[From Samhain to the Solstice]: A Path Like Frost, gen, Like a Malfoy series, 3/6

[lomonaaeren]

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Part Three

“I’m sorry, Henry. The Healers have looked, but there’s absolutely no material they can find explaining what the connection would be between the Mark and your scar.”

Harry nodded slowly. He had reckoned that would be the case when Mother hadn’t said anything about it for days after she’d asked the Healers to look, but it was still disappointing to hear. “Okay.”

Mother hesitated. They were in the small library that she seemed to go to when she wanted to have time alone, a blindingly clean room where the shelves and the carpet and the chairs and even the spines of the books on the shelves were all white or silver. But Harry had been invited into it lately. He sat on the chair nearest the fireplace hoping he wouldn’t smudge it.

“About your fight with Draco.”

Harry grimaced a little. Draco had avoided him for the rest of that evening and then mumbled an apology at the breakfast table with Mother glaring at him the entire time. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.” Mother sighed. “I think that your father and I may have played a part in this, unwittingly. For so many years, the only things we had to tell Draco about his brother were what had happened before you were stolen, and what we thought you might be like. I think Draco internalized the idea of a brother who would be exactly like him in every way, except comfortably a little inferior, since Draco would know about being a Malfoy and Aldebaran wouldn’t.”

Harry hoped he hid his wince at the sound of his old name. He still hated it, but it meant something to his family. “So I was right? He was jealous?”

“Not entirely right, Henry. Draco does find your insistence on allowing people to use your old name repugnant.”

“I’m not going to stop.”

“No, and I told Draco that. If anything, I think that his attempting to press you to use your, shall we say, family name would only make it seem more foreign to you, and make you likely to refuse harder.”

Harry nodded. Sometimes he wished he wasn’t so contrarian, the way that Hermione and the Dursleys and all sorts of people had told him he was, but he was, and it seemed he would be that way no matter what his name was or what he looked like.

“But I think Draco is starting to picture you as a contrast to the idealized picture of his twin brother he carried in his head for years. He thought that of course you would be a Slytherin, proud of your name—both your names—and like him in the way he thinks and behaves. And while you are certainly a talented Quidditch player, and so is Draco, I think that he finds your skills in Defense disturbing.”

“Do you?”

Mother looked at him, and her eyes seemed to flash for a second. Harry shivered. She looked wild and fierce like that, and more than a little mad.

Could we have Dobby take the Black madness away from her, too? Would she agree to it?

“I think you are proceeding exactly as you should,” Mother said softly. “Draco can receive extra Defense practice from Ted, however. Will that bother you?”

“No. Why would it?”

“I have wondered, to a certain extent, why you have not been jealous yourself. Of Draco’s Potions skills, or the way that he had more years with us than you did.”

Harry took a long, complicated breath. He wanted to say that he didn’t care about Potions at all, but that would probably make her upset with him. And the other question was probably more important, anyway.

“I think he’s just good at Potions, and I’m good at other things,” he said, what he hoped was diplomatically. “And …it isn’t his fault that I was the one who got kidnapped and he was the one who wasn’t. I’m not going to blame him for being happy. Someone should get to be.”

Mother leaned a little towards him, the madness fading entirely from her eyes. “Are you unhappy, Henry?’

Harry fidgeted on the chair, suddenly longing for the times when Aunt Petunia would simply ignore him and tell him to go to his cupboard.

“Henry?”

“I’m upset because I fought with Draco, and I still don’t really understand why,” Harry admitted. “And I’m upset that Black is somewhere out there and we don’t know what he’s going to do. And I don’t know what happened with the Mark and my scar, and I’m upset Father got his arm cut off because of me, and—”

Mother reached out and pulled him into a hug. Harry startled, and then relaxed a little. This was something he really liked, but he was still bad at showing he liked it sometimes.

“I promise,” Mother whispered, “we will help you get through this. Draco already regrets saying what he said, and I hope I have explained a little of the context to you. We’ll continue to set wards against my cousin, and research the connection between the Mark and your scar. And your father had already made one move to set himself against the Dark Lord. This is the continuation of that, not something you uniquely caused.”

“What did he do about You-Know-Who?” Harry hated using the name “Dark Lord,” but everyone reacted so badly about him saying Voldemort, he would use the compromise. He didn’t want Mother to jump and disrupt the warm hug she had him in.

Mother hesitated, and then drew back. “I think I should let your father explain that, when he feels better,” she said.

“Okay,” Harry said, and leaned towards her. He was glad that she understood what he was asking for without words, and hugged him again, lowering her head so that her hair spilled over his.

Harry really liked this. It felt like he was floating in a sea of warmth that nothing could ever pull him out of.

It wasn’t true, of course. But it was nice.

*

“No. Of course not.”

Harry scowled a little. He had suspected this would be the result of showing Father the letter, but he didn’t like the way that Father said it, the kind of tone Uncle Vernon had always used to say, “Because I say so.”

“Okay. But could we meet him in Diagon Alley or something like that? It sounds like he has important news about Black.”

Father and Mother exchanged dark looks. Father was finally well enough, a fortnight after the ritual, to come down and have meals with them. Draco, who was talking to Harry again although they avoided the topic of Defense, looked back and forth between their parents.

“Why could he not put it in a letter?” Mother asked at last, turning to face Harry again. “That would have been the easiest thing to do, especially if he was short on time. Why does Dumbledore insist on meeting our son in our house?”

Harry just shook his head. He didn’t know. But he thought he might have an idea. He’d asked Dumbledore to work on a trial for Black, after all. And maybe Dumbledore thought if he said that in a letter, then there was no way Mother and Father would let him meet Harry.

But it seemed they wouldn’t let him meet Harry anyway. Draco was talking about how Dumbledore had been part of the plot with Lupin to try and make Harry keep secrets from his family, and Mother and Father were both scowling.

“We will write back to him and tell him to meet us in Diagon Alley,” Father said at last, his eyes harsh. “You may come, Henry. But we will both be with you, and we will remove you from the situation the moment Dumbledore makes a hostile move.”

Harry blinked, not having expected them to agree at all. But he nodded hastily. He definitely wasn’t going to get a better deal than this.

And if there was going to be a trial for Black, he wanted to know about it. Black might think he could get custody of Harry because he was his godfather—well, the godfather of the baby everyone had thought was Harry Potter—but Harry didn’t want to live with him. He did think that Black deserved to be declared innocent of the murders of Peter Pettigrew and the Muggles, though.

“I want to come, too! I want to come!”

“We want you to stay at the Manor, Draco. Let us have the assurance that one of our sons is safe from kidnapping.”

Draco blinked and shut up. Harry leaned down the table to look at Mother and Father. “You think Dumbledore might kidnap me again?” And you’re letting me meet with him anyway? But he didn’t want to say that aloud, just in case they hadn’t thought about it clearly and ended up leaving him home instead.

“Not seriously,” Father said, at the same moment Mother said, “Yes.” They stared at each other for a moment, and then Father turned to Harry with a small smile. “Not seriously,” he repeated. “But there is the chance that this meeting could be a front for Black or Lupin to do so. We will allow you to attend because it seems important to you, but we will spirit you away at the first sign of danger. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, hopeful. Maybe this could be worked out all right. Maybe Mother and Father could even see that Harry was more capable of keeping himself safe than they thought.

*

For some reason, it didn’t occur to Harry at all that Mother and Father might have ulterior motives until they walked into the small café off Diagon Alley where they were meeting Dumbledore and he saw Dumbledore turn pale. Harry glanced over his shoulder, trying to see what Dumbledore was seeing, and realized that the Headmaster’s eyes were locked on the missing part of Father’s left arm.

Oh. They wanted to rub it in that Father will never turn me over to Voldemort, and Dumbledore thought he would.

For some reason, Harry found himself having to conceal a smile as he sat down at one of the small dark blue tables across from Dumbledore. Mother sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Father waved his wand and made a Privacy Charm spring up around them, then sat down on Harry’s other side.

He laid his amputated arm upright on the table and smirked as he stared directly into Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Who will now hand over his son to the Dark Lord?” he asked softly.

Dumbledore took a quick breath and looked Father in the eye. “You haven’t had your arm restored yet. The Mark might return.”

Father laughed. It wasn’t a particularly nice sound, and Harry shifted closer to Mother. She let him lean gently against her. “I have never seen you arguing from pure desperation before, Albus. Allow me to savor the moment.”

Dumbledore shook his head. He looked profoundly disturbed, pale, with wrinkles on his face that made Harry think of him as old for the first time. He turned to Harry and seemed to try to look straight past both his parents. “Harry, my boy—”

“Please call me Henry.” Harry didn’t want everyone calling him that, but it was still useful.

Dumbledore paused for a moment, then just went on without acknowledging that he’d heard Harry. “You will be pleased to know that Sirius Black is having a trial arranged for him. Once we can receive some reassurance that he won’t simply be greeted by Dementors when he arrives at the Ministry, then he will be tried in front of the Wizengamot on the charges of betraying the Potters and killing Peter Pettigrew and the Muggles, as should have been done.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Mother said. “And a formal trial for the kidnapping?”

“You would subject a man who unfairly spent twelve years in Azkaban to that?” Dumbledore was still looking at Harry.

“Do you not want him to stand a trial that you know he would be found guilty at?” Mother asked in her sweetest of sweet voices, the one she usually used on Diagon Alley shopkeepers.

“I was speaking to your son.”

“Yes, you do have an unfortunate habit of treating him like an adult. Speak to us instead,” Father said, and once again rolled his left arm over. Dumbledore’s eyes darted to the cut-off portion, then away.

The Headmaster took a deep breath and looked at the restaurant’s shimmering silver ceiling as if praying for patience. Then he turned so he was speaking to Mother. “That crime is fourteen years old.”

Mother arched her eyebrows and said not a word. She was pretty good at showing contempt that way, Harry had found. And scolding people, too. Sometimes all she had to do was look at him and Draco and they would stop fighting.

“You cannot want Sirius further punished for that. Your own cousin?”

“Who took my own son? Who made us suffer for twelve years, fearing Henry was dead or being mistreated? Who was responsible for him being left with abusive Muggles, since he could not even fulfill the duties of a godfather my son’s false parents assigned him? Of course I want him punished. I agree that he should not be Kissed on sight. But he should stand trial, Headmaster. For all his crimes.”

Mother’s voice was perfectly level and cold. Harry shivered at that, and wondered what would happen if Sirius walked into the restaurant right now, if Mother would draw her wand. He thought she probably would.

Oh. And she was sitting so her wand arm was free. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed that before.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. Harry had no idea what he was thinking, but he doubted it was pleasant. Dumbledore shook his head, still not looking at them.

“If you knew what I know about the power of forgiveness,” he whispered. “Of love.”

“And if you knew what we do about the power of vengeance,” Father murmured. He pulled his left arm back under the table and reached for a flask on his belt, which Harry knew contained one of the potions that the Healers had told him to drink so that he would be at his strongest when the time came to grow the new arm. “This meeting was simply to deliver the news that Black was receiving a trial, then? You could have done that by letter, Dumbledore.”

Harry nodded despite himself. Dumbledore’s eyes opened and saw him.

“Is there really no trace left of the generous, giving boy I once knew?” Dumbledore whispered.

Harry had no idea what to say to that, and it didn’t matter if he did. Mother stood up, sweeping a fold of her robe around Harry so that he felt as if he was looking out at the world through a blanket. “It is not for you to say such things to our son, Headmaster,” she said. “Perhaps we will see you in the Wizengamot on the day Sirius Black is tried for kidnapping.”

Harry stood up and went with her. He kind of wanted to look back at Dumbledore, but it seemed that his parents had been right. Dumbledore had asked to meet with Harry, over news that he could easily have written down, because he wanted to ask him silly questions and try to trick him back into being Harry Potter.

Or into being…what?

Harry didn’t have any idea that didn’t have to do with the prophecy. And that didn’t please him.

*

“Do I have to?”

“We would like you to remain in this warded room for a few hours, Mr. Malfoy,” the Healer in front of him said. She was the same red-haired woman who had attended Father when he was getting his arm regrown. Harry knew now that her name was Healer Percival. “I know that you had a strong reaction next time, and while we don’t anticipate the return of your father’s arm bringing back the Dark Mark, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

In the end, Harry nodded stiffly and stepped behind the warded wall into the middle of the waiting ritual circle. It was a small one, but made of what looked like pure silver, at least to Harry’s untutored eyes. The minute he walked into it, there was a small snapping sound and brilliant white flames rose from the circle.

“You did not tell me that would happen!” snapped Mother, on the other side of the fire and looking unhappy about it.

“I did not anticipate that it would.” Healer Percival was staring at Harry with wide grey eyes. They narrowed a second later. “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, have you ever had prophetic dreams? The sensation of hearing or seeing something far away from you? Feeling emotions that are not your own?”

“Where are these questions leading?” Mother demanded.

“In a direction that I did not think to investigate, and that might explain the connection between the Dark Mark and the scar on your son’s forehead,” Healer Percival said. That at least made Mother look a little calmer, Harry noticed. He wished it did the same for him. Healer Percival smiled gently at Harry. “Did you ever have any of those?”

“I’ve had a few dreams about—well, I don’t really know,” Harry said hesitantly. “I see green light and hear laughter, and then it goes dark. And once I dreamed a huge snake was coming towards someone, about to bite him. But I don’t remember them well enough to know if they’re prophetic.”

Healer Percival sucked in a deep breath, glanced at Mother, and then turned back to Harry. “I would like to speak with you after the surgery to restore your father’s arm, Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry nodded. If they could find out something that would let him solve the puzzle of what was going on with the scar, then he would answer any questions she had.

Healer Percival checked her golden watch, started, and hurried out of the room. Harry hoped he hadn’t made her late for the ritual that would heal Father. That was still, and always, the most important thing.

Mother came up to the edge of the white flames and stared at him through them. Harry swallowed. “Why are they here?” he asked.

“The circle keeps out Dark Arts influences,” Mother whispered. “They hoped that it might protect you even if there is a connection between the Mark and your scar and the Mark reappears. But the flames would not be there—” She hesitated.

“Please tell me.” Harry’s voice was smaller than he liked, but he was sick of adults keeping things from him, the way that Dumbledore had with the prophecy.

Mother nodded, hard. “The flames only appear when the circle needs to keep a Dark Arts influence caged.”

Harry sat down with a thump. Mother reached out to touch him, but of course her fingers had to stop short of the fire.

“Can you just stay with me and keep me company?” Harry whispered. He knew she probably would have anyway, since she wasn’t allowed back in the ritual room where Father was being worked on, but he had to ask.

“Of course, Henry.”

Mother’s eyes were wet with tears. Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and tried not to think.

*

“What is going on? Why wouldn’t they let me in the ritual room, Mother?”

Harry half-smiled when he heard Draco’s complaining voice. He’d had to sit in the waiting area where they’d stayed last time when they were waiting for news about Father. Harry hoped someone had told Draco a little of what was going on, but the way his eyes widened when he walked into the room and saw the white flames said it wasn’t enough.

“Henry? What in the world—”

He was cut off by Healer Percival, who walked into the room holding a small, ornate hand mirror. She smiled at them all and held it out. “You’ll be pleased to know that Mr. Malfoy’s arm has been regrown, and no Mark reappeared. And you didn’t suffer from any debilitating pain, either, Mr. Malfoy?” She glanced at Harry.

Harry, who felt as if he’d spent the last hour in a state of numbness, shook his head and sat up. He looked into the mirror and saw a small, dim image of Father smiling at him. He didn’t appear shocked at the white flames, so Harry smiled back at him and waved.

“Father?” Draco surged forwards to snatch the mirror from Healer Percival, his face glowing with excitement. “You’re all right!”

The glass was tilted away from Harry now, but he could still see Father raising two unblemished arms high in the air with a laugh. “Yes. As good as new, Draco.”

“I love you,” Mother said softly, her fingers brushing across the mirror in a way that made Harry look away with his face burning. Draco wrinkled his nose, he saw from the corner of his eye, but didn’t move away.

I hope someday I’ll get used to things like that.

“I love you too, Narcissa.” Father reached out as if he was going to extend his hand through the mirror, but pulled it back at the last second. Healer Percival took it from Draco’s hands and turned to face Harry. Her face was solemn.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, and Harry thought she might have been talking to him and Father and Draco all at the same time, “based on the reaction of the circle, Henry’s reaction to the Mark being removed last time, and what he told me about his dreams, I am afraid I do have a theory as to why his scar pained him so much. You are not going to like it. I want you to consider, however, that Henry Malfoy is alive and in command of his own mind and magic. It could be much worse.”

The creeping numbness came back, washing over Harry’s chest and arms. He was glad he was already sitting down. Mother sat back down, as close to the edge of the circle, and the mirror, as she could get. Father had no expression on his face, and Draco crept up on Healer Percival’s other side, vibrating with nervous energy.

“I believe that Mr. Malfoy has a piece of someone’s soul behind his scar,” Healer Percival said softly. “A very Dark Art called a Horcrux splits someone’s soul, tethers the resulting shard to an object, and ensures that the person whose soul was split cannot truly die for as long as the Horcrux exists.” She took another breath, which Harry could barely hear beyond the wild rushing in his ears. “And considering your past, Mr. Malfoy, I can only speculate on one candidate for the piece of that soul.”

Harry could, too. He lowered his head until his face was pressed into his knees again, while his heart sped up until it sounded like a shriek in his ears. A long, never-ending scream, like the one he sometimes heard in his nightmares with the green light, and which he wouldn’t say in front of his parents came from his adoptive mother standing before the Killing Curse and dying for him.

“You are talking about the Dark Lord.” Harry knew someone was speaking, but his hearing was so dim he could barely comprehend it, let alone know who it was.

“Yes, I am. I am so sorry, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Henry! Henry!”

The words seemed to mingle with the ones that got shouted in his head from a memory or a nightmare.

“No! Not Harry! Please, not Harry!”

“Lower the flames on the circle! He’s going into shock!”

“Mrs. Malfoy, that might not be wise. If the flames think he has some sort of influence inside his scar that must be neutralized—”

“He was here the first time without this happening, and the surgery is over now. Lower them, or I will.”

Harry heard something that sounded like a wand being broken, and then warm arms wrapped around him and held him close to his mother. He turned to her and flung his arms around her. He wasn’t crying, he thought, as she touched his face and made a soft sound of dismay to find no tears there. He was too overwhelmed to cry.

He had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in his head. Was that why Dumbledore thought the prophecy would still be in play? Did Dumbledore know about it?

“What can be done about this—Horcrux?” Father demanded.

“I don’t know for sure, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve never heard of a case where a human carried a shard of another human’s soul within themselves and survived. It’s amazing that your son is still alive.”

Harry shuddered, and Mother cast some kind of spell that made him warmer and at the same time seemed to muffle the voices. Harry half-shifted, wanting to protest, because he did need to hear what was going on and stay informed of what they decided.

Maybe Mother knew that, because she said softly, “I promise we will tell you later what was discussed, Henry. For now, rest.”

And that sounded good, given how utterly exhausted he was. Harry surrendered, and let himself drift.

And tried not to remember what he carried with him.