, hot and stinging against his eyelids. He looked away, eyes focused on the rough stone wall.
"I can't explain it properly," he finally said, almost a whisper, so heavy with unspoken grief and the burden of a secret he couldn't share, a past he couldn't reclaim, a future he couldn't change. "It's complicated, Vince. More complicated than you can possibly imagine."
Vince nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer without pushing. He leaned back against the cool stone, brushing his hands on his trousers. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I get that."
Harry surreptitiously wiped his eyes as Vince stared up at the ceiling. "Penny?"
"Penny." Vince paused, picking at a loose thread on his robes, his gaze fixed on the worn fabric. "One minute she's laughing, joking, the next she's… gone. Like a ghost. It's like… I can't keep up. Don't know what I'm doing wrong."
Harry glanced at him, surprised by the unexpected vulnerability in his friend's voice.
"She cares about you, you know," Harry said softly.
Vince snorted, a humourless sound. "Yeah, well. She has a funny way of showing it." He sighed, running a hand through his wavy hair. "I just… I don't get it, Harry. One minute we're fine, the next… it's like I've said something wrong or done something to upset her. And I don't even know what it is."
Harry nodded slowly, understanding only too well the complexities of relationships. He opened his mouth to offer some words of comfort, but Vince suddenly shifted the conversation.
"I'll be honest, Harry, something else is bothering me too" he said. "It feels like something's coming. Something bad."
"What is it?" Harry asked.
Vince shrugged, his fingers nervously tracing the outline of a small scar on his hand.. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I have a bad feeling about it. A really bad feeling."
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant echoes of the still-raging celebration in the common room.
"Come on," Vince said, also rising to his feet. "Let's get back to the party. Linda's probably wondering where we've got to. And," he added with a wink, "I wouldn't want to miss out on the celebratory cauldron cakes. They're supposed to be legendary."
They walked side-by-side back towards the common room, the celebration growing louder as they approached, the silence between them now comfortable, companionable. As they reached the entrance to the common room, Vince paused, turning to Harry, his expression serious.
"Seriously, Harry, if you ever need to talk, I'm here. Don't forget that."
"I won't. Cheers, Vince."
The wind whipped Harry's hair across his face as he soared above the Hogwarts grounds, the crisp mid-November air a welcome antidote to the stifling atmosphere of the castle. He'd sought refuge on the Quidditch pitch and solace in the familiar exhilaration of flight. The physical exertion of flying always helped him think. He pushed his broom faster, relishing the feeling of the wind rushing past him, cleansing his mind of the suffocating anxieties that had been building and gnawing at him. He executed a complex series of manoeuvres, the movement fluid and effortless, his broom an extension of his own body. He felt a sense of freedom, a temporary escape from the suffocating weight of his secrets and the ever-present sense of danger that clung to him like a second skin. For a precious few minutes, he could forget it all; he could just be Harry, a boy who loved to fly.
He arced above the castle, the sprawling grounds stretching out beneath him like a tapestry woven in shades of green and brown, dusted with the first delicate whispers of winter's touch. As he hovered over the pitch, his broom responding to his every whim with effortless grace, a flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. Another figure, silhouetted against the clear azure sky, was also taking advantage of the empty pitch. Even from this distance, Harry recognised the distinctive flying style, a reckless abandon tempered by an innate grace. It was James Potter.
A complex wave of emotions washed over Harry. Longing, tinged with a bittersweet sadness, ached in his chest. He wanted to connect with his father, to speak to him, to know him. He hovered in the air, his hand tightening on his broom handle, unsure whether to approach.
James, seemingly oblivious to Harry's presence, continued his aerial acrobatics. He pulled off a daring Chaser move, weaving through imaginary opponents, his broom a blur of motion against the backdrop of the snow-capped mountains in the distance. There was a grace and efficiency in how he flew that would make even a professional Quidditch player envious, a pure, unadulterated joy in his movements and an obvious passion that deeply resonated with Harry.
He couldn't resist. He steered his broom towards James, closing the distance between them, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. As he approached, he saw James' face lit up with a wide grin. It was a smile that radiated an almost unbearable warmth, and it was a glimpse of the man Harry had only ever known through blurry photographs and faded memories. Then, before Harry could even fully register his approach, James pulled his broom into a daring loop-the-loop, the movement executed with an almost arrogant flair. His body twisted and turned effortlessly, his broom a blur of motion against the vast canvas of the sky, an astounding display of skill and recklessness that left Harry momentarily speechless.
As Harry got closer, James stopped his airborne acrobatics, loosely holding the handle of his broom with one hand as his other rested on his hip. He faced Harry with a frown.
"Sayre," he said cautiously.
"Potter," greeted Harry.
"What are you doing here?"
"Flying, to clear my head, really. I thought the pitch was free, but I saw you and thought I'd say hello."
James scoffed, a humourless sound. "Flying, right. Bit convenient, isn't it? After that performance at the match the other day." He paused, his gaze fixed on Harry, his eyes narrowed slightly. "You've got a knack for being in the right place at the right time, Sayre. Right where that Snitch just happens to pop out of thin air. Or maybe you just have a knack for being a cheating snake."
Harry's jaw tightened, his fingers clenching around his broom handle. He resisted the urge to defend himself, to explain, knowing it would be pointless. He kept his voice calm, his expression neutral. "I won the match, Potter. That's all there is to it. If you're looking for excuses, you're looking in the wrong place. Flynn couldn't beat me and he crashed. End of story."
"Yeah, sure," said James sarcastically. "It's not like you wouldn't get a kick out of knocking off a Gryffindor, like the rest of your lot."
"If I really wanted to do you in," said Harry tersely, "I wouldn't have stopped Snape, Lestrange, Avery and the others from trying to curse Sirius and Remus to within an inch of their lives! In fact, I probably would have just joined in!"
James tensed up and swung his broom around. "You stopped us from hexing Snape and now what? You're suddenly helping out? What kind of game are you playing, Sayre?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Believe what you want, Potter," he said, devoid of any emotion. "It's your choice. But I'm not going to waste my time trying to convince you otherwise. I'm just here to fly. And if you're going to keep wasting my time with your petty accusations, I'm going to leave."
He turned his broom, preparing to depart, his heart pounding against his ribs, anger and disappointment simmering within him. He'd tried and failed to connect with his father, and the realisation stung more than he cared to admit.
"Wait!" James called out, his voice a little louder than before, a hint of something that sounded suspiciously like regret creeping into his tone.
Harry hesitated, his broom hovering in place, his back still turned to James.
"Look," James continued a little softer now, the hostility having faded slightly and replaced by awkwardness. "I… I might have been a bit out of line. It's just, you know… Slytherins. And that match and… well, you know." He paused, his gaze shifting away, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I'm sorry, alright? I shouldn't have said all that stuff. It was stupid." He looked back at Harry, his expression a mixture of sheepishness and a hint of genuine remorse. "You were just flying, and you did help Moo - er - Remus and Sirius with Snivellus. I guess I just jumped to conclusions." He shrugged, his gaze dropping to his broom handle, his apology clearly difficult for him to articulate. "So… yeah. Sorry."
Harry turned around to see James scratching the back of his head, looking more than a little chagrined.
"It's alright, Potter," Harry said, not wanting to give James the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to him, but also not wanting to dismiss his apology entirely. "I understand. Sort of. But maybe next time, you should try thinking before you speak. It might save you from making a fool of yourself."
James chuckled softly, a small, almost sheepish sound, his gaze finally meeting Harry's. "Yeah, yeah, I get it," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual confidence, though a hint of awkwardness still lingered in his tone. "I'm not exactly known for my tact. Or my thinking skills, for that matter. Still trying to work on those. So, truce?"
James extended his hand towards Harry. Harry hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on James's outstretched hand. He couldn't resist the pull that drew him towards his father, the yearning for connection that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. He took a deep breath and reached out, grasping James's hand.
"Truce," Harry replied, with caution and a hint of anticipation.
James grinned, his earlier hostility completely forgotten. "Good," he said, his voice regaining its usual carefree tone. "Now, how about we have a bit of fun?"
"What sort of fun?"
"Fancy a bit of a friendly competition?" James called out.
Harry grinned back, the tension easing slightly. "Don't mind if I do, Potter," he replied, his voice echoing across the empty pitch.
James let out a whoop of laughter, a sound that was both exhilarating and strangely familiar, a sound that stirred a deep sense of longing within Harry's heart. "That's the spirit, Sayre!" he yelled back, his voice carrying on the wind. "But don't expect me to take it easy on you just because you're a Slytherin! I'll out-fly you any day!" He pulled his broom into a sharp turn, executing a quick, almost reckless manoeuvre that sent him soaring upwards, an invitation for Harry to follow. "Last one around is a rotten Doxy!"
Harry laughed, a genuine sound that came from deep within his chest, his worries momentarily forgotten, the thrill of the chase coursing through his veins. He kicked off with a powerful thrust, his broom responding to his every command, launching him through the air, his body a blur of motion as he chased after James, pulling his broom into a sharp climb.
And so began their impromptu aerial duel. They chased each other through the crisp winter air, their brooms twisting and turning in a dizzying dance. Harry matched James move for move, their brooms mirroring each other's movements with an almost uncanny synchronicity.
Harry felt himself relax, the sheer pleasure of flying, the pure, unadulterated joy of the moment. As they flew side-by-side, James looked at Harry, a curious expression on his face. "You're a natural, Sayre," he remarked, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You handle a broom like you were born on one."
Harry felt a warmth spread through his chest, a poignant mixture of pride and sadness. To receive such praise from his father, even unknowingly, was surreal. "Picked it up from the best," he replied.
James smiled. "He must be a hell of a flyer."
"He was," Harry confirmed, a wistful smile on his lips. "And you're not too shabby yourself, Potter. A bit of a showman, though. Always have to be the centre of attention, don't you?"
James grinned, a flash of mischief in his eyes. "Where's the fun in flying if you can't show off a little?" he said, winking as he executed a perfect barrel roll, his broom whistling as it sliced through the air.
Harry laughed and he took off after James. They continued to fly, their conversation flowing easily. They talked about Quidditch strategies, debating the merits of different formations and the strengths and weaknesses of various teams. It was surprisingly easy, and despite being on opposite sides of the Quidditch pitch, there was no animosity. They were but two boys enjoying their shared love of flight.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, James brought his broom to a gentle halt, hovering beside Harry. "You've got a real talent, Sayre," he repeated, his voice sincere. "You could go far. No wonder Talkalot wanted to get you on board."
"She mentioned it. I used to be better, but I'm not sure going professional is what I want," Harry admitted.
"I can believe it, but you should consider it. You're a bloody good Seeker," James insisted, a playful glint in his eyes. "Besides, we could use a good challenge. It would make the chase to the Cup all the more exciting, even when Gryffindor win."
Harry laughed. "Don't count your owls before they've delivered, Potter."
They continued to fly, their conversation flowing easily, the earlier tension gradually melting away like frost beneath the morning sun. Comfortable silence settled, the only sound the gentle whistling of the wind as it swept across the deserted pitch. For a brief, fleeting moment, Harry allowed himself to bask in the warmth of his father's presence. It was a memory he would hold close, a cherished moment of normalcy in a life that was anything but normal.
As they descended towards the ground, the castle looming large in the twilight, James extended his hand. "It's been good flying with you, Sayre," he said, a genuine warmth in his voice.
Harry grasped his father's hand. "You too, Potter," he replied, his own words thick with emotion.
They parted ways at the edge of the pitch, each heading towards their respective common rooms, the unspoken bond between them lingering in the air like the fading echoes of their laughter.
Bellatrix stood in the centre of the disused classroom, her wand arm extended, her body taut with concentration. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and her breaths came in short gasps from the exertion she had put herself through. She relaxed, standing normally as she reached up and used the sleeve of her robe to wipe the sweat away. Opposite her, Professor Bodie watched with a critical eye, his face betraying nothing as he leant up against a desk, his arms crossed.
"Again," he instructed, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the sudden silence. "And this time, mean it. Don't just recite the incantation."
Bellatrix took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs, and closed her eyes for a moment, focusing her mind. She pictured Harry Sayre's smug face during their duel, that awful, mocking laugh he gave. She felt a surge of anger, hot and intense, coursing through her veins. Good. Bodie had told her to embrace these feelings, to use them as fuel for her magic.
Opening her eyes, she raised her wand again, her movements precise and almost ritualistic as she went through the motions for the spell. "Expulso!" she hissed, the curse leaping from her wand, a streak of light that sliced through the air towards the training dummy.
The dummy, enchanted to simulate movement and adorned with tattered robes, sidestepped the curse with surprising agility. It retaliated with a jinx of its own, a jet of red light that Bellatrix deflected with a flick of her wrist.
"Faster," Bodie urged sharply. "You're telegraphing your movements. A skilled opponent will anticipate your attack and counter it before you've even finished the incantation. You should be casting non-verbally."
Bellatrix gritted her teeth, her pride stinging at his criticism. She wasn't used to being reprimanded, nor to being told she wasn't good enough. She was Bellatrix Black, the most promising witch of her generation. She was destined for greatness, for power. She wouldn't be lectured like some incompetent squib.
But she knew Bodie was right. She had been relying too much on trying to overpower and overwhelm her opponents; now was the time to refine her technique. And Bodie, despite his gruff demeanour and unorthodox methods, was someone who could help her achieve that. He had an understanding of magic that was almost unparalleled.
For weeks now, ever since Sayre had almost wiped the floor with her, they had been training. Bodie had recognised her potential, her hunger for knowledge that went beyond the standard Hogwarts curriculum. He had offered to tutor her, to teach her things that weren't taught in regular classes, things that would give her an edge, that would make her a force to be reckoned with. He had recognised Bellatrix for who she was, and who she knew she could become.
At first, Bellatrix had been hesitant and wary of the offer. Bodie had a reputation for ruthlessness. But his knowledge of the Dark Arts was undeniable, his skill as a duellist unrivalled except by a small few. And he had seen something in her, something that other professors had either overlooked or dismissed. He understood her ambition.
She had quickly realised that these private lessons were unlike anything she had experienced at Hogwarts. Bodie pushed her harder than any other teacher, demanding perfection, demanding more than she thought she was capable of. He drilled her relentlessly, forcing her to repeat spells until her arm ached and her throat was raw. He challenged her assumptions, forced her to think critically, to analyse her weaknesses and exploit her strengths.
"Again," Bodie commanded, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
Bellatrix closed her eyes again, and this time, it was easy to conjure the image. Harry Sayre's face swam before her, his mocking grin, his infuriatingly calm demeanour during their duel.
"Expulso!" she snarled, channelling all her rage and frustration into the curse.
The light struck the dummy with a sickening thud, smashing through the enchanted fabric and sending stuffing flying into the air. The dummy staggered back, its movements becoming jerky and erratic.
"Good," Bodie said, a hint of approval in his voice. "But not good enough. Again. Visualise it, Miss Black. Feel it. And do it non-verbally."
Bellatrix hesitated for a fraction of a second. This was exhilarating. She raised her wand again, her heart pounding in her chest, anticipation and excitement coursing through her veins. She had to push herself further.
Minutes passed, marked only by the rhythmic swish and flick of her wand, muttered incantations, and the occasional sharp reprimand from Bodie. Bellatrix pushed herself to her limits, her body aching, her mind reeling from the intensity of the training. As the night wore on, Bellatrix felt exhaustion creeping up on her. After a while, Bodie called time.
"Enough for tonight," Bodie finally said. He extinguished the torches with a wave of his hand, plunging the classroom into near darkness. "You're improving, Miss Black. But you still have much to learn."
Bellatrix lowered her wand, her arm trembling with exhaustion. She could barely stand, her legs felt like jelly, and her throat was parched. But she felt pride from Bodie's acknowledgement of her accomplishment.
"Rest," Bodie instructed, his voice softening slightly. "We'll continue tomorrow. Same time, same place."
Bellatrix nodded, unable to speak. She watched as Bodie made his way to the door, his silhouette a dark shadow against the faint moonlight filtering through the high windows.
"Professor," she called out.
Bodie paused, his hand on the doorknob, and turned back to face her. "Yes, Miss Black?"
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, the question that had been burning in her mind for weeks finally escaping her lips. "Why are you really helping me?"
Bodie was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the darkness. Then, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "As I told you before, Miss Black, when I offered and you agreed to these sessions, it is because I see potential in you," he said. "A potential that others have overlooked, or perhaps, chosen to ignore. You have the capacity for greatness, and the makings of a great witch. I want to see you realise it."
Bodie paused, his gaze intense, boring into her, before he turned and left the room. The heavy door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Bellatrix alone in the darkness, his words echoing in her mind.
She stood there for a long time, the silence of the classroom pressing in on her, the weight of his words settling upon her shoulders. Bellatrix realised she was tired, but not just physically. She thought of her family and their expectations of her, the pressures to uphold the Black family name and the dark legacy that flowed through her veins. It was exhausting and she had no desire to be an unwilling participant in someone else's great plan as a spectator watching her own life. The very thought of marrying Rodolphus filled her with a visceral loathing that bordered on physical nausea. She craved power, but it was a power she desired on her terms, not a power bestowed upon her through a loveless, politically motivated union with a man she despised. She would not be a pawn, nor a decorative trophy wife for a man who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end.
As she finally made her way back to the Slytherin common room, she knew one thing for sure: her life had changed. Bodie's training and his words had ignited a new belief within her. A new path had opened up before her, and whilst she didn't know where it would lead, she was determined to follow it and see it through to the end, no matter the cost. It had to be better than the one she was on.
A/N: Thank you for reading!
I have a small confession to make - I am a dirty liar. I said last chapter that this one and chapter 8 needed refining. I was not happy with how they turned out and so completely scrapped and re-wrote them. Going forward, the overall plot is much the same, but I have heavily revised the immediate plot for the next chapters, up to chapter 15 or so. It shouldn't have an effect on updates - fingers crossed - and with Aeoncs' help, it will only be better.
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