lomonaaeren | Chapter Thirteen of 'Inter Vivos'- Weariness

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Chapter Thirteen—Weariness

Severus’s best ladle shattered against the rim of the cauldron when his left arm began to burn.

For long moments, Severus didn’t let himself react. He stood there, breathing harshly, staring at the ladle and considering the cost of another. Then he pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his Dark Mark.

It glared up at him, so ugly that Severus wanted to flinch. He didn’t, but only because he had been dreaming for the last few nights about what he would do if the Dark Lord returned and summoned him to his side. In his dreams, the Mark had been even uglier.

He had decided he would never spy again not long ago. Dumbledore had had enough of him, and his guilt was expiated. There was no cause in the world strong enough to move him from that position.

But now the paucity of that position was exposed to him. There was a cause in the world strong enough to move him to do anything: Lily. And his original guilt had not been expiated yet because the Dark Lord was not dead, and never would be until he had been destroyed in spirit, as well as in body. If he had regained enough strength to summon his followers, then he was coming back again.

The war was not over. Lily still burned in his mind like a fiery ghost, unavenged.

And what will Potter do now?

He would need training that Severus had neglected to provide him, because Potter seemed so reluctant to learn anything from him and because Severus had believed that he would not need those skills any time soon. He would need secrets of the Dark Lord’s strength that no one else was able to give him, because everyone else would, of necessity, have to do their spying from a distance.

The war is not over.

With a shudder that spanned the whole length of his body and then left his face untroubled a moment later, Severus turned to fetch the robes and mask that still hung in the farthest corner of his cupboards.

*

For long moments, Draco could contend with nothing more than his father’s letter and the feeling settling over him, like snow on stone, that he would never see Harry again.

But then he had something else to think about, because someone was beating him about the head with hard fists.

“Where is Harry?” Weasley snarled directly into his face, and then slammed a punch into Draco’s gut, spilling him to the ground and stealing his breath. Not the best way to get me to answer, Draco thought dazedly, and reflected that perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t talk at the moment. “I know you did something to him. What was it, Malfoy? Answer me, or I’m going to curse you with neverending boils and leave you here for—”

His voice broke at the end. He was crying, or near to crying, and that was the only reason Draco didn’t draw his wand and try to curse Weasley back. He was worried about Harry. Draco could sympathize with that. He could deal with that.

For the moment, he dug his hands into the grass and struggled to rise. Weasley didn’t seem to notice at first, but he lifted his wand threateningly when Draco made it to his knees. Draco held his empty palms up in front of him and spoke as slowly and calmly as he could.

“I didn’t know. I gave him something that was a Portkey, but I didn’t know!” He yelped the last words, because Weasley’s wand had jabbed towards him far more threateningly than he felt comfortable with. “It came from Moody. He said it was something that would help Harry with the Third Task. And then I got that letter from my father.” He nodded at the paper now lying crumpled on the ground.

Weasley didn’t even glance at it, though his eyes had narrowed. Draco had no idea if that was a good thing or not. “From Moody? I don’t believe you. He’s an Auror; he wouldn’t have anything to do with Dark magic!”

“Well, that came from him,” Draco snapped. His fear was welling up again, so thick that he had to blink several times to clear what looked like choking fumes out of his eyes. “And it was obviously meant to take Harry somewhere, and to trigger delivery of my father’s letter when it did.”

“I only have your word that the letter is from your father,” Weasley replied infuriatingly. “Moody wouldn’t have anything to do with Dark magic.”

“For crying out loud, Weasley,” said Draco, struggling not to use the insulting nicknames that he really wanted to use. That would only force Weasley away from him, and Draco had the sick, sinking feeling that he would need the dunderhead’s help if he was going to rescue Harry. Weasley was the only one besides Draco who knew what had really happened. “He taught us the Unforgivable Curses.”

Weasley hesitated for a moment, then jerked his head to the side in a dismissive movement. “Only because Dumbledore told him to.”

“And that means he can know Dark magic,” Draco persisted. He wouldn’t let Weasley derail this conversation, not when Harry could be in danger. “That means he uses Dark magic. And I only gave that knot to Harry because I thought it would help him. For Merlin’s sake, why would I help Harry all year, and be his friend, if I wanted to kill him? There are easier ways to do that.”

“I don’t care,” Weasley said. “Maybe you just wanted to be part of the big plot when it finally did happen. I know you hate Harry. I know you’re jealous of him. I know you’ve always been jealous of me for being his friend.” His hand was tightening on his wand.

Draco thought of asking why he would be jealous of Weasley for being Harry’s friend if he hated Harry, but it was only too clear that this line of conversation wasn’t going to do anything. They had to do something. Draco couldn’t watch his best friend be snatched from in front of him, and know that he had partially caused it, and then not do anything to stop it.

“I’m going to Professor Snape,” he said, and shoved himself to his feet whilst Weasley was thinking about that, before he could make up his mind to launch a curse.

“He’ll only protect you because you’re a Slytherin and he hates Harry, too,” Weasley said. “He gave Harry so many detentions this term—”

“Because he was teaching him in Potions and Dark Arts,” Draco snapped. “You notice that Harry’s got a little better in Potions than he was? He makes higher marks now? That was Professor Snape’s teaching.”

Weasley’s eyes narrowed. The wand wavered, a bit.

“And anyway,” Draco added impatiently, “he has Veritaserum, and I’ll volunteer to take it, and that’ll prove that I didn’t really betray Harry.”

Before Weasley could protest again, Draco marched towards the castle. Weasley came promptly, and hurriedly, behind, trying to look as if he were a guard in charge of a prisoner.

Draco didn’t really care. His mind was full of bloody lashes and the spells that Lucius had used on the house-elf, Dobby.

If my father’s wherever the Portkey took Harry, then he’ll really suffer.

*

Harry came out of the whirl of colors on his broom, and he heard high-pitched, cold laughter nearby, and someone was running towards him across grass that crunched under his feet. Harry had heard that laughter before, in nightmares and whenever Dementors were near.

His broom.

His broom was still with him, the broom that Sirius had given him and which Harry would die if anything happened to.

He immediately leaped to the ground and threw the broom down beside him, whispering the most powerful protective charm he knew, one which Draco had taught him after Harry had caught Seamus poking around his trunk. The broom sparkled and then disappeared under a rush of white light that faded a moment later, so the broom blended with the heather it was lying on. Harry took a deep breath of relief.

Then someone seized him and spun him around. Harry tried to lift his wand, but it was taken away from him, and the person holding him pressed his own wand against Harry’s throat, forcing his head back.

Wormtail. Harry would recognize the man anywhere. The glimpses he’d got of him in the photographs Seamus had burned and in the Pensieve memories that Remus and Sirius had shared with Harry assured him of that.

“Wormtail,” he gasped.

Pettigrew shifted around for a moment, as if he disliked the name, and then shook his head and started dragging Harry across the grass. Harry managed to turn his head and see where they were for the first time.

It was a graveyard, and most of the graves they passed were mere low mounds of grass, with the headstones sticking out above them and leaning over like old teeth. Harry shivered with disgust and tried to twist away from Pettigrew, aiming to bite him in the arm. But Pettigrew cast the same Body-Bind that Snape had last year when he was chasing Sirius, and Harry found himself motionless.

He was laid on a block of stone, and Pettigrew turned away. Harry’s head was frozen so that he couldn’t even move it to see what Pettigrew was doing. He strained his muscles against the spell, relaxing and then clenching them again. That had seemed to work last time he was imprisoned under this. If he could just get away—

Then he forgot about doing that for a moment and nearly fainted from fear instead. The biggest snake he had ever seen had coiled up beside him, most of its body apparently resting on the ground next to the block of stone but a great deal of it rearing above him. The snake swayed back and forth, eyeing him intently. Harry couldn’t see a hood, so he knew it wasn’t a cobra, but that wasn’t really reassuring.

He thought he had seen this snake before, in the nightmares he’d had a few times during the summer, before they abruptly stopped. It was Voldemort’s snake. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but he didn’t have to for it to be terrifying. It was big enough to eat him, and he doubted it would respond to his Parseltongue any more than the basilisk had.

“Nagini!”

The snake turned and slithered away from Harry, towards the source of the voice. Voldemort, Harry thought. Just like the laughter. He wished he could cast some kind of wandless curse in the direction of the voice, but if that was possible, he’d sure never heard about it. Where’s accidental magic when you need it, anyway?

“Wormtail! Prepare the cauldron!”

“I’m doing so, master.” Wormtail’s voice was so servile that Harry felt embarrassed for him. He’d never sounded like that even when the Dursleys commanded him to do some painful or humiliating chore. He managed to make them believe he didn’t care about their orders instead, which frustrated Uncle Vernon something awful.

“Bone of the father,” Voldemort’s voice said gloatingly. “Blood of the enemy. Flesh of the servant.” The voice came nearer, though Harry still couldn’t turn his head and gauge why. “How does it feel to know that you will be instrumental in bringing your most hated enemy back to life, Harry?”

Harry’s scar began to burn, and helpless tears ran from his eyes. Voldemort appeared in front of him, a nearly formless lump of flesh with a face and a pair of stubby arms and legs, cradled in the coils of Nagini. His eyes were wide and red and exhilarated and terrifying. When he reached out and stroked Harry’s scar with the stump where a hand should be, Harry vomited with the pain, but the liquid ran back down inside his throat because he couldn’t turn his head.

Voldemort noticed. “Wormtail!” he said briskly.

Wormtail made a hoarse, horrible scream in response. Harry shivered and then almost vomited again when Nagini leaned down towards him, its tongue flickering as if it wanted to smell his fear.

He could do absolutely nothing. Voldemort was going to take his blood and use it in some kind of potion or spell, and Harry just had to lie here—

And he couldn’t stand that. Think of all the people who would be hurt if he did that. Ron, and Hermione, and Draco even if he was a traitor—because if he was, then it couldn’t be because he knew the truth about Voldemort—and Neville and Ginny and Dumbledore and Snape—

He had to do something.

And suddenly his head was free, a little. He was able to tilt it and spit out the nauseating mixture of half-digested food and bile that was choking him, at least. And then, as Voldemort chuckled and floated towards him in the shifting tangles of the snake, Harry mustered the courage and the liquid and spat in his face.

Voldemort shrieked as if Harry’s saliva actually had the power to harm him whilst it trickled down his cheeks and collected in the corners of his flat mouth. Nagini hissed and opened its mouth as if it would strike, but Voldemort waved a nonexistent hand and snapped, “Wormtail!” again.

Harry managed to turn his head, and saw Wormtail coming towards them with a horribly bleeding wound. It looked as if he’d chopped off his hand and dropped it into the cauldron. Harry stared in horror, and didn’t notice the silver knife in Wormtail’s hand, or the vial, until the first had sliced into his arm and the second had been arranged to collect his blood.

Harry screamed without reserve for a moment, because it hurt, and then decided that he would deny Voldemort even that if he could. He clamped his lips shut and only whimpered as Wormtail drew out the blood and took it back to toss into the cauldron. Harry didn’t watch him. Instead, he stared defiantly straight at his enemy and managed to summon more saliva. This time, he used it to moisten his lips and speak. “If you were a real man,” he said, “you’d unbind me and duel with me. Coward.”

Voldemort laughed. The sound made Harry’s scar ache as if a second knife was stabbing through his skull. “Patience, patience,” Voldemort said at last, dropping down into a chuckle like the screams of some small tortured furry animal. “I can hardly fight you as I am, young Harry. It will be best to wait.” His lips widened into an appreciative smile, if you could call them lips, if you could call that a smile. “Until I am back to my normal self, and until we have an audience. Yes, an audience will be best.”

The snake swarmed away then, still carrying Voldemort, but turning its head back from time to time to hiss at Harry. Harry lay there, panting, and tried to collect himself from the impulse to scream or curl up and whimper until something else happened and made him uncurl. He could be brave enough to try and not show his pain and anger, at least.

Still, he found himself unable to watch Voldemort’s resurrection. It was bitter enough to hear the triumphant laugh and to smell the stench that filled the air as Voldemort entered the cauldron, a mixture of rotting roses and unshelled oysters.

*

Severus Apparated into a graveyard he recognized at once; he had visited it once before, when the Dark Lord had required Severus to attend him on a mission to gather potions ingredients. Even then, though the Dark Lord had claimed that the rare spotted aconite grew nowhere but here, Severus had recognized that for a lie. He knew this place meant something else to his master.

His master.

The words were heavy and useless in his thoughts, as cold as lead, but he had to think them. Soon he would have to say them. Best to prepare the mouth by preparing the head.

He turned to look around the circle as he cast himself to the ground, and recognized, from the set of their shoulders and the curve of their backs, at least three of the other Death Eaters. Of course, Lucius was unmistakable; he never did manage to bind up that long pale hair of his so that it was all hidden under the hood of his robe. And there was Macnair, the most muscled of all the Death Eaters, and the cowering shape that would be Avery. Avery had been suspected more than once of turning traitor, even before the end of the war.

Severus took a moment to resent the emotions and understandings and perceptions crowding back in on him, the intangible minutiae that ruled the life of a spy.

Then he turned his head and saw Potter lying on what looked like an altar in front of an open grave.

For a long moment, his muscles cramped, and he was glad that the Dark Lord had not required them to stand in that moment to prove their allegiance; Severus would have fallen over. He stared in silence as the Dark Lord, standing with his hand on Pettigrew’s arm, began a long, rambling speech about the necessity of conquering the world and the return of faithful servants and how it was that he had come back to his body after so long.

Severus knew how he had come back to his body—Dark magic, using Potter’s blood and perhaps his flesh—and didn’t care to listen. He stared at the boy instead, and the emotions moving through him changed as deliberately as the motions of the great snake coiled behind the Dark Lord.

He was incapable of simply remaining still when Lily’s son was in danger. He might need to be a spy; he might need to suffer pain and obscure his thoughts because his debt to Dumbledore was not repaid. But far worse than betraying Lily by running from this war would be to betray her because he had not been able to rescue her son.

I could not prevent him from killing you, Lily. I can prevent this.

And though it might cost his life, he would.

The Dark Lord was still ranting on. Usually, he had ended the speech by now to torture someone. Oh, yes, he had called Avery out of the ranks and was inflicting the Cruciatus upon him. Severus began to shift a hand across the grass, moving an inch every few minutes. He kept his mind calm and clear, and not simply because he was using Occlumency. He was prepared to give up this exercise should the Dark Lord call on him, and begin all over again the moment he was unwatched. This was the kind of patience that had kept him alive when he was a spy.

But the Dark Lord was occupied with torturing Avery, and then Macnair, whom he resented for getting a job in the Ministry, it seemed, whilst he was wandering the world as a bodiless spirit. Severus’s hand closed on the object he had sought, one of the buttons that secured his robes shut, without interruption.

He had fallen forwards when he arrived, and so his wand was already beneath him. It took only a moment to aim it an angle that would permit him to strike the button with the spell he murmured.

He made it into a Portkey to Hogwarts, and he made it so without moving his lips. Then he tapped the button with his wand and incanted the opposite of the Summoning Charm, which sent the object to a desired destination. This destination happened to be a clump of grass at the foot of the “altar” on which Potter was tied.

Severus had done what he could. He drew his hand back inside his robe and settled into a “comfortable” groveling position so he could listen, with cold, clear disgust, to Lucius describing his part in the latest disaster.

*

“And so when my son betrayed me and began to consort with Potter,” Lucius Malfoy finished, sounding like a cat with a mouth full of cream, “I knew that I wanted to make him part of my reprisal against the boy, that he might learn the error of his ways.”

Harry hated.

The hatred was as steady as a heartbeat, as steady as the pain that had been flaring through his scar ever since Voldemort had called the Death Eaters and moved a certain distance away to lean on Wormtail’s arm. And all that hatred was directed at Lucius Malfoy rather than at Voldemort.

But Voldemort was just an obstacle Harry already knew he would have to deal with, like exams and storms and the Dursleys. Lucius had set up his own son to betray Harry by willingly feeding Draco untrue information and making him trust someone who was at the school in the guise of Moody. That person’s name hadn’t been mentioned yet, but Harry knew they couldn’t be the real Moody, because Lucius had said so. And he had no reason to lie. He was bragging in front of all his friends, telling them the truth to make them jealous.

It wasn’t Draco.

That was the real thing Harry cared about. He hadn’t wanted to believe that Draco could be responsible for his betrayal, so he’d avoided thinking about it too much, but the possibility had still lurked in the back of his mind. Now he knew it wasn’t true, and when Voldemort turned to him with a greedy look, Harry could just laugh.

“Did you want to talk,” he asked Voldemort, with a bored expression on his face that he knew wasn’t real but which he hoped Voldemort wouldn’t know about, “or did you want to duel?”

For a moment, Voldemort, who had become a man without a nose and with lips just as flat as they’d been in his deformed baby face, hissed with rage. Then he smoothed that expression away and smirked. “Wormtail,” he said, “give young Master Potter back his wand. Yes, we will indeed duel.”

Wormtail limped over to free Harry. He had a silver hand now, to replace the one he’d cut off, Harry saw. He looked Wormtail in the face once, and gave him a glare that he tried to make sting. It must have worked, because Wormtail looked away from him and gulped nervously as he cast the spell that reversed the Body-Bind.

And then Harry had his wand in his hand again, and he was shaking with fear but also with determination, and he knew what he was going to do. There was no way he would win in a real duel against Voldemort, so he had to do two things. One was to take his broom and get out of there as soon as possible.

But the first was to hurt Lucius Malfoy.

He climbed slowly to his feet and took his time swinging off the stone whilst the Death Eaters formed a wide ring around them. They were shifting and whispering eagerly among themselves. Lucius, the only one who had removed his mask, was smirking like Dudley when he’d stolen sweets from some younger children down the street. And a tall Death Eater not far from Lucius stood in a familiar way, his arms folded.

Snape.

Harry had the feeling that Snape had tried to catch his eye. He looked away at once. God knew what sort of horrible things Snape would do to him now, now that he was here as a faithful Death Eater.

“Bow to me,” Voldemort said.

Oh, no. “I won’t,” Harry said.

“Imperio!” Voldemort flicked his wand, which was long and made of some dark wood—yew, Harry thought, Mr. Ollivander’s words suddenly coming back to him for no reason—and the spell hit Harry. It made his mind feel floaty, just as it had when Not-Moody cast it in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the little voice that advised him to pay attention to the suggestion was just as stupid as ever.

“NO!” Harry said, and in the distraction of that moment, with Voldemort staring at him and most of the Death Eaters leaping into the air in sheer surprise, he turned his wand towards Lucius and cast one of the curses Snape had taught him.

“Creo impotens!”

Lucius cried out as the purple hand took form around his groin and closed down. Harry grinned and danced sideways when someone shot a curse at him; he thought it was Voldemort, but he didn’t want to take the time to look away from Lucius right now. Besides, Voldemort was slower than Snape.

And now he’ll have a hard time having sex with anyone ever again. Harry had been beyond embarrassed when Snape taught him that curse. He hadn’t thought he’d ever use it. But it felt bloody good right now.

Then Voldemort started trying to kill him.

It was much more terrifying than Harry had expected it would be, based on the basilisk and his fight with Voldemort when he was still in the back of Professor Quirrell’s head. Red lights and green ones—the Killing Curse—and white ones and purple ones stabbed the grass around him, and the Death Eaters swayed and hummed in a way that they seemed to think would give Voldemort more strength. Harry thought he’d lose a finger or a toe several times. He leaped and scrambled and rolled and dodged, and found himself too busy to even try to fire back, or construct a Shield Charm.

But all the time, he was working towards where his broom lay. And then he was right on top of it, near the place where the golden knot had brought him.

Harry dived under another curse, this one a wavering, snapping flag of light like a wind made visible, and seized the broom. The protective charm washed away at once. Harry hopped onto the broom and soared madly upwards.

Voldemort shouted, and this time a whole bunch of spells fired after Harry. Harry didn’t care. He flattened himself to the broom and shot into the sky. If he got high enough, then maybe he could see the way back to Hogwarts, or maybe he could see the lights of London and make his way towards them. And at the least, if they killed him, then they would have to kill his broom at the same time.

*

Severus cursed within his head, too wary to do so aloud. There was always someone who would notice even at a time like this, when half the Death Eaters were trying desperately to join their lord in the hunt.

Damn and blast the Potter’s brat’s audacity. If he’d remained on the ground the way he was supposed to, then Severus might have managed to catch his eye, as he’d tried several times to do, and force the mental impression of the Portkey on him. Now he was had to resort to a far more dangerous maneuver.

He aimed his wand at the hidden button Portkey and jerked his arm, once, chanting the incantation in his head. He held his breath as the button left the ground and zoomed towards Potter. If this didn’t work, then he suspected there was no chance for Potter to escape. Only the boy’s insane luck had kept him alive so far, and perhaps a modicum of his skill at Quidditch once he got back on the broom. And the Portkey could easily be destroyed by one of the many curses flying through the air around Potter.

But he saw, or thought he saw, the tiny shape aiming true on its course, and then he knew it had worked, because Potter vanished in the swirl of colors that heralded a Portkey.

The Dark Lord shouted once, a full-throated roar that resembled a lion’s so much as to make Severus wonder idly for a moment if he was almost Sorted into Gryffindor. Then he turned to questioning and torturing his Death Eaters, because of course he suspected treachery among them. And Severus could not fault him for that.

He prepared his Occlumency shields and went through his own share of pain as serenely as possible. It calmed and strengthened him more than he could have imagined, to know that he was the source of Potter’s escape.

*

Draco’s knuckles ached from fruitless pounding on Professor Snape’s door, until Weasley had convinced him that the professor must not be there and dragged him up the stairs to speak to the Headmaster. His throat ached from talking, from screaming, from shouting. His head ached from the dizzy press of blood against his temples, as it throbbed again and again and told him that Harry was dead, he was dead, and Draco hadn’t been able to do anything.

And still the Headmaster looked at Draco through mild, if sad, eyes, and insisted that he repeat the whole tale from the beginning.

Draco gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forwards. “I’ve already told you as much as I know,” he said. “Even if you don’t believe me, can’t you at least slip some Veritaserum into Moody’s tea and see what he tells you?”

“I do believe you,” Dumbledore said, in the patient, inflexible voice that told Draco he really didn’t. “However, my boy, these are serious accusations you are repeating. I must know—”

And then there was a hand flinging open the door that led to the moving staircase, and Harry was running inside, his arm bleeding, his eyes so wide that he might have seen the Dark Lord himself.

Draco leaped to his feet and ran to him. He was almost there when he remembered. The last time Harry had seen Draco, he’d just handed Harry the Portkey that took him away. Would he think of that first? Would that be all he knew?

But Harry reached out, grasped Draco’s hand, and shook it, once. “I saw your father,” he said. “He bragged.”

Draco took a long, deep breath. The relief that flooded him was almost sweeter than what he felt when he turned around and looked at Weasley’s face, only to see it had set in an expression of confusion. Draco controlled the urge to snicker or to dance. After all, Harry’s arm was still bleeding.

“Sir,” Harry said to Dumbledore, “Voldemort is back.”

Draco had not realized that name could still shock him like a slap to the face, even though he’d heard Harry say it before. Maybe it was just the name combined with the word back, he thought, as a profound silence settled over the room.

Back to war. Back to slavery. Back to his father being a Death Eater.

His father. How was Draco going to face him, now that he knew Draco had been betraying him all along and passing information from the letters to Harry?

“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said suddenly, standing, “please wait for us in the infirmary, where Mr. Potter will be coming after I’ve spoken with him. I need to talk to him alone.”

*

Harry blinked when he saw Ron and Draco both leave. He could tell they didn’t want to—they were both turning back and staring at him even as they shambled out the door—but they went anyway. And why? Why did Dumbledore have to talk to him alone? Could he really think that Ron or Draco would run off and betray him?

Dumbledore shut the door to the moving staircase and turned around to face Harry. Harry straightened his shoulders. There was a complex expression on the Headmaster’s face, and suddenly Harry wondered if he was going to learn some information he should have learned a long time ago.

“Harry.” Dumbledore spoke his name in the same way that Harry had always wished Uncle Vernon would say it, as if he were about to apologize for all his mistakes. “I wanted to keep you a child. When I was young, I lost—someone very dear to me through my lack of responsibility. She should have been protected and sheltered more than she was, not exposed to Dark magic and ruin at a young age. I thought, if I kept you away from a fate like that, you could grow up to be happier than she was. And I did not dare trust myself with your protection after what happened to her, no matter that Professor McGonagall advised me not to leave you with your relatives.” He sighed. “I wonder if you can forgive me.”

Harry clenched his hands several times. Then he said, “But I faced Dark magic and Voldemort anyway. What you did to me didn’t do any good.” For the first time, he was aware of the pain in his bleeding arm.

Dumbledore looked up, and his eyes were almost sad enough that Harry wanted to comfort him instead of being comforted. “I know that. I understand that now, Harry. And I am going to do what I should have done from the first, or at least from the time you were eleven, and treat you as an adult.

“I heard a prophecy not long before your birth which convinced me that you and Voldemort were destined to oppose each other. You were not the only candidate. Neville Longbottom also fit some of the characteristics of the prophecy child. So, although I hid your parents and Neville’s parents both, I did not take any more decisive steps at first. Voldemort—had some knowledge of the prophecy, through a means I had not anticipated. He did not know the whole, but enough that his choice was important.

“He chose you, Harry. He marked you as his equal.” Dumbledore turned and waved his wand. A Pensieve floated off a shelf among the other glittering silver objects and over to his hand. Dumbledore touched his wand to his temple, took out a long, glimmering strand of memory, and dropped it into the Pensieve, then held it out to Harry.

Harry hesitated, then plunged his head into the memory.

He saw Professor Trelawney in a small room that he didn’t recognize, her eyes rolling back into her head as she spoke in a voice that made Harry’s hair try to rise on the nape of his neck. Dumbledore was standing across from her, staring at her as if he didn’t know quite what to make of the words spilling out of her mouth.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

And then the memory ended, and Harry found himself standing back in Dumbledore’s office once more.

The pain in his cut and bleeding arm seemed to have settled into his bones. He had lost the joy that had sustained him when he hurled the impotence curse at Lucius, the determination to survive that had made him hurtle across the sky and immediately hurry to Dumbledore’s office when he landed back at Hogwarts. Then, he had still been thinking that he would tell everything to Dumbledore and, for once, with all the evidence right in front of him, Dumbledore would be the one to sort matters out.

Either must die at the hand of the other.

Dumbledore wouldn’t be sorting anything out. It was all up to Harry.

He shivered and looked up. Dumbledore gave him a smile full of worry and heartbreak and inclined his head slightly.

“You see why I kept this from you?” he murmured. “It is a burden too heavy for any child to bear. But now I see that you must bear it anyway, and sooner than I had expected. I had hoped that Voldemort would not return until you were in your seventh year, at least, of age and ready to hear harder truths.” He sighed. “He did mark you, Harry. He chose to mark you.” He gestured to the scar on Harry’s forehead. “He believed the prophecy was true. He has great trust in its power. But the prophecy does not say that he will win and you will die, Harry. It says that the issue is a matter of chance.”

“Chance,” Harry whispered. His throat was so dry he could hardly get the word out.

“Oh, people will help you,” Dumbledore said. “Professor Snape will train you—and in a new subject next year, called Occlumency, because now that Voldemort has returned fully, I am afraid that he will try to use the curse scar as a link into your mind. Tricky things, curse scars. One must be prepared to combat their full effects.” He appeared to meditate for a moment, and then returned to himself with a start. “And there is a group called the Order of Phoenix that fought him during the first war. They must be resurrected. And your friends will stand beside you—Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. And of course I will be here, and your Head of House, and the other professors will help you as best as they can. You must not be dismayed if you saw Professor Snape at the meeting of Death Eaters tonight, Harry. He was a spy during the war, and I am sure he has not returned to his oldest allegiance.”

Harry ignored that, because, at the moment, he didn’t care much about Snape. “You didn’t mention Draco.”

Dumbledore was silent for long moments. Then he said, “Mr. Malfoy has made it clear how much he likes you, Harry.” He laid a heavy emphasis on likes which Harry frowned at. Of course Draco was one of his best friends. So what? “But showing that friendship openly is likely to get him into trouble with his father. What must happen is his submission to Lucius in formal terms, whilst he silently maintains his rebellion. If he wants to be a spy for us in his father’s house, I would welcome that. But he cannot meet with you openly as he was doing.”

“That’s stupid!” Harry said hotly. “That’s so dangerous for him, and he’s a child without a prophecy about him, and—”

“He wants to help.” Dumbledore peered directly, seriously, at him. “Would you forbid him to help you, when this is the only effort of friendship he can make in the situation? Or would you give up your friendship with him altogether rather than meet with him in secret?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry said, and only realized what he had said a moment later, when Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. But I don’t want him to be a spy—”

“That is his decision to make,” said Dumbledore. “It might be that he can lie well enough to his father to fool him. I hope so, because I have no legal recourse to take him from his parents. But whether he does or does not, your meetings with him must be in secret from now on. Not to do that will put him in worse danger.”

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to meet with Draco in secret, because it made everything harder, and he would be more alone than ever now, because he didn’t trust Snape and Sirius certainly couldn’t come back because Wormtail would try to hunt him and Lucius Malfoy was just as much a danger to Draco whether he believed him or not, because he could change his mind at any time—

And he had to close his mouth, because what was anything that Harry wanted when compared to the danger Draco was in?

“I understand, sir,” he whispered.

“You will have to be strong, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was terribly earnest, in a way that made Harry hurt the way he did when McGonagall was disappointed in him, and he didn’t even know why. “You will have to be safe. You’ll stay with the Dursleys this summer. I did hope that you could spend part of it with Sirius or the Weasleys, but—” He closed his eyes for a moment, and Harry thought he was seeing the man who had fought against Voldemort before, or maybe Grindelwald. “That’s impossible.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry’s voice was dusty and mechanical now. He hadn’t even thought that much about the summer because he’d hoped so fervently it would be different. But of course it wouldn’t be. If Voldemort was back, it was even more important for him to stay where he was protected.

“Blood wards are on that house,” Dumbledore continued softly. “Blood wards founded in your mother’s love.” He sighed and shook his head. “I would not leave you there if there was a choice, Harry. I know they do not treat you well. But if it is the difference between a little mistreatment and murder…”

Harry nodded mechanically, again. He knew he was luckier than some kids. The Dursleys never had tried to hit him, except for Dudley, even if Uncle Vernon looked as if he wanted to sometimes. And there were no whippings.

“You are taking this very well, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was low and approving. “Like an adult. I must ask you to take a further adult step and keep the prophecy secret and close. And now, dear child, I think I should send you to Madam Pomfrey to have your arm cleaned and bandaged. She would be angry with me already if she knew how long I had kept you here talking.”

If I’m still an adult, why are you calling me a dear child? Harry thought, but he was tired, and his arm hurt, and his head hurt, and he did want to go to the infirmary, so he went.

*

Severus was tired, even after he swallowed several potions for the nerve damage he would certainly have incurred from the Dark Lord’s Cruciatus Curse.

It had taken him some time to sort out what had happened after he returned. Draco had flown to him at once when he went to the hospital wing to check on the Potter brat, babbling over with nervousness. From him, Severus had learned of Moody’s part in the treachery, and of the means by which Potter had been brought to the Dark Lord’s presence.

Moody, Severus learned, or the man who had played him, was fled; Dumbledore had kept Draco close in his office, playing at being a doddering old man, because he had felt Moody cross the wards and Apparate out shortly after Draco brought the Portkey to Potter. Otherwise, he would certainly have arrested the man at once. As it was, he thought it best to keep Draco from a useless search for him that might have contaminated Draco with further suspicion in other students’ eyes. And as it was, Severus might have stood next to the imposter under robes and mask and never known it was him.

At least he had been able to tell Dumbledore, based on the compulsive bragging Lucius had done as they left the meeting, that the man was Barty Crouch, Junior. Lucius had been instrumental in getting him into Moody’s place.

Lucius stands higher in the Dark Lord’s councils than ever I knew, Severus thought, and tore his gaze away from the sleeping boy in the bed to the alert and dry-eyed boy beside him. The boy Severus thought had adopted an insanely dangerous course when he decided to spy on his father for Dumbledore and Potter. He had been present at that meeting, at his own insistence, though his shouting had done no good at all.

“Draco,” he began now, thinking he might stand a chance with Potter asleep and Dumbledore in discussions with the Minister, and thus Draco’s two main sources of influence away from him.

“You can’t convince me otherwise.” Draco’s voice was very calm, settled, in a way that Severus didn’t like. He turned around and stared up at Severus. “I’d have to lie to my father anyway, given what happened when I gave the Portkey to Harry.”

“I know that,” Severus said sharply, and trotted out the argument he hadn’t been able to use in front of Dumbledore. “But you failed to fool him once before. I do not like your chances a second time.”

“This is going to be different.”

“You can’t know that.” Severus wanted to snarl. Draco’s greatest fault had always been overconfidence, and it had turned on him and bitten as him never before. Did Draco intend to forget the lesson so soon?

“Yes, I can.” Draco clenched his hands into fists and sounded as if he were trying to control his breathing. “It’ll be different because this time, it has to be different. I’ll do it or I won’t survive.”

Severus knelt in front of Draco and caught his eye. He had no words to express his pride and his grief.

But he could offer something better.

“We have a month before the end of term,” he said. “I will teach you every spare moment that I have, so that you may master Occlumency. Occlumency influences behavior once deeply learned. It renders the spoken lies more convincing, when others can hear the clang of your mental armor in your words. They quite often mistake it for the clang of truth. And I will want you to request a personal house-elf from your father and use any means you can to suborn it, so that you may send it to me in times of need. Do you understand, Draco?”

Draco smiled. His face looked fragile and old and young. “I do. And actually, I freed a house-elf last summer that my father punished for helping Harry, so I think the others will be happy to help me.”

Severus took a deep breath and laid a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Good.” There was nothing more than that to say.

Draco turned his gaze back to the bed—of course, Severus thought as he stood. “Does he know that you saved his life?”

“If he is smart he will have guessed that, yes,” Severus said dryly. “Portkeys do not appear out of thin air every day. But I did not reach the hospital wing before he fell asleep, as you know, and I am accustomed to our arrogant young hero doing everything he can to avoid acknowledging my role in his life. We are comrades in war now, and that will have to be enough for him.” He took a deep breath. “We are both spies now, Draco, and we will both need to maintain an antagonistic relationship to Potter on the surface, beginning immediately. Your father will be more likely to believe your ‘defection’ if he has a month of evidence before you go home.”

“I know that,” Draco said lowly. Then he looked up at Severus. “But I can still come and talk to you about this?”

“You may come and talk to me about anything,” said Severus fiercely, and, because no one else was around to see him, he embraced the boy.

*

Harry quickly turned his head back into the pillow and shut his eyes. The image remained, though.

Snape hugging Draco.

And the words were there, too: Snape promising to help Draco, training him in everything he’d need to know, whilst he went forwards to do something important on the front lines of the war during the summer.

And Harry ached all over.

With fear for Draco, and pride, because he had freed Dobby.

With helplessness because he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help during his summer, even though he was the one who would have to fight Voldemort in the end.

With loss because he wouldn’t be able to meet openly with Draco as his friend anymore, and he was sure both Snape and Dumbledore would try to make sure their meetings were as quick and as few as possible.

And with envy, envy he hated and tried to suppress, but which sat there and ached and bled and burned anyway.

Draco had someone who cared for him. Someone who would train him in the things he most needed to know. Someone who acknowledged the similarities between them and looked at him with an expression of pride.

Harry wasn’t ever going to have that.

He’d thought there might have been a small chance Snape would have changed his mind when he saw Harry escaping from Voldemort—but no. He still thought Harry was arrogant. And it was true that Snape had had to save his life. Harry hadn’t escaped on his own the same way he hadn’t solved the First Task on his own; that had been Draco’s plan.

So how am I going to act on my own now? The way I have to, if I’m going to defeat Voldemort?

Harry took a deep breath and held it for long moments; if he released it the huff he wanted to release it in, that would tell Draco and Snape he wasn’t really asleep. But he was carefully making up his mind, and he knew the conclusions he was coming to were the right ones.

Snape and Draco had each other. It was good they had each other. Snape could teach Draco about being a spy, and he could teach him how to live. Harry was a liability right now to both of them.

And Harry didn’t really want Snape as a teacher, anyway. And if seeing Harry facing death didn’t change his mind about Harry’s arrogance, nothing ever would.

Harry would do what he had to do to survive. He would pretend to hate Draco. He would distrust Snape (there was no pretending about that). He would keep the prophecy to himself, as Dumbledore had asked him to do, and he would prepare for a war he didn’t really know anything about, because he hadn’t even been injured to speak of in this first “battle” with Voldemort.

He would be an adult. He would be what everyone wanted him to be.

But he would spend more time with Ron and Hermione, who he’d only been able to talk to briefly before he “fell asleep,” because they were the only people left he could be sure would be able to walk around openly with him.

And he would make sure to visit Sirius as often as he could next year. Because he needed an adult who could care for him, too, and Sirius was what he had.

Chapter 14.