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Chapter Two-Drowning

"I call this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix to begin."

Hermione bites her lip as she takes her place at the table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Ron casts her a glance and reaches out to hold her hand. Hermione grabs his hard enough that Ron winces a little and squeezes back.

In front of them sits Professor Dumbledore, as haggard as if he's been through a battle. Maybe he has, Hermione thinks. He had to run from Hogwarts and go into hiding, and maybe he's fought with a few Death Eaters on the way.

She still can't believe that Professor Dumbledore has been driven from the school, and that Professor Snape died trying to kill Harry.

(She still can't believe that Harry is Voldemort's son).

"Some of you have heard the information that I have to impart," Dumbledore says, and for a second, his eyes rest heavy on Hermione and Ron. Hermione gives a little involuntary nod. "Others have not. I am sorry to say that I bring news of the gravest sort. Harry Potter is, in truth, the son of Lily Evans and Voldemort."

There is crying. Screaming. Gasping. Denials. Hermione sits through it with closed eyes. She's remembering the way Harry looked during their last argument. Not evil, but as if he already withdrew from the rest of them.

And he disappeared into a carriage with the Slytherins he Marked instead of staying with the people who were confused and mourning Professor Snape as he lay dead.

(Not that anyone much mourns Professor Snape for himself, as Hermione well knows, but he'd always been there, and then he wasn't. And Harry was mixed up in the cause of that).

Dumbledore's speech is winding down. Mrs. Weasley is speaking now, her voice thick and strong. "I don't want either of my children at Hogwarts near him, Albus. Who knows what he might take it into his mind to do to them?"

"I do not think Harry is evil, Molly, or the sort to torture someone. Merely weak."

"Bollocks! Arthur and I have heard all about how he had an argument with our Ron and Hermione and pulled back from them, although we didn't realize why. But now we know. It was that, wasn't it, dears?"

Hermione opens her eyes. She's horrified to find that she's on the verge of crying. Ron squeezes her hand again, and she swallows and nods. "That, and we—we found him Marking a Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to follow him."

More gasps sound. Dumbledore leans forwards across the table. "You're certain, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir." Hermione can feel herself blinking at him, but as if someone else is doing it. "You—you didn't know?"

Dumbledore slumps back in his seat, his eyes closed. "Say rather," he whispers, "that I preferred not to see."

Hermione nods. She can understand how that feels. She knew Harry was lying to them about where he spent the summer, but she really did believe that he'd been asked not to tell, and she respected that he wanted to keep his secrets.

But this. But this.

There's no excuse for this. Harry can say all he likes about protecting people, but look what his attempts to do that did. Professor Snape is dead, Professor Dumbledore has been driven away from the school, and everyone at Hogwarts and in Britain is in so much more danger than they were before.

"We now have two tasks," Professor Dumbledore says, and his voice is stern and ringing like a great bell. Hermione sits up, inspired before she even consciously thinks about what she's listening to. "The first is to find a way to destroy the monster calling himself Lord Voldemort. I have a good lead on that, and I will begin on it immediately. Kingsley, Alastor, I would like you to help me."

The two Aurors nod. Incredibly, Professor Dumbledore then turns to face Hermione and Ron. Hermione exchanges a glance with her best friend—her only friend, now—and sits up a little straighter.

"I must ask a difficult thing of you," Dumbledore begins gravely.

"You can't want them to return to Hogwarts, Albus!"

"I believe they will be in little to no danger. As I said, I don't believe Harry to be evil, merely weak. He did not hurt them even after they found out his secret." Dumbledore takes a deep breath. "I know they have spoken since Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley found out that secret, did you not, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir."

"You want us to spy on Harry," Ron blurts.

Dumbledore nods gravely. "I am so sorry to ask this of you, but we must know what Voldemort's Heir is doing, and no one else knows the secret whom we can trust."

Of course not. We can't trust the Slytherins to do the right thing. They're only concerned about their safety and the things their families could demand of them, not how the whole world will become less safe for everyone because of their choices.

The thought darts through Hermione's mind and buries itself, because of course she never counted on Pansy Parkinson or Theodore Nott or bloody Draco Malfoy for safety and making the right decision. She counted on Harry for that.

Harry. The betrayal tears at her heart and lungs.

Mrs. Weasley is still objecting, but Hermione lifts her head. "We have to do it," she says, in a tone that actually manages to silence Mrs. Weasley. Hermione didn't know that was possible. "Harry is still a beloved icon to a lot of people. He could cause so much damage even if just stands aside and doesn't do anything against his f-father."

Dumbledore nods to her, his eyes sad and proud, perhaps bright with tears of his own. Hermione can't be entirely sure. "Of course. That is true, Miss Granger, and I am so proud of you for doing what is right instead of what is easy."

"She won't be alone," Ron says steadily, and turns to argue with his mother when she tries to object again to his going back to Hogwarts.

Hermione takes a deep breath and settles back in her chair. She's never been more grateful that she's an adult in the magical world, and that Ron was allowed to join the Order meeting despite not being an adult for a few more months.

She'll need allies. She'll need her friends—friend.

They have a job to do.

"Your Head of House is Headmistress."

Harry jumps. He's been packing all morning, including trying to make enough use of the enormous new trunk that Voldemort gave him—which shrinks down at the tap of a wand—to justify taking it with him. Then again, he's received so many Christmas gifts that he'll manage. "What?"

"Minerva is Headmistress," Voldemort repeats, with that edge to his Parseltongue that sounds like a snake lazily swishing his tail.

Harry turns around. His—father stands in the doorway of Harry's bedroom, giving a critical glance at the pile of books on the floor at his feet. After a moment, he nods and waves his yew wand, summoning more books. "I thought I had not given you enough on curses and countercurses. Here are more."

"Er, thanks," Harry says, who privately wonders how he'll manage to read all the books Voldemort thinks he should while also doing NEWT classwork. He catches the books and sets them in the pile. "Do you know who's taking over as Transfiguration professor?"

"An acquaintance of mine named Corban Yaxley. He quite fortunately offered himself, and Minerva has no reason to turn him away."

"A Death Eater, you mean."

"Your bodyguard, you mean."

Harry swallows and decides to say something that might be taken as defiance just to see how his father will react. "I don't want a bodyguard."

"You have one."

"But I don't want one."

Voldemort leans towards him, his tongue darting out. His eyes are bright with delight, and he looks as though he wants to clap his hands. "Are you going to duel me, Harry? Shall I have it out with you in this very room, and then show you what kind of furniture and books I would buy to replace the old ones?"

"They would be worse, I know." This is at least something Harry understands, the threats from his guardians to take away what he has—

"They would be finer."

Harry's brain stumbles, the way it has a habit of doing around Voldemort. He just stares at his father. Voldemort stares back, his tongue darting in and out of his lipless mouth as he waits for Harry to say something.

"The blood-master is being generous." Basilisk's bond with him is bright and cool and blue and green, slow-moving like a summer river. "You should take advantage of that generosity."

"Still advising him, little one?"

"He needs much advice, blood-master."

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "I don't want to duel you," he whispers. "But I don't want a bodyguard, either. I have enough people gaping at me for something I'm not and trying to follow me around."

"Ask Corban to take care of them."

"But—that would make me even more different."

"You are different. You are stronger than they are, more important, more compassionate, more powerful. You should be proud." Voldemort pauses. "I am."

Harry swallows. Merlin, he never expected temptation like this, simple words of the kind that a parent might speak—

He is my parent.

Maybe this is the moment that Harry fully accepts that, and everything it'll mean. He takes a slow, calming breath. "All right. Thank you. But I do know that interfering too much with other people will just make them resent me the way it did in the past. So I'll do what I can to make sure Corban doesn't need to interfere."

"Do not hesitate before calling upon him, because the alternative is me."

Harry should have guessed that, really. He nods. "Thank you, Father. I won't hesitate."

Voldemort moves forwards in a sudden darting glide that makes Harry freeze, although Basilisk hisses softly and sends more blue and green waves down their bond. But Voldemort only slides a hand down the side of Harry's face and flick his tongue out, probably to taste his scent.

"I could not be prouder."

Then he turns and leaves the room, and Harry exhales as he sits down on the bed, shaky and confused.

"Why are you not proud as well? You are very strange."

Harry turns his head to bury his face in Basilisk's scales. "I can't help it."

"True. You are human."


Draco steps into the train compartment where Harry and the others are sitting with his pulse beating so fast that he feels as if he's going to faint. Harry looks up and smiles in welcome, then looks again. His smile fades.

Draco winces. He can't imagine what his bond is telling his lord.

"Draco, are you okay?"

The gentle tone, more than the words, makes Draco blink once, and then again. And then he collapses into the seat across from Harry, his legs aching and his breath coming in whistling gasps.

He should have remembered that of course Harry is different from the Dark Lord. Different from anyone Draco has ever heard of who claimed the mantle of a Lord and Marked people. Different from his father.

Different from Draco's father.

"Theo, Pansy, could you leave, please?"

Theo doesn't want to. Draco knows that as well as he knows his own name, sees the protest forming in his fellow courtier's eyes, but Harry just tilts his own head and narrows his eyes a bit. He must be using the bond.

Theo bows and leaves without a word. Pansy bites her lip, glancing at Draco. They've always been close.

"He'll be fine," Harry tells her softly. "I promise. We'll take care of the problem."

That's enough for Pansy, who has so much faith in the goodness of the universe that she really should have been Sorted into Hufflepuff. She smiles at Harry and steps out of the compartment, sliding the door shut behind her.

"What's happening?"

Draco shifts, clenches his fists on his knees, and clears his throat. "My father wants me to get close to you and become your most important courtier. The one who whispers advice in your ear and influences you to act the way my father wants."

Even admitting it is terrifying. Draco doesn't want to do what Father is telling him to do, but he doesn't wand Father dead, either, the way he will be if Harry mentions this conversation to the Dark Lord.

"Well, you can't. That's Basilisk's job."

Draco is startled into laughing. Harry smiles at him, and Draco realizes how terrified he must have looked. He shifts and clears his throat. "I know, but Father wants progress reports. Of a—kind."

"Write and tell him that our bond is strong and full and you're introducing other Slytherins to me to bond with. You mentioned that before the holidays, anyway. And tell him that I value you and won't mention this to the Dark Lord."

Draco blinks. A stupid man might take that to mean that Harry is under his thumb, but Father has never been stupid. He'll understand the subtle threat. "When did you become such a Slytherin?" he blurts.

"At birth, if you believe my father."

Draco laughs again and then claps a hand guiltily over his mouth. Harry just shakes his head impatiently, though. "No, no, I much prefer you alive and moving to sitting there like a stuffed deer head. Will this plan work?"

"Yeah," Draco says, while wondering if the Dark Lord has stuffed deer heads on the walls of the house he shares with Harry, and if so, why. One could at least have the heads of magical creatures if one must display taxidermy. "And—thank you for sparing my father's life, Harry. I know what you could do if you exposed his plan to the Dark Lord. You have reason to hate him," he adds quietly, remembering second year, which Father told him the truth of the previous summer.

"I would never do that to you, Draco."

Draco stares into Harry's eyes for a long moment, seeing the sincerity there, and more, the strength, which he would have thought of as weakness not long ago. He finds himself glancing away, blinking furious tears from his eyes. For a moment, the silence stretches between them.

"Thanks," Draco breathes, and then hurries away and out of the compartment. He wants to find Crabbe and Goyle and have some simpler conversations for a bit, even if the conversations might also ultimately lead both of them to swear to Harry.

It's overwhelming, being in the court of a Lord who cares.

"You should ignore them."

"I'm trying."

Honestly, Harry thinks he's doing a good job. Ron and Hermione are sitting down the table from him in the Great Hall, both making it obvious that they've argued with him and that they're staring at him and whispering. But Harry isn't going up to snap at them and demand they stop or anything.

He's strong. He'll do this.

"Ignore them in truth."

"Stop speaking in public, or someone could hear you."

Basilisk flicks the side of his neck with her tail, but she does shut up. She used to ask for food at meals in the Great Hall, but gave up when she realized it was all dead already.

"Harry?"

He turns to Neville and tries to give a smile that's as natural as possible. "Hi, Nev. Did you have a good Christmas holiday?"

"Yeah. It was sort of unexpected, actually." Neville takes a deep breath. "I mean, one of the gifts was. Can I talk to you about it after dinner?"

"Sure," Harry agrees warily, although he's wondering as he does so what this means. Did Voldemort send Neville some kind of threat? But why would he? The only thing he would know is that Harry and Neville speak at meals sometimes and partner in classes a bit since the argument with Ron and Hermione. Basilisk could have reported that much.

Do I have to be careful about my father threatening someone I'm only casual friends with, too?

Harry closes his eyes and does a mini-meditation, mostly to calm down so that he doesn't flood his bonds to Basilisk and his courtiers with negative emotions. He doesn't know what else to do. The burdens can't be put down.

Ron and Hermione whisper, eyes locked on him, and Neville is tense and cautious, and Corban Yaxley is dark-eyed and cautious at the professors' table, and Harry has eyes on him from Slytherin, and he feels like he's going to drown.

"Here should be good."

"All right." Harry is a little reassured by the fact that Neville just led him aside from the flood of Gryffindors going up to the Tower and into a side corridor that dead ends in what might an old Potions lab. He puts up a Privacy Charm, but nothing so extreme that it seems like this is going to be a huge serious talk.

"I have to know one thing first," Neville began. "Did you heal anyone over the holidays?"

"Heal anyone?"

Harry has no idea what Neville is talking about, and maybe that comes through, because Neville's shoulders slump a little and he takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. That helps, actually."

"Neville, what are you talking about?"

"Only this," Neville says, and swallows loudly. "The Healers at St. Mungo's contacted us and said that my mum was awake." Tears shine on his cheeks as he swallows again. "My dad is…more aware than he was. Not all the way awake. But getting there. They think he'll be fully healed in a few weeks."

Harry knows his mouth is hanging open. He swallows loudly himself and whispers, "And you thought I did it?"

"You're the only one I know who might have enough power to do so."

Harry closes his eyes. He does remember Voldemort saying that he had a special gift for Harry, one that he wanted to give Harry after he went back to Hogwarts, but—

And Voldemort is a skilled Legilimens, one who might have been able to get into the mind of someone suffering from insanity and lead them back to sanity, but—

What?

It takes Harry a moment to realize that the word isn't in the voice of his thoughts. He sighs and focuses his mind inwards on the response coming from Voldemort. Did you heal Alice and Frank Longbottom, Father?

Pleasure and smugness cascades through his mind, coming through as red and gold for some reason. Do you not enjoy your gift?

Neville thought maybe I did it.

Voldemort laughs, and the laughter echoes through Harry's body as if they stand in the same room. You will be able to do it someday, if you develop your power. I cannot recommend that you try right now..

But what should I tell him?

That a powerful friend of yours did it for you. It is more than true—except perhaps for the meaning of the word "friend," but there are those who use it to refer to family members.

Voldemort cuts the connection off, and Harry blinks and gasps and opens his eyes. Neville is leaning forwards to stare at him. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yeah. I—I was thinking about whether I should tell you." Harry swallows. "A powerful friend of mine healed them as a favor to me. Because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived and he—wanted to help me."

"Who, Harry?"

"He would really rather than I not reveal the name."

"Why not?" Neville takes a step forwards, almost vibrating with tension. "Harry, if someone can heal—if someone can heal this for my parents, then they could do it for other people. It could be revolutionary."

"I could bite him."

Harry pushes refusal down the bond with Basilisk and faces Neville. He has an idea that will hopefully rescue the situation his father has dropped him into. "He did it using Legilimency," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "You know that Legilimency is restricted by the Ministry and people have to give informed consent for it most of the time. What he did is illegal. He wouldn't want it getting out."

"Oh. I…well, but surely most people would give consent? Or he could just go through the Ministry?"

"He's a high-handed bastard who wouldn't want to take the trouble."

It feels good to speak the truth for once.

"Oh." Neville shifts awkwardly back and forth. Harry feels bad making him feel like this, but he doesn't have a choice. Neville would be in so much danger, so much trouble, especially if for some reason his parents go back to fighting against Voldemort when they wake up. "If you're sure."

"Yeah."

"But you'll at least tell him thank you for me?"

You would throw it in my face if you knew who he was. Harry puts on a bright smile so that he won't vomit. "Of course. I know that at least he'll like to be thanked. He likes gratitude." From his son.

"Thanks, Harry," Neville says, and then steps forwards and hugs him, having no clue how close he just came to getting his throat torn open by a highly venomous snake. "You'll never know how much this means to me."

Or how much it means to Voldemort, more likely.

"You're welcome." Harry clears his throat again, and watches Neville take down the Privacy Charm and walk up the corridor. Now that Harry is looking closely, he can see that Neville is walking awkwardly, as if he's had a weight removed from his shoulders and doesn't know how to function without it.

"Your blood-master did a good thing, but you are upset about it. You are strange."

"He didn't tell me that he was going to do it, and I had to lie, and I could have messed things up."

"But you did not. You are a very good human." Basilisk flicks her tail against his neck again. "Always giving me the best treats and the best bond."

Harry utters a choked laugh and stands there for a long second before he follows Neville up to Gryffindor Tower.

Ron and Hermione are in the common room, whispering, eyeing him. Harry ignores them and goes up the stairs to the bedroom.

He would probably feel better right now if he can just drown his sorrows in sleep.