lomonaaeren

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Chapter Nineteen—Before the Suns

“Come to my office, Mr. Potter.”

Dumbledore’s voice is clipped, and he barely pauses next to the Ravenclaw table before he’s sailing away again, heading for the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry blinks at his back, then shrugs and stands up.

Padma leans over the table. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Dumbledore being weird again, I suppose.”

“The way that he called you to his office to talk to you about avoiding Quirrell?” Anthony asks, because Harry told his friends about that. He thinks the more people know how strange Dumbledore and Quirrell are, the better it is for him.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Harry waves to his friends, catches Blaise’s eye briefly across the Hall, and smiles at Neville, who looks nervous. Then he begins walking after Dumbledore. He knows exactly what this is, but there’s no reason to seem as if he does.

Quirrell didn’t come to breakfast this morning. And although Harry didn’t receive an owl from Aradia or anything like that, he’s satisfied that she’s done as she said she would. Quirrell is dead or a prisoner, and Harry doesn’t have anything to fear from him.

He finds his stride lengthening as he thinks about that, a genuine smile widening across his face. He once dreamed about someone who would chase Dudley away and make Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon feel so bad that they would never bother him again.

Aradia Zabini isn’t exactly the kind of adult he pictured at the time, but Harry can’t deny how safe he feels with her.

*

“Have a seat, Mr. Potter.”

Albus can’t keep the coldness out of his voice. He decides, after a moment, not to try and bother. Harry is already well-aware of what Albus thinks of his refusal to speak with Quirinus, and from the easy way he settles back in his chair and smiles at Albus, he also thinks that he’s beyond Albus’s reach when it comes to what happened to Quirinus.

In truth, Albus does not know what happened. Quirinus didn’t attend a meeting they were supposed to have last night to talk about information he gathered from Tom’s mind while possessed by him, and Albus went to his quarters, thinking he might have been caught up in marking. The quarters were empty, silent.

It felt as if no one had ever lived in them at all.

Harry watches him with a keen, sharp-edged glitter in his eyes, and it takes Albus a lot of effort to fold his hands on the desk instead of treating Harry like an adult. He is not an adult, and he cannot be as guilty or as violent as one, for all that Albus feels like he could. “I am disappointed in you, Mr. Potter.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Professor Quirrell has disappeared. I know that you were sick yesterday. Did you tell Mrs. Zabini that he had poisoned you?”

“No, sir. It was actually a food allergy. You can talk to Madam Pomfrey if you want. She did Floo Mrs. Zabini, because she’s on record as the adult I want people to talk to, but it wasn’t anything like poison.”

“She is…” Albus peers at Harry, who continues to smile at him and doesn’t seem aware that he’s said anything unusual. “Why is she the one you have chosen, Mr. Potter, and not your aunt?”

Harry has the gall to look at Albus with something like pity. “Muggles can’t even see Hogwarts, sir, and I know my relatives don’t have a Floo connection. Why would you suggest Madam Pomfrey contact Aunt Petunia?”

“It is the traditional process, to contact a student’s guardians.”

“Oh, I know, sir.”

“Harry—”

“Mrs. Zabini is my guardian. I spent the summer with her, and she’s happy to come to Hogwarts when I need her. It’s much easier for everyone involved than trying to involve a Muggle who wouldn’t be able to respond in time. And since the Dursleys hate magic, it’s better for them, too.”

“I am sure that they do not hate magic. It is an intrinsic part of you, and you would not say that they hate you, their nephew, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am not sure that I understand you, Mr. Potter.”

“My aunt and uncle hate magic,” Harry says plainly. “They hate me. I didn’t grow up knowing I was a wizard. Hagrid was the first person to tell me. I was glad enough to leave their house and never look back.”

And Harry has said this before, Mrs. Zabini has claimed him as her foster son before, but the hatred that boils beneath his voice, the hatred that Harry returns to his Muggle relatives…

I hope that she has not infected him with blood purity. I hope that, indeed.

Albus swallows. “If you have abandoned the Muggle world for good and all, then it was right for Mrs. Zabini to come to Hogwarts. But Professor Quirrell has vanished. I need to know what might have happened to him.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Mr. Potter. I think you do.”

Albus tries to catch Harry’s eye, because Legilimency is still the easiest way to gain knowledge of something a child is hiding. But Harry turns his head a little to the side. “I don’t know how he could have vanished,” he repeats. “But I can’t say that I’ll be sad if he ran off or something, sir. He was willingly possessed by Voldemort last year. He was always going to be dangerous.”

“Even if he was willingly possessed, Harry, he deserved to live. Not to be murdered.”

“You think that Mrs. Zabini murdered him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t.”

Albus pauses. Even without the chance to read Harry’s mind, he can divine the ring of honesty in his voice, so strong that Albus’s conviction is a little shaken. Harry does not that Aradia Zabini murdered Quirinus. “What do you think happened, then?”

“I think she threatened him. I think that she probably made it clear she wouldn’t tolerate him being in the school with me and Blaise and Neville.”

“I do not believe that Mrs. Zabini particularly cares about Mr. Longbottom.”

“She cares about him because he’s my friend. And Blaise’s.”

That much could be true. Albus dislikes the morals that would only lead someone to care about people who matter to them, but he can understand the position. There was a time he cared for Gellert far more than Ariana.

“So you think she threatened him?”

“Yes, sir.”

Odd as it seems, Harry is telling the truth. Albus leans back in his chair and frowns at the wall for a moment. It seems that he won’t get anywhere by questioning Harry. Albus does not believe for one moment that Aradia merely threatened Quirinus, but there’s also no reason she should have confided her plans to a gentle boy who believes her incapable of murder.

“All right, Harry. You may go. But I do have one more thing to say to you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Whether or not you think so at the moment, Aradia Zabini is dangerous. Please keep that in mind. Don’t let her make you treat violence lightly or think badly of Muggles.”

Harry’s eyes widen, although he’s still looking a little off to the side, so that Albus can’t read his thoughts directly. But he nods. “I understand, sir.”

Albus leans back in his chair as Harry leaves. That was his best lead, and it seems he leaned nothing, except that Harry retains a core of genuine innocence.

Perhaps I should examine Quirinus’s quarters again.

*

“He had no right to question you like that.”

“I know, but he did it.”

Blaise scowls at Harry. Harry just raises his eyebrows back and glances down the corridor. Blaise sighs, reminded that they only have a few minutes before they have to separate, so Blaise can go to Potions and Harry to Herbology. “All right. So why do you think you were able to lie to him so successfully?” Harry described the conversation well, but Blaise doesn’t know the answer to that question.

Harry grins. “He asked if I thought Aradia murdered Quirrell. I said no. Because she didn’t. She sacrificed him.”

Blaise snorts. “And you managed to feign ignorance well enough that you think he’s ignorant, too?”

Harry shrugs. “I mean, yeah. The way he phrased his questions was enough for me to slide right past him. Because he asked about how Professor Quirrell disappeared from his rooms, and I really don’t know that.”

Blaise nods, but he isn’t easy in his mind. This time, it worked. This time, Harry was able to fool Dumbledore.

That doesn’t mean it will be the case forever, and what if Dumbledore asks more penetrating questions? Or Harry gets overconfident and doesn’t phrase his answers well enough, so it becomes obvious he’s lying?

Blaise knows that they can’t just challenge Dumbledore or get rid of him. He’s too powerful, with too many wards and other protections on his office. And there are too many people who would look for him.

But Blaise can become powerful enough to protect Harry and his mother from Dumbledore. So that’s what he’ll do.

“Blaise?”

Harry is leaning forwards with an expression of concern on his face. Blaise starts and comes back to himself. “Yeah?”

“You were really focused on something. Scowling. Are you all right?”

Blaise manages to nod. “I don’t like that Dumbledore called you up to his office and questioned you.”

“Yeah, you said.”

Harry is still looking at him with an odd amount of consideration. Blaise forces himself to smile and act normal. He doesn’t want to worry Harry, and there’s still a core of innocence and naivete at Harry’s heart that doesn’t need to be destroyed.

Not yet.

“I have to get to Potions,” Blaise says. “But let me know right away if Dumbledore contacts you about something again, okay? Or let Mother know.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Harry squeezes his hand and then goes running down the corridor towards the entrance hall and the greenhouses. Blaise sighs and makes his way down the dungeon corridors himself. He doesn’t particularly feel like brewing right now, but Mother would say that’s simply a challenge to make his mind work correctly. He might have to do that under far more trying circumstances, so it’s best if he accepts it now.

“Zabini.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Nott.”

Nott falls into step beside Blaise, as if they’re friends. Blaise casts a minor spell along the side of his hand and flank that face Nott, which hardens his robes and skin like stone, and hears his fellow Slytherin laugh softly.

“You don’t trust me.”

“If I did, you would call me a fool.”

“No. An ally, maybe.”

Blaise laughs despite himself, and Nott looks so pleased that Blaise wishes he hadn’t. “Why would I want to be allies with you, Nott? Your father is opposed to Longbottom, and you know how close I am to him.”

“I believe that we are both in our parents’ shadows, and I believe that we might make our way out of them.” Nott lowers his voice as they come around the corner and see the mixed group of Gryffindors and Slytherins waiting ahead outside Snape’s classroom door. “And I don’t believe what my father does.”

“Never tell me that you think Muggleborns our equals.”

“I believe whatever’s convenient, Zabini.”

Nott swans off before Blaise can reply, walking over to stand between Malfoy and Parkinson, but it makes Blaise thoughtful. Luckily, it turns out to be the kind of thoughtfulness compatible with keeping his mind on his potion and keeping Crabbe from burning the room down.

Nott sounds mercenary and practical, and able to change whatever he believes to whatever will benefit him. On the one hand, someone like that is more flexible than Blaise is accustomed to thinking of Death Eaters as.

On the other hand, wouldn’t someone like that betray them as soon as he finds someone stronger to ally with?

Perhaps. But Blaise does think that he might have misjudged Nott when he thought of him as mad.

*

“I noticed that you are completely recovered from your unfortunate allergy incident, Mr. Potter.”

“It’s nice to be back on my feet, Professor.”

Severus stares at Potter for a little bit. Potter looks back at him, bright and happy and cold, beneath the surface. Severus wonders if Albus has sensed that coldness, or if he attributes it to something else.

Severus lifts the cube of compressed bat flesh and fur out of the bucket containing it. Potter leans forwards, interested.

“This is what happens when you must use already-compressed ingredients…”

*

Aradia steps back and takes a long breath. Arranging a sacrifice always takes some time, but she thinks that she probably didn’t need to take all the precautions that she has now. By himself, Quirrell is not a powerful wizard. And he’s unconscious, which means that he isn’t going anywhere.

But she wants this to be perfect, nevertheless.

Aradia turns to face the Sun shining beyond the balcony. The air in between her world and the Sun’s ripples. Aradia grimaces. She nearly left the sacrifice too long, so Harry deciding to move sooner was beneficial after all.

She lowers her head and spreads her hands. Something shifts beyond the wall between the worlds, watching her.

In truth, Aradia has never been certain if there is a sentient power there or if she is mistaking the rising of her own magic for it. But there is nothing wrong with paying it respect. This is the ritual that works to close the gap, after all.

She says softly, “I bring this life, this blood, to spill before the Suns. I bring it to close the gap. I sacrifice this man who tried to hurt my son and foster son so that his death may have a purpose.”

A soft, purple, pulsing light dances along the edges of the gap. Aradia smiles and kneels down to draw Quirrell’s head back, exposing his neck.

Most of the time, she simply slits the sacrifice’s throat and has done with it, but Quirrell deserves something more. Something special. This isn’t someone she hunted down after confirming their crimes simply because she needed someone to sacrifice. This is someone as special as a carefully chosen, courted, and married husband.

Maybe worse.

“I beg you to hear me,” Aradia says, and lifts her voice. The purple light before her pauses for a moment, and then returns to pulsing harder than ever. “Make him bleed slowly. Drain the strength from him as carefully as you can. He was possessed by a great enemy. He dared to stalk my children afterwards. He deserves what he will receive.”

Silence. Then the purple light turns gold, and a blue one joins it. Aradia closes her eyes for a moment before stooping down and drawing the long, jagged silver knife that she keeps on her person wherever she goes.

She cuts Quirrell’s throat the way she always cuts the throats of sacrifices, a swift slash. But the blood that pours out does so in a calm, quiet stream, as if someone were tipping it carefully from a jug. Aradia smiles and watches the blood pour towards the gap between her world and the Suns’.

The blood has begun to spark with purple and gold even before it gets close to the gap. That, even more than the slowness, tells Aradia that her prayer has been heard. She folds her arms and watches assessingly as the blood drips through the gap.

There’s a sound that rings in her head like a gong, although it sounds more like a gulp. Then the ward begins to stitch itself shut as though someone is pulling a long needle through a gap. Aradia paces slowly in a circle, her wand drawn, ready to help it along if it seems like something from the Suns’ world is trying to come through the gap.

But the strengthened blood she created—the result of Quirrell’s crimes—is repairing even more of the gap than Aradia believed it would. Ten minutes later, the ragged tear is gleaming, nearly sealed along the bottom half of its length, and all the blood is gone from Quirrell’s body.

More quickly than is natural, but slower than it would be with other sacrifices.

Aradia casts White Fire, and watches as it dances along Quirrell’s body, swallowing his skin and flesh, his bone and muscle. She prefers the spell to Fiendfyre, even though it takes somewhat longer to destroy its target. It’s much easier to control, for one thing.

She nods when only ashes are left, and uses a wind to sweep them away. Then, thoughtful, she goes back into the house.

Quirrell just became the strongest sacrifice she has ever made. Aradia knew that her prayer would have particular strength because of what he did to Blaise and Harry, but she didn’t know that it would have that much.

She has hunted down criminals before, men mostly, who won’t be missed in either world. Those with particularly egregious crimes make better sacrifices, of course. But she didn’t know that someone who committed crimes against her and hers would make the best.

Aradia doesn’t intend to tell Blaise and Harry that, yet. Harry is the type who might run into danger in his eagerness to create better sacrifices, although she likes to think Blaise would have more sense.

But it is something worth thinking about, about how she might expose herself to danger, as a trained adult witch with a dangerous wand, and see whether she can close the gap before Blaise would have to take over the duty.

*

Neville flinches as the first-years dash past him, and the ache in his scar rises to dizzying proportions. Ron and Hermione promptly close in around him, giving him concerned looks. Hermione didn’t spend as much time around him as Ron last year, but this year, Neville finds himself grateful for her care and intelligence.

“What is it?” Ron whispers loudly. “The same as before?”

Hermione raises a Silencing Charm around them, although they might not need it, given how loud the common room is right now with an Exploding Snap tournament. “The same kind of piercing pain? The same place?”

Neville nods and takes his hand away from his forehead. Hermione gasps, and Ron points before she snatches his hand down. Neville is the one who has to look down to see the blood smeared all over his palm.

He swallows. His scar has bled a few times before, but most of the time, it was right after Quirrell’s class last year. He didn’t think the random flashes of agony he got around the school were that bad.

“He’s here,” he whispers.

“You-Know-Who?”

Neville nods tensely, his eyes slowly scanning each person in the room. Headmaster Dumbledore promised that the wards on the school wouldn’t allow anyone in who was possessed! Why is someone here? And who?

It’s not like anyone is stuttering and smells of garlic the way Quirrell did last year.

“Maybe we can track it,” Hermione says, and whips out a quill and parchment, immediately crouching down to write on it. “Maybe we can make a list of all the places that you felt it and figure out what they have in common.”

It sounds as good as any idea that Neville has right now. He’ll go and talk to Dumbledore again, of course, but he’s afraid that the Headmaster will just tell him the same thing: wards are up that should prevent You-Know-Who from getting in.

The fear rings inside his mind when he thinks that.

What if nothing else is in here? What if I’m just going crazy?

Or, worse than that, the thought that whispers itself:

What if I have a piece of him in me somehow?

*

“This creature is pretty. I approve of it.”

Harry sags back on his heels, smiling in exhaustion at the tiny glass winged horse hovering above him. This is the first time that he’s made a creature out of just one material. Unless Artemis counts, since she’s pure magic, but Artemis is different. More important. More special.

Harry holds out his hand, and the horse flies down and lands on his palm. It’s not perfect, Harry thinks as he looks at it critically. The little hooves are turned up like axes, and the wings have trailing feathers that they don’t really need.

But it’s going to serve a purpose that doesn’t need its feathers or hooves to be perfect.

“Go outside to the door in the wards,” he whispers, picturing it as hard as he can, that place he and Blaise found last year. “Watch it and come get me if someone goes through it in either direction.”

Harry doesn’t know for sure if he can communicate with the horse the way he can communicate with Artemis. In fact, he probably can’t, since he gave himself a whole magical language to talk to her in.

But he concentrates, and the horse rears up and touches Harry’s fingernail with its nose, then soars out the door. Harry narrows his eyes as he watches it go. It’s really hard to see, with its transparent body and swift movement. Someone else who sees it will probably just think it’s the remnant of a spell.

So. It’s done. At least this way, Harry will know if someone possessed by Voldemort is sneaking in and out of the wards.

It’s done, and he’s so tired. Harry practically falls down on the floor when he tries to stand.

“You need to go back to Ravenclaw Tower before someone comes looking for you.”

Harry nods and closes his eyes. He knows Artemis is right. She’s always right. He needs to make sure that he doesn’t…that no one has any reason to suspect him of sneaking around…

He rolls over and lets his cheek rest on his arm. He knows that Artemis is hissing at him in agitation, but that’s less important than the exhaustion thundering through his body. And now that he thinks about it, the exhaustion isn’t going to threaten him. Quirrell is gone, and there are no other active dangers in the school.

None that want me, anyway, he thinks hazily, since his mind goes to Neville sensing flashes of Voldemort everywhere.

Darkness swoops down on him.

*

“I didn’t faint, though, Madam Pomfrey.”

“You passed out, Mr. Potter, to use your preferred language.”

Aradia pauses in the doorway to the hospital wing, watching with well-hidden amusement as Harry attempts to charm the Hogwarts mediwitch. Madam Pomfrey is standing next to his bed with folded arms and bristling anger.

Despite her inability to tell that Harry was faking a food allergy last time, Aradia entirely approves of the way Madam Pomfrey is acting. She feels that way herself, after all.

“I need to go to class! Professor Flitwick said—”

“He said you were to rest, Mr. Potter.”

“Something I agree with,” Aradia says softly, and sweeps into the room, noticing with pleasure the guilty way Harry jumps and turns around to look at her. A second later, he flushes deep red.

“I didn’t know they called you,” he mumbles.

“Of course I did! Fainting so soon after the last time you were in the hospital wing, when I didn’t know what you had been doing, and when you might have lain in that classroom for ages if Mr. Zabini hadn’t found you—”

“I didn’t mean to worry Blaise or Aradia.”

“I do find myself interested,” says Aradia, and sits down in the chair next to Harry’s bed, “what you were doing when you passed out, as you prefer to put it.”

Madam Pomfrey glances back and forth between them and gives a loud sniff. “I wish you more luck in getting it out of him than I’ve had,” she says tartly, and walks off towards what seems to be her office.

Harry fidgets with the blanket between his fingers. “It was something to help Neville.”

“Oh?”

“Would it have been okay with you if it had been something to help you or Blaise?”

“No.”

Harry starts at that, turning to face her. “But why? I know that Blaise doesn’t always like that I’m friends with Neville, and you do like that I want to learn what you know.”

Aradia leans forwards and lets part of the mask that she usually keeps up behind her eyes fade away. Harry swallows audibly, but doesn’t flinch back in the bed. He trusts her enough for that.

It touches Aradia, but she can’t let Harry see it, or it will undermine the lesson she intends to impart. “Because you are still at a young enough age that powerful magic cannot simply exhaust you, but kill you. What if your passing out had led into a coma that you never woke up from? How do you think I or Blaise would feel then?”

Harry turns so pale that Aradia is glad that he’s lying down. “But I mean—I know my own limits. That wouldn’t happen.” His hand pats the robe pocket that Aradia knows holds Artemis.

“And did no one tell you that they were worried you were surpassing those limits? Tell you to stop?”

“Um.”

“Yes. That is the problem. If this had happened and it had been a genuine surprise, I would not be so concerned. But you knew that at least one person was concerned about you, and you ignored them. What else will you ignore?”

Harry casts down his eyes and says nothing for a long second. Then he takes a deep breath and looks up. “I promise that I won’t ignore this again.”

“Yes, you will not.” Aradia rises to her feet and casts a spell with a casual gesture of her wand. Harry’s eyes try to cross as it settles over him like a draping cloak. “This will block you from doing any magic when you start to get close to the limits of exhaustion.”

Harry stares at her with his mouth open. “That’s not fair!”

“Neither is the way you made me and Blaise worry.”

Harry’s face fights between several expressions for a moment. Then he settles back with a long sigh and a toss of his head that makes him look like a restless horse. “Fine.”

Aradia smiles and bends over him to smooth her hand down his forehead. “You know that we worry, Harry. You know that your life is far more precious to us than it ever could be to those Muggles you used to live with.”

“I—I know.”

“Then you do not truly resent me?”

“No. But what if it prevents me from practicing spells? You know that I usually have to do Charms several times in a row to make it possible for me to really get them.”

“I suggest that you use your magic wisely. And that you practice in the presence of those who would alert you when you are starting to get exhausted.”

Harry scowls harder, and Aradia nods. Since he ignores Artemis, he’ll just have to spend more time with Blaise. Or with others, although Aradia does not, in truth, know enough of his Ravenclaw friends to know if they would tell him to stop or not.

But at least they would tell professors if Harry is exhausted, and that is the only thing that truly concerns her.

“Okay,” Harry says, with a huge sigh that tells her he’s going to give in. “Did I—did I really worry you and Blaise that much?”

“Blaise is the one who found you, since he was the only one of your friends who knew where you had gone. He thought you were dead for long moments until he cast the spell that made your heartbeat sound in his ears.”

“Um.”

Aradia waits, and after long moments biting his lip, Harry whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Please tell him that, too.”

*

Blaise slips into the hospital wing, and relaxes when he sees that Harry is still awake. Besides coming for the apology that Mother promised Harry would extend him, he has news he needs to tell Harry, something that can’t wait.

“I’m so sorry, Blaise.”

“You should be,” Blaise says, but he can’t summon up as much heat as he could have if Harry had woken up right after Blaise found him. He can still remember dashing into that classroom and seeing how still Harry was lying, his wild hair sprawled on the floor and Artemis slithering over him and weaving her head back and forth like a cobra. “What did you do that made you that exhausted, anyway?”

“Practicing spells.”

Harry lets his eyes dart towards Madam Pomfrey’s office, and Blaise raises his eyebrows and tells Harry without words that he’s not that impressed with Harry’s evasions. Harry sighs and leans a little closer.

“Creating the kind of scout that can watch that door into the wards that we discovered last year and tell me if anyone passes through it,” he whispers.

Blaise holds the expression on his face tight and calm as he nods. Yes, he can understand why Harry wants to keep his ability to create life quiet. Blaise just isn’t going to let him do it in a way that costs him his life.

“I have news to tell you.”

“Oh, what is it? Something to do with Nott?”

Blaise smiles tightly. Nott has been—tolerable, lately. He’s said things to Blaise that makes more sense, and things that hint at a potential alliance. But Blaise can’t afford to take him up on any of those things, not without more assurance of his good will.

“No. You know that last night was Halloween?”

“Of course, Blaise.”

“Someone Petrified Filch’s cat and wrote a message in blood on the walls outside a girl’s bathroom that claims to have opened the Chamber of Secrets. Apparently it’s a legendary chamber where Salazar Slytherin placed a beast that would purge the school of Muggleborns.”

“Salazar. The Parselmouth.”

“Yes.”

Harry winces. “Good thing I was in bed,” he says, and his hand goes down to touch the twitching shape of Artemis. Blaise is glad to see that she’s staying fully in Harry’s pocket. He doesn’t think the charged mood of the school would take the sight of a snake well right now.

“They also claimed in the message to be the Heir of Slytherin. So definitely related to Salazar Slytherin. And someone who’s capable of powerful Dark magic. Regular students can’t just Petrify a cat like that.”

“Do you know anyone in Slytherin who could?”

“No. I don’t even think it of the seventh-years.”

Blaise keeps his eyes trained on Harry, and watches Harry swallow and nod. There are people who would think Harry is the Heir of Slytherin if they found out about his Parseltongue. And there are people who would think even worse of him if they knew that Harry is creeping off into unused classrooms to practice powerful, unspecified magic.

“I suppose there’s nothing much we can do about it?”

“No. Other than try to keep our friends safe.”

Blaise gives Harry another significant look, and Harry grimaces and nods. This is another excellent reason not to practice the kind of magic that knocks him down with exhaustion. He’ll want to be free to move about and protect Blaise.

And Longbottom, Blaise supposes, although some of the rumors that he’s heard place Longbottom as the Heir. It’s so stupid that Blaise can’t even laugh.

“All right,” Harry whispers. “I—thank you for finding me, Blaise. I won’t worry you like that again.”

Blaise grips Harry’s hand, and it closes convulsively around his.

They do need to keep an eye on the door in the wards, and probably protect Longbottom. This is probably the threat that his magic was warning him of.

But they need to keep each other safe, first and foremost. Blaise learned something important about himself when he saw Harry sprawled on the floor.

He will kill for his friend. He believes Harry would do the same for him.

They will have to try not to let it come to that.