lomonaaeren

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Chapter Six—Burdens

“Why do you spend so much time watching Longbottom?”

Harry blinks at Blaise. Blaise is standing on the other side of the bubbling cauldron they’re making the Short Sleep Draught in. Usually he has his hands ready to chop and deliver ingredients, but now his arms are folded across his middle.

“I think he’s interesting,” Harry says, and carefully bends his attention back to the mint leaves in front of him. They have to be chopped as fine as a mist, the instructions say in Blaise’s copy of their Potions book. It’s one that’s been annotated by his mum, which Harry thinks is really cool. He’s sad that he doesn’t have any of his parents’ schoolbooks.

“But why, though?”

“He carries such a burden, and it’s one that everyone expects him to bear with grace. But he’s so scared.” Harry sits back and stares down at the leaves, then shakes his head. They probably aren’t as fine as mist. Harry can’t see the table through most of them. He goes back to chopping. “I just wonder why. Did he get told something about Voldemort that the rest of us don’t know?”

“I wish you wouldn’t use his name.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry says. It’s something that Terry Boot says loudly all the time, and while Harry doesn’t always like Boot, he does admire his courage. “Would you prefer that I just use You-Know-Who?”

“Or the Dark Lord.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “He’s not my Lord, though,” he points out, and Blaise winces as he comes around the cauldron and stares down at Harry’s mint leaves.

Harry thinks that he’s wincing because Harry’s chopping technique could really use work, something that Harry agrees with, but instead Blaise murmurs, “The name you use for him says things about you, Harry. Speaking the name itself means you’re foolishly brave. The You-Know-Who moniker says that you’re part of the crowd that’s waiting for Longbottom to save them. And the Dark Lord name means that you respect him.”

“I don’t, though.”

Blaise’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “But he’s a Parselmouth, like you!”

“So what? Dean Thomas is black like you, and that doesn’t mean you’re the same person.”

Blaise narrows his eyes. “We certainly are not. And I’ll thank you not to say anything like that again, Harry. That’s—offensive.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, contrite. “I won’t.”

Blaise nods, and goes back to the previous topic of conversation as though nothing happened. “The Parselmouths in Britain have been rare, as I told you. But even the most stubborn of them would own the Dark Lord as their Lord.”

“How do you know? Have you met any, besides me?”

Blaise looks stumped. “It’s something my mother said.”

“She might be right, then,” Harry says. He hasn’t known Mrs. Zabini to be wrong much, or at least no times that Blaise is willing to talk about. “But I still don’t see the need to respect him. Either he’s dead and he won’t care, or he’s still alive somewhere and he won’t focus on me because he’s going after Longbottom.”

“But don’t you think he would want you as an ally because you’re a Parselmouth?”

“From what I’ve heard about him, he would probably see me as competition that he would want to eliminate. And I’m not going to tell anyone except you about Artemis and Parseltongue, anyway. I told you what Patil said.”

“And you didn’t ask—”

“I hinted about it to Goldstein, Boot, Corner, Li, and Granger from Gryffindor. Granger actually had to go look up what I was talking about, but when she came back, she said the same thing. Parselmouths are evil, snakes are evil, blah blah blah.” Harry sighs and glances over at Artemis, who is on the small table they’ve put next to the door, digesting a mouse.

“I am not evil,” Artemis says sleepily.

“I know, but people think you and I are,” Harry says, and reaches over to smooth his hand down her scales.

“I am evil to mice.”

Artemis sounds so satisfied with that that Harry grins and leaves the conversation there, glancing at Blaise. Blaise looks like he wishes he could speak Parseltongue, as always. “What did she say?”

“She said she’s not evil to people, only to mice,” Harry says, and picks up his knife to go back to chopping.

“She has a great sense of humor. I didn’t know magical snakes were that intelligent—or any snake, really. Have you figured out what breed she is?”

Harry can feel himself blushing. He shrugs a little. It’s still intimidating to think of telling Blaise that he created Artemis out of his magic. Especially when he doesn’t know what Blaise would say. Would he encourage Harry to uncreate Artemis so he can take that magic and use it somewhere else?

“Harry?”

“I don’t know, sorry,” Harry says. “Do you think these leaves are chopped fine enough?”

Blaise comes over and studies them dubiously. “They have to be pretty close. Why don’t you put them into the cauldron and we’ll see what happens?”

Harry is willing to experiment. Even when it leads to what happens now, with the potion glopping out of the cauldron in a huge fountain and splashing him with purple and green liquid. Blaise somehow manages never to be nearby when that happens, even when he’s the one who suggested the experiment.

But Blaise laughs so cheerfully that Harry can’t bring himself to do anything but grin back.

*

“Mr. Potter, please stay and see me after class.”

Harry sighs a little as he tucks his book into his satchel. Artemis wiggles around in his robe pocket and hisses, “What do you think he wants?”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Professor Flitwick is nice enough, and every week he spends an evening in Ravenclaw Tower where anyone can come and talk to him about classes or homework or anything else. Harry hasn’t taken advantage of it because the only thing he would have to talk about is Snape, and he knows that Snape wouldn’t have gone on teaching this way if people complaining about him stopped it. But Professor Flitwick does seem kind.

Now, though…

Harry thinks he might know what this is about.

Professor Flitwick walks up to him and beams at Harry. “Will you be uncomfortable if I shut the door to give us some more privacy, Mr. Potter? And put up some Locking Charms?”

“No, professor,” Harry says, and watches curiously as the professor casts the spells. Those are the kinds of things they won’t learn for years yet, and he even casts them silently, which is pretty brilliant.

Professor Flitwick turns around and smiles at Harry again. “I wanted to talk to you about your performance in Charms, Mr. Potter. And Professor McGonagall also dropped a word in my ear about your Transfiguration skills. It seems they are a little below average.”

Harry winces. “I’m doing pretty miserably, right, sir?”

It’s not like Potions where he can blame Snape’s teaching. It’s just…well, it’s like his wand stopped liking him after they got out of Ollivander’s shop or something. Harry can feel his magic going up the wand, but it stops running and doesn’t get all the way to the tip. And it took him well over fifty tries to get the Lumos Charm, some of which were outside of class.

“I wouldn’t say miserably, but not as well as I would expect of Lily Potter’s son.”

“Wow! Was she good at Charms, sir? Can you tell me about her? I hardly know anything about her. Or my dad. It would be great if you could tell me about him, too. If you know anything, I mean. Sorry for asking if you don’t.”

Professor Flitwick blinks a little and holds up one hand, but his smile grows bigger. “You don’t know anything about your parents, Mr. Potter? I would have assumed that your godfather would have told you all about them.”

“I have a godfather?”

Professor Flitwick doesn’t stop smiling, but it gets a little crumpled around the edges. “I think we should have a long talk, Mr. Potter.”

*

Harry follows Professor Flitwick into his office, which is a cozy place with cuckoo clocks covering the wall and a Ravenclaw banner where the eagle slowly morphs into a raven and back again. Professor Flitwick gestures him towards a stuffed chair, and Harry sits down and swings his legs. Professor Flitwick goes to fetch the tea.

“Will there be sugar cubes? I want a sugar cube.”

Keeping an eye on the arched doorway the professor went through, Harry quietly hisses, “You’ve never even had a sugar cube.” It wasn’t like the Dursleys would have given him or Artemis any of them.

“But they smell good.”

Harry can’t respond, since the professor comes back in with a teatray floating in front of him. It sits solidly in midair as Professor Flitwick makes a cup of tea for himself and asks how Harry takes his. Harry does ask for sugar, but Professor Flitwick stirs it directly into the tea instead of giving Harry cubes.

Artemis sulks. Harry accepts his tea and the scones that Professor Flitwick hands him and listens intently as the professor starts talking about his mum and dad.

“Your mother was brilliant,” Professor Flitwick says with a little smile. “I envisioned her being the Charms professor here when I was ready to retire. Alas, it was not to be. Eyes like yours,” he tilts his teacup at Harry, “but oh, she was fiery! Stereotypical of me to say, perhaps, when she was a redhead, but true.

“I think one of the things I admired most about your mother was her patience and dedication to finding out the truth. Other students often do well in lower-level Charms but give up when the theory starts to frustrate them in the NEWT-level classes. Your mother didn’t understand everything the first time she heard it, but she did dig under the surface and insist on understanding everything she found there. Utterly brilliant,” Professor Flitwick repeats softly, and stares into his cup.

Harry wants to be like that, too. He wonders if he can find a subject where he is. So far, the subjects are all right and sometimes fun, but not the homework. And he can’t say how good he’ll be in Potions yet.

“And my father, sir? Did you know him?”

“Oh, my, yes. He was one of the best students in his year, although not the best at my subject. That was always Lily. He had three friends, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin, who were always with him.” Professor Flitwick’s smile crumples again. “They were devoted to each other, constantly playing pranks and careening around the school like the Gryffindors they were. Or I thought they were devoted to each other.”

“Sir?”

“Your parents went into hiding near the end of the war, Mr. Potter,” Professor Flitwick says quietly. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly why. It was privileged information, and I wasn’t on the front lines of the war. But I did learn that one of their friends betrayed them. Peter Pettigrew. He was evidently a Death Eater.”

“A follower of You-Know-Who?” Harry and Blaise have compromised on that, and Harry doesn’t mind being thought ordinary and weak when he isn’t with Blaise or alone with Artemis.

“Yes, that’s exactly right. Peter Pettigrew led other Death Eaters to their house, and your parents fell fighting to defend themselves—and you. Black and Lupin arrived in time to save you, but not your parents.”

Harry bows his head. He thinks that the story just shows how important it is to choose your friends carefully. He’s pretty sure he can trust Blaise to never betray him, but he’s warier of other people. Who knows if someone might shriek and run away to tell people if they found out that Harry has Parseltongue?

“Yes,” Professor Flitwick continues in a musing voice, “it was such a strange, sad time. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, though, Mr. Potter. I had no idea that you hadn’t grown up with your godfather.”

“Do you know—why they made Mr. Black my godfather?”

“Mr. Black was your father’s closest friend, the one who most often got into trouble with him. I believe that they also spent time together outside of school as well, but I’m afraid that I don’t know more details than that. Professor McGonagall might.”

Harry nods slowly. He thinks that approaching the stern professor isn’t on the top of his list of things he wants to do, but there’s not a lot he wouldn’t do to know more of his parents. “And did they capture Pettigrew? Or kill him?”

Professor Flitwick frowns and shakes his head. “Not that I know of. He was in custody for a short time, but he escaped. I did hear someone suggest once that Remus Lupin followed him out of the country in an attempt to bring him to justice. Perhaps your godfather went with him.”

“Oh,” Harry says simply. It hurts, a lot, to think that Mr. Black was his godfather but didn’t care enough about Harry to stay around. But on the other hand, Harry doesn’t know everything. Maybe Mr. Black and Harry’s dad were so close that Mr. Black couldn’t stand to stay around anyone who reminded him of James Potter.

“Who did you grow up with, Mr. Potter, may I ask?”

“Oh. My mum’s Muggle sister and her husband, Professor Flitwick. And my cousin.”

“And you are—happy there?”

“I didn’t know about magic before I turned eleven, and I wasn’t very happy about that. But I’m okay with the way things are now, Professor.”

Professor Flitwick nods, but he’s still giving Harry a long, thoughtful stare. Harry speaks quickly. He doesn’t want an adult to interfere who thinks he should go back to the Dursleys and not live by himself in Diagon Alley, which Harry is totally planning to do next summer, too. “You said you wanted to speak to me about my wandwork, Professor?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. I wanted to ask if you had your own wand, one that chose you at Ollivander’s? I thought that perhaps your parents might have left their wands in their vault, and you could be using one of theirs.”

“No, sir. This one chose me. It just seemed to like me a lot better when I bought it. I don’t know what’s wrong now.”

“I see.” Professor Flitwick holds out his hand. “May I see your wand, Mr. Potter?”

Blaise’s voice whispers in the back of his head, something about how giving your wand to another wizard or witch is a sign of immense trust and not something he should do lightly. But this isn’t lightly, and anyway, Harry doesn’t think Professor Flitwick is about to break his wand or steal it. So he holds it out.

Professor Flitwick turns it back and forth, casts a spell that makes a pale blue glow shine around the wand, and blinks. “It appears to be quite normal.” He hands it back to Harry and subjects him to another thoughtful look. “Would you permit me to cast the same spell on you as I did on your wand, Mr. Potter?”

“As long as it doesn’t turn me into wood or something,” Harry says doubtfully.

Professor Flitwick laughs aloud. “Your sense of humor reminds me of your mother, too,” he says, smiling at Harry, who manages to smile back. “No, Mr. Potter, this merely tests your magical power levels.”

Harry nods and sits back a little, watching as Professor Flitwick points his wand at the chair Harry is sitting in. Artemis hisses a little in protest, but the professor gives no sign that he hears her.

The blue glow that envelops Harry feels comforting and warm. He blinks and shifts, and manages to glance down at his hands without, he hopes, looking like he thinks Professor Flitwick has turned his skin to wood. It looks normal, though.

“Hmmm.”

“What does that mean, sir? Is that a bad hmmm?”

“No, Mr. Potter. I’m just not seeing what I thought I would.” Professor Flitwick puts his wand away, looking perplexed. “I was expecting to see that you had some kind of magical stumbling block. Students can get those when they aren’t confident about casting a certain class of spell or speaking the incantation loudly enough. I believe Mr. Longbottom has one when it comes to Potions, for example. But your power levels are simply…low.”

“Average low?”

“Yes, on the low side of average.” Professor Flitwick looks at Harry with kind eyes. “I’m afraid there are some spells that might be forever beyond you, Mr. Potter, and that you will have to practice hard at others.”

Harry nods slowly. Well, if that’s the trade-off he has to make for his Parseltongue, he’s willing to make it. “Thanks for checking, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter. I will alert Professor McGonagall so she can be aware that it’s not a stumbling block or a health issue. And I will make sure that you get some extra practice time in class if you need it.”

“Thanks, sir. And for the tea, and telling me about my parents and godfather.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter. If I may be so bold to suggest…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Perhaps write to Mr. Black? Of course, he may not respond. And if the owl comes back with the letter, or simply refuses to fly, that is a sign that he has died already.” Professor Flitwick’s face is kind, his tone gentle. “But you may be surprised about what kind of response you get. Perhaps you could live with him in the future.”

“Maybe,” Harry agrees. He’ll think about writing to Mr. Black, but he’s not sure he wants to. He hasn’t had a godfather in this long, and Mr. Black might want to take control of his life. And if Mr. Black is someone who just rushed off after Peter Pettigrew and never came back, maybe he thinks he has more important things to deal with than a godson.

Harry tells Professor Flitwick good-bye and leaves, but he’s not far down the corridor when Artemis pops her head out, hissing, upset. Harry hastily steps into a little alcove where an empty portrait frame hangs and whispers, “What is it?”

“It’s my fault. I’m the reason you have low magic.”

“What? How can it be your fault?”

“Your magic created me. It makes me up. It gave you Parseltongue, too. It’s draining your magic all the time to keep me alive. If you reabsorbed me and stopped having Parseltongue, you would be incredibly powerful. Any wizard who can create life like you is incredibly powerful.”

Harry takes Artemis out of his pocket and holds her against his cheek. The warmth always calmed her down when she was upset about something the Dursleys did. Artemis, sure enough, wriggles a little and then settles down, her tongue darting out to touch his cheek.

“I don’t care about what I could have,” Harry tells her firmly. “I have you, and that’s enough. And I can still cast spells. It just takes me more practice than it takes other people. It’s not like I’m a Squib.”

Artemis brushes his cheek with her scales again. “You’re really not angry?”

“I would rather have you than all the power in the world.”

Artemis settles closer to his face and lies there. Harry strokes her scales again and again, until she sighs and says, “Then I will not talk again about your getting rid of me.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Even if you are ridiculous.”

Harry laughs, and spends a good few minutes in the alcove arguing with her, in low hisses, about who exactly is ridiculous here.

*

“If you don’t stop glaring at Professor Snape, he’s going to come over here to ask you what’s wrong.”

Blaise snorts and refocuses on his cauldron. That’s true enough. Malfoy has proven himself a competent brewer, and part of the reason is that he keeps an instinctive eye on Professor Snape and can tell Blaise if he’s coming up behind them or seems particularly irritated on certain afternoons.

(Of course, part of Blaise can’t blame Professor Snape, having Longbottom continually melting cauldrons in his class).

(And yes, Blaise has tried to keep in mind what Harry said about Longbottom having to bear immense burdens. Still).

“Mr. Zabini, is everything going well?”

Professor Snape’s tone is perfectly neutral whenever he addresses Blaise. Blaise plans to keep it in mind when he decides what he should do to Snape for tormenting his best friend. He looks up and nods, giving the half-smile that his mother uses to calm down people who can’t be shaking with fear when they talk to her. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Professor Snape says, and sweeps on.

“What do you have against him, anyway?” Malfoy mutters as they start working again, Blaise’s hands delicately tearing apart the slug skins. He isn’t as squeamish as Malfoy (after some of the rituals that Mother’s had him perform, it’s difficult to imagine what could turn his stomach), and happy to do this kind of work while Malfoy does the chopping. “He’s a great brewer, he’s our Head of House—”

“I don’t think I need to answer to you what kinds of plans and projects the Zabini family has in the works, Malfoy.”

Malfoy coughs and hastily focuses back on their potion. Blaise gives him a thin smile just for effect, and then drops the first handful of torn slug skins in the cauldron.

No, Blaise doesn’t intend to betray his friendship with Harry to all and sundry. And especially now that he’s thinking of vengeance on Snape not for himself or for some plot of his mother’s, but for Harry.

Looking up through the steam and wincing at the smell coming from Longbottom’s cauldron, he happens to catch Nott’s eye. Nott shakes his head back and forth and clucks his tongue a little.

Blaise shrugs and returns to ingredient preparation. Let Nott think whatever he likes. He doesn’t know anything. And he can’t grasp the outline of Blaise’s plans when Blaise barely knows what they are himself.