Draco, perched in the branches of his favourite tree on the sunny grounds of the Manor and half-asleep, flicked to page three-hundred-and-ninety-four, murmured his passphrase, and blinked at the page of cramped handwriting there.
Draco had learned about the two-way parchments Pettigrew was apparently so adept at making by walking in on Father using one on the second day of his summer holidays. Father had explained what it was willingly enough, and Draco had suggested that once the holidays resumed and he was once again in Gryffindor tower, that that would be a good way for them to keep in touch and pass messages to each other.
Father had been suitably impressed with the idea, and entertained enough by Draco's interest in how they were made that, on the fifth day of holidays, he presented Draco with a piece of parchment. Not an enchanted one but rather one with a series of incantations and spell movements on it that would allow him to create his own pair.
And Draco did. It took him just over a week to get it right, but he managed to create one for himself and one for Father, and then he created a second pair - one on a thick piece of paper that he could stick inside whichever book he was reading at the time, and one on a bit of parchment that he'd had Severus personally deliver to Weasley the night before. Severus had been curious, but hadn't asked.
Weasley had written back that morning:
When did you turn fifteen?
Draco had recognised it as a test almost immediately, though they'd never discussed security questions. So much time around Severus, he supposed.
Some friend you are, Weasley, forgetting something like that. But I suppose if you want to be technical about it, it would have been somewhere at the end of May. You know why, of course…?
And then Draco hadn't heard back until now.
Upon first glance, the sheer amount of writing made him think Granger had somehow got her hands on it, but… no; it was definitely Weasley's handwriting:
Hermione's aged you prematurely, Weasley had written, and Draco smiled. Brilliant idea, this, by the way. I've been looking for something too, but haven't had luck finding anything I'd be able to manage. I've been so close to going to Fred and George for help, but they'd want to know why…
Anyway, how've you been? What's been happening there? I assume it's all okay because you've not shown up here yet (not that you'd be able to, it's so well protected).
Should explain that, I think - we're at- There was a strange scribble there, like Weasley had tried to write something but not been able to. We've been staying with Harry, and will be for the whole summer, I think, but I don't think I can physically say - or write, anyway - any more than that about where we are. Point is, if you do need help, probably best not to try the Burrow, because it'll be empty. Head for Marlene's. But hopefully it doesn't come to that.
Lots going on here. We're not the only ones staying- and again, not much more I can physically put down about that. But it's all the usual lot, plus us Weasleys, and then even more. Fleur's here, if you'd believe it - showed up yesterday with Cedric, but he went back home after and she didn't. Skeeter'll be beside herself if she gets wind of it.
Hermione and Ginny would want me to say hello if they knew I was writing to you, so hello. And Harry would too, I think, or maybe not... He's not doing too well. Keeping to himself mostly, and I don't think I've seen him smile properly since we got here. I don't know if it's Voldemort, or his hand, or both, or something else - he hasn't said anything about any of them. Hermione's tearing her hair out over him - we all are a bit, I think, and it's hard to know what'll set him off at the moment. I feel sorry for Sirius. He's having nightmares again too. Not Voldemort messing him around again though, I think it's memories from the graveyard. The first night he was mumbling a bit and Sirius came in to check on him and Harry woke up and attacked him before he realised where he was. I've been bunking with Bill since - Sirius thought that was safer for the moment. No idea what we'll do when we're all back at school, though.
Cheery, eh? Figured you'd want to know, though. I would if it was me.
Looking forward to hearing back from you, mate. I hope everything's all right, and if you can wrangle it, it'd be great to see you here. You'll need Snape to help you with that, though.
Ron
Draco had to read it several times - some things were oddly cryptic, but he had what he thought were good guesses about what it meant; they'd obviously upped the security on Grimmauld, and though he wasn't sure how, thought it must be fairly extreme if it was preventing Weasley from revealing much about it, even in completely private and secure correspondence. It was good they were safe, though, and - though it was only a guess - had an increased Order presence around them.
Around Potter, especially, given what had happened at the end of June.
Draco summoned a quill through the open library window above him and began to write:
You're right that I wanted to know, grim as the update may be. From the sound of things he'll bite your head off if you try to get too involved, but if you can manage it, it's probably best to keep him from wallowing. If anyone can get away with it without offending or annoying him, it'd probably be you. And if not… here's hoping time and rest over the summer helps.
Things here have been strangely quiet in that nothing of note has happened. Mother spoke to me a few nights back and asked if I was sure I was ready to meet and serve the Dark Lord. I think she's worried, but Father seems excited. He has a spring in his step he didn't have last summer and he's been out and about more rather than at home. He's not said much about where he's been going or what he's been doing, though it's not hard to guess if you follow the papers. It'd be nice to see him so content, if I wasn't so opposed to the reason for it.
As for the Dark Lord himself, time will tell, I suppose. I'll keep you updated. Likewise if I'm able to coordinate a visit.
Draco
"...liaison called Silverhand," Matt said. He looked exhausted, and rather bruised, though the moon wasn't for another day.
"Silverhand?" Sirius asked sharply. Harry hadn't said anything, but Sirius hadn't missed the way he'd stiffened. Sirius had got very good at understanding what Harry didn't say so far this summer.
He'd had to.
"That's what Ethan said," Matt said. "Negotiations or whatever you want to call them have changed since He returned, namely in that I'm being kept in the dark about it all, and so are quite a few of the others." He and Remus shared a troubled look across the table. "Silverhand's a human man, apparently. It could be Macnair or Pettigrew have taken a packname—but Ethan wasn't there last time they were, then, so he wouldn't know if it is one of them. He said it's a very literal name, though, and last I checked, neither fit that description—"
"Peter does now," Sirius said grimly.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, watching Sirius over his half-moon spectacles, from the end of the table.
"I don't understand," Cedric interjected into the silence that followed. He was seated between Fleur and Fred, brow furrowed, and didn't look sure he ought to be speaking. But when no one objected, he continued, "I thought the Ministry was meant to be reaching out to the werewolves, like they are the giants…?"
Another silence fell over the table, this one decidedly unhappy:
"They were," Dumbledore said, after a moment. "But Cornelius has since changed his mind." He looked grim.
"Changed his mind?" Hestia asked incredulously.
"When he removed the Dementors from Azkaban, they joined You-Know-Who," Amelia Bones said, staring at her hands. Anyone who'd seen the paper knew that much, Sirius thought; there'd been reports of attacks and Kissings every day since it happened. "He now believes the Headmaster has given him bad advice… set the enemy up with more allies."
"They'd have joined him anyway," Bill said, frowning.
"Try telling Fudge that," Mad-Eye grunted.
"Scrimgeour tried," Percy said, exchanging a look with Amelia.
"So… where does that leave us, then?" Arabella Figg asked, looking around the table.
"Cornelius is no longer accepting my owls, or my advice," Dumbledore said. "He has no intention of sending envoys to either the werewolves or giants. And so, we shall. I'm sure Hagrid's absence has not gone unnoticed." The only one to stir at that was Harry, who, it seemed, had missed that. His mouth turned down, then he noticed Sirius watching and straightened, eyes going back to Dumbledore. "He and Olympe Maxime have agreed to approach the giants. As for the werewolves, Matt is already in place, of course, however..."
Dora made a small noise in the back of her throat as a look passed between Dumbledore and Remus. Remus didn't seem surprised, and, honestly neither was Sirius. Stella sat on her father's lap, unusually quiet, looking around at the eyes that were suddenly aimed in her direction.
"When?" Remus asked.
"As soon as you're able," Dumbledore said. Remus inclined his head.
"The moon's tomorrow," he said. "I'd rather not risk being there for it—" Matt nodded. "—but I'll go the morning after it."
"Is that a good idea?" Marlene asked. "If Pettigrew's been spending time with the pack…"
"If he's not clever enough to take my presence as a cue to leave, then he'll deserve the reunion," Remus said. His tone was light, calm, but his eyes were hard. "I'd say he and I are well overdue for one, as it is."
Sirius smelled worry on Dora, and an exasperated sort of disapproval on Marlene… but Fleur's scent was considering, and the twins' were a touch impressed.
Harry's was a tangle of loathing and guilt and anger and misery that built into something overwhelming. Matt made a strange choking noise, looking at Harry in alarm.
"All right?" Sirius murmured, resting his foot lightly atop Harry's. They had chairs in here, not benches, and though they were all seated fairly closely, that was the most contact he could make without being obvious.
Harry's jaw set but he didn't respond or look at Sirius other than to move his foot out of reach. He kept his eyes straight ahead, and though his scent didn't change, the intensity of it settled a little as the seconds passed.
Remus caught Sirius' eye, troubled.
"So while we're sending our people off to do the Ministry's work," Aberforth grunted, "are the Ministry doing anything?"
"There've been the brochures," Emmeline said sarcastically.
"Brochures?" Dung blinked.
"On how to defend yourself against dark wizards," Fred said.
"And dark creatures," George said. "Sorry Moony, Matt." Matt waved a hand, and Remus just shook his head. "See, the Ministry figures that if they're not going to try to stop attacks before they can start, they're going to try to tell us how to survive them."
"Bloody joke," Mad-Eye muttered.
"The Ministry has taken one positive step," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort has learned of the location of a… weapon."
"A weapon?" Sirius asked sharply.
"Now that his body is restored, he is seeking to make it so that he cannot be beaten. He believes that being in possession of this object will enable that." A murmur of disquiet rippled through the room.
"What is it?" Dora asked, frowning.
"That is need-to-know, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said, apologetic, but unwavering.
"Will it?" Harry asked, speaking for the first time all meeting. A hush fell over the room—even those who hadn't been living with him lately went still and quiet, though whether it was because Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and had escaped Voldemort only a few short weeks ago, or because even they had noticed how withdrawn he'd been, Sirius couldn't have said.
"Pardon, Harry?"
"Will it make him unbeatable?" Harry asked.
"I couldn't say," Dumbledore said. "But regardless, I'd prefer to keep it out of Voldemort's hands; for as long as we do, it remains a power Voldemort knows not—" He was talking about the prophecy, Sirius realised. Harry nodded, mouth turning down, and his awful, tangled scent returned. "-and we have an advantage. Thankfully, the Ministry is also aware of Voldemort's sudden interest in the Department of Mysteries —though I do not believe they know why— and have had the Unspeakables increase their security."
"Better them than us," Marlene muttered.
"I don't know," Kingsley murmured. "I'd take guard duty there over Azkaban." Dora grimaced, as did Sirius and Marlene. With the Dementors gone, security there was now part of the D.M.L.E.'s responsibility.
"My agenda is exhausted," Dumbledore said. "So unless anyone else would like to provide an update…?" Silence hung over the room for a few long moments. "No? Then I declare the meeting ended."
Harry was the first to move, pushing quietly back from the table as everyone else stretched and more casual chatter broke out. His scent was frayed, and Sirius half-stood, reaching for him, but Harry angled himself away and was out of the room before Sirius had the chance.
Sirius had expected it to be a difficult summer—for Harry, with nightmares and memories and his new disability and the pressure of the prophecy and impending war. And he'd expected to struggle himself, with having to watch Harry struggle and only being able to help so much.
He hadn't expected to not be able to help at all, and certainly not because Harry wouldn't let him.
"I…" Molly wasn't looking at Sirius, but rather at Harry's empty seat between her own and Sirius', so it took Sirius a moment to realise she was talking to him. "I haven't wanted to push, Sirius, but— after Ginny's first year, Arthur and I reached out to a Mind Healer… Maybe Harry—"
"No," Sirius said, more sharply than he meant to, shoving to his feet. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry, Molly, it's not you-"
"I know," she said, with a small, sad smile. And she did; she'd been living with Harry too.
"And I'm not against the idea but Harry obviously doesn't want to talk—not to me, or Remus, or Ron or Hermione— and that's not getting better with time… What chance does a Mind Healer have?" He shook his head.
"What's the alternative?" Molly asked. "Because letting him withdraw like this—"
"I know," Sirius snapped. He didn't apologise this time, but Molly gave him another sad smile and leaned over to squeeze his arm. "I know," he said, tired this time, and put his hand on hers briefly. "I'm trying."
But she was right that this couldn't go on.
Something was eating at Harry, and it was more than just his missing hand and the fact that Voldemort had returned. Sirius wasn't sure if it was something Harry was putting on himself, or if it was more sinister than that, if Voldemort was in his head again, but regardless, it was clear time and space was not only not helping, but possibly making things worse.
It was with that in mind that Sirius went upstairs—past Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, as Harry must have—to knock on Harry's door.
No answer came from within, though his scent was so fresh that he had to be in there.
"Harry?" Sirius said.
Several more seconds of silence, and then, there came a very reluctant, "What?"
Sirius tried the doorknob and was unsurprised to find it locked.
"It's locked," Harry said unhelpfully.
"Yeah," Sirius said. "I can see that. Want to unlock it? Or can I?"
A long pause.
"I s'pose," Harry said, and Sirius didn't hear movement, so he drew his own wand.
"Alohomora," he said, and pushed the door open. Harry was curled up on the windowsill, wrists resting on his knees. He didn't say anything, but he watched Sirius rather warily.
"Interesting meeting," Sirius tried, and Harry's mouth turned down. He went back to staring out the window. Sirius sighed. "You all right?" It was a stupid question—Sirius was already wishing he hadn't asked it before he'd even got the words out.
"Yeah," Harry said, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Obviously."
"Kiddo…"
"What?" Harry asked. Sirius opened his mouth then closed it again. Harry's jaw set.
"What?" Sirius repeated, more gently than Harry had. "I'm not getting this right," Sirius said. "I know I'm not because you're miserable, but I really am just trying to help—"
"I know," Harry said miserably, and ran a hand—his only hand—through his hair.
"So tell me how," Sirius tried. He went to squeeze in between the window frame and Harry's back, and something in him eased a little when Harry didn't pull away. "Let me help." Harry shook his head, and guilt and shame and loathing began to build in his scent. They were oddly muted—a conscious effort from Harry, Sirius thought. They'd been here before, multiple times this summer; Sirius could feel Harry withdrawing, internalising whatever it was. But, he could also feel something staticky building in the air around them—that too had become a familiar thing this summer. "Hey," Sirius said quickly, soothingly. "Easy, kiddo." Harry shook his head. "Remember your dreams? You kept it quiet—from me, anyway—for so long, but then once you told me, I was able to help. We got Snape, and then Quirrell, and it worked. Let this be like that."
"It's not," Harry said, and did pull away this time, though he remained on the windowsill.
"Why not?" Sirius asked his back. Harry said nothing, and didn't turn to look at him.. "All right," Sirius said. "All right, don't let me help, if that's such an awful idea." He'd meant to say it teasingly, but his voice came out more bitter and frustrated. The guilt in Harry's scent grew, and Sirius winced. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "But maybe you can let me understand?"
"You can't," Harry said.
"Try me," Sirius said. "Even if it's just a little bit."
"No."
"Why not?" Sirius asked.
"Because I don't want you to," Harry snapped. He shoved off the windowsill, hissed a little in surprise and pain, then, cradled his stump in his hand. He held himself like a cornered wolf, and there was a sick sort of fear in his scent now to match. Sirius felt a little like he'd been slapped, but also more worried for Harry than ever. It was not a pleasant sensation.
Sirius took another steadying breath.
"Why not?" he asked, as levelly as he could. Harry didn't say anything, but his scent did, and it was shame that Sirius could smell most strongly; it made Sirius feel like he had ants under his skin—itchy, stinging, uncomfortable.
"I don't know what you've done, or thought, or imagined, or— or— I have no idea," Sirius said. "But remember who you're talking to, eh? I grew up listening to the pureblood agenda. I've been a git, a snob, a prat, a pillock, a bully—" He'd hoped that might get Harry to crack a smile, but it didn't. "—and I nearly used one of my best friends to murder Snape when I wasn't much older than you are now. I told your parents to switch to Wormtail, I took you and hid from the Ministry, I took you to the cave to get Regulus' locket, I've used Unforgivables, I misled the Auror department about Crouch and Eric, and I've made bad choices, and I've killed people because I've fought in a war." Harry looked uncertain, but not unfriendly, so Sirius pushed on, hopeful. "The point, kiddo—and we've had this conversation before—is that whatever bad thing you've done, or think you've done, or are scared of doing, I've probably done it myself before... or done worse."
Rather than ease, Harry's expression shuttered. Sirius wasn't sure what he'd done, but he knew it hadn't improved things any.
Please just don't let it have made things worse, he thought.
"Sorr—"
But Harry turned and strode out the door, presumably to find somewhere else to brood now that Sirius' best-intentions had chased him out of his own room.
Sirius leaned back against the window frame and rubbed his hands over his face. Then, he set his mouth in a grim line and headed downstairs, hoping Dumbledore hadn't left yet.
Quirinus' wand twitched and began to hum in his pocket a few seconds before sharp knocking started at his door.
He drew his wand and set his book down silently, then eased himself to his feet. The knocks came again, and Quirinus crept forward, socked feet inaudible on the carpet—
"I can hear you, Quirrell," came Black's irritable voice. "Stop slinking around and open the bloody door."
Quirinus huffed and strode forward to peer through the spy hole. Black was alone, dressed as a muggle in jeans and a t-shirt, and a little distorted through the glass lens.
Unlikely to be a Death Eater then, if he can dress like a muggle, Quirinus thought, but didn't open the door.
"What was my father's name?" he asked.
"Why in Merlin's name would I know that?" Black asked, glowering at the door. "Unless you mean Morton's father? Paul, wasn't it?"
Quirinus undid the chain on the door and then pulled the door open. Black walked right in but didn't move far beyond the threshold. Quirinus leaned around him to close the door again.
"I take it Potter's not in France then?" he asked. He asked it mainly to rile Black—riling was about as good as he could manage, given his Vow—but it was a genuine question. Skeeter was claiming in her articles that Potter was, that he'd followed Delacour back, since the last time he'd been seen by anyone at all was the day that the other schools left Hogwarts.
Black curled his lip.
"No," he said shortly. "He's here." He thrust a piece of parchment into Quirinus' hand, gave him three seconds to read it, and then snatched it back and set it alight.
"At the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," Quirinus mused. "Makes sense, I suppose."
It made a lot of sense; according to the Prophet, He had returned to power on the night of the fourth task. Exactly how Potter had been involved was not clear, but he definitely had been, or at least, that was what the Prophet was implying.
Then again, Potter's involvement might all be rumour, or speculation. Quirinus certainly had no way of knowing for sure; he'd not heard from Potter or Black since mid-June.
Quirinus didn't think so, though. He was obsessed with Potter, would have wanted him there for His resurrection, or whatever it had been. And Potter was nosy, determined, or unlucky enough to have been involved.
"How is he?" Quirinus asked, but he thought he knew the answer to that one too; it was all over Black's face, in the worried lines around his eyes, in the tight set of his mouth, and the furrow between his brows.
"Not well," Black said.
"And you're here to extort me into helping him, I suppose?" Quirinus asked, though he was already on board. Potter was interesting. His mind and his connection to Him was a puzzle, a challenge, and working with him was Quirinus' redemption—he'd played an active role in dooming one child to Him. In saving Potter from the same, Quirinus would balance out his moral ledger. Or so he told himself. He also told himself it didn't have anything to do with the fact that Potter was incredibly decent and not at all deserving of the lot he'd been dealt.
"Help him if you can," Black said, as if he didn't think that was likely. "But if you can't, then at the very least, I'd like some insight into what's happening in his head."
That took Quirinus by surprise, and it must have shown on his face because Black scowled, but not quickly enough to mask the guilty desperation on his face.
"Snape refused, did he?"
"Didn't ask," Black said shortly. "Harry's open to you having access to his mind—"
"And you'd like me to abuse that," Quirinus said, nodding. "Got it." He gave Black a mocking smile and Black flushed, expression somewhere between angry and uncomfortable.
"I'm not—" Black made a growling sound deep in his throat. "You're not going to be entering his mind without his permission," he said. "If you show up tomorrow and he refuses to have another go at finding the door, then that'll be the end of it. But if he lets you in, I'm asking that you take a look around while you're there."
"And report back to you on what I see," Quirinus said, "yes, I got that before." He tilted his head, considering. "What are you expecting me to see?"
"If I knew, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Black said. "But I'm beginning to suspect Voldemort... left something in there, after the graveyard. Maybe something physical—mental—" Black waved a hand, grimacing, "—or maybe it was something he said, or did that's stuck with Harry. Maybe it's something he made Harry do, or maybe he's using the door again now to— I don't know." Black shook his head, visibly upset and frustrated, then ran his hands through his hair. "I don't know. And until I do, I can't do anything to help Harry."
Quirinus could almost feel it, a reaction of sorts from his Vow in the face of this new information. It wasn't a compulsion to help, or an urge to run to Potter's aid. It felt like his skin was crawling, and like he'd just swallowed something large and cold; it sat heavy in his stomach and made his chest feel tight, like each breath wasn't quite bringing in as much air as he wanted.
It was his Vow's way of reminding him what would happen if he refused to uphold it.
Black watched him struggle with it, unrepentant as ever; there was very little he would not do if he believed it would help or protect his godson. Quirinus had learned that early on.
"Shall we, then?" Quirinus asked, curling his lip.
"Tomorrow," Black said. "I'm not going to be home tonight."
"And Potter and I aren't allowed alone unsupervised?" They had been several times at Hogwarts and while Black hadn't liked it, he had allowed it.
"No," Black said. He looked troubled in a way that made Quirinus think it was not only Potter he thought might be at risk if they were not, and that was enough to dry up any further quips Quirinus might have had.
"Tomorrow, then."
Hello!
I know I said I wouldn't continue to post on this platform, but over the last couple of weeks I've had more reviews and messages that I expected to asking me to reconsider, for a range of accessibility reasons... Well, I've reconsidered, so here you go! :)
Update schedule will be fortnightly moving forward.
Happy reading!
MarauderLover7