[From Litha to Lammas]: Furtherance of Unicorn Conservation and Knowledge, 3/3 or 5, gen, PG-13

[lomonaaeren]

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Part Two

“Mr. Potter, I am concerned about you.”

“Why is that, Headmistress?”

Minerva hesitates. When she called Harry up to her office, she thought it would be easy to speak the words that most of his professors are thinking. Even after he dumped a huge bag of Galleons on her desk to help set up the sanctuary in the Forbidden Forest.

But right now, Harry is lounging back in the chair in front of her desk, a faint, uninterested smile on his face, bouncing one foot on top of the other and whistling tunelessly under his breath.

“Well,” Minerva says, retreating to the one undeniable truth at the moment, “you came back to Hogwarts to finish studying for your NEWTS. It seems that you’re much more interested in setting up this sanctuary for unicorns at the moment.”

“And Grims, Headmistress. Don’t forget the Grims.”

How could one. There’s been a page of the Daily Prophet devoted to advertising the sanctuary for weeks now, including a large moving photograph of a black dog who is no more likely to be a Grim than Minerva’s Animagus form is to be a Nundu. It’s still tiresome to hear someone shriek in the Great Hall every time they see it.

“Yes, of course.” Minerva settles back in her own chair and sighs, wondering if honesty will make Harry understand what he’s asking of her a little better. “I simply wonder what will happen if you don’t pass your NEWTS due to the way that you’re splitting your time.”

“Then I don’t pass them.”

Minerva blinks. She didn’t anticipate that answer, although perhaps she should have, considering the time and attention (and money) that Mr. Potter is pouring into this sanctuary. She shakes her head a little. “And what of your plan to become an Auror?”

Harry has been staring partially at her and partially at the portraits on the wall while he’s been speaking, but now he snaps his full attention back to her. Minerva winces and wonders if it’s from a Grim that he’s learned how to make his eyes practically blaze and seem to deepen like tunnels into his face. It wouldn’t be from a unicorn.

“You think I still want to be an Auror?”

“That was the career plan we spoke about in your fifth year when I was your Head of House.” Minerva tries to smile at him, although she thinks it’s coming off more like a grimace. “And you’re taking the NEWT classes that you would need to become an Auror. Yes, I thought it was still in your plans.”

“After the way the Ministry betrayed me?”

Minerva holds back a sigh with some effort. “Mr. Potter, you’ve been talking about how everyone has betrayed you for weeks, but I honestly don’t understand where it came from. Why think that way? And why bring up things that happened years ago and use them as evidence of betrayal?” She was one of many witnesses to Harry dramatically turning his back on Mr. Finnigan in the Great Hall and declaring that Finnigan shouldn’t have “betrayed” him by questioning his tale of You-Know-Who’s return in fifth year.

“I just woke up, Headmistress.”

“What does that mean?”

Harry nods and leans forwards a little. Minerva finds herself copying him, desperately interested in figuring out what has happened to one of her bravest Gryffindors.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Harry whispers, and then stands up and whirls around, striding towards the door.

“At least I know the boy is as obnoxious as I always thought,” says Severus’s portrait. Minerva had a bit of a struggle to get the portrait to appear on the wall, but she knew she had to fight that battle as soon as Harry—a very different Harry, granted—told her about Severus’s real role.

“I don’t think I’ll have a portrait painted of myself,” Harry calls over his shoulder. “Because it always turns into the most poisonous part of the person.” And he walks through the office door and lets it shut.

Minerva sighs, turning around to speak to Severus and ask him to express his opinions in a slightly less obnoxious way, but then Albus has to speak up.

“I do wonder what happened to young Harry, Minerva,” Albus says as he strokes his beard. “It could be worth asking around and seeing if perhaps someone approached him at the Ministry and poured poison into his ear.”

Minerva just shakes her head. She did notice that Harry’s change seemed to happen after he started going to the Ministry to testify in the Death Eater trials, but she has a school to run, and at least at the moment, Harry isn’t causing the kind of disruption that he might. Or even the kind that the Weasley twins or the Marauders did.

“Leave him alone,” she says. “Either he’ll tell us, or he won’t. And this sanctuary might simply end up shutting in a few years, when Harry learns how much work it is and that he can put the money towards something else.”

“Black should never have left him that money. Stupid mutt, spoiling the boy even further…”

Minerva puts up a charm that will block out Severus’s voice without advertising that she’s done so, and gets to work on some of the parchments that are more relevant, if less fascinating, than wondering what happened to Harry Potter.

*

“No, Mr. Potter.”

“I just thought, since we have Grims now—”

“No, Mr. Potter.”

“It wouldn’t be the official name. The official name is still the Sirius Black Magical Creature Foundation, since we changed it last month. But I thought it could be the name of a division inside the foundation.”

“Mr. Potter, you cannot call it the Furtherance of Unicorn Conservation and Knowledge Expanded Research. Indeed, I can’t see why you would want to do so.”

“I think I should be honest about my intentions, Serenity, don’t you? So that anyone who’s tempted to make it their business to take money from me or possibly betray me in the future would know exactly what kind of person I am?”

“…I believe that you have proven that more than adequately already, Mr. Potter.”

*

Draco spends a moment composing himself. He knows that he hasn’t always had the best showings around Potter in the past, but this time, it’s necessary. His mother always told him that he would get money from her side of the family, and that it would come once Sirius Black died in Azkaban. No one had expected him to last as long as he had, and no one had expected him to escape, and then there was some mystery around his death that Draco wasn’t entirely clear on.

But it didn’t matter. He was dead. That means the money should have come to Draco, or rather to Mother, who would have shared it with him.

It isn’t fair for Sirius Black to leave it all to his stupid godson, who already had enough money anyway, while the Malfoys are really hurting for Galleons since the end of the war. Draco is dismayed at just how many people he had to bribe to forget about Father’s stupid actions during the war and let him come home. They all had families of their own, and none of them stood up to fight beside Potter, either. Why couldn’t they be more understanding of Father’s situation?

Draco shakes his head, and turns away from the mirror. No. He’s not going to think about that right now. Potter has nothing to do with the money they had to spend. He did testify in a way that kept Father from going to Azkaban. Draco has to remember that, and be pleasant when he asks for his share of the Black Galleons.

“Done fussing with your hair, Malfoy?”

Draco shoots a scowl over his shoulder as he adjust his robes (a neat green, the kind of robes that they can wear on Hogsmeade weekends like today, but with a few worn patches to show Potter how badly his family needs the money). Theodore is lounging on his bed, a cruel smile on his face. Then again, Theodore doesn’t have any other kinds of smiles.

“Shut up, Theodore.”

“I don’t think you’ll actually get anything out of Potter, you know.”

“It’s not relevant what you think.”

“Oh? Well, I think it’s also relevant that he’s been spending all his money on magical creatures, not human beings.”

“He has to see that he deprived my family of—”

“No, you mean deprived you. And it’s the difference between “obscenely wealthy” and “terribly wealthy.” I don’t think he’ll be sympathetic.”

“As if you know Potter at all!”

“Well, see, that’s the benefit of not having a mostly one-sided rivalry with the man all these years, Draco. I can see him as he is, and not the way you’d like him to be.”

Draco thinks about responding, but when has responding to Theodore ever done anything but make him mock Draco more? Draco sweeps out of the dormitory without looking back. Theodore’s hair isn’t even straight.

Draco walks magnificently up the stairs from the dormitory and into the Great Hall, where Potter should be having breakfast at this time of the morning. People give him startled looks and get out of his way.

At least the Malfoy reputation and appearance are good for something.

Draco pauses when he gets into the Hall. Potter is sitting there with a scowl on his face while he eats his eggs, which isn’t ideal. Draco hoped he would catch the Savior in a good mood, the way he often is when he’s talking about his stupid little unicorn foals and Grim puppies.

(Who would want to play with Grim puppies? Potter, that’s who. The Boy Who Wouldn’t Bloody Die).

But Draco tells himself again that he should be humble and appealing. Potter will like that. It’s no secret that since he set up the sanctuary, he’s rejected any number of patronizing and proud applicants for funds, even when they worked in dragon preserves or other ventures that were similar to Potter’s sanctuary. Draco approves of that. That means Potter’s protected and guarded the Galleons that belong to Draco.

Draco walks across the Great Hall with a calm smile on his face. Potter notices him halfway there, and the scowl deepens.

Draco ignores that, though. He knows he looks like the perfect combination of poor, in need of money, and rich, trustworthy with money. Potter has no reason to refuse him. Draco saved him during the war, and Mother saved Potter from the Dark Lord.

“Greetings, Potter.”

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

Draco freezes in the middle of his bow, and shoots a startled look at Potter. Potter, who is leaning forwards as though he’s going to spring over the table and grab Draco’s throat in his hands. Potter, who looks horribly uncouth.

On the one hand, maybe this is a sign that Draco should walk away and come back to try and talk about his share of the Black fortune sometime when Potter is calmer and less volatile. On the other hand, this means that Draco clearly needs to get his money away from Potter as quickly as possible, because how can it prosper in the care of someone so crude?

“I would like my share of my money, please,” Draco says. It’s not quite how he planned to word it, but now that he thinks of it, it’s probably best to leave Father’s troubles out of it. Potter doesn’t like Father, and might think that he’s done enough for the Malfoy family on Father’s end already.

“Your money?”

“The money does belong to the Black family, Potter,” Draco says with a tolerant smile. “You know that. You were holding it in trust for me, and I appreciate that, but I need it back now.”

Potter stares at Draco with his eyes almost bulging out of his head. And he stares, and he stares, and Draco feels himself blushing vividly as he realizes that Potter seems to be fine with letting the silence endure.

Draco clears his throat, more noisily than he meant to, but this is about Potter’s neglect of basic manners, not his. “Potter? The money?”

“Why do you think I was holding it in trust for you?”

“Because I’m a Black by blood and you aren’t?”

“But Sirius left it to me.” Potter’s nostrils are flaring, but he’s speaking more like a wizard and less like an enraged bull. “So it’s my money.”

This is not at all the way Draco pictured the confrontation going. He smooths his hand down his robes again so that he can reassure himself he’s the picture of the refined and tolerant wizard who needs these Galleons. “I appreciate your argument, Potter. But there’s still the fact that it belongs to the Black family, and your godfather would want you to do the right thing.”

Potter leans back in his chair and laughs.

It’s laughter that Draco never wants to hear again. He has to work hard not to clap his hands over his ears, which would not be refined. He grits his teeth and gets through it, and then he takes a step forwards, because this is honestly quite enough. Potter is stretching the simple process of recovering the money into a public drama. “Potter! My Galleons!”

“Whatever you have left after the bribes your father had to pay is going to have to be enough,” Potter says.

“You don’t understand! You can’t just spend it all on unicorns!”

Potter raises his eyebrows to the point that Draco thinks they might jump off his face. Then he leans forwards and says, “I’m going to tell you a secret, Draco.”

Draco’s face heats up a little more, because he doesn’t think it’s really a secret when Potter is announcing it in a loud voice in the middle of the Great Hall, but on the other hand, Potter addressing him by his first name is probably a sign that he’s going to give back the Galleons. Draco makes himself smile and relax a little. “Yes? What is it?”

“I’m going to spend all the money I want on unicorns and Grims and the other creatures who will find sanctuary with me. And you can’t do a thing about it.”

“But—you haven’t even bought yourself new robes!”

“Excuse me?”

“Human money should be used for human things, Potter! You haven’t even bought new robes, you still eat like a heathen, you still act like you’re someone raised in the Muggle world and the son of an unfortunate mother, and you don’t understand—”

“We can settle this in two words, Malfoy.”

Draco frowns, not understanding either why Potter has gone back to his last name or what two words Potter could mean. “I’m going to give you the Galleons” is seven words, and “I’m going to give you the money” isn’t any shorter. “Oh?”

“Fuck off.”

Draco can feel his mouth hanging open. This is also not refined. He hates that Potter can make him act this way. “What?”

“You can fuck off.” Potter gives him a nod that looks amiable on the surface, or if you haven’t been in the Great Hall for the last five minutes, and then picks up his fork and scoops up an enormous amount of sausages on it. He begins to chew obnoxiously, with his mouth open, and Draco has to shudder and turn away. There is only so much lack of refinement that one can take.

Theodore is sitting at the Slytherin table, having come in sometime during the conversation. Draco scowls at him as Theodore raises his goblet in an ironic little toast.

Ironic little toasts are not refined.

And neither is Potter. So Draco is just going to have to do something else to get the money that is rightfully his. No matter what it takes.

*

Theodore stops walking when the glimmer of silver ahead of him resolves into a unicorn mare standing near the fence of the corral with her horn lowered. A second later, a bark rings out, and a Grim rears up inside the misty barrier that seemingly marks the edge of its own pen. It snarls at Theodore.

Crashing footsteps signal that a human is heading towards him. Meanwhile, Theodore takes the leisure to look around.

Honestly, if he didn’t know what he was looking at, this might seem like a natural part of the Forbidden Forest. The lines of the corral and the kennels are invisible in the gloom, or might not exist until the creatures get close to them and light them up. The grass and trees look undisturbed. Here and there is a gleam of bone, or flowers, or running water. Theodore wonders idly how Potter managed to adapt his sanctuary so well to the Forest as it is.

Then again, you can do that when you have virtually unlimited Galleons.

“Who are you?”

Theodore glances up as Potter steps out in front of him. He supposes that are some bad consequences to being the quiet Slytherin who stays out of the kind of drama that got Draco denounced in the Great Hall last week.

Still, he would rather be that quiet Slytherin, and build a working relationship with Potter from the ground up, than go through what Draco did.

Not smiling at the memory since it might make Potter think he’s less than serious, Theodore nods to him. “Theodore Nott. I wanted to speak to you about placing some other rare magical animals in your sanctuary.”

“Where are they coming from?”

“My father has them.”

Potter squints at him. Theodore waits calmly. He’s sure that Potter at least knows his father was a Death Eater, even if he didn’t recognize Theodore on sight. And that means he’s probably thinking about all the experimentation and breeding Theodore’s father did.

He doesn’t know the half of it. But soon he will.

“And has your father agreed to this—re-sanctuarying?”

“He has not.”

Potter stares at Theodore for a moment. Theodore looks back, calmly. Potter can ask him other questions, and he’ll answer them, but really, the situation ought to be clear enough now for Potter to understand the basics.

Potter abruptly nods, in a way that might indicate he does understand them, and then turns around and gives a sharp whistle. Theodore watches, curious, and sees a ripple of movement that resolves into a thestral. He raises his eyebrows.

Potter slings his leg over the thestral with a complete lack of self-consciousness, and turns around to look at Theodore. “Can you ride?”

“It doesn’t take much skill to ride a thestral,” Theodore says, which is true. Not only does his father have a herd, they literally won’t let anyone fall off.

“Then let’s go.”

Another thestral has come up beside the one Potter’s mounted on, this one a darker grey color that resembles a tarnished unicorn. Theodore reaches out and mounts up without hesitation, although he does have to brace a foot against the thestral’s right wing for a moment.

Potter just watches him, his eyes glimmering like a werewolf’s. As the thestrals begin to walk forwards, he says, casually, “This is just a reminder that if you betray me, I have enough money to fuck the rest of your life up.”

Theodore nods. He doesn’t doubt it, and he has no intention of betraying Potter. When the magical creatures his father uses as “pets” are gone, he’ll be upset at a level that Theodore has never managed to reach him on. He’ll also lack a source of guards and potions ingredients and venom.

And then Theodore can have a little chat with him.

The thestral he’s riding begins to canter and spreads its wings in a sudden rush. Theodore doesn’t whoop as they take off, but it’s a near thing.

*

Severus has long known that the Potter boy is corrupt in ways that no one else will understand and everyone else refuses to see.

Yes, he might have walked to his death to save the world. Yes, he might have defeated the Dark Lord and added his voice to Minerva’s so that Severus’s portrait would hang among the Headmasters’. But if anything, those are only other grudges that Severus owes him. He arrived too late to save Severus’s life. He fought for his portrait to be hung in a place Severus didn’t even want one to hang.

Severus wanders frequently among the painted landscapes and other portraits of the school, trying to soothe his own fury at having to spend his afterlife like this. Which means he spots it when Potter endangers other students.

It’s the sound of muted hissing in the corner of a deserted dungeon corridor that attracts his attention. Severus creeps towards it, but the nearest portrait is an open field with few hiding places currently abandoned by its owner, who’s visiting elsewhere. Severus hunches so that he’s less visible as he slowly peers around the corner.

It turns out that he didn’t need to sneak up on the hisser. It’s Potter, and all his attention is on the Runespoor coiling around his fingers.

The Runespoor.

Severus can hardly resist making noise, so strong is the force of his own disgust. Potter wanted to keep magical creatures safe, but he’s putting the students’ lives at risk? Severus truly did not think it of him, no matter how reckless he was.

Then again, perhaps he has become more reckless since he came back from the dead. That would fit. That would certainly fit. Severus shakes his head at the thought of how trusting he was, and stands up.

“Stop that at once, Potter.”

Potter does stop hissing, but oddly, he doesn’t immediately look up or respond to Severus. He strokes the three heads of the Runespoor he holds for a moment, and then he stands up and turns around.

Severus recoils from the look in Potter’s eyes. At the moment, he’s as mad as Black.

“Stop what, Professor? Stop speaking to the Runespoor to keep them from creeping around the castle and poisoning a few people in their beds? I’d think you would want me to keep on doing that, actually.”

Severus gives a wordless hiss of his own frustration and says sharply, “If you cannot keep Runespoors within the boundaries of your sanctuary, Potter, then you do not deserve to have them, and I am going to report as much to the Headmistress.”

Potter smiles. His eyes still have that eerie glitter that makes Severus have to remind himself that he is a portrait, and not inhabiting the same physical world as Potter, not anymore. “This Runespoor didn’t come from my sanctuary, sir. Someone in Slytherin has been keeping them as a pet. But now that I’ve spoken with them, they’ve agreed to come out to the sanctuary and stay there with the other creatures I’ve offered a home.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, you never did,” Potter agrees, and turns around and walks down the corridor before Severus can tell him to stay.

Severus pauses for a moment. He could carry the news to Minerva, but she’s revoltingly likely to believe Potter as opposed to him.

Then he remembers the discussion Minerva and Albus had the other day how something strange must have happened to Potter to convince him that everyone is intent on betraying him, and Severus decides he will report it to her anyway. This is perhaps the one time when Minerva will not take the side of mad little lion.

Bringing a Runespoor into the school and thinking I’d believe that story about someone in Slytherin keeping it as a pet? He is mad.

*

“You cannot simply bring Runespoors into the school, Mr. Potter.”

Minerva’s voice is sad and tired. Albus presses forwards against his frame, resting his hands on it. He’s going to do what he can to help her, but at the moment, he wishes dearly that he had never died.

“Someone was keeping them as a pet, Professor. I got them out of the school, and now they’re living in my sanctuary.”

Minerva rubs her forehead with a hand that shakes a little. That’s enough, as far as Albus is concerned. Too heavy a burden is being laid on her shoulders. He clears his throat loudly.

Harry glances up at him. His eyes are a little mad in the way that Severus described, but he still looks polite. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello, my dear boy,” Albus says, and does his best to put all his compassion for the poor boy in his voice. It seems that he’s suffering under a delayed breakdown, not at all a surprise after everything he went through in what should have been his seventh year. “I believe Headmistress McGonagall is asking you to simply not bring wild animals from the sanctuary into the school. It should be a simple enough request.”

“I didn’t bring them into the school.”

“If that’s the case,” Albus says, because sometimes he has to act like he believes students even if they are lying, “which Slytherin student did it belong to?”

“They.”

“What?”

“They, sir. This Runespoor has three heads. They’re they.”

Albus blinks, then nods. It’s not as though he’s ever spoken with a Runespoor, even though he can understand Parseltongue. “Very well. They’re they. What Slytherin student had—them as a pet?”

“They can describe the smell, but their vision isn’t the best, and they can only describe, not show me. So we’re working on finding out.”

Albus sighs. “And what do you intend to do once you identify this Slytherin student?”

“Make sure they know I disapprove.”

Albus pauses. There’s that glitter in the boy’s eyes again, sharper than it was before, and his hand clenched down next to his knee, and—overall, he does look mad. He looks broken, and bitter. Albus wants to help.

“What changed you?” he breathes. It’s not a question that Minerva or Severus have asked. Perhaps the dear boy’s friends have, but not in public. “Harry, will you please tell me why you seem so focused on betrayal, and the belief that people want to stab you in the back or take your money away from you?”

Harry watches him with wide eyes. Albus wonders if he’ll ask that Minerva leave the office, and is about to glance at his old friend to ask her silently himself, when Harry begins to laugh.

Minerva told Albus that he did the same thing the other morning when young Draco asked him for money. But this sound is broken and sharp at the core, however loud and annoying it is. Albus winces through it, but waits for the answer.

“What hasn’t happened?” Harry asks, when his breath has caught. “A bunch of people didn’t stand up and fight with me. My best friend walked away from me in the middle of our quest. I found out that I had to die. People still think that I’m a Dark Lord, even when I literally died for them.”

He stands up and strides over to Albus’s portrait, and Albus feels a bit of regret that he started this conversation. Harry leans close enough that Minerva clucks her tongue, probably because she thinks Harry is going to tear the canvas.

“I found out my mentor betrayed me,” Harry whispers. “That he knew I was a Horcrux and I had to die, but he never told me. He never left me any instructions other than that. He let me think that he was simply murdered, when he plotted his death. And mine.”

He steps back and shakes his head. “I wonder why I feel like everyone is going to betray me, Headmaster? It’s a mystery.”

Albus winces. “I am sorry, my boy—”

Harry turns away. He walks to the door of the office and speaks over his shoulder to Minerva alone, pointedly.

“I’ll find out what student had the Runespoor in their dorm. And then I suggest you do something about that, not blame me for the natural measures I take to protect myself.”

It would be better, Albus thinks, if Harry slammed the door. But he closes it with a terrible gentleness, and leaves them alone with their memories.