The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the morning, Ginny deliberately sat down next to Harry at breakfast. She threw him a challenging look and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. He flushed furiously and took refuge in his coffee.
"Don't do that," he muttered.
"Why not?" she said calmly. "I love you. I'm mad about you and I don't care if anyone knows it." Then she poured her own tea and ate her breakfast with small, fierce bites, like a cat tearing into its catch. Across the table, Ron and Hermione gawped at them, as did Seamus and Dean and Neville.
"Everybody's looking," he protested. "I hate being gawped at."
"You should be used to it by now," Ginny said unsympathetically. "You're famous. People gawp at you all the time."
"That doesn't mean I have to like it," Harry answered testily.
She smiled at him gleefully and said, "You might as well get used to it. And anyway," she added, "isn't it better to be stared at because your girl kissed you than because you're famous?"
"My girl!" Harry said. He started to protest again but the words died unsaid. He blinked and found that a small grin had worked its way up to the corners of his mouth. The grin broadend and he repeated quietly, "My girl. I think I like the sound of that, you know." He looked at her bemused and saw that Ron was watching him carefully, probably trying to decide whether to deck him or shake his hand. Hermione, on the other hand, was smiling with satisfaction. He could have sworn that she actually purred.
"It's about time," Hermione said, "that you let yourself be human for a bit."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"It means," Ron said, "it's about time you quit thinking you can exist all alone without your friends and without help. It means maybe you'll learn how to be part of family after all." He stared Harry down and said with a glance at Ginny, "But not too fast, mate."
“We are cozy, aren't we?" Draco Malfoy's drawl sliced through Harry's happiness and sent trickles of worry down his spine. He looked up and saw the blond Slytherin looking from Harry to Ginny with something like envy. He saw, too, that Malfoy was carrying his trunk and was clearly on his way out to catch the Hogwarts Express, which was set to take those students who were going home for the Easter holidays. The habitual loathing he felt for Malfoy rose and he nearly made a sneering comment in return. But another thought bubbled up unbidden that pushed his ususal dislike to the side.
"Going home?" Harry asked frowning.
"Where else would I be going?" Malfoy asked. "At least I've got a home, one that's worth going to." Harry ignored the jibe, which took in both his own uncomfortable residence with the Dursleys and the simplicity of the Weasley's in one sentence.
"Do you?" Harry asked. "What about your Dad? Will he be there? He's not real happy with you right now, is he?"
Malfoy's eyes narrowed and the pale gray darkened. "So what if he is?"
Harry considered Malfoy and a feeling of discomfort washed over him. "He won't be very pleased with you, Malfoy. You messed up his plans last Valentine's Day. You messed up Voldemort's plans. Maybe it's not worth going home for you just now."
Malfoy stood quite still. Then he shrugged and said flatly, "My Mum wants me. So I'm going." He turned his back on them and made for the Castle door without another word.
Hermione said quietly, "That was kind of you, Harry, to try to warn him."
"Kind?" Harry said. "I'm not trying to be kind. I just happen to have an idea what Voldemort does when people annoy him. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even Malfoy." He stared after the Slytherin for a moment more and said, "It's about the only thing nice about him, isn't it, that he loves his Mum."
"Everybody loves their Mum," Ron said. I bet even You Know who did."
Harry shook his head. "Voldemort never loved anybody and his Mum died when he was small. Maybe that's why he's so evil. Nobody ever loved him, so he doesn't know what it is. He's not capable of it. It would be sad if he wasn't so evil."
The holidays should have been restful and fun. The sun came out every day and a warm south wind tickled their noses when they ventured outside during teh days. But even when they sat by the lake, they were loaded down with homework and studying for their NEWTs. Hermione kept them to her schedule from after breakfast each morning until midnight every night. They practiced conjuring and vanishing spells. They wrote practice essays till their hands cramped. And though Harry tried to escape at least twice, they even prepared the three potions
Hermione was certain would come up on the exam: the Draught of Living Death; the Shrinking Potion; and the Revitalizing Potion. She even made them memorize everything that had ever been written about the Elixir of Life.
Harry tossed in his bed each night and alternated between dreams that he had arrived at the Great Hall after the tests had been given with strange nightmares in which wildfires scorched the earth and armies of kappas followed him waiting for him to fall.
On the Friday before Easter, Harry rebelled. Perhaps it was the sudden certainty that he'd never be hired no matter how well he did on his NEWts. Perhaps it was sheer overload. In any case, when Hemrione started reading out the day's schedule, he said simply, "No, Hermione." He took the color-coded agenda from her hands and banished it.
Then he stood up and said, "Let's go to Hogsmeade. I want to get out of here for a bit. I want some fresh air and a bottle of butterbeer and I want to hang about and pretend we've nothing more pressing to worry about than who's going to win the next quidditch game."
"Harry!" Hermione said huffily. There was a faint whine of panic as well as she said, "NEWTs are less than two months away. That's less than eight weeks. They start the first of June! We can't lose a day of study. We just can't!"
"I vote we go to Hogsmeade," Ron said. He stood up lazily and stretched his long lanky frame.
Harry grinned at him and said to Hermione, "You won't pass if you crack up first. And I bet you know everything that's on those exams forty times over."
"You don't get it," Hermione said. "I'm a Mudblood. I have to do better than anybody else just to get an interview." Harry gawked at her. It had never crossed his mind that she would worry about that.
He looked at Ron and said, "Tell her that's silly. C'mon. It's ridiculous. You have the highest average practically ever of any student here." Ron, however, did not contradict her.
Instead, he said quite gently, "You won't do as well, Hermione, if you don't take a break once in a while. You'll burn yourself up the way you're going." Her brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears, Hermione let herself be led out the door into the sunshine.
"We'll go over the Transfiguration notes this afternoon then," she insisted.
"And we'll go to the library tonight, if you want," Ron asnwered. "Just breathe some fresh air and smile for an hour or two. You'll do better later, Hermione. Not that it's possible for you to do better anyway."
They were halfway into Hogsmeade when Hermione stopped dead and said, "We have to go back."
"No, we don't," Harry, said firmly. He and Ron exchanged looks of assent and understanding. Just for once, they would make sure that Hermione did something and thought of anything that wasn't to do with school or NEWTs.
"Yes, we do!" Hermione said. "What were we thinking?" She tugged at both boys and said, "I'm so stupid! Harry, you can't go. You'll be outside the Castle. You'll be unprotected. Someone will attack you."
"Nobody is going to attack me," he said.
"How can you say that?" Hermione responded. "Death Eaters attacked here on Valentine's Day. The minute you show your face, someone will tattle, and then they'll come."
Ron stopped and turned indecisively toward Harry. Harry could see in his face, the instinct to avoid danger and yet the desire for the day's simple pleasures. He thought, she's right. And he thought again, in rebellion, no, she's wrong. He wanted badly to get away, yet he knew he could not ignore the possiblity of danger. Ron and Hermione watched him, waiting for his response. They would do what he wanted he thought. If he insisted, they would go; if he said turn back, they would. It was up to him then, to think it through and be careful, for their sakes, if not for his own.
Harry took a deep breath and let his mind fly out and skim the always-waiting edges of his enemy. Carefully, he hovered at the very outskirts, like an animal hunting its prey, he waited still, poised to seek, yet wary of attacting any attention. Letting out his breath in relief, he said coolly, "It's all right. Voldemort has other plans today. And he's quite far away. I don't think he'll show up here when he's busy." Ron gawked only a little. Well, they were more used to his occasional knowledge of Voldemort's moods by now.
"Are you sure?" Hermione asked anxiously.
"Yeah," Harry said. "He's a busy getting his army in shape," he added with a shiver. "Today should be all right. I don't know about tomorrow, or the next day,though." With a shrug, Harry avoided their dismay at his words and strode forward toward the village quickly.
The village was quiet as it was not a regular visitation day for all the students. Only seventh years were allowed to visit on off days, if they were over seventeen. They wandered into Honeydukes and then ended up at the Three Broomsticks. They sat down at one of the octagonal wooden tables, which were scrubbed to a high shine. Like everything else in Hogsmeade and in the Three Broomsticks, the tables were quite old. Many of them bore the engraved initials or graffiti slogans, some of which dated back to the fifteenth century.
Madam Rosmerta brought their butterbeers and Harry could pick out a set of initials on the table though the amber wash of the butterbeer. One slogan said simply “Gryff was heyre” with the date 1492. Oddly, it looked no older than the one that read "JP loves LE" with the date 1976. Both appeared to have been burned into the wood by a wand. Moved by some unnamed whim, Harry let his friends’ latest argument wash over him and surreptitiously added his own bit of graffiti. "HJP loves GMW" and the present date.
He grinned happily to himself. The new graffiti looked as though it had been there a hundred years and he amused himself imagining some other wizard looking at it in some far future date wondering whom the initials belonged to.
Harry swallowed some butterbeer and turned his attention back to Hermione, who was saying, “I just think it’s odd, Muggles being here.”
“It’s just those nutters from the estate agent,” Ron answered. “Imagine them tramping all the way here in those suits. They’re lucky they weren’t eaten by Aragog and his family.” Harry glanced over at the men at the bar. One of them must be the site supervisor as he wore workboots and outdoor gear. The other must be the estate agent himself as he wore the kind of business suit that Uncle Vernon would approve.
“This is a good selling point,” the agent said. He mopped his face with a handkerchief and added, “But we’ll have to run a lane through those woods for the people to drive through. Not everyone will fancy a three or four mile hike through those woods just to get their pint or a cuppa.”
“Run a road through the woods!” Harry said loudly. “You can’t do that.” The estate agent looked at him and Harry caught Madam Rosmerta’s eye. He could have sworn she was laughing.
It occurred to him that no Muggle machine would work very long inside the Forest. There must be way too much magic suffusing the woods for that to happen. The thought steadied him he composed his face, ready for the agent’s question, “Who are you, kid?”
The other man said quietly, “It’s just one of the village kids. They run a school or something not far away. I’ve seen ‘em come with their uniforms on before. Public school; school ties, you know the drill.”
Harry considered the two men with annoyance. They were invading his favorite place and the estate agent reminded him all too much of Uncle Vernon. Curiosity and the whimsical rise of some demon imp impelled his response. “How d’you know I wouldn’t be interested in buying one of your, erm, cottages?” Harry asked with an air of great seriousness.
“Go on,” the site supervisor said laughing. “Tell us another.”
The estate agent, however, perked up and Harry wondered whether they were having trouble selling their country getaways given the distance and difficulty of the commute from any large city. “You look a bit young to be thinking of buying a house,” the agent said. But he continued speculatively, “Then again, they teach you to invest young at the best schools, don’t they?” Ron gave a hoot of laughter, which was cut off when Hermione poked him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Absolutely,” she replied. “In fact, Ron’s brothers’ opened their own emporium before they even graduated.” She opened her eyes quite wide in a way that reminded Harry of her performance for Umbridge, when she had pretended to be afraid and weeping. He barely controlled a snort of laughter himself. Hermione was not a very good actress.
“That’s right,” he said. “In fact, I’ve already got a house of my own up in London, you know, but I might be interested in owning a cottage out of town.” Madam Rosmerta looked torn between laughter and a creeping anxiety. She had been serving students for too long, Harry thought, and she would suss out his plan too soon.
He stood up casually and said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the site, you know, and if you’ve got any already built we could tour?”
The agent’s eyes glinted at the prospect of a sale, but he asked cannily, “How do I know you’ve got the money and credit for something like this? What would your parents think, you buying a house when you’re barely of age?”
Ron stood up too and answered for him. “Harry’s parents are dead and he inherited their fortune. He could probably buy you and sell you five times over.”
“Why not, then?” the agent answered. The agent led the way out of the inn and toward a track into the Forest. Madam Rosmerta looked alarmed as they went and Harry had a feeling she would say something to Dumbledore. But curiosity won out over the knowledge that he was now breaking school rules to venture through the Forbidden Forest. He had a feeling though, that there was something odd about this whole thing and he wanted to find out what he could. He looked at Hermione and saw that she was watching the agent with the same look she gave to a nasty arithmancy problem.
The forest was green and lush and no trace of the ice that had turned it into a wasteland could be seen. As they walked through the Forest at an angle that took them towards its farthest reaches, Harry felt as though eyes were on his back and faint whispers of sound teased at his ears.
The Muggles, however, seemed oblivious to this. The agent said enthusiastically, “This is amazing. I didn’t think there was a proper forest like this left in all of Britain. Makes you think Robin Hood might come jumping down any minute.”
Ron paled at the thought of something coming jumping down out this forest. Harry didn’t feel too happy about it himself. If anything came jumping down on them, it wouldn’t be a human, no matter how legendary. But nothing jumped down; nothing popped out of the thick undergrowth; not even a centaur appeared to warn them out of their territory. After perhaps half an hour, they emerged from the Forest into a valley on the other side. The valley was nestled in between the Forest on one side and mountains on the other.
A faint mist softened the folds of the ground and the valley felt as quiet and deserted as the Forest had appeared. Markers were stuck into the ground every so often and at the far edge, a tractor had begun to dig out the foundations of a cottage. A caravan was parked further along and the estate agent led them there, while the site supervisor went over to where the workers were laying down cable, presumably for the electric to be brought in. The inside of the caravan was set up as an office and the agent brought out pictures of the models, some of which looked very like Number Four, Privet Drive.
“Now this one,” said the agent, “is our most popular model at our site in Cornwall. We sold out our lots there in three weeks after opening them up. I expect we’ll do the same here, but I’ll tell you what. If you want to put down some earnest money, I can talk to the investors and see if we can give you a special pre-construction price.” Harry looked at the poster, which contained a picture of a tidy country suburb that looked as though Little Whinging had been lifted up and transferred to this remote bit of the north.
“All the mod cons,” the agent burbled. “Each cottage looks charming and you can choose the Tudor look or the Georgian mini-manor. Every one has a super-sized Aga oven and if you order it during construction, you can have extra lines for your fax machine or modem.” The agent busily pulled out his mobile phone and left him looking at floor plans. Hermione pulled out a quill and quickly wrote down the name of the bank and the investing company’s name.
Harry said softly, “Brilliant, Hermione.” She grinned back at him and swept the office with a glance that Harry knew would memorize every detail about the place.
“Damn!” the agent said. “My mobile’s lost its charge. I could have sworn I charged it at the hotel last night.” He shook his head at his supposed forgetfulness. Harry supposed, however, that the phone had worked perfectly this morning and had lost its charge when the agent had tramped through the Forest.
“So, erm,” Harry asked, “how much does this model go for?” He pointed to the Tudor style house which boasted four bedrooms, a kitchen with an adjoining sunroom, a library and a second floor entertainment room, and a satellite dish to assure one never missed one’s favorite telly show. So much, Harry thought, for getting away from it all.
“Two fifty,” the agent replied.
“Two fifty?” Harry asked bemused.
“Two hundred fifty thousand pounds,” the agent snapped. “And cheap at the price for a set-up like this. The ones outside of Penzance got snapped up at three fifty.” Ron was frowning, trying, Harry supposed, to convert the Muggle price into wizard currency. He thought that was something like fifty thousand gold galleons, but figured Hermione would be able to give him the exact amount later. He realized with a start that he had no clue how much money he actually had.
The agent sensed that he was losing the sale and said more pleasantly, “I suppose the bank can help you figure out how much of a down payment would be necessary and how much you’d need to pay monthly for the purchase.”
“Who’s the director of the company?” Harry asked abruptly. “I’d like to know something about the company’s, erm, profile.” He eyed the agent and hoped he’d used the right terminology. He thought it was something like Uncle Vernon would ask in this situation. The agent looked impressed.
“Man named Marvel,” he answered. “Never met him myself, but he’s canny all right. Snapped up the land in a flash when it came on the market last fall.” He considered Harry shrewdly and said, “Why don’t you give me your contact information, and I can send you a prospectus in the mail.”
Ron shook his head in alarm, but Harry took the proffered pen and wrote on the pad, “Harry Potter, Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.” The agent looked quite satisfied and said, “Little Whinging, Surrey. Nice neighborhood. Is that where your house is? I thought you said it was in London.”
Harry raised his eyebrows and said coolly, “I get my mail at my uncle’s. The London house is closed up just now.” He shook hands with the agent and thanked him and took one of their leaflets with him. After one last glance at the misty valley, he led Hermione and Ron through the Forest the way they had come. On the return journey, the birds were twittering again and a unicorn followed them all the way back to Hogsmeade, its brilliant white coat and golden hooves reflecting the deep green of the enchanted Forest.
***
Hermione picked her way through the exposed roots of trees that threatened to trip one up and pondered the riddle that was her friend, Harry. He strode through the Forbidden Forest as calmly as though he were going for a walk down Oxford Street and despite his knowledge that he had a mortal enemy always on the lookout to kill him, he had gone off to investigate the new Muggle housing project as blithely as though he were going shopping for new robes at Madam Malkins.
Sometimes, Hermione thought, Harry was becoming the very incarnation of the hero the papers wrote about, and losing altogether the ability to behave like an ordinary person anymore. She recalled the small boy with the sad eyes of their first few years. There had been glimpses even then of this person, the unyielding champion. But now, more and more, he simply did things that no one else would even imagine doing – like going into the Forest in the ice, on the equinox, she thought.
Ron, unlike Harry, cast uneasy glances at the trees from time to time, though he said nothing of his discomfort. She couldn’t but sympathize with Ron and feel that it made him normal, human. The Forest, even in broad daylight, was a dangerous place to be.
Instead of returning to the Castle, Harry led them back to Hogsmeade and into the Three Broomsticks. Selecting a table that allowed a view of the village square, Harry pulled out the leaflets the estate agent had given him and studied them as though he were actually thinking of buying one of the cottages. What he thought he could gain from them, Hermione did not know.
“What, exactly, was the point of that?” Ron asked.
“I want to know who is really behind that,” Harry answered.
“Yeah,” Ron said, “but, why? So what if a bunch of Muggles try to move in on the other side of the Forest? They won’t last long, will they? Just wait until all their tellyphones and machine thingies stop working ‘cause of all the magic coming from the Forest.”
“I dunno,” Harry said contemplatively. “I just have a weird feeling about it. This is awfully far for Muggles to come for weekend or summer cottages. Even from London to Penzance makes sense. This is…just too far.” Harry glanced at Hermione for support. She frowned and tried to phrase what she would say tactfully.
“It is a bit weird,” she said, “but…you don’t really think Voldemort has anything to do with it? The estate agent and the other man, they both looked like ordinary Muggles to me. Even if it is far, maybe it’s just bad judgment on their part.” She didn’t like to say that maybe Harry was being a bit paranoid about it. It was weird, no doubt about it. She just couldn’t see what Voldemort would get out of the whole thing.
Harry sighed and said, “I dunno.” He looked out of the window and as so often happened lately, he seemed to be seeing something no one else could. His eyes were distant and she wondered if he were trying to search into Voldemort’s mind again. The very thought of it made her shake. She was sure that Voldemort must be able to tell when Harry was intruding. She shied away from the thought of what the consequence might be were Voldemort to notice.
The green gaze returned to her, now sharp and direct and he said, “Do you have the names of the company and the owner that you wrote down? And a piece of parchment?” Wordlessly, she handed him the parchment and the scrap on which she had jotted down the names.
“What about a quill and some ink?” he asked.
Hermione dug into her bag and pulled them out. She and Ron watched with puzzlement as Harry pulled the parchment toward him and wrote down, “Dear Uncle Vernon.” Then he looked up and made a face, as though he were biting down on poison, and added, “I wonder if you could help me look into a financial matter?” He put down the quill and tapped his long fingers on the table and muttered, “I dunno. I wonder if he’ll believe I really want advice from him?” He picked up the quill and wrote, “Now that I am near to graduating, I find I need to take an interest in securing my future.” He read it aloud and said doubtfully, “Is that laying it on too thick?”
Hermione thought and ventured, “Isn’t it what he thinks you ought to do? What if you make it seem like he could make something out of it? Do you think that’ll help?”
Ron simply shook his head and said, “I dunno why you’re wasting time on Muggle stuff when we could be having fun.”
Harry looked sharply at Ron said simply, “Even wizards buy houses, don’t they?” Ron looked at Harry with alarm, as if the thought of purchasing a home had never entered his mind.
Hermione thought with aggravation that only Ron would talk about getting married, yet never have thought about the prospect of moving out of his Mum’s house. Harry went on before she could reply or say anything about Ron’s idiocy. “I have heard lately about an opportunity to invest in a weekend cottage that...”
He stopped and said, “Erm, let’s see, what does he usually talk about? Profit margins? Tax benefits?” He frowned and said sourly, “Who’d have thought all his chuntering on about business might be useful someday?” He picked up the quill and added, “Might make a profit in the short term...that’s good, he likes short term profits...might make a profit in the short term for a smart investor.” He looked up and glanced out the window again and added, “Would you please ask around about a financier named Marvel and his company? I want to be sure this is a wise investment.”
Harry looked back at Hermione and Ron and asked, “What do you think? Do you think he’ll buy it and look into this fellow for me?” He looked depressed momentarily and said, “I dunno why I bother. He’ll probably throw the letter away unopened anyway.”
“I expect he’ll open it,” Hermione answered. “You never write him, do you?” At his negative, she said, “Well, he’ll probably be curious about why you’ve written.” Harry sighed and wrote, Respectfully, and then signed his name in his rather spiky writing. He folded up the letter and stuck it in his pocket. Hermione wondered whether he’d ever send it. They sat and speculated about the development for a while longer.
Taking advantage of their waning interest, Hermione pulled out her Charms notes and said, "Quiz me on this," to Ron.
Ron and Harry rolled their eyes, which annoyed Hermione more than usual. Why couldn't they see how important this was? It wasn't like they would have another crack at their NEWTs - or, horrible thought, if they did, it would only be because they'd failed altogether. Ron reached for the notes and Harry lifted his butterbeer to take another sip. The mug slipped out of his hand and butterbeer spilled all over, on her robes, on the sheaf of notes, and Hermione nearly screamed at him for his carelessness -- until she saw his face.
Where he had been half-grinning before and perfectly fine, Harry was now stark white, his green eyes huge, and his hands clenched on the arms of the wooden chair as though holding on were all that anchored him. He no longer looked like a newspaper hero: he looked only scared and in pain.
"What is it?" Ron asked, dropping the notes, so that they fluttered down, her mind observed, like dying leaves in October.
"Voldemort," Harry whispered. With an effort, he added, "He's happy. Really excited."
Hermione looked at Ron and saw that his face reflected her own terror."Is he here? Nearby?" she asked. Harry heaved in a great breath and shut his eyes.
"No," he said after a moment. "No, he's not nearby." He opened his eyes again and focused and said grimly, "What do you suppose could have made him so pleased?"
"I think we ought to go back to Hogwarts," Ron said quietly. "You ought to tell Dumbledore about this."
"I suppose," Harry answered. Collecting himself, he looked down at the fallen, stained notes and said, "Hermione, I'm sorry..."
"For heaven's sake, Harry," she said, "It's not your fault." Nevertheless, he stooped down and started picking up the soggy notes with shaking hands, and she said,"Don't! I can do it." She bent down and scooped up the papers. Her throat felt constricted, and she thought, I mustn't cry. He'll think I'm crying about the papers. She shoved the beery smelling papers back in her bag and said almost calmly, "Perhaps you should sit down again a minute." Ron shook his head, and reached out a hand to steady Harry and to urge him along.
"I'm all right," Harry said. He pulled a galleon out of his pocket and dropped it on the table and said, "Sorry for the mess, Rosmerta." He drew his wand and vanished the spilled butterbeer from the floor and the table and Hermione thought, it's all right. But seeing the bleakness of his face, she knew it wasn't really. Madam Rosmerta followed them to the door of the inn with a troubled gaze and once again, Hermione wondered whether she had some means of communicating with Dumbledore. She hoped so.
They had only got as far as the middle of the green, when Harry stopped utterly still again and clapped his hand to his head to cover his scar. A strangled sound escaped him, a raspy sound, an animal sound, wordless and fraught with pain.
Ron cursed and said, "C'mon, mate, let's get you back. Quickly."
Harry took a stumbling step and another and he said, "Now, he's angry. Livid. Utterly furious. Killing mad." Hermione put out a hand to steady him from the other side, but Harry drew his wand again and spun around looking at each corner of the green. No one was there, however, and Ron pulled at him none too gently to get him to move back toward the Castle again. Harry pulled away from him and raised his wand. Whatever pain he had been feeling had gone, or was ignored as a figure apparated right before them.
Not Voldemort, though. Draco Malfoy.Malfoy's sleek blond hair was disordered, his gray eyes wild and his chest heaved with sobs. As one, they gawked at him. Only Harry did not drop his wand, for Malfoy had his out and was aiming at them, though Hermione supposed afterwards that he literally did not recognize them in that moment. Malfoy flung himself at them and said, "Hide me! They're coming! They'll kill me!"
"Voldemort?" Harry asked.
"The Dark Lord, yes," Malfoy said.
He turned in a circle to look around the green, almost exactly as Harry had done, and then he began running toward the Castle. But he only ran a step or two before others appeared, hooded and masked, except for Lucius Malfoy, who yelled, "Don't kill him! He's mine. I'll take him."
The son backed up and fled from his father running into Harry, who caught him and said, "What's happened?" as he stepped to the side to let Draco move behind him.
"He killed my mother," Draco said. He shrieked, and said, "The Dark Lord, did. He killed my mother!" Then in a scream that ripped away all innocence, he flung at his father, "He killed her, and you didn't stop it! You let him do it!" He pointed his wand at his father and started to yell the curse that haunted all their dreams.
Harry pushed the wand down and said, "No! You can't!" and shoved the blond Slytherin aside toward Hermione. He pointed his own wand at the circling Death Eaters, who raised their own, but backed away at the sight of Harry's face. There were no words for it, the cold fury, the blaze of the green eyes, and the set of the face that was absolute in its verdict. Nemesis out to do its sole duty: justice. The Death Eaters backed away and one cursed.
"Him! The Boy Who Lived! He's for the Dark Lord, not for us," and he disapparated. The other followed, leaving only Lucius Malfoy to face them. "Step away from my son," he said coldly.
Draco, emboldened by the departure of the other Death Eaters, poked his wand around Harry and fired a spell at his Lucius, who dodged the jet of green light by the smallest margin. Harry faltered and half-turned.
"Not your Dad!" he said again and pushed Draco away again. Taking advantage of their inattention, Lucius fired another spell, a stunner, not at Harry, but at his son, only in the flurry of movement, it struck Harry and sent him flying. Two blond heads turned to stare at the crumpled form. Two wands turned to point at him. As one, Hermione and Ron struck. Hermione hit Draco with the freezing spell and Ron struck at Lucius with a stunning spell.
However, the older man whipped out a shield spell in a lightning blur and followed it up with something else that flung Ron into a heap next to Harry. Hermione cried out "Silencio," hoping that the loss of his voice would prevent the Death Eater from getting off another spell. She followed up with a stunning spell, but Lucius again produced a shield spell, even without his voice, that forced her to duck back from her own blocked stunner.
Hermione tried desperately to bring her wand up in time to stop the next attack. This time, the older man’s gray eyes were lit with satisfaction as he aimed his wand purposefully at Harry’s fallen form and not at his son. He spoke the words of the killing curse, the unblockable one, the one against which there was no defense. But even as he attacked, another spell was cast from the doorway of Honeydukes, just feet away. The spell struck the elder Malfoy in the back and spoiled his aim and the curse hit the dirt less than a foot away from where Harry and Ron lay, exploding out and leaving a molten crater behind.
Hermione raised her shaking wand and pointed it at the shadowy figure that stood in the doorway of the sweet shop. Next to her, Draco’s eyes were wide and the whites showed around them like a horse in a panicked rage, but as he was completely frozen by the Petrificus Totalis spell, he could not give vent to his rage or panic.
The dark figure in the sweet shop sent one more spell out, at Draco, not at Hermione. This one was a stunner, and when it hit him, Draco toppled over in one frozen piece, like a stone statue knocked down off its plinth. The dark figure emerged from the shadow. It was Snape. He took in the scene of battle coolly and knelt to examine the fallen men.
He laid a hand on Harry’s throat, checking for a pulse and seemed to breathe out in relief. “Just stunned, then,” he said and followed that up with the wakening spell, "Enervate." Harry’s eyes opened and he moved with unexpected speed, shoving Snape over and pointing his wand right in Snape’s face.
"Don’t!" Hermione cried.
"Oh, it’s you," Harry said. He moved away from the Potions Master without apology and went right to Ron. Snape stood back up and brushed himself off. His sallow face showed no expression, neither anger, nor hatred, nor satisfaction.
"Ron," Harry said. He dropped his wand and touched the pulse in his throat, just as Snape had. Gingerly, he turned Ron over, and Hermione cried out again, when she saw the bright red blood seeping from a hole in his side. "He’s alive," he said hoarsely. "Help me. Can you stop the bleeding?"
Snape knelt and said, "I’m no healer. We’ll need to get him back to the infirmary as fast as possible", and with a flick of his wand bound it about the wound to halt the bleeding. Then with a flick of his wand, he levitated Ron’s unconscious form and said curtly, "Follow me. And Miss Granger, you stay here with the Malfoys, and if they start to come to, knock them out again."
"No," Hermione said. She knew one thing only. She was not staying there with them whilst Ron was injured. Harry turned to look at her and his green eyes were shadowed with guilt.
"It’s my fault," he whispered. "It’s my fault." With a word, he transformed into the bird and seized Ron in his powerful talons. Hermione grabbed his golden tail feathers as he lifted off and had the weirdest sensation of being and not being and then being again as the bird disapparated from the village green and then apparated again inside the infirmary. He dropped Ron on one of the beds and lifted back off to utter a sharp trill at Madam Pomfrey.
The nurse came running and said, "Oh, my. It’s Fawkes! Oh, my. Miss Granger!"
"Hurry!" Hermione said. "Ron’s hurt. Badly." The healer immediately bent over Ron muttering and Hermione saw out of the corner of her eye, that the bird had disappeared in a red-gold flash, as quickly as he had brought them there.
***
When Harry reappeared back in Hogsmeade and transformed back into himself, Snape was still standing in the middle of the green, his wand in his hand, looking absolutely furious.
"When did you learn that? How?" Snape asked. "And who taught you?" he added.
Harry shrugged. "It isn't hard. I figured if my Dad could do it and you could, and even Rita Skeeter, so could I."
He stared at Snape and said sharply, "How'd you know what was going on? What were you doing in Honeydukes anyway?"
"I don't answer to you, Potter," Snape retorted. "And as it's a holiday, I can be anywhere I want to be."
"Like Voldemort's headquarters?" Harry asked silkily.
"If I had been there," Snape answered, "I shouldn't tell you in any case."
"You turned up mighty conveniently," Harry said.
"Fortunately for you, since I have just saved your life," Snape snapped.
"Did you?" Harry said. "Conveniently so, if you were leaving the scene of the murder then."
"What murder?" Sanpe asked.
His black eyes locked on Harry seeking information. Harry set his face and his mind into stone, as Snape had taught him, and said, "Mrs. Malfoy. Draco's Mum. Were you there? Did you see it? Did you help?"
Unexpectedly, rage was rising in him, though why the fury should come when it was not his own mother, when it was Draco's mother, his hated enemy and Voldemort's ally, he did not know. Snape stared at Harry incredulously. "Narcissa Malfoy? What the devil are you talking about? The Dark Lord has no reason to kill her. She's..."
A flash of memory rose; a small snippet of a dream came and went. "His mistress," Harry said flatly. "Draco said Voldemort killed her and his Dad didn't stop him. That's why he went after him. He blames his Dad for it."
"How do you know that?" Snape asked. His sallow face was pale and Harry could have sworn he was quite shocked. Harry shrugged again and said bitterly, "Same way I know lots of things about Voldemort."
"You're supposed to block him out!" Snape replied. "You've been told, by the Headmaster himself, not to try any stunts like that, spying on the Dark Lord - a dangerous thing, more dangerous tahn you can imagine."
"Yeah, well," Harry, said bleakly, "Once in a while, I still have to sleep." He looked away, down at Malfoy and his father and the horror of it nearly overwhelmed him. Whatever had happened, it had to be Voldemort's fault. This thing, the destruction of the most basic human tie between parent and child that was Voldemort's doing. It seemed as though everything Voldemort did created some other and worse evil. Like a spirtual cancer, his evil metasticized and grew new forms, spreading without warning and transforming into ever more awful horrors. Harry looked back up at Snape and saw something in his face he had never expected: pity and horror.
"What about them?" he asked gesturing to the two unconscious men.
The flash of sympathy disappeared and Snape said abruptly, "I'm afraid, we'll have to let dear Lucius go."
"No way," Harry said. "You can't."
The black eyes turned on Harry and Snape said urgently, "We must. I will lose any credibility with the Dark Lord if Lucius Malfoy does not go free."
"But he's a Death Eater," Harry said with outrage. "We could have him in custody. He could tell us all sorts of things."
"I know," Snape said. "But as much as Draco admired him, Draco is not. He talked big, but he knew little. He must go on thinking I am the Dark Lord's minion and his father's toady. And the Dark Lord must go on thinking the same, for a little while longer, until we know his plans. And he must not know I was the one who interefered." Harry stared at Snape and something else niggled at the back of his mind.
"You play both sides too well," he said. "How do you get away with it, keeping Dumbledore trusting you, and Voldemort at the same time."
"Dumbledore's reasons for trusting me are his own," Snape, replied. "The Dark Lord, however, trusts no one. He merely finds me...useful...and so he lets me stay on."
"Useful, yeah," Harry said, "for things like giving Professor Lupin fake wolfsbane so he'd transform and make a distraction for the Muggles."
Snape's black eyes glittered. "You defended me before. Why accuse me now?"
"It's the only thing that makes sense," Harry replied. "You're the spy. You gave him the cup. You were the only one with access to it really. It had to be you."
Snape lifted his shoulders slightly and he said, "Yes, well, I told Dumbledore immediately, so he could minimize the damage."
Harry stared. "It was you?" Angrily, he said, "I bet you enjoyed that one, didn't you? Making Professor Lupin's worst fear come true, the very worst."
"No," Snape answered. "The very last thing I'd ever want to meet is a werewolf at the full moon. There aren't many things more awful and terrifying than that." He shuddered with distate and said, "Believe it or not; it matters little. What matters is cleaning up the scene and getting Draco back to Hogwarts so we can hear his story."
"Do you ever just tell the truth?" Harry asked.
Snape sighed and lifted an eyebrow. "You are so disappointingly direct, Potter. A successful spy must be more than subtle. He must so weave truth and deception that even his friends don't know the whole of his web. Just be glad I am on your side and not theirs."
"Are you then?" Harry asked. "Are you on anybody's side but your own?"
Snape sighed again and said calmly, "Everybody is on their own side first and most of all. You ought to understand that by now. And if you don't, then you are bound to be killed by your own noble illusions. I told you once before, never give your enemy a hand in the midst of a battle."
"You were there the whole time!" Harry said, once more outraged.
"I saw it through the window," Snape answered. "Why did you get between them?" he asked. "You put yourself and your friends in danger."
"Anybody would," Harry protested. "I couldn't let him kill his Dad. It's about the ultimate sin, isn't it, to for a child to kill a parent or a parent to kill a child?"
Snape shut his mouth on whatever he might have said, and frowned. "I see," he said.
He unfroze Draco and floated him back toward the Castle, leaving the father lying unconscious on the village green. Harry followed reluctantly. He could not help thinking that letting the elder Malfoy go must be a mistake. But he also could not help seeing the logic behind it. Thinking of Ron, he thought, let the bishop go free to set the trap for the King, and save a piece of one's own. And all the way back to the Castle, he prayed, let him be all right. Just let him be all right. I won't be stupid again. Just let him be all right.
They were halfway to the Castle when Snape said, "This is where I leave you. Remember, I wasn't there. And make sure you tell Miss Granger that as well." He swooped off back to the Castle, his black robes flapping in the wind behind him. Harry followed more slowly, being preoccupied with moving the unconscious Draco along. When he was nearer, he tired of dragging Draco along in the air and woke him up. The blond Slytherin woke as he hit the grass with a thud, and try as he might, Harry couldn't feel too sorry for him.
"Where'd he go?" Draco asked wildly. "Where did he go? Did I kill him? Did you kill him?" Harry looked at him and tried to think what to say.
"No," he said at last. "He got away."
"You let him get away!" Draco said incredulously.
"Yeah," Harry answered. "There was this slight problem that he injured Ron. I had to get him to the hospital wing first, so he wouldn't die."
"You were unconscious," Draco said. "How could you do that?" For a moment, Harry was at a loss. Then through the filter of his recollection of being the bird, he said, "Fawkes helped. Dumbledore's bird, you know."
Draco looked at him weirdly and said, "You do get help from the oddest sources, Potter. You're lucky to be alive. My father was going to kill you." Then the horror and fury came back to his face and he said, "Why'd you stop me? You should have let me kill him."
"You can't kill your father," Harry said quietly. "It's beyond evil. That's what Voldemort did, you know. It was one of his first murders, killing his Dad."
"He killed my Mum," Draco said again. His pale face froze then, as though he had reached some dangerously high place from where he could not move.
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I know what it's like."
"No, you don't," Draco said.
Harry took his arm and led him to the Castle. "We'll go see Dumbledore," he said calmly. Dumbledore would fix it somehow. Then he thought, no, there's some things even Dumbledore can't fix. When they reached the stairs to Dumbledore's office, Snape was standing at the stairs saying the password, "Fizzing Whizzbee."
He stopped and did a creditable stare and said, "Potter, what do you want now?" Then he did an even better double look, from Harry to Malfoy and back again.
"Draco?" he said with mild surprise. "What are you doing back so soon? The holidays don't end until Monday." Draco paled further and clamped his mouth shut.
"Voldemort showed up at his house," Harry said angrily. And he was truly angry. He directed the force of it at Snape, and saw that Malfoy was deceived, thinking Harry was responding to Snape's usual nastiness.
Snape narrowed his eyes at Malfoy and said, "Another tall tale for the headmaster, Potter? Why don't you save it and write your autobiography someday. It might even have as much truth in it at Gilderoy Lockhart's."
Draco whipped out his wand and pointed it at Snape. "It's true," he snarled. "He killed my Mum." he gestured with it at Snape and said, "Stay out of my way, you..."
And he dashed up the moving stairs to Dumbledore's office. Harry caught Snape's glance and followed right behind and Snape pounded up behind him.
The door to the Headmaster's office swung open before they could knock and they spilled into the office to find Hermione sitting on one of the chairs drinking hot chocolate and looking dreadfully worried.
Forgetting everything else, Harry said, "Ron? Is he...?"
"Alive," Hermione said tersely, "but quite badly hurt." He looked at her and saw that her dark eyes were shiny with tears unshed and he said, "I'm sorry. It's my fault."
"Don't be an idiot," she snapped at him.
"Please," Dumbeldore said, "sit down." The elderly wizard looked exhausted, but he went to Malfoy and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. "Sit," he said soothingly, as though he were speaking to a scared animal. Draco sat and Harry knew what he felt, could almost feel it in his own bones, that shock reaction that swept through him, the sudden shakiness, the emptiness, the numbness, that took over in the wake of the storm.
"He killed my mother," Draco said again, as though it was the only fact that had any significance in the world any more. "The Dark Lord killed my Mum."
***
No one had met him at Kings Cross, which was no big surprise seeing as how his Dad was an outlaw and his Mum was due to have the baby any day. She might have had it already, he thought, the monster, as he already thought of it. He considered turning around and going back, but the Hogwarts Express would not return until the holiday's end. He even considered checking into the Leaky Cauldron and spending the holiday just hanging about Diagon Alley and wandering the streets of London instead of going home.
He did not want to go there and see his Mum's belly, swollen with the Dark Lord's child. They thought he hadn't known, but he had. He had seen it, the covetous glances the Dark Lord had cast at his beautiful mother. He had seen too, his father's queer mix of fawning servitude and barely concealed jealousy. He had known, too, that once the Dark Lord had possessed their house, his house, there was nothing to be done.
Then they had all come, the Death Eaters. His Aunt Bella, with her ruined beauty and coldly jealous eyes. Crabbe & Goyle's Dads, as stupid and hulking as their sons, only dangerously nasty. And Macnair, with the killers' eyes and the habits of an East End thug. He had hated every one of them then, for invading his house. Only the Dark Lord had known it, had taunted him for it, had demanded service of him, as though he were a house-elf; he'd been amused, when Draco had obeyed, fearfully, burying his resentment and hatred because his life depended upon it.
Reluctantly, Draco slid out of the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, and carried his trunk outside where taxis stood in line to ferry their passengers to their dull Muggle lives. Or so he supposed. He walked up to the next cab in line and fished in his pockets for a Muggle fifty-pound note. There was something so flimsy, so insubstantial about Muggle money. He preferred the feel of gold clanking in his pocket and the shine of it that never dulled.
Sitting in the Muggle taxi, he looked out at the sunny London streets, which were lit with a mellow spring gold, and even though they were in the heart of the great city, here and there, green parks beckoned, their tame trees swaying slightly in a soft wind. Too soon, they had arrived at the street where their townhouse sat. The Muggle driver looked from the house next door on one side to the house on the other without noting the gate to his own.
Draco stood at the gate and considered running away again. Nevertheless, Draco tapped his wand on the gate and walked through, noting the changes that the invasion had brought. The once perfect garden looked ill tended and a dark smoke hung about the house, leaving soot on the once sparkling windows and darkening the old bricks so that the entire house had an aura of gloom. He had walked into the house and thought at first that it was entirely deserted.
"Mum," he called out, "I'm home." There was no response and he took the stairs to the third floor where her bedroom suite was located and peeked in. The normally neat and luxurious room was slightly disordered. The silk coverlet was crumpled and a bed tray held the remains of a half eaten egg and some scraps of taost.
He descended the stairs and called out again, "Mum?"
"The displaced prince returns," said the unpleasant, mocking voice of his Aunt. Fear assaulted him. His aunt, he knew now, was by far the worst of all of the Death Eaters. He would as soon tangle with Bellatrix as with a manticore on the rampage.
"Aunt Bella," he said as politely as he could, "Where's my Mum?" A cold smile wreathed the once lovely face and she pointed down, toward the stairs to the basement.
Puzzled, Draco descended the steps to the basement, which was a combination library, lunge and workroom. His Mum often spent hours there, laying out her plants to dry and stirring various cauldrons that held potions of all kinds. Potions for tending one's hair, potions for keeping one's skin youthful, and more esoteric ones, ones that she hadn't taught him yet.
The lounge area had been converted into what looked like a hospital. A single bed now occupied the place where the large leather couch had been, and his Mum lay in it, her sleek blond hair limp and dull and her normally glowing face was yellow and thin.
"Mum?" he said.
Her large eyes opened and she said, "You came. I'm so glad."
"What are you doing down here?" he asked. "This can't be good for you."
Then the cold voice came that terrified him more than any other. "Ah, but it is, Draco. She is here, close by to the potions I have made, to help her along when the time comes."
Draco turned, feeling the bile rise in his throat. "What do you mean, Lord?"
The red eyes considered him and glowed with satisfaction at his fear. "Why, only that I would make sure of your mother's health and her child's when he is born."
"He?" Draco echoed. "How do you know?"
The Dark Lord merely smiled and said, "Fetch your Mum some water, boy. And I'll have a glass of that excellent claret your father keeps."
Draco conquered the rage and bowed low before the Dark Lord and went to do his bidding. And so it went for the next days. He fetched drinks and cooked meals for the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. He stirred a large copper cauldron that held a special brew of the Dark Lord's devising, which was given to Narcissa three times daily to ease the pains of false labor and keep her from bearing too soon. No longer as young as she appeared, the pregnancy was wearing on his Mum's health, and without the aid of the potion, she would have miscarried the child already.
In his darkest night thoughts, Draco cursed the unborn babe and wished his Mum would miscarry it. He wished it would be born dead; he dreamed of the days when his Dad was the only one in the world he was scared of, and that wasn't much; he wished for the days when the Dark Lord was a rumor of greater days past, and not a present nightmare, a terror waiting at every corner; he wished for the days when he was innocent and his best pleasure was annoying Harry Potter.
And so it went for the first week of the holiday and into the second. Until on a sunny Friday, his Mum dropped the fresh beaker of potion he had handed her and cried out. Draco touched his Mum's face and she turned to look at him with pain filled eyes. "It's time," she said. "He will wait no longer, this brother of yours." She closed her eyes and said, "Go get him."
Some bit of innocence still remained then, for he said, "Father?"
She opened her eyes and said wearily, "No. Lord Voldemort. Get him." But no summons was necessary.
The Dark Lord appeared from the shadows and poured a new and different potion into a fresh cup. He held it, a silvery-green brew, such as Draco had never seen before, and steadied Narcissa so she could drink. But nothing could ease the pains nor assist his Mum. From the early morning until past noon, she struggled and wept but the babe was not born. As the hours passed, the Dark Lord began to pace and to watch Narcissa with a cool, calculating gaze, perhaps mentally tallying up the length of her pains against the time in between. Draco held his Mum's hand, when she would let him, and avoided the Dark Lord's red eyes, burying his hatred in fear for his Mum. And when his father came down, he turned away and said nothing.
"Was she like this the first time?" the Dark Lord asked. His father frowned and for the first time, Draco saw something in his eyes other than servility and jealousy.
"No," he answered slowly. "No. The first time was easy."
The Dark Lord drew his long wand and his father stepped back in fear. The wand was passed over his Mum's swollen body and the Dark Lord said calmly, "The babe is upside down. He cannot come out feet first."
"We should take her to St. Mungo's then," Draco said, losing his fear in his anxiety.
The Dark Lord ignored him and waved the wand over his Mum again and his eyes burned with concern. "The cord is around its neck. We shall have to take measures quickly or it will die."
***
Draco fell silent a moment and like the others, Harry could only wait for the ending, though he feared he could guess what had happened. The pale, pointed face whitened further as Malfoy told the final part.
"He used his wand to cut it out. He didn't care about my Mum, you see. There was blood everywhere, and she died, just like that, and he didn't care." Tears had begun to run down his face, and his shoulders heaved as he finished.
"I tried to kill him, then, and the baby, too, because he saved it instead of Mum."
"How did you get away?" Dumbledore asked. Neither his face nor his voice expressed any reaction at Draco's confession.
"He, the Dark Lord, was too busy holding the baby to draw his wand. He told my Dad to stun me, only I disapparated before he could." The gray eyes were black and his pale face turned stony with hatred.
"I'll kill them all, all of them," he added. He turned to Harry and said furiously, "You shouldn't have stopped me, you know. I don't know why you stopped me." Harry stared at Malfoy with both horror and unwilling sympathy.
"I know it's awful that your Mum died," he said, "but you can't kill your father. And it's not your brother's fault Voldemort botched things. He doesn't deserve to die."
"Why would he care about a baby, anyway?" Hermione ventured.
Malfoy looked at her and said, "Not just any baby. His. The Dark Lord's. I've got a brother whose father is the Dark Lord's." Harry felt rather than saw the sudden stiffening of Dumbledore's posture and wondered why it mattered.
"A new heir for Slytherin," Dumbledore said softly. So softly, that Harry wasn't sure he had heard him correctly.
"But what about the baby?" Harry asked. "You can't leave it in his hands."
"You say that?" Draco said incredulously. "When it will be your enemy? Slytherin is forever the enemy of Gryffindor. Old Salazar himself laid down that curse."
Dumbledore half rose and Snape made a gesture as though he would speak, but went perfectly still instead.
"It's not the baby's fault," Harry said doggedly. "It's just a baby. It doesn't know any better. And it doesn't have to think that way. It doesn't have to be evil. We don't have to leave it to Voldemort to poison and corrupt."
Harry turned to Dumbledore and said, "We should go back while they're still there and get it." No one responded and Harry was astounded when Dumbledore started to shake his head.
"Not you, Potter," Snape said. "I will go. I am the only one who can get in there now without being killed."
"You can't go alone," Harry protested. "He'll kill you if you try to take it alone."
Snape stared at him and said, "What makes you think I'm going to try to take it by force? I assaure you, I am not that stupid. No one here but you would be stupid enough and foolish enough to try to take anything of the Dark Lord's by force." Draco looked at Snape with a very odd expression on his face.
"You're a Death Eater," he said. "You're one of his. Why would you do this?" He looked at Dumbledore and said, "You know he is, too, or you guess it. Why do you let him teach here then?"
"He is not a Death Eater," Dumbledore said calmly. His face was deeply troubled and the light blue eyes were sunk into his creased old face.
"Go then, Severus, but do not risk your life, if it cannot be done safely."
Harry started to protest again. "You can't leave a baby all alone with them. You just can't." Dumbledore's face was entirely unreadable.
At last, Dumbledore said, "It is too young now to be greatly harmed. But if we can remove him from Voldemort's influence, it should be done."
Snape left the office and Harry could only think, you don't know how much harm can be done.
Another, more urgent thought, however, stopped him. "You never guessed about him?" he asked Malfoy.
Malfoy stared at Harry with no lessening of his usual hostility. "He's a good actor," he replied. "Did you never think he might be loyal to the Dark Lord, after all?"
"Of course," Harry said. "Is that what you think?"
He could not imagine why Dumbledore was letting this conversation go on without saying anything. Malfoy shrugged. His face was empty now of anger. "I'm not about to have any heart to hearts with my Dad or any of the Death Eaters anytime soon about it," he said, answering the unspoken question. He looked around and said with grief, "He's stolen everything of mine now. The house was mine, you know, through my Mum's parents and the money, too. Now he's killed my Mum and stolen my house and I've nowhere to go."
"Your brother, too," Harry said. Malfoy's eyes lit up with hate again. "Do you know for sure," Harry asked, "it's his, Voldemort's?"
"It has black hair," Malfoy answered, "not blond."
Harry frowned and said, "But it could still be your Mum and Dad's. You don't know for sure its Voldemort's."
"I told you," Draco said coldly, "it has black hair, and the Dark Lord claimed him."
Hermione said quietly, "Genes are funny, though."
"Sirius had black hair," Harry said quietly. "He was a Black, your Mum's cousin. The baby could have got black hair through her side of the family. It might not be Voldmeort's." He did not know why it was so important, but he felt that he had to try, to make them see, that the baby was only itself, even if it was Voldemort's.
Malfoy hesitated and then went out without another word. "Leave him," Dumbledore said softly, when Harry started to go after him.
"Professor," Harry said. He wanted to say more, that a thousand new anxieties had just been birthed, and a thousand new dangers.
"I don't understand," Hermione said, "why Voldemort would want a child, if it is his."
"It's his next best chance at immortality," Harry answered. "If he can't live forever, then he wants his line to go on, and to rule. And if he's defeated, to come back and take revenge." He did not speak the even more awful thought that had come to him about Voldemort's intentions.
That thought was for the darkest night and furthest corner of the mind, where horrors slept. He was not altogether surprised then, when Snape returned with the information that the house had been deserted and the Dark Lord was gone with the child.
"And Narcissa?" Dumbledore asked.
A shadow passed over Snape's sallow face. "They buried her in the garden," he answered. "I saw the grave, with the earth newly turned and a stone with her name upon it."
