Chapter Thirty-Three of 'Leopard's Choice'- A Lack of Dancing

[lomonaaeren]

Thank you again for all the reviews! Please note that the fic will be going on hiatus until Monday, August 8th, so that I can concentrate on my summer fic series.

Chapter Thirty-Three—A Lack of Dancing

“We have to do this ridiculous thing.”

Harry’s resigned voice at least lets Sirius know that he won’t fight it. He leans forwards to wrap an arm around Harry’s waist and hug him. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Yes, we have to show ourselves, but we can earn all sorts of rewards. Maybe making Fudge believe you about Voldemort is one of them.”

“I think that man will fight as hard as he can against any sort of acknowledgment.” Remus is frowning down at the grey robes he wears, even though they’re properly buttoned and seem fine to Sirius’s eyes. “Probably until a Death Eater kills him.”

“You don’t think Voldemort would want to do it himself?”

“Even Voldemort has standards.”

Sirius starts laughing before he can help himself, mostly out of sheer surprise that Remus would make a joke like that. Remus flashes him a smile and glances at Harry, unhappy in his blue dress robes. But his hair is as neatly combed as it can possibly get, and he nods when Sirius catches his eyes.

The invitation to attend the Ministry gala rather took Sirius by surprise, considering how uncertain Fudge’s relationship is with Harry. And Sirius is a pardoned “former criminal,” which makes it seem likely that Fudge would want him to stay at home, not be parading around a Ministry ballroom. But maybe the Minister has decided that having them at his side is better than seeming alienated from them, or can be taken as a gesture of Christmas forgiveness.

There was no invitation for Snape, but he only shrugged and agreed to Harry spending the few days before Christmas with Sirius and Remus, and going to the gala while he did it. Sirius is a little grumpy that Harry will be leaving for Snape’s right after lunch on Christmas Day itself, but he can’t do anything about that.

“You could come with me if you really wanted to,” Harry said when Sirius brought it up, and Sirius just retreated. He’s not ready for that yet.

“What exactly does this celebrate?” Harry asks, tugging at his robes again. They’re perfectly neat, Sirius thinks, but of course Harry isn’t used to the buttons and the golden lace at the hems and cuffs, or the way that they sit differently on the shoulders and hips than non-dress robes do. “How much money everyone can show off?”

“There’s always a big donation to St. Mungo’s from various important people at the Ministry,” Remus says absently as he frowns down at the watch he’s wearing, an early Christmas gift Sirius got him. It’s silver in color but not actually silver. Still, it should throw people off about suspecting he’s a werewolf, if they do. “And of course, it’s a chance to discuss the important or supposedly important things people have done during the last year.”

“Is it like the Yule Ball?”

“I suspect there is some dancing involved, yes,” Sirius says, and smiles at Harry’s dismayed expression. “But a lot of the witches and wizards attending will be of the generation who thinks that anyone under forty dancing is a scandal, so you won’t have to.”

“Thank Merlin,” Harry says, fervently enough that Remus looks at him, head cocked sideways.

“You don’t like dancing? Or you don’t like the expectation?”

“Either,” Harry states. “I mean, I’m just not good at dancing. The Yule Ball was bad enough, with everyone staring at me. And I don’t…” He seems to struggle with words for a moment. Sirius watches him in concern. This doesn’t seem like a huge or horrible secret, the way Harry might be keeping about Voldemort, but it’s been a while since Harry was at a loss.

“What?” Remus finally asks gently.

“I don’t know if I want to date anyone,” Harry finally admits. “Maybe it’s just because I’m under all the pressure about Voldemort or something. I dunno. But I think it’s kind of—uninteresting? The way people act around each other when they date. Someone in sixth year in Slytherin sent these little flying papers after another girl because the girl was snogging a boy the first witch liked, and the flying papers gave her all sorts of cuts. And all I could think was how stupid it was.”

Remus and Sirius blink at each other. Then Remus shrugs. “If you don’t want to date someone, Harry, you don’t have to.”

“And there’s something else,” Sirius adds, scowling darkly as it occurs to him. “At least until the war is over, how do you know that someone trying to get close to you isn’t just looking to slit your throat or something?”

“Sirius,” Remus hisses, sounding like the Parselmouth in the room for a second.

Harry appears to be choking on laughter, so Sirius counts his suggestion a success even though it was kind of true. Harry winks at Sirius and shrugs. “Maybe someday after the war, I’ll want to. But yeah, right now I only trust a few people, and the thought of dating them…doesn’t work.”

Sirius nods and lets it go. Remus is right that this isn’t the kind of Ministry gala where Harry would be dancing. The people who will dance will probably all be doing the kind of stately waltz that’s been out of date for fifty years.

And Sirius doesn’t intend to dance himself, either. No, he will have to spend the evening—and he braces himself for this—talking politics.

*

“My condolences on the loss of your husband, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa turns around and bows her head a little to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror who has taken over the Defense teaching position in the school. “Thank you, Auror Shacklebolt.”

And it’s both odd that he would present those condolences months after Lucius’s death or feel moved to do so when he and Lucius were on such opposite sides of the political spectrum. Narcissa watches him under her eyelashes while Shacklebolt hesitates, as if he doesn’t know what to say next.

Narcissa doesn’t help him. She knows the steps of this dance better than he does, and if he wants to begin it, then he’ll have to right the stumbles by himself.

Shacklebolt finally shakes his head and seems to decide that subtlety isn’t worth it. “I want to know if you know why Harry Potter refuses to look at or speak to me. I’ve tried to help him, including offering private Defense lessons, and he refuses every chance.”

Narcissa casts her eyes down, as if she is demure and modest and all the rest. “Have you considered that he simply does not trust you, due to your close association with Albus Dumbledore?”

From the silence, Shacklebolt either hasn’t or has and discarded the notion as too simplistic. Narcissa lifts her eyes and sees that Shacklebolt is staring at her in a way that suggests the second. Narcissa sighs and shakes her head. The man isn’t unintelligent. It’s too bad that he’s stuck following the vision of a madman.

“Albus said that Harry Potter is forgiving,” Shacklebolt finally whispers hoarsely.

“It doesn’t mean he would forgive the man who placed him with abusive relatives and tried to take away so much that he holds dear.”

“I—he didn’t do that.”

“You would have to ask Mr. Potter for the specifics,” Narcissa says, twitching a shoulder. She only said this much because it’s common knowledge in many of the articles about Harry that appeared after Dumbledore’s trial. “But I know what I have heard. I know Harry. And I know that he would probably be receptive to you if you were coming to him on your own, as someone concerned about his safety, but not when you’re Dumbledore’s man.”

Shacklebolt stands there looking thunderstruck as Narcissa walks away. Narcissa shakes her head again. Perhaps he will change his mind as a result of this conversation, and perhaps not.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Harry speaking with Hecuba Selwyn, and alters her direction and pace. The poor boy still might need more support, as many teeth as he’s grown.

*

The deaths will be your fault.

Romilda Vane’s words still echo in Harry’s mental ears, but he puts them aside as he watches Selwyn come to a stop in front of him. He needs all his wits for dealing with this woman, who watches him with the kind of delight that could mean she wants to hurt him or just is enjoying the gala. Harry thinks he’s got better at reading people’s expressions since he was Sorted into Slytherin, but he can’t understand her at all.

“How are you enjoying the gala, Mr. Potter?” Selwyn asks, and gestures with a glass that looks as if it’s full of crushed ice with blue webs of light dancing between the pieces.

“It doesn’t involve dancing for me, so that’s a plus,” Harry says. He doesn’t think he’s giving away a weakness. Anyone who looked at the articles from last year about the Yule Ball will see the grimace on his face.

“But there is more than one kind of dancing.”

“And I think I’m too young for the other kind that you’re probably referencing, too.”

Selwyn blinks, and Harry decides he might have taken her genuinely off-guard. Then she laughs softly, a sound like a fire crackling. “No, I meant political dancing. I find myself eager to resume our alliance. Surely you believe that I did not know the woman I brought to your guardian’s house was Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“I believe that I should distrust you,” says Harry cheerfully.

Selwyn takes a sip from her drink and watches him as though expecting him to say something else. Harry remains silent. He’s coming to learn the power of that tactic on a certain kind of person. Even if they aren’t drawn to fill the silence themselves, they’ll be disconcerted by it.

“I think we should speak,” Selwyn says at last, softly. “There are things I know that you would wish to—”

“A fine gala, isn’t it, Hecuba? I particularly like the illustrations of winter trees that they have on the walls. Tall enough to seem like the real thing, eerie enough to maintain that sense of distance.”

Mrs. Malfoy is standing behind Selwyn, and her smile could charm a unicorn. Selwyn glances over her shoulder. “Yes, they’re interesting. But not as interesting as young Mr. Potter here. If you would excuse me, we were going to have a private chat.” She turns back to Harry, eye contact as intense as always because she’s the same height as him.

“What about?”

“That needn’t concern you, Narcissa. After all, private chats are private by their very nature.”

“I think it could be interesting in and of itself. And you aren’t the only person who’s here to speak to. Would you like me to stay, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and smiles at her. He’s fairly sure that Selwyn wouldn’t manage to trick him into an oath or something like that, but she might manage to make him say something politically foolish. With Mrs. Malfoy next to him, the chances of that have decreased dramatically.

“I don’t see how you can expect him to hold up the part of a leader if you’re always coddling him and keeping him from speaking with his potential allies.”

“You intended to betray him,” Mrs. Malfoy says, and plucks a small swan-shaped delicacy from a tray floating by. Harry thinks it might be made of cheese, but it’s hard to tell. After a moment’s contemplation, she eats it. “I can’t classify you as a potential ally the way I could almost anyone else in this room.”

“I did not, as you well know, realize that the woman was Bellatrix Lestrange—”

“I did not, as you well know, think that an excuse.”

Harry slips a small step backwards. Neither Selwyn nor Mrs. Malfoy seems to notice. They’re fixed on each other, and Harry can almost see them circling to duel without movement or wands.

In the end, he slips off as Selwyn and Mrs. Malfoy’s voices become continually calmer and colder and more polite. And he’s relieved when he finds Sirius standing next to the wall, talking with Cornelius Fudge.

Well, not relieved to see Fudge, not really. But at least it means that Sirius isn’t off causing trouble, and neither is the Minister. Harry manages to smile when Sirius hooks an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, and Fudge’s smile goes odd and wavery at the sight of him.

“Here he is, the star of the evening,” Sirius says cheerfully, and waves a hand at Fudge. “Of course you’ve met the Minister before, Harry, but don’t you think he looks particularly dashing in those robes?”

Harry does not. They’re pinstriped robes in a horribly clashing array of purples and yellows. But he manages to smile and nod a little as he says, “You look dashing, sir.”

Fudge seems to decide that no one could compliment him who wasn’t sincerely on his side, and simpers at Harry. “You’re kind to say so, Mr. Potter. I see that you look rather dashing yourself!”

The stupid dress robes seem to itch more when they’re complimented. Harry does his best to avoid scowling. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, Mr. Black here was just telling me that you’ve had a quiet school term in these last few months!” Fudge beams at him. “Nothing to do with any Ministry employees or stories about Dark Lords, eh?”

“Not stories, no, sir.”

Fudge completely misses the emphasis from the smug little nod he gives, although Sirius squeezes Harry’s shoulder in what might be a warning. “Well, well, of course! I know that growing boys have to concentrate on their schoolwork, and that means you’ll have better things to do than follow politics, eh?” He winks. “Time enough for that when you’re older and certain people in this room are retired!”

Harry stares for a second. Is he afraid that I would…what? Use my popularity to run for Minister? Overthrow him?

It’s probably the second one. Harry doesn’t actually know what the minimum age for Minister is, but it has to be greater than fifteen. And Harry could be influential if he wanted to, probably persuade some people to vote for a different candidate than Fudge whenever the election comes up.

Harry’s so caught up in that surprising revelation—that Fudge could be afraid of him—that he nearly misses the strike when it happens.

A number of older people have gone to dance in the middle of the floor, just the way Sirius says. One of them is a tall wizard with a long blue cape hanging down his back. Harry’s only been peripherally aware of the way he’s waltzing with a grey-haired witch in Wizengamot robes. Now he turns and whirls, a golden thing gleaming in his hand.

Harry doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t care. He snaps up a shield in instants. The golden object shatters against it and spreads out a glittering miasma for a second before it fades. It seems to have been a spell contained inside a flask.

Or a potion.

“Don’t breathe it in!” Harry shouts, and uses his wandless magic to leak around the edges of the shield and shove as hard as he can at the air contaminated by the fumes. He doesn’t know a spell that will achieve the same thing as well or thoroughly.

The fumes go flying backwards with unnatural force and strike the grey-haired witch who was doing the waltz. She cries out, and her hands rise to her throat. She takes a staggering step backwards and sits down near the edge of the floor. Then she falls over, and Harry can only hope that she’s unconscious instead of dead.

The blue-caped wizard, meanwhile, is focusing on Harry. Harry has to grudgingly admire him for that. It’s the kind of focus you need in battle, unwavering, and not everyone in his study group has mastered it yet.

Unfortunately for the wizard, Harry has.

Harry pictures the floor beneath his feet, the slick marble one that he didn’t want to dance on. He throws his magic out in front of him, around the edges of the shield, and hisses, “Pit of snakes, appear before me.”

The marble dissolves beneath the wizard’s feet. He’s in the middle of casting a spell, and that disrupts it. He leaps into the air, but the crack races and widens, and he comes down still within it.

Within the pit of vipers that Harry has conjured. He hasn’t given them a specific kind of venom except one that will hurt.

A second later, the wizard begins to scream as they bite.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!”

Fudge is shouting at him. Harry steps back and lets go of his fierce will. The pit of conjured snakes vanishes, the marble sealing over the top of the hole and the vipers turning to nothing more than smoke and air. Harry turns and looks at Fudge.

The man is gaping at him. Looking afraid of him.

That won’t do. Harry is plastering a look of concern on his face before he even consciously decides what he’s going to do. “Minister? Are you all right? That man tried to assassinate you!”

“What?” Fudge stops and blinks at him.

“He was aiming for you!” Harry gestures wildly at the thrashing, screaming wizard on the floor. At least someone in Auror robes has moved in to bind him, and someone who might be a mediwitch is chanting quick spells over the woman who inhaled the potion fumes. “I don’t know what that potion did, but it looked nasty! Are you all right?” he repeats anxiously. “None of the fumes got around the edge of my shield and attacked you, did they?” He widens his eyes. “I thought they didn’t, but I don’t know. I’m not used to this. I’m just a kid.”

He lets his shoulders and his voice slump at the same time, and looks at Fudge from beneath his eyelashes.

It’s working. Fudge obviously buys the story—even if he thought the wizard was there to assassinate Harry at first, it’s easy to switch it to himself—and once he does that, then he can only characterize Harry as wanting to help and protect him, not hurt him. His chest swells. Harry can practically hear the return of his ego.

“Thanks to your quick thinking, yes, Mr. Potter, I’m well,” Fudge says gravely, and reaches out to pat Harry’s shoulder. Harry stands there and tolerates it. “May I say that your father would be very proud of you? He was a fine Auror, one of the best I ever saw.”

Sirius makes a little growling noise that Harry hopes Fudge didn’t hear. Of course, Sirius was a fine Auror, too, at the same time as James Potter, and they still threw him in Azkaban.

Harry bows his head. “Thank you, sir. But it wasn’t much. I just—”

“Not much? My dear boy, I may owe you a life-debt!”

Fudge looks pleased with that conclusion, which may be because it settles the uneasy, roiling relationship between him and Harry, or between Harry and the Ministry. Harry smiles at him and nods. “All right, sir. I’d be happy to discuss this with you some other time. But maybe we shouldn’t let this interrupt the gala?”

Fudge laughs aloud, and turns away to talk to the Aurors who are flooding the ballroom, and presumably take control of the situation. Harry steps back and lets Sirius tuck him into his side.

“Well done,” Sirius murmurs. “But Snape is going to kill me for letting this happen.”

Harry shakes his head. “You didn’t let this happen. No one who’s not a Death Eater could have anticipated it.”

And he isn’t actually sure that the potion was aimed at him, for that matter. It could have been the Minister. Or the wizard could have thought it would be a coup to get them both at once. It sort of depends on what the potion was, something Severus will be sure to know.

Harry is still alive. And more determined than ever to stay that way.