Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
- 23
A/N: Regarding this chapter: a bit of canon divergence in regards to what's happened in the past. Please hold off objections; it IS very much an AU in most every other regard. And also, Draco's... um, a bit of a snot. Apologies in advance. Please bear in mind he's still grieving and still very vulnerable.

Chapter 21: One Push Too Far
"God, Neville, it's all up your arm!"
Ginny sounded nearly frantic as she struggled to wrestle the sleeve of Neville's robe past his elbow. Her face sagged into mounting horror as every inch revealed a smattering of faint blue bruises. Neville sighed, gently attempting to pry her fingers off his robes.
"It's fine, Ginny. I'm fine. Really."
"What happened, Neville? No one hurt you, did they?" Harry kept his tone quiet; he didn't want to draw any more attention to his friend than Ginny already had in her display of protectiveness. Already half of the Gryffindor table were shooting the Neville curious glances, only to turn away at the pointed stares of Draco, Pansy and Blaise. There was something to be said for dining with Slytherins, even when not at Slytherin's table.
Dragging his gaze from Ginny, whose teeth were bared in a near snarl of worry, Neville met Harry's gaze. He offered a small smile. "It's nothing to worry about, Harry. Honestly, I just had to help Dumbledore out with something. Nothing all that different to usual –"
"Like hell it's not different to usual. Look at you arms, Neville." Ginny's voice took on a scolding tone that didn't quite offset its shrillness. "What has he got you doing that you'd be hurt like that?"
"Ginny, really, I'm o-"
"Don't you tell me you're 'okay', Neville Longbottom. I won't hear it. Tell me –"
"Gin, calm down." Ron, seated on the other side of his sister, rested a mollifying hand on her shoulder. The girl shrugged off fiercely but Ron hardly seemed deterred by the fact. "You know Neville's been going to see Dumbledore to learn... stuff. I'm sure it's got something to do with what he's been teaching him. Right, Neville?"
Neville nodded his head wearily. Not for the first time that morning, Harry noted how exhausted his friend seemed. Neville rarely spoke to him about going to see Dumbledore; Harry didn't even know what he did with the headmaster, only that it had something to do with the war and searching for a solution to the disaster that was Lord Voldemort. He suspected that Ron and Hermione were more informed, but didn't hold the fact against them. They had known Neville for longer, been his friend through so much more; it was natural that Neville would feel more comfortable cluing them in, especially when his secrets were not entirely his to share. Even had Harry felt a little upset at the prospect of being excluded, he could hardly complain. He knew that Draco, Blaise and Pansy were as oblivious as he.
Ginny, however, was not satisfied. "I do know that. But you've never come back looking like you've been attacked by shadow ghouls." The Weasley girl glared at Neville intently, finally releasing her hold on him to fold her arms across his chest. Harry didn't blame Neville for cringing slightly. An angry Ginny was certainly intimidating. "Would you care to explain?"
Struggling to unfold himself from his cower, Neville nodded slowly. "I will. Honestly, Gin, I'm not trying to hide anything, it's just..." His gaze flickered up to the Slytherins, then drew along the length of the Gryffindor table. Despite the stares that Draco and Pansy still sent any lingering gazes, there was still far too many people obviously straining their ears to catch a word of gossip.
Harry turned his face back down to his half-eaten breakfast. He wasn't hurt that Neville didn't feel he could trust him – them – enough to share the secrets of his dealings with the headmaster. Not too much, anyway. He liked Neville, really liked him, and considered him possibly his closest friend after Draco. Different as they were, they also shared a remarkable amount in common, one of which being the majority of their classes. But even so, he could understand the need for secrecy. Sometimes it was hard to share.
"Did you want us to meet you in Defense, then?" Draco asked, looking up from his finished meal and leaning back casually in his seat. Too casually, really. It was obviously a very deliberate question. But his Malfoy mask was back in place, and he hid any irritation or dissatisfaction well. Harry was almost sad to see the return of that facade, even if it was a long sight better from the sullen listlessness broken only by spurts of illogical anger that had gripped Draco over the past weeks week before. He wasn't fully back to normal - Harry didn't expect him to be, not after what he had been through, and he honestly wondered if he ever would be - but he was getting there. Time would tell.
All four Gryffindor heads turned towards the blonde. Neville blinked rapidly. "What?"
"Meet you. In Defense. I'm sure I could come up with some excuse to get Snape off your back if you needed some extra time to talk."
Neville's face had fallen into an expression of surprise. He flickered his gaze to Harry, to Blaise and Pansy for a moment, before returning to Draco. "What, you don't want to know too?" He sounded, if anything a little affronted by the fact.
Is he annoyed that we aren't showing enough interest in where he's been? Harry wondered
"Of course I'd like to hear. I'm sure Harry, Pansy and Blaise would two." Draco glanced at each friend in turn, receiving a mixture of shrugs, nods and murmurs in reply. "But I respect your privacy. I don't expect you to be comfortable in sharing all your secrets with us. Or, well, me at least."
Surprise had faded into growing irritation on Neville's face. "And why wouldn't I feel comfortable with sharing stuff with you?"
Shrugging, Draco nudged his fork on his empty plate, as though he were only half attending the conversation. Harry knew better; his shoulders were far too stiff for that. "Me especially? Well, I have had rather dubious correspondents in the past. I'm sure you're aware of that, Neville."
"Yes, but now –"
"My entire family was rather involved until recently with some questionable characters." Draco chuckled humourlessly, in tones slightly pained. Likely it was because of the mention of his family. Harry unconsciously slipped his fingers around Draco's beneath the table. His friend took his grasp without question. He was attempting nonchalance, but the pain of talking about his parents was evidently still raw.
Suddenly, Neville stood. It was such an abrupt motion that Ginny was startled enough to drop her glare. "Bugger that, Malfoy. You're coming too. All of you are." And he cast a meaningful, encompassing glance at Harry and the rest of his friends before stepping over the back of the bench and stalking from the Great Hall. It would have been more impressive had he not paused at the door and glanced back at them impatiently, beckoning them after him, before disappearing through the door.
Ron and Hermione shared a bemused glance before clambering to their own feet. "I wouldn't leave him waiting," Ron muttered, fond mirth tickling his tone. "He'll probably come back and drag you out if you don't hurry along." Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, the redhead strode from the room, Ginny and Hermione tagging along behind him.
Pansy's face was a picture of bafflement as she rose from her seat. "I though he was hesitant to talk about it. Now he's angry at the prospect that he won't be able to? What was all that about?"
Blaise shrugged. "He's a Gryffindor. He was probably offended that Draco would even consider he didn't trust him, even after their rocky past." He grinned slowly at the Draco, rising with casual ease from his own seat. "Nice employment of reverse psychology, my friend."
Draco inclined his head as he too rose to his feet, accepting the compliment as his due. There was something in the downcast of his eyes, however, that Harry though denied the employment of such manipulation. He wondered if Draco really did feel that way, believed that Neville had the right to question his loyalties. Stepping over the back of the bench, he trailed after Blaise and Pansy, tugged along by the hand that Draco still clasped in his own.
The very hold itself made Harry smile; at the beginning of term, though there had been some pointed glances and even some frowns and whispered comments, such had gradually dwindled into nothingness. It was likely the novelty more than anything that drew attention. And for all of the potential compromise to his public face, Harry was glad that Draco didn't shy away from the handhold. As though he valued the contact more than he did people's opinions.
And that said a lot. Draco had only forsaken his public face when in the midst of the whiplash from the disaster that had befallen him. He was recovering, and with that recovery shied away from overt public displays of emotion, as was Malfoy procedure. Apparently handholding wasn't considered a part of such coveted displays.
Harry couldn't even fathom the depths of grief and pain his friend had fallen into not three weeks ago. He had watched Draco, watched the sadness and heartbreak that had gripped him, and had done his best to comfort him with what little and seemingly inadequate gestures he knew. He had recognised the outbursts of anger as being simply a means to deal with that anger, recognised that it would likely pass in time. And they had, for the most part. But even so, Harry couldn't really relate. He'd never had anyone he felt especially close to pass away. He had never really been especially close to anyone at all.
There had been Uncle Vernon's father. He had died of a heart attack when Harry was seven. He hadn't seen much of it; when the family had come to his uncle's house for a visit, to share their grief. Harry had been locked in his cupboard throughout the entire mournful service. He had listened silently to the sobs that seeped through the crack beneath the door and pondered that he felt no such sadness himself. He hardly knew the man, and what he did know of him hadn't been particularly favourable. He was much like a carbon copy of Uncle Vernon, save perhaps a little older, a little slower, a little fatter. He had always smelt like potato chips.
Then there had been Mrs. Figg, the elderly neighbor who sometimes took care of him when the Dursleys thrust him upon her to take a family vacation. He had been ten when the woman had died. It was when he was making one of his infrequent stays in her care, too. The last day of the Dursleys' trip to Ireland, he had wandered down the stairs to find the woman in the same seat she had filled when he had left to go to bed. She hadn't moved, her head lying back against the chair, eyes staring half-open at the ceiling and mouth slightly ajar. He knew, somehow, that she was dead. An aneurism, he overheard the paramedics say upon arrival. It had apparently been creeping up on her for some time.
It was sad. Truly, Harry was saddened by the fact. But he had not felt the overwhelming, debilitating grief that the Dursleys' had shown at the loss of Grandfather Marvin, nor the lethargic, detached and listless sadness that had gnawed at Draco like a dog with a bone. Though she had been kind in an odd sort of way, Harry hadn't known Mrs. Figg well. It seemed sadder that he didn't know what happened to her multitude of cats after she was carted away, her house discarded into the hands of distant relatives. Mrs. Figg had loved those cats.
Did that make him a cold person? That he wasn't truly that upset at her death? Harry didn't know, and that saddened him slightly. He did know, however, that he had been hurt by Lucius' death. Had felt an ache like a bruise delivered by Dudley to his chest when he saw Narcissa. Had cried for what had befallen Draco's parent, and not only because for the first time he felt a keen and unprecedented loss for Lucius, a fear for the welfare of Narcissa. More than that, his heart had gone out to Draco, rarely one to overtly display his emotions, but who had been weighted down with a visible grief that had nearly consumed him. He had tried his utmost to support his friend, but knew that in the end Draco's recovery was simply something he had to attain for himself.
He'd never felt more helpless in his life, and there was a lot to be said for that. Harry had spent much of his life feeling helpless.
"Don't think so hard. I can hear you from all the way over here."
Draco barely turned as he reprimanded Harry over his shoulder. Harry smiled. Yes, Draco was getting better. It was the most satisfying realisation he'd ever had.
Following on the heels of the Slytherins, Harry took the seat beside Draco in the empty classroom two hallways from the Great Hall. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were already seated, staring attentively at Neville. For his part, Neville stood before them like a scolding lecturer, leaning against the blackboard and glaring at his toes. Harry thought Neville would make a good teacher; he seemed to be doing an impressive job at keeping his anger under wraps yet simultaneously intimidating his 'students'.
"First of all, you're going to explain what you meant by that, Malfoy." he growled. Harry sighed under his breath at the use of Draco's last name. The two of them always resorted to such formal terms of address when irked by some doing of the other.
Draco leaned back in his seat, gazing contemplatively at Neville. He paused just long enough for Neville to open his mouth once more. "It's no secret that we've had a tumultuous past, Neville." Harry smiled at the deliberate use of first names. "Even last year we could hardly call our relationship amicable. It wasn't even neutral."
"Yes, but it's not like I really hated you or anything. Even with, you know… Umbridge." A flicker of anger passed before Neville's eyes and he rubbed his fingers unconsciously across the back of his left hand. Harry knew it for the spot boasting the white scars 'I must not tell lies' and felt himself frown at the connotations. He would have liked to meet this Umbridge woman. He had beheld nothing but cusses and seething hatred for her when her name arose, and if she had something to do with Neville's scars…
Draco snorted. "Yes, well. I confess that following the orders of that woman was not the finest decision I have made." He sighed emphatically. "I suppose that my underlying inclination for doing the exact opposite of the Gryffindors got the better of my personal judgment. I'd like to think I've matured since then."
Neville smiled grimly. "She was a despicable bitch."
"That she was." The shared empathy between the two boys was comical to witness. Harry wasn't the only one trying to hide a smile. Hermione had to cover her mouth with a hand.
Neville's smile, however, rapidly slid from his face. "Still, antipathy or not, I had thought we were at least bordering on friends after this year –"
"Oh, for goodness sake, Neville. Of course we're friends." Hermione didn't need to cover her mouth anymore. The scowl she directed towards Neville could have put Ginny's scolding in the Great Hall to shame. "Do you honestly doubt as much, after months and months of companionability?"
"There's a difference between companionability and friendship," Draco murmured quietly. His gaze stared unseeingly down at the desk before him. "Namely, the former implies simple cooperation to attain a common goal – a somewhat temporary state."
"I disagree." Hermione shifted her glare to Draco. "And besides, even if that were the correct definition, I believe we've moved past that."
"Is it really possible to move past that which I, which my family, have done in the past so easily?" He spoke quietly, curiously, but Harry heard the faint hint of sadness in Draco's words. He wasn't sure if it was due to the referencing his parents or the prospect of the deterioration of the unsteady relationship he had developed with the Gryffindors.
Neville took a pointed step towards Draco's table. He seemed to block everyone else out of the room; the conversation was just between the two of them and Harry felt himself immediately shunted to the position of 'enraptured audience'.
"It is. And more than that, it has been. I haven't harbored any grudge against your family since last year. Even," he took a deep breath, glancing quickly towards Ginny in what appeared to be a plea of approval, "after what happened in second year. I believe that circumstances forced your father's hand, and if there was any indication in his actions that he was, shall we say, evil, his love of you definitely refuted the possibility."
Harry had felt Draco's violent flinch at the first mention of his father. The hold on his hand had tightened to a vice-like grip, though uncomfortable as it was Harry never considered asking Draco to let go. He clasped his fingers like a lifeline. Impossibly, they tightened further with the reference to second year. Harry wondered just exactly what had happened to his friends in the past and renewed his resolution to ask for a blow-by-blow. They seemed to have had more drama that a Muggle soap opera, more calamity than a criminal drama.
When Neville finished his speech, he stared pointedly at Draco. As though he had offered the Slytherin something and was awaiting Draco's decision to either take it or leave it. Taking a deep, silent breath, Draco closed his eyes.
"I know. I know he wasn't evil. My father –" he faltered for a moment, and Harry squeezed his hand back supportively. He could almost feel Pansy's longing to reach out and soothe Draco, but didn't turn to confirm the suspicion. "My father was a good man. He just made bad decisions, decisions that dug him deeper and deeper into a dark well that had no steps with which he could climb back out." He opened his eyes to meet Neville's gaze. "But I would have thought that, especially after last year, you would have hated him. Hated me, too, as his son."
Neville nodded slowly. "I might have." He paused, frowning slightly. "I could have. He was at the Department of Mysteries, when we went last year to… well, when I thought I was going to save my dad. He was the one that kept asking me for the prophecy. I don't know, maybe he was the one that was leading the Death Eaters."
"Then why…?"
Clacking his teeth in an odd gnash, Neville glanced away. "Because, when the Death Eaters attacked us, he was the only one that didn't."
Silence met Neville's words, hanging static in the air. Draco blinked rapidly. "What?"
"Your father. He didn't attack us. Sure, he was after the prophecy, but he seemed more desperate than anything else. It was almost like he needed that prophecy, like Voldemort was holding something over his head to push him to get it." Harry felt Draco flinch, saw Pansy and Blaise, Ron and Ginny, cringe at the name. Hermione impressively hardened her jaw and attempted nonchalance. What is it about the name?
"But it was more than that," Neville continued. He ran a hand tiredly through his hair. As he did so his sleeve hitched slightly, revealing the dotting of bruises. Apparently catching his eye, Neville rubbed at them absently. "I could have been wrong, I don't know. But when we were fighting and the Death Eaters were doing everything to corner us and block our exits, I could have sworn that your father was trying to help us. I'm sure he didn't want us to escape with the prophecy, true, but at least once, I'm sure, he cast a Shield Charm to protect us from one of Bellatrix's curses. I don't know, maybe it was an especially deadly one or something, but he protected us nonetheless."
"He could have just been protecting the prophecy." Draco's voice was small, more subdued than Harry had ever heard it. He seemed saddened by the possibility, however, as though he hoped he were wrong. That Neville was correct in his suspicions.
Shaking his head, Neville seemed to grow only more confident in his speculation with Draco's refute. "No, I don't think so. I was the one with the prophecy, but the Shield Charm protected all of us. I know that Bellatrix at least was furious at him, but I'm not sure if any of the rest of them even realised." Shrugging slightly, Neville fixed Draco with his intense stare once more. "He might have used the 'protecting the prophecy' excuse to Voldemort, Draco, but I don't believe it. I think he was protecting us, for whatever reason."
A sorrowful pride arose in Draco's gaze as he stared back at Neville. A longing, as intense as the confidence in Neville's words.
"So that's why you never turned him over." Ron spoke up for the first time, a frown that wasn't the slightest bit angry crinkling his eyebrows. "When the Ministry sent out the issues for arrest last summer. That's why Malfoy's name wasn't in it." He sent an apologetic glance at Draco for the bluntness of his words. The look passed straight over Draco's head; he looked to be thinking far too intensely to respond to anyone at that moment.
"Are you… are you sure, Neville? I know you always try to see the good in people, but…" Ginny seemed to be waging an internal war. A hint of hatred faintly curled her lip, but there was openness in her gaze, as though she actually wanted to believe Neville's words. Harry would have to attempt to gently pry that story out of Draco sometime too. Something had happened between Ginny and at least Lucius in the past, something that had angered her greatly.
Neville simply nodded. "Thanks, Ginny. I appreciate your faith." He smiled a crooked grin, and she only looked mildly disgruntled at his words. "But really, I know what I saw. And I spent a long time thinking about it over the holidays, even after I'd made my report to the Aurors and Dumbledore."
Nodding her head slowly, Harry watched as Ginny deliberately uncurled her lips and set them in a firm line. "Then… I can't forgive or forget the past but I will try to move on. To see something better. I want to." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.
Smiling gratefully once more, Neville reached out a hand, clasping Ginny's as she followed suit and rising from her chair to plant herself beside him. "You're wonderful, you know that?" And in front of them all, Neville leant forwards and offered the redheaded girl a soft kiss. She took it gladly.
"Aw, mate, come on. Not right in front of me."
"Sorry, Ron," Neville grinned sheepishly. Ginny didn't look sheepish at all, only sending her brother an exaggerated roll of her eyes.
"I knew it. I knew it," Pansy hissed not quite under her breath. "See, Blaise? I told you something had happened over Christmas. And even more, Ron's actually accepting it."
Hermione sniggered at the stage whisper. "It was sort of obvious."
"Tell me about it," Blaise drawled, grinning widely. "I mean, even overlooking the matching bracelets. Really, Neville, matching jewelry?"
Neville flushed a fiery red, though he didn't make a move to hide his wrist that Harry turned his eyes to for the first time. A simply rose-gold chain bracelet dangled loosely from his wrist. Harry had noticed it before but never that Ginny was wearing an identical one. Which she was, he now noticed, turning towards the girl that shook her wrist to loosen the bracelet down to her hand unabashedly. Maybe I just haven't spent enough time with her lately.
"Alright, can we maybe move on? I've had enough of talking about my little sister's love life." Ron announced unnecessarily loudly. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable at the uplifting turn of the conversation and didn't even smile when Hermione patted his arm consolingly.
The words had a profound effect on Ginny, however. Spinning her attention back from Blaise to Neville, she wrapped her fingers around his arm and squeezed tightly. Harry wondered if the wince was from the bruises she likely crushed or the sheer strength of her grip. Probably a bit of both.
"Yes, Neville, do tell. There are more important things to be discussing than something that is very definitely old news." She spared a moment to glare at her brother, who shifted uncomfortably and muttered something about acting 'too much like Mum to be natural', before spearing Neville once more.
Nodding his head quickly, Neville accepted the inevitable with markedly less fuss than he could have. "Yes, we should… um… That's what I asked you all here for anyway." He stopped, cast a glance at the Slytherins and seemed to decide something. "Right, so nothing I say leaves this room, okay?"
"Honestly, Neville? After all the pouting you've been doing this morning about not being able to spread the word, I would have though you actually wanted the whole school to know just what you and the old man got up to." Blaise grinned in a flash of white teeth.
"No, I do not. Promise, Blaise. I'm serious."
"Alright, alright, mi amico. I was just joking. I'm swear upon my life and name as a Zabini." He held his hand up with false solemnity, as though attending before a jury.
"Shove off, Zabini.' Neville grumbled, but he smiled as he turned towards Harry, Draco and Pansy to similarly pull a promise from them. Draco appeared to have recovered from his deep thoughtfulness enough to partake in the proceedings once more. Which was a relief for Harry at least. He had feared that his friend may have sunken back into his brooding at the rawness of the discussion of his father.
"Alright. Okay. So." Neville clapped his hands together, took a deep breath, and let it out with a gush of air that fluttered his fringe, briefly revealing his scar. "So for the past few months, I've been meeting up with Dumbledore."
"We know."
"Shut up, Blaise. What you don't know is that I've been meeting with Dumbledore to look at memories. Memories of Voldemort, of when he was a child. Of certain events that Dumbledore witnessed – or memories that he was able to get a hold of – that have significance to Voldemort."
"What kind of events?" Pansy asked, her voice quiet in her curiosity. She stared at Neville with a hungry gleam to her eyes. Harry felt the urge to hold her back for fear that she might launch herself at Neville in an attempt to wring the words from his throat.
"Things that we think were important to Voldemort. Things like… hold on, I'm saying this in all the wrong order." Neville waved his hand before him, touching fingers tiredly to his head before continuing. "What you have to know is that what I, what me and Dumbledore, are trying to do is end Voldemort. And that's not as simple as it sounds."
"It doesn't sound simple at all, Neville. We all know what an impossible task has been put before you." Hermione's tone was sympathetic, yet held a confidence in her friend that beamed through her words.
Neville smiled at her. "What I mean is, even killing Voldemort is not quite as simple as that. You see, Voldemort is obsessed. He's obsessed with his own invincibility, but more it's more than that. What I've come to realise is that he's terrified of Death. He desperately wants to ensure his own immortality."
"But that's impossible, isn't it? Wizards live longer than Muggles because of their magic, but immortality itself is impossible to attain." Draco spoke up for the first time since he'd swum from the depths of his thoughts. It said a lot for how far he'd come in a week that he was mentally present enough to contribute after such a conversation. Not seven days ago and he would have been unresponsive for at least an hour.
"There was Nicholas Flamel," Hermione pointed out with her usual scholarly tone. "The philosophers stone. You've read about it, haven't you, Draco?"
The philosophers stone? That's actually a real thing? Harry was nearly stunned at the revelation of the existence of a mythical stone that could actually induce immortality until his logic caught up with him. No, not immortality. Just as Draco said, it's completely impossible. Disregarding the use of 'magic', even assuming that it could extend one's life marginally, the deterioration of an individual's DNA can't possible just be stopped. There is no way to continue existing and living and not grow old, to say nothing of death. Completely illogical… Satisfied with his own reasoning, Harry turned his attention back to Neville as he begun to speak once more.
"Yeah, the philosophers stone was one way he tried." He glanced at Pansy as the girl squeaked in surprise. "It actually was real. But it's destroyed now, has been for years. What he was looking for was something more permanent.
"Dumbledore suspected for a while what was going on. He thinks," pausing, whether to ground himself or for effect, Harry didn't know, "that Voldemort has made something called Horcruxes. It's them that he's using to ensure his immortality."
The very word seemed to ring with foreboding and malice. It was probably just the way Neville said it, the accompanying look of darkness and dread that coloured his features. Glancing towards Ron and Hermione, Harry noted that neither of them appeared surprised at the revelation; similar shadowing flooded their own faces.
"Horcruxes?" Draco's voice was respectfully quite. "I've never heard of them."
"Unsurprising. We couldn't find anything on them in the library, and we had Hermione." The girl herself had the self-satisfaction to look smug at Neville's words. "It's Dark magic. Really dark. A Horcrux is an object that holds a piece of a witch or wizards soul."
"His soul?" For once, no amusement tinged Blaise's tone.
Neville nodded, his expression twisting sickeningly. "It basically works so that, in the event of Voldemorts death, part of him lives on in each of the objects he's created so that he had been revived as need be.
"What I've been doing is working with Dumbledore to try and find out where he's kept them hidden. I have a feeling that Dumbledore knows more than he's telling me, but," Neville shrugged, for all the world as though he couldn't care less. "When we're looking at the memories, we're trying to work out both what the objects are and where he's hidden them."
"And you've found some, haven't you? Or at least one." Ginny dropped her eyes to Neville's covered arm once more. Her grip had loosened to more of a gentle cradling now but her voice embodied the wonder and horror that Harry knew they all felt. "These bruises. They're from when you went to get one, didn't you? Last night, when you said Dumbledore was taking you somewhere?"
Neville nodded. "He found what he thought was a Horcrux. We took a visit, and there were some unpleasant surprises waiting for us." He grinned ruefully down at his arm. "Inferi. They have surprisingly strong grips for supposedly being dead."
"Inferi," Hermione breathed softly, eyes widening but not nearly as much as Ron's who looked at his friend with a mixture of awe and horror. "The raised bodies of the dead. Their main weakness: fire."
"Yeah, I should have probably remembered that. I'll know for next time." Neville grinned wider, more sincere this time. Until he seemed to remember something and it slid like melting snow from his face. "It wasn't really anything to worry about, though. Dumbledore sent them away. He was hurt much worse. There was this potion; he had to drink it." Neville swallowed harshly, as though the memory truly pained him.
"Why was there so many booby traps if the Horcrux wasn't there?" Harry spoke into the ensuing silence and all heads turned towards him. Most in surprise, but that wasn't exactly uncommon. He was used to as much when he held his silence for long periods of time.
"Booby traps? What the hell are booby traps?" Ron snorted.
Hermione overrode him with, "what? No Horcrux? What -?"
"You picked that up, huh, Harry?" Neville sighed heavily. "Yeah, there was no Horcrux. It was a fake. Someone else had already taken the real one." He stared disconsolately at his feet for a minute before visibly shrugging off his melancholy. "Well, no harm, no worries, right? A few bumps and bruises, and I'd reckon Dumbledore will be sleeping for a couple of days straight, but otherwise." He shrugged.
Hermione frowned, not letting Neville escape from questioning so easily. "Well, what happened to the real one?"
Neville shrugged again. "Dunno. Dumbledore said he'd think about it."
"And the rest?" Hermione pushed, leaning forward in her seat eagerly. "You said some have been destroyed already. What was it that you said, Rowena's diadem?"
"Yeah, the tiara. I found that one myself, actually."
Harry started, blinking in surprise. "What, not the tiara you found in the Room of Requirement?"
Again, all eyes turned towards him. Draco's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair before he snorted and shook his head. "Of course you saw it."
Neville was similarly shaking his head ruefully. "Y-eah. It was a lucky break, that one. Stumbled across it and all."
"And the diary," Hermione continued, picking up where she left of. Her sickly cast, the paleness to her face that had settled on everybody's features, had dimmed slightly. Her thumb and index finger were raised, counting them off. "Tom Riddle's diary that you stabbed with a basilisk fang."
A basilisk fang? Really, there was so much Harry needed to ask Neville about. He didn't get the chance, however, as Neville was already nodding in agreement. "That's two. Then we thought there was Slytherins locket – the one me and Dumbledore went to try and salvage last night – but it was a fake."
"That's three." Hermione paused in her counting, and a speculative cast took over her face. 'Neville. Just how many did you say there were?'
"We've worked out that he made seven. Or that's what Dumbledore thinks."
"Didn't the memory from Slughorn tell you anything more?"
"What?" Pansy glanced between Neville and Hermione in confusion, as though they spoke a different language. "Slughorn knows about this? That old man, who doesn't seem to have any more sense than a Dungle bird in a rose garden?"
Ron and Neville snickered at the reference that Harry only sighed at. Dungle birds weren't that stupid. "Yeah, well, maybe he just didn't know it," Ron grinned. "Neville managed to get the memory out of him, though. With a little bit of luck." He snickered again, and Harry got the impression there was definitely something more to that story.
"Oh, stop it, both of you," Hermione scolded, turning a glare upon the both of them. "This is hardly a time to be joking. Neville has just told us that there are seven Horcruxes. Seven. That means at least another four that we don't even know."
"Two, actually. Dumbledore found another one – a ring – and he destroyed it. And then there was the one that brought him back to life as he is now."
"Oh, yes. That." Hermione frowned in thought. "That still makes two that we don't have a clue about, though."
"We don't," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes at Hermione. "I'd bet Dumbledore would have a few ideas up his sleeve, though." Neville nodded silently in agreement but only shrugged and shook his head as Hermione raised her eyebrow at him questioningly.
"But I… I don't understand." Pansy appeared to be on a different page entirely to the rest of them. Her eyebrows were wrinkled in confusion and worry, and she seemed to be wracking her brain for something that wasn't there. "He made these things, these Horcruxes. And what, so now he can't die?"
"How did he even make them?" Blaise added, looking nearly as deep in thought as Pansy. "I've never heard of them before, and, well, the Zabini's are quite learned in the Dark Arts." He offered a token grin at that, but even that seemed more muted than usual.
An ominous ambiance settled over the room. The Gryffindor's shared a meaningful glance between them, all except Ginny who seemed just as confused as Harry and the Slytherins but nervous at the darkening of the mood nonetheless.
"Well, you see, that's the thing. Not just anyone can make a Horcrux. It needs a… a…"
"Catalyst," Hermione supplied as Neville struggled to find a term.
"Yeah, a catalyst. A trigger, to break off part of the soul."
"And that is?" Pansy's voice was nearly a whisper and, oblivious as Harry was to the answer to the question he had the feeling that she knew before she asked.
Neville's face darkened to a ferocity Harry had never witnessed before. As though spitting out a curse, he muttered 'murder.'
If the painful grip of Draco's fingers on his hand was any indication, Harry wasn't the only one who felt nauseated at the prospect.

After the Horcrux Discussion, things changed in what had once simply been the sixth year study group. It was subtle enough that it brooked no comment, but there was added ease between the friends that Harry had not experienced before. It made their brief uneasiness at the beginning of term seem like a brief, unpleasant dream.
It was a bit of a rude awakening, however, to finally learn just what exactly Neville had been learning with Dumbledore. The Horcruxes themselves were horrifying and confusing enough – Harry wasn't sure how much confidence he had in the concept of a 'soul' to sit subjectively on the matter – not to mention that Neville was reportedly hunting them down. Harry felt a distinct and growing concern at the thought of his friend putting himself in danger like that. The lingering image of the bruising on Neville's arms flickered into his mind on frequent intervals. What would happen if he was injured again? Or what if it was worse next time? Harry thrust the niggling thought away with ferocity, knowing there was little he could do about it, but it always returned.
What he found the most confronting about the conversation was the Neville's explanation of how Horcruxes were made. He knew he wasn't alone in this discomfort, too. The injury of another person, another being in general, had never sat well with Harry; perhaps it was the memory of his own unfortunate experiences with pain that drove him to detest the infliction so greatly. The idea of intentionally hurting someone seemed… illogical. Horrible. Satanic, even.
Sure, there were times when people simply had no other choice; Harry could never falter to affirm that self-defense was a more than justifiable cause for injuring another, so long as it was genuine. He just couldn't really see himself doing it, no matter how long he thought about it. Harry knew that mental block was what prevented him from casting offensive spells. Or defensive spells, apparently. He just couldn't do anything about it.
So the very idea of murder was worse than abhorrent. And more than that, Voldemort had apparently done so in a cool frame of mind, completely calculated and with no drive behind the killing other than to satisfy his own sick desire for immortality.
And not just once. Oh no, the man wouldn't settle for one Horcrux. He needed seven. Seven people he had murdered with that cold-hearted consideration. Hermione had suggested it was likely due to the superstition that seven was a powerful magical number. Harry remembered reading as much, and knew the superstition was basically lore in many Wizarding circles. The knowledge didn't help at all., however If anything, it made him feel worse. Voldemort knew exactly what he was doing, planned and prepared his actions and anticipated killing more. That was something darker even than the wayward murders of innocents the stories spoke of in hushed tones. The man – no, the creature – took insanity to a whole new level.
Harry had not been the only one horrified. Ron and Hermione, even aware of the process of forming a Horcrux, similarly expressed their disgust. Draco had paled in that blank-faced way he did and gritted his teeth as though he could crush the evil creature between his jaws, while Blaise looked on the verge of nausea. Ginny had quivered for a moment, then pushed aside her own fears to offer a consoling arm to Neville, who appeared to have sunken into a brooding sullenness after his explanation.
Surprisingly, it was Pansy who had been the most vocal in her disgust. Harry saw a side to the girl that he never had before.
"Disgusting! What a filthy, wretched, fucked up bastard he is. I swear, even if I'm terrified out of my skin, I will make certain to rip him limb from limb if I ever see that snake." The Slytherin girl seethed with such heat that the air seemed to warm around her. A flush coloured her cheeks and her dark eyes flashed like lightning through storm clouds. Even Blaise, already struggling with his nauseous, had sidled away from her slightly. Harry was tempted to do the same.
After Neville had extracted another promise from them all – even Ginny, Ron and Hermione were included this time – the group had left for Defense Against the Dark Arts, parting from Ginny at the staircase leading to the Charms classrooms. They had arrived just in time, walking in a moment before Snape had opened his mouth to begin his monotonous recitation of the day's program. The Defense professor had raised an eyebrow at their belated entrance, but had spoken no words of reprimand.
No one spoke of their discussion in the days following. It hung over them like a heavy cloud, awaiting the ideal moment to break and drown them all in a wash of chilling water, but as one they all remained silent. It felt like they would be making it that little bit more real if their fears were spoken aloud. Pansy, however, surprising them all once more, plopped herself down next to Neville the several days later and pinned him with a firm stare.
"Neville." She sounded like she was giving a formal public announcement, but her words were muted, directed to Neville specifically. Harry could only just hear them. "I want you to know that I really appreciate you telling me – telling us – and bringing us into your confidence. And it might not mean much, but I also want you to know that if you ever need any help in regards to such matters, any help at all, I will willingly offer it to you to the best of my ability."
Neville stared at her in blank shock. His mouth hung open slightly, toast raised halfway to his lips nearly slipping from his fingers. "Um…" He paused, looking towards Ron and Hermione for a moment before turning back towards Pansy. "Thanks, Pansy. I really appreciate it."
Pansy nodded, satisfied, and turned towards the spread before her. She proceeded to pile her plate with scrambled eggs as though she had not just rocked Neville at her side off his axis. It was the first time she had sat directly next to the Golden Boy – at least when she initiated it – but it wasn't the last time that week.
It was because of this distraction, leaving them all relatively subdued, that when Saturday morning arrived and the mail with it no one even glanced overhead in search of potential correspondents. Well, except Draco, but he got daily reports of his mother's progress so it was hardly surprising that he would keep an eye out. The barn owl that landed gracefully before him, however, was nearly crushed not moments later by a much larger bird that was definitely not an owl. Said bird drew the eyes of all of Harry's friends – and just about everyone at the table too – in a mixture of bemusement and curiosity.
"Draco, you appear to have acquired a mutant raven." The disdain in Pansy's voice couldn't quite hide her surprise.
Draco frowned, sharing a glance with Harry as they both moved to tug their breakfast plates out of the way of the rather uncoordinated bird. It did appear to be a raven, but was much larger than any Harry had ever seen before. It rivaled some of the larger owns that soared overhead and didn't appear fazed by the mass of predatory birds in the slightest.
"I think that's one of my mother's birds. But I didn't know she used them anymore; she doesn't really like the beasts. She says they're far too smart and that leads to too much independence." He paused, peering underneath he mass of black feathers at dark, scaled feet. Harry followed his gaze and noticed too the scroll rolled tightly and secured firmly to its leg. "She can't even write again yet. I can't imagine who would be using her birds."
Sharing another worried glance with Harry, Draco reached towards the raven. Surprisingly, the bird took one look at him, croaked, and danced sideways a few uncoordinated stumbles. Or appeared to, but a moment later it became apparent that the loping step was much more intentional.
"Harry, you appear to have acquired a mutant raven." Blaise parroted Pansy's words to the enunciation, to the very level of surprise that had coloured her tone. Harry stared at the Italian boy for a moment before returning his gaze to the raven. It stared back at him with intelligent eyes, croaked once more and promptly held out its leg.
Harry had never received a letter by owl before. He'd unburdened his share of letters under Draco's name as the other boy was often more concerned with eating at mail delivery hour than with relieving the owls of their duty. As such, it was not as though Harry didn't know what to do. It was apprehension that stayed his hand.
"Draco?"
The blonde looked towards him. Perhaps he noted the confusion and uneasiness that steadily grew within Harry, for his expression immediately cleared of any of his own unease; he even offered a smile. "Well? Are you going to untie it? I want to know who sent you something; you didn't buy by mail order or something, did you?"
Harry shook his head, frowning, but the simple words did help. He actually felt less worried. He knew Draco's calm was all an act, but still. His curiosity wasn't alone; Hermione, Ron and Neville were all peering questioningly at the bird and though Pansy studiously fastened her gaze upon unfolding a letter of her own but she too flickered her glance towards the strange bird every few moments.
Reaching forwards, Harry untied the twine from the bird's leg. As soon as the parchment was free, the bulky black bird hobbled across the table, nearly treading footprints through platters of food, snagged a sausage from Blaise's plate and launched itself into the sky.
"Hey!" Blaise was so surprised he dropped his fork. "Don't steal my food, you ruddy bird!"
"Blaise, quite down. You're making a scene." Pansy didn't even turn from her own letter spread on the table before her as she reprimanded his behavior. Her attention seemed resolutely averted from the scene once more.
"But Pan-sy, you saw what it did? Walked right past a whole plate – a whole plate – of sausages and took mine. What the hell is with that?"
"Maybe it didn't appreciate your criticism," Pansy replied, daintily scooping up a sliver of bacon and folding it into her mouth, eyes still glued on the letter. She ignored both the fact that Blaise had simply mimicked her criticism and the ensuing grumbles from the boy.
For his part, Harry had been only distantly aware of the raven's departure and his friends' banter. He unrolled the parchment roll almost reverentially and with difficulty began to decipher the scrawl.
Dear Harry,
I have been warned – no, that word suggests that I am doing something wrong and stupid – it has been suggested that I refrain from writing to you until I have discussed with Dumbledore the most appropriate approach to initiating a correspondence with you. However, it seemed to me to be taking too long. Remus has cautioned me that you don't know me, and so won't even understand or likely believe half of what I wish to tell you. But I can't help myself, Harry, I must speak to you.
You may have heard of me or you may not. I hope it is the latter, as what you have heard is likely nothing good. Though my name has been cleared of false accusations for nearly three years, the weight of suspicion still lies upon me. Suffice to say that rumors are simply rumors and that I, as a person, do not assume them.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Harry, my name is Sirius. I was – and still consider myself to be – one of your father's closest friends. We went to school together, and he was dearer to me than my own family. A brother, of sorts, and in being such that would make me your uncle of sorts too. But even aside from that, I am formally and legally something other; upon your birth, Harry, I was given the great gift of being appointed your godfather.
I have met you before, though it would be a miracle if you remembered me. You were only a baby at the time, but I still remember you so clearly. I swear, Harry, that even though James and I were limited in our relatedness in that it was not by blood, from the moment I laid eyes on you, you were my nephew. I was the one who gave you your first broom, did you know that? Or, well, do you even know about broomsticks, or quidditch, or anything the likes? Remus told me he's been talking to McGonagall. She's explained a few things, about how you lived with your Muggle family and all.
I just want you to know, Harry, that the reason I haven't come to see you was simply because, well, the law forbade me from doing so. Please don't think anything crazy about that, it's nothing horrendous.Or maybe it is, but - Dammit, I can't seem to say this right. What I really mean is that if I could have come to see you, Harry, I would have. Years ago. If I could have, I would have requested custody after what happened to your parents. I am your godfather, after all. But then, when I finally got the, um, legal permission to have contact with you, you'd already moved to Paris. And when I spoke to Dumbledore, he said that you'd chosen to be apart from the Wizarding world, and that meeting you would be a disruption of the life you had chosen.
I don't know much about what happened, or who this Stephen Defaux is. I can only hope he treated you well and loved you even half as much as I would have. But then, Remus said something about you not living with him anymore. And that you've obviously decided to come into the Wizarding world and learn of your heritage. I can't help wondering what made you change your mind, but that can wait until we meet.
Because we will meet. I swear, Harry, I have done my utmost in these past four weeks since I learned you were a part of our world once more to renew contact. Everything short of walking straight up to the castle, which, I have been assured, is pointless as Dumbledore has apparently erected some Repulsion Charms to strangers or something. You need a formal invitation or something to enter. He said it wasn't just for me, that the Charm has been up for centuries, but I'm not sure I entirely believe him. I wouldn't put it past old Dumbledore.
Regardless, I will meet you, just as soon as I am able to. There is so much to talk about, so much to tell you and so much for me to ask. I hope that you won't be too shocked by this letter; it's only now that I'm realizing you might not take so kindly, or even believe, the words of someone you don't even know. I hope that you'll have a little bit of faith and just wait for a little longer. Everything will be explained properly soon.
With love,
Sirius Black
Harry read through the letter only once. He couldn't take his eyes from the name at the bottom to read it again. Not that he needed to. His memory latched onto the messy scrawl with the precision that it always did and replayed the words in his mental voice in a dull and muted replay.
It was a blur. He couldn't think straight. He wasn't sure if he was in shock or simply very, very confused. It didn't really make sense to him. Of course Harry had heard of Sirius Black, to the denial of the man's claims of his ignorance. He'd heard he was a convicted criminal, but that three years ago the true culprit of the crime had been found and Sirius' name cleared of all charges. Harry had to question the consistency and effectiveness of the Wizarding judicial system upon reading of the man; it seemed a rather horrifying situation, and from what he had heard, Sirius had received little to no compensation for the apparently unprecedented and very inaccurate claim to his criminal actions. Freedom didn't seem like compensation enough for getting out of prison. Even the little Harry had read of Azkaban made his skin crawl, and that was without looking at the more graphic pictures that accompanied such descriptions.
Harry didn't get a chance to think further, however, for Draco, apparently finding his patience had been tested enough for one day, shuffled up the bench and peered at the letter. "Who's it from?"
Wordlessly, Harry handed the letter to his friend. Draco took it slowly, sparing a moment to look at Harry in worry, before turning to the words. Harry watched the faint quirks of Draco's face as he read the letter. The changes were small, but he could still read them easily enough. Worry became surprise, which morphed into confusion, then finally crept into a cold anger that caused him to raise one eyebrow and stare down at the letter as though it were plastered with a rather artful arrangement of crushed beetles rather than the black scrawl that painted its length.
With the same measured slowness with which he had taken the letter from Harry, Draco turned back towards him. Front on, his anger was even more apparent. "Sirius Black?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Apparently he's my godfather."
Draco's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. Chin jutting in with the same petulance Harry had seen at several instances over the Christmas holidays, Draco turned his eyes once more to the letter. "Well, at least now we know why he was using Mother's ravens."
"Why?"
"Giga ravens are specially bred by the Black family; my mother's family, before she was married." Draco's nose twitched, as though attempting to clear a rather unfortunate smell from his nostrils. "I should have guessed it would be something along these lines."
Harry didn't comment on Draco's anticipated infallibility. His friend was angry, and he didn't think such words would do anything to alleviate the encroaching situation. As it turned out, he didn't need to say anything. Draco was more than adept at continuing his rant.
"The nerve of him, to say as much. What, he thinks that you'll just greet him with open arms? Someone who claims to care for you so much but hasn't been to see you even though he's had the opportunity to for years?"
"He did say that he was told I was with my uncle. And that I had rejected the Wizarding world." Harry spoke in a quiet voice, aware of a couple of heads not belonging to his friends turning towards them already. Draco still heard him, and only seemed incensed by his words.
"And what, a simple trip to Paris was so hard? Just for a short visit?" Draco's scowl was fully pronounced now. "And what's this, claiming such a connection to your father. What, does he think that it will naturally mean he has a connection to you too?"
Harry couldn't really understand it. He'd seen Draco angry more times than he could count over the past two weeks. This seemed different however. Almost like he was angry at Harry, though no, that wasn't quite right.
"Four weeks, he says. Four weeks? Why four weeks? When –" Draco cut off abruptly, and understanding dawned on his face with the same speed as a truly menacing frown. "Four weeks ago we visited the hospital." Flicking his glance towards Harry, Draco frowned even deeper. "Did you see him? Black, did you see him or something? He must have seen you, or otherwise he wouldn't have…"
Shaking his head, Harry could only listen in baffled silence as Draco continued to rant. It sounded like it was Draco that had been offended, yet for the life of him Harry couldn't see how even if the letter had been addressed to Draco that it would have been offensive. It was messy, yes, and a little disjointed, even a little bit confronting in its bluntness, but the words were by no means offensive.
But even though he couldn't understand Draco's anger, Harry let his friend ride it out. Which he did, and seemed to forcibly thrust the letter from his forethought when the anger had purged itself from his system. Harry quickly stowed it away beneath the cover of a book in his rooms when he got the chance, just in case. The words of the letter still rung in his head, but they weren't particularly concerning. They didn't ask anything of him, and other than confusing him there was no harm in them.
That was until, not two days later, another bird delivered a letter to Harry at breakfast. This one at least was an owl, a little grey-flecked thing with wide yellow eyes and tufted eyebrows. It was, very distinctly, awaiting the attention of Harry. Draco had stared at the bird flatly until it flew away, leaving the letter in its wake. Harry was not entirely sure the owl wasn't driven away by the intensity of the stare.
This letter was much shorter and far more legible. Still, Harry was left in a similar state of frozen silence after reading its words.
Harry,
I have a proposition for you. I believe that some days ago you received a letter from one Sirius Black? If you should so desire, I am having a meeting with Sirius and Remus Lupin, of whom you are as yet unfamiliar with, this evening at five o'clock. Should you wish to meet them, I would be more than happy to accommodate your presence. I'm sure that both Sirius and Remus would be delighted to meet you.
Please, feel no obligation to attend. The decision is entirely up to you.
Albus Dumbledore.
Harry didn't notice that Draco had sidled up beside him until the letter was torn from his fingers. It was only when the ball of parchment was placed flatly on the table that he realised Draco had snatched it from him and promptly crumpled it into the size of a golf ball.
"Why… did you do that?"
Draco didn't reply. Instead, he abruptly stood, stepped over the back of his chair, and leaned down briefly to murmur 'follow me' into Harry's ear. Harry was barely on his feet by the time his friend swept through the doors of the Great Hall, nearly gliding with the smoothness of his stride. The speed gave away his agitation, however.
Sharing a surprised glance with Pansy, Blaise and the Gryffindors across the table, Harry rose quickly and following Draco into the Entrance Hall. As soon as he stepped through the doors, he nearly started as his friend turned suddenly to face him. "You're not going."
It took a moment for the words to register to Harry. "What?"
"To meet him. Them. You're not going." It was an order, not a question. Not even a suggestion.
Harry swallowed back the sudden tightness in his throat. Draco eyed at him with a penetrating stare, an expression Harry had never seen on him before. He wasn't sure he liked it at all. "What? Why? Draco, please don't just –"
"It's stupid and ridiculous. The man has nothing to do with you, hasn't for the past sixteen years of your life, and now he wants to waltz in and take up residence in your life?" Draco huffed a disparaging laugh, and Harry couldn't tell rightly whom it was for. "How ridiculous."
This wasn't Draco. At least, not the Draco Harry knew, anyway. And even more confusingly, it wasn't the Draco he had come to know, the one who was gripped in a spider web of grief either. No, this was someone else entirely, and it made Harry a little scared to be the focus of that intense, dark gaze.
Scared and, surprisingly, a little angry.
He'd rarely felt that emotion before. Harry had realized not long ago that it only arose when someone actually threatened Draco, and it was something that he'd come to associate with protectiveness. He had certainly never felt it towards Draco before. But this… this was definitely anger. Of a different kind perhaps, but a thread definitely from the same fabric.
"Why are you saying this? What, don't you think I'm capable enough of meeting them?" It was the only explanation Harry could think of.
Draco growled, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. "It's not a question of your capability –"
"Then what? You doubt my capacity to make decisions for myself? Do you think I'm so infantile that I need someone else to do that for me?" The anger was rising, and it was so unfamiliar that Harry didn't know what to do with it. He felt his cheeks begin to warm.
"Infantile?" Draco snorted. "No, I don't think you're infantile. I just think that you don't know what you're getting yourself into by considering it."
"Did I ever say I was considering it?"
Draco paused, confusion replacing some of his own illogical anger. "You're not?'"
"I didn't say that either."
"Then you are? Dammit, Harry, you don't even know these people. And one of them was a convicted criminal –"
"Proven innocent."
"That makes no difference in regard to the fact that the man has been in Azkaban for twelve years! He is likely already insane. Very likely, given the contents of the letter he sent you." Draco's hands had balled into fists, and a faint redness flushed his usually pale cheeks.
"There was nothing wrong with the letter, Draco, and you know it. He sounded perfectly sane." Harry's own voice was rising, rising in a way that had also never happened before. So much that he could hear a faint echo of it rebounding off the walls of the Entrance Hall.
"That man is not sane. Surely you can't be so ignorant as to assume that a modicum of sanity remains in him after his imprisonment."
Harry curled his own fingers into fists, until his nails dug into his palms. "So I'm just supposed to ignore him, someone who is likely the closest thing to family I have, because of the slight possibility of him being mentally unstable?"
"Slight? Slight possibility?" Draco raked his fingers through his hair in a motion that Harry knew – though didn't particularly care at that moment – meant he was on the writhing in extreme agitation. "You're an idiot if you think there's even a chance of him having a sane head on his shoulders. And family?" Draco snorted. "You want family so badly? Why, because your actual family has treated you so well up until now?"
Harry couldn't breathe. It was an unspoken agreement that they didn't talk about Harry's family, his past. Not that they had discussed such an agreement. It just was. But Draco had kicked violently at that wall of privacy, of protection, and the echoes of his words still rung both around the Hall, morphing in Harry's ears.
"What did you just say?"
Draco had the decency to look slightly abashed. He didn't apologise for his words, however. Rather, they seemed to have opened a floodgate that preceded the rest simply spilling out. "I just don't understand why you care so much about your 'family'. They treated you like shit, Harry. You know that, even though you won't accept it, not even to yourself."
"Stop it."
"And now your stumbling after some stranger at the mere suggestion that he might be related to you, though not even by blood? Can't you see how twisted that is?'
"Stop it. Please, stop. Stop talking." It was getting hard to breathe. The air was distinctly warmer, thicker, like a constricting blanket. Harry gasped a breath, tried to speak. "Twisted… it's not –"
Draco barreled over him. The Slytherin's voice hissed like a snake. "Are you so desperate for a family that you'll accept just anyone. If so, what about me? What about my mother? Weren't we good enough for you? No, it must be family, even if they treat you like a slave, like their personal whipping post–"
"Stop –"
"– they didn't care about you –"
"Please stop –!"
"– if you could just open your eyes –"
"STOP IT! STOP! JUST STOP!' His throat felt like it had clamped shut. His skin tingled painfully. The room seemed to spin on an angle and spilling out of him in waves was not only anger but magic. Pure, undirected magic. "I can't… you just… Pour une fois dans votre vie, Draco, stop talking!"
It was loud. So loud that Harry couldn't hear his own thoughts over the words resounding in his ears, in his skull. His own words. He felt angry, so angry that he hardly ever realised it was anger. He couldn't see Draco through the blur in his eyes, and he wasn't sure if the fog was from tears of sadness or frustration. The slice of fingernails into his palms, into the skin of his collarbones that he had unknowingly taken tearing at, was painful. But it was a good pain. A slight distraction from his fury.
How could he say that? I thought he would never say that, not him. Why, why would he have to bring that up? I thought he would never –
"You don't know anything! Stop talking like that! Why do you even care who I see? Who I talk to? It's not going to hurt you, Draco, so just let me make a choice for once!"
Draco looked stunned, as though he had been slapped. Which, if the lingering waves of magic rippling through the air were any suggestion, he likely had been. The analogy of a deer caught in the headlights had never seemed more accurate. Harry breathed heavily, his throat raw at the unexpected strain his voice had undergone. He could never, ever remember speaking so loudly. Yells just didn't escape his mouth.
He didn't care. At that moment, he was just so frustrated. Why did Draco have to say that? Bring up the dark, dirty parts of his past and throw it in his face when he already felt such uncertainty? Why did he have to order him around without compromise, without even pausing to question Harry's choice in the matter? Harry had never been given a choice, not really. Not since that one fated instance when he was eleven. And not again until Dumbledore had offered him the chance to make a decision that would radically change his life nearly a year ago.
Why, why did Draco have to bring it up? He had always been so gentle, so supportive of Harry when it came to his circumstances. Why…?
And suddenly the anger left him and an overwhelming sadness, a bone-weary tiredness, washed over him. The film across his eyes had become an upwelling of full-blown tears that threatened to spill down Harry's cheeks. Humiliatingly, Harry felt his chin begin to quiver with the suppressed emotion. He tucked his head to his chest, struggling to hide the torrent of emotions. He squeezed his eyes together tightly. Don't cry, don't cry, please don't cry, don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry…
He desperately wished for Lyssy.
"Harry… Harry, I'm –"
"Leave me alone, please, Draco." His voice was a croaking whisper. From emotion or in the aftermath of his shout, Harry didn't know.
"Harry…"
He couldn't take it. He felt Draco take a step towards him, felt a hand hesitantly reach for his shoulder, and in an act of uncharacteristic aggression batted it way. The slap rung nearly as loudly as his shout had in the Hall. Draco bodily stumbled a step backwards.
In turn, Harry spun on his heel and fled up the nearest staircase. He wasn't sure where he ran. He didn't really care. Harry just wanted, for the first time since he'd met him, to be away from Draco. To be utterly alone, just like he had been for so much of his life. Loneliness was comfortable. It was familiar.
It was safe.
Thankfully, Draco let him make that decision all by himself.
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The Masks of Real Heroes