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The Dust of Water	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 20634 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
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Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twenty-Nine—Internal Conversations
            Harry ended up sleeping late the next morning, curled into himself in the midst of a bed that seemed too large. Rationally, he knew when he opened his eyes, it was a lot smaller than the one he’d shared in the Manor with Malfoy, but—
            It felt that way.
            The room at the Leaky Cauldron was small and quiet. Tom had given him a cautious look when Harry came in and asked for a room, as if he assumed that Dark wizards or Death Eaters were about to descend on him if he granted Harry’s request. But he’d finally nodded and handed the key over after whatever acceptable amount of time for him had passed.
            Harry looked at the change of clothes he’d brought and thought about going to take a shower. Or a bath. It had been ten years, or longer, since he had any memories here. Maybe they had new bathrooms.
            In the end, though, he’d cast a Cleaning Charm on himself that stung his teeth with the taste of mint and left his hair ruffled and sticking up on end with the strands softly rustling. Harry sighed, forced his hair flat again, and stretched several times.
            He had needed the sleep. After all the revelations of yesterday, he’d needed some emotional distance from them.
            But he needed to think now.
            Harry half-closed his eyes. Did he want a duelist’s career, or anything else that might end up with someone taking the Elder Wand away from him?
            No. He’d only leaped at the idea in the first place because it had sounded sensible, and Harry wanted anything that sounded sensible. He wanted to have a place in the world again, a job that would pay him, colleagues who would look at him as if he was just someone who worked there and not anything special—
            But if he had a business training people in dueling skills, everyone who came there would expect to see something special. He would be trading on his reputation in the first place, offering people a chance to train with Harry Potter, not just train.
            Harry sighed. All right, that was out, then. And even if he had wanted to go back and be an Auror, he didn’t think he could, with no memory of his training and the same problem with the Elder Wand going to someone else if they defeated him.
            What, then?
            Harry gave a faint smile then, as another thought occurred to him.
            I don’t remember what I learned for my NEWT’s any more than I remember what I did in Auror training. Maybe there’s something else I would have liked to study without the constant pressure of saving the world. And maybe there is something I liked that I didn’t dare follow up on, because Old Harry had already decided that he needed to sacrifice everything to appearing normal.
            So the sensible thing to do was take classes, or get private tutoring, and see what he liked. Maybe Arithmancy? Something to do with runes?
            Something to do with magical creatures, even. What Harry had learned from Hagrid’s lessons and Professor Grubbly-Plank’s, he’d enjoyed, although at the time he hadn’t thought of making a career out of it.
            Harry felt his smile come back stronger. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but maybe he didn’t need to find a permanent solution this early. It had taken years for Old Harry to turn into an Auror, along with an unpleasant idiot.
            If Harry could subdue the impulse to jump into something right away, if he could live until he had a greater plan in mind, then it would be better. Harry didn’t want to repeat Old Harry’s mistakes. He didn’t want to get into anything where people would expect him to have a certain “standard” rather than doing what he wanted to.
            For now, he would go to Flourish and Blotts and pick up some books in each of the subjects he didn’t remember well, plus more advanced textbooks in the subjects he did remember, like Transfiguration and Defense. And he would get a stack of parchment and multiple quills and inkwells.
            He had letters to write.
*
            Dear Ron and Hermione,
            I wanted to tell you that I left Malfoy’s house. We had a fight about something he hadn’t told me, and I didn’t want to stay there for the moment. But this is to get my head together. I’m not deciding that he’s a horrible person and I’m leaving him permanently.
            Harry sprawled in the middle of the bed in the Leaky Cauldron, nibbling on his quill. Then he stopped and spat a little. He had to admit, when he thought about what he was doing instead of just biting, it tasted horrible.
            What else would his friends want to know? Harry thought of it a second later and wrote it down.
            I’m physically all right. It just struck me all at once, these things I don’t know, these secrets my old self kept. Having some time by myself to sort out my thoughts was essential.
            Then Harry lay there and stared at the ceiling for a little while more, trying to decide if he should tell them about Rob or not.
            No more secrets, he decided, and wrote a brief summary of what Rob had told him and what Malfoy had admitted to. When that was done, he folded up the letter without looking at it and tucked it away on the table beside the bed. He had others to write, and he didn’t want to second-guess himself and keep changing the letter, when it said everything he wanted it to just the way it was.
            But in the meantime, he had some books to read.
*
            “Hello, Harry Potter.”
            Harry felt as though someone had stabbed a needle into his ear when he heard that voice. He turned around and stared at the woman who stood behind the table, giving him as calm a smile as though they were old friends. And then she moved over and sat down on the other side of the table without his permission!
            “I was really wondering if I would get the pleasure of interviewing you,” Rita Skeeter said musingly, taking out the bright green quill he remembered and a long scroll of parchment and putting them beside her on the table. “And then you showed up in the Leaky Cauldron at the same time as me! Almost as if you were looking for someone to tell your story.” She folded her arms in front of her and waited.
            “If I was looking for someone to tell my story,” Harry said coldly, and moved his plate and mug further away from her, “it certainly wouldn’t be you.”
            “But I’m not the woman you remember. We made some peace in the last few years, and I helped you with certain stories.”
            From the way Skeeter looked at him, Harry suspected she knew part or all of his blackmailing history. Well, Old Harry’s blackmailing history. That didn’t make Harry any more inclined to trust her. He only shook his head and turned back to his breakfast.
            To his amazement, Skeeter sat there for a few minutes before she tried to interrogate him again. She’d at least gained patience, Harry thought, sneaking a look at her, along with some lines in her face.
            “You are different,” she said musingly. “The last time I tried to talk to you, you ended up stalking away from me before I finished a sentence. And now, you think you can make me go away by ignoring me.” She leaned back and shook her head. “You have the patience to actually ignore me, too. I’m impressed. The Harry Potter I came to know was always impatient, as if he thought one of his own secrets was hunting him down.”
            Remember that she may know less than she pretends to. That was one trick Harry hadn’t forgotten when he woke up, because he’d known it before he ever went into Auror training. Hell, sometimes he had used it on the Dursleys, hinting that he knew some terrible secret Aunt Petunia was trying to keep from the neighbors to coax him into giving her more food.
            But he still ate until his plate was empty, and then started to stand up.
            “Aren’t you interested in counteracting the rumors with some of your own?” Skeeter followed him to the brick wall that led into Diagon Alley. Harry could sense Tom’s glance at his back, and shook his head a little. It would serve as an answer for both of them.
            “At least you admit it would be rumors, and not the truth, if you wrote it,” Harry told her dryly, and opened the wall.
            Skeeter followed him outside. Harry ignored her as he turned towards the Owl Emporium. He had made some decisions, and they included getting a new owl so he actually had a reliable means of postal delivery.
            “I didn’t say that. But I do think that most people who read my stories will think that anything is rumors. They’ll pick the ones they like the best to believe. The least you could do is offer them a choice, and then maybe they would pick the ones favorable to you.”
            Harry snorted a little, noting that most of the people who turned to stare were looking at Skeeter and not him. He wondered if that was because no one expected to see him here, or maybe because Old Harry had gone around with an entourage, and its absence was confusing people. “They’ll never pick the ones most favorable to me. You’d poison them against me.”
            “Why should I?” Skeeter put her hand flat over her heart.
            “Because something like that sells more papers than simply reporting the truth.”
            Skeeter smiled. “You have a much better grasp of politics than you used to. But this time, I am offering you a sincere deal. It’s a limited-time offer, so you might as well take me up on it and pay the price later.”
            “What would the price be?”
            Skeeter’s smile grew, and Harry silently cursed himself. He shouldn’t have made it sound as though paying it was even an option. He turned firmly into the Owl Emporium, but Skeeter still followed him.
            “Can I help you?” the shopkeeper began, and then stopped and gasped when he got a good look at Harry’s face.
            “Not for now,” said Harry, with a smile that he hoped would freeze Skeeter out. She seemed immune to it, alas, but the shopkeeper shrank away from him. “I’m looking for a bird, but I’d like to choose my own.”
            “O-of course, sir.”
            Harry wanted to pause and stare at the shopkeeper, wondering if Old Harry had threatened even him. But that would probably only frighten the man more, so instead, he turned and started studying the owls on their perches. He deliberately ignored the snowy owls, even though he thought they were the most beautiful.
            He wanted to begin anew. Old Harry had been so grief-stricken over Hedwig’s passing that he hadn’t ever bought a new owl, apparently. Harry could respect that, but he wasn’t going to be Old Harry or his younger self. He would have a new bird, but not a snowy.
            “The price would depend on what you could pay,” Skeeter murmured, easing up beside him. “I deal more in information than other currencies, I’m sure you know that. And I don’t have that much use for Galleons. The book I wrote on Dumbledore brought me more than I could easily use.”
            Harry froze for a second, because her stupid book on Dumbledore felt much more recent than it really was. Then he shook his head and studied the barn owl in front of him. It was a handsome bird, brown with golden eyes, but it turned its head away, and Harry moved onto the next.
            “If you have enough money, I’m surprised you returned to being a reporter,” he threw over his shoulder.
            “Stories are in the blood,” Skeeter said, and then she gave a rustling little laugh and added, “And praise for my book is rare now that it’s been out for a decade. If I want people to keep talking about my writing, I need to bring out new stories.”
            Harry said nothing. That he could understand her, and she seemed both calmer and more reasonable than she ever had, disturbed him.
            All of the adult barn owls shivered and turned away from him. Harry was about to give up and move towards the back of the shop, which held the owlets, when he heard a hungry screech from above him.
            When Harry looked up, the eagle-owl on the high perch launched itself at him.
            Harry had already lifted his wand when he noticed the chain around the owl’s foot, binding it to the perch. And the owl seemed to know it was there, too. At least, it didn’t fall forwards and hang helplessly the way Harry thought other birds might. It landed on the empty perch beside it, straining the chain to its full extent, and snapped its beak at him. Its wings were enormous, bigger than the bloody thing had any right to be, including the shadow they cast. The owl hunched, and Harry could see the bloody hatred in its eyes.
            “Excuse me, sir,” said the shopkeeper, and stepped carefully around Harry to approach the eagle-owl. “That’s just Royal. He’s…temperamental.”
            “Does he hate everyone who comes in?” Harry couldn’t see the man selling many owls if he got frightened customers all the time.
            “No.” The shopkeeper glanced at him nervously out of a thicket of beard and moustache. He was trying to coax Royal back onto the high perch, but evidently Royal didn’t want to go. “Most of the time, he only turns his head away and pretends that he didn’t see them at all. That’s as much attention as I’ve seen him give anyone, actually. Ever.”
            “Clearly,” said Skeeter, “this is meant to be your owl, Mr. Potter. I’m so glad I could help you discover him.”
            Harry shook his head a little. “He looks like he wants to eat me, not be my owl.”
            The shopkeeper turned around and studied him. “No offense, but this is probably cordial by his standards, Mr. Potter.”
            Harry said nothing, but looked steadily into the black eagle-owl’s eyes. They were a blazing orange, so different from Hedwig’s that they made him smile a little. Royal seemed to see the smile and go madder. His wings hammered at the air as he lunged forwards against the chain.
            Harry did something that he couldn’t explain afterwards, although more than one person asked him when he described it. He raised the Elder Wand and murmured “Frango” at the chain.
            It broke with a sound that made the shopkeeper duck and yelp. Royal soared straight at Harry, his beak open and his wings beating as though he was going to hit Harry to death instead of peck his eyes out.
            Harry stood there and watched him come. His emotions danced around in his head, wild things that hurt his temples with the force of their throbbing. If he could have put them into words, it would be something like: He might as well do what he wants with me. Fate and time already have.
            But Royal didn’t beat him to death or peck his eyes out. Instead, he landed on Harry’s shoulder, with a casual flex of his feet that sent blood spurting up under Harry’s robes, and stared into Harry’s eyes.
            Harry had to tilt his head back to allow room for Royal on his shoulder and meet the owl’s eyes both at once. Royal snapped his beak once and then turned and delicately preened a feather in his wing. He might have decided that Harry was going to be his next perch, and nothing more important than that. The only sign he gave otherwise was when the shopkeeper approached him with a warily lifted arm, and he turned his head back and brought his beak down on air with a decisive snap.
            “Your bird,” said Skeeter, but she sounded a little dazed.
            “Yes,” said Harry slowly. He wasn’t the boy he had been at Hogwarts, with a snowy owl who understood his every word and nibbled his ears in affection. He wasn’t Old Harry, with his steadfast refusal to get an owl. He was someone else. “My bird.”
            Royal brought his head down and eyed Harry in what seemed to be meditative silence. Then he turned to preen a feather again.
            And that, Harry thought, carefully healing the wounds Royal had caused in his shoulder with the Elder Wand and turning to pay for a cage and owl treats, is as much acknowledgement as I’m going to get.
*
SP777: Well, how exactly would you want for that? ;)
Severus1snape: It is, in this case, what he needs.
moodysavage: That’s exactly what Harry’s going to do, since he doesn’t remember a lot, and doesn’t want to rely on the Elder Wand to creepily blurt spells at him all the time.
Harry doesn’t know what happened to Lucius.
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The Dust of Water