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Chapter Forty-One—Lonely Voices

"Excuse me, Harry."

Neville's voice is purposefully, painfully polite. He knows it is, and therefore, Harry has no reason to look at him as if Neville is something he's considering using as food for the Rotting Roses they're tending.

But in the end, Harry just nods and steps out of the way so that Neville can scoop up some water for his own Rose. Neville does it, willing his hands not to shake, telling himself over and over that he's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived and they're in the middle of Herbology. It's not like Harry can threaten him.

But at the same time, he knows something about Harry is different, different from last year. He seems to have absorbed some of the darkness that Neville always sensed in Zabini even when they were pretending to be his friends, and now be radiating it like a cold aura.

"Mr. Longbottom?"

Professor Sprout is waiting for Neville to return to his spot, of course, so that she can begin the next part of the lesson. Neville blushes and hurries back. At least he doesn't spill any of the water. Then again, he hasn't done anything like that since he was seven or so, and he carried much heavier buckets of water in the greenhouses on a daily basis.

"Now, class, you will see that the tips of the stalk on your Rotting Rose are turning blue. That means—"

Neville already knows what it means, which is the only reason that he doesn't get irritated when Ron leans towards him. "What do you think they're doing?" he whispers, nodding towards where Harry is working with Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil. "Why was he looking at you the way he was?"

"I suppose he thought that I might have told people he's a Parselmouth," Neville mumbles, reaching for the first excuse he can think of.

"We should have."

"And then he would tell people about Ginny."

Ron falls silent, scowling. In fact, Neville thinks that someone else has figured out the truth about Ginny being possessed last year. She gets hexed "by chance" in classes and the corridors too often for it to be a coincidence.

That makes his blood boil. Ginny was just a first-year who didn't know anything about objects that could possess you, and—

Except Ron used to say that his father warned him about things whose brains you couldn't see. And Neville knows he did. He heard the same lecture from Mr. Weasley more than once.

He sighs and concentrates on his Rotting Rose. At least he thinks that he understands plants, and they understand him. And that's a gift that's not small, given the vines of Occlumency growing in his head.

"Lupin hasn't asked you anything lately?"

"No. He seems too upset about his best friend getting put in prison."

Blaise snorts, leaning back against the couch in the Slytherin common room that's nearest the fire. Most of the time, upper-year students sit there, but Blaise and Theo have claimed it when there's no one above fifth year around. The others take one look at their faces and let them.

Theo shifts. Blaise opens one eye and watches his best friend other than Harry shake his head. "Lupin seems so mild-mannered. It puzzles me that he would be best friends with someone as violent as Black."

You wouldn't say that if you knew that he grew fur and claws and ran around in the woods every full moon.

But Blaise can feel the pressure of the geas around his throat at the thought of saying something about Lupin's werewolf nature, so he only shrugs. "I think that it's something to do with the fact that they were best friends with Harry's dad and that man Black killed, apparently. Peter Pettigrew."

"And Harry doesn't know much about them?"

"He doesn't care to, after they left him abandoned with Muggles for years."

Blaise keeps his voice low, since not everyone in Slytherin knows about Harry's background, and Blaise wouldn't want them to. From the alert way Theo's eyes dart around, he knows exactly why Blaise's voice has lowered, and he smiles a little, turning his head to the side.

"I have to admit that the course he's chosen wouldn't be the one I would have. I would have tried to find out everything I could about them to use as a weapon against them."

"I honestly think that Harry would have been content to leave them alone if they didn't keep trying to push their way into his life."

"Ravenclaws."

"The Hat didn't consider you for Ravenclaw? I thought it would have, with your bookish nature."

Theo looks at him, and his eyes shine from deep within. Blaise doesn't think it's his Defender magic, or any magic, really. This is the shine of ambition, the same kind of ambition that Blaise felt himself when he was under the Hat and thinking that he wanted to surpass Mother's legacy.

"It never once considered me for Ravenclaw," Theo says softly. "It did consider me for Hufflepuff, because it could tell that I value friendship and loyalty. But Ravenclaw? No."

Blaise blinks, knowing and hating that he can't hide his surprise. "Hufflepuff?"

"You think that I don't value friendship and loyalty? When I told you about Lupin's offer and how I turned it back on him?"

"It's not that. It's that I thought you wouldn't go for the Hufflepuff version of it, where you're expected to give it to people who haven't earned it."

Theo laughs a little, and Blaise sees at least two upper-year Slytherins flinch. Interesting. "They might have thought that I was giving it to everyone else in the House, or whatever they would have demanded of me. It would have been their mistake." He leans back on the couch and reaches for one of the books that Lupin gave him. "I find I prefer the Slytherin version."

Blaise smiles. He finds he does, too.

Or, well, maybe he has to call it the Slytherin-and-Ravenclaw version. But what really matters is that he has two friends, and that's more than he once thought he would ever have when he learned about the Suns and his duty to feed them.

"Are you all right, Professor?"

Harry has to admit that it's morbid curiosity making him ask the question, not actual care. But, well, Lupin has looked so pasty and pale and sick since Black went to Azkaban, and Harry knows that it's not correlated to full moon days. The reaction provokes wonder from him.

It's not the reaction that Harry would have if Blaise was in Azkaban, that's for certain. That's because Harry would go and get him out.

Maybe he would sort of feel like that if Theo or Anthony or Padma were in Azkaban, though. But then he would still break them out. It would just take longer, because then he wouldn't have someone like Aradia fighting on his side to do it.

Maybe she would, though, if she saw how much they mattered to me.

"What do you think?"

Harry blinks at Lupin. The man's voice is harsh, and his hands open and close for a moment as if he's picturing sinking his nails, like claws, into Harry's flesh. Then he turns his head away and closes his eyes.

"My best friend is in Azkaban," he says tiredly. "And maybe it was inevitable, but it also happened because he was trying to track down a traitor who was part of the reason that we didn't spend your childhood with you, Harry. Please go away."

Harry thinks about lingering to push and ask questions, maybe to force Lupin away from him forever. But it doesn't seem like he needs to. Either Lupin will decide on his own that he needs to leave Harry alone, or he'll become a more tolerable person, and maybe eventually he'll apologize in a way that Harry can accept.

It's strange to think about that happening, but then, it's strange to think of Black in Azkaban because he was a fool, too.

Harry slips out of the Defense classroom, and smiles to see Blaise waiting for him. "Did you think that Lupin was going to tear out my throat or something?" he asks lightly. He can't be much more explicit with the geas that the Headmaster wove, but suitably vague references slip past it.

"I wondered, with how devoted he seems to Black."

"I suppose we should be sympathetic. They seem to be best friends like we're best friends."

"Do you really think so?"

Harry stares. Blaise has whipped around to face him, where a moment before he was walking peacefully up the corridor, and there's something alive and fiery and barely contained in his face.

"I—what?"

"I said, do you really think they're friends like we're friends? That we would ever sink to the depths that Black and Lupin did? Abandoning a child?"

"No, of course not." Harry takes a hesitant step forwards, reaching a hand out, but Blaise avoids him without even seeming to. Harry stops and swallows, wondering if a thoughtless comparison could so easily snap their friendship. He didn't think so, or he never would have made it. "I just—Blaise, I only meant that we would put each other before everyone else."

"And we would never abandon a child who depended on us, not for any reason."

"No, of course not. Have you—have you thought about that?"

It's always hard to tell when Blaise is blushing, but Harry does see his hand fidget back and forth for a moment, as though he wants to reach for a dagger and is restraining himself, before he lowers it. "It's—not that. It's that I thought about Black and Lupin and how they would justify abandoning you, and I want you to know that I would never do anything like that."

"Of course not," Harry says soothingly. "I would never ask you to do anything like that. I would never adopt a child with you and ask you to put its welfare last."

"Have you thought about adopting a child with me?"

"I've thought about how I want to have a family someday. And I can't imagine not spending the rest of my life with you."

Blaise is staring at him with very wide eyes. Harry can feel himself flushing. He's pretty sure that he's mucking this up horribly. He's pretty sure that Blaise expected, wanted, him to say something else, and Harry is saying this instead.

But it's true. He does want a family, and he can't imagine abandoning Blaise and Aradia. So he puts his chin up and smiles at Blaise, and then he turns and keeps walking up the corridor as if nothing has happened. At this point, things are so awkward that it seems like the best way to move on from the conversation.

Blaise follows him, but he keeps giving Harry wide-eyed, wondering looks. Harry can't help but admit that he finds them pleasant.

Albus cannot understand why the people he usually counts as his allies are being so unreasonable.

There's Giselle, who would normally accept and approve of any ally Albus accepted and approved of. But she keeps citing the way that Sirius turned into a dog in the middle of the courtroom and tried to attack Lucius Malfoy. Albus agrees that's not ideal, but he also doesn't think that's a sign that Sirius is a slavering monster, the way Giselle appears to.

"I'm an old woman, Albus, and he nearly gave me a heart attack! How can we have someone like that in Hogwarts, teaching our children?" Giselle asked on the latest Floo call.

"Giselle, that doesn't mean he deserves Azkaban. Surely it means that he deserves a Mind-Healer, and that he needs to spend time contemplating his actions, not being surrounded by Dementors—"

"He already killed one person and tried to kill another when he was free. My answer to calling another Wizengamot session is no, Albus."

And other people are acting much the same way, Albus thinks as he leans back on his heels from the Floo kneeling cushion. He actually appealed to Helena Greengrass because he thought that she might agree with anything that's the opposite of what Giselle wants. But she only laughed at him.

Lucius Malfoy, of course, is spreading his supposed concern for Hogwarts students to the rest of the Board of Governors. The other Wizengamot members who condemned Sirius aren't returning Albus's owls or Floo calls.

It's something, Albus thinks regretfully, to have his own sought-for presence rejected because of Sirius's actions.

But he owes the man more than to leave him to the harsh justice of the Dementors. Albus reaches for another pinch of Floo powder and casts it into the flames. "Minister for Magic's office!"

Aradia studies the glittering crystalline structure in front of her. She used her memory of the wards around the Potter home in Godric's Hollow and a Pensieve to create this image of what the wards look like. Or might look like. She did not get the chance to examine them in detail before Augusta Longbottom's arrival pushed her to leave.

But even if the image is halfway accurate…

What is here is stunning.

Aradia paces slowly around the image of the wards. It hovers above the Pensieve, which itself is supported with glittering spells to keep the image glowing and in existence. She's in the sitting room not far from the balcony that overlooks the crack in reality where the Suns shine, and purple light and green strokes the image and makes it gleam even more.

"There was an explosion," Aradia whispers.

By itself, that is no surprise. It was a violent magical backlash that cast the Dark Lord out of his body and kept him from returning immediately, Aradia thinks. Even more violent than she supposed, to make him into the kind of wraith who can possess people.

But the burst of power the wards show, and are containing, is not the kind that Aradia would have suspected of something like that. Not the kind she has seen with some of her own victims when they are fighting for their lives and attempting to kill her.

Aradia lets her fingers hover, without touching, above the knots that join the white-silver cubes of light in the image at the corners. Well, the corner nearest to her. It's so full of reflections that it's hard to trace exactly what she wants to, but it is there.

"Yes," she breathes. "There was a spell cast to alter reality itself. Or a sacrifice."

It could still be Alice Longbottom's sacrifice or spell that defeated the Dark Lord and rendered Neville Longbottom immune to the Killing Curse, Aradia has to admit. She is not aware of what such a spell would look like, when it is unprecedented in magical history.

But the arc of this spell does not resemble the blurry spot of a sacrifice made in desperation. It looks as though this was cast with great force but also great knowledge, and it touches every knot and edge of the wards. Why would Alice Longbottom have risked diminishing her sacrifice's power by trying to layer it all over the cottage at Godric's Hollow? She would have centered it on her son.

This spell has no center. It was cast from the outside in, and spread deliberately, with pulses of power behind the initial casting, to ensure it covered the whole building.

Even if it is related to what Alice Longbottom did, Aradia thinks, there is no way that she would have had time for more than one initial pulse. And since the Potters and Frank Longbottom died the same night, even before Alice did, they would not have been able to help her push this magic along, either.

A mystery.

Aradia smiles. She does so love those.

"You are off tonight, Blaise. What is it?"

Blaise sighs and steps back from the target that Bathsheda has been having him practice with. It's pinned to the wall of the Ancient Runes classroom and shaped like a human, with major organs marked. Blaise has been wandlessly casting a spell that will drive his blade into the liver, the heart, and the brain, while Bathsheda casts spells that mimic things like the ribs and the skull, natural barriers that will slow his strike down.

"It doesn't have anything to do with our practice."

"It does, since it is affecting your hand and eye."

Blaise sighs again and sits back on the chair behind him that Bathsheda conjured early on in their practice. He thought he wouldn't need it, but he does, and he wants to be comfortable while he considers how to say this. "Harry said something to me that was uncomfortable, but I don't even know why it was uncomfortable, and I can't stop thinking about it—since."

Bathsheda settles by fluffing her robes around her and watches Blaise with sharp eyes. "Something that made you question your friendship?"

"Yes. I mean—I didn't know that it was, but yes, that was it."

"Mr. Potter wishes to adopt a different course from you? Or for you not to become an assassin?"

"No. He talked about—about staying friends all our lives, and how we wouldn't imitate what Black and Lupin did to Harry if we adopted a child together."

Bathsheda only nods. She knows about Black and Lupin thanks to Blaise confiding in her what happened with them and with Harry. He couldn't not. "And that startled you?"

"Yes. I never thought about adopting a child with Harry. Of course I want him as my best friend, and I'll want to have a child someday to be an heir for the family and my magical talents if nothing else, but—" Blaise makes a wide gesture with his hand.

"You had not put the two things together."

"No. I hadn't."

"And now?"

Blaise lowers his eyes to the floor of the classroom and studies it. He finds no relief there, really. There isn't in blank stone. And Bathsheda is still waiting for the answer that Blaise realizes he owes her.

He looks up. "I realize that I would be devastated if Harry dated someone else and had a child with them," he whispers. "Or even adopted a child with them. I want Harry by my side, and I want to date him."

"That sounds to me like a joyous realization."

"I don't know if he wants the same thing."

"It sounds like he might, from your conversation."

"How can I ask him?"

"How can you not?" Bathsheda gives him a curious look, as though Blaise is a mouse who has wandered willingly within reach of an owl's talons. "If you do not and keep him at a distance, sooner or later he will indeed go find someone else to date and have a child with. And you would not stand in his way, not if you cared for him."

Blaise closes his eyes. He's barely thought of finding anyone at all, let alone someone while he was this young. He always thought he would be lucky to find a lover or a wife or a husband who truly cared for him, given what Mother's gone through.

But—

But he's found Harry, and if he cares for him as more than a friend, then that's a sign that he should move to embrace this unexpected good luck.

Finding Harry in Diagon Alley was more than good luck. It's the sort of wonder that miracles are built on.

"Yes, I'll talk to him," Blaise says softly, feeling Ignis shift a little in his robe pocket. It's a reminder that someone else will snatch Harry up in the future if Blaise doesn't do so. Harry can do amazing things. "Thanks, Bathsheda."

"This is remarkable."

"Snakes are easier for me than other creatures, for some reason," Harry says, panting a little as he watches Steel circle around the dust-basilisk he's created. Shifting so much dust was still a trial. "Do you think it's because I gave myself Parseltongue?"

"Yes, and also because of their shape."

"Their shape?"

Steel glances at him with something like amusement in their eyes. "Of course. Snakes are a distinctive shape that magic and other materials find easier to imitate. But sheer size can complicate things." For a moment, their hand hovers near the immense brown eyes of the basilisk, and then they step back and look at Harry with a tilted head. "Can you ensure that the basilisk has all the powers it should?"

"Yes, I think so," Harry says, with confidence he doesn't feel. He knows something about basilisks, but he's never actually seen one kill something. Petrification would be easier to imitate.

But in the end, the only thing that matters is his will. Harry waits for Steel to conjure a rat, and then turns and fills the basilisk with his will as the rat runs in front of the great snake.

The basilisk turns its head, and its eyes touch the rat. Harry shudders. The gaze is an impact that he can feel throughout his blood and bones. The rat gives a pitiful squeak and falls over, motionless.

"You did not direct the basilisk to eat."

"None of my creatures except Artemis eats," Harry admits. "I'm not sure what would happen if I told a snake that's mostly made of dust to eat."

"I am the superior creature."

"Yes, you are," Harry hisses at Artemis, and glances at Steel, who is turning in a slow circle as if taking in invisible pictures on the walls. Harry waits, and Steel finally nods and turns to look at him.

"I want you to create another beast that could eat."

"All right, but wouldn't that take so much magic from me that I would barely be able to do wanded spells in class?"

"You would do it anyway?"

Harry hesitates, then shrugs. "If you thought it necessary. I trust you. And so many of the spells that we learn in class are sort of useless anyway. Maybe they'll be more useful in the months and years to come, but right now, most of the professors aren't that good at making them seem useful."

"And they already believe you are weak, so they might notice a change in the relative level of your strength, but they would not be as suspicious as they would of another student losing so much power."

Harry nods.

Steel taps their metallic claws together. "No, I will not have you draw suspicion, even the easily deflected kind. This kind of creature would not be like your Artemis. You would only infuse your strength into it briefly and then call it back. Specifically, I would like to see you make the basilisk swallow the rat and take actual nourishment from it."

"All right," Harry says. He turns to face the basilisk with his eyes narrowed and reaches out with his will. He honestly isn't sure how to do this. When he made Artemis, he was acting on desperation, and he barely knew that he had magic. She was made to be his friend, and of course she needed to eat. He didn't will it specifically.

But he remembers what Steel has been telling him.

Your magic is yours to control. You could create any effect you wanted, out of any materials that you wanted. Anyone who could create a snake at six and give himself Parseltongue at the same time could do anything he wished.

Harry makes himself believe that, truly believe that, and gasps a little at the surge of power that flows out of him and towards the basilisk. He drops to his knees with the weakness of it, but the basilisk rears up, a sudden glow infusing its eyes that makes Harry duck his head so as not to meet them, and then dives down. The rat vanishes in a flash and a gulp.

"You are so impressive."

Harry smiles a little at Artemis as he lifts his head. Yes, the rat is entirely gone, and he doesn't think it's his imagination that his basilisk's eyes are brighter. It's turning its head back and forth, seeking out other prey, and Harry ducks his head again.

"You are the one in control of it, Harry. You are the one who chooses if its gaze harms you or Artemis. Or me."

"Right," Harry says, and calls back the magic that he fed into the basilisk. The dust beast collapses, and Harry stands back up, blinking, astonished by how much better he feels.

"I am very impressed," Steel says, and inclines their head to him. "Now, let us see you do it again."

Harry represses a sigh. Succeeding at one task under Steel's mentorship means more work, another task.

But he's smiling as he sets to that work.

"Blaise?"

Blaise is leaning on the wall outside the classroom where Harry practices with Steel when Harry comes out. That's not unusual in itself. But the smile on his face, the glitter in his eyes, is.

"Did something happen?" Harry asks, and calls magic to his fingertips as Artemis rears out of his pocket to look around.

"No," Blais says softly. "I just came to a realization. With Bathsheda's help."

"Was it a good realization?"

Blaise moves a smooth step forwards. Harry has the distinct impression that he should be nervous, but instead, he just stands there as Blaise comes up to him, leans a hand on Harry's chin, and touches his lips to Harry's.

It's a realization for Harry, too, one that bursts like fireworks in his head. He gasps, and Blaise smiles at him.

"Yes," Harry blurts, and Blaise laughs and kisses him again, and soon Harry is kissing him back, heedless of who could come by, heedless even of Artemis's happy hissing.

"You could not create a boyfriend for yourself, but now you have found one! This is a good day."

When he does listen, Harry has to agree.