The Prisoner’s Flight

Chapter 30: The Prisoner’s Flight

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

He was delighted to wake up, not because he was in any particular comfort, but because it brought the relieving assurance that he was still alive. Or, if he wasn’t, then he was in some permissible configuration of afterlife, because Hermione Granger was wriggling and making the funny irritated noises that she always did when she fell asleep on the common room sofas, which meant he’d have someone around to bother for the rest of eternity.

The whole side of him was cold and achy from the pebble beach, and water lapped at his legs. He lifted his head blearily and found his face more or less submerged in a familiar bird’s nest of hair, none the more tamed for having been slept on. The front of him was wonderfully warm. It wasn’t until his head cleared that he figured out why.

Hermione had burrowed into him while unconscious — or perhaps the other way around — and his arm was thrown haphazardly across her waist, curling her spine into the hollow of his chest. Every so often she mumbled and bumped her shoulder against him, as if to check on him, which would have been sweet if it wasn’t irritating and probably the reason he’d woken up.

His face felt hot.

He blinked, twice, and then rolled over and scrambled free of her. Just like her to use him as a bloody coverlet, no mind for his comfort, and wake him up in the bargain — and how she’d managed to sleep in such apparent comfort on a bed of rocks, he had no idea. Perhaps falling asleep on library tables was a sort of endurance training.

His mouth tasted as if something had died, decomposed, and spawned a new species of fungi inside it. He climbed wearily to his feet. The sky was still dark, but an inkling of light clustered suspiciously on the eastern horizon, suggesting the time that had passed since he fell unconscious. The Whomping Willow was back upright, he noticed; the ground beneath it was scalloped and crushed, the reeds laid flat in the mud, but no one was there.

“Draco — Draco! Is that—? Draco!”

He turned, and over the rounded cusp of the lawn came Harry Potter, fresh-faced, unhurt, and dressed in his own robes. Ron followed a heartbeat behind, running freely, without the slightest mind to the injured leg he’d sported when Draco last saw him. The two dashed down the hill to the lake, beaming like hell.

Draco spared a moment of gratitude that he had woken up when he did, so they hadn’t seen how he’d slept.

“Potter!”

“Draco! Hello — what are you — oh, sh—”

Far too late to save himself, Harry saw the Stinging Jinx that came soaring up the hill. He yelped and spilled onto his back, dragging Ron down with him, and Draco stalked over in a snit of thinly sublimated murder.

“That’s for running away and nearly getting yourself killed — the first time — this is for the second — that’s for the third—”

“Malfoy, c’mon, he didn’t mean—”

“You! Off! I’m going to do you after, for making me and Granger go get him.”

“I broke my ankle!”

“Good, I’ll do your other one. Get out of the way! Oh, don’t hug me, if you so much as touch me I swear I’ll make you wish you’d snogged a dementor when you had the sodding chance—”

In the end, Draco only jinxed him a little bit, throwing several halfhearted Knotting Spells on his shoelaces and a curse that would leave his socks inexplicably wet for weeks. It was still no surprise when Harry tackled him. Ron followed and — to Draco’s slight surprise — joined in, throwing a brotherly arm around Draco’s shoulders and shaking them in a quite-glad-you’re-not-dead sort of hello.

“We’ve been looking everywhere,” Harry said breathlessly. “Hagrid’s out searching the forest; we thought you might’ve been hiding in there.”

“Please. We got bored of waiting for you slow louses, so we fancied a nap.”

Hermione opened her eyes and stretched with a yawn that ought to have cracked her jaw. “Oh, hello,” she said sleepily. “You’re here. Ron, your leg.”

“Pomfrey fixed it,” said Ron gladly, lifting his trouser-leg to show a hale and fine-looking ankle that any Victorian would be proud to flaunt. “Only sprained, she said. I let her fix me up and then I snuck out, once it felt alright.”

“Oh, Ron, you really shouldn’t do that, the healing process might not be finished, it’s not s—”

“If you say ‘not safe,’ I’m dumping you in the lake,” Draco informed her.

She sniffed and climbed to her feet, accepting his hand up. “Harry, what about Sirius?” she said. “He’s not—”

“He’s alive! I took him to Dumbledore, and we explained everything — I told him about Sirius and Pettigrew—”

“Oh, Harry, Pettigrew — he was here, on the riverbank, but the tree went after him, and we didn’t see—”

“He might be dead,” said Draco, “but if he is, his body’s at the bottom of the lake. It’ll take an age to dig him out.”

“That’s alright; Dumbledore believed us,” Harry said eagerly. “He said Lupin had given him a similar story when they spoke—”

“He knew all along?”

“No,” exclaimed Ron, “no, that was the thing; Dumbledore didn’t know Sirius was here, but Lupin always believed Sirius was innocent—”

“—he just couldn’t prove it, you see, so he was out looking for Pettigrew—”

“—which is what he was doing those thirteen years before he came to teach—”

“But he couldn’t find him, could he, because Pettigrew was living as Scabbers,” Hermione finished, with all the satisfaction of a finished problem set. “So he came to Hogwarts, and told Dumbledore what he’d been doing.”

“Only Dumbledore believed him,” said Harry. “Everyone else thought he went mad.”

The four of them stood there, breath churning into mist in the fine dawn air, with expressions of exhilaration. A fine atmosphere of triumph that lay over everything, like a layer of gilt. They had made it through the night; they were alive, and no one had died. The monsters were gone, and now it was morning again.

Draco was reluctant to disturb the tranquil atmosphere, but at length, he felt he had no other option. “That’s a fine mystery that we’ve just solved and everything,” he said, “but there’s still the problem of the Ministry.”

Three expressions deflated in the same crestfallen swoop. “Oh,” said Hermione. “Drat. Of course; I’d forgotten. Without Pettigrew, we can’t prove anything.”

“Forget Pettigrew,” said Ron incredulously, “think about Lupin. He’s done for. Once they find out about Daphne—”

His stomach clenched: he’d forgotten about Daphne.

“Is she,” he said, and swallowed. “Is she—”

“Daphne Greengrass has been admitted to the hospital,” said a calm voice. “Thanks to the herculean efforts of Poppy Pomfrey, perhaps the finest Healer currently living, she is expected to survive.”

Draco spun on his heel, wand out, more from instinct than hostility. Hermione immediately yelped and shoved his hand down, aghast beyond measure, for Professor Dumbledore sat on a stone outcropping over the lake, a train of ice-blue robes pooled gracefully behind him on the stone. His weathered face was washed full of strange serenity in the pink dawn light.

“She will!” said Hermione faintly. “That’s wonderful—”

“How did you get there?” demanded Ron.

Dumbledore smiled at this rank intransigence. “The Hogwarts Headmaster must have his secrets and bolt-holes,” he said. “Else, what reason could one have to take the job?” He inclined his head at the four of them. “Besides, of course, the obvious pleasure of watching such fine and enterprising young minds enter the kingdom of their powers in juvenile delinquency.”

For Harry, to whom male figures of authority had always and would always be a hamartia, this was a knuckleduster to the gut. To Draco, for whom male figures of authority lived in the same part of his brain as rival quidditch teams and muggle rockstars, this was a dropped gauntlet.

“Sorry, sir,” said Harry weakly.

Draco thought that he was nowhere near the kingdom of his powers, and was about to tell him so, but Hermione interjected and saved them all from the fallout. “Sir, can you tell us what’s happened to—”

Something funny happened then: all three boys finished her sentence with a different name.

“Sirius?” said Harry.

“Lupin?” said Ron.

“Professor Snape?” said Draco.

—In the aftermath of which there was a great deal of awkward foot-shuffling and embarrassment by all.

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Permit me to move chronologically,” he said. “I have had a very long night. Profesor Snape returned to the castle with Professor Lupin in the early hours of the morning, and has since been in treatment for wounds sustained during his efforts.”

“Wounds?” said Draco sharply.

“Several superficial curses,” said Dumbledore calmly, “and the sorts of gashes which tell a story. Nothing that time and talent will not heal. Professor Lupin and Sirius Black have both fled the castle, being that the Minister’s appointees — including one quite badly injured auror — have charged both of them with murder and aggravated assault, respectively.”

“But Sirius never—”

“There is not a shred of proof to support Black’s story, except your word, Harry. A street full of eyewitnesses swore they saw Sirius murder Pettigrew. I myself gave evidence to the Ministry that Sirius had been the Potters’ Secret-Keeper.”

“But you believe us?” said Hermione anxiously.

“I do,” said Dumbledore. “But I have no power to make other men see the truth, or to overrule the Minister of Magic.”

Draco felt the sense of disappointment that he had come to associate with Dumbledore, which was that he could not simply wave his wand and make problems go away. He had expected that a man of his station would be able to do something — but he supposed even Dumbledore’s power had limits.

“So they’re gone?” said Harry quietly. His body was a slump of resigned grief. Draco was suddenly angry at both Black and Lupin, jointly, for failing to stick around long enough to say good-bye; who cared if they were on the run, anyway, when Harry had risked his life for them, and apparently hadn’t even earned the dignity of a goodbye.

You couldn’t do that to people. You couldn’t waltz into someone’s life and out of it, as if they were so much a revolving door. You had to go in deliberately, being mindful of the furniture, and be careful not to kick anything over. You oughtn’t move in unless you meant to take care of it.

Dumbledore tipped his head back to the skies. “Dawn is my favorite time of day,” he murmured. “There is a moment, between the last hour of night and daybreak, when one can perceive the exquisite contrast of the sun in one end of the sky and the stars in the other. A more splendid fabric of heaven I have never seen.”

Draco cleared his throat impatiently.

“You four are out of bed far too late,” he added, “but before I release you into the clutches of young Percival Weasley, would you care to take an hour and stargaze together? The Astronomy Tower is an especially nice place for sightseeing.”

“Respectfully,” Draco began, but Hermione stopped him.

“Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes, please, Headmaster, we’d love to.”

Dumbledore smiled. He twitched back the sleeve of his robe, and revealed a silver charm bracelet, studded with what must have been dozens of charms that clinked together like a rack of keys. Selecting one from his wrist, he lifted it high between thumb and forefinger in the swelling dawn light: it was a small telescope.

“Ah,” he said. “Good. Now, Miss Granger — if you and your friends would kindly join hands?”

“What on—”

Hermione seized Draco and Harry by the wrist, and elbowed Harry until he grabbed Ron. Dumbledore ambled over and extended his other hand to Ron, who stared at it like it had boils, but took it.

Dumbledore lifted the charm and pressed his finger to a jewel in its center. There was a hard, unpleasant jolt somewhere behind Draco’s navel, and the world twisted around him like he was being folded through a crack in the very air.

When he came to, he was standing on the main deck of the Astronomy Tower, bathed in the blinding pink of sunrise. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin stood together on the railing, their shoulders brushing, their faces turned into the rising sun. Beside them stood the horrible silhouette of Buckbeak, the Hippogriff Death Forgot, whom Draco was dismally surprised to find had survived the night.

“Sirius,” breathed Harry. “Remus—”

At the sound of voices, the pair of men turned.

“Harry!” bellowed Sirius, and he flew away from the railing. Harry tripped forward, giddy with delight, and Sirius snatched him up, spinning him around in a way suited to children much younger than Harry. Harry, by appearance, gave not one solitary goddamn about this or most other things in existence. He wrapped himself around Sirius as if he had no intention of letting go before the millennium expired.

Lupin stayed where he was. He held himself as if tied together with flimsy and string.

“There you are,” Sirius rasped. “We were worried you wouldn’t make it. Dumbledore said you might be busy with your friends—”

“I thought you’d left without me,” Harry said in a rush.

“Perish the thought. Kill it dead, boy. I’d have mowed down the whole Ministry.”

“Oh,” said Harry, vibrating onto a heretofore undiscovered plane of joy. “Alright, then.”

“You’re not hurt, are you?” rasped Lupin.

Sirius made a production of picking over Harry, who flushed with a humiliated pleasure. “I’m alright,” he said. “Really, you should be worried about Ron — he’s the one who got hurt—”

“No, I didn’t,” said Ron hastily, when both men turned on him. “No. I mean, yes, but I got better.”

“You made a sacrifice for us,” said Sirius gravely, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t forget it.”

“Well,” he said modestly, “I mean, I won’t stop you, if — you know, you want to get me a broom or something.”

“And to think, we’re indebted to a Malfoy, now, too,” added Sirius. “I really did think I’d seen everything.”

Lupin cleared his throat, a sad little facsimile of a laugh.

“I just know Lucius is rolling,” Sirius continued dreamily. “God, wish he’d lived, I would’ve rubbed in his face forever. But you — you, boy! You! Harry says you’re the Potions whiz — the Polyjuice was your handiwork, I take it?”

“Granger helped.”

“Helped? Helped?”

“Ow! Fine, it was a joint operation. Let me go.”

He tried not to preen. Then he gave up trying, because humility was dismally boring, and after all, he had done something marvelous.

Sirius gave a low whistle. “Sneaking out and impersonating a Ministry official,” he said. “Smuggling a wanted man off of Hogwarts grounds; fending off dementors; riding a wild hippogriff—”

(“He’s not wild,” said Hermione indignantly, “he’s quite domesticated, and if you treat him with respect—”)

He clucked his tongue. “Sort of intimidating, isn’t it, Moony? The ante’s been upped. The Marauders are old news. Dull as dirt. I’m going to wind up with an office job and one of those desk toys that bobs up and down. I feel like I should set fire to something, to prove myself.”

Lupin shrugged and turned back to the railing.

Sirius set his teeth unhappily and turned to speak in confidential tones to Harry. “Listen. He’s in a bad way, just now. He’s had a hell of a night, and Dumbledore just told us about the girl—”

“But Daphne’s alive. He didn’t kill her.”

“He didn’t… kill her. No, that’s true.”

“…What happened?”

“Nothing that he should feel guilty about, the fool,” he muttered. “He didn’t do anything. A man and a werewolf are different things. He knows that as well as I do.”

“Speaking of which,” said Lupin. He fumbled into his robe again. “I do — I must — I have something, here—”

He withdrew a letter and pressed it into Draco’s hands. Draco reached for the seal, and Lupin hastened to say: “No, that’s for — it’s for her.”

Draco flipped it over. The name Ms. Daphne Greengrass lay across the front in hurried black script. It was not signed, and there was no return address; the seal was a single blot of unmarked red wax.

“Please give that to her, as soon as she wakes up,” said Lupin anxiously. He picked at his hands as if trying to pull them off. “And — and if she doesn’t want to read it, which of course would be understandable, then please tell her — tell her that if she ever wants to, if she ever can forgive — not forgive, of course, I know, but if ever needs someone, needs to ask, or if there’s any complication that might benefit — a surgery, for instance, if she needs blood, or marrow, or a tissue sample — tell her to write to me. Please tell her to write to me. I’ll answer. It doesn’t matter where I am.”

Draco paused, thinking, and then brandished the letter. “This says you’re a werewolf.”

He nodded.

“You’re giving written testimony of your lycanthropy. To a recent victim of said lycanthropy. Whose father happens to be an official in the Ministry of Magic.”

“Yes, that’s about right.”

“And none of your so-called friends have brained you on the head for this idea?”

Lupin broke into a thin smile. “You are like your father, a bit,” he admitted. “If your father hadn’t been so miserable all the time. He abhorred mess, above everything.”

“Stop trying to distract me with sentimental hogwash, you ham-fisted old biddy, I’m talking about your right against self-incrimination!”

“Definitely Lucius’s,” said Sirius sagely, leaning on Lupin’s shoulder. “I think ‘ham-fisted old biddy’ is what he called me after I danced with Cissa at fifth year formal.”

“Both of you are — fine. Don’t come to me when your lawyer pitches a fit and this shows up in discovery—”

“Draco,” said Lupin quietly, “Severus Snape informed Sibelius Nott that I was a werewolf. An auror witnessed me transform. My plausible deniability is so shot through as to be a fine mesh. I think that one letter to a very scared young girl is not without my power nor my obligation.”

“Snape!” said Ron, outraged. “That slimy bugger, he told on you?”

“He has always considered me a danger to those around me. In this case, he was right.”

“But you took the potion! You weren’t hurting anybody! If they hadn’t started nosing around, you would’ve been fine!”

He shrugged again. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “We’ll never know. Snape has hated me since we were in school together, virtually from sight, for the crime of being a friend to James Potter. And being none too kind to him, myself, I might add.”

“He deserved everything he ever got,” muttered Sirius. Draco scowled.

“It doesn’t matter. He who laughs last, laughs longest, as they say… and even though I have evaded Azkaban, God willing, I expect Severus will be laughing for a very long time.”

Draco stiffened. It wasn’t possible; it couldn’t have been. Snape wouldn’t — Snape—

But he would. He knew his godfather. He also knew what his godfather would do to a man he disliked. He had never harbored any illusions about Snape being noble, or answering to his better angels. Part of what he liked about his godfather was his lack of any sort of noble impulse at all.

He just hadn’t — seen the other side of it, until now. It was an astonishingly cold place to be. He closed his arms over his chest and wrapped the outsized cloak tight against the spring winds buffeting the Astronomy Tower.

“Reminds me,” Sirius announced. He pulled something from his robe pocket, “this is for you, Harry. I doubt I’ll have reason to use it in the near future, so it might as well end up with its natural heir and successor — in any number of senses.” He gave him the Marauder’s Map.

“Thank Merlin,” said Ron. “Check where Percy is, would you?”

Buckbeak snorted and clawed the roof. Dumbledore, who had been pointedly admiring the landscape for a while now, turned and cleared his throat.

“It is almost sunrise,” he said softly. “The Ministry will expect me soon. I would not advise that you be in the castle when they re-enter it.”

Sirius and Lupin turned to Harry.

“Take me with you,” he said, the poor predictable git.

“No,” said Lupin.

“Please — I can come, I’ll be quiet, I can camp out anywhere—”

“You have to finish school, Harry.”

“Then after school! Once the term ends, I’ll come find you — or you can find me at the Dursleys’, they won’t care if I go, really, they’d be thrilled!”

“We’re not going anywhere I’d want you to see,” Sirius said, aghast. “You deserve three square meals and a warm bed to sleep in. Someday — and I mean it, someday, the minute I can manage it — but we can’t offer anything you deserve. We’re not — we’d not be good parents, just now, Remus and me.”

“I don’t care!” said Harry indignantly. “I don’t have those anyway!”

Everyone found somewhere to look that wasn’t Harry.

“You should have been with me from the beginning,” said Sirius, haggard with grief. “But we can’t take you with us. It’s too dangerous. I couldn’t do that to James.”

“Who cares what he wants?” said Harry loudly. “He’s not here!”

It would have been kinder to take a mace to both of their faces. They crumpled in the same way.

Dumbledore finally intervened. “Sirius and Remus must go,” he said softly. “Harry, it is time for your goodbyes.”

Harry, fuming, submitted to an embrace with Remus and Sirius that was as brutal as it was tender. Draco pointedly turned his back. A man wasn’t meant to see this sort of thing.

Almost by accident, his eyes fell on Hermione. She, too, had turned away from Harry and his godfather, and glancing up at him through the unbrushed shag of her fringe, her eyes were wide and shining. He mouthed: Gryffindors, and she smiled wetly through the curtain of hair.

Then she stepped closer to him and cleared her throat, sort of brushing her arm against his, as if she wanted his hand but wasn’t quite prepared to ask for it; and he was glad she didn’t, for it probably would have embarrassed him into speechlessness, but this way he could lean into her arm, asserting a nice comforting pressure, and her arm was warm despite the chill of the morning air, which was welcome, and it was all — manageable. It was just a nice little gesture, perfectly ordinary. He’d seen Harry and Ron do it dozens of times.

And if their knuckles brushed together, hidden in the wide sleeves of their baggy robes, where no one saw — that was accidental, and meant nothing in any case, for Hermione gave no sign of having even noticed it. And if she did — if she twitched her fingers a little, opening them up — then that didn’t matter, for he didn’t try to reciprocate, and he certainly didn’t let the touch linger for any longer than the moment allowed.

Harry, Lupin, and Sirius finally broke apart. Sirius stepped forward and clasped Ron’s hand. “Still got a good arm,” he said, “and that patronus isn’t half bad, either. Sorry about your rat.”

“Sorry about your life,” said Ron reasonably, and they shook hands.

Lupin turned to Hermione. “You’ve got a hard task ahead of you,” he said. “But at least one Marauder ought to know what she’s doing. Take care of them for me, will you?”

Hermione, who loathed weeping, tears, and any expressions of human vulnerability in herself whatsoever, gave a quick sniff and then ground her knuckles furiously into her eyes, as if trying to shove the tears back where they came from.

“That’s a yes,” advised Ron.

Then it was Draco’s turn. He prepared for a manly and dignified handshake, but Sirius had other plans.

“You’re a miscreant, a criminal, a delinquent, and a filthy disgrace to the name of Black,” he said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “So I suppose Cissa finally did something right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

With a bellow of laughter, Sirius threw himself onto Buckbeak, and helped Lupin up behind him. The animal shrieked, reared, and bounded up to the railing of the Astronomy Tower, where it gave a last piercing cry. The two men turned, backlit by the rising sun — and there was something strange and queerly peaceful in their expressions, for two people who had nothing ahead of them, and very little to leave behind.

Then Buckbeack leapt, and they soared into the bloody sunrise.

Harry sniffled.

“You must hurry back to Gryffindor Tower, if you do not wish to be seen,” Dumbledore said.

“Blimey,” said Ron. “I forgot about curfew. After last night, Filch seems like small potatoes.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Harry.

“No,” said Hermione.

Dumbledore smiled. “Then for our last act, we shall have a final trick,” he said. He once more unveiled his charm bracelet and removed one from its number: a silver charm in the shape of a lion, with a glittering ruby for an eye. “With my well-wishes, and my thanks for your assistance in something I could not have undertaken myself, though it sorely deserved an attempt: try not to scare your housemates.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Draco suspiciously.

But Hermione said, “Oh, thank you, professor!” and took the charm eagerly, gathering the boys into a circle.

With grim portent of what was to come, he let himself be crowded in. He traded a dark look with Dumbledore over his shoulder, and his last glimpse of the man — before Hermione pressed the jewel, and there came a mighty jerk behind his sternum — was a sly, benevolent smile.

Then they were standing in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. At once, the jewel glimmered out of sight in Hermione’s palm.

“Well!” said Ron, whistling. “That’s decent of him. Be a shame if we got stuck in detention after all that—”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?”

There was a mighty squeak. A tousled Penelope Clearwater stood under the boys’ staircase beside a shirtless and red-faced Percy.

Ron let out a peal of glee.

“Morning, Perce! Bit nippy, isn’t it!”

“I don’t — I — I — you should be in bed!”

“Don’t even bother, mate,” he said. “Hey, Pen. Good sleep?”

She squeaked again and covered her face in her hands.

“For goodness’ sake,” said Hermione tiredly. “If I wasn’t dead tired already — Penny, there’s a back staircase into the boy’s dorms if you go through the broom closet, you should really try that next time.”

Draco looked at her sharply. “How do you know that?”

“Lavender talks in her sleep. And yes, it’s hell, thanks for asking.”

“Well, I’m headed up,” said Ron, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Gonna see if Fred and George are up yet, I fancy a little brotherly chat—”

“You stop right there! Ronald!”

Ron dodged Percy’s grab for him and raced up the stairs. Percy followed, hollering, and the Weasley boys scrambled up to the dorms in a thunder of footsteps and slamming doors.

Penelope darted her eyes at the portrait hole. Draco jerked his head at it, in a sort of: well, out-with-you sort of way, and whimpering, she made a hurried exit.

“At least one person had more fun than we did, last night,” offered Harry.

“Potter, if you make me contemplate anything related to Percival Weasley’s unvested person, I will Summon a dementor into this room and leave you here.”

And that was that: normalcy restored: they were back to a world where the worst they had to worry about was their prefect’s reaction to being humiliated, and succeeding in their exams, and whether or not they would be well-rested for their Transfiguration lesson in the morning. In the warm and sweet-smelling universe of the Gryffindor common room, where woodsmoke guttered softly from the fireplace, and the banners celebrating Gryffindor’s victory in the quidditch cup still hung high from the rafters, there was nothing to fear — this was the place that patronuses were born, a place where neither dementor nor murderer nor ancient grudges could encroach on those old stone walls. It had stood for centuries, and it would stand for centuries more. No one here would hurt him, and no one here would do worse than tease. It was the one place, besides the Manor, that he could be sure of a welcome and a cup of tea, perhaps a biscuit, and a place to warm his shoes by the fire; and if Seamus was playing some muggle music, or if Oliver was talking about a new quidditch play, he would have entertainment, too; and if Hermione was curled up in her armchair, he would have someone to talk to about whatever he wanted, who would lift her head and give him the same bleary smile she did when she woke up from deep thought, and everything would be momentarily good.

It was the most ridiculous feeling, really, being home.

---

It was two weeks before Madam Pomfrey allowed anyone into the hospital. What happened to Daphne, as far as the school was concerned, was an exciting mystery; rumors ranged from a unicorn attack to an indecorous encounter with a group of wild centaurs. The disappearance of Professor Lupin, and his subsequent replacement by Professor Dumbledore, led conversely to a certain allure: why he had gone, and for what reason he could not say goodbye, incensed the imaginations of all and decorated tales of his departure with details that would have made the real Lupin blush. He was, by miscellaneous accounts, supposed to have run off and eloped with Celestina Warbeck; been chased down by a rogue gang of snatchers for a king’s ransom; and cornered by a wizard he had jilted at the altar some ten years ago, who had returned to exact his revenge and his bride price. (This last one Draco was fairly sure came from Witch Weekly.) Then the Ministry put out a warrant for his arrest on the charge of lycanthropy, and the stories were more or less the same, only more explicit, which was horrible.

The Hospital Wing, however, was closed to visitors. Out of respect for Daphne’s privacy, Madam Pomfrey refused to let anyone in unless Daphne agreed that she knew them, only because Daphne loved attention, she agreed to everyone, regardless of whether she knew them or not, which annoyed the nurse endlessly. So it was with palpable reluctance that Madam Pomfrey said, “She’ll see you, Mr. Malfoy,” when he came to the door.

The Wing was the same as it had been last year, when Hermione had lived in it. Wide, crystalline windows spilling warm light into the room; comfortable beds separated by silk screens; the scent of flowers and old stone. Only one bed was occupied, and it already had visitors: a dark-haired boy and girl with robes hemmed in green. Each held one of her hands.

“There you are,” said Pansy.

“Came as soon as I could.”

Half of Daphne’s face wore a mask of bandages, and the sheets were drawn high around her collarbones, showing only a hint of the gauze layered around her neck. Her one good eye was slitted open, circled with dark bags, and fogged with painkiller like a clouded opal.

It didn’t seem real. Things like this didn’t happen at Hogwarts. There were dangers, of course, but everyone survived, and everyone was well again, in the end; hadn’t Hermione been alright, after all, last year? Hadn’t Colin Creevey? Hadn’t all of them come out safely from the Vault, being trapped with the monstrous Quirrell? It wasn’t possible that someone could walk away from Hogwarts worse than she came. The idea kept slipping out of place in his head.

But she was there, in the Hospital Wing, and Lupin was gone.

“Draco,” she slurred. “Hullo. Thanks for coming.” Her lips moved slowly from pain.

“Naturally.” He dropped a pair of twigs in the jar by her bedside and Transfigured them into lilies. “Here. Couldn’t come by llama fur on short notice. One’s from me, and one’s from Weasley.”

Theo, who had been bent solemnly over Daphne’s hand, gave a twitch. “Weasley?” he said quietly. “What’s he care?”

“Ronald is my friend,” said Daphne, her voice breathy from exhaustion. “He and I… had a smashing time… at a party, once.”

With one eye hidden, it was impossible to tell — but he could have sworn she winked at him.

Pansy gave a shuddering breath. When she lifted her face, it was coated in a sheen of tears.

“He’s going to pay,” she said. “If I have to kill him myself, he’ll pay for it.”

“Loose lips, sunken ships, Pans,” said Theo, with a glance at Draco.

Daphne flapped her hand. “It’s… alright,” she managed. “He can know… ‘bout Lupin. Won’t be… a secret long, anyway… once everyone sees.” She gestured to her face.

“Did you know?” Pansy snapped. Her lip trembled. “Did you know they had a monster in the castle? Teaching children? Again?”

“How would I know?” said Draco coolly.

She held his gaze for a long moment before she turned away. Guilt twinged. He liked Pansy. He wanted well for her. But a few secrets would never hurt her, and they wouldn’t hurt him, either.

There was a new badge on her robes. It was heart-shaped and golden, and it had the letters L.P.Y. engraved on it, with a small insignia of a wand and a spear of ivy, crossed.

“S’okay,” slurred Daphne. “Lots of attention… whole school… likes me now.”

“Everyone liked you before,” said Theo.

“Stop… lying. Makes me feel like I’m… dying.”

“You’re not dying,” he said firmly, and squeezed her hand. “You’re going to be well again soon, do you understand? I’ve all sorts of terrible designs on our summer, and you’ve a part to play in all of them.”

“Should’ve told me earlier, prat,” she mumbled. “If I’d known I had… summer plans… I would’ve pushed my mauling up… to January.”

Pansy barked a laugh. Theo gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m going to tell Madam Pomfrey to lay off whatever’s in that drip. It gives you such an awful mouth.”

“Imperious,” she sighed. “I should perish… just to teach you a lesson. S’what… you would do.”

“I should never forgive such pettiness. It is beneath you as a lady to stoop to my level.”

“That’s true. Dratted unfair, too. Get me some… ice water?”

“For the lady? Anything.” He rose to his feet. “Come, Pans,” he said. “Let’s scare some victuals off one of the nurses. I feel like terrorizing someone, just now, and there aren’t any first years about. Draco, will you watch her?”

“I’m not dying,” groaned Daphne. “You all… harpies… gerroff. Leave me… and my wounds.”

“I’ll stay,” said Draco. Daphne poked her tongue out at him.

Theo motioned for Draco to step out. Draco followed him outside the screen, and they moved out of Daphne’s earshot.

“What did Madam Pomfrey say—”

“Very little,” said Theo grimly. “She doesn’t want to scare us — like looking at her wouldn’t scare anyone badly enough. No one knows how far the venom got into her system before the healers extracted it. She’s slated to stay for the rest of the month and check in with a specialist at St. Mungo’s.”

“But she’ll live?”

“Live, yes, thank God… in what state, and for how long, no one can say, considering— other factors.”

“You mean her blood condition?”

Surprise parted Theo’s mouth, but he erased it with a twitch of his jaw. “They’ve only done limited tests, because she’s so frail. So far, there’s no sign of it worsening, but these things can sour in the course of a minute.”

“And the other thing?”

“The other…?”

“You know what I mean.”

Theo folded his arms and glanced over his shoulder. Daphne had tipped her head toward Pansy and they were murmuring together in soft, wet whispers. “They don’t think she has lycanthropy,” he murmured. “Yet.”

A weight removed itself from Draco’s back. “Side effects?”

“Some. A taste for rare meat; heightened senses of smell and hearing, from what they can tell. Aggression, potentially, though that might just be Daph. It’ll take a full moon to tell.”

“I thought her blood condition might make her more susceptible.”

“Remains to be seen.”

“Well. Good, then.”

“To say the least.”

Daphne gave a feeble cough. It echoed in the cavernous Hospital Wing. Pansy held a cup to her lips.

“You know, when I came to Hogwarts,” said Theo suddenly, “I thought it was the greatest place on earth. That it was this epicenter of magic, and power, and politics, and all the great wizards in history came here to be trained… You know, they take you over the lake in those boats, and you see it swimming out of the fog, and you think… suddenly they’ve got you sitting there like an idiot, believing in a castle in the sky.”

“…What’s your point?”

Theo shook his head. “What a joke,” he said bitterly. “What do you think they do here? Teach? This is the same school it was forty years ago. The same classes, the same books, the same people, the same problems. And while they fill your brain with rot, they’ll leave you out to dry in the face of actual danger — where were the teachers, for Daphne? Where were they for Pansy, last year? It’s a joke. I’m so goddamn tired of it.”

“I say again,” said Draco, masking alarm, “what is your point?”

“That we used to be the greatest wizarding school in the world, and now we’re lucky if we can keep our neck above the water with Durmstrang. My father said it was a husk of a place, and I should have listened to him. Then maybe Daphne would — it doesn’t matter. And Dumbledore is part of the problem. Everything that happens here is his fault, and when they come for this place, I hope they start with him.”

His voice was cold and flat. Draco doubted whether he would even hear it if Draco tried to argue; he seemed lost in his own world.

“Dumbledore didn’t do that to Daphne.”

“He hired a werewolf,” said Theo. Draco took a step back. “A monster. That’s the second time one of my friends almost died, and just because we’re not Gryffindors—”

“To be clear,” said Draco. “You think you were targeted because — you’re Slytherins.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I do! When’s the last time one of your housemates got hurt, Draco? When’s the last time a teacher went after one of your friends, and don’t you dare say Snape, because Daphne’s in the Hospital Wing and Pansy still wakes up screaming, and the worst that’s ever happened to you is losing house points—”

“No, you idiot, Pansy was targeted by a Death Eater because he knew her already, which was her father’s fault, not Dumbledores’ — and Daphne broke curfew voluntarily, her house didn’t have a thing to do with it—”

“Yeah? Yeah? Really! So it’s pure coincidence, then? That it’s my friends who keep getting hurt because of Dumbledore’s carelessness?”

“It wasn’t carelessness. Lupin wouldn’t have—”

But he couldn’t say that. If he revealed the Ministry’s role in the attack, he would have to explain how he knew where Lupin had been on the night of the full moon, and why he hadn’t taken the Wolfsbane Potion, and how Draco knew he hadn’t taken it in the first place.

“Lupin wouldn’t have what?” Theo demanded. “Wouldn’t have what? Because if you tell me he didn’t mean to kill her, I swear on my house I’ll end yours right here.”

“Werewolves don’t have sentience or intention.”

Theo snorted. “Sure,” he said. “Sure. That’s your defense. Okay, sure.”

“I’m not saying it’s not awful. Of course it is. And Dumbledore should face the consequences—”

“Dumbledore should be sacked, if not subjected to thumbscrews. Draco, I don’t think you can fathom how sincere I am.”

Draco had never seen Theo so heated in his life, except the once, and it was almost exactly this time, last year. His face was pink, his collar askew. It was unsettling.

“Granger was in the Hospital Wing for a month,” he said quietly.

Theo’s nose wrinkled. “What?”

Draco reached out and tugged his collar straight, eliciting a little noise of disgruntlement from Theo. He kept his tone neutral. “Granger was in the Hospital Wing for a month,” he repeated. “Creevey was in for three. You don’t know Leanne Thompson, I expect, but she lost almost a full year of her education. Had to repeat a term. You asked when was the last time a teacher went after one of my friends. I told you.” After a pause, he added, “What happened to Parkinson was unconscionable. But she wasn’t the only one.”

At this, Theo’s face became impassive. He didn’t blink.

“If I ever see Lupin again, he’s going to wish he never touched a wand,” he said.

“Spare me the theatrics. I’m not a girl, and I don’t know who you’re trying to impress.”

Theo snorted.

“Bastard,” he said, but it was calmer. Draco shrugged.

“How’s the eye?”

“Fine,” said Theo crisply. “As it ever was.”

“Yeah. Alright. Bad luck about the Cup, by the way, but there’s always next year.”

“I could still out-fly you eight days of the week, Malfoy.”

“I’m still waiting for you to prove it.”

Theo hesitated. “Tell George Weasley,” he began, and pursed his lips. Then he managed: “Tell George Weasley that — that I haven’t forgotten.”

“Absolutely not, I’m not your owl. Tell him yourself, if you’re driven to such hysterics of passion over it.”

“Or don’t, then, git, see if I care.”

“Hold your breath, I dare you.”

They jostled each other in a fraternal antagonistic way, and Theo swept from the Hospital Wing. A gleam of gold sat beneath the Slytherin badge on his robes.

Pansy had gone to find Madam Pomfrey and get more ice chips. Draco took her place at Daphne’s bedside, and Daphne turned her head to locate him with her one good eye.

“Draco.”

“Greengrass. Comfortable?”

“As I’ve ever been.”

“So not at all, then.”

“Ha, ha. Funny boy.” She moved her hand and flopped it rather pathetically on top of his. “Draco.”

“Yes,” he said, alarmed. He leaned away somewhat. If she was going to throw up or burst out bleeding, he’d prefer she do it somewhere away from his person.

“If I tell you something, will you make a triple-secret pinky-swear promise not to tell another living soul?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll promise normally, though.”

“Okay,” she said, and beckoned him closer. He put his ear to her mouth.

“I can walk,” she whispered.

He drew back. “What?”

Her eye twinkled. “I’m… strong now. I can feel it… in my bones. At night, when Madam Pomfrey goes to bed, I get up and I… I can run… I can leap, and jump… and the closer it gets to the full moon… the stronger I am. I feel like I could run forever… and never get tired. I could dance all night… and never need to sit down… And I can… My body… after fourteen years of no… it’s finally saying yes .”

“…You’re imagining things.”

“M’not. I can feel it. You see that… dent in the railing?” She pointed to a divot in the rail of her bed. “I made that… the other day… trying to get up, for my bath. With my bare hands. Theo doesn’t believe me… but you will, won’t you? You know… I wouldn’t lie.”

He stared.

“What?” she whispered. “You don’t… you don’t think I’m… a monster, do you?”

“No, of course not,” he said at once. “I’m not sure you’re sane, but you’re certainly not a monster. You understand what you’re saying is preposterous.”

“Everything about my life… is preposterous. Now it’s just… finally getting… preposterously good. Isn’t that… nice? After all this time?”

“I’m a little caught up on the premises here. You’re not worried about transformations?”

She smiled, a sly, ferocious little thing. “Well,” she said. “They’ll have a hard time keeping me inside then, won’t they?”

Then she giggled at whatever expression he was making. “You don’t believe me,” she said. “That’s alright. You will.”

“That’s not it.” He drew the letter from his pocket. “I have something for you.”

She reached for it feebly. “You wrote… me a letter? Goodness. Are you in love with me?”

“I should sooner put my own eyes out with an awl. Any affection I may harbor for you is tacit and strictly familial. In my heart of hearts I regard you as my ebullient and uncomfortably flirtatious aunt.”

“Such… a prude,” she sighed. “Well. You can’t blame a girl… for trying.”

She opened the letter. After a moment, her brows twitched together, and the mirth fell from her face.

“Where… did you get this?”

“Dumbledore gave it to me,” he lied. It wasn’t exactly wrong. Dumbledore had been involved. “He wanted it conveyed to you.”

“And did he… tell you… who sent it?”

There was a delicate game to be played herein. “He said the letter was from someone who cares very much for your well-being.” Draco paused. “And someone who you stand to help considerably, if you feel inclined to it.”

“He wants me to lie?”

“No. He doesn’t. And I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you, as a question of fact, that what you tell the Ministry will change the course of his life. Having those facts, it is your business entirely what you do with them.”

“You can be such a dreadful bureaucrat,” she sighed, leaning her head back on the pillow. “You won’t just… ask me to lie, will you? Because that wouldn’t be… proper.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s your decision to make.”

“So moral,” she said, amused. “Pansy… was right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She told me,” said Daphne, her eyes fluttering closed, “that it wasn’t about… disposition, or bloodline… it was about… who you were… in extremis. What happened… when the chips were down… and you had to get what you wanted. Hook or crook… she said… you’d choose the knife… you were never really like us… in extremis.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

But she had no answer; her head turned against the pillow, and her body slackened in sleep.

---

Exams came and went. It was sunny again, and Draco spent the few hours he could escape the library flying in quidditch friendlies with the Ravenclaw team, which Harry always seemed to greet with curious eagerness. The D.A.D.A. exam had been canceled, leaving most students with only an aggregate grade, and since Lupin’s grading policy had been generous, few had anything to complain about, though many regretted his leaving.

“Wonder what they’ll give us next year?” said Seamus gloomily.

“I’d take a vampire, if he lets us play music again,” said Dean.

The closer summer came, the more subdued Harry became. Going home was not a cheerful prospect for him, and Draco suspected that it was made worse by the idea of living together with Sirius. That was Sirius’ own fault, for nurturing outlandish hopes, but it couldn’t be helped now, and it didn’t help to tell Harry that the hope had been outlandish: that only depressed him more.

Draco had thought about asking Dumbledore if they couldn’t let the poor sad sack come and stay at the Manor, for the sake of God and country, just to stop him from sighing and slumping around the common room like a wet cat. But Ron told him in confidence that Harry had already submitted these requests, discreetly, and been denied. At that point, Draco’s first instinct was a more direct course of action, e.g. removing the aunt and uncle from the picture entirely — a proposal that Ron wholeheartedly endorsed, but he admitted to having worries about the extraordinary grounding he would receive for committing the murder act on vacation, which Draco acknowledged and agreed with.

“Besides, we’d be expelled for doing magic out of school,” he said, pouring himself some pumpkin juice.

“You wouldn’t need spells,” said Draco haughtily. “They’re muggles. You could knock them out with a strong Sleeping Draught.”

“Now there’s an idea. Hell, you could probably just set Dobby on them, he’d do it — oh, hey, Harry. Hear the news? It’s dismal.”

“What?” said Harry, throwing himself down beside Ron. Hermione joined them. “What’s this about Dobby?”

“No. Percy passed all his N.E.W.T.s,” said Ron glumly.

“Oh, well done, then,” said Hermione, reaching for a bread roll. “Congratulations. I expect he’s very proud.”

“No, it’s not! He’ll be on about it all summer! When Fred and George get their O.W.L.s back, if they haven’t failed anything — that’s something to celebrate. I think the only ones they cared about were Transfig and Charms, and maybe Potions, though they’re dropping it next year… Fred said if he had to spend one more minute in that musty old dungeon listening to Snape, he’d—”

“Actually learn something?” said Draco dryly.

“Gargle some boomslang venom, I think, was what he said. Lucky git, wish I could drop Potions. Every time Snape looks at me I think he regrets not letting the werewolf have a go at me.”

“One sympathizes,” muttered Draco.

Ron put down his fork. “So I use your broom polish once, yeah, and I’m bloody dead to you, am I—”

“It’s fifty sickles a pot, it says ‘PROPERTY OF D. MALFOY,’ I don’t know how much clearer I can possibly be—”

“EY! ’ARRY!”

The familiar brogue drowned out the rest of Draco’s winning argument. Hagrid hurried down the Gryffindor table, his girth almost eclipsing the aisle. “Glad I caught yeh!” he cried. “Wanted ter congratulate yeh on the exam — top marks! All of yeh! Great bi’ abou’ the hippogriff flight patterns, too, ’Arry, I wouldn’ have thought yeh would know tha’ all jus’ from the textbook.”

Harry grinned. “It seemed intuitive,” he said. Draco rolled his eyes, while Hermione broke into a furious coughing fit.

“Got some good news for yeh,” added Hagrid. “Ron, had ter thank yeh for putin’ me in touch with tha’ brother of yers. He’s says he’ll take care of everythin’, even the fancy permit business — I’m due ter visit his place in Romania over the summer.”

“Least I could do,” Ron said generously. “It was really a birthday present for Charlie, anyway, he’s nutters about this sort of thing. Say hello to Norbert for me, would you?”

“I will! Although Charlie said somethin’ funny about tha’, in the letter,” Hagrid admitted. “Said he’s in perfect health an’ everythin’ — only they call her Norberta, now.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, with a tinkling laugh. “She’s a girl-dragon?”

“Mad, innit?” said Hagrid happily. “Yeh got ter wait for the firs’ clutch to tell. Anyway, Charlie said he’d help me study for me license over the summer. An’ Dumbledore says that if I pass the test, he’ll hire me back next year!”

“That’s great!” said Harry enthusiastically.

“Yes, that’s wonderful,” said Hermione, less so.

“So I’ll be looking for all of yeh in my class,” he said, clasping Ron and Harry on the shoulders. The movement nearly slammed both of their faces into their plates. “I’ve got a great idea fer the firs’ day, this time, too! There’s summat called fire crabs off the coast o’ the Mediterranean — yeh’ll jus’ love em!”

“Fire crabs,” mumbled Hermione, once he left. “Class Three. Generally considered N.E.W.T. level.”

“I thought the classification system was wizard-centric and antiquated,” said Draco.

She gave him a plaintive look. He dropped the smirk and nodded at her. They had agreed not to continue with Care of Magical Creatures next year. Besides, it would free up a block for Muggle Studies, and he wanted to find out how one went about acquiring muggle music if your friend didn’t send it to you by owl post. These, along with things like ‘Cadbury’ and ‘normal muggle girl Christmas gifts,’ had become objects of unanticipated significance in his life, and he was begrudgingly willing to tolerate lectures on boring things like lektrisitty and Tories in order to understand them.

Gryffindor had won the house cup that year. Draco cared very little for this except that it meant they ate under red-and-gold banners for the end of term feast, and it made the Gryffindor common room almost unwalkable during the night before they left. Before making his perfunctory appearance at the party, however, he went down to the dungeons with a book under his arm.

Light spilled from under the door to Snape’s office. He raised his hand, hesitated, and then knocked, firmly, thrice.

No answer came. He pushed in anyway.

Snape sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, a book open over his lap. When the door opened nothing moved except for his eyes, and Draco felt the cool shiver of a ward passing over his body, leaving him intact but awakened to the possibility of a very different outcome.

“I did not invite you in.”

“I know, sir. But since we’re leaving tomorrow, I wanted to speak with you before we left.”

Snape’s eyes moved to the door behind him. Draco shut it.

“It is past curfew.”

“I presume detentions carry over into the next year, professor.”

Snape gave a small grunt of acquiescence. They both knew very well the likelihood of him giving Draco a detention, but he disliked having his bluff called. Draco came in and sat down on the ottoman beside him. The fire provided ample warmth for the small stone room, and he noticed a bottle of brandy at Snape’s elbow.

“What is it?” said Snape.

The words he had prepared deserted him. He was left with an empty mouth and an empty head and a pair of half-empty hands. “This book,” he said finally. He held out Moste Potente Potions. “You gave it to me last year.”

Snape glanced at it and nodded.

“Right. Thank you, also, for that, sir. But I wanted to know— are the annotations yours?”

“Perhaps. Why should it matter?”

“Well, they’re very good. And I used them to brew a potion that was rather difficult, and they made it much easier than it would have been — considering my level.”

“Which potion would that be?”

“Polyjuice,” Draco admitted, after a moment.

Snape’s eyebrow gave a judicious twitch. “You brewed a Polyjuice Potion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Successfully.”

“By my eye, sir.”

“May I ask where?”

“Second floor girls’ bathroom, sir,” said Draco, evenly.

Snape closed his book and put it on the table. He steepled his fingers and put his fingers over his mouth.

“You are aware—”

“It’s against the rules. Yes. Sir.”

“Draco, I want you to answer this question with all possible care for your own well-being and mine. I suggest you take commensurate time in crafting your answer. Does it serve me to know the purpose for which you required this potion?”

Draco took commensurate time in crafting his answer.

“No, sir.”

“Am I wrong in presuming it bears some relation to your involvement in the affairs of Harry Potter and Sirius Black?”

He spat Black as if it were something foul he had discovered lurking behind his molar.

Draco thought about it. He thought about his godfather, who he cared about more than most people in the world; and his friend, who cared about his godfather, also, more than most people in the world, despite a lamentable difference in quality between the two.

“I don’t believe it serves either of our interests for you to know that, sir.”

“Good,” said Snape crisply. “I take it on faith that it does not. If you did brew a Polyjuice successfully — which I doubt you did, in truth — then it would have been a formidable piece of magic. I will refrain from assigning detentions to you and any of your extraordinary inept conspirators, whose names I have not the slightest inkling, in light of the fact that it is impossible and therefore unlikely to have occurred.”

“But I did— I mean — well, fine.”

He sulked. The lack of an outright denial was the closest thing to acknowledgement he could hope for. He clung to it anyway. Praise, from Snape, was a rare thing.

The book weighed heavily on his lap. He slid his thumb along the line of ancient gilt.

“If I may, sir—”

“You may not.”

“Why do you dislike Professor Lupin?”

Snape did not recoil; that would imply some level of movement. Rather, the displeasure on his face soured and fermented into a deeper shade of foreboding.

“He is a danger to Wizarding society. He is a creature of violence and low cunning. He would have killed you and your schoolmates without hesitation. I could go on, but I do not believe I must.”

“He’s a werewolf, sir.”

“Your point?”

“That it isn’t his fault,” Draco ventured. “Entirely. Respectfully.”

Snape shut the book in his lap and put it to the side. Draco sat up straighter, nervous for no reason at all.

“Remus Lupin,” said Snape softly, “has manufactured himself a past he can live with. It appears I alone will not indulge him in it. He remembers a world, a Hogwarts, and a set of friends that bear no resemblance to the people I or anyone else knew. Inside him is a rotten core of selfishness that no grandiosity of pretense will ever cut out. He has no dignity, no loyalty, and no code higher than his own pleasure. He would choose Sirius Black over every man, woman, and child in this castle… and he did.”

Draco didn’t really see evidence to believe that, but this was not the day he dared to ask why Snape did. What he did want to know about, and the last piece of the puzzle he had yet to grasp, was the last Marauder he hadn’t met.

“And James Potter? What was he like?”

“Never speak to me of the Potters.”

The fire guttered low, like it was afraid, too.

“Yes, sir.”

But he couldn’t unhear what Snape had shouted in the Forest, unshackled from dignity, from reason, from the very world around him: You killed her.

Her. Her, he’d said, and he’d been talking about the Potters just before. Her — but it wouldn’t make any sense.

“Draco.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I said that you were dismissed,” said Snape. “If I must resort to more strenuous methods to remove you from my company, I will do so, but we will both regret it.”

Draco rose, gathering what remained of his dignity with him. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Have a good holiday.”

“You as well,” said Snape quietly. “Tell your mother that I send my regards. And Draco?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you must insist on lying down with dogs,” he said, “then I entreat you to better protect yourself against infestations of fleas.”

Understanding nothing, he agreed that he would, and let himself out.

The Hogwarts Express left at an awful early hour the next morning. Harry and Ron, exhausted from the night’s celebrations, spent most of the ride napping on each other’s shoulders.

“They’re adorable,” said Draco. “Do you have one of those whatsits? The poillerode?”

“A Polaroid, you mean? No, but where did you hear about one of those?”

“Always the tone of surprise,” he sighed. “I’m a man of depth and mystery, Granger. Perhaps I’ve hit the books early on Muggle Studies, and I intend to give you a run for your money.”

“…Seamus told you?”

“Creevey.”

They talked of that for a while, of muggle cameras and Colin’s moving photographs, and the difference between that and ‘viddiyos,’ which he struggled to grasp. Then she pulled out a paper on the use of the Fidelius Charm, and asked him whether he thought the author’s methodology wasn’t the slightest bit skewed towards his own hypothesis, and he challenged her to come up with any other way of running the experiment, which she did, and the ensuing argument kept them occupied all the way to England.

When Harry woke up, Hermione had gone to change into her muggle clothes. While Draco and Ron chatted about England’s chances in the World Cup that year, Harry trudged out to the bathroom and came back in a ratty gray shirt and denim jeans tied up with string.

“I say,” said Draco. Hermione ducked in beside him, wearing a cheery peach-pink cardigan that matched the pearl clip she was tucking into her hair. She seemed much more comfortable than Harry in muggle clothes, he noticed; Harry wore them like something draped unwillingly around his neck, whereas Hermione appeared to move as easily as she did in robes, if not more. In fairness, muggle clothes for women were fathoms better than for men.

“It’s not like the Dursleys take me shopping,” said Harry defensively.

“Why the devil don’t they let you wear robes, then?”

Harry barked a laugh. “That’s a good joke,” he said. “And let the neighbors see? Petunia would pass out… Dudley might think it was funny, but then he’d try to set them on fire.”

“I remain perplexed by why you tolerate the existence of a Dudley in your domicile,” said Draco primly, as Hermione settled herself beside him. She was fiddling with some muggle device shaped like a rock, only it had buttons on it, and an antenna she could pull out and wave around. “It seems dreadful.”

“Not really my choice,” said Harry, not without humor. “Big problem with having kids. You can’t get rid of them until they’re eighteen.”

Draco stared at him.

“Dudley is a person?”

“I’ve been thinking about the business with the holidays,” said Ron philosophically. “I’ve figured out a strategy. I’m going to get Fred and George onside, first, and then we’re going to blackmail Percy; Mum won’t care about a million N.E.W.T.s if she finds out he was out-of-bed with a girl. And she’ll give him anything he wants, since it’s his graduation. Then we take it to Dad, and he’ll say yes, obviously—”

“Why on earth wouldn’t you say — but it went after my owl! You talk about it like a wild dog! You’re not telling me the ‘Dudley’ is related to you? By blood?”

“—and it’s the World Cup this summer! So you can come with us, and we’ll go and see it! Dad can get tickets from work, probably. What do you say? June tenth?”

The crosstalk had gone over Harry’s head; he was saying to Draco, “I mean, yeah, unless he got switched in the infirmary ward with a mountain troll, which isn’t, you know, entirely out of the question—” But he was cut off when Ron elbowed him.

“June tenth. You reckon?”

“What?”

“That’s when Mum will expect you back at the Burrow. June tenth. Gives you about a week — that should be enough for your weird family blood wards. Tell your aunt and uncle, if they’ve got a problem with that, they can write Molly Weasley, and she’ll send them a letter they won’t soon forget.”

“Oh. I — that’s — but I couldn’t do that to your family.”

“What, we’re not good enough for you?” said Ron jokingly. “You’d crap in tents with Sirius Black, but the Burrow isn’t up to snuff?”

“But your mother, your family… I can’t impose…”

“You’re family, you nitwit. C’mon, say yes. You know she’d be thrilled. She’s already plotting all sorts of ways to fatten you up, she wants to have you up a stone by Christmas.”

Harry beamed.

They played several games of Exploding Snap, in which Draco took great pleasure in handing everyone their arses, and when they were all considerably more cheerful, if more sooty, they bought a large lunch from the tea cart, complete with as many cauldron cakes as Draco’s and Harry’s pockets could jointly buy. Crookshanks curled on Hermione’s lap and nosed his head into Draco’s elbow, and he generously overlooked the amount of orange fur that was disgorged onto his robes. He did not think Hermione sufficiently appreciated his selflessness.

It was late afternoon, and the ridges of London were cutting into the horizon, when something flew into their window.

Ron bellowed, upsetting the remainder of his lunch onto the compartment floor.

It was a tiny owl, carrying a letter that was much too big for it. The owl was so small, in fact, that it kept tumbling over end over end in the train’s slipstream. Harry whisked down the window and brought it carefully inside.

The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s seat and began zooming around their compartment, apparently very pleased with itself. Harry’s snowy owl clicked her beak with a sort of dignified disapproval; Ulysses gave a discerning croak.

“It’s from Sirius!”

“Already?” said Ron mildly. “He doesn’t waste time, does he?”

Harry passed the letter around.

---

Dear Harry,

I hope this finds you before you reach your aunt and uncle. I don’t know whether they’re used to owl post.

Moony and I are in hiding. I won’t tell you where, in case this owl falls into the wrong hands. I have some doubts about its reliability, but it is the best I could find, and it did seem eager for the job. I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but they haven’t a hope of finding me here. We are planning to allow some Muggles to glimpse us soon, a long way from Hogwarts, so that the security on the castle will be lifted.

We are not living large, but living happier than I think we have either been for a long time, and we look forward eagerly to the next time we can meet. All of our best wishes and fondest hopes go with you. Be safe; be brave; and look after your friends. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll look after you, too.

Also! Moony reminded me: I am enclosing something else for you, which I think will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable.

If ever you need me, send word. Your owl will find me.

I’ll write again soon.

---

Love,

M — Your favorite unc PadMoon

Just PMMMMadfoot and

BASTARD MMJINXED MMMY QUILL PADFOOT

and Moony

---

Beside the signature lay two muddy pawprints.

“Trite,” said Draco.

“What’d they send?” said Ron. “If it’s not private, I mean.”

Harry shook out the envelope. The other piece of parchment was short and somewhat ratty, as if it had been an afterthought.

I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends.

“Sweet, but McGonagall’s not going to accept a permission form from a convict.”

“Nah, she might,” said Ron reasonably. “She’s got a soft spot for Harry. You remember that thing with the broom?”

“Do I? I have lost sleep over that thing with the broom. I pray only that the forces of cosmic justice, wheresoever they are, are also losing sleep over the incident we now refer to as ‘that thing with the broom.’”

“We won the Cup, get over it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Weasley.”

Ron was probably right. McGonagall, like many, had a soft spot for Harry, whether or not he had earned it by his own charm, or the possession of two brain cells to breed together. Driving soft spots into people’s heads appeared to be his primary survival talent.

“Hang on,” said Harry, “there’s a bit more, on the back. ‘I thought your friend Ron might like to keep this owl, as it’s my fault he no longer has a rat.’ Aww.”

All turned their gaze critically on the owl, which lacked the mass to tip a scale against a squirrel.

“Well,” said Draco, “on the bright side, it’ll keep your letters brief. He won’t carry more than one page at a time.”

“For goodness’ sake, Ron, don’t listen to him. It’s a perfectly wonderful gift. And just think, it’ll be so nice not to rely on Errol,” said Hermione. “All four of us will have our own.”

Ron studied the owl in apparent consternation over its size. Then he held him out for Crookshanks to sniff. “What do you reckon? Definitely an owl?”

Crookshanks rubbed his head against Ron’s hand. Hermione was beaming like he’d given her ten years’ Christmas presents in advance. Draco felt vaguely suspicious of the whole affair. It was very kitsch.

“Good enough for me! He’s mine.”

At King’s Cross, as the train sighed gray clouds over a flushed London evening, the musical echoes of family reunions filled the smoky and thick summer air. Faces familiar and not swelled out of the brickwork, with open arms and cries of names he recognized much better than he had last year — and he had the strangest sense of a second homecoming, a homecoming that was also a going-away.

Near the end of the platform, Sibelius Nott carved a wide radius into the crowd, none of whom dared to press past the aurors that flanked him. Theo, prying himself apart from a scowling Pansy, stepped without any particular eagerness into that radius, where his father’s hand came down on his collar like an iron clamp. Then the sight was lost in a gaggle of furiously embracing Hufflepuffs (he didn’t know if the student’s family were Hufflepuffs, but the insipid squealing merely seemed to suggest it) and he saw Astoria Greengrass and her parents, huddled together around Astoria’s wheelchair.

It surprised him as much as them when, instead of descending the stairs, Daphne — who still wore an eyepatch and bandages over most of her face — hurled herself from the window. Upon a perfect landing, she swept her sister out of her wheelchair, spun her around, and threw her so high in the air that her fingers could have brushed the highest tip of the train’s smokestack. Whatever noises of horror her parents made were drowned out by Astoria’s cry of joy.

Hermione touched his shoulder, staring. “Is that…?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He shook his head. “Couldn’t be,” he said. “I had the same thought, but it’s surely someone else.”

The crowds parted, and he saw Theo again, standing with his father and the Parkinsons. He gave Draco a thin smile and a wave. Draco returned it.

“Harry,” said Ron thoughtfully, “what d’you reckon your aunt would say if my dad asked her what a muggle contraceptive was?”

“I don’t know, Ron. I think your dad deserves the chance to find out.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Honestly,” sighed Hermione, as fifty percent of their group — ten percent, if you went by intellect — scurried off together. “One of these days, they’re going to actually breach the Statute of Secrecy, and they’re going to have such an ‘I told you so’ coming to them.”

“Which you’ll then undercut by helping them get out of it,” he said absently. He was looking for his mother.

“Obviously I will. You can’t say ‘I told you so’ to someone in Azkaban.”

“Right, of course.”

His mother stood in a candle of sunlight near the platform entrance. Her hair was coiffed like a magnificent bichromatic snail, and she was wearing a suit of verdant green, with black lacquered buttons that matched the strand of dark pearls around her neck. She was not smiling, but had a tightness around her mouth and cheeks that meant pleasure and excitement, commingled, in anticipation of seeing him.

Hermione followed his gaze. “I suppose I’d better go and find my parents,” she said.

“Yes. Rather. If you like.”

Then he added, “My mother’s already seen you. It wouldn’t be out of order, you know, to go and say hello.”

It didn’t mean anything. But there had been a moment under the Whomping Willow, with a werewolf and a murderer and a horde of dementors, where he’d really thought he was going to die beside her, and that had been harrowing enough; and, having done that, it seemed embarrassing to be skittish about introducing her to his mother.

Things were simpler than you thought they’d be, sometimes. Sometimes things were so easy they felt like cheating. You wouldn’t think that good things could be simple, it wasn’t intuitive. But it was true. Sometimes good things could simply happen to a person, for no reason at all, like they’d walked into your compartment on a train.

Without waiting for an answer, he took Hermione by the arm and led her, half-pulling, through the crowds to his mother. Hermione tried to fluff out her hair and hissed: “Wait — I’m wearing muggle clothes. Will that matter?”

“Yes, she’ll hate you from sight. The muggle bit is fine, but she hates polyester.”

“Really! Do you think I should change? She does know I’m a witch, doesn’t she?”

“Of course she’ll know you’re a witch, you’re with me. Keep them on, pink’s your color.”

“What?”

“Draco!”

He submitted to a brief, crushing embrace. His mother smelled the same way she always did. There was something wonderfully constant about that, like a perennial flower.

She was shorter than she’d been when he left, though. Odd.

It took her only a moment to notice Hermione waiting. “Well, hello!” she said. “Aren’t you darling? Do you know Draco?”

Hermione, who had gone owlish with fright, was obviously reevaluating her answer.

He felt sort of bad about being amused, but it was a bit funny. He’d thought the only people who intimidated Hermione were teachers and historians.

And, apparently, his mother.

He interjected before the awkwardness became scalding. “Mother, this is Hermione Granger. She’s the one who keeps ruining the class ranks. Dreadful conversationalist, too, I’ve been talking to her for three years and I still can’t get her to see reason on anything.”

Hermione stood up so straight it looked like she was straining for flight.

“It’s perfectly lovely to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said stonily. She extended her hand at a forty-five degree angle to her body. At the same time, she gave a trembling bob at the knee, like an abortive curtsy. Draco placed a hand tactfully over his mouth.

Narcissa’s face glowed. “You’re a girl,” she said.

Draco felt his own doom flower deep and darkly in his breast.

Hermione blinked. “Of course I’m a girl,” she said. Her intimidation melted seamlessly into indignation. “What do you mean? Is that so surprising?”

Narcissa hurried to take Hermione’s hands. “No! Not at all surprising! But — oh, he never said you were a girl!”

“He mentioned me before?” said Hermione, in frankly injurious tones of surprise.

“Of course he does, only I’d thought — I thought Granger was a boy in his dorm — you spoke about her so—”

“That’s enough,” said Draco immediately.

“He never mentioned I was a girl?” Hermione’s voice was dangerous.

Narcissa heard it, and hesitated. “Perhaps he did, and I only missed it,” she lied. He loved his mother for that lie, even if it was the worst one he’d ever heard. “Don’t be cross with him, you lovely creature, I’m madly delighted and I shouldn’t want to get him in trouble; only he does love to keep secrets from me! Hermione Granger, what a beautiful name. Is that Shakespeare?”

He had mislocated the danger. The danger lay not with his mother. The danger lay in the conspiracy of women everywhere to ruin his life. He should have suspected and avoided this. In fact good things were never simple, nor did they ever happen to him, and he had been a fool for suspecting otherwise.

“Er, yes, actually. My parents thought I’d never have to worry about being the… er, second Hermione.”

“Oh, but I’m sure I have a fourth cousin named Hermione, somewhere,” said Narcissa blithely. “What does your family do, dear heart?”

There was a silence like a record scratch. His design had been to avoid that bit of the conversation, perhaps permanently, or until he could maneuver his mother into a private place and explain. However—

“They’re muggles,” said Hermione bluntly, because her idea of ‘hedging’ was running headfirst at the bush with an ax.

Narcissa’s head inclined several querulous degrees on its axis. His stomach flipped. He felt like he were watching gunmen load a cannon, only he hadn’t any idea what they were loading it with.

“Ah,” she said. “Muggles. Both of them?”

“Yes,” said Hermione fiercely.

“And you…” She looked at Draco.

“They’re dentists,” he said, after a moment. “In London. They like to read. And go to the theater.”

“Oh,” said Narcissa.

“And they have a cat. Well, Granger does. The younger Granger. My — this one.”

“I see.”

The heat in the platform seemed to rise. Hermione’s hair floated in a shimmery sun-coated radius around her head. Her face was sort of shiny from sweat. He kept glancing at her to see if he was getting something wrong.

Narcissa drew her hands away from Hermione and smiled. It was a slow, gradual coalescence of kindness, as though she had to work up to it.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathily. “I’m afraid I don’t know — what a dentist is.”

Each word might have cost her a thousand galleons. Draco was proud of her.

“That’s alright,” said Hermione, in a very small voice. “They fix teeth.”

Narcissa nodded quickly. “And is… that business… good?” She glanced furtively at Draco. “Do muggle teeth… require much fixing?”

“I… a normal amount, I’d say.”

“But you don’t… I don’t suppose you want to be a dentist, do you?”

“No,” said Hermione firmly. “It’s a good business, but you see, I’m a witch.”

“…Ah. Of course.”

“But I’m interested in a career in Transfiguration,” she blurted. “With a focus on human Transfiguration. And I’m also interested in civil rights issues concerning magical creatures. There’s such a dreadful amount of work to be done.”

“My dear, that sounds terribly strenuous for you,” said Narcissa. She said for you just a bit too emphatically, to Draco’s ear, for the purposes of innocence; there was a more than passing implication that it might not have been quite so strenuous for someone else — but thank God, Hermione, for whom work was the reason to get out of bed in the morning, never even conceived that possibility.

“But it’s only work,” she said, mystified.

Narcissa blinked.

“Granger’s going to be Minister before she’s thirty,” said Draco. “It’s bad luck for us, because she’ll likely have us out on the street, sweeping trash and holding the door for goblins. Nevertheless, I’m getting in with the administration on the ground floor, so perhaps we’ll land one of the kinder goblin overlords as reward for my troubles.”

“He’s joking, really, I swear. I don’t even know if I want to work for the Ministry. There’s an awful lot I have to do before then, and I don’t even have my O.W.L.s yet. And Draco’s more of a bureaucrat than I am, honestly. If either of us will be Minister—”

“It won’t bloody well be me, will it? I’d have you owling my office at all hours of the night nagging me to fix things.”

“It’d never get done, otherwise!”

“Oh, I’m sure, but they invented this thing called sleep, and those of us who indulge find it does wonders for the temperament. You might try it out, see what happens.”

“You’re one to talk about temperament — you nearly bit Harry’s head off for spilling ink on your Potions essay.”

“And he should count himself lucky he didn’t spill it on yours, because there wouldn’t have been any ‘nearly’ about it. Mother, you’re going to let her talk to me like this?”

Narcissa made the surprised sound of one who had not expected to speak. She was watching them — when talking to Hermione it was strategically unsound to pause for breath or interruption, though he realized belatedly that it might be taken as quite rude if you weren’t in the rhythm of it, which people usually weren’t — and he was embarrassed, though he didn’t think his mother was of a mind to scold. Her eyes swept over them and left nothing but a trail of tingling embarrassment in their wake. Her irises were like small gray pearls, smooth and glassy with a composure that did not appear terribly sound.

“What?” he said hotly.

Narcissa frightened him further by not answering. To Hermione, she said stiffly: “I apologize so very much for my lack of manners. You must visit over the summer, so that we might — so as to allow us to offer our hospitality.”

“That’s entirely alright,” said Hermione, deeply embarrassed. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion. I could make up a guest room for you. She’d sleep in the east wing, of course, in the girls’ suite.”

“Mother!”

“I’m only being clear. You’re of an age—”

“Oh, look, my parents,” cried Hermione. Draco could have embraced her. “They look really impatient, I have to run.”

She hauled her trolley into place, and he realized only then that it was the last time he would see her for several months.

“Wait — hang on. Granger.”

She turned around expectantly. The evening sun threw a strain of gold through her hair, like a stripe of pure gilt. He sort of stumbled over his next words, which wasn’t like himself at all, and he blamed his mother for disarraying him.

“I’ll send you that journal,” he said.

“I’ll write,” she said.

“Alright, then.”

“Alright.”

He did not know quite how one went about the business of starting a hug; he had never initiated one with anyone besides his mother. He did recall holding out his hand, sort of indeliberately, as if to say: If you absolutely must bring yourself into my space, I will not jinx you for it, and she seemed to understand — being brilliant, naturally — what he was trying to do, and, smiling, took the burden of it off his shoulders.

She put her arms around his chest and squeezed him. He lifted his chin clear of her altitudinous hair and closed his eyes, pretending to tolerate it, when in fact he did not mind it really at all. Her grip was like a warm band of sunlight concentrated around his chest, pressing inward.

“Alright. Good. That’s enough, then. You’ll wrinkle my shirt.”

She let go, perhaps hurriedly — he might have been projecting.

“Well,” she said awkwardly, “goodbye!”

“Right. Goodbye,” he said, and found himself terribly distracted by the idea that he wanted to keep talking to her. Obviously, he quashed this feeling and sniffed and turned his head, to ignore it.

“Yes. Er… have a good summer.”

She turned away to leave again. He called out, more or less without thinking: “Race you through the Runes textbook.”

Her nose wrinkled when she grinned. It rearranged all the freckles on her face into new constellations.

“You’ll owe me a book when I win.”

“You’ll owe me a new cassette when I do.”

“Joke’s on you — I’ve already done the first hundred pages.”

“Only the first hundred? I’m sorry, I can slow down if you’d like to catch up.”

“I want the first volume of Chroniculus Punnett,” she called, walking backwards. “Or something by Magdalen Manchurian on the goblin revolts! First edition!”

“So? I want something by that one group Finnegan wouldn’t shut up about. The Moving Stones.”

She laughed. He knew what the real name was.

The crowds closed over her while she was laughing, and she vanished into the sunlit peals of smoke.

Narcissa took his arm.

“So,” she began.

“Yes, Mother. Your hair looks splendid, by the way.”

“Don’t even try,” she said absently. “She’s — I mean, she’s… quite something.”

“Muggle-born.”

“Muggle-born,” said Narcissa, like it was an exotic species of plant.

“Yes. Listen, Mother, it’s like this—”

She put her hand on his wrist.

“I don’t suppose you have… many friends, like her, do you?”

He considered.

“No,” he said, for a given interpretation of what the question meant. He didn’t have many friends, full stop, anyway.

“Well,” she said. “Well.” She nodded. Apropos of nothing, she announced, “Your Great-Uncle Ignatius had a pub in Edinburgh that he liked. On vacations, he would go drinking with the local muggles. We thought he was quite odd, but he said that they had better ale in the muggle pubs. I doubt I could ever tell the difference, but it was his own business, and I imagine that he had — people, there, that he was fond of. Even considering his circumstances.”

“…Mother?”

“You know your Great Aunt Cedrella married a Weasley, of course. We couldn’t see her after the disinheritance, naturally, but I was given to understand, as a child, that sometimes my grandfather would — disappear, for an afternoon. And that there were certain offshore accounts, listed under my grandfather’s name, that found themselves routinely depleted, though they weren’t tied to any of the family vaults. It was an open secret.”

“I have no idea what you mean to imply, and frankly doubt that I would like to.”

“My Great Aunt Cassiopeia played gobstones with a muggle-born partner. A woman. She never married, you know. Of course, no one would have suggested anything improper about her, she conducted herself immaculately in public. And so we agreed that what was done privately, out of sight, was her affair.”

“Mother, I really would prefer you cut to the quick and gouge my ears off. This is cruelty.”

“But you understand, darling, don’t you? And you will be careful?”

“I’m always careful,” he said, stung, “and — anyway, I’m a Malfoy. I can do as I like.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said quietly.

This had the effect of a bludger to the back of the head, when he had been expecting one to come from the front.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re tall,” she said. “I forgot how tall boys get, at your age. We have to get you new robes, your ankles are showing, it’s an affront to the family. I’m sure the tailor is still open. What do you think? A quick run to Diagon Alley, and then dinner in London? We can even catch a show, afterward, if you’d like.”

“I’m flattered that you bother to ask me, as if you didn’t buy out a box last week.”

“Aha! You caught me. I wanted an evening with my special boy. You must escort me to Azkaban, for my terrible crimes.”

He sighed and let her take his arm. “Just the first act.”

She patted his wrist. “Oh, the first two, darling. The first two, surely. Everyone knows the first act is only setting the stage for Act Two.”

“Just two, then, and no more. I’m dead tired from the train, and I haven’t the patience for yodeling men in tights.”

“Yes, two, of course. Goodness gracious, will any of these bellhops deign to take your trolley, or shall I have to Summon one from the States? I hardly recognize this place, it’s so overrun. Hello? Yes, you, there — do you imagine my son ought to carry this himself?”

They would be there through the very last note, for certain, but his mother would manage it slowly, in increments — “Oh, darling, just ten more minutes, until this progression resolves” — and he would be dead on his feet by the time the last one finished. Narcissa could be neither outwitted nor outlasted in a contest of wills. That was alright, though. The intermission would give him time to catch up on Runes. And if he finished that, he could get started on his first letter: Dear Granger. It’s a lovely evening, here at the Royal Wizarding Opera, and I regret to inform you of your impending defeat. I will accept tribute by way of praise, tears, and long-form odes to my brilliance, which you may submit by owl post with your next letter…

It was a mild, soft blue evening, and Wizarding London lay under a silver film of smoke and industrial blear. The streetlamps blazed like the flare of Lumos on the rows of a hundred black wand-tips. Somewhere out in that long dark forest of chimneys, there was a girl with her Runes textbook balanced open on her lap, reading furiously. And somewhere in the Scottish highlands, there was a castle waiting for him to come home.

---

END OF VOLUME ONE

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Hey! You! Thank you for reading!

By now, you probably know what’s coming: I’ll be taking a short hiatus while I finish writing the fourth book. I don’t think it’ll last too long, because I have a good bank of chapters built up, I just need some time for edits and formatting. Fourth year marks the start of Volume Two, where the books get longer, the plots get darker, and both rating and tags will change. It’s also going to be longer than the first three. (For perspective, GoF is about 30% longer than PoA.) Will the difference be that stark for me? I hope not, but if we’ve learned anything so far, it’s that I treat word counts as a pole-vaulting challenge, not a limbo stick.

I can’t express how much sincere affection and love I feel for everyone who’s stuck with me this far. Every writer has days when they wake up and feel the urge to scrap everything and run away from their project, because they’re scared it’s not perfect or as brilliant as it was in their head. Those days are the enemy, and if it weren’t for your comments, I don’t know who’d win. It’s such an incredible privilege to be able to go to my inbox and have people there cheering for these characters. If I could, I would thank you all by name.

---

Love,

GT 🍵

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