Redivider

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28534965.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Hermione
Granger & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Andromeda Black Tonks, Harry
Potter & Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson & Harry Potter, Sirius Black &
Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Ron
Weasley, Hermione Granger & Blaise Zabini
Character: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Blaise Zabini,
Andromeda Black Tonks, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Daphne
Greengrass, Sirius Black, Ron Weasley, Albus Dumbledore
Additional Tags: Slytherin Harry Potter, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Harry, Dark Arts, Bigotry
& Prejudice, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pureblood Politics
(Harry Potter)
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of Mutatum
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HP, ScribeSmith's Fanfic Library, HP exquisite fics ongoing, Incomplete
Fics to Track, Primus Inter Pares, Harry Potter Fics That I Do Adore,
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Stats: Published: 2021-01-03 Updated: 2022-05-27 Chapters: 12/? Words:
75636

Redivider
by Vichan

Summary

In the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts, Harry decides to take his own words to
heart - it is time to let the Gryffindor go. As he tries to navigate the world with the eyes of a
Slytherin, he surprises everyone with what he discovers he’s capable of.

After all, Slytherins use any means to achieve their ends, even when they are not a fan of
the means.
 The sequel to Evitative.

Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide great
services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can get
involved!

I saw a few people gave up on ever seeing this sequel. Sorry for having a pandemic,
protests, and knee surgery. Shit happens.

The tags are a bit scarce right now because there are some story elements coming that I did
not want to spoil, but I did choose to add some archive warnings in advance. Those
warnings are not applicable to this chapter and will not be in play for quite some time, but I
just wanted to be upfront about them. (I take archive warnings far more seriously than
tags.) One clarification: 'graphic violence' is a tag, but there will NOT be sexual violence.
Absolutely not.
(Edit 3/7/21: I've gotten quite a few concerned questions about the MCD tag. I will go
ahead and spoil this part: the major character death is NOT Harry or Draco.)

That said: additional story tags, character tags, and a certain relationship tag will be added
in due time. If you are worried about encountering triggers or squicks, please keep an eye
on those tags. They will change. I think the story avoids anything terribly triggery, but I
cannot anticipate what everyone's triggers are. (And knowing me, I can't anticipate
everything I'm going to write.)

I hope you guys enjoy this ride as much as you liked Evitative. I'm psyched.

And as a reminder, this will never be a bashing fic. It would also be really cool if people
could refrain from bashing characters in the comments. It bums me out.
 Turn and Face the Strange
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Dear Harry,

Will all the letters you write to me this summer resemble the first one? Will they all be
short, skimp on details, and lack poetry?

I’ll admit that in a way it was a bit endearing - the crassness of your letter is very
much like you and your complete lack of etiquette. Even so, reading your letter filled
up very little of my time. Considering this summer is shaping up to be one of
unbearable boredom and monotony, I hope you’ll put just a bit more effort into
entertaining me.

If you won’t, I’ll just have to entertain myself by writing you novella-length letters. I
suppose I could work on my Charms essay, but I just found myself staring at what I’d
written for well over an hour before I realized that I hadn’t added anything to it and I
wasn’t comprehending anything I’d written so far. I’m not even certain that what I’d
written was in English. The parchment may as well have been blank for all the
meaning I could construe.

To be fair, I do have a reason for my distraction: my mother has barely spoken to me

since she picked me up from King’s Cross. I cannot pretend that I don’t know why,
and I can’t help but take it personally; she speaks amicably and often with Mrs.
Zabini as well as Blaise, but she offers me nothing but silence. Don’t worry - I know
we’ll get past this eventually. I’ve seen her give my father the silent treatment more
times than I can count. I'm certain she'll be nagging me about something or other in no
time.

Blaise’s mother, on the other hand, seems to be pretending that nothing is wrong at
all. Blaise hasn’t said anything, but he appears to be quite unsettled by this. At meals
he always waits for someone else to eat first and he’s made it abundantly obvious that
he does not want to be alone with his mother. Every other comment he makes to me
when we're together is about how his mother is going to kill him and make it look like
an accident; he mentions it so often that I’m beginning to wonder if he expects me to
avenge him should anything happen. Even now, while I write to you, he seems quite
distracted. He’s been working on an essay for Arithmancy for over two hours now, but
the crumbled pieces of parchment he’s thrown away number in the dozens, and that’s
even after he already set a healthy pile of them on fire.

Since Blaise is so distracted by the thought that his mother may or may not murder
him any day now, he’s a poor source of entertainment. Again, I am left to entertain
myself.

I suppose the Zabini home is nice enough, but it is quite small compared to Malfoy
Manor. There are no outdoor gardens to meander in, nor horses to ride. There is only
one room for dining, and the library is barely the size of my bedroom back home.
Blaise and I spend much of our time in the library -

Harry’s lips quirked as he neatly folded the letter and tucked it into the side pocket of his bag.
He’d already read the letter half a dozen times, and he’d nearly memorized Draco’s lament about
the lack of amenities at Blaise’s house. He wondered what the immensely spoiled Draco would
think of the Dursleys’ home; while Vernon and Petunia seemed quite proud of their slice of
suburbia, it sounded as if it was absolutely minuscule compared to Blaise’s home, much less
Draco's.

At least Blaise had a library. At least Draco had access to that library.

Harry had known that he was going to be even more miserable than he generally was with the
Dursleys that summer, but he hadn’t expected to grow frustrated within mere hours of entering his
small bedroom. He had all the usual irritation at being cut off from the wizarding world with some
of the worst Muggles any wizard could imagine, but he knew that wasn’t the entire reason why.

He supposed it was the first summer where he truly wanted to continue learning and studying, and
yet he wasn’t able to do so. The only books he had any interest in studying were ones he was
already fairly familiar with, and he craved digging into something new. He also felt he had good
reason to continue learning; he was apparently destined to destroy Voldemort, after all.

Fortunately for Harry, his irritation was short lived. He was going to be leaving the Dursleys’ a
mere four days after arriving.

Harry pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen, smirking as he did so. He partially did it because
he didn’t think he’d have time to wait for the ink to dry if he wrote with an ink and quill, but also
because he knew that writing with a Muggle pen would irk Draco.

Dear Draco,

By the time you read this, I should be at Andromeda’s house.

Yes, I know the length of this letter will irritate you. And yes, I’m doing that on
purpose. Old habits die hard.

I miss you.

- Harry

Despite his relatively newfound and still growing fondness of Draco Malfoy, Harry had come to
realize that he still greatly enjoyed annoying him. In fact, Harry wanted to find even more new and
inventive ways of vexing the pointy, sarcastic, and kissable boy.

Harry felt a little flush at that thought. It astounded him. He, Harry, was romantically involved with
Draco Fucking Malfoy. He and Draco were essentially dating - if it could even be called that.

Whatever it was, the fluttering that developed in his gut whenever he and Draco had kissed or
touched or even just glanced at one another in the last few days of the school year had been
brilliantly alien. Harry loved that feeling. Even just thinking about it started that little flutter up
again, although it wasn’t as intense as it had been when he was actually in Draco’s presence. Harry
found he missed that intensity.

Harry’s eyes traced the last line of his letter, and he felt the words to his core.

He missed him.

He supposed that was why he was suddenly so invested in thinking of different ways he could
annoy Draco from afar. Perhaps the ache to repopulate the butterflies in his stomach was why his
thoughts seemed to continuously return to Draco. Harry knew he could be a little obsessive at
times, but he never expected to grow obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

To be fair, Harry knew he could have merely been thinking of ways to mildly annoy Draco in order
to relieve some of the guilt he felt when reading Draco’s letter.

Draco’s mother wasn’t speaking to him, and Harry knew that it was because of him.

He also knew that it wasn’t due to Harry’s new status in Draco’s life; as far as he knew, Draco’s
mother wasn’t aware that her son had spent his last few days of his fifth year snogging Harry
Potter.

It was because Draco’s choice to ally with Harry had cost Narcissa Malfoy her husband and her
home, as well as her sister.

And Draco wouldn’t have had to make that choice yet if Harry hadn’t made the rash, stupid, and,
as Harry had come to think of it, incredibly Gryffindor decision to go to the Ministry of Magic.
Perhaps if Draco had been able to make the decision under more rational circumstances, the
outcome could have been much better.

Harry couldn’t find it in himself to regret the fact that Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange had
been arrested in the Department of Mysteries. In fact, he found himself more than a little satisfied
in knowing they were no longer causing pain and misery to anyone that crossed them.

He did, however, regret that Draco’s father had been arrested, which had caused strife between
Draco and his mother.

It was an odd mesh of feelings and Harry didn’t quite know how to process them together.

Harry realized he’d been staring sightlessly at his letter, and he remembered that he was short on
time; Andromeda would be there any minute. He folded the parchment and turned to Hedwig.

“Can you take this to Draco for me?” he asked.

Hedwig gave his hand an affectionate nip, then trilled at him. As Harry was securing the letter to
her leg, he let out a little laugh as another spark of inspiration came to him. “Would you get tired if
you flew to the Zabinis’ and back every day?” Perhaps Harry could continue his annoyance of
Draco by simply sending him comically short, inane letters every single day.

Hedwig tilted her head and Harry swore that the coo that came from her beak sounded confused.
Harry immediately knew why; it was because the Dursleys would always get upset if Hedwig was
flying in and out of their house constantly.

“I almost forgot!” Harry exclaimed. “We’re leaving. I’ll be with Andromeda and Ted Tonks by the
time you’re done, so go there after you see Draco. Okay?”

Hedwig hooted an affirmation, and then she flew off into the night sky.

After he’d lost sight of Hedwig’s silhouette, Harry turned around and immediately grimaced when
he focused his attention on his trunk. Even though he hadn’t gained a single belonging since
coming to the Dursleys,’ it seemed as if his things had expanded. For some bizarre reason Blaise
had helped him pack his trunk when they were leaving Hogwarts, and Harry had no idea as to how
Blaise had managed to fit all of the clothes, books, and trinkets inside the trunk that they were now
spilling out of.
Harry hastily began trying to cram everything back inside, but he couldn’t get the trunk to shut.

He was just sitting down on the lid in a futile attempt to get it to close when he heard a knock at
the door. He leapt to his feet and the lid flopped open with such force that it may as well have been
spring-loaded, but Harry paid it no mind.

The Dursleys did not knock on Harry’s door.

A brief flash of panic ran through Harry. What if the letter from Andromeda hadn’t been from
Andromeda, after all? Harry knew her handwriting better than her voice, and it certainly seemed
like hers.

“Harry?”

Harry blinked, the panic draining in an instant. He wrenched the door open and was met with the
vision of Andromeda Tonks standing in the hallway, with her daughter, Nymphadora, who
preferred to go by ‘Tonks,’ at her side. Andromeda’s inherent elegance somehow made the
Dursleys’ seem small and common, and Tonks’s purple and blue hair made the hall seem boring
and plain.

It was a surreal sight for sore eyes.

“Hiya, Harry,” Tonks said, giving him an odd little salute.

A closed-mouthed yet warm smile appeared on Andromeda’s face. “It’s good to see you again,”
she said.

“Yeah. You, too,” Harry said quickly, distracted. “How did you get up here? Aren’t the Dursleys
-”

“You didn’t hear them leave?” Andromeda asked. “I believe I heard them say that they had the
sudden desire to go to the bookstore.”

“The… bookstore?” Harry asked incredulously. It was nighttime, but that wasn’t the main reason
for his disbelief. “When… when did they start reading?”

Tonks abruptly let out an exasperated sigh. “Mum, I am thrilled that you’re being more open and
honest with me, but do I have to remind you that I am still an Auror?” she asked, crossing her arms
and shooting Andromeda a glare that was positively dripping annoyance.

Her mother merely stared back at her cooly. Tonks finally broke the tension with another heaving
sigh that seemed to make her deflate. “Just don’t tell me you used an Imperius.”

“Very well,” Andromeda said. “I won’t tell you I used Imperius.”

“Mo-ther!” Tonks said with a gasp. The staring match continued until Tonks finally snapped her
gum. “Behave.” Then she grinned, and her hair suddenly grew in size and length, the spiky blue
and violet giving way to a rich, shining brown, before it all settled into a cascade of thick curls
draping down around her face.

It was identical to Andromeda’s hair, and Harry was struck for the first time by how much Tonks
looked like her mother.

Andromeda rolled her eyes as Tonks’s hair shrank back to its former state. “I have far more subtle
tricks than an Imperius, Nymphadora.” She then turned her attention back towards Harry, who
couldn’t help but smile at their exchange.

“Are you ready to go, Harry?” she asked.

Harry winced, the smile falling from his face. “Uh… almost?”

One of Andromeda’s eyebrows arched upwards. “Why does that sound like a question?” She
peered behind him and frowned. “I take it that this trunk is yours?” she asked, her tone suddenly
disdainful.

“I… well, yeah,” Harry mumbled.

“And why does it presently resemble a volcano?” she asked, taking a few steps towards the trunk
and tilting her head as if inspecting the devastation.

Tonks let out a giggle. “Ooh, Harry,” she snorted, “there’s something you should know if you’re
going to be living with my mother.”

“Oh?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“She’s going to make you be tidy,” Tonks said, grinning. “And if you are half as bad as me -”

“If this is the result of an attempt to pack, I fear he may be even worse than you, Nymphadora,”
Andromeda said, cutting her off.

Tonks burst out laughing at that.

“I’m sorry!” Harry exclaimed, blushing. “The trunk seemed way bigger when I was eleven. I guess
I’ve… gotten a lot more stuff since then.” He knew that was especially true in the last year - he’d
acquired several new books, as well as an entire new wardrobe courtesy of his housemates.

Andromeda’s gaze swiveled towards him, her eyes narrowed and calculating. “Is this everything,
then?” she asked, her words sounding oddly sharp.

Harry nodded.

Something unrecognizable flashed across Andromeda’s face, and then she turned back to the trunk,
drawing her wand. She flicked it upwards and all of his things seemed to sail upwards into a
chaotic cloud, and Harry could see everything from his books to his jumpers floating all around
them. His blush grew darker as a pair of his drawers floated past his face.

Andromeda’s eyes swept the room and with a graceful turn of her wrist, his things seemed to start
gravitating into categories - his clothes folded themselves along the way and gathered together, his
quills and ink tucked themselves into a roll of blank parchment, and his books were stacked
together by size.

She then leaned forward and inspected the books for a moment. With another flick of her wand a
few were pulled from the stack and formed a second pile, and Harry immediately recognized that it
was his modest collection of dark arts books. She tapped the spine of Nearly Undetectable Curses
and Hexes with her wand. “I particularly enjoyed this one when I was your age.”

Harry let out a laugh. “It was -” He froze. He’d nearly said that it had been a favorite of Sirius’s, as
well, but he remembered Tonks was still standing at his door. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling
a tad alarmed.
Tonks merely snapped her gum . “Don’t worry,” she said, shrugging. “My lips are sealed.” Then
her face screwed up in consideration. “About your book collection, anyway. I am gonna have to tell
Dumbledore that we came and got you.”

Harry could help the scowl that suddenly appeared on his face. “Right,” he said gruffly. After the
way he and Dumbledore had left things in his office, Harry still felt a string of betrayal at the
headmaster’s name. “I suppose that’s your job.” It came out a bit nastier than he’d intended.

“But Dumbledore’s conveniently away right now,” Tonks continued, cheerfully ignoring Harry’s
sour demeanor. “I have no idea where he is, so he’s not there for me to tell.” Harry could have
sworn her hair lightened a shade or two as she grinned widely at him. “You probably have at least
a day or two before he finds out.”

“Could you just… make it as long as possible?” Harry asked sourly.

“I know that Dumbledore isn’t fond of the dark arts, and he couldn’t have been pleased by what
you did at the Ministry,” Andromeda said, “but you seem unusually… resentful of him.”

Harry merely let out a grunt, crossing his arms, shooting Tonks another glance. She must have told
her mother what had unfolded in the Department of Mysteries, he realized.

“It is not wise to make an enemy of Albus Dumbledore, Harry.”

Harry gave a heaving sigh at Andromeda’s words. “He’s not an enemy,” he said. “He just… kept
some things from me that he shouldn’t have. I don’t really feel like talking with him yet.”

Andromeda let out a hum. “Well, we can delay as long as possible, but not forever.” She waved her
wand once more and his things sank neatly into his trunk. Even though everything seemed to be
organized and it did appear the lid would close, it still looked overfull.

Harry sighed, glad of an opportunity to change the subject from Dumbledore. “I suppose I should
probably… get rid of some stuff,” he said. “Or else get a bigger trunk.”

“That is quite unnecessary,” Andromeda said, closing the trunk with one more elegant turn of her
wand. “It’s nothing some basic expansion charms won’t fix.” She levitated the trunk in front of her
and raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Unless you wish to go shopping for a new trunk, that is?” she
asked.

Harry shook his head, feeling mildly relieved.

“Very well,” Andromeda said with a nod. “Nymphadora, if you would please lead the way?”

***

Almost as soon as they arrived at a humble, clean, and clearly wizarding home, Tonks bid them a
good night, leaving for her own flat.

Andromeda immediately ushered a bewildered Harry up the stairs, directing him to the bathroom.
As soon as he entered a heady scent hit his senses, and his nostrils instinctively flared, as if trying
to capture as much of the intoxicating aroma as he could. It smelled alien and wonderful.

“I gave up many luxuries that I had in my youth when I married Ted,” Andromeda said, “but one
that I refused to let go of was a nice, hot bath.”

Harry peered into the steaming tub and spied flecks of what looked like herbs and flowers floating
in the hot water. Despite the plants - or perhaps because of - it certainly looked inviting. He hadn’t
had any desire to take a bath until he’d entered the bathroom, and he didn’t think he could refuse
Andromeda’s offer even if he’d wanted to.

Even so, he was more than a little confused. “Uh…”

Andromeda reached into a cabinet and pulled out a jar full of even more herbs, and she placed it on
the edge of the bathtub before turning back to Harry. “We do have much to discuss, Harry,” she
said. “But it is nearing midnight, and it is vital that you are in the bath before the clock turns.”

“What?” Harry asked, tearing his gaze from her and back to the herb filled water. “Is this…” He
was struck with a bolt of clarity. “What kind of magic is this?”

Andromeda smirked at him. “A little dark concoction combined with some clever potions.” She
pulled a towel out of the same cabinet, draping it over a rack off the wall. “This bath will remove
any tracking magic that has been placed upon your person.”

A chill went down Harry’s spine at her words. “Who do you think is tracking me?” he asked,
alarmed.

The look Andromeda gave him spoke volumes; she clearly thought it was an absurd question for
him to ask. “The Ministry, of course,” she said. “We are going to rid you of that irritating little spell
that detects underage magic.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“I am a firm believer that children should be able to defend themselves unmolested, especially in a
time of war,” Andromeda continued. “And although there was a stay in the war when she was a
child, I did the same thing for Nymphadora when she was much younger than you are now.” She
set her jaw. “I would not have strangers monitoring my daughter’s movements or behavior.”

“I…” Harry paused, swallowing. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Andromeda responded. She then gestured to the jar of herbs resting on the
side of the bath. “You are to pour that entire jar into the bath at the stroke of midnight.” She
pointed over her shoulder at a clock that was on the wall.

Harry nodded. “Do I need to… say anything? Or have my wand with me?” he asked.

“You can say whatever you wish, but it will not help or hinder the effect,” Andromeda said,
amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’ve already enchanted the herbs for you.” She paused. “And I
would not recommend taking your wand in the bath. The trace is on you, not your wand. It detects
magic that is used in your proximity.”

“Then… then why were you able to use magic to pack my things?” Harry asked, confused.

“Because we filed a writ with the Ministry that we would be coming to call at your house,”
Andromeda said. “It is a basic form, and it’s mostly automated. It is rarely monitored.” Her
expression soured. “It is a bad policy that is very badly enforced, which is all the more reason to be
rid of it. It is also a weak spell that is easily fooled, and it is not much more difficult to be rid of it.”
She pointed at the bath. “Now get in.”

She turned to leave but paused by the door. “After you pour the herbs in the bath, take the time to
relax, Harry,” she said softly. “You have a difficult summer ahead of you, and you should savor
these moments of stillness while you can.” She offered him a warm smile. “I will see you in the
morning.”

***

He’d taken Andromeda’s advice to heart. Harry had nearly fallen asleep in the bath, only just
managing to drag himself out of the water and into the cozy bedroom across the hall. The sheets
were crisp and cool against his overly warm skin, and their fresh scent soon lulled him into the best
rest he’d had in months.

He allowed himself to wake slowly the following morning, awareness lazily drifting back into his
mind. He stretched and absently wondered if the tranquility he was feeling was a side-effect of the
whatever magic had been in the enchanted bath or if it was merely the bath itself. He quickly
decided he didn’t particularly care and he dawdled as he dressed despite an underlying excitement
at being able to spend time with Andromeda. He’d grown quite fond of her through their exchange
of letters throughout the last year.

When Harry descended the stairs and entered the dining room, a man sitting at the table peered
over the top of The Daily Prophet at him, and he lowered it to reveal a bright smile. “Harry, I take
it?” the man said. “I’m Ted, Dromeda’s husband.”

“Hullo,” Harry said in greeting as he took in the man’s appearance. He had dark brown, almost
black hair that was peppered with silver, and oddly electric honey-brown eyes that were accented
with crow’s feet. Those, combined with the light wrinkles on his cheeks, told Harry that he likely
spent a lot of his time smiling.

“Have a seat,” Ted said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Dromeda will be out with
breakfast soon.”

As if on cue, a steaming cup was set down in front of Harry. “Tea for you, because you are most
likely a normal wizard,” Andromeda said as she placed a mug in front of Ted, “unlike my husband,
who prefers to drink powdered, artificial beans.”

Harry let out a laugh. “What?”

“Instant coffee,” Ted said appreciatively. He lifted the mug and saluted Andromeda with it. “Gives
me everything I need to start my day.”

“I respect many things Muggles have created, but your ‘instant coffee’ is an abomination,”
Andromeda responded. Ted merely laughed at her retreating back.

As Harry scooped some sugar into his tea, Ted raised the Prophet again, and the front page
immediately caught Harry’s eye.

Two photos laid in contrast to one another. On the left was Cornelius Fudge, looking lumpy,
rumpled, and overly distressed. The right photo portrayed a man that Harry had never seen; Harry’s
first thought was that he was stern, grim, and tough. Piercing eyes shone from underneath
unusually bushy eyebrows, and although it was just the usual wizarding photo, Harry felt as if the
man was staring straight at him.

“‘Ministry Changes Hands Tomorrow,’” Harry murmured, scarcely aware that he read the headline
out loud. “Who is he?” he asked. “Who is the new Minister, I mean?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour,” Ted said, closing the paper and shoving it across the table towards Harry.
“He was Head Boy when Andromeda and I were just firsties.” He slurped at his coffee before
shaking his head. “He was always a bit of a prick.”
Harry quickly skimmed the article, learning that Scrimgeour had been the Head of the Auror
Office, and was now due to take over the post of Minister for Magic from Fudge.

“That is why Andromeda wanted to come get you before she originally planned to,” Ted said.

“What? Why?”

“Because as soon as Fudge is no longer in power,” Andromeda said as she placed a plate of eggs in
front of Harry, “the order of secrecy he placed on his Aurors will become void.”

Harry blinked at her before he realized what she was referring to. When they were in the
Department of Mysteries, Harry had confessed to using the dark arts. In a surprise move, Fudge
had ordered everyone that had heard Harry’s confession to stay silent. Although his memory was a
bit hazy due to everything that had happened that night, Harry knew that at least a dozen Aurors
and other Ministry officials had been present.

And because Harry was Harry Potter, someone was almost certainly going to tell the Prophet what
he’d said.

“But the only thing any of them saw me do was -”

Andromeda held up a hand, shushing him. “Breakfast first, Harry.”

Harry nearly protested, but it only took one look from Andromeda before he realized that arguing
with her would be about as useful as arguing with Professor McGonagall.

It only occurred to him while he was eating that Andromeda may have quieted him because her
husband might not have known about his use of the dark arts, much less her own. Andromeda had
told Harry that while her family knew she was a dark witch, she had led them to believe that she no
longer used the dark arts.

After they were finished with breakfast, Harry and Ted helped Andromeda clean the table and the
adjacent kitchen, though Harry noted with some amusement that every surface that he and Ted
wiped down would be cleaned again by Andromeda. Ted noticed Harry watching her do this every
time without fail, and he smiled and shook his head at Harry in a silent plea for him to not mention
it.

As the last plates and mugs were whisked away into the cupboards, Ted gave Andromeda a fond
kiss on the cheek. “I’ll leave you two be,” he said. “I’ve got a long shift today, so I won’t be back
until late tonight.” He looked between Harry and Andromeda. “Don’t sacrifice any goats to the
moon while I’m gone.”

Harry stared at him in bewilderment while Andromeda let out a laugh. Ted waved to Harry, and
then he was gone.

“‘Sacrifice goats?’” Harry asked. “What does he think we’re doing, exactly?”

“He used to make the same terrible jokes when I first told him I was a dark witch,” Andromeda
said, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s decided to bring those jokes back when I told him and
my daughter that I wanted to start practicing openly again.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot upwards, and he then remembered some of the comments that Tonks had
made the previous night. “They… seem to be taking it well.”

Andromeda nodded. “I’ll admit that the conversation went better than I expected it to,” she said.
“Nymphadora is a bit more conflicted than Ted, but that’s to be expected. Aurors are most well
known for apprehending dark wizards, whereas Ted has dedicated his life to helping all witches
and wizards, regardless of what magic they practice.”

That oddly reminded Harry of the reason why he declared for the dark on Beltane; it had been
symbolic of the fact that he wanted to protect all wizards, light and dark alike. “What does Ted
do?”

“He is a Mediwizard,” Andromeda said. “He would eventually like to be a Healer, but he says he
doesn’t have the patience to study for the extra exams.” She shook her head. “I think it’s because
Mediwizards will be called to wherever they’re needed. Healers have those in need come to them.
Truthfully, I believe he would be bored if he were forced to stay in one spot.” A fond smile graced
her features before she put the kettle on and pulled two teacups out of the cupboard they’d just
gone into.

“We may have only days, Harry. The news of your use of the dark arts will soon break,” she said.
Her tone of voice had instantly shifted from light and amused to stern and grim. “It would be wise
of you to decide how you want to respond before it does.” She gestured for him to take a seat on
one of the stools by the kitchen island.

Harry blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “I… yeah,” he said with a sigh, plopping down on
the stool. “Dumbledore said it would be allowed since we’re technically at war again, but…”

“But you are an unusually public figure, and everyone is going to have an opinion on what it
means,” Andromeda said, sitting down across from him.

“What do you think I should do?”

Andromeda immediately shook her head. “I will not be making any of your decisions for you,
Harry,” she said. “I am known for wanting to make my own decisions. And do you think I would
have chosen that my daughter be an Auror had I made decisions for her?” She clasped her hands in
front of her, fixing Harry with a rigid look. “What you do is entirely up to you.”

“But I have no idea what to do!” Harry protested feebly. And it was true - although he’d known for
a few weeks that the news could break at any moment, now that it was imminent he found himself
at a loss. He let out a huff, slouching down and resting his chin on his arms. “I’m used to just…”
He trailed off.

“... dealing with things after they’ve already happened?” Andromeda finished for him. “Being
reactive instead of proactive is quite Gryffindor of you.”

Harry felt simultaneously annoyed and uneasy. He’d grown to hate the fact that every witch and
wizard he knew put so much stock into their Hogwarts house. “Why do we all have to be put into
stupid little boxes?” he grumbled. “A house shouldn’t define us.”

Andromeda let out a laugh. “That is quite correct,” she said. “Our house values aren’t meant to
characterize who we are as people. We are merely meant to exemplify those values through our
actions. The values are a guideline for how we approach our lives.”

As usual, Andromeda’s explanations spoke deeply to Harry and his annoyance quickly drained out
of him, but he was still left feeling unsettled. After all, what had he told himself, and later Daphne,
at the end of the school year?

It was time to let the Gryffindor go.

It was his Gryffindor approach to life that had led him to taking his friends to the Ministry. It had
led to the upheaval of his roommates’ lives, resulting in the arrest of their fathers. It had led to his
own godfather being arrested.

It had led to the very problem he was facing now.

“Slytherins are adaptable to change, and we are even more adaptable when we can anticipate that
change,” Andromeda continued. “And I believe it is safe to say that things are about to change
greatly for you.”

Harry nodded, sitting up.

“Again, I will not make your decisions for you,” Andromeda said. “But what we can do is go
through your options.”

“I’m not even sure what those options are,” Harry said quietly.

Andromeda stood to take the kettle off. “The first option would be to do nothing,” she said. “The
news makes it to the wizarding world, but you never respond to it. Your silence would result in
rumors following you wherever you go, likely for the rest of your life.”

“That’s nothing new,” Harry said, scowling. “There was a rumor flying around school last year that
I was trying to be the next Dark Lord.”

“And silence would result in that rumor spreading beyond Hogwarts,” Andromeda said, confirming
his suspicions. “Is that what you want?”

Harry shook his head.

“The next option would require lying,” Andromeda continued as she poured the hot water into the
teapot. “Deny that you said anything. Claim that the Ministry officials that heard your words are
merely slandering you.”

Harry heaved out a sigh. “And that’s nothing new, either. That’s what they spent all of last year
doing.”

“That option may have some merit, then,” Andromeda said. “Most of the wizarding world now
realizes that the Ministry was trying to discredit you when you said that You-Know-Who had
returned. You could lead them to believe that it was simply more of the same.”

Harry shrugged. It could work, but it didn’t sound very appealing.

“The third option would be to tell the truth of what you did at the Ministry, but lie about what you
intend to do going forward.” She placed the teapot on the island and turned back to retrieve the
cups and saucers. “You claim that you had just been dabbling in the dark arts, and that you feel
absolutely terrible about it and you’ll never do it again.” She sounded amused at that, and Harry
supposed that it was because it was similar to what she’d told her husband years ago.

“I don’t think that would go over very well, either. I’d just wind up with the same rumors as if I did
nothing,” Harry responded. “To be honest, none of these sound very good.” He let out another sigh.

“The other option is to do what we briefly spoke about last year.” Andromeda placed a teacup in
front of Harry, again taking the seat across from him. “It is the highest risk, but could also lead to
the highest reward.”
Harry didn’t even have to ask what she was referring to. “Going public,” he said. “I admit
everything, including the fact that I am a dark wizard.”

Andromeda nodded.

“It’s been mentioned to me more times than I can count,” Harry said. “It’s just… what if it
backfires? That would probably lead to even more rumors about me trying to replace Voldemort.”

Andromeda leaned forward. “Harry, I am going to ask you a question that I’ve asked you before,”
she said. “I just want to know if your answer has changed.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“What do you want more than anything else?”

“I want to defeat... Voldemort,” Harry said, but even as the words came out of his mouth they felt
wrong, and he knew Andromeda could tell.

“Is that the truth?” Andromeda asked, her tone sharp.

“I…” Harry paused. “I’m supposed to.”

“You’re supposed to defeat him, or you’re supposed to want to defeat him?”

Harry shrugged. “Both, I guess,” he said. “There’s a stupid prophecy and everything. If I don’t kill
him, he kills me.”

Andromeda’s eyes widened. “I’ve never put much stock into Divination,” she said, her voice
sounding tight, “and I don’t think a prophecy should get to make your decisions for you, either.”

“But he does need to go down,” Harry said. “I know that. He’s caused so much… death and
destruction and pain. He needs to be stopped.”

“I don’t disagree,” Andromeda said.

“And what he’s doing isn’t exactly doing any favors for… people like us,” Harry continued. “Dark
witches and wizards, I mean.”

“Yet the dark community flocks to him,” Andromeda said, “because they believe his victory would
allow them to stop hiding who they are.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t want to hide, but I definitely don’t want him to win,” he said quietly. “He
can’t be allowed to win.” He shook his head. “And I know that my going public could show dark
witches and wizards that… they could have a choice besides Voldemort.”

“And that would weaken his support, which would weaken him,” Andromeda said. “We’ve spoken
of this before, Harry.”

“I know,” he said. “But… announcing to the world that I’m a dark wizard could also just wind up
with me in Azkaban.”

“That’s not an unfounded fear,” Andromeda said. “Many dark witches and wizards have been
arrested just for practicing their magic.”

“Which is…” Harry trailed off. He paused, blinking, and his thoughts churned chaotically.
 While Voldemort did have followers that truly believed in the superiority of wizarding blood, many
dark witches and wizards went to Voldemort because they felt he would protect them. They feared
the persecution and oppression of the wizarding world more than they feared Voldemort.

Voldemort was able to gain the power that he had because of how the wizarding world viewed the
dark.

He was a symptom of the persecution, not the cause of it.

“I want dark witches and wizards to be free,” Harry suddenly blurted out, and his words felt far
more true than what he’d said earlier. He met Andromeda’s eyes and set his jaw. “That’s what I
want more than anything else.”

Andromeda’s lips quirked. She looked like she was trying not to smile. “Then I believe you already
know which option to choose, Harry,” she said.

There, in Andromeda’s almost unnervingly clean kitchen, the decision was made. Harry was going
to tell the world that he was a dark wizard.

Andromeda had certainly been right when she’d said that Harry was in for a difficult summer.

Chapter End Notes

I could not resist subverting the 'Harry goes shopping for a new trunk' trope. :P

Before anyone asks, I will never have a posting schedule. Schedules stress me out.
Sorry.

And yes, Sirius will be addressed in the next chapter.

 Something Glowing From Inside
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry had communicated with Andromeda Tonks through letters for nearly a year. He’d also
managed to have a short, pleasant conversation with her the previous winter. However, he’d never
gotten to spend extensive time with her in person.

She was everything Harry had expected. She was also absolutely nothing like he expected.

If he had to summarize Andromeda using only one word, it would be intense.

She was possibly the most calculating and focused person Harry had ever met. She wanted to run
through every scenario of how he could reveal himself as dark, and then she wanted to determine
what the consequences of each of those scenarios would be. If Harry’s focus seemed to drift in the
slightest she would instantly snap his attention back to the topic at hand. He felt as if he was being
mentally walked in circles.

When Andromeda pointed out that Harry almost certainly wouldn’t have time to do anything
before the inevitable, he grew frustrated.

“If I can’t do anything now, do I really have to figure all of this out right this second?” he snapped.

The only response was a raised eyebrow, but it was still enough to make Harry feel guilty. “Sorry,”
he said sheepishly.

Andromeda looked at him for a long, somewhat tense moment before her lips quirked upwards.
“An apology is unnecessary, Harry,” she said. “And you are quite right that we won’t be able to
plot the entire course in one go.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “But you do have to decide
which direction you want to be facing when the storm comes.”

Harry sighed. “I know, it’s just…”

“We can change the subject if you wish, but there is one thing you should know before we do.”

“What’s that?”

“The Minister-designate - Rufus Scrimgeour,” Andromeda said. “I know him.”

“Mr. Tonks said -”

“Ted.”

Harry nodded. “Ted said you were in school together,” he said, deciding that it probably wasn’t
appropriate to mention that Ted had also called Scrimgeour a ‘right prick.’
“I admit I don’t know him well, but I do know more of Scrimgeour than Ted,” she said. “He was in
Slytherin.”

Harry didn’t feel all that surprised at that bit of news. Slytherins tended to wind up in positions of
power, after all.

“He was… well, the best I can describe him is that he was a mild pariah,” she continued. “He
wasn’t very well liked in Slytherin. He had few friends in our house.”

“Why is that?”

Andromeda let out a sigh before raising her teacup to her lips. She took a sip and met Harry’s eyes
with a grim expression. “From what I was told by some upper years, he despises the dark arts,” she
said somberly.

“That’s… not good,” Harry said, his eyes widening.

“There is a distinct possibility that he will make going public much more difficult for you,” she
said. “He is a bit… curious, though.”

“How’s that?”

“The upper years also confirmed that he has a dark affinity and that he did practice the dark arts
when he was younger. Evidently, something... changed at some point when he was in school.”

Harry sat quietly for a moment as he processed the information. He knew next to nothing about
Scrimgeour, but he already sounded like no one Harry had ever met. He knew that there were
people like Daphne, who chose not to declare for the dark, but he didn’t know of anyone with a
dark affinity that actually despised the dark arts.

But that’s not true, a nasty little voice whispered in Harry’s mind. Your own mother was ashamed
of her affinity for the dark.

His mother, though, had been in Gryffindor at the height of a war against one of the worst dark
wizards in history. It made sense for her to fall victim to the widespread sentiment that the dark arts
were evil.

Scrimgeour, on the other hand, had been in Slytherin. He would have been surrounded by dark
witches and wizards.

“What could have driven him away from the dark?” Harry wondered out loud. It was difficult for
Harry to conceive; his own affinity drew him to the dark with an almost irresistible pull, and he
couldn’t imagine denying that part of himself.

“Who can say? It could be any number of things,” Andromeda said. “There was still quite a bit of
anti-dark sentiment when we were school, though it wasn’t anywhere near the level that the
wizarding world has reached today.” She sipped her tea again. “He may have also witnessed
something that repelled him; it is no secret that many dark wizards dive into some truly evil types
of magic.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “I’ve read about some spells and rituals that I’d never do.”

Andromeda opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a tapping at the window on the far
end of the kitchen. Harry grinned when he saw Hedwig perched outside.
“It feels odd to see Hedwig arrive here without a letter from you,” Andromeda quipped as she rose
from her seat to open the window. Hedwig immediately hopped inside and swooped over to the
kitchen island, landing in front of Harry. To his surprise, he spied a piece of parchment attached to
her leg. He wondered if Draco had already drafted another long-winded letter to him in response to
his own short, unpoetic letter that he’d sent Draco.

He unrolled the parchment and immediately let out a laugh when he saw there was only one word.

Prat.

Andromeda raised an eyebrow at him as she took her seat again, but she soon turned her gaze to
Hedwig. “Oh, you are lovely, aren’t you?” she purred, raising a hand to run her fingers along
Hedwig’s head. Hedwig seemed to puff up at her words, and she leaned into Andromeda’s hand.

“Hagrid got her for me for my 11th birthday,” Harry said, amused at how pleased Hedwig
appeared at Andromeda’s attention. “Best present I’d ever gotten.”

Andromeda’s hand stilled for a moment before she resumed her stroking. “Based on what little I
know of him, I never imagined Rubeus Hagrid to have good taste in creatures,” she said, “but she
is a fine owl. We get along splendidly.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said, grinning. “If we’re staying with you, it would be awkward if you didn’t get
along.”

Andromeda smiled at that before taking another sip of her tea. “What other questions should we
address?” she asked. “You want to put talk of revealing yourself on hold - which is fine - but is
there anything else you’d like to know now?”

Harry perked up. “Sirius,” he said. “You said you’d gotten a solicitor for him.”

“I did,” Andromeda said, sounding a bit regretful. “But there’s something you should know about
that, Harry. This solicitor is only doing this as a favor to me, so if a paying case comes to him -”

“I can pay,” Harry said. He knew Andromeda and Ted weren’t well off, and he’d planned on
offering his funds in the first place. “Would that make it a paying case?”

Andromeda let out a tinkling laugh. “It would,” she said. “And I’m sure Marshall would appreciate
it.” She paused. “That said, it would be best to wait until after lunch to discuss Sirius. Nymphadora
will be here this afternoon. She is gathering what information she can from the Ministry, as well as
meeting with Marshall.”

She explained that Marshall Fawley was a freelance solicitor who normally specialized in
defending witches or wizards who had broken the Statute of Secrecy, so defending a wrongfully
accused murderer was not in his usual wheelhouse. However, Andromeda assured Harry that he
was incredibly capable at his job and he was well-respected by many members of the Wizengamot.

He was also Ted’s greatest friend since their school years, and he’d served as Ted’s best man at
Andromeda and Ted’s wedding.

The most intriguing and promising bit of information was the fact that when Andromeda had first
told Ted that she was a dark witch all those years ago, Marshall was the one who had convinced
Ted to stick with her.

“He’s not dark, right?” Harry asked.

Andromeda shook her head. “Far from it. He comes from a family that still observes the old
traditions, though,” she said. “I think that went a long way in helping Ted understand how…” She
trailed off and gave Harry a faint smile. “He helped Ted work through it.”

“Is… is he light, then?” Harry asked curiously. “A light wizard?”

“I don’t believe so,” Andromeda said. “I think he would have mentioned it back then.” She let out a
sigh. “I also have yet to see what his reaction will be to knowing I am practicing… ‘again.’” She
raised her fingers in a quotation symbol, smirking. “But our friendship has blossomed since Ted
and I were married. I have a feeling he won’t take long to come around.”

“You’re going to tell him?”

“Of course,” Andromeda replied. “We’re friends.”

Harry paused at her words, and his gaze fell to his teacup. “I… I told Hermione,” he said. “She…
seems okay with it, at least for now. She said she wants to do her own research, though.”

“If you two are as close as you’ve implied, I think she’ll work through it, as well,” Andromeda
said.

“I guess,” Harry said. “I just wish… I’d been able to spend more time with her at the end of the
school year, or…”

“Made yourself available to answer any questions she might have?” Andromeda asked lightly.

Harry nearly snorted at that, nodding. “She will have questions,” he said. “She’s Hermione.”

“She is Muggleborn, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“Ted still keeps in touch with his family,” she said. “Which means we do have a... telephone.” She
said the word as if it was still foreign to her. “You could use that to speak with her if she truly does
have questions.”

“Really?” Harry asked, perking up at the thought of actually being able to talk to Hermione, and
not just exchange letters. “That would be great!” Then he almost immediately smacked his
forehead. “I… I don’t think I have her number.”

Andromeda fixed Harry with a look that was already starting to become familiar - as if she knew
that Harry knew better, and that he should feel silly for saying stupid things out loud. “Then write
to her and ask her for it.”

***

Andromeda’s collection of dark arts books was modest, to put it politely. Harry knew that she had
hidden her use of the dark arts from her husband and daughter for decades, which meant that she’d
only kept a few books tucked away where her family wouldn’t find them. Harry had more books
on the dark arts in his trunk than Andromeda had in her house.

Even though the few that she kept seemed incredibly useful, Harry still found that he missed the
library at Grimmauld Place.

He skimmed through a thicker volume called Dark Defense and came across one spell that looked
like one he would want to add to his repertoire. It was a dark charm that seemed similar to the
Muggle-repellant charms that he’d heard had been placed on wizarding institutions like Hogwarts
and the Quidditch World Cup, but it was more targeted. When a person encountered a charmed
object or dwelling, it would make them suddenly want to do something very specific.

Like wanting to go to the bookstore, Harry thought, amused. He suspected Andromeda may have
used that exact charm in order to get rid of the Dursleys’ when she’d come to fetch him.

He was practicing the wand movement for the charm when he heard a loud crash downstairs,
immediately followed by a moan. Tonks had evidently arrived, hopefully with news about Sirius.

Harry resisted sprinting down the stairs, thinking that Andromeda likely wouldn’t appreciate him
racing through her house. Even so, he made haste and immediately found Andromeda and Tonks in
the dining room. Tonks was picking up a fallen chair and setting it upright as her mother sighed at
her.

“I’ll put on some tea,” Andromeda said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Hiya, Harry,” Tonks said, grinning as she sat down in the chair that she’d just fixed. “Enjoying
your time with Mum?”

“I am, actually,” Harry said, taking a seat across from her.

“Well, I’m glad somebody is,” Tonks said before lowering her voice. “Sometimes I think she gets
lonely when Dad works the long shift.”

“How often does he do that?” Harry asked.

“Used to be just twice a month,” Tonks said, “but this is the fifth in the last two weeks.” She
frowned. “There’s been some Death Eater attacks. A lot of people need more help from
Mediwizards than usual lately.”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. “Would he… be in danger?” he asked.

Tonks shook her head. “He gets there after the action is over.” Then she grinned. “I’m the one
who’s supposed to get there while it’s still happening.”

“Much to my dismay,” Andromeda said as she reentered the dining room, placing cups and saucers
on the table. “The only career you could have chosen that would be even more dangerous is a
dragon breeder.”

“That’s what Charlie Weasley does,” Harry said. “He studies them, anyway.”

Tonks laughed. “He was obsessed with dragons even back when we were in school. Everybody
always knew that’s what he was going to wind up doing.”

“Much to Molly Weasley’s dismay, I’m certain,” Andromeda said before turning back to the
kitchen. “And for the record, Nymphadora, I put quite a bit of value in my time alone.” She threw a
smile over her shoulder. “But Harry makes for pleasant company.”

Tonks rolled her eyes upwards. “Now that I know my Mum really did do a bit of dark arts to give
herself the hearing of a bat, my life has made so much more sense,” she muttered.

Harry laughed.
“If I have to be honest, a lot about my Mum makes more sense now,” Tonks continued, and she
fixed Harry with a contemplative look. “Even though I still… I still have things to work through, I
feel like I know her better. And I’m pretty sure I have you to thank for that.”

“I… I didn’t do anything,” Harry said, feeling a bit dumbfounded at her words.

Tonks let out a laugh. “I think she’s been secretly disappointed for years that I didn’t have a… dark
affinity,” she said. “But she somehow got you, instead. She’s obviously pretty fond of you.”

“I’m a big fan of hers, too,” Harry said, grinning. “She’s helped me understand a lot of things that
probably would have taken me ages to work through.”

“Yeah, she’s very good at that,” Tonks said. “Even though I know she hates it, she’s the one who
helped me figure out that I wanted to be an Auror.”

“I really need to thank Sirius for putting me on her radar,” Harry said.

“It didn’t really occur to me when I was a kid, but… she’s a great mum, Harry.”

Harry found himself blushing at the words and a wave of fondness swelled up in his chest.

The door to the kitchen burst open and Andromeda immediately swooped in on Tonks, wrapping
her arms around her daughter from behind before placing a kiss on the top of her head. Tonks
raised a hand to hold her mother’s arm, looking content.

They stayed that way for a long moment before Andromeda looked up at Harry. “What is ‘radar?’”
she asked curiously.

Tonks burst out laughing. “Muggle thing, Mum,” she said. “I… have no idea how to explain it.”

Harry blinked. “Uh… I learned about it in primary,” he said. “Something to do with radio waves, I
think? I… don’t think I could explain it, either.”

They made idle talk until Andromeda finally poured tea for each of them before taking the seat
next to Tonks.

“Do you know how Sirius is?” Harry asked.

“I haven’t gotten to talk to him, but he’s in better shape than I expected he would be,” Tonks
replied. “He’ll stay in the Ministry holding cell until he gets a trial.”

“When will he get a trial?”

Tonks sighed. “The Minister getting replaced has put everything on hold for a bit, unfortunately,”
she said. “It’ll probably be at least a few weeks, maybe a month.” She slid the sugar pot next to her
tea. “Fawley thinks that’s a good thing, though. He said it’ll give him more time to prepare a good
defense.”

“Let’s hear what Marshall had to say, Nymphadora,” Andromeda said.

“Fawley is all up to speed on everything,” Tonks said as she spooned an extraordinary amount of
sugar into her tea. “He thinks Sirius has a shot of getting his name cleared, even without having
Peter Pettigrew in custody.”

“Really?” Harry asked, his face lighting up.

“Well…kind of.” Tonks sighed. “He says it’s a shot, and it’s a long shot because it’s going to
depend entirely on witnesses and not evidence.” She idly stirred her tea and stared at Harry with a
slight frown. “Harry, you should know… since it’ll probably make the Prophet soon, I had to tell
him about what you did at the Ministry. Using the dark arts, I mean.”

“How did he take it?” Andromeda asked.

“He… didn’t offer his opinion,” Tonks said. “Or his judgement, if that makes you feel any better.”

Harry shrugged. It did make him feel a little better, if he had to admit it.

“But Fawley is worried that it might affect your credibility as a witness, Harry,” she continued.

Harry deflated. “I guess that’s…” he trailed off, sighing and dropping his eyes down to the table.

“It is to be expected,” Andromeda said, her voice calm and quiet.

“He was wondering if you knew of any other witnesses that might be able to testify,” Tonks
continued.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry said immediately, looking back up. “And Lupin, probably. They were
all there the night we found out Pettigrew was alive.” Snape had been, as well, but he likely
wouldn’t be able to testify without blowing his cover as a spy. Besides, it wasn’t like Snape would
be inclined to do any favors for Sirius.

Tonks sighed again and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I hate to say it, but I’m not
sure that’s going to be enough.”

“Unfortunately, I agree,” Andromeda said. “Dark arts use or no, three teenagers and a werewolf
likely won’t sway the Wizengamot in our favor.” A long, tense silence followed her words before
she spoke up again. “Harry, I hate to say this, but… it’s occurring to me that you may want to wait
until after Sirius has a trial before you go public about being a dark wizard.”

“Wait - what?!” Tonks exclaimed, looking between her mother and Harry. “You’re just gonna…
put it all out there?”

Harry nodded. “I don’t want…” He paused, mulling over what to say. “Dark witches and wizards
are being driven to Voldemort because of the persecution of the dark,” he said. “They feel like
he’ll protect them. He won’t, but they go to him because they feel like it’s their only option.”

Tonks’s eyes were almost comically wide. “You’re… in for quite a fight,” she said after a moment
of shocked silence. “The incoming Minister hates the dark arts.”

“We are aware,” Andromeda said. “I also believe that Scrimgeour will guide the Ministry to
persecute the dark even more. It’s very likely that he’ll make the problem worse.”

An expression that looked like pure regret appeared on Tonks’s face. “I’m sorry, Mum,” she said
quietly.

Andromeda didn’t respond, but she reached across the table to grasp his daughter’s hand, giving it
a gentle squeeze.

Harry watched the exchange with mixed emotions. He felt like the world was about to crash around
him, but Tonks had seemingly accepted her mother for what she was with ease.
He knew the rest of the wizarding world wouldn’t take it as easily as Tonks had, but it still made
him feel as if there might be a bit of hope, after all.

***

The following day was, for the most part, uneventful. Harry woke to the news that Rufus
Scrimgeour would be the new Minister for Magic by the afternoon. He spent most of his time
combing through Andromeda’s books, quickly deciding that his earlier assessment had been a bit
unfair; quality should be favored over quantity. She didn’t have many books, but the few books
that she did have were terrific. He quickly taught himself a handful of the charms and spells
contained within them.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit proud when Andromeda mentioned that his grasp of the dark arts
was truly remarkable. Based off of the expression on her face, he’d somehow managed to stun the
woman that had seemed unshakeable.

Hedwig arrived with Hermione’s number in the late afternoon, and Harry called her in the early
evening.

Hermione’s father answered the phone, and he seemed just a little amused at the fact that a boy was
calling his only daughter. His voice was teasing as he called for her to pick up the line.

Harry heard a soft click, and the next thing he heard was a loud sigh from Hermione. “Dad,” she
said, her tone annoyed and impatient.

“Right, right,” her father said. “Have fun. I’ll give you some privacy.” Laughter streamed over the
line before there was another click, signaling that he had hung up.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, sighing again. “He’s been a nightmare ever since I told him you would be
calling.”

“Is he implying -”

“Yes,” Hermione said, cutting Harry off.

“Does he know I’m… er… seeing someone?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” she said. “He just keeps going on about ‘fleeting’ school romances…” She sighed. “Can we
not talk about my dad being embarrassing right now?”

Harry laughed. “Yeah,” he said.

“You’re with Mrs. Tonks now?”

“Call her Andromeda. I think I’ll be seeing a lot of Tonks, too. It’ll get confusing,” Harry said.
“But yes, I’m staying with Andromeda and her husband, Ted.”

“And you’re safe?”

“Yes,” he said. “Although Andromeda is pretty sure that as soon as Scrimgeour takes over, the
news of what I did at the Ministry is going to wind up on the front page.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hermione said. “She’s probably right.”

“She’s… helping me figure out how I should deal with it,” Harry said. “And I’ve decided that I...
I’m not going to lie about it.”
“You had enough of lying about it last year, I take it?” Hermione’s voice was sharp.

Harry winced.

He heard Hermione let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “I… I guess I’m still a little angry
that you kept so much from me. But I suppose I can understand now why you did it.”

“What?” Harry asked. “You understand now? What -”

“That’s part of the reason why I was so excited to talk with you,” Hermione said, cutting Harry off.
“Did you ask Blaise Zabini to send me books on the dark arts?”

Harry choked back a laugh. “Blaise did what?”

“So you didn’t ask him?”

“No!”

“How odd,” Hermione said quietly. “Well, he sent me a… surprisingly nice letter, along with a few
books.”

“What did he send?” Harry asked eagerly. “Which books, I mean?”

“There’s only three,” Hermione said. “And I’ve already read one of them. That one was called An
Introduction to the Dark Arts: The Power, Prejudice -”

“Power, Prejudice, and Politics!” Harry finished for her, grinning. “That was one of the first books
I read last summer. Sirius recommended it.”

“It was fascinating,” Hermione said. “I couldn’t put it down!”

“Really?” Harry drew out the word, completely aware that his voice was oozing curiosity.

“It’s especially interesting that the Wizengamot was formed with the intention of having an even
split of dark and light wizards in order to have an equal perspective.”

“But then Ministers over the years started trying to appoint allies, and that purpose got lost,” Harry
continued enthusiastically, thrilled that he was finally able to openly discuss the dark arts with one
of his best friends. “And the light traditions started to fall into obscurity -”

“When did that happen?” Hermione asked. “It seems like these books only refer to the ‘light’ in the
past tense.”

“Yeah, most books do - even the older ones,” Harry said. “I’ve never come across an actual date or
a reason why.” He shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Hermione couldn’t see him.
“Another weird thing is that a lot of people in the dark community seem to refer to anything that
isn’t dark as ‘light.’” He let out a laugh. “It took me a little while to figure out that it’s mostly out
of habit.”

“I had just started one of the other books when you called,” Hermione said. “Wizarding Traditions
and Institutions of the Dark Arts Culture. Is it really customary to not offer drinks or food to
another dark witch or wizard when they come to your home until you’ve come to trust one
another?”

“I’ve read that one, too,” Harry said, amused. “Theo told me that they’re more loose at parties or
large gatherings, but in small meetings, they just don’t. He said it’s because there’s less… pretense
in the dark community.”

“How so?” Hermione asked. “It makes it sound like it’s just customary to be… rude.”

“That’s not why,” Harry said. “It’s actually considered to be polite.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“It kind of does, though,” he said. “It’s completely natural to not trust strangers. Drinks can be
poisoned. If nobody offers you a drink, you have one less thing to worry about.”

“You mentioned… Nott said it because there was less pretense in the dark community?” Hermione
asked.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed.

“So if you’re not offered a drink, you don’t have to… pretend that you’re not suspicious?”

Harry found himself feeling pleased that Hermione had understood so quickly. “Right.”

There was a moment of silence on the line before Hermione finally responded. “That’s…
interesting.”

“Good interesting or bad interesting?”

“Just... interesting,” Hermione said. “It feels like a strange custom to be suspicious of everyone by
default, but it also sounds oddly… practical.”

“It is practical.”

“I suppose.”

Harry felt a tiny shiver go up his spine.

“This part of the intro was especially interesting,” Hermione continued. “‘Dark wizards trust the
dark completely, which is a stark contrast to the trust they have in other dark wizards. Dark
wizards know and accept, more than anyone, that humans are inherently flawed. Most of the pain
in this world is caused by human flaws. Dark wizards do not deny these flaws. We accept them and
integrate them as part of ourselves. We embrace them. Our rapport with the dark comes from this
mutual understanding.”

Harry suddenly realized how much he’d missed listening to Hermione recite something she was
reading.

“What do you think that means?” she asked.

“It’s… I mean... ” Harry felt a bit startled at her question. “I think it’s important to not deny that a
part of yourself exists, even if that part is… or isn’t good, rather.” He paused, wondering if he
should voice his full thought out loud or not. “Even if that part of you can cause pain to others,” he
finally added quietly.

“I can understand accepting those parts, but embracing them? Does that mean encouraging them?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Harry said, shaking his head despite the fact that Hermione couldn’t see him.
“It’s…” He paused, thinking of how he could explain. “Do you remember what I told you about
my rite of intent?”
“Not… specifically.”

In his mind’s eye, he was hit with a strong recollection of the night of the Solstice and the emotions
he’d felt during his rite came swelling up. “I could feel the dark’s love for me,” he said quietly.
“It’s unconditional. It loves every part of me - the good and the bad.” He swallowed. “It wants me
to love myself the same way. And since I accepted those darker parts of myself, I’ve just been…
happier.” His voice grew in strength as he spoke. “Even with the world going to shit with
Voldemort and with Umbridge, I’m happier than I think I’ve ever been in my life, Hermione.”

Hermione was silent for a moment before she responded. “That’s wonderful, Harry. I’m happy for
you.” She let out a laugh. “And just for the record… I’ve noticed.”

“What?”

“I’ve noticed that you’re happier,” Hermione said. “I think it hit me when you randomly started
dancing with me in the hallway. It’s like you’re… more comfortable in your skin.”

“Yeah,” Harry said agreeably. “That’s it exactly.”

“And the thing about dark wizards trusting the dark completely - do you?”

“Yes,” Harry said without hesitation.

“Why?”

“Because I know it will be there to help me when I need it.”

Hermione didn’t say anything for a moment. “Zabini sent one more book called Evenfall.”

“I haven’t heard of that one.”

“It’s not like the other two at all!” Hermione exclaimed. “I flipped through it, and it has actual
spells in it, Harry!”

“Oh?”

“Why is Zabini sending me books that actually teach the dark arts?” Hermione said. “In fact, why
is he sending me books on the dark arts at all?”

It took Harry a moment to realize why Blaise had sent her books, and then he felt properly abashed.
“He probably did because he realized that I hadn’t.”

“What?”

“Blaise helped me pack my trunk, and he knows exactly what books I have,” Harry said. He and
his roommates had kept all of their books hidden together, and they were all familiar with each
others’ collections. “He probably noticed that I was a moron and hadn’t bothered to loan you
anything… even when you said you wanted to research the dark arts yourself.” He shook his head.
“I’m really sorry. You even asked if I could lend you some books, and I just… completely forgot.”

“Yes. The letter he sent with the package said as much,” Hermione said. “He mentioned that you
were... well, to quote, ‘too busy snogging Draco’ to remember.”

Harry was quite glad that Hermione wasn’t able to see the deep blush that spread across his face.

“But that still doesn’t explain why he would send me books,” she continued.
“He’s… pretty much just as much of an academic as you, Hermione,” Harry said. “He loves
learning, and he knows that you do, too.”

A loud huff seemed to blast out of the phone’s speaker. “Well, I don’t know why he bothered to
send anything that teaches the practical aspect of it,” Hermione said. “I’m underage, and I’m not at
school. I couldn’t try any of the spells even if I wanted to.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed. “Andromeda gave me a bath.”

Dead silence fell on the line for a few moments before Hermione’s voice seemed to go up an
octave when she asked, “she did what?!”

“Oh...” Harry said, smacking his forehead. “That came out a bit weird, didn’t it? I mean she made a
bath for me. It got rid of the Ministry trace.”

“What?” Hermione sounded stunned. “You can do that?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I didn’t see her cast any spells on the bath, unless she did it before she came
and got me from the Dursleys. I wonder if she could make you one and send you the supplies...”

“I’m not interested in breaking any Ministry laws, Harry,” Hermione said in a scolding tone.

“Well, it’s a stupid law. Andromeda believes we should be able to protect ourselves, and I agree,”
Harry said, scowling. “She did the same thing for Tonks when she was a kid.”

“I… see,” Hermione said. Harry could tell from the tone in her voice that she was frowning, as
well.

“I mean… you have to admit that it is a little creepy that the Ministry can basically track us,” Harry
said.

“You…” Hermione paused. “I agree,” she said. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Their conversation lapsed for a moment while Hermione seemed to consider their words.

“So… do you want to try any of those spells?” Harry asked, unable to contain his curiosity. He’d
accepted that he might have only had suspicions of Hermione’s affinity because he wanted her to
have a dark affinity like he did. Even so, he couldn’t help but want to encourage her to at least try
to find out.

He was suddenly struck with the sudden memory of the Slytherins being immensely curious and
excited about his own affinity in the days leading up to his affinity rite. He supposed he was
beginning to understand their excitement.

“I don’t know yet, Harry,” Hermione said. “There’s a lot to consider.” She let out a heaving breath
that wasn’t quite a sigh. “You have to know that… because of all the rumors about you last year,
there was a lot of talk about the dark arts in Gryffindor tower.”

Harry could only imagine. “Are you worried about whatever they had to say about the dark arts?”
he asked. “Or are you worried about what they might say about you if they knew you were looking
into the dark arts?”

There was a long beat of silence. “If I’m completely honest, a little of both,” she finally replied.

“Oh,” Harry said. He couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment.

 “Although I am already beginning to realize how little they all actually know,” Hermione said
quietly. “However,” she continued, her voice abruptly rising, “if you’re serious about not lying to
the wizarding world about using the dark arts, they’ll probably have plenty to say about me,
regardless.”

“What?” Harry asked. “Why you? Won’t they be talking about me?”

“Well, of course they will,” she said. “But I’ll be the one in the common room that’s defending
you.”

Harry was struck speechless, but it didn’t matter. Hermione kept going.

“I know you, Harry,” she said. “Your intentions are always for the sake of others. You’re a better
person than most of the people in Gryffindor.”

Harry swallowed, and his breath caught at her words.

“I will stand with you, Harry.”

***

When Harry descended the stairs the next morning, Ted sat in his usual chair at the table, but his
expression was grim. Andromeda sat next to him, her hand grasping Ted’s arm in a white knuckled
grip. Ted lowered the Prophet, quickly spinning it around and shoving it across the table.

“Today’s the day, kid.” Ted’s voice was barely above a whisper. Harry’s eyes immediately went to
the front page.

Harry’s own face, drenched in sepia, stared back at him.

Chapter End Notes

I am now taking suggestions for what the headline of Harry’s use of the dark arts
should be. :)
 Give an Inch, Take a Smile
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

Thank you for all the headline suggestions! :D Some of them were great, and others
were absolutely hilarious. I went a slightly different route, mainly because I needed it
to cover what the story actually was. Even so - THANK YOU. You got my gears
moving on it, and I'd been troubling over that headline for literally months.

Also, I just need to say this: holy CRAP. I was not expecting the response to this fic.
Thank you all so very much for your support and encouragement. <3 I hope that this
will continue to entertain.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Chaos at the Ministry!

Is Harry Potter the Dark Lord’s Annihilation, Ammunition, or Competition?

As the wizarding world is still reeling from the revelation that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named has returned, new and disturbing information has surfaced surrounding the
events that took place at the Ministry of Magic in late June.

Multiple eyewitness accounts have confirmed that Harry Potter confessed to using
extensive dark arts during the confrontation between a small group of Hogwarts
students and several Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries.

The confession has been corroborated by several wizards that were present at the
scene soon after You-Know-Who was spotted in the Ministry. Potter was seen lifting a
dark curse from Rasmus Nott, one of several Death Eaters that were arrested that
night. Potter explained that he was the one that had originally placed the curse upon
Nott, and he then implied that he had used dark arts repeatedly throughout the battle.

While younger wizards dabbling in the dark arts is certainly not unheard of, Nott’s
state seems to indicate far more than mere experimentation on Potter’s part. Reports
state that Nott had been ‘screaming bloody murder’ before Potter removed the curse,
at which point he lapsed into ‘soul-wrenching sobs’ before finally falling silent hours
later.

St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries has been unable to determine
what curse was used against Nott, but they did release a statement that he has been
catatonic since that night. Nott was admitted to the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungos
when Mediwizards were unable to improve his mental state. Healers are confident
 that there are a select number of spells that can result in the injury laid upon Nott, and
that it is only a matter of time before they cure him and release him to the Aurors
posted at his door.

Several Healers at St Mungos were questioned concerning Nott’s state, but all
declined to provide a comment outside of the official statement. However, considering
their shocked reactions to the Daily Prophet’s questions, the Healers were seemingly
unaware that Potter was the cause of Nott’s catatonia.

It has also been reported that Draco Malfoy, another Hogwarts student who
accompanied Potter to the Ministry, had just been accused of using blood magic
before Potter removed the curse and then made his confession. Draco Malfoy is the
only son of Lucius Malfoy, another of the Death Eaters that were taken into Ministry
custody.

Some of the witnesses to Potter’s confession are concerned that Potter, as well as the
younger Malfoy, may have only been allowed to remain free due to a technicality. Per
a previous Wizengamot ruling, the use of some dark arts spells are permitted in times
of war as a form of self-defense. The reappearance of You-Know-Who was considered
to be a sign that our world is again at war, thus resulting in Potter’s use of the dark
arts to be permitted.

Considering the current state of Rasmus Nott and the fact that Potter did not remove
the curse until well after the battle was over, many witnesses are wondering if Potter
should have been arrested for his actions despite the technicality.

“He only made his confession when Draco Malfoy was about to be taken into
custody,” one witness reported. “It makes you wonder what their ties are, and what
Potter’s ties are to a known Death Eater. Wouldn’t be surprised if Potter was actually
working with You-Know-Who to get to that prophecy!”

We must reiterate that the existence of a prophecy has not been confirmed. As
previously reported, the events in the Department of Mysteries are rumored to have
been centered on the legendary Hall of Prophecy, and on one specific prophecy
concerning Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Most Ministry staff have
always denied the existence of the hall, but their denial does little to stop the swirl of
theories as to what such a prophecy may contain. Many were going so far as to call
Potter ‘The Chosen One,’ believing that this prophecy may have named him as the one
who will finally defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The recent information on
Potter’s involvement in the dark arts have stirred up a new wave of alarming
speculation.

Is Potter destined to defeat You-Know-Who once again? Is Potter meant to stand at

You-Know-Who’s side? Or perhaps Potter is meant to replace He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named? Could the wizarding world see the rise of a third dark lord in less than a
century?

This is not the first time Potter has been suspected of being a dark wizard. (For more
information on Potter’s Parseltongue abilities, turn to page four.)

Harry did not turn to page four.

Instead, his eyes drifted back up the page to the picture of him. It was an old photo, taken just after
the first task in his fourth year. He couldn’t believe how much younger he looked. He appeared
dirty and furious, and although Harry knew that the anger had been directed at Rita Skeeter, he
knew that the vast majority of the wizarding world would see him as dangerous and unstable, just
as they usually did.

It was the worst photo the Prophet could have picked. Although he supposed that in their eyes, it
was the best possible photo to use.

The Prophet really wanted to sell their story. Unlike with Skeeter’s stories of rubbish, though, this
one was very, very true. Aside from the speculation about him possibly working with Voldemort or
actually being the next dark lord, everything had actually happened.

Except he hadn’t known that Nott had been unconscious since that night.

He’d been expecting a story that only covered his confession. For some reason, what he’d done to
Rasmus Nott had almost become an afterthought.

“Should I…” He paused, taking in a shaking breath. “I should write Theo,” he said quietly.

“Who is Theo, Harry?” Andromeda asked.

“Theodore Nott,” Harry said. “He’s my roommate… and my friend.” In fact, Theo had been the
first Slytherin to call Harry a ‘friend.’ “And I put his father in St Mungo’s.”

Before Andromeda could respond, there was a clatter at the window. Harry finally tore his eyes
away from the front page to see at least four owls sitting outside, all clambering to be first in line.

Ted unhooked his wife’s firm grip from his arm to open the window, and feathers seemed to erupt
in the dining room. It took the combined efforts of Andromeda, Ted, and Harry to help several
owls find spots to land and retrieve their letters. When they’d finally ushered the last owl back
outside, Ted kissed Andromeda on the cheek.

“I have to go to work, unfortunately. Long shift again,” he said before turning to Harry. “Sorry I
can’t stay around to help, but you’re in good hands.”

Harry might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw relief bloom over Ted’s face as he
turned to leave. He wasn’t sure if Ted was relieved to not have to deal with the small pile of letters
for Harry - some of them clearly Howlers - or if he was relieved to get out of Harry’s presence. He
supposed that after learning Harry had put someone in St Mungo’s, he wouldn’t blame Ted if it
was the latter.

Andromeda made quick work of the Howlers. The red envelopes lifted into the air and dissolved
into ashes before they could explode. “You’ll… have to teach me that one,” Harry said.

“Since this is likely only a taste of what you’ll be experiencing this year, you will almost certainly
need it,” Andromeda replied. With his guidance, she helped him sort out letters from strange
witches and wizards who were unhappy with him, putting them in a separate pile from the letters
from his friends.

“We can go over these later, if you’d like,” Andromeda said, tucking the offending letters away on
a side table on the far side of the room. “I’m certain that most of them will not be worth your
time.”

The letters from his friends were all very much the same. Draco, Pansy, and, surprisingly, Millicent
had all asked if he was okay and if needed anything. Draco’s letter was the most strongly worded,
begging Harry to not react like a Gryffindor. Pansy’s letter didn’t mention Theo, much to Harry’s
disappointment; he knew Theo was staying with Pansy over the summer. Millicent asked how he
was planning to respond.

The most shocking letter, though, came from Neville.

Harry,

I saw the Prophet this morning and my grandmother nearly had a heart attack. I
hadn’t told her what you did at the Ministry and now she’s asking me why. I didn’t
know exactly what happened after you ran after Malfoy. Why on earth did you confess
to a bunch of aurors?

I just wanted to let you know that if you wind up getting in trouble for this, I’ll vouch
for you if you need me to. It was really scary to see you using the dark arts, but the
only reason you used any of those spells is because you were defending everybody that
came with you. The Prophet saying that you were working with You-Know-Who or
that you’re trying to replace him is complete rubbish.

I don’t know why you started messing with the dark arts and I really wish you
wouldn’t, but I know you’re a good person. Don’t listen to the Prophet.

Just wanted to let you know that I’m still in your corner.

Neville

“That one is making you smile,” Andromeda said.

The smile quickly turned into a grin. He wordlessly slid the letter across the table and waited for
her to read it.

“His surname is… Longbottom, correct?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. You should write him back… today.” She folded the letter and passed it back to him. “The
Longbottom name still carries significant weight. He would be an excellent ally to have.”

“I prefer to think of him as my friend,” Harry said, a hint of a frown on his lips.

Andromeda smirked. “That’s even better.”

Harry somehow managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“Tell me about the curse you used on Rasmus Nott.”

A bit startled at her abrupt change of subject, Harry blinked. “Um… Reditus Dolorit.”

Andromeda’s chin tilted up and she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “I’m not familiar,” she
said.

“Um… it’s called ‘Return of Suffering,’” Harry said. “It’s… you cast it on someone, and it takes
all the pain they’ve ever caused to come back to them. They’re supposed to feel all the pain and
hurt they’ve ever made others feel.”

“Where did you learn it?”

“Uh…I...” Harry frowned, his brow scrunching up in concentration. “I honestly don’t think I can
remember. A book in the Grimmauld library; I’m not sure which one.” And that was the truth; he
honestly couldn’t remember. He’d gone through so many books in such a short amount of time that
many of them blurred together in his mind.

“I see,” Andromeda said, her eyes narrowing. “I know very well what kinds of books Black
libraries could hold. Take care to not learn from the wrong ones.” Before Harry even had a chance
to react to that statement, she sighed and leaned forward. “That spell at least seems… appropriate
for Death Eaters, and it seems likely it wouldn’t cause nearly as much harm to the average
wizard.”

“That’s… kind of what I figured when I learned it,” Harry said.

Andromeda seemed to study him for a few long moments before getting to her feet. “I’ll make you
some breakfast,” she said.

As she bustled into the kitchen, a knot began to form in Harry’s gut. He’d mostly felt awful about
what he’d done to Nott because of Theo. He had to admit that he’d given little thought about what
it meant for Rasmus, himself. Harry felt a bit torn between thinking that the result of the spell
dictated that Rasmus Nott had deserved it and thinking he’d done something truly wrong.

If Andromeda, a dark witch, had questions and concerns about the spell he used on Nott, that
certainly didn’t bode well for how the rest of the wizarding world would react.

***

Harry spent most of the morning returning the letters to his friends. He reassured Draco that he was
fine. He asked Pansy how Theo was doing. He told Millicent that he wasn’t going to react
immediately, but that he wasn’t planning on lying about what he’d done.

The letter to Neville was infinitely more complicated. Attempt after attempt was crumbled, torn up,
or otherwise scrapped.

Andromeda thought of Neville as a potential ally. Harry could understand where she was coming
from; if Harry really was going to try to change the wizarding world’s opinion on dark wizards,
Neville’s assessment of Harry’s use of the dark arts essentially as scary but justified was far
preferable to just being written off as ‘evil.’

While Harry was still planning on telling the world the truth, he’d already accepted that he’d likely
have to wait until after Sirius had his trial. He knew that if he didn’t the world would simply see it
as one dark wizard defending another. While that was technically the truth, it wasn’t the whole
truth. Harry knew that it could take quite some time before the wizarding world would change their
minds.

Neville still only knew that Harry had used the dark arts, not that he was now a full-blown dark
wizard. Harry didn’t think he could tell Neville everything like he’d told Hermione, and definitely
not in a letter. Since Neville was the only other Gryffindor that had stuck with Harry all through
their fifth year, Harry felt like he owed Neville the truth. It would be better to have that
conversation face to face.

In the end, Harry finally settled on just thanking Neville for having his back and that he’d tell
Neville why he’d done what he did next time they spoke.

After he’d sent Hedwig off with the lot, he and Andromeda turned to the angrier letters. They were
very much exactly what they’d both expected; all of them berated Harry for using such terrible
magic, some scolded Harry for failing to be a role model for their young children, and most
expressed the opinion that Harry should be in Azkaban.

Despite expecting the world’s reaction, their words still made Harry doubt his plans to go public. If
the world would write him off for merely using the dark arts, their response to outing himself as a
dark wizard would almost certainly be far worse.

Andromeda seemed to notice his distress, and she immediately scooped up the letters and ordered
him to relax as much as possible for the day. “We already know that you shouldn’t make a move
until after the trial,” she said. “There’s little point in pursuing a plan now.”

“Is it right for me to wait?” Harry asked quietly. “Just because I want Sirius to be free, does that
make it -”

“Even if there was no impending trial, it would still be wise to allow the dust to settle,” Andromeda
said. “It is your decision, of course, but I think responding immediately may just result in the
flames spreading faster.” She offered him a smile. “Let them smolder a bit.”

Harry found himself a bit relieved at the thought of not having to do anything immediately, and she
ushered him out of the dining room and into the sitting room. He curled up with her books again,
though he didn’t choose one of her dark arts books; instead he pulled out a small volume that
covered Occlumency.

He was surprised to discover that despite Snape’s abysmal teaching methods, his words hadn’t
been all that far off from what Occlumency actually was. Occlumency required clearing the mind,
somehow thinking of either nothing at all or of inane, unimportant things.

Most dishearteningly, it required a great deal of emotional control. Harry had always had terrible
control over his feelings, and since declaring dark he knew that he’d gotten even worse. He was
beginning to suspect that Occlumency was something that would likely always be beyond his
reach.

Even so, he continued to read, although he did it almost passively. He’d poured through all of
Andromeda’s other books in just over two days, and he found himself missing the more extensive
collection in the library at Grimmauld Place. He was sure it wasn’t nearly as big as whatever
Draco had grown up with, but it still held more books than Harry thought he could ever read.

He managed to get just over halfway through the Occlumency book when Andromeda swept into
the sitting room with a piece of parchment. She held it out to him.

“This just arrived for you.”

It wasn’t signed, but Harry immediately recognized Hermione’s confident handwriting.

CALL ME!

Before Harry could ask Andromeda to use their phone, they heard a loud clatter at the door,
followed by rapid footsteps coming down the hallway. Tonks poked her head in the door, looking a
bit frazzled.

“You’re early, Nymphadora,” Andromeda said.

“Yeah, well, I figured I should give you as much of a heads up as possible,” Tonks said.
“Dumbledore is back. He’s calling an Order meeting tonight.” She crossed her arms and leaned up
against the doorframe, fixing Harry with a knowing look. “I’m gonna have to tell him that you’re
here, Harry.”

Harry scowled. “Right,” he said irritably. He slammed the book shut, dropping it into his lap and
glaring sightlessly at the cover. He knew he couldn’t avoid Dumbledore forever. He also knew that
he shouldn’t avoid Dumbledore; they still had a common enemy, and that had to take priority over
his anger towards the headmaster.

“I… could try to skip the meeting,” Tonks offered, sounding hesitant and reluctant. “That might
give you an extra day, if you’d like.”

Harry immediately looked up at her in amazement, his eyes widening.

Tonks had no idea why he was angry with Dumbledore, and she was still offering to help delay
him having to meet with Dumbledore. His eyes drifted between Tonks and Andromeda, unsure of
what to say.

“It’s up to you, Harry,” Andromeda said quietly.

His gaze settled back on Tonks, who appeared unhappy and very tightly wound. Tonks was one of
the more perpetually cheerful people Harry had met, and it didn’t feel right to see her so troubled.
He knew that he was the one making Tonks feel so conflicted between her loyalties to the Order
and her loyalties to her mother, and he frowned at the thought.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “It’s okay. You can tell him.” He sighed. “I’ll have to talk to
him at some point, and I should probably just… get it out of the way.”

***

Hermione’s father sounded even more smug than he had the night before. He called for Hermione
in a sing-song voice, who again shooed her father off the line with a heavy sigh.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked immediately after her father hung up.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied. “Got some nasty letters, but that’s about it. Andromeda toasted the
Howlers before we could even hear them.”

“Howlers? Oh, Harry…”

“It’s fine. It was... manageable.”

There was a beat of silence. “Can I…” Hermione paused, then tried again. “What exactly did you
do to Nott?”

Harry suppressed a sigh. He should have known that Hermione would ask. It was the third time
that day he’d had to explain what the curse was and how it was intended to work, and he tiredly
repeated the same explanation to Hermione that he’d given to both Andromeda and Tonks.

“So… in theory,” Hermione said slowly, “if the curse was placed on someone who was completely
innocent, it would have no effect?”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling a bit relieved that Hermione could see it from that angle so quickly. “I
definitely wasn’t expecting Nott to... be that affected by it, but I guess… I guess that means he’s
caused a lot of pain.”
Hermione didn’t respond for a long few seconds, and Harry began to feel a bit anxious.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, unable to contain his uneasy curiosity.

“I…” Hermione sighed. “I suppose it makes me wonder what Nott’s done to have responded like
he did,” she said. “And I can’t help but wonder about the specifics of how the spell works. Did he
feel all of the pain he’s ever caused all at once? Or is it… linear?”

Harry blinked. “I’m not sure,” he said, feeling quite uncertain if he even understood the question
Hermione was asking. “I’ll have to look it up when… if I get back to Grimmauld.” He frowned as
he said those words. “With Sirius in custody, I’m not even sure if the Order is still meeting there.”
He felt like kicking himself for not thinking of that possibility sooner. He’d have to ask Tonks next
time he saw her.

“I think they are,” Hermione replied. “Ron said that they’re staying there again this summer.”

“Really?” Harry’s face lit up for a brief moment before he scowled. “Of course, there’s a good
chance the Order might not even want me there.” As he said it, he realized just how realistic that
was; aside from Snape, the Order was full of witches and wizards who despised the dark arts. “And
that’s…” He let out a frustrated huff. “Staying with Andromeda has been fantastic, but I have to get
back there.”

“Why?”

“The library, of course!” Harry snapped, a bit annoyed that Hermione hadn’t realized that. “If I’m
supposed to beat Voldemort, I should be trying to figure out how!”

“I’m sure Dumbledore would allow you to stay there,” Hermione said.

“Well, I’m not sure about that at all.” Harry nearly snarled the words. “I told you about all of the
utter shite he said to me, right? He definitely wasn’t happy with me when I told him I was a dark
wizard.” His upper lip curled in irritation. “He kept things from me all of last year. Wouldn’t
surprise me if he decided to keep everything from me now. Can’t have a dark wizard in on any
Order secrets, after all.”

The line was silent for a moment before Hermione responded. “I can respect that your temper is...
more volatile now, but I really wish you wouldn’t bite my head off,” she said. “I’m on your side,
remember?”

Harry found himself blushing and his anger began to dissipate. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching under
his glasses to rub at his eyes. “It’s just… I know I’m going to be seeing Dumbledore pretty soon,
and it’s got me a bit…”

“On edge?” Hermione finished for him, her tone dry. “I can tell.”

“Sorry,” Harry said again sheepishly.

“Well, if you are going to see Dumbledore soon, you’ll be able to ask him about going to
Grimmauld,” Hermione said reasonably. “And in all honesty, he’d probably want you where he
knows you’ll be safe. I’m sure Andromeda can be trusted, but does her house have all that much
protection? You can’t argue that Grimmauld Place would likely be safer.”

She was right; Harry couldn’t argue with that.

“If you manage to get to Grimmauld, let me know,” Hermione said. “There’s no phone there, and
I’d like to speak to you more about the dark arts. Maybe I could meet you there.”

Harry immediately lightened up at her words. For the first time in his life, the thought of spending
his summer cooped up in an old, windowless library to study with Hermione sounded absolutely
delightful.

***

Early the following evening, Dumbledore arrived at the Tonks’ residence.

After shooting Harry a questioning look, wondering if he wanted her to stay, Andromeda left the
two of them alone. Neither Dumbledore or Harry took a seat, instead standing at opposite ends of
the dining table. Harry crossed his arms, while Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back.
Harry glared down at the table, quite unwilling to meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

“How are you, Harry?” Dumbledore finally asked.

“Just fine,” Harry said, his tone biting. He glanced up for a moment. It could have been Harry’s
imagination, but Dumbledore seemed to deflate a bit.

“The Daily Prophet article about you was… less than flattering yesterday,” Dumbledore said. “Are
you all right?”

Harry gave a half-shrug. “It’s not like it’s all that surprising,” he said with a hint of a sneer. “Dark
arts - evil and disgusting, right?”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his voice growing softer. “Are you all
right?”

A spike of anger shot through Harry. He’d been asked that exact same question so many times over
the past year. He was asked after he’d been sorted into Slytherin, and again when Hermione
suspected him of ‘messing with the dark arts.’ Ron had asked when rumors began swirling about
Harry having defected to Voldemort’s cause.

The only time anyone ever posed that question was when they suspected Harry of doing something
that they thought was wrong.

“Why don’t you ask whatever it is that you really want to ask?” Harry said, his voice low.

Something flashed in Dumbledore’s eyes, but Harry couldn’t read what it was. “I’m not entirely
sure what you mean by that, Harry,” he said. “I won’t deny that I have other questions for you; I
have several, in fact. But first, and most importantly... I just want to know how you are.”

Harry said nothing; he merely set his mouth in a hard line and looked down at the table again.

“Among other things, the Prophet implied that you may be working with Voldemort, or else
attempting to replace him,” Dumbledore said. “You and I both know that neither of those things are
true, and they must be upsetting to hear.”

“They are,” Harry said. “But I think I’m just used to it now.” He let out an oddly hollow laugh.
“Last year I was a liar. The year before that I was an attention-seeking, broken orphan.” He shook
his head. “It’s not even the first time I’ve had people call me ‘the next dark lord.’ Although I
suppose in second year - or last year - it didn’t make it all the way to the Prophet.”

Dumbledore bowed his head in a slight nod. “It is immensely frustrating that our world can be so
fickle,” he said. “It often seems that it’s full of people who are determined to do nothing but
misunderstand who you truly are.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“I’m sorry you had to find this out so young,” Dumbledore said. “But I have learned that this is
why it’s important to hold our friends even closer.”

Harry was beginning to feel more startled than angry, and he supposed Dumbledore’s words made
sense; the headmaster had also been subjected to all sorts of strange and flat-out untrue press just in
the time that Harry had known him. It was something they had in common.

“I know that I’ve made you very angry, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “And I will not deny that I
deserve it. I could attempt to justify or rationalize my actions, but I don’t think either of us would
appreciate that very much.”

Harry agreed, but he didn’t say so.

“I will try to repair what was broken, if I can,” Dumbledore continued. “But more importantly, I
want to try to build something so that we can move forward.” He paused then, letting out a strange,
almost uncharacteristic sigh. “So we can move forward together.”

A part of Harry wanted to immediately rebuff Dumbledore’s offer, but he also knew that he
shouldn’t. He couldn’t. Dumbledore had the keys to two things Harry needed - information on
Voldemort, as well as Grimmauld Place. Whether he liked it or not, he needed Dumbledore.
Besides, his anger seemed to be deflating to a low simmer. He’d manage.

Dumbledore at least seemed to be trying. Harry could attempt to do the same.

He finally let out a deep sigh, arms dropping to his sides. “I won’t lie. I’m still…” He clenched his
teeth and his fists, and his ears felt like they were burning. “You knew about that stupid prophecy
since even before I was born, and you didn’t bother to tell me until I found out it existed,” he
sneered. “Would you have told me at all if I hadn’t discovered it first?”

Dumbledore’s expression appeared to fall with every word Harry spoke. “I hope that I would have,
but I don’t think we’ll ever truly know. It rarely helps to speak in hypotheticals,” he said quietly.
“What I do know is that I regret what I did do. I am so very sorry, Harry.”

Harry shook his head and turned away from Dumbledore, almost as if by instinct. He stared out the
window, the night making him unable to see anything but his own furious reflection.

Emotional control, he thought. I may not have enough for Occlumency, but I have to find enough to
handle this.

“It’s… going to be hard to move on,” Harry finally replied, his voice still hard, but calm. “But…
I’ll give it a shot.” He sighed. “You’ve got that much from me, at least.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, Harry,” Dumbledore said, a smile seeming to bloom underneath his
long beard. After a moment, he added, “Thank you.”

Harry merely shrugged.

“I did not come here tonight merely to check on you,” Dumbledore said. “I was alarmed to hear
that you’d left the Dursleys, but I must admit that you found an excellent hiding place.”
 Harry turned back to face the headmaster again. “Then why are you here?” he asked gruffly.

“I was hoping you would accompany me on a trip to visit… an old friend,” Dumbledore said.

Harry raised an eyebrow, a habit that he was certain he’d picked up from Draco. “If you really want
this to work,” he said, “you’re gonna have to be a little more upfront than that.”

“Of course, of course. I owe you that for certain,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “As we are, once
again, short of one professor this year, I am attempting to convince an old colleague of mine to
come out of retirement.” He inclined his head just slightly to peer at Harry over the rim of his
glasses. “I think your presence would help me convince him.”

“How?” Harry asked.

“Horace is… how shall I put this?” Dumbledore shook his head. “I will be frank with you, Harry.
Your presence will help simply because of who you are. Horace quite enjoys the company of the
famous, the successful, and the powerful. He prides himself on the connections he’d made
throughout his life, and I daresay he may want to make a connection with you.”

Harry’s head tilted to the side as he considered Dumbledore’s words. “Slytherin?” he asked simply.

Dumbledore chuckled. “You are correct,” he said. “Slytherins always seem to recognize one
another, almost more than any other house.” He paused, his expression becoming a bit somber.
“That is also why I believe he will still want to… collect a connection with you, even with the
article that was published yesterday. I doubt it will matter to him.”

Harry couldn’t deny that he was now incredibly curious about this man named Horace. He was a
Slytherin that Dumbledore actually wanted back at the school, and it sounded as if he might not
care about Harry’s use of the dark arts. The man might have even been a dark wizard himself.

But it sounded as if Dumbledore needed Harry for this task, just as much as Harry needed
Dumbledore.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said, a slight smirk appearing on his lips, “if you can do a favor for me in
return.”

Dumbledore looked wary at Harry’s words. “And what is that, Harry?”

“I want to go to Grimmauld Place.”

Chapter End Notes

Reminder: I don't bash characters. Dumbledore will not be perfect (not by a long shot),
but I'm not going to straight-up bash him. DO NOT ASK ME TO, PLEASE. <3333
 Black Night, Still There Shining
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

So sorry for the delay. It's been a bit of a rough month.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The Muggle house Dumbledore had brought him to was completely devastated. Chairs were
overturned and broken, feathers had exploded from cushions, and a chandelier had fallen to the
ground and shattered. Harry gripped his wand tight and let Dumbledore lead the way.

They entered the living room and Harry’s breath caught when he spied red splattered across gaudy
wallpaper. Dumbledore glanced at him.

“Something terrible has happened here, indeed,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Harry wasn’t as ready to conclude that whatever terrible thing had happened was actually done and
over with. After learning his lesson at the Ministry, he promptly decided to do what he had failed to
do then: he asked the dark for assistance.

Are we safe? he asked.

His senses seemed to expand around him, and he immediately realized that although they were
safe, they still weren’t alone. There was a dark wizard in their midst, hidden somewhere in that
very room.

Harry allowed this strange perception to guide him to an overstuffed armchair in the corner of the
room. He approached it with caution, wand raised and at the ready.

“Very well spotted, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I must admit that I am quite impressed.” Then, to
Harry’s surprise, Dumbledore poked the armchair with his wand.

The chair yelped and then transformed into a squat, balding man, who glared up at Dumbledore
with a watery eye. “You didn’t have to stick the wand in quite so hard, Albus.”

As their conversation unfolded, Harry soon came to a startling conclusion: Dumbledore did not
know that Slughorn was a dark wizard. If he was, Dumbledore was on much better terms with him
than he was with either Snape or Harry. He was very amicable and easy with Slughorn; they had
clearly known one another for quite a long time.

Harry filed his suspicion away and he didn’t speak a word of Slughorn’s magical inclinations to
Dumbledore. Even when Dumbledore left the two of them alone to use the bathroom, Harry kept
his lips sealed; he knew Dumbledore would likely be listening to everything they said.
Slughorn, like so many others had before him, lamented how much Harry resembled his parents,
who had been former students of his. “Your mother was brilliant, to put it mildly. Vivacious and
charming,” Slughorn said. “I always used to tell her that she should have been placed in my house.”

“Which house was that?” Harry asked, although he already knew.

“I was Head of Slytherin,” Slughorn replied. “Now don’t go holding that against me! I -”

“Why would I hold that against you?” Harry said mildly in more of a statement than a question.
“I’m in Slytherin.”

Slughorn looked startled and intrigued by that. “Are you really, now?” he asked. “I figured you’d
be in Gryffindor, like your parents. That’s usually how it goes in families, you know.”

“I used to be,” Harry said. “Now I’m in Slytherin. It’s… a bit of a long story.”

“You… changed houses?” Slughorn said, his watery eyes wide. “That sounds like a story I would
very much like to hear.”

Harry hadn’t exactly gone into their introduction with any expectations of the man, but he quickly
decided he didn’t like Horace Slughorn. Dumbledore’s earlier assessment of him had been accurate
but not quite complete; he seemed cowardly and somewhat slimy. He couldn’t help but brag about
all the famous names he had connections to - all names that Harry was completely unfamiliar with.
He seemed to be refusing to return to Hogwarts simply because he did not want to be involved in
the war in any way whatsoever.

Funny enough, that was something Harry could empathize with. Even so, there was still enough
Gryffindor remaining inside of Harry that it left him feeling that the man was utterly spineless.

Dumbledore returned, and just as he was about to spirit Harry away something unexpected
happened: Slughorn shifted from a flat-out denial of returning to teaching to an apprehensive
agreement.

As they left, Harry found himself incredibly disappointed that his favorite subject was once again
going to be taught by someone that he took an immediate dislike to. Even if he was now more
interested in the Dark Arts than he was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was still his favorite
class.

Even so, he couldn’t help but be a bit intrigued at the thought of having another dark wizard among
the professors at Hogwarts.

***

Harry didn’t enjoy apparating the second time any more than he did the first time, but the
unpleasant feeling was almost instantly overwhelmed by the pleasing sensation of dark magic
seeming to reach up to him in greeting. He let it wrap around him and he was unable to hold back
the sigh of contentment that escaped his lips.

He was back at Grimmauld Place.

The feeling of the dark swirling around him was more intense than it had been over the winter. He
was unsure if it was because the magic in the house had missed him or if it was due to him now
being a fully declared dark wizard, but he promptly decided he didn’t care. Grimmauld felt like
home.
He looked around the entire empty dining room elatedly, and he didn’t realize he was grinning
toothily until Dumbledore’s voice brought him back to his senses.

“I know that you desired to return to Grimmauld, but you seem… unusually delighted to be here,”
Dumbledore said.

Harry’s smile immediately fell from his face as he turned to face Dumbledore. He contemplated
the headmaster’s words for a moment before shrugging. “Well, I like it here.”

“It is quite an unusual, unique dwelling,” Dumbledore said. “It’s much newer than many wizarding
homes, but the amount of history packed into it over a short period of time…” Dumbledore trailed
off, and his eyebrows drew together as he seemed to study Harry.

Harry grew irritated at the scrutiny, but he tamped it down as best he could. He knew he couldn’t
allow himself to grow angry over every single one of Dumbledore’s quirks.

“I am loath to admit that it took me so long to put this piece into the puzzle,” Dumbledore said
quietly. “This was the home of an infamously dark family. It is here where you began your study
of the dark arts, isn’t it?”

Alarms sang in the back of Harry’s mind. Would Dumbledore discover the library? Would he
confiscate the library? Would he remove Harry from Grimmauld Place?

“Harry, I promise you that I will make every attempt to understand this… new aspect of yourself,”
Dumbledore continued. “But as much I despise having to ask this of you, you will have to help me
understand.” He paused. “I truly do not believe that it should be your responsibility to educate me,
but other proponents of the dark arts have tried and failed. I think you may have a much better
chance of succeeding.”

Harry sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes. This is where it started.”

“May I inquire as to… exactly how it started?”

Eyes widening, Harry tensed. He couldn’t risk losing access to the library, and besides, he’d made
a promise to Sirius to not tell anyone about it. He’d have to wait until Sirius was hopefully released,
at the very least. “It’s… a long story,” he said carefully. “Is it okay if I… tell you later? I will tell
you, but just… not now.”

Dumbledore nodded, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. Unfortunately, his hackles
immediately rose as Dumbledore continued. “I do have… questions,” he said, “about the spell you
used on Rasmus Nott.”

Harry knew it. If Andromeda, a dark witch, had questions about it, it was no surprise that
Dumbledore would, as well.

“What was it, exactly?”

Harry let out a huff and tried desperately not to let his frustration show. “‘Return of Suffering.’ It’s
a curse that makes a person feel every bit of pain they’ve ever caused to others,” he said. “I figured
it would be effective on Death Eaters. I just didn’t realize there would be… lasting effects.”

“And what would happen if someone now used that curse on you?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Now that you have, in effect, given Rasmus Nott all of the pain that he inflicted upon others,”
Dumbledore said, “would you then feel all of that same pain if someone were to cast that spell on
you?”

“I…” Harry blinked. Dumbledore’s questions were much different from the questions he’d gotten
from Andromeda, Tonks, and Hermione. “I actually don’t know,” he finally answered honestly.

There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore responded. “That worries me greatly, Harry.”

Harry was unable to bite back his retort. “Oh, I’m sure it does.”

“I understand and respect that the dark arts are now very important to you,” Dumbledore said. “But
they are still incredibly dangerous, and -”

“And the magic we learn at school isn’t dangerous?” Harry snapped.

“That’s exactly why it is so concerning, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “We have professors at
Hogwarts, all of whom are experts in their fields. It is quite alarming that you are exploring the
dark arts so deeply without any adult guidance.”

“And who’s supposed to guide me?” Harry bit out. “You?” He shook his head. “I already have a
mentor.” He regretted the words the moment they left his lips as Dumbledore’s expression
sharpened.

“Who is this mentor, Harry?”

Harry immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. Dumbledore, he knew, was one of the few
wizards capable of Legilimency, and he remembered from his reading on Occlumency that eye
contact was the easiest defense against it.

He would not betray Sirius to Dumbledore.

“It’s… not your business,” Harry said, turning away from the headmaster so as to not accidentally
look him in the eye. “And it’s not because it has to do with me. It’s because I’m not going to out a
dark witch or wizard without their permission.” With his back fully turned on Dumbledore he lifted
his gaze, and then he froze.

There, in the doorway, stood Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, along with Ron and Ginny, their expressions
somber and bleak. Mr. Weasley had his arms wrapped around his wife and daughter while Ron
stood a bit off to the side, looking awfully pale and uncomfortable.

Harry knew they hadn’t been there when they first arrived; the room had been empty. He had no
idea how much they’d heard.

He supposed it didn’t really matter. Ron had already seen what he’d done at the Ministry. And
regardless of whether or not Dumbledore or Ron had told the others, the article in the Prophet
guaranteed that every single one of them now knew about Harry’s use of the dark arts.

Suddenly feeling a bit cornered, he bit out a question. “Where are my things?”

“Um…” Ginny’s voice was uncharacteristically small. “In your room - the one you stayed in last
year.”

Harry gave her a curt nod in thanks. “Goodnight, Headmaster,” he said over his shoulder with an
air of finality. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He approached the doorway and with a soft, “excuse me,” the Weasleys parted, giving him the
space to leave the room.

As he turned the corner and headed up the stairs he heard furious whispers start up in his wake, but
he wasn’t interested in hearing what they had to say.

***

As much as Harry appreciated being back at Grimmauld Place, staying at the house alongside the
Weasleys was awkward, to say the least. Although he missed the twins, he was grateful that since
Fred and George weren’t staying there as they had the year before, he and Ron no longer had to
share a room.

But everything seemed overly quiet without the presence of the twins and Sirius, and every
occupant seemed to go out of their way to avoid him.

The only person who would address him directly at meals was Ginny, and even then, her requests
to ‘pass the potatoes’ were clipped and tense.

It depressed him a bit; he sincerely loved the Weasley family, and he ached at the thought of losing
them. On the other hand, he supposed the wide berth they were giving him allowed him ample
opportunity to spend almost all of his time in his beloved library. He’d started making stacks of
books around the room: books he wanted to read before the summer was over, books he thought he
might take to Hogwarts, and books he figured he probably shouldn’t look into per Andromeda’s
warning that he should take care not to learn from the ‘wrong’ text.

The final stack only contained two books so far - one that seemed to contain nothing but spells of
inhumane torture, and another that made him feel physically ill whenever he picked it up. He
figured it was probably cursed, so he didn’t even open it to see what it was about.

On the third evening at Grimmauld, he’d cracked open a text on blood magic with a promise to
himself that it would be the final book he would read that night. He nearly made his way through
two chapters before he realized that it was solely dedicated to menstrual blood magic and he
slammed the cover shut with a disappointed sigh.

He leaned back and stared up at the shelves from his usual position on the floor. He rolled his
shoulders back and his spine sounded like popping corn. He supposed he should start actually
using the desk in the corner rather than hunching over for hours on end every day.

He mentally calculated how many days he had left before the beginning of his sixth year, and he
found himself immensely grateful for Andromeda’s assistance in expanding the space in his trunk;
there was no way he’d be able to read everything he wanted to before returning to Hogwarts.

He stretched one more time before getting to his feet and sauntering over to the stack of books to
read during the summer. He plucked the top one from the stack and made his way down to his
bedroom with a wry smirk. A book on nightmare hexes seemed like the perfect material to read
before going to sleep.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Harry paused with his hand on the doorknob to his bedroom and the hairs on the back of his neck
rose. Ron hadn’t said two words to him in the few days Harry had been at Grimmauld.

“You’re a… little hard to find,” Ron continued, his voice losing confidence and getting quieter as
he spoke.
“Didn’t really think anyone wanted to find me,” Harry replied, finally turning to face Ron. His
heart raced as adrenaline spiked, unsure what he should expect from Ron. The last time they’d
really spoken had been at the Ministry, and it wasn’t like many of their conversations over the past
year had gone pleasantly.

“Uh… Mum wants to talk to you,” Ron said.

“About what?” Harry asked, repressing the urge to sigh. He already had a decent idea about why
Mrs. Weasley wanted to speak with him.

“I…” Ron visibly swallowed.

Harry did sigh then. Ron seemed to be afraid of him. No matter how bitter he was over Ron’s
behavior from last year, Harry never wanted to frighten him. “Never mind. It’s fine,” he said. “I’m
coming.”

He’d almost convinced Hermione that the dark arts weren’t what their reputation said they were.
Andromeda had convinced her husband and her daughter. If Harry was truly set on convincing the
rest of the wizarding world, the Weasleys were likely the best place to start.

***

It became clear within moments after entering the sitting room that Harry’s assumptions had been
correct; Mrs. Weasley seemed to be staging a strange and incredibly awkward intervention. Mr.
Weasley sat beside her with a grim expression. Ginny was conspicuously absent, and Ron looked
like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“We’re all very worried about you, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Despite Harry’s trepidation rising at the phrase he’d come to hate, he responded in a calmer voice
than he thought he was capable of. “You don’t have to be.”

“But we are,” Mrs. Weasley insisted. “We care very much for you. I’ve come to see you as one of
my own. You know that, right?”

Harry nodded.

“When the article about what you did at the Ministry came out, we assumed that it was just more
slander from the Prophet,” Mr. Weasley said. “But then Ron confirmed it was true.”

Harry’s gaze slid over to Ron, who was hunched over on himself and seemed to be staring at an
unseen spot on the floor. A flurry of emotion rushed through Harry. He first wanted to get angry
with Ron, but quickly realized he couldn’t; it wasn’t as if he should expect Ron to lie to his own
parents on Harry's behalf, especially since they weren’t friends anymore. But when Harry had fully
processed Mr. Weasley’s statement, something became clear to him: just as Neville hadn’t
mentioned anything to his grandmother, Ron hadn’t mentioned what Harry had done to his parents
until after the article came out.

Harry hadn’t been expecting that.

“The dark arts are very dangerous, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley continued, drawing Harry’s attention
away from Ron. “They aren’t a game, or -”

“I know they’re not a game. I’m not… playing with them,” Harry said. “Mrs. Weasley, I -”
“Using them… resorting to them repeatedly - it will change a man,” Mr. Weasley said. “I know
your Defense education while you’ve been at Hogwarts has been... extremely spotty, and I just
want to make sure that you are fully aware of what they can do to someone.”

“It’s not -”

“I blame myself,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Last year, when you mentioned Yule... and so soon after
being sorted in Slytherin… I should have realized that was a sign that you were looking into things
that you shouldn’t be looking into. I should have known that you were being exposed to the dark
traditions.” She shook her head. “But I suppose I let myself believe that you would never actually
get involved in the dark arts.”

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m -”

“Some traditions are meant to be forgotten, Harry,” she said. "Or at least left in the past where they
belong."

“Those traditions already mean a lot to me, though,” Harry blurted out, growing tired of being
interrupted. “The dark traditions, the rituals - it makes me feel like I’m home. I’ve never had that
before.”

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, reaching across the end table and grasping one of Harry’s hands in
both of hers. “If you are truly interested in the old wizarding traditions, I could share the light
rituals with you.” Harry’s gut twisted unpleasantly as tears welled up in her eyes. “I stopped
practicing years ago because they brought up so many memories of my brothers.

“But I realize now that no matter the horrifying things that happened to them, those are still good
memories and I shouldn’t avoid them.” She gave him a teary smile. “And to tell you the truth, I
have missed the light rituals. In fact, my favorite cyclical day was always Lammas, and that’s
coming up soon.”

Harry blinked and he found himself unable to contain his curiosity. “Are you a light witch?” he
asked, even though he had a strong suspicion of what the answer would be.

Mrs. Weasley let out a laugh that sounded somewhat forced. “No one who follows the light
traditions would go so far as to call themselves a ‘light witch.’”

“Why is that, though?” Harry asked, fascinated. “Everything I’ve heard about the light… it all
seems to refer to most of the light rituals in the past tense. So it’s… it’s true that no one declares for
the light anymore?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘declaring for the light,’ Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said. “There never has
been.”

Harry felt completely bewildered. He knew several wizarding families still followed the light
traditions, but none of them seemed to be aware of any light declaration rites. Every dark arts book
he’d read and every dark wizard he’d spoken to seemed to insist that most of the light traditions had
fallen to obscurity.

Why did it seem like the dark was more aware of the light’s past than the light itself? Which story
was wrong?

“I promise that you will love the light traditions even more than the dark traditions, Harry,” Mrs.
Weasley continued, giving him a warm smile. “The light rituals on Litha are especially good for
the well-being of you and your loved ones.” She squeezed his hand affectionately
“I…” Harry swallowed. “Thank you, but…” Every muscle in his body seemed to be growing more
tightly wound by the minute. He knew he was about to upset Mrs. Weasley, and he knew how
terrifying she could be when she was angry. “I don’t think I can practice any of the light rituals.”

“Harry, I’ve heard that extensive dark arts use can make you feel like there’s no way back,” Mr.
Weasley said. “I can assure you, there is.”

“It’s not…” Harry paused, sighing. “There is no going back, though. I’ve declared for the dark,” he
said. “I am a dark wizard.”

The color drained from Mrs. Weasley’s face and she dropped Harry’s hand, pulling back from him.
Mr. Weasley wrapped a hand around her arm and he stared at Harry with a grim set to his mouth.

“How… how could you call yourself that?” Mrs. Weasley said in a harsh whisper. “You’re not a
dark wizard, Harry. You’re a very good boy -”

“I’m both,” Harry said. “Or I guess I am, anyway. The dark arts aren’t what everyone says they are
-”

“You can’t know… you’re still very young, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said. “I don’t know what your
housemates have told you, but -”

“Everyone keeps blaming them for this, but it’s not their fault I’m like this,” Harry said. “I have a
dark affinity, which means the dark is where I’m supposed to be.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face was quickly turning from pale to flushed. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do mean that,” Harry said. “And it doesn’t… it doesn’t mean that I’m… joining Voldemort or
trying to compete with him or any of that rubbish the Prophet said. You know that, right? I hope
you know me that well, at least.”

“We do know that, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, sounding much more calm than his wife, but he still
appeared somewhat ill. “It’s just -”

“Did you know that a lot of the dark witches and wizards that go to Voldemort only do it because
they’re scared? They think he’s the only one that will fight for their right to… exist!” The words
seemed to spill from Harry’s lips unbidden. “They go to him because the rest of the wizarding
world hates us just for being dark! It’s unfounded, and -”

Mrs. Weasley immediately got to her feet and she seemed to tower over Harry. “Dark wizards
murdered my brothers,” she said, her voice quickly rising. “How dare you say that our… hatred -
our fear - is unfounded?”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. “I didn’t mean -”

“Five of them cornered Fabian and Gideon. It was two against five!” Mrs. Weasley was shouting
by that point. “And they laughed - they laughed - while they… while they…”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “I am so sorry for what happened to your brothers, Mrs.
Weasley, but -”

“But what?” Mrs. Weasley cried, tears running down her face. “You’re messing with the same kind
of dark magic as the Death Eaters that killed my brothers, and then you have the gall to say -”

“Mum, stop!” Ron sprang to his feet, and Harry’s head swiveled to him instantly. With how silent
Ron had been, he’d nearly forgotten that he was even in the room.

“You can’t… you can’t seriously be comparing Harry to them!” Ron said. Harry felt as if the world
was turning on its head.

Was Ron actually defending him?

Mrs. Weasley’s flush was darkening to scarlet. “Ronald, you will leave this room immediately!”
Mrs. Weasley shouted. “If you aren’t going to help us convince Harry -”

“No!” Ron shouted right back. “Harry used the dark arts at the Ministry to protect everyone that
was with him - me included!” He looked at Harry. “That weird… shield thing you did,” he said,
flapping his hands wildly upwards in a bad imitation of the Muros spell. “That was dark arts,
wasn’t it?”

Harry, dumbfounded, could only nod.

“See?” Ron said to his parents. “I would be dead right now if he hadn’t done the…” He made the
same flapping gesture with his hands again. Harry absently thought that it would have been funny
had the conversation not been so serious. “He saved me from Death Eaters! He saved all of us!
Why are you -”

“Ron, I think your mother is right,” Mr. Weasley said, getting to his feet, as well. “You should
leave.”

“No, you should leave!” Ron shouted. “I’m not… you’re not…” He shook his head. “I get that
what happened to your brothers was… terrible, but you don’t get to accuse Harry of being anything
like a Death Eater!”

Mrs. Weasley sputtered, “Ronald Weasley, if you -”

“Molly, please,” Mr. Weasley said. He fixed his son with a stern look before seeming to deflate.
“I… I don’t think this is going to be… productive. We can try talking tomorrow, when we’re all a
bit more calm.” He gently started guiding her towards the door.

Harry was fairly sure he’d never felt so dumbstruck in all his life. He stared at Ron with wide eyes
and a jaw that was dropped just slightly. Behind Ron, Mr. Weasley led a purpling, crying Mrs.
Weasley out of the room.

When Harry finally felt like he could process a thought again, he shut his mouth and swallowed
hard. “I… thank you,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Ron said, his shoulders drooping. “Harry, I…” Then it was Ron’s turn to stare at Harry for
a long few moments before he suddenly straightened up and thrust out his chin. “I know that I…
kind of… gave up on you last year.”

Harry was still too shocked to respond with words, so he merely nodded.

“I mean… you… you were acting really strange all year,” Ron continued. “I thought you’d
changed.”

Harry swallowed. “I… think I did change, at least in some ways,” he said quietly. “But -”

“But I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened at the Ministry, and…” Ron paused before
sitting down in the chair across from Harry. “I actually think it took us going to the Ministry to get
it through my skull. You’re still… you.”

“I…” Harry still felt like the world was tilting. He was fairly sure he’d already given up on Ron,
just as Ron had given up on him. Being confronted with the possibility that Ron could still come
around wasn't something he'd been expecting to deal with. He squinted at Ron, cocking his head to
the side. “Did… Hermione talk to you or something?”

Ron gave him an indignant glare, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. “What, you think I can’t
figure things out on my own?”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry said, even if he’d meant it.

“Harry, look… I…” He paused, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I know that you don’t have any
reason to forgive me, but I just… I need you to know that I’m sorry. I was a prat.”

“I…” Harry paused, then nodded. “Thank you.”

“And that’s another thing,” Ron continued. “I… I can’t believe these words are about to come out
of my mouth, but…” He grimaced. “Malfoy was right. I mean… what he said, back at the
Ministry.”

“Huh?” Harry asked, confused. “What did Draco say?”

“That I should be thanking you… for saving my life," Ron said. "So… thank you."

Harry shook his head. “No, Ron, I -”

“The dark arts still seriously creep me out,” Ron said, wrinkling his nose. “It seems like… like it’s
all blood and spit and weird… people fluids.” He shivered and Harry suppressed the urge to laugh
at his words. “Gross.”

Harry finally did let out a laugh. “I mean, that’s not all there is, but… there is a lot of that, yeah.”

“I.. I definitely wish you wouldn’t use them, but they seem like they… matter a lot to you,” Ron
continued. “I don’t get it and I probably won’t, but… you used them to protect everyone that came
with you to the Ministry.”

Harry shook his head. “Nobody would have even needed protecting if I hadn’t been an idiot in the
first place,” he said quietly. “You guys wouldn’t have been there at all if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Yeah, well… it’s not like it was the first time we went with you into some crazy fight or
something that could kill us all,” Ron said.

Harry’s laugh had a bitter tone to it. “Since it’s happened more than once, I think that’s probably a
sign that you shouldn’t follow me into life-threatening situations,” he said.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had your back, and if I’m honest, it probably won’t be the last,” Ron
said. “Even if you do seriously weird me out for an entire year.”

Harry blinked, leaning back in the chair. “Do you… think you’d have my back if I went public?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I told the wizarding world that I’m a dark wizard.”

“Why would you do that?”

Harry sighed. “I… I want to show everyone that we’re not all bad and we’re not evil,” he said.
“And I want dark witches and wizards to know that they have a choice that isn’t Voldemort. They
can choose to do the right thing.”

“You’re…” Ron paused, and his mouth made it appear like he was chewing on the inside of his
cheek. “You were really serious about what you said earlier, weren’t you? The thing about… dark
wizards going to You-Know-Who because of…” He waved his hand towards the door. “Because of
stuff like my Mum was saying?”

“And worse,” Harry said, nodding.

“I… I guess I probably would,” Ron said. “Have your back, I mean. But Harry…”

When he didn’t continue, Harry prompted him. “Yeah?”

“I know that what she was saying was wrong, but… dark wizards did kill her brothers,” Ron said
quietly. “It’s really… it’s really messed with her for a long time. She’s been dealing with that for
my whole life, really.”

“I get that,” Harry said. “And I know that there are a lot of people out there that dark wizards have
hurt or killed. I just… I hope I can make her understand that Voldemort’s Death Eaters shouldn’t be
the… example of all dark wizards.”

“It’ll be harder for her,” Ron said. “But she really does care about you a lot, and I think she’ll
probably come around.” He paused. “Ginny might take a bit, too, considering what happened to her
with that diary in her first year. But Dad goes whichever way Mum goes, so…” He offered Harry a
tentative smile. “I think they’ll get there, Harry.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t as optimistic, but Ron likely knew his own family better than he did.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments before Harry let out an odd grunt. “So… I hate asking
this, but,” he said, “are we… like… friends again or something?”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Uh… I mean....” he said. “If you wanna still be friends with me, that is.
I’m…”

“I… do,” Harry said, finding himself quite unable to express just how much he’d missed Ron.
“But… I have to admit that I’m fully expecting you to drop me again the next time I do something
you don’t like.”

Ron deflated. “I… I guess I get why you’d think that,” he said. “But as long as you don’t just
start… I dunno, murdering people or making Inferi or something… I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out
that you’re still Harry. You're still a good person."

“Even if I… do something that you find… questionable that isn’t murdering people?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know where you draw the line.”

“I don’t think I know where I draw the line, either,” Ron admitted quietly. “But I’ve figured out
that… uh… your line is pretty much still where it was before, even if it’s kind of a wonky line
now... if that makes sense. And as long as it doesn’t move too much…”

Harry swallowed. His ‘line’ had been shifting over the past year, even if he hadn’t noticed as it was
happening. He’d lied to everyone, he’d manipulated friends, and he wasn’t entirely sure where his
own line was anymore.
“I mean… if you cheat at Quidditch, we’re gonna have a problem,” Ron continued. “But I won’t
have a problem if you… oh, I dunno… start dating Parkinson or something.”

Harry couldn’t help but start laughing. “Well, funny you should mention that…”

Ron’s eyes widened to comical proportions and his mouth fell open. “Wait, you seriously are
dating Parkinson?” he asked, his voice going up an octave. “I mean… I guess I suspected it for a
while, but I was joking, and -”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not dating Pansy,” he said. “I’m dating… someone else.”

“What? Who is it?” Ron asked. “Greengrass? She’s… really pretty, I gotta admit…”

“Not Daphne, either.”

“Davis, then? She’s cute.”

“No.”

“Then who?” Ron asked, bewildered. “Bulstrode? I mean, date who you want, but -”

“Still wrong,” Harry said. He considered keeping it a secret, but quickly realized that if he didn’t
tell Ron, he would be getting nagged for days until Harry broke. Harry wasn’t particularly
interested in gaining Ron’s friendship only to immediately lose it again, so it was better to know
how he’d react now. He sat up and braced himself. “I'm dating Draco Malfoy.”

Ron first let out a bark of a laugh, but it quickly died off when it became apparent that Harry wasn't
joking. He blinked several times, his jaw slowly dropping. “Bloody hell, Harry!” he finally blurted
out.

Harry rolled his eyes and his heart seemed to twist. “I figured,” he said bitterly, getting to his feet.

“Wait, where are you -” Ron cut himself off, leaping out of his chair and grabbing Harry’s arm
before he could leave. “I don’t mean that… I’m just… bloody hell.” He shook his head. “I just
wasn’t expecting that… like, at all.”

Harry smirked, a trickle of relief spreading through him. “It… took me by surprise, too.”

“How long?”

“Right after the Ministry,” Harry said.

“I…” Ron’s face scrunched up in contemplation. “I guess you were kinda going completely
haywire over him, now that I think about it.” He shook his head. “Does… does Hermione know?”

“She’s actually the one who helped me figure out why I was… going haywire over him.”

Ron nodded. “Good,” he said. “I mean… Malfoy’s been a right git to her for years, so…”

“I know.”

“And he is a right git, you know,” Ron said.

Harry shrugged. “You’re… not wrong,” he said, knowing he couldn’t deny that Draco was indeed
a prat. “But there’s… a lot more to him than being a git.”
 “I guess,” Ron said, then, surprisingly, he nodded. “I mean… I guess he also saved us at the
Ministry. I still can’t believe he actually… took out his own Dad.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor, the guilt of the position that he’d put Draco in flooding back into
him. “Yeah.”

“I just… wow.”

“Are you… are you okay with it?” Harry asked, glancing back up at him. Now that they were both
standing closer than they had in months, he absently noticed how much taller Ron had grown.

“I’m… yeah,” Ron said, nodding. “It’s… weird, but I’m good with it.”

Harry nodded back. “Good.”

Ron stared at him for a moment before his lips quirked upwards, he snorted, and then he erupted
into full-blown laughter.

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s… it’s just…” Ron’s entire body was shaking with laughter, and he grinned at Harry. “I just
realized that this means some of the things people had to say about you last year are actually true.
They’re just not… bad things.”

“What?”

“Going to Slytherin really did turn you into a bent, dark wizard.”

Even as Ron ducked away from Harry’s flying fist, Harry couldn’t help but feel completely elated.
Even if the rest of the wizarding world hated his guts, he had his very first friend back at his side.

Chapter End Notes

1. Book Ron > Movie Ron. I will always attempt Book Ron, who is way smarter than
most give him credit for.
2. No bash. Bash bad. Bashing in comments makes me sad.
3. I will make no promises, but since the next two chapters will be shorter than usual,
they should take less time.
 Labradorite
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

Uhh. Surprise?

More than one surprise here, I guess.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Son, can you hear me?”

Son, can you hear me?

Son, can you hear me?

Son, can you hear me?

Son, can you -

The words seemed to echo endlessly in his head. He was entirely unable to tell if the speaker was
actually repeating the phrase over and over again, if he was trapped in some sort of ghastly looping
curse, or if it was completely his imagination. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was
not this person’s son. Even though at that moment he wasn’t even certain of his own name, he was
resolute in the fact that whoever was speaking was not his father.

“I think this one is coming around.”

I think this one is coming around.

I think this one is -

His father was in Azkaban. Or was he? He wasn’t sure. But his father was definitely locked up
somewhere; he knew that better than anyone, for some reason. His father would have no reason to
be there, wherever there was. He actually had no idea where he was.

“No luck with the other two yet?”

No luck with -

Awareness slowly drifted back into him, and he promptly decided that he hated everything about
being aware. Going back to sleep seemed far more appealing than whatever was involved in the
waking world. Something was throbbing painfully in sync with his heartbeat, as well as with those
words that were still ceaselessly echoing in his mind.

The throbbing intensified and narrowed in on a single point on his left temple. He let out a moan
and instantly regretted it, as the vibration of his own voice made the throbbing grow to pounding
pain. He thought for a moment that his heart might have somehow been relocated from his chest to
his skull.

“Ah, you’re definitely awake now, aren’t you?”

There was a cooling sensation on his pained temple, and he wanted to sigh in relief but didn’t dare
to just in case it increased the nauseating pain again. He realized that the words were no longer
echoing, but the voice still sounded far away, as if it was coming through a tube made of metal.

“I need you to open your eyes, son.”

“... not,” he said in response, though he couldn’t finish what he wanted to say. Not your son.

“Come on now,” the man said, because now he was certain the person speaking to him was a man.
“Stay with me.” As he spoke the voice became clearer and closer, no longer sounding as if the man
were whispering to him through a pipe. There was another blast of cool on his aching head, and
this time he did allow himself to let out a sigh of relief. “You’ll be right as rain in a little while, but
you must open your eyes.”

Draco opened his eyes.

A blob in the shape of a head appeared in front of him, though it was so blurry that it was faceless.
Draco assumed it was the man who had been talking to him, but he couldn’t make out a single
feature.

“That’s very good, son,” the blob seemed to say.

“‘m not your son,” Draco said, his words so slurred that it was miraculous that the man could even
understand him.

“Well, it’s a very good sign that you know that,” the man said, and then another wave of cool relief
washed over his temple. As things came more into focus, he could see the man was pointing a
wand at him, seeming to alternate between Draco’s head and then somewhere lower - his
collarbone, perhaps? His chest?

Draco would normally be alarmed to wake up at wandpoint, but he quickly figured out that this
man was the one responsible for those blessed blasts of coolth that were giving him respite from
the pounding in his skull.

“That’s very good, kid. You’re doing fine. I’m a Mediwizard, and I’m taking care of you until the
Conveyant unit arrives,” the man said as he lifted his wand to Draco’s temple once more. “Can
you tell me your name?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

The man’s wand paused in mid-air. That wasn’t unusual; people always tended to freeze when they
heard his name. But this man seemed to get over it much more quickly than most did, and he cast
another relieving spell on Draco’s temple. Draco finally recognized the feeling, though he’d never
had to experience it on his head before; this man had evidently been casting Episkey after Episkey
on his aching skull. He followed up each spell with a swipe of a cool, soothing cloth.

“You took a fairly hard blow to the head, but you’re the first one to wake,” the man said. “You’re
obviously a tough kid. Do you know what happened?”
Draco blinked a few times as he took an agonizingly long while to process the words. What had
happened? Why was he presently prone on his back with a Mediwizard hovering over him? “No,”
he said.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Despite his thoughts still being a tad fuzzy, Draco didn’t have to consider the question for long.
“We were having dinner. Mrs. Zabini stood up and drew her wand. And then…” Nothing. He
couldn’t remember anything after that. He shook his head once, immediately ceasing the
movement when it made his head pound miserably.

“How many were in the house with you?”

Fear suddenly started pouring into him at the questions the man was asking. “Four,” he said. “It
was me, my mother, Blaise, and -”

“Hang on a second, kid,” the man said, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder and looking off into
the distance. “Berryworth!” he shouted, and Draco winced at the sudden volume of his voice.
“Keep looking! He says there’s one more!”

Terror clawed its way into his chest. Someone was missing? “Where’s my mother?” Draco tried to
snarl in the harshest, most demanding tone he could muster, but it came out sounding desperate and
frightened. He attempted to sit up, but the man gently pushed him back to the ground with a
shushing sound. It was unnecessary urging on the man's part; the moment Draco had lifted his head
he was struck with a wave of vertigo and his stomach seemed to roil, and he dropped his head back
onto something soft.

“Easy, kid. Don’t fret,” the man said. “We’ve found another young man that’s about your age, as
well as a woman who I would say looks very much like you. Her name is Narcissa, right?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered.

“She’s still unconscious, but we think she’ll come through just fine,” the man said. “Your friend,
as well; I'm guessing that must be Blaise. You’ll all be fine. You’ll ache for a little while, but
we’ve found no evidence of curses or hexes on the three of you. A Healer will have to take a look
at you, but our unit’s assessments are usually accurate.” There was a hint of boastfulness in his
tone. “You’re lucky this happened when our unit was on duty; you all are getting the best of the
best.”

If he, Blaise, and his mother were okay, then where was Mrs. Zabini? Had she done as Blaise had
suspected she would do? Had she tried to kill her own son? After all, the last thing Draco could
remember was Mrs. Zabini drawing her wand…

But if that was the case, how was Blaise still alive?

Draco quickly pushed aside his initial suspicion. He knew enough of Mrs. Zabini’s reputation to
know that if she really was going to murder her son, she not only would have succeeded; she also
wouldn’t have done the deed in front of her summer guests. So what had actually happened?

Before he could ask, though, the man raised his wand and cast yet another soothing, wordless
Episkey on Draco’s head. “You said your name is Draco Malfoy,” he said. “I think we may have a
mutual friend. He left a few days ago, but he was staying with my wife and I for a short time.”

Draco blinked at the man, and then squinted at him, forcing his eyes to focus. The man’s features
came into view: dark hair with flecks of silver, extremely light brown eyes that were nearly
hypnotizing, and soft wrinkles that oddly seemed more joyful than aging. He was utterly
unfamiliar to Draco.

“At least I’m pretty sure you two are friends,” the man continued. “You know Harry, right?”

Harry.

Draco allowed himself to nod an affirmation, and then the man swiped a cool cloth down Draco’s
temple again. This time Draco could see it clearly as he drew it away. It was streaked with red. He
was obviously bleeding.

Draco’s eyes widened as he slowly put the pieces together. Harry had gone to stay with Draco's
pariah of an aunt, Andromeda, and this man had said that she was his wife. That meant that this
was the man that was the reason his mother’s family had disowned his aunt. This man was the
reason he had never even met his aunt.

She had been disowned because she chose to marry this Mudblood.

Muggleborn, Draco thought automatically. Muggleborn, Muggleborn, Muggleborn. Harry doesn’t

like it when you call them Mudbloods. Remember to call them ‘Muggleborns.’

It was, by now, a familiar thought. He’d had to repeat it to himself several times a day for months.
It was no longer a forced thought, as it had been in the beginning; it had become a habit.

This Muggleborn, he knew, was named Ted Tonks.

Draco didn’t particularly want his mother to wake only to see him being cared for by this
Muggleborn. While she normally wouldn’t have a reaction quite as severe as his father would, this
was the Muggleborn that had led to her sister abandoning their family.

Coupled with the fact that Draco’s mother already wasn’t speaking to him, Draco didn’t want to
know how his mother would react to seeing her son with any Muggleborn, much less this
Muggleborn.

As Draco’s thoughts began to gain more coherency, Draco tried to sit up once more. He was met
with the same rushing dizziness and nausea, as well as the Muggleborn again gently pushing him
back to the ground.

“Easy, kid,” the Muggleborn said. “We’ll be taking you to St. Mungo’s soon, and you’ll be back on
your feet in no time.”

“Where is my mother?” Draco asked. He mustered much more command in his voice than he had
the first time he’d asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s just over there,” the Muggleborn said, pointing to his right, “not farther than ten meters
away from you. A very good Mediwizard is taking care of her. She’s under the best care she can be
until the Conveyants arrive. Her wrist is broken and she’s still knocked out, but she’ll be just fine. I
promise.” The Muggleborn gave him a crooked smile. “We thought you were in worse shape than
her, to be honest. I’m still surprised you woke up first.”

“Ted!” The Muggleborn sat up as a witch ran up to them. She scarcely glanced at Draco as she
leaned over to whisper in the Muggleborn’s ear. The smile fell from his face and when the witch
drew away he looked back to Draco with a grim expression.

“You said it was you, your mother, Blaise, and… ‘Mrs. Zabini?’” he asked. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” Draco replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Muggleborn directed his eyes back to the witch and he shook his head. “No. Woman. I believe
someone said she was the owner of the house. Keep looking,” he said to her. The witch nodded
once, and then she disappeared out of Draco’s view.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked.

“You just worry about staying awake,” the Muggleborn said. “Don’t concern yourself with it,
Draco.” Draco bristled. He disliked being addressed with such familiarity by this Muggleborn, and
he liked being kept in the dark even less.

“Tell me,” Draco sneered. “Now.”

The Muggleborn considered him for a moment before raising his wand to Draco’s temple again.
As a blast of cool again ran through Draco’s head, the Muggleborn said, “They found a body.”

No, Draco thought, swallowing nervously. Please… not Blaise’s mother?

“It is a male,” the Muggleborn continued, immediately assuaging Draco’s fear. “And we are
assuming it is one of your attackers… but it’s really up to the Aurors to decide that, not us
Mediwizards.”

Draco didn’t have a chance to ask another question as a flurry of familiar swearing and expletives
suddenly exploded from somewhere behind them. There wasn’t much coherency at first, but the
voice quickly seemed to recover quickly. “What in Merlin’s wrinkled fucking knob are you doing
to me? Let me up!”

The Muggleborn let out a tight laugh. “I told you that your friend would be fine, too, right? Well…
he seems to be in… relatively good shape, all things considered.”

“I said get the bloody hell off of me!”

“Blaise?” Draco tried to call out, but he winced when his own increased volume sent another
shudder of pain rushing through his skull. “Where is he?” he asked the Muggleborn.

Another round of shouting - not from Blaise - erupted before the Muggleborn could answer. “We
need one of you Mediwizards - now!” Draco again tried to sit up to see where the shouting was
coming from, but the Muggleborn held him firm this time. Frustration ran through Draco as the
Muggleborn seemed to effortlessly hold him down with one hand as he observed whatever the
shouting was concerning.

As he looked up at him, Draco realized absently that the Muggleborn had a rather striking jawline.

“Get off! This is my… let me through!” Draco heard Blaise shouting. A pause, and then -
“Mother!”

“It looks like they found Mrs. Zabini,” the Muggleborn said after a moment. “She’s alive.”

“Is she all right?” Draco asked with a half-veiled attempt to mask his concern.

The Muggleborn fixed him with a smile that was clearly supposed to be warm and comforting.
“Worry about yourself right now, Draco,” he said. “Just concentrate on talking as clearly as you
can.”
Draco blinked at his words. Had he not been speaking clearly this whole time?

“The other one is being extremely uncooperative,” a voice said, and a man wearing Auror robes
came into Draco’s line of sight.

As if on cue, Draco could hear Blaise’s voice again. “I swear I will hex your balls off if you don’t
get out of my way! Mother! Mother!”

The Auror sighed. “I’m sorry, Ted. I know how much you don’t like us drilling your patients, but
we’re going to have to question this one here.” He gestured down at Draco. “I’m afraid we have no
choice at this point.”

“He’s already said he doesn’t remember what happened,” the Muggleborn said crossly. “Go back
and work on the other one. He’s at least on his feet already.”

“Ted, I must insist -”

“It’s more of the same shite we’ve been seeing for the last few weeks,” the Muggleborn said, his
tone suddenly full of fire. “Why are you bothering with your worthless questions? Or is your
bloody protocol still more important than reality?”

Draco refocused his attention on the Muggleborn as he felt an unusual rush of… was that respect?

This Muggleborn - this man - Ted - was certainly one to stand his ground, and it seemed he did so
with a silver tongue.

However, Draco knew the Auror had the potential to be a valuable resource, and it was necessary
to use that resource. “I need to know what happened,” Draco said to the Auror, concentrating on
enunciating his words as clearly as he was capable of. “Tell me. Please.” He paused, narrowing his
eyes as he contemplated the Auror. “Perhaps whatever you can tell me will help me remember.”

The Auror considered him for a moment, frowning.

“Whose body was found?” Draco asked.

“Draco, you don’t need to worry about that.” The man - Ted - placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder
again. It was oddly comforting.

“If you know who I am, you know exactly why I do need to worry about that,” Draco replied,
again concentrating on speaking slowly, making sure his tongue rolled perfectly around every
syllable.

Ted’s brilliant honey-brown eyes narrowed at Draco. Then, amazingly, he redirected that
hypnotizing stare up at the Auror. “Well, Adise?” he asked sharply. “Want to try and jog Draco’s
memory?”

The Auror glanced back and forth between the two of them before letting out an exhausted sigh.
“All we know as of now is that the body they found was wearing a Death Eater robe... and has the
Dark Mark on his left arm,” he said to Draco. “I have no idea what you all did, but you four have
come out of this better than any Death Eater attack we’ve had to deal with so far.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the words.

Death Eaters.
 He wasn’t entirely sure why he was shocked. Perhaps Mrs. Zabini’s reputation for creative curses
and brilliant, undetectable dark arts had lulled him into a sense of complacency. Her hexes were
unparalleled, and her warding should have been unbreakable.

But really - after what he’d done, he should have been expecting something like this.

Draco raised his arm and with more strength than he realized he had, he forced Ted’s hand off of
his shoulder. He then braced his elbows underneath him and, with a considerable amount of effort,
he pushed himself upwards. It was certainly more of a struggle than he was used to, but with a
combination of exertion and resolution, he managed to sit himself mostly upright. His vision swam
in front of him, but he was patient and the picture in his view slowly settled.

Directly in front of him was a slightly familiar alder tree that was old and gnarled, yet still
marginally familiar and completely untouched. That tree was the first thing that Draco had noticed
when they had come to stay with the Zabinis.' Behind the tree, there should have been a house. He
expected to see the house he had been living in for two weeks, but he did not see a house.

Instead, Draco’s eyes found nothing but a mountain of rubble.

The Zabini home had been thoroughly and completely destroyed. No wonder Blaise was furious.

Before Draco could even assess where Blaise was, his vision doubled, then blurred beyond
comprehension.

With a nauseating lurch and a faraway echo of Ted’s shout, Draco fell back into unconsciousness.

Chapter End Notes

That endless repetition of phrases at the beginning of the chapter is directly drawn
from my own experience of a head injury that I inflicted 25-ish years ago through far
less dramatic means. (I literally ran into a fucking door.) The experience has stayed
with me for a lifetime. So... hope you all enjoyed my version of a concussion.

Told ya that this chapter wouldn't take as long. ;)

 amygdala-hypothalamus-periaqueductal gray
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

Hoping two short chapters in semi-quick succession make up for them being... err...
short.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

After an awkward and somewhat hilarious meeting between Mr. Weasley and her parents,
Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place early in the morning to a cacophony of screaming and
shouting.

When she and Mr. Weasley walked into the entrance, they were met with Walburga Black’s
painting spewing her usual obnoxious and loud bigotry while Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were
desperately trying to shut the curtains over her.

“Filth! Disgusting Mudbloods and blood traitors desecrating our noble house!”

Walburga was making Hermione’s ears hurt, which is why it was all the more impressive that they
could somehow still hear echoes of angry bellowing coming from elsewhere in the house.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” Mr. Weasley asked, covering his ears.

“Harry is rather upset,” Mrs. Weasley said distractedly. “From what I could gather, some of his
Slytherin friends were... hurt.”

“And he woke up Walburga,” Ginny added as she tugged on one of the curtains in vain.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She could clearly remember how Harry had reacted to Malfoy being in
danger when they were at the Ministry; there was no telling how furious he would be if Malfoy
had been hurt again.

She quickly followed the sound of Harry’s voice through the halls. As she drew closer to the
dining room Harry’s voice became clearer, and Mrs. Weasley had certainly been correct. To say
that Harry sounded angry would be putting it mildly; he sounded completely enraged.

“So is that it? You’re fine with me, but not them?!” Harry shouted.

A familiar voice responded, though Hermione couldn’t make out the words. Dumbledore.

She made her way into the dining room and found a scene that almost seemed surreal. Harry and
Dumbledore stood across from one another, with Tonks directly in front of Harry. He was clearly
trying to push forward, but Tonks had one arm braced across Harry’s chest, his shirt clutched in her
fist. In her other hand she was holding a wand away from Harry. Hermione was startled when she
recognized it as Harry’s wand.

The expression on Harry’s face was scarily familiar. It was twisted in fury just as it had been at the
Ministry when Bellatrix Lestrange had threatened Malfoy. That expression on Harry’s normally
gentle features was just as terrifying now as it was then.

If Hermione had to be completely honest with herself, Harry looked like he wanted to murder
Dumbledore.

Tonks taking Harry’s wand and physically holding him back suddenly made much more sense.

“You’re leaving them out there to die!” Harry roared over Tonks’s shoulder. “You’re knowingly
leaving them to get attacked again!”

Tonks seemed to be using a significant amount of her strength to hold him back. Her feet slid back
on the floor and she leaned forward to brace herself against his force. “Harry, please -”

“Shut up.” Harry’s infuriated eyes turned on Tonks, and Hermione found her hand drifting up to
cover her mouth in horror. How there be so much unadulterated rage in his voice? And how could
Harry have so much malice when speaking to Tonks, of all people?

“You won’t even let me visit him,” Harry continued, each word sounding like a dagger.

“I told you, Harry - St. Mungo’s isn’t allowing any visitors for patients that aren’t long-term,”
Tonks said desperately. “It’s part of their new security due to all the attacks. I can’t get you in
there, no matter how much I want to.”

“Piss off.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, his voice so soft in comparison to Harry’s that it was startling, “I am
not unsympathetic to how upsetting this is -”

“‘Upsetting?!’” Harry nearly screamed. “They were attacked by Death Eaters! Everyone else who
has been attacked this summer has died, and you -”

“Harry, what would you have me do?” Dumbledore said, his voice rising, though Hermione
thought it was more to be heard over Harry’s bellowing rather than growing angry. “I cannot bring
them here as you are asking -”

“Why not?” Harry snarled. “Because they’re dark?”

“Harry -”

“Only useful dark wizards can be in headquarters, is that it?!” Harry continued. “In other words,
you’re only pretending to be okay with what I am just because of that stupid prophecy - because
you need me!”

Hermione smothered a gasp. Did that mean Harry knew what that prophecy was, after all?

“That isn’t the reason, Harry,” Dumbledore said tiredly. “It is because it would be… unwise to
allow people with such close ties to Voldemort into the one safe place for the only true resistance
against him.”

“Death Eaters just tried to kill them!” Harry said, his voice finally dropping to something
resembling a normal conversational tone, though his anger was still almost palpable. “Voldemort’s
followers tried to kill them because Draco and Blaise came with me to the Ministry!”

“Be that as it -”

“Let me finish.”

The chill in Harry’s voice was enough to send a shiver down Hermione’s spine. She thought she
might have preferred him shouting.

“You told me that it was your fault that I felt I had to go to the Ministry at all,” Harry said,
“because you hadn’t been honest with me.”

Dumbledore sighed, and Hermione blinked. Now that she was truly looking at him, she realized
that Dumbledore looked - and sounded - utterly exhausted.

“If you had just… told me the truth from the beginning, they wouldn’t be in St. Mungo’s right
now,” Harry hissed. “Death Eaters attacked them because Draco and Blaise chose to do what they
thought was the right thing, and you… you’re punishing them for it.”

Hermione thought that Harry’s assessment wasn’t quite correct; from her perspective, she was
fairly sure that they’d only gone with Harry to ensure that he wasn’t killed. While she certainly
didn’t fault them for wanting to protect their friend, she wouldn’t go so far as to paint those two as
the upstanding moral students in the way that Harry seemed to be portraying them.

She didn’t dare say so out loud, though. It seemed no one in the room had noticed her yet, and that
certainly wasn’t the way she wanted to announce her presence.

“Harry, Misters Malfoy and Zabini may have fought at your side in the Ministry,” Dumbledore
said, “but their mothers did not. I would not expect them to -”

“If you leave my friends - and their mothers - out there to die,” Harry bit out, “I will not be working
with you at all.” His tone was frigid. “You can work out your stupid prophecy all on your own.”

Dumbledore was silent for a few long, tense moments before he responded. “Is everything a
bargain to you now, Harry? First bringing you here, and now bringing your friends here...” he said.
“It seems you are truly embracing your Slytherin side as of late.”

The smile that spread over Harry’s lips was almost cruel. “Glad you think so.” Then he scowled.
“But I think the fact that you think that I’m bargaining for my friends’ lives says more about you
than me.”

Dumbledore peered at Harry over the rim of his glasses. “I can promise you that I will look for a
way to keep your friends safe,” he said.

“You will bring them here,” Harry insisted nastily. “Figure it out.”

He immediately redirected his burning gaze on Tonks, who was still holding him fast. “Give me
back my wand, Tonks,” he said. “I won’t attack him. I promise.”

Tonks didn’t move at first, instead appearing to search Harry’s face. After a moment, she turned
her head to the side, her eyes still glued to Harry’s. “Headmaster, I’m going to give Harry back his
wand,” she said over her shoulder. “You should leave.”

Dumbledore inclined his head in a solemn nod. “I will,” he said. “It is clear that Harry and I will
not come to an understanding today.”
Releasing Harry and spinning on her heel to face Dumbledore, Tonks said, “And just for the
record, I think Harry’s right.”

Hermione and Harry both stared at Tonks with startled, wide eyes.

“They’ll be safe at St. Mungo’s, but they can’t stay there all summer,” she continued. “Either set
up another Fidelius... or bring them here.” She shook her head. “It’s not right to just leave them out
there.”

Dumbledore appeared just as stunned as Harry and Hermione, but he seemed to recover much
faster. “I will consider every option,” he said.

And then he left without so much as a ‘goodbye.’ He didn’t even acknowledge Hermione as he
passed her. Hermione didn’t think she’d ever seen the headmaster act so… disturbed? Distracted?

Tonks let out a sigh before rounding back on Harry. “What were you even thinking - pulling your
wand on Dumbledore?” she snapped, shoving said wand into Harry’s chest. “Are you insane?”

Harry fumbled clumsily to grasp his wand, and the chagrined look on his face was a stark
difference to the rage that had been there only moments earlier. “It’s not like I would have actually
been able to do anything to him,” he said sheepishly.

“But pulling a stunt like that isn’t exactly going to endear you to him,” Tonks said, scowling. “My
mother already warned you - don’t make an enemy out of Dumbledore. Wotcher, Hermione.”

Harry’s head swiveled around the room, his eyes widening when he spotted Hermione in the
doorway. “Hermione!” he exclaimed. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” Hermione said. “I only heard some of what you had to say. What happened?”

“Death Eaters attacked Mrs. Zabini’s home, which is where Draco and his mother were staying,”
Harry said. “The Zabini house was completely destroyed.”

Before Hermione could let out a gasp, Tonks continued where Harry had left off. “But we’re pretty
sure that her house being blown up was due to whatever Mrs. Zabini did to fend them off. She took
out two Death Eaters in the process.” She gave Harry a pointed look. “And your friends and their
mums are okay, Harry. They’ll be fine. Mrs. Zabini is the only one that’s in semi-bad shape, and
that’s mainly because whatever dark arts she used took a lot out of her.”

“When did this happen?” Hermione asked.

“Just last night,” Tonks replied. “The only reason we found out as soon as we did is because my
dad was one of the Mediwizards that was called to the scene.”

“Are you sure they’ll be safe at St. Mungo’s?” Harry asked Tonks.

Tonks nodded. “They’ve upped their security in a big way this summer,” she said. “Right now it’s
probably only third to Hogwarts and Gringotts.”

“How long do you think they’ll be there?” Harry asked. “How much time do I have to convince
Dumbledore that they need to go somewhere safe?” He shook his head, pocketing his wand. “I
mean… it’s not like Voldemort is just gonna give up, right?”

“I don’t know how you’re gonna convince him, Harry,” Tonks said, sighing. “I mean - at the most
we could get a ‘maybe’ with the Zabinis since they don’t have any known ties to You-Know-Who,
but… Mrs. Malfoy is married to a confirmed Death Eater.”

“And Draco is the son of a Death Eater,” Harry said. “But I would think that the Death Eaters
attacking them is a pretty good sign that they’re not... allies anymore.”

“Yeah,” Tonks said. “Look, Harry - I’ll try to convince him, but I really don’t know how far I’ll
get.”

“What if… what if I found a way to guarantee that they wouldn’t hurt or betray the Order?” Harry
asked. “A magical oath or something?”

“Maybe,” Tonks said, but she appeared doubtful. “I have to go; I’m already late for work.” She
narrowed her eyes at Harry. “If Dumbledore shows back up, do not attempt to murder him, okay?
That’s not gonna do you any favors.”

Harry scowled. “I’ll try.”

Tonks reached out and poked Harry in the chest hard enough to make Harry wince. “You will do
more than try,” she said pointedly. “I know you have issues with him - for understandable reasons -
but I still like him. And whether you like it or not, we need him if we’re gonna get through this.”

Harry nodded, his shoulders drooping. “Thanks… for letting me know what happened.”

“You’re welcome,” Tonks said crossly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

With a pat on Hermione’s shoulder, she was gone, leaving Harry and Hermione staring at each
other.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Harry said quietly.

“I only convinced my parents yesterday evening, and I sent an owl last night,” Hermione replied.
“Mr. Weasley came and picked me up this morning.”

“I’m surprised you wanted to leave your parents’ place so soon.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Well, since we couldn’t talk on the phone anymore…” There was no
way she was going the rest of the summer without continuing their discussions, and she was certain
that asking questions about the dark arts in letters wouldn’t have been a good idea for either of
them.

Harry seemed to study her for a long moment before he crossed the dining room, grasped her wrist,
and immediately began pulling her through the hallways of Grimmauld Place.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.

“I wanna check something,” Harry said cryptically. They reached the stairs, and Harry continued
tugging her up behind him.

“You can let me go,” Hermione said, trying to wrench her wrist out of Harry’s grasp. “You’re
going to make me trip. I can follow you.”

Harry dropped her arm and he continued up the stairs, Hermione at his heels.

“Where’s Ron?” she asked the back of Harry’s head.

“Still asleep,” Harry said without turning around.

 “He slept through all that?” Hermione asked in disbelief before thinking better of it, shaking her
head. “Well.. I suppose he could sleep through a parade of erumpents...” She trailed off, wondering
if she shouldn’t have mentioned Ron; after all, Harry wasn’t on the best of terms with him.

But to her surprise, Harry snorted out an amused laugh. “Yeah.”

The continued scaling the stairs, and Hermione soon realized exactly where Harry was leading her.

Sure enough, they reached the top floor, and Harry slid behind Hermione, gently pushing her
towards a familiar door that she’d spent some significant time trying to open the previous summer.
She peered over her shoulder at Harry in confusion.

“Try opening it,” Harry said.

Hermione let out a sigh and turned her gaze back to the door. “I don’t see why -” She stopped,
staring at the door in curiosity. There was something strange about the door, and it didn’t take any
further urging from Harry for her to reach out and try the knob.

With a turn of her wrist, the door clicked open.

Hermione let out a gasp as she caught a glimpse of piles and piles of books. It had to be the library
Harry had told her about.

“I knew it.”

She again looked back over her shoulder at Harry’s quiet comment.

Harry beamed back at her, his lips curled into a wicked grin.

Chapter End Notes

We'll be back to the usual chapter length in the next one.

Tried to tell y'all that the style would change a bit. ;)

 Living By the Right Lines
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

After keeping so many secrets throughout his fifth year, Harry had thought he was done feeling
guilty. He was no longer playing henchman to a terrible person and he was through hiding his
interest in the dark arts. He should have moved past lying and he should have been done feeling
rotten over his actions.

Apparently, he wasn’t.

At the front of his mind were Draco and Blaise, along with their mothers, who were all in St.
Mungo’s. Despite what he’d said to Dumbledore in anger, Harry knew it was entirely his fault. If
Draco and Blaise hadn’t accompanied him to the Ministry, they would never have been attacked by
Death Eaters.

They weren’t the only casualty of the trip to the Ministry: Sirius was still locked up. Harry had
gone there with the intention of saving Sirius, and instead, he’d put him back in shackles.

Harry was completely helpless to do anything about either of those things. He couldn’t do anything
about Draco and Blaise’s safety unless Dumbledore agreed, and he had to wait until he heard from
Andromeda or Tonks about what was going on with Sirius’s trial.

He threw himself into the few distractions he had in front of him. Unfortunately, some of those
distractions only brought him more guilt, but at least with most of the other situations, he didn’t
feel like his hands were tied.

He located the spell he’d used on Rasmus Nott, copied down the relevant page word for word, and
sent it off to St. Mungo’s. When he’d come across the book the previous summer, he’d only
skimmed it for potentially useful spells. After re-reading the specifics of the curse, he was
beginning to doubt they could actually do anything to help him; it seemed that the debilitating
after-effects of the curse could be blamed on Nott’s own actions. If he hadn’t been so vicious
throughout his life, the curse wouldn’t have had such a great effect on him.

Still, Harry had to try to fix it, if only for Theo.

After he’d sent the information to St. Mungo’s, he decided to read the book thoroughly to see if he
could find any further answers. It was a book dedicated to ‘soul magicks,’ something that he’d
mostly only seen referenced in passing. It was an older book, chock full of outdated language,
which made it slightly more difficult to read.

At least, the archaic language was the excuse he tried to give himself as an explanation for having
problems in fully comprehending the book, but he knew the cause lay elsewhere.
There was a giant distraction in the library, and her name was Hermione.

While Harry was thrilled with Hermione’s company in Grimmauld’s library, he supposed he’d
forgotten the way Hermione could get when it came to books and knowledge. She almost
continuously peppered him with questions, most of which he did not have the answers to. He
always answered what he could, and sometimes he would help her look for an answer if he at least
had an idea of what kind of book to look for.

Satisfying Hermione’s curiosity was, unfortunately, cutting into his own time he wanted to spend
studying.

Thankfully, Hermione’s initial flood of questions had abated a bit, but the more time they spent
together in the library, he found himself adding yet another thing to the growing list of reasons
why he felt guilty.

He had initially been positively gleeful when Hermione had opened the door to the library, but he
still hadn’t told her what that actually meant. The only thing he’d mentioned was that the library
must have grown to trust her - that Hermione’s mind being more open to the dark arts meant that
the library no longer felt like it had to hide itself from her.

He still hadn’t mentioned that her ability to enter the library also meant that she almost certainly
had an affinity for the dark.

Harry tried to rationalize his not telling her by reminding himself that Sirius hadn’t told him, either.
Sirius had found Harry in the library surrounded by books on the dark arts, and he had mentioned
nothing about the possibility of Harry having a dark affinity. That revelation had been left to his
roommates. Despite informing her of the isolation ward in the library, Hermione hadn’t asked to
try any spells yet, and Harry hadn’t offered to show her.

But after hiding his use of the dark arts from her for an entire school year, Harry still knew he
shouldn’t be keeping something so monumental from her.

He knew he had to tell her. He just had to figure out how. He laid on his stomach on the floor of the
library, staring sightlessly at the old dark arts book in front of him, and he ran through possible
ways to bring up her likely dark affinity in conversation.

“You said you had a book on blood magic, right?”

Harry glanced up to spy Hermione with a book on her lap and three others spread out in front of
her. “It’s in my trunk,” he said hesitantly. He was unusually attached to that specific book; it was,
after all, the final piece of the puzzle that was his mother’s dark affinity. It was the book that
outlined the Primum Cor - the blood sacrifice that his mother had used to save his life and defeat
Voldemort.

“Does it have anything that covers the characteristics of different blood spells?” Hermione asked.

“How do you mean?”

Hermione gestured at her spread of books. “It seems like blood magic is actually a rather large
family of different kinds of spells, and I’m seeing a pattern with characteristics of these spells. Do
you know if there is a book that lays out all of those characteristics?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’m not following.”

“Well… for example, the blood spell that Malfoy used in the Ministry - I remember you two and
Zabini talking about it,” she said. “You referred to the spell as familial and sacrificial. A familial
blood spell is one that is targeting those of the same blood used in the spell, whether it’s for hostile
or protective purposes. A sacrificial spell is one where the injuries must remain for the spell to
continue being active.”

Harry nodded, sitting up. “You’re kind of right, but not all sacrificial blood spells are like that.
Some sacrificial spells are meant to be healed naturally in order for the rite to take effect. I know
there’s one that’s a fertility rite, which dark witches have used in order to help them have a child
when they’re having problems… er… getting pregnant.”

“That’s interesting,” Hermione said. ”So it seems as if there could be… sub-categories to
sacrificial spells, just like it seems there are sub-categories to blood warding.” She pointed at one
of the books in front of her. “This book covers warding, whether it's fixed or mutable.” She pointed
at another book. “And this one mentions blood oaths, which can be binding or bonding.”

Before Harry could respond, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Harry froze. The only two people currently staying in Grimmauld Place who could get into the
library should have been himself and Hermione. And if it was someone like Mrs. Weasley, who
had made her feelings on the dark arts quite clear…

“Harry? Hermione?” Ron’s muffled voice sounded through the door. “Are you guys in there?”

Harry leaped to his feet and wrenched the door open. “How… how did you know where we were?”
he asked.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Saw you coming down the stairs a few times last year, and there’s nothing
else up here,” he said. “It’s not that hard to figure out.” He shrugged. “But I can’t figure out how
you got in; I still can’t get the door to budge.”

A rush of relief swept through Harry.

Ron peered past Harry into the library and frowned. “It looks… creepy in there,” he said,
wrinkling his nose.

Harry glanced over his shoulder in confusion. “I don’t think it’s creepy,” he said. It just looked like
a library.

“Well, it is,” Ron replied. “Anyway, figured Hermione might like to know… O.W.L. results are
here.”

“They are?” Hermione said with a gasp, springing to her feet. “Oh, my goodness!” She bolted past
Harry and Ron and practically flew down the hallway before disappearing down the stairs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her run that fast,” Harry quipped.

Ron laughed. Harry grinned at him, if for no other reason than it felt good to laugh with Ron again.

Again looking past Harry’s shoulder, Ron frowned at the piles of books he saw stacked up around
the small library. “That’s all… dark arts stuff, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Uh… yeah,” Harry said hesitantly.

“Makes my skin crawl just looking at it for some reason,” Ron said, turning to lean up against the
door, almost as if to prevent himself from looking into the library. “How do you stand holing
yourself up in here all the time?”

Harry studied Ron for a moment. Harry had almost been irresistibly drawn to the library. The
library was steeped in dark magic, more than anywhere else in Grimmauld Place. Merely being in
the library brought Harry a sense of comfort. “I like it here,” Harry said.

“You aren’t… getting Hermione into the dark arts, are you?” Ron asked quietly, and Harry’s
hackles immediately rose. “I mean… it’s her business, but…”

“You’re right - it is her business,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes.

Ron shook his head. “I didn’t mean…” He swallowed. “Sorry.”

Harry sighed. “It’s fine,” Harry said. He knew Ron wouldn’t get over his dark arts aversion
overnight, despite apparently being sort of okay with Harry being a dark wizard. “And for whatever
it’s worth - Hermione is asking to know more.” He gave Ron a wry grin. “I think she’s taken
offense to my knowing more about something than she does.”

Ron just stared at him.

“What?” Harry asked, once again bracing himself..

“‘Taken offense to?’” Ron said flatly before shaking his head. “Mate, you talk weird sometimes
these days.”

“Yeah, Hermione said as much,” Harry said, smiling. As he stepped out of the library and shut the
door, he wondered how long it would take before he wasn’t constantly on guard around Ron.

“Let’s go see how we did,” Ron said, turning down the hallway. “I didn’t open mine yet.”

“Wait,” Harry said, reaching out to grab Ron’s arm.

Ron paused, looking back at Harry in confusion.

“Can you do me a favor?” Harry asked, swallowing nervously. “Can you… not mention this room
to anyone… like your parents?” He paused. “Especially your mum.”

Ron shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “She’d probably try to burn it down.” At Harry’s look of horror, he
lightly pushed Harry on the shoulder. “I won’t tell them, Harry.”

***

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy A
Care of Magical Creatures E
Charms E
Defense Against the Dark Arts O
Divination P
Herbology E
History of Magic D
Potions O
Transfiguration E
Harry had already read through the parchment several times. Most of it was as expected; he’d
known he would fail Divination, and he’d collapsed part way through the History of Magic exam.
He’d also been confident that he had earned an ‘Outstanding’ in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

But he was still fairly sure he had to be imagining what he was reading. Maybe it was a mistake?
Did the O.W.L. examiners make mistakes?

“I got seven! ” he heard Ron saying, but Harry still couldn’t tear his eyes away from his own
grades. “Harry, how about you?”

“Uh… seven, as well,” Harry said.

“Well done, both of you!” Mrs. Weasley said, though her joviality certainly sounded forced. She’d
been trying to be polite around Harry, but every one of her words and actions towards Harry
seemed cold. Harry ignored it.

Ron peered over Harry’s shoulder. “Knew you’d top Dark Arts,” Ron said.

“Excuse me?!”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mum,” Ron said. “Sorry,” he murmured at Harry.

“S’fine,” Harry mumbled, still staring at the parchment.

“Well, we both did all right, so - you got an ‘O’ in Potions?!” Ron suddenly exclaimed. Harry
winced; Ron had shouted right into his ear. "Are you serious - Potions?!"

“Trust me, I’m just as shocked as you,” Harry said dryly. “I was pretty sure I’d done well, but…”
He finally looked up, shooting a maniacal grin at Ron. “Oh, Snape is gonna have conniptions at
this,” he said, laughing.

Harry knew he probably couldn't have achieved an 'Outstanding' in Potions without the tutoring
he’d received throughout fifth year. He would have to thoroughly thank Draco.

“Hermione?” Ginny asked. “How’d you do?” Harry realized that Hermione hadn’t said anything
yet.

“I... not bad,” Hermione said.

“Oh, come off it,” Ron said, wandering around to look over Hermione’s shoulder. “Yep, ten
O.W.L.s - nine ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds’ in Defense.” He snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re
disappointed.”

Hermione shook her head, and Harry grinned.

“Oh, Harry, I forgot - you got another letter,” Ginny said, pointing to another folded piece of
parchment on the table.

“Huh?” Harry picked up the parchment and turned it over. His eyes widened when he spotted the
handwriting. It was familiar, but he’d never seen it in a letter.

It was from Blaise. If Blaise was writing to him and Draco wasn’t…

With his heart suddenly caught in his throat, Harry immediately flipped the parchment open.

Harry,
 I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry: Draco is fine. We’re all okay. Most of
us can leave St. Mungo's within the next day, although my mother will have to stay for
at least another week or so.

Speaking of, I’m actually writing to you at the request of my mother. I know for a fact
that you won’t know what some of this means, but my mother wants me to do it
anyway.

I, Blaise Zabini, am invoking Ius Praesidium with Harry Potter in return for my
unrequested and wilful aid at the Battle of the Ministry. As compensation, I request
immediate and complete protection for myself, Jeyne Zabini, Draco Malfoy, and
Narcissa Malfoy.

With respect to prior conflicts between present and former allies, all four of us are
willing to commit to an Oath of Corsri.

As tithe to a continued alliance, Narcissa Malfoy is offering all information she has on
the Dark Lord. This information may also be shared with or delivered directly to any
and all allies of Harry Potter, so long as the information is not used to endanger any
person under the Ius Praesidium.

Harry knew his eyes had to be as wide as saucers by that point.

In other words, I - on my mother’s behalf, I remind you - have invoked a rite that’s
older than Merlin and more obscure than Draco’s tact. In return for fighting at your
side when you didn’t request it of me, it is an ancient tradition for you to offer
protection to anyone who has become a target due to my actions.

Basically - it’s your fault we’re all in this mess, and you are now expected to get us out
of it.

May I remind you just one more time that my mother is forcing me to write this?
Thanks.

We are all willing to take a Corsri Oath. This is so common that you may have even
heard of it. It’s a binding oath, and I’m absolutely certain you’ll be able to find it
somewhere. You’re a smart boy.

And yes, you really did read that right: Mrs. Malfoy is willing to offer whatever
information she has on the Dark Lord. She admits that she wasn’t a Death Eater so
what she knows is limited, but it’s the only payment we have that anyone in your camp
would be interested in.

Use whatever means are necessary, Harry. We have nowhere else to go.

Hopefully, we’ll see you soon.

Blaise

“Harry, your face just went through about twelve different emotions in the last ten seconds,” Ginny
said.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry quickly stuffed the letter in his pocket. “I’m good,” he said with a glance around the room.
He didn’t want to mention anything having to do with ancient dark traditions or oaths with Mrs.
Weasley anywhere within hearing distance. “Excuse me,” he added quietly before leaving the
room.

When he hit the stairs, he took them two at a time. He stopped in his room and nearly upended his
trunk looking for a very specific, precious book - Blood Magic: Rites, Rituals, Sacraments, and
Sacrifices. He pulled it out and immediately threw it down on his bed.

As Hermione had just informed him less than twenty minutes earlier, a binding oath was a type of
blood oath.

With a grin on his lips, he flipped the book open. Hermione had been studying the dark arts for all
of two days, and she was already helping him grasp things better than he had before.

He found the Corsri Oath with little trouble; it was the very first entry in the chapter on sacraments.
It was one of the simplest blood spells Harry had ever come across.

The hard part would be getting Dumbledore on board.

***

That night, Harry found himself in the library long after Hermione had gone to bed, books spread
out on the desk in front of him. Amazingly, he’d found the exact two books he’d been looking for.

The first was another book on blood magic that also contained the Corsri Oath, meaning that he
wouldn’t have to show his other book to Dumbledore and risk him taking it away.

In another book, he’d also located a full explanation of the ‘old’ and ‘obscure’ Ius Praesidium that
Blaise had invoked on Harry. From what he could tell, there was nothing magical tied to it at all. It
seemed like it was merely an old tradition in the dark community, much like the tradition of not
offering food or drink to strangers.

When Harry’s life had been at risk, Blaise had come to Harry’s aid without Harry having to ask for
it. According to the Ius Praesidium, that meant Blaise could ask for Harry to protect him from any
consequences directly related to Blaise aiding him.

And perhaps most importantly, nothing terrible would happen to Harry if he couldn’t hold up his
end of the deal.

Even so, Harry still wanted to respect it. He’d already been racking his brain for ways to bring
them to safety, preferably by having them come to Grimmauld Place. However, he now found that
he also felt the need to prove to Jeyne Zabini that he was a true dark wizard - one that respected and
upheld the ancient traditions of the dark.

He quietly closed the book and leaned back in his chair with a sigh, pulling out the now crumpled
letter from Blaise to study it once more.

Despite his insistence that Blaise had only written it because his mother forced him to, Blaise had
still obviously put a lot of thought into crafting the letter. He’d taken care to not mention the dark
arts by name, only referring to the Ius Praesidium as a ‘tradition’ instead of a dark tradition, and
even calling the Corsri a ‘binding’ oath rather than a blood oath.

Harry’s lips quirked. You’re a smart boy. While Blaise was familiar with Harry’s collection of
books and likely knew that his blood magic book would contain the Corsi, it seemed he hadn’t
been sure that Harry would connect ‘binding’ to ‘blood.’ He supposed that was Blaise’s way of
telling him to read between the lines without directly mentioning that Harry had a book on blood
magic.

The offer from Mrs. Malfoy was another area where Harry could read between the lines: Narcissa
Malfoy was willing to give information to Dumbledore in exchange for their safety. He imagined
they likely knew some of the plight Harry was in - he had to work with Dumbledore in order to
offer them protection.

A promise of information on Voldemort could potentially sway Dumbledore his way. It was
certainly more than Harry had in his pocket before.

He was beginning to deeply regret having pulled his wand on Dumbledore. His foul temper had
gotten the best of him again, and although Dumbledore had been an easy target it likely wouldn’t
do him any favors when it came to convincing the headmaster that his friends could be trusted.

No matter how much he didn't want to, Harry would have to apologize.

His eyes traced a line towards the end of the letter. Use whatever means are necessary.

With a sigh, he stuffed the letter back in his pocket and pulled the book on soul magicks towards
him. Despite the late hour, he wasn’t the least bit tired. Perhaps without Hermione’s constant
questions, he’d be able to focus enough to slog through the old English.

***

“Harry?”

Something gently poked him in the shoulder once and then poked harder when Harry didn’t
immediately respond.

“Huh?” Harry’s eyes opened to slits, then widened. He spied Hermione in front of him, but she
was... sideways?

“You were up here all night?” she asked.

Harry blinked a few times before raising his head off of the desk. His glasses were crooked, and
there was a terrible, foul taste in his mouth. “Gross,” he mumbled.

At least he hadn’t drooled on the books.

“Uh… good morning,” Harry said, his voice scratchy with sleep. He straightened out his glasses
and ran a hand through his hair. “It is morning, right?”

“It is,” Hermione said, sounding amused, but then a stern look appeared on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“You have visitors downstairs,” she said. “Andromeda… and Dumbledore - they’re both waiting to
see you.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, springing to his feet.

“Andromeda had only been here for a few minutes when Dumbledore arrived,” Hermione said.
“She mentioned wanting to speak with you, me, and Ron about possibly providing testimony at
Sirius’s trial.”
“Good. Great,” Harry said. “And Dumbledore?”

Hermione pursed her lips before responding. “He just said he hoped that you would be more…
amenable to a rational conversation now.”

Harry groaned, reaching under his glasses to rub at his eyes. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“To be fair,” Hermione said, “you were fairly irrational the last time you spoke to him.”

“Ugh,” Harry said, then glanced down at his clothes. Even though he’d only slept in a chair and not
a bed, his clothes were still rumpled and wrinkled. “You think I have time to change?”

“Possibly, but they’d already been waiting quite a while before anyone went looking for you,”
Hermione said. “And then it was only after knocking on your door for ten minutes that we realized
you weren’t in there.”

“Fuck.” Harry scooped up the book on blood magic - The Art of Blood - the one he wasn’t attached
to - and immediately headed for the door.

“At least brush your teeth,” Hermione called after him as he wrenched the door open.

Harry swore again.

***

“I prefer using a good Purus instead of Lavate,” he heard Andromeda say as Harry approached the
dining room, the thick book tucked under his arm. “It keeps the colors from fading or running.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Weasley said as he stepped through the door. “I’ve really only used that on
linens, and - oh... Harry.” Her tone had been warm and inviting when speaking with Andromeda
and it instantly disappeared when she spied Harry.

Andromeda’s gaze was nearly as disdainful as Mrs. Weasley’s, but it was obviously for a different
reason. “Speaking of clothes washing,” she said, “why does it appear that you washed your clothes
while you were still wearing them, Harry?”

Harry grimaced. “I… er… fell asleep reading last night,” he said sheepishly.

Andromeda let out a put-upon sigh before drawing her wand and flicking it in Harry’s direction.
His rumpled clothes immediately fell straight down his body, looking as if they’d just been
pressed. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do,” she said as she whisked her wand away.

“Um… thank you,” Harry said quietly. He looked around the dining room, spying Mr. Weasley
planted next to Mrs. Weasley, and then spotted Dumbledore on the other side of the room.

He took a breath, steeling himself. “Hello, sir,” he said quietly.

Dumbledore inclined his head in greeting. “Good morning, Harry.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry said, and he was satisfied to see the faint look of surprise appear on
Dumbledore’s face. “I wanted to…. the other day, sir - I was completely out of line. I was very
worried about my friends, and I took it out on you.” He paused. “I want to offer my apologies.”

Dumbledore offered a smile that Harry supposed was meant to be comforting. “I believe I should
apologize, as well,” he said. “I know how much you care for your friends, and I believe my
reaction to the situation was far too… callous.”
Yes. Yes, it was. Harry held back what he wanted to say and instead funneled it into giving
Dumbledore a practiced smile.

“After considering it, I think I may be able to offer them a safehouse,” Dumbledore continued.

“With Fidelius?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore at least had a hint of regret on his face as he replied, “I cannot guarantee an immediate
Fidelius.”

“Then with all due respect, sir… they need to come here,” Harry said, concentrating on keeping his
voice calm and steady.

Dumbledore’s lips twitched as if he was trying not to frown. “Harry, this is Order headquarters.”

“But outside of Hogwarts, this is probably the safest place they could be. They have extra targets
on their backs right now. Death Eaters probably want them dead more than anyone else but you...
or me,” Harry said. “And I was researching magical oaths and -”

“No,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. “Magical oaths are not to be taken lightly. If it is
anything like the Unbreakable Vow, I will not allow anyone to commit to a vow that could cost
them their life.”

“I… have no idea what an unbreakable vow is,” Harry said. “But they already said all four of them
are willing to take a Corsri Oath.”

There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore responded. “Just as you don’t know what an
Unbreakable Vow is, I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with a… ‘Corsri’ Oath.”

Harry crossed the room, pulling out The Art of Blood and thumbing it open to the page he had
marked. He flipped the book around and held it out to Dumbledore. “The Oath of Corsri is a
binding blood oath that can be made between fully declared dark witches or wizards.”

“No!” Mrs. Weasley said sharply. “No dark arts!”

“Molly, please,” Mr. Weasley said, his voice quiet. “You promised you would try.”

Dumbledore stared down at the book Harry was offering for a few moments before he slowly
reached out to accept it.

It was then that Dumbledore’s right hand came into full view. It was withered and shriveled and
blackened, appearing far more dead than alive.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “What happened to your - are you okay?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “A tale for another day, Harry,” he replied as he raised the book to
inspect it. For a moment Harry was tempted to pursue it, but he realized he didn’t want to distract
Dumbledore from the topic at hand.

Harry gave him a minute to read through the oath, and he kept a close eye on Dumbledore’s
expression as his eyes traveled down the page. When he spotted what resembled concern
developing on Dumbledore’s face, Harry spoke up before Dumbledore could object.

“It’s a basic oath between a maker and a keeper,” he said. “I could serve as keeper, so -”

“Harry, no,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. “I cannot allow this.” He closed the book,
appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then offered it back to Harry.

Harry let out a strangled sound of protest as he took the book back. “But this is the perfect oath to
use in this situation,” he said. He turned and placed the book on the corner of the table before once
again flipping it open to his bookmark. He pointed at a line on the page with conviction. “See
here? It essentially disarms a maker who would break the oath, and I would know -”

“No,” Dumbledore repeated. “While I will accept that the dark arts are the first place you want to
turn, Harry, you are still underage. I cannot in good conscience allow you to perform an unstudied
act of magic.”

“But I’ve studied it plenty! I know what it does!” Harry protested. Behind him, he heard one of the
chairs scrape across the floor, followed by footsteps. “And you keep implying that you’re going to
keep an open mind -”

“Harry, I do not wish to see you hurt,” Dumbledore said insistently. “I know that you may not see it
that way, but -”

Andromeda’s voice suddenly cut him off. “If you are concerned about Harry taking up the role of
the oath keeper merely because he is underage, might I offer to take his place?” Out of the corner
of Harry’s eye, he could see Andromeda peering over his shoulder at the book, her eyes flitting
back and forth as she looked over the relevant page.

Harry was suddenly aware of every eye in the room locking onto Andromeda instead of him. He
first felt a flood of gratitude, quickly followed by a wave of apprehension.

“But Harry said it had to be between dark…” Mrs. Weasley trailed off as her confusion
immediately melted into what appeared to be horrified understanding. “Oh. I see.” All of the
warmth that she had previously held towards Andromeda seemed to have completely dissipated.

“Are you...” Mr. Weasley said, his jaw dropped. “...are you saying that you’re a dark witch?”

Andromeda merely raised her head to meet his eyes, but somehow her presence in the dining room
seemed to grow, almost as if she had abruptly grown taller. “I am,” she said.

“I must admit - I have thought you were for quite some time, especially… recently,” Dumbledore
said quietly, “though I felt it would be impolite to assume.”

Andromeda’s piercing gaze drifted from Mr. Weasley over to Dumbledore. “In my case, it is not
necessarily impolite as I take no offense to it,” she said. “It is merely a fact.”

Dumbledore appeared to consider her words and then shook his head. “I confess that I am still
deeply uncomfortable with using unknown dark arts in order to guarantee the loyalty of -”

“It is not unknown,” Andromeda said, cutting Dumbledore off. “The Corsri is a commonly used
oath within the dark community.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I will point out that now you are
being impolite. Is it your belief that all dark witches and wizards are reckless and ignorant to
consequences? Or are you implying that I am not trustworthy?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “My apologies, Andromeda,” he said.

“Well, I think it says quite a lot about ‘trustworthiness’ when an oath to guarantee someone’s
loyalty is common among dark witches and wizards,” Mrs. Weasley said snidely. “Must be quite a
bit of backstabbing among -”
“Molly, please,” Mr. Weasley said, reaching out to grasp her hand. Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley
quieted, though she continued to glare at Andromeda with fire in her eyes.

Andromeda glanced at the Weasleys with a disinterested air before redirecting her focus on
Dumbledore. “Some may consider this oath kinder than the Unbreakable Vow, though it depends
on what one values,” she said. “It is tied to magic, not life. It is bound within the magic of both the
oath maker and the oath keeper. If the maker breaks their promise, their magic will begin to drain
from them, never to be recovered.” Her lips quirked upwards in something resembling a smile.
“And unlike the Unbreakable Vow, the keeper would know the moment the promise is broken.
This means we would have warning if they chose to betray us.”

“How does that work?” Mr. Weasley asked, and Harry felt a hint of relief at the fact that his voice
sounded more curious than horrified. “How does the… keeper know if they’ve been betrayed?”

“The dark would let the keeper know,” Andromeda replied.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said. “I have heard that dark witches and wizards can commune with the...
dark, in a way.”

“That is one way of putting it,” Andromeda said with an amused note, and Harry couldn’t help but
smile. Dumbledore’s description of speaking with the dark may have been accurate, but his words
barely scratched the surface of what it meant or what it felt like.

“Are you saying that dark magic will reach out to you?” Dumbledore asked. “Unlike when the rest
of us… call on magic, it seems that you are implying that dark magic could come to you
unbidden?”

“Only when we need it to,” Andromeda said. “The dark cares for and protects its children, but
neither does it coddle them.” Harry felt her hand wrap around his back and land on his shoulder.

The movement did not go unnoticed, and Dumbledore studied the pair of them for a moment. “Am
I correct in assuming that you are the mentor that Harry spoke of?” he asked.

Andromeda let out a laugh. “I suppose you could say I am a mentor of Harry’s, but in terms of the
mentor he likely referred to…” she said, smiling, “I am not.”

Dumbledore appeared startled at that.

“There are far more of us than you realize, Albus,” she said quietly. She held his gaze for a long
moment, then, releasing Harry, she reached down and slammed the book shut with a bang, making
almost everyone in the room jerk in surprise at the sudden crack piercing the tense silence.

“In any case, it is my opinion that an oath is unnecessary,” Andromeda continued. “You-Know-
Who’s forces just tried to end their lives, which should make it obvious that they are no longer in
his good graces.”

“I disagree with your first point,” Dumbledore said, “but I must say I do agree with your second.”

“Both of them have the potential to be valuable allies... if not your allies, then Harry’s.”

Harry looked up at her, astonished, but said nothing.

“I think we both can agree that Harry could use more allies in this world,” Andromeda continued.

“And you think Narcissa Malfoy could be an ally?” Mrs. Weasley practically spat the words.
“Mrs. Malfoy offered whatever information she has on Voldemort,” Harry said.

Dumbledore’s eyes widened. “Oh?” he said.

Harry nodded, then swallowed nervously. “She may have implied that it’s not a lot, seeing as she
was never a Death Eater herself, but…” It would likely backfire if Harry exaggerated how much
information Mrs. Malfoy could actually hand over to the Order.

“Well, that cinches it. I have to agree with Molly,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. “I don’t see how she
could be much help, Harry.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded. “And even if she isn’t a Death Eater, she is just as rotten as her Death Eater
husband -”

“With all due respect, Molly… mind your tongue,” Andromeda said in the harshest tone Harry had
ever heard come out of her. “Although our relationship is not what it once was, Narcissa is still my
sister. I’m sure many of you have forgotten that fact, but I never will.”

In truth, Harry had momentarily forgotten, and based on the expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face,
she had forgotten, as well.

“So I am admitting that there is some selfishness in what I am asking of you,” Andromeda said,
redirecting her attention to Dumbledore. “Will you or will you not offer them your protection?”

Dumbledore did not respond.

“My sister’s life is in danger, Albus,” Andromeda continued quietly, a note of desperation in her
voice. “If you will not bring them here, then I must beg you to assist with a Fidelius on some other
building - perhaps my own home, though getting Narcissa to agree to that...” She paused, taking a
breath with a shake of her head. “You said you couldn’t guarantee them a Fidelius. But... as
Fidelius is one of the ancient spells of the light, I am not capable of casting the charm.”

“The Fidelius takes quite some time,” Dumbledore said. “It would take a great deal of preparation
to set up a safehouse with one properly in place.”

“But they’re in danger now,” Harry said insistently.

Dumbledore again said nothing, and Andromeda appeared to grow frustrated. “You cannot claim
to be approaching those like Harry and I with an open mind and then not act on that promise.
‘Saying’ and ‘doing’ are not interchangeable,” she said. “I don’t think you realize just how much
your present approach to those like us is exactly what drives so many dark witches and wizards to
desperation.”

“While I do respect that Narcissa is your sister…” Dumbledore said. “I promised I would try to
approach the dark arts with an open mind, not that I would begin trusting a dark witch with known
recent ties to Voldemort. And as Mrs. Zabini’s allegiances are unknown -”

“She’s neutral,” Harry said, cutting him off. “You could say that she’s been a Voldemort
sympathizer, but she’s never officially aligned with either side.”

A faint look of surprise appeared on Dumbledore’s face. “Are you certain of that, Harry?” he
asked.

Harry nodded. “The Slytherins in my year wanted me to have the same information that they all
had. They let me know where all of their families are in terms of… political allegiances.” He was
blatantly breaking the covenant by revealing that sort of information, but as Blaise had already
given him blanket permission to do or say whatever was necessary to get them to safety, he was
fairly sure that his housemates would forgive him.

“If nothing else,” Harry continued, “if you really distrust them that much, at least you’d be able to
keep a better eye on them here, right?” He somehow resisted the urge to sneer, instead carefully
keeping his expression as neutral as he was capable of.

Dumbledore looked back and forth between Harry and Andromeda before letting out a sigh. “I
know you believe an oath is unnecessary, Andromeda, but how much confidence do you have in
this… Corsri?”

Andromeda smiled. “I am quite -”

“I will not!” Mrs. Weasley erupted, her face growing red. “My family will not live under the same
roof as them!”

Harry winced. She seemed to barely tolerate living under the same roof as Harry. He supposed he
couldn’t expect her to live with so many dark witches and wizards, no matter how much it hurt him
to admit.

“Molly -”

“No, Arthur!” Mrs. Weasley shoved herself out of her seat. Her face was growing red, but
amazingly, she was visibly attempting to calm herself.

“We should return to the Burrow,” she said, her voice tight. “I’ll be able to better prepare for the
wedding there, anyway.”

Wedding? Harry felt an odd pang in his gut. He was so out of the loop with the Weasleys that he
didn’t even know who was getting married.

“Molly, I’d like to discuss this with you privately,” Dumbledore said. “For now…” With a
reluctant sigh, he faced Harry and Andromeda again.

“You may make this oath, Andromeda,” Dumbledore said, “but only among adults. I would not
have children tying their… magic to any kind of oath.”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re serious?” he said. “You’ll let them come here?”

Dumbledore nodded, though he didn’t look pleased about it. Harry had to suppress a shout of
victory, but he couldn’t hold back the pleased grin that instantly appeared on his lips.

“Now then, Andromeda,” Dumbledore said, “walk me through this oath from beginning to end.”

Without bothering to hide her satisfied smirk, Andromeda began explaining the Oath of Corsri. As
Harry had already read through it a dozen times over, he began to tune them out and stared down at
The Art of Blood.

Blaise and Draco were coming to Grimmauld Place. He could scarcely believe it.

Andromeda’s voice seemed to fade to a drone, and a few somewhat unwelcome thoughts began to
form in the back of Harry’s mind.

How desperate was Dumbledore for Harry’s cooperation that he would actually agree to bring
 people with known ties to Death Eaters into Order headquarters? Did that mean Harry truly was the
only option for defeating Voldemort? And if that was true, exactly what was Harry going to be
expected to do?

But underneath that unpleasant train of thought, Harry was becoming cognizant of something that
was far more startling. He found himself a bit uncomfortable with the realization, as it was
something that he knew wouldn’t have even occurred to him a year ago.

He, with Andromeda’s help, had managed to get Dumbledore to agree to something that seemed
impossible.

He couldn’t help but wonder what else he could convince Dumbledore to do.

He, Harry Potter, had power over Albus Dumbledore.

And despite a part of him wanting to deny that the thought had even crossed his mind at all, Harry
already knew that it wouldn’t be the last time he would use it.

Chapter End Notes

I am presenting this chapter without comment.

Except for... yanno... that comment, where I tell you that I'm not making a comment.

Whoops.

But speaking of comments, yours are lovely and I cannot express how much I
appreciate them. <3
 Tourmaline
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

The main reason for the delay on this chapter was that I was immensely nervous about
it. This chapter went through some major upheavals before coming to you. Thank you
to S for soothing my nerves on it, and thank you to Green for the thoroughly helpful
beta read. <3

“My stomach hurts.”

Blaise had been twirling his wand all morning and he finally, thankfully paused to glance at Draco
out of the corner of his eye. “That’s the third time you’ve said so,” he said. “What do you expect
me to do about it?”

“I don’t know!” Draco replied. “I’m just…” He let out a noisy sigh instead of continuing.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you were hit with a Tinnipus or something,” he said, sounding
immensely uninterested.

Draco would have liked more sympathy than that, but he considered everything that Blaise had just
lost and merely shook his head. “It’s been like this for days,” he said. “It just feels much worse
now.”

He couldn’t pinpoint when it had actually started. It had been somewhat uncomfortable since well
before the attack on the Zabini home, but now it felt as if his stomach was attempting to digest
itself.

Something had to be seriously wrong with him.

“We may be shoved in a closet until your mother is released, but we are still in a hospital,” Blaise
said, rolling his eyes. “Ask a Healer. Maybe they’ll readmit you and we won’t wind up tossed out
on the street, after all.”

“I already have asked a Healer,” Draco sniped back.

After St. Mungo’s had finished healing his head and collarbone, he’d insisted they check his
stomach. He didn’t appreciate the look the Healer had given him, especially after she cast a few
diagnostic spells and informed him that there was nothing wrong with him.

He demanded a second opinion. The second opinion was the same as the first, and the third
opinion agreed with the first two.

Stress was their diagnosis, which made Draco scoff. They told him that it wasn’t uncommon after
experiencing an attack as he’d experienced. When he insisted that it had been feeling terrible for
days before the attack, they shoved a Draught of Peace in him and told him he’d be fine.

He had to admit that the Draught soothed him for a short while, lulling him into a pleasant
numbness, but after it wore off the twisting knot of scorpions in his stomach returned with a
vengeance. He was familiar enough with Potions to know that repeatedly treating the symptom and
not the cause often resulted in more issues in the long run, and he didn’t ask for another Draught.

Draco couldn’t help but be suspicious that they weren’t doing all they could to help him because of
his name. After all, his father had just been exposed as a Death Eater, and Draco himself had been
implicated as a user of the dark arts in the article about Harry.

“I think I’m dying,” Draco said, even though he was fairly sure he wasn’t.

Blaise heaved out a sigh and resumed the annoying wand twirling.

“And would you stop that?” Draco snapped. “You’re going to hit someone with a stray spell, and
since I’m the only other person in the room -”

“Well, I’m bored,” Blaise bit right back at him. “I’d read a book, but - oh, that’s right, I don’t
actually own any books anymore.”

Draco’s stomach again seemed to turn over on itself, but before he could respond the door opened
and Mother stepped through without so much as a glance his way. She was followed by the violet-
haired Auror that Draco remembered was named Nymphadora Tonks - his cousin.

When the last person entered the room, Draco’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

Albus Dumbledore shut the door behind him and waved his wand with a wordless spell; Draco
assumed it must have been an imperturbable charm.

“Good morning, Mister Malfoy, Mister Zabini,” Dumbledore said, inclining his head in greeting. “I
hate to start with unpleasantries such as this, but would the three of you would please show us your
wrists?”

***

They hadn’t expected any results from Blaise’s letter, but Blaise had sent it off at his mother’s
insistence. Blaise and Draco were far more aware of Harry’s situation than their mothers were, and
their friend was deeply entrenched in a side that hated them. They weren’t expecting any kind of
olive branch from any of them, but they were evidently going to get that branch from Dumbledore
himself.

Mother was normally very good at masking what she was feeling, but she wasn’t doing a very good
job of it at all. She grew visibly taut and tense as Dumbledore outlined what they would be walking
into. Draco thought it looked as though her skin was stretching itself thin across her face.

According to Dumbledore, they were to be escorted to a new, secret home, but they wouldn’t be
living there alone. Many of the Weasleys were also residing in this secret, along with Hermione
Granger and Harry. Draco held a brief, private internal celebration at the thought of being able to
see Harry again so soon.

Amazingly, Harry had somehow convinced Dumbledore to give them sanctuary, and Draco
couldn’t wait to hear how he’d done it.
Then his eyes widened as it sunk in that they would be living with Weasleys, and Draco felt
complete and utter horror washing over him. Someone was going to wind up murdered within a
day; he was certain of that. Even worse, once Pansy got wind of his new roommates, he knew he
would never hear the end of it.

He snuck a glance at his mother and he could have sworn that he could see a vein pulse in her right
temple. Her nostrils were flared and her mouth was set in a hard line. She was resigned to their fate,
she was angry about it, and she wasn’t hiding any of her feelings about the entire situation. It was
most unlike her.

The bats in Draco’s stomach danced unpleasantly.

Mother continued to say nothing. She merely nodded at all the appropriate times, though it looked
like it physically pained her when she acknowledged the fact that Mrs. Weasley would essentially
be considered the head of house. Mrs. Weasley would only act as head until the proper owner
returned, and she had earned that right because she had worked hard to make the house liveable
again.

Draco could read between the lines. Mrs. Weasley was in charge, and they all needed to behave for
her. He still didn’t understand why working like a house elf had earned the position of head.

Yes, someone - either a Malfoy or a Weasley - was absolutely going to get slaughtered.

When Dumbledore revealed the secret - the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix was located
at 12 Grimmauld Place - Draco watched his mother’s eyes bulge, but she still said nothing.

At the same time, something pinged in the back of Draco’s mind - a memory of being in that house
when he was very young, perhaps five years old. The recollection fluttered, but it disappeared
when he realized that Harry had not merely negotiated sanctuary for them - they’d be staying with
the actual resistance to the Dark Lord, hilariously named the ‘Order of the Phoenix.’

Mother’s ongoing silence suddenly felt like ice, and Draco’s stomach churned.

Dumbledore’s last surprise was that while he would allow his mother to commit to the Corsri, he
would not allow Draco or Blaise to do the same. Evidently, Dumbledore wasn’t willing to allow
underage students to commit to any kind of oath, although the fact that he was willing to allow a
dark oath to take place in the Order’s headquarters was startling.

Draco wondered who would serve as keeper; as he was also underage, it obviously wouldn’t be
Harry.

Blaise seemed to visibly unclench when he heard that his mother would be expected to take the
oath once she was well enough to be released from St. Mungo’s. Draco wasn’t sure if Blaise was
reassured that his mother would be welcome as well, or if he was merely relieved to finally get a
reprieve from having to constantly look over his shoulder. Draco still couldn’t read what kind of
relationship Blaise actually had with his mother.

Draco may have been getting the silent treatment from his own mother, but at least he never
suspected her of attempting to murder him.

When they arrived at Grimmauld Place, Draco thought for sure that Mother was going to have a
nervous breakdown.

Dumbledore led them into the dining room, and Mother froze when she saw the woman sitting at
the table. Draco and Blaise reacted similarly, but Draco thought that might have been more due to
the woman’s uncanny resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange. It was only due to her likeness to
Bellatrix that Draco knew who it was without having to ask.

The mystery of who would replace Harry as oath keeper was solved. Unless Dumbledore had some
other dark wizard up his sleeve, Andromeda Tonks would be the keeper.

Draco peered at her in curiosity. She was the mother of the strange, brightly colored Auror that had
escorted them to Grimmauld. She was the wife of the Mediwizard who had nursed him back to
health after the attack. She was Draco’s aunt.

She was also someone who had become Harry’s confidant. Harry had written her all of the
previous school year, but he had adamantly refused to speak about whatever those letters were
concerning. Draco hadn’t been able to prevent the pang of petty jealousy slicing through him every
time Harry had hidden those letters away.

As he glanced back at Mother, Draco wondered if he should have revealed the possibility that his
estranged aunt was likely with Harry. But his mother still wasn’t speaking to him, and he found
himself at a loss as to how to even engage her in conversation. Besides, she should have been able
to piece it together when she found out that her niece was their escort, right?

“Apologies for pulling you away from work, Nymphadora,” Aunt Andromeda said as she got to her
feet. Her voice was like Bellatrix’s in that it commanded attention, but unlike her sister’s voice, it
wasn’t tinged with a haunting madness. “I hope this isn’t inconveniencing you too much.”

“It’s fine, Mum,” Nymphadora said before narrowing her eyes at her mother. “Although for some
reason, Dumbledore felt like he had to question me on if I’m a dark witch or not.”

“Did he?” Aunt Andromeda said, and Draco could have sworn she sounded somewhat amused.

“Yeah,” Nymphadora responded dryly. “It was awkward.”

“My apologies, Tonks,” Dumbledore said, not sounding sorry at all.

After a brief staring contest with her mother, Nymphadora snapped her gum and sighed. “You
could have at least warned me.”

Just like we all could have warned my mother that her long-lost sister would be here, Draco
thought. They were all just as much at fault as he was, after all.

Aunt Andromeda’s eyes finally drifted over to his mother. Although she seemed to be hiding it
slightly better than Mother, she seemed just as discomfited. She swallowed, then drew a small,
ornate knife from her dress. “Shall we get to it… Mrs. Malfoy?” she asked, holding out a hand in
invitation.

Mother’s eyes somehow got even wider than they already were, and when she finally spoke her
voice was barely even a whisper. “Of course.”

They closed the distance between one another and Mother placed her hand in Aunt Andromeda’s,
palm facing the ceiling. Aunt Andromeda gently pressed the blade into his mother’s pale hand, not
yet breaking the skin.

“Are you ready?” Aunt Andromeda asked quietly.

Mother nodded.
Aunt Andromeda traced a symbol on her sister’s palm with the blade. “Ego erit tenere fidem,” she
said.

“Et ibi manebit,” his mother replied.

Draco had seen his parents complete the Corsri more times than he could count. He’d even
committed to a few bastardized versions of it in the last few years, including one to Harry. He
looked away and glanced around the dining room with a bored sniff.

He suspected that the entire house could neatly fit inside the Slytherin common room. The dining
room was smaller than his bathroom back at the manor, and the table looked to seat only about
fourteen. The building had all seemed much larger when he was young. If it hadn’t been an
ancestral Black home, he was certain his mother would lose her mind.

She likely still could, Draco realized. They were almost certainly going to be expected to dine at
the same small table with the obnoxiously large Weasley family. Pansy would perish at the
thought, and Draco himself thought he might keel over at any moment.

“You will never knowingly bring betrayal or harm to anyone in this household, whether through
action or inaction,” Aunt Andromeda was saying, pulling Draco’s focus back to the oath. “This
includes those who live here, welcome visitors, and any person that is mentioned as an ally.”

Draco looked back to his mother and aunt. Their fingers were now twined together, blood
glistening at the heels of their palms as it dripped to the floor.

He again tuned out the words. He was certain it all had to do with keeping secrets and aiding them
in times of need and all of the usual tripe that came with an Oath of Corsri.

Where was Harry?

“I… swear,” Mother said quietly. “before the dark and by the dark that I will hold this oath true.
Should I not, may the dark strip me of all magic.” Her voice seemed to be shaking violently, and
Draco’s attention immediately narrowed back in on his mother.

Aunt Andromeda gave a tight nod and then lifted her chin. “Vos creavi fide,” she said.

“Et… ibi… manebit,” Mother replied, sounding as if she were forcibly squeezing every word
through her lips.

Dark magic flashed and swirled around their linked hands before circling his mother and then
disappearing back into the aether.

“Was that… it?” a voice asked from behind Draco. Although he hadn’t heard the voice very much,
he still recognized it, and he cringed before turning to look over his shoulder.

Mrs. Weasley stood in the doorway to what he thought was a kitchen, arms crossed and mouth set
in a hard line. “That can’t possibly be all there is to it.”

Aunt Andromeda peered at her. “What else should there be, Molly?” she asked.

“Is that really enough to guarantee that she won’t -“

“Molly.” The way Dumbledore said it carried weight, Draco could tell, especially with the way
Mrs. Weasley set her jaw. It was as if she needed to physically restrain herself from continuing to
speak.
Mother let out a choking sound and Draco’s gaze immediately swiveled to her again. Her eyes
were still locked on her sister. Something glistened on her cheek, and Draco realized it was the trail
of moisture from a tear dripping down.

And then she just seemed to crumble, breaking into sobs and her shoulders heaving. Draco’s
stomach curdled at the sight and sound of it.

Aunt Andromeda’s eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. “Oh… Cissy,” she said, her arms
coming up to cocoon Mother.

“Andy,” Mother said, voice muffled by Aunt Andromeda’s shoulder. Even muted, her sobbing still
rang out horribly in the cramped dining room.

“Andromeda,” Mrs. Weasley said, “why don’t you two go to the sitting room?” It might have been
Draco’s imagination, but her face seemed to have softened.

Aunt Andromeda glanced at her, nodded, and then wrapped her arm around Mother’s shoulders.
The two walked in perfect step together as they departed. They disappeared through the doorway
just as Draco vaguely noted that his aunt and his mother had similar tastes in fashionable shoes.

After a brief silence, Dumbledore turned to face them with that stupid twinkle in his eyes. “That’s
that, then,” he said. “Molly, I trust you will help them get settled in.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes fell on Blaise and Draco, her expression tightening back up. “Of course,” she
said.

“I can go back to work now, right?” Nymphadora asked Dumbledore. “Now that we know
nobody’s gonna try to kill anyone…”

Draco thought it was quite short-sighted of her to think that nobody would wind up murdered.

“Of course, Tonks,” Dumbledore said. “I should be off, as well.” He peered at Draco and Blaise
over the top of his glasses. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your time here.”

As they departed, Draco wondered if Dumbledore’s words were meant to sound like a veiled threat
or if he was merely reading into it too much.

“‘Get settled in?’” Blaise said in a quiet, sardonic tone. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll take me all evening to
unpack all of the things I no longer have.”

“I’m sure we can scrounge up some pajamas for tonight,” Mrs. Weasley said. “And we’ll figure
out what else you need tomorrow.”

Draco peered at her. He did not want to accept pajamas from Mrs. Weasley, of all people, but it
seemed as if her hard demeanor had softened once more. Perhaps her motherly instincts had kicked
in at Blaise’s words. Draco wrinkled his nose at the thought.

“I can show them upstairs,” another, far more unwelcome voice said from behind Mrs. Weasley,
though it sounded a bit faint from the kitchen.

Had Ron Weasley been there the whole time? The little Weasel had eavesdropped on everything -
the oath, his mother’s breakdown, and Blaise’s whining.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyebrows lifted towards her hairline. “Are you sure, Ron?”
“Yeah,” the Weasel said as he entered the dining room with his stupid freckled face. He stared at
Draco and Blaise with a pinched expression. “Come on.”

Draco wanted to protest, but he supposed that having Mrs. Weasley show them around wasn’t any
more preferable. At least it wasn’t the little girl Weasel.

He and Blaise followed Weasley down the hall. The Weasel gestured vaguely in front of them
before turning the corner. “Lower washroom is to the right down there,” he said before hitting the
stairs. “There’s another up here.”

“Where’s Harry?” Draco asked, uninterested in a tour.

Weasley glanced over his shoulder. “Uh… hang on,” he said quietly. He took a light jog up the
stairs. When they hit the landing, he turned to them and whispered, “he’s upstairs.”

“Why are you whispering?” Blaise asked.

“Because he doesn’t want my mum knowing where he goes,” Weasley said. “He’s up in the creepy
library. You two will probably love it.” He rolled his eyes and pointed up the next flight of stairs.
“All the way up. It’s the only room there.”

Weasley was being uncharacteristically kind to them. It was quite suspicious.

Perhaps he was leading them into a trap.

Another possibility was that the Weasel and Harry were friends again.

Draco certainly hoped it was the former.

Blaise nodded at Weasley, while Draco merely walked past them both and led the way up. Blaise
followed while Weasley, thankfully, didn’t.

The hall at the top of the stairs was dim, barely illuminated by the two lamps on the wall. Draco
spied a door farther down and he crossed the hall without hesitation. He gripped his wand in his
pocket with one hand, while he reached out with the other to turn the knob.

The door swung open to reveal Granger, followed by Harry. It was a quaint little library, Draco
realized disdainfully, and it was in complete disarray. The room was an incredible mess, with far
too many books lying open on every free spot on the floor around them. In fact, there seemed to be
more books on the floor than there were on the shelves.

Harry’s glasses were crooked and he had an immensely harassed expression painted across his
features. His hair seemed to be even more chaotic than usual, as if he’d been playing with it or
gripping it or running his hands through it, as he often did. Draco had always thought that Pansy’s
gift of hair potion did little to tame the nest, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that most of
the mayhem was Harry’s own doing.

The Mudblood - Muggleborn - appeared furious, Draco noticed with little interest. He instead only
had eyes for Harry.

He wondered for the thousandth time if this uncouth, uneducated moron of a boy was worth the
upending of his family.

As Harry and Granger’s attention swung their way and Draco’s eyes met brilliant green, he
realized for the thousandth time that the answer to that question was a resounding ‘yes.’
“Draco?” Harry asked, his voice cracking. After a pause, he practically launched himself at Draco,
knocking into him so hard that he had to take a step back. His heel landed on what he assumed was
Blaise’s foot, based on the curse that erupted behind him.

And then Harry’s lips were on his, and Draco no longer cared who he was stepping on. A pleasant
shiver ran through him as his chin dropped and his mouth opened further, feeling like he just
wasn’t getting enough of Harry. It had been far too long.

It was a familiar, soft, and smooth sensation but it was mixed with something new: an odd scratch
that wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but the realization of what it was made Draco draw away in
surprise.

“You… you need to shave,” he whispered. Harry had somehow produced stubble in the few weeks
they hadn’t seen one another. Draco hadn’t even gotten a hint of stubble yet. How was Harry
already growing hair on his upper lip?

At least Draco was still taller than him.

Draco quickly recaptured Harry’s lips, but they were almost immediately interrupted by a pointed
cough from behind them.

“You two are making the rest of us uncomfortable,” Blaise said. “And by the rest of us, I mean
me.”

“Shut up, Blaise,” Harry murmured against Draco’s lips.

“No,” Blaise said. “You’re making me stand out in the cold because you’re too busy snogging to
let me in.”

“You’re indoors,” Harry said in an annoyed tone, and much to Draco’s disappointment he pulled
away, allowing both Draco and Blaise into the library.

“But it looks so cozy in here,” Blaise said smugly as he gingerly stepped over the books strewn all
over the floor. “Hello, Granger.”

Granger looked pathetically startled at being directly addressed, but she offered Blaise a tight nod.
“Zabini.” Her eyes narrowed as they shifted to Draco. “Malfoy,” she said, her voice sounding
strained.

Draco said nothing, instead choosing to peer around the tiny room.

Harry’s hand dropped and grasped Draco’s, and out of the corner of Draco’s eye, he could see
Harry turning to stare at him. Draco held back a sigh as Harry’s grip tightened - not enough to hurt,
but just enough to say exactly what Harry was thinking.

Granger might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t mean that Draco had to actually like the
judgmental, all-knowing, Mud - Muggleborn, did he? Would he have to speak to her as if she
were...

Having to live with Weasleys and Granger and play nice with Dumbledore… he was finding
himself more and more certain that he was never going to survive the summer.

“Granger,” Draco finally said, barely finding it in himself to unclench his teeth.

He was also completely sure that he was destined to say something Harry wouldn’t like. In fact, he
wouldn’t be surprised if Harry broke up with him within a day. If he was lucky maybe he’d be the
first body to drop once a fight inevitably broke out between a Weasley and a Malfoy; that way he
wouldn’t have to suffer the devastation of Harry ending their new relationship because Draco was
incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

He felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

“This is even smaller than Blaise’s library,” he said, desperate to distract himself from the thought
of Harry abandoning him.

“Well, at least it’s not blown up,” Blaise snapped, and Draco’s stomach twisted over on itself again.

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife.

“Is this where you were last summer, Harry?” Blaise finally asked after a strained silence. He took
a step towards one of the shelves. “Is this the infamous ‘room’ that you couldn’t tell us about?”

“Um, yeah,” Harry said.

Blaise tilted his head to the side to read some of the titles that remained on the shelves, and he let
out a low whistle. “It may be small, but this collection is… rare,” Blaise said. “I haven’t even heard
of most of these, and the ones that I have heard of…” He trailed off as he reached out to pull a
book from the shelves. “This title alone may as well be an Unforgivable with the Azkaban
sentence it could get you,” he said as he flipped it open.

“What do you mean?” Granger asked, her tone sharp.

Blaise glanced at her before beginning to flip through the pages. “The Unforgivables are the only
dark arts that are instant lifetime sentences,” he said. “But this book would probably earn you four
hundred years, and we can’t all be the ever-lasting Barry Winkle. It may as well be for life for
most wizards.” He shook his head. “... especially since Azkaban essentially sucks the life out of
you. No prisoner has lasted longer than a century.”

Draco swallowed hard at the reminder that his father was in a place that would kill him before his
time. The knot in his stomach churned unpleasantly.

“What’s so bad about that book in particular?” Granger demanded.

“It’s all about Necromancy,” Blaise responded. “Inferi, Wraith, Phantoms… this is dark stuff, even
for me.” He snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. His eyes continued tracing the
titles, shaking his head as pulled out another book. He again cracked it open and began idly
flipping through it. “Death magic? This collection is insane, Harry.”

“And what’s the difference between death magic and necromancy?” Granger asked.

Blaise paused in his study of the text, finally turning away from the shelves to give Granger a
curious look. “Necromancy controls dead things,” he said. “But death magic involves killing a
living creature, using its moment of departure to power a spell.”

“How does -”

“Oh, thank Merlin!” Harry suddenly exclaimed, releasing Draco’s hand as he let out an enormous
sigh of relief. “Somebody else can answer her questions now! I just… can’t anymore!”

Granger whirled on Harry, her jaw jutting out. “Pardon me, Harry?” she snapped. “You can’t just
drop something like that on me and then not expect me to have questions!”

“But you’ve been like this, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands up defensively.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you!”

“Well, you clearly haven’t been telling me enough!”

“What are you two blathering about?” Draco asked, feeling quite annoyed at being out of the loop.

“Hermione is -” Harry paused and his eyes darted between Draco and Blaise before he shook his
head. “Okay, can I ask what you two think of this?”

“Think of what?” Blaise asked.

“Hermione can’t stop reading about the dark arts,” Harry said. “Or asking pretty much every single
question anyone has ever thought about the dark arts.”

“What do you mean I can’t stop?” Granger snapped. “Of course I can stop!”

“Then you won’t stop, I mean,” Harry said. “You’ve been at this for days, just like me. Have you
even taken a break to work on your summer assignments since you got here?”

Granger’s nostrils flared. “They’re already finished!” she retorted.

“But you always revise, and…” Harry paused, shaking his head. “You’re also categorizing types of
dark arts in ways that I never thought of, and you clued me into what a binding blood oath was not
even twenty minutes before I read Blaise’s letter.”

“What?” Blaise asked.

Harry glanced at Blaise. “Basically, Hermione unintentionally let me know exactly where I could
find the Corsri oath before I got your letter.”

“That’s... interesting.” Blaise’s gaze became intrigued as it immediately shifted back towards
Granger.

“How is that interesting?” Granger demanded. Merlin, her voice was even more annoying outside
of class than it was in class.

“And today she finally found a dark spell that she wanted to try, and…” Harry trailed off and made
a vague gesture at the floor. Draco and Blaise looked down at the mess of books.

“Wait - Granger did this?” Blaise asked. “I’d assumed that you decided that the carpet was too out
of style for your tastes. What spell was it?”

Granger stared at Blaise for a long moment. “Vocare scientite,” she finally said, crossing her arms.

Blaise let out a sharp laugh. “That’s one of…” He paused, and something bizarre happened with
his face. Draco couldn’t tell what it was actually doing, but he thought it looked as if every muscle
in Blaise’s face was twitching. Blaise’s weird face was an excellent distraction from the thought
that Draco was still thoroughly avoiding.

“What did you search for?” Blaise asked, and Draco blinked.

There was a beat of silence. “Protection,” Granger said.

Blaise smirked at her. “That explains the mess, then. When you’re searching for something, you
need to narrow it down, or else you get…” He gave a pointed look at the layer of books on the
floor. “If you cast vocare scientite in the Hogwarts library with that little focus, you could get
buried in the middle of the stacks.”

Granger’s eyes widened, and Draco finally recalled what vocare scientite was. Draco somehow
resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and he was a little proud of himself for doing so.

Of course. If Granger was going to use the dark arts, it was only natural that she would use it to
find herself a specific term in a book.

But as Draco’s eyes drifted across the sea of open pages across the room, pieces were still slotting
together in his mind, and quite against his will.

Draco was sure of it.

The Mudblood had a dark affinity.

Muggleborn, he thought.

But it was Granger. This was the Mud… Muggleborn that had plagued him for years. His father’s
voice - even as he resided in Azkaban - was ringing in his mind.

“And the most telling part,” Harry was saying, thankfully pulling Draco out of his thoughts, “is
that Hermione can open the door to this room.”

“And that means what?” Blaise asked.

“You can supposedly only get in if you’re a member of the Black family,” Harry said, “or if you
have a very strong affinity for the dark and no ill intent.”

Draco couldn’t say what ‘ill intent’ actually meant, but he could interpret the clear meaning of
Harry’s words.

The Mudblood was either descended from the Blacks or she had a dark affinity and had no
intention of turning the library over to those who would persecute them.

Muggleborn, Draco thought again. He should probably get the automatic ‘Mudblood’ under
control at some point, especially if he was going to be living with Harry and the Muggleborn for
the remainder of the summer.

Blaise shook his head, smirking. “I’m impressed, Harry,” he said. “She would still have to perform
an affinity rite to be sure, but it certainly looks like you were right about her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Harry wince.

Granger seemed to be on the verge of exploding. “What do you mean, ‘he was right?’” she
snapped in a tight, high voice. “Were you talking about me, Harry?”

“I think it was Imbolc the first time he mentioned it,” Blaise continued with a hint of amusement.

“Blaise is making this sound way worse than it actually is,” Harry protested. “I wasn’t - I didn’t…”
He paused. “There wasn’t any real reason why I’d wondered about your affinity back then, so I
assumed that I was just… wishing that you had a dark affinity.”

Granger looked taken aback by that. “Why would you wish for that?”
“I don’t know!” Harry replied, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I think I just… wanted you to be
able to… to understand.”

“I believe he only mentioned it because you seemed interested in some of our traditions,” Blaise
cut in. “That could be a sign of having a dark affinity, but it’s such a flimsy one that no one else
would think anything of it.”

Blaise’s eyes met Draco’s, and Draco could tell that Blaise was thinking the same thing he was.
Harry’s suspicion based on what essentially amounted to nothing wasn’t only a sign of Granger
having a dark affinity, which was miraculous all on its own; it also pointed at something incredible
about Harry.

It was rare, but some dark wizards could sense if someone had a dark affinity, and it seemed very
likely that Harry had that ability even before he’d declared for the dark. Draco couldn’t help but
think that it also wasn’t all that surprising; he could tell from the way Harry had spoken about the
dark in the past that he was much more in tune with dark magic than most dark wizards were.

It was yet another point to add to Draco’s list of ‘reasons why Harry Potter is an incredibly
powerful dark wizard.’ Hell, Draco had already seen it in action; he thought about what Harry had
done at the Ministry nearly every day. Not every fifteen-year-old could at least temporarily beat
back a dozen Death Eaters single-handedly.

Harry had been impressive, to say the least.

Draco very much liked the thought of having a powerful boyfriend.

“So did Harry explain what all of that means?” Blaise asked Granger.

Granger stared at him for a long moment, scowling. “He said it means I have a dark affinity,” she
finally replied.

“Right,” Blaise said. “And do you know what that means?”

Granger let out a huff. “That I’m inclined to like the dark arts.” Her eyes drifted back to Harry.
“He’s said his own affinity made him feel like he ‘belongs in the dark,’” she responded. “But I
don’t feel anything like that. I’m interested in learning more, but I certainly don’t feel like I like
them.”

“But it took a while for me to realize that it was even what it all meant,” Harry said. “I didn’t
understand what I was feeling.”

“Oh, Harry - I hate to say this, but...” She trailed off, snapping her mouth shut.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “But what, Granger?” he demanded. “Spit it out. You always do.”

Harry shot him a warning look at the tone, and Draco repressed a sigh. If he wanted to keep his
powerful boyfriend, he supposed he would have to not only watch what he said to Granger, but he
would also have to be mindful of how he said it.

Granger glared at Draco. “I’ll tell Harry later,” she said. “I’m not telling you.”

Draco couldn’t hold back his reaction, and he grinned wickedly. “Then I’ll convince him to tell me
after,” he said. And he was fairly sure he could, too; Harry had told him most things concerning
the dark and all of his stupid conversations with Granger.
“Oh, for fuck’s… can you two please not do this?” Harry begged, scrubbing his face with both
hands. He pushed his glasses up to his mess of a hairline in the process, and then his arms dropped
uselessly to his sides. Draco got that rare glimpse of Harry’s eyes without a pane of glass in front of
them, and he again thought about how right Pansy was.

The glasses had to go.

The room had fallen silent at Harry’s outburst, and Blaise finally let out a pointed, fake cough.
Harry sadly pulled his glasses back down to his nose as Blaise turned his attention back to the
shelves, his eyes again raking across the titles. He shook his head and pulled another book off the
shelf.

“Soul magicks? Harry, this is....” Blaise trailed off, his eyes wide as he thumbed it open. “Wow.”

After a moment, Granger let out a sigh. “And what are soul magicks?” she asked.

“Almost exactly what it sounds like,” he said. “Soul control, whether it’s manipulating your own
soul or someone else’s.”

“How can you manipulate a soul?”

Eyebrow raised, Blaise didn’t miss a beat. “Many ways. For example, you can use your soul to
power a spell, or you can directly attack someone else’s.” He shook his head again. “You could
tear someone’s soul apart if you really wanted to, though why you would…” He paused. “It’s a
little taboo, even in the dark community.”

Draco scoffed. “It’s not that taboo,” he said. “It’s just immensely difficult magic, so people say it’s
forbidden rather than admit that they’re not capable of doing it. My father uses it to protect the
Manor.”

Harry seemed to stiffen up next to him, and Draco’s stomach twisted up for the first time in what
seemed like a while.

Granger’s head nearly spun off its axis as she turned to stare at him with pursed lips. “I don’t think
your father is a good point of reference -“

“Granger!” Blaise snapped the book shut and carelessly plopped it back on the shelf. “Would you
mind giving me a tour of the abode?”

“I…” Granger blinked stupidly for a moment. “What?”

“I would be very grateful if you could,” Blaise said. Draco recognized the smarmy tone; it was
what he used on teachers whenever he was kissing their behinds. Lips twitching, Blaise continued.
“You see, I’m trying to do Harry a favor. I don’t think he has much interest in watching you and
Draco snipe at each other until someone eventually pulls a wand.”

Draco scowled, as did Granger.

“Besides, I’m sure these two want to get back to sucking each other’s faces off,” Blaise said,
gesturing at Harry and Draco.

Harry shifted his feet and Draco glanced at him to spy his neck growing red. “Blaise…” Harry
murmured.

“And maybe Harry can soothe Draco’s little tummy ache.” Blaise’s mouth widened to a full smirk.
“He’s been whining about it all day.”

Draco wanted to punch him.

“What?” Harry asked, his tone sounding blessedly worried, and the urge to hit Blaise mostly faded,
although his voice was still annoying.

“Oh, for heaven’s - I get it, Zabini,” Granger said, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I’ll… give you a tour.”
She sighed before turning back to Harry. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to talk to Andromeda.”
She nodded at Harry, pointedly did not nod at Draco, and then made her way to the door.

At least she wasn’t moving to hug Harry. Apparently living in the same house meant that she didn’t
feel the need to give Harry a hug before parting ways, as she always did every single time she met
with Harry at Hogwarts.

Blaise followed Granger, and just before the door shut, his annoying voice still rang out clearly.
“Hey, how many O.W.L.s did you get?”

Harry didn’t waste a second at the clip of the door shutting. “Your stomach hurts?” he asked,
immediately swinging around to face Draco.

He could immediately tell that Harry would be far more sympathetic than Blaise, and he was
somewhat looking forward to it. His irritation at Blaise faded even more. Informing his powerful,
worried boyfriend of his stomach pains was actually a wonderful idea.

“For days,” Draco said. “Since before the attack…” He paused, wincing at a particularly bad
twinge in his gut. “St. Mungo’s said nothing was wrong, though. Perhaps the Zabini elf’s cooking
doesn’t agree with me.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Do you remember what happened?” he asked. “I only got a second-hand
story from Tonks who heard it from her dad -”

Draco bit back a moan at another wrench in his stomach. “No, I don’t remember!” he found
himself snapping. “I thought we were talking about my stomach!”

Harry froze, then frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m…” He blinked a few times before looking down
at the ground. He bent over and shoved enough books to the side to free a small spot on the floor.
He sank down before pulling Draco down to sit beside him. They leaned up against a half-empty
shelf, and Harry reached out to wrap a hand around the inside of Draco’s knee. “What does it feel
like?” he asked.

“Sometimes bats, other times razors,” Draco said. Razors may have been a touch dramatic, but he
didn’t care.

“And St. Mungo’s didn’t say anything about it?”

“Nothing useful,” Draco sneered. “They shoved a Draught of Peace at me and called it ‘stress.’”

He felt Harry shift next to him, their shoulders rubbing together. “I mean, with everything that’s
happened, that… makes sense,” he said. “I keep thinking about Theo’s dad, and then it feels as if
there’s a vacuum in my gut.”

Draco blinked. “I suppose it could be that,” he admitted quietly. “My father is in Azkaban. My
mother and I can’t go home. Blaise has lost everything he owns and his mother is still in St.
Mungo’s…” He trailed off. “Mrs. Zabini is well off enough that they’ll find somewhere else to
live, but she can’t possibly afford to replace everything they’ve lost.”

“God, Draco, I’m… so sorry.”

Draco turned to peer at him. “What are you sorry for?” he asked.

Harry gave a vague wave of his hand. “Everything, I guess,” he said. “Your dad, Blaise’s house…
none of this would have happened if you and Blaise hadn’t come with me to the Ministry.” He
shook his head. “You told me not to go. I should have listened to you.”

Draco tensed up as another particularly bad cramp developed in his stomach. “My… my mother is
downstairs sobbing in her sister’s arms.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Is she…” He swallowed. “Is she still not speaking to you?”

“Not a word,” Draco said.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head. “You apologize far too much, Harry,” he said.

Harry let out a tight laugh. “I guess that’s not very Slytherin of me, is it?”

Draco glared. “Slytherins apologize,” he said defensively.

Harry smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “Maybe it’s just you.”

His nostrils flared. “I apologize when it’s necessary,” he said before wincing. “Although…”

“Although what?”

Draco sighed. “Since my mother isn’t speaking to me, I haven’t gotten the chance to apologize to
her.” As he said it out loud, he realized that he regretted that more than almost anything else,
barring his father being in Azkaban. “And I must admit that I have no idea how to initiate a
conversation with her either.” His stomach twisted over on itself again. “What do I even say?”

Harry was right. He could finally put a name to the pain in his gut: it was guilt.

Draco supposed he usually didn’t bother to feel guilty about his actions to recognize the feeling for
what it was, but he knew that betraying his family was a far bigger deal than making fun of a
Hufflepuff’s ratty cloak.

Harry shifted again, and Draco could tell he wanted to say something but was holding it back.
“What is it?” he asked.

“So… you’re giving your mother just as much of a silent treatment as she’s giving you?” Harry
asked. He did a very bad job of hiding his amusement.

“She’ll speak to me when she’s ready,” Draco said firmly. “Can we change the subject?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Yeah.”

Draco reached out and unwrapped Harry’s hand from his knee, lacing their fingers together. “Is
there really room for all of us in this tiny house?”

“It’s not that tiny,” he said. “It’s bigger than…” He paused, shaking his head. “Pretty much
everyone is going to have to double up.”

Draco’s eye lightened up at that. “Will I be staying with you, then?” Unsupervised nights alone
with Harry sounded like a dream.

Harry laughed. “I wish, but no,” he said. “I moved my stuff back in with Ron. He’d probably be
okay staying with Blaise - eventually - but nobody wanted to chance anyone coming to blows.” He
shook his head. “Besides, I think Mrs. Weasley trusts me to stay with him more than… either of
you.”

Draco scowled, remembering Weasley’s strange behavior. “Are you two… getting on again, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding. “We talked through a few things.” When he noticed Draco pouting,
he said, “Are you… you’re not seriously mad, are you?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “The Weasel is a sanctimonious, hypocritical -”

“Hey!” Harry glared at him.

“You gave him a second chance already,” Draco continued. “Why are you giving him another
one?”

Harry sighed. “Because he’s a good friend, Draco,” he said.

“Only when he feels like it, it seems.”

Harry fell silent, and Draco felt victorious for a brief moment before Harry continued. “Please
don’t do this, Draco,” he said quietly. “Ron is… he’s important to me.” He dragged his free hand
through his hair. “I missed him.”

Draco let out a grunt, glaring down at their fingers twined around one another. “Fine,” he said. “I
suppose Weasley’s back on the list, then.”

“I missed you, too.”

He immediately looked up to see Harry staring at him with a fond expression, and some of Draco’s
irritation began to drain out of him. “You missed me more, I would hope.”

Grinning, Harry nodded. “Of course.” Draco couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

As the rest of his irritation slid away, something occurred to Draco. “You broke your promise, by
the way,” he said.

Blinking dumbly, Harry tilted his head to the side. “Huh?”

Draco lifted their linked hands and drew his sleeve down, exposing his unmarked wrist. “You
promised to look before being alone with me. You didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I mean… to be fair - after everything, I was really pretty sure that -”

“Dumbledore asked to see it,” Draco continued, feeling an odd sense of cruel delight at being able
to rub something in Harry’s face again. “Does it bode well for our relationship if you break the
first promise you ever made to me?”

“Draco!” Harry said, his mouth falling open. “I just figured…” He let out a heaving sigh, slouching
over. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask to see your wrist.”
Draco smirked gleefully. “There you go apologizing again,” he said. “At least it’s for something
good this time.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder why I missed you.”

Without a word, Draco leaned over and covered Harry’s lips with his own. As he felt Harry’s jaw
dropping lower, the knot in his stomach began to ease just a hair. He knew it wouldn’t disappear
entirely until he apologized to Mother.

But for now, he’d gladly use Harry to help it feel just a little better.
 satisficer v maximiser
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

Hi. Been a while. Had to work through a few things. Thank you so much to everyone
who reached out during my unintentional hiatus! It means more than you know, and I
really appreciate it.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I can’t believe you did better than me on our O.W.L.s by one bleeding ‘Outstanding.’”

Zabini sounded quite sore, and despite the faint undercurrent of pity that Hermione felt for Zabini’s
recent loss of home, she still couldn’t help the flare of satisfaction that ran through her. It served as
a welcome distraction from everything that had occurred in the Black Library in the last thirty
minutes. She didn’t want to think about dark arts or affinities. She didn’t want to recall the visual of
Harry thoroughly snogging the boy who had tormented her for years.

Of all the boys that Harry had to wind up with, why did it have to be Draco Malfoy?

“I wasn’t happy that I only got an ‘Exceeds’ in Astronomy, but learning that it was that class that
you beat me in again -“ A sound of pure frustration erupted from Zabini's lips.

“I… suppose you were dealing with quite a bit last year,” Hermione said as they descended the
stairs on their farce of a ‘tour.’ She was entirely uncertain as to why she was attempting to make
Zabini feel better. “Uncovering evidence to convict Umbridge and all of the -”

“I don’t need placating, Granger,” Zabini sneered. “I mean, you were organizing an entire army for
most of the year.”

“It wasn’t an army -”

“Fine. You were putting together a supplementary defense class, which is likely more…” Zabini
paused, his head tilting to one side as he seemed to search for the proper words. “... time-
consuming.” He let out another disgusted scoff. “Bloody stupid Jupiter’s moons…”

“You really don’t enjoy a Muggleborn doing better than you, do you?” Hermione couldn’t help the
snipe. She knew it was childish, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“It has nothing to do with you being Muggleborn!” Zabini snapped.

“You sound awfully defensive,” Hermione said. “Are you certain about that?”

“I…” Zabini let out a huff. “Maybe it is about you being Muggleborn, just a bit…”

Hermione spun on her heel, infuriated. She knew it. She knew Zabini would always be a bigot, no
matter what actions he’d taken late in the last school year.

“… but it’s not due to your blood,” Zabini continued. He almost sounded thoughtful and as if he
were completely blind to her anger. “It’s… I was raised in the wizarding world, and you weren’t.
And I work just as hard as you - if not harder! And you…” He focused on Hermione’s face, his
eyes narrowing. “You just keep beating me - ever since first year. You always eke out just a little
bit better grade than me.”

“That’s not my problem,” Hermione replied, her teeth clenched even as her fury abated bit by bit.

“So, no, it’s not because you’re Muggleborn,” Zabini said. “I suppose I should be grateful that
you’re at least a girl. Can’t have you beating me out for Head Boy, too.” Then his eyes widened
and he let out an exasperated huff. “Though I probably ruined my chances for that last year, what
with all the detentions from Umbridge…”

“Well…” Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of Zabini. She couldn’t tell if he was angry at her
for beating him or angry at himself for allowing her to beat him. “It doesn’t matter in the end. We
still received the same number of O.W.L.s.”

“Great,” Zabini said. The sarcasm in his voice was practically palpable. “That’s a wonderful
consolation prize.”

A tense silence fell as they reached the empty dining room. Hermione bit her lip, unsure of what to
say. She briefly considered asking about his summer assignments, but wisely decided against it -
after all, even if he’d made any headway on them, he’d likely lost all of his work in the attack on
his home.

“So what questions do you have?” Zabini asked suddenly, his earlier irritation abruptly absent.

“What… what do you mean?” Hermione asked, startled. “What questions?”

“Harry implied that you’d been asking him a lot of questions about the dark arts,” Zabini asked,
pulling a chair out from the table and taking a seat. “You know that Harry is still quite new to it,
right? He’s… well, I suppose he could be described as something of a prodigy, but his practical
knowledge is still fairly limited. I grew up with the dark.” He paused, smirking. “So… what do you
want to know?”

“I…” Hermione felt as if she could only stare. This was exactly the topic she hadn’t wanted to
discuss. She could admit that she wanted to find out more about the dark arts, but speaking about it
with Zabini rather than Harry was a line she’d rather not cross.

“And it’s not as if it was the first time you had questions, either,” Zabini continued in a
contemplative tone. “When we were at the Ministry, you were asking questions about the dark arts
even while your friends were busy screeching about how Harry and Draco shouldn’t have been
using them. At the time I chalked it up to your… usual endless curiosity.” His smirk broadened,
and Hermione inexplicably felt like punching him. “But now I can see that it’s very intriguing.”

Hermione scowled. “I always ask questions,” she said. “And -”

Zabini cut her off before she could continue. “That you do,” he agreed.

“And you’re in enough classes with me to know I always ask questions. I do it so I can fully
understand the material,” she said, plowing on. “Asking questions doesn’t mean anything.”

Zabini’s lips curled even further upwards. “But your ability to cast a successful vocare most
certainly does mean something.”

“I -“

“Tell me… how many tries did it take you?” Zabini continued curiously. “In class, you always
seem to be able to cast everything on your first try, but we all know it’s because you read ahead
and practice -“

Hermione let out an annoyed harumph. “Three.”

“That’s all?” Zabini’s eyebrows lifted, and his knowing smirk somehow became even more
irritating. “And how did you feel?”

“What?”

“How did the spell make you feel?”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Harry asked me the same thing,” she said.

“He’s asking you the same things we asked him,” Zabini said. “He knows what to look for now
when it comes to affinities.”

Hermione shook her head. She hadn’t yet really had a chance to process what Harry had told her.
She wasn’t ready to have a conversation about it with any other dark wizard that wasn’t Harry. “I
don’t want to talk about this with you.”

She was sure she imagined the flicker of disappointment that appeared on Zabini’s face. “Why
not?” he asked.

“Because I don’t trust you!” Hermione blurted out, and then her eyes widened when she realized
how loud her voice had been.

To her surprise, though, Zabini’s disappointment quickly reappeared and she knew she wasn’t
imagining it this time. “Because I’m a dark wizard?” Zabini asked. “Or because I’m Slytherin?”
Then he shook his head. “No, that's not it. As much as I would love to, I can’t pretend I don’t know
why,” he said quietly. “It’s because of… the name I called you last year, isn’t it?” He paused. “I
understand. And I’m sorry, Granger. I spent a lot of time… well, I was hoping I’d made up for
some of that.”

Hermione swallowed, and then she let out a sigh, tension flowing out of her shoulders. “I
suppose… what you did in stopping Umbridge from introducing that Muggleborn Registration…”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “I still
think you were more motivated by your O.W.L.s than you were in doing the right thing.”

“It was… likely a bit of both, I’ll admit,” Zabini said. “Believe it or not, I don’t like the thought of
any witches or wizards having their wands taken.”

Hermione’s scowl deepened. “I still find it very difficult to believe that you had such a change of
heart in just a matter of months.”

Zabini leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking beneath him, and he folded his hands gracefully
on top of the table. “Then believe this, Granger - the reason I’m so curious about the possibility of
you - of all people - having a dark affinity is that the dark community firmly believes that you
can’t.”
Hermione froze. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s a fairly deep-rooted pureblood belief that Muggleborns can’t have an affinity for any type of
magic - light or dark.”

“What?” Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise. “That doesn’t make any sense, though.
Muggleborns aren’t any different from purebloods. We have just as much access to magic as you
do.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” Zabini said. “Between routinely beating me in classes and showing
clear potential for having a dark affinity, you’ve been… systematically dismantling everything I
was ever taught about Muggleborns.” He paused, smirking. “It’s even more impressive considering
you’re not even doing it on purpose.”

Hermione froze as a thought seemed to wriggle its way into her mind. “Do you… do you want me
to?” she asked. “You telling me these things… and the books you sent! Why did you send those?”

“So you did get them, then? I wondered,” Zabini said. “You never responded. Not very polite of
you, Granger.”

Hermione flushed despite herself. “Well, I’m sorry for being rude but I was a little taken aback at
you sending me books on the dark arts!” she hissed.

“But why? I told you exactly why I sent them - I know you’d asked Harry for some and I know he
had failed to deliver.” He paused. “How did you find the books? Did you enjoy them?”

Hermione let out a frustrated huff, crossing her arms. She certainly wasn’t about to admit to Zabini
that she’d found them absolutely fascinating and that she’d scarcely been able to put them down.

“Of course you did,” Zabini continued, and that irritating smirk reappeared on his face. “It looks
fairly likely that you have a dark affinity, and -“

“I don’t know about that. I’m not even sure if I believe in…” Hermione paused. “I don’t see any
proof that affinities even exist.”

“Trust me - they do,” Zabini said. “When Harry began using the dark arts, he said they came to
him easily with no ill effects. When someone tries using the dark arts when they have no affinity
for them, they feel a bit sick… if they can even use them at all.”

“Is that why you were asking about how I felt?” Hermione asked.

Zabini nodded. “So… how did you feel?”

“I…” Hermione paused. “I felt fine. Normal.” Before Zabini could respond, she plowed on. “But
that doesn’t prove anything!”

To her surprise, Zabini appeared to nod in agreement. “You’re right. I suppose it really doesn’t,” he
said. “You’d need to do an affinity rite to be certain.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Hermione snapped. “What proof do you have that what you say about
affinities is true? Have you ever met anyone that actually felt ill after using a dark spell?”

“Yes,” Zabini said. “I’m a Slytherin, remember? We’re quite open about this there. Tracey has said
that she felt like throwing up the few times she tried any type of dark arts.”
“I just… I don’t understand why all this isn’t more widely known, or why it’s not studied,”
Hermione said, shaking her head. “If the knowledge was buried due to the bias against the dark
arts, why isn’t anything written about light affinities? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“That’s something we agree on,” Zabini said, and Hermione found his response immensely
frustrating.

“You don’t think it’s possible that the dark arts are just… addictive like everyone says they are?”
she asked. “We’re all taught not to use them at all because they could be.”

“That’s propaganda for the most part, but certain kinds of dark arts can be addictive,” Zabini
replied. “So there’s an element of truth to that, but it’s a very small element.”

“Then that still makes them dangerous!” Hermione insisted. “And you all are messing with risky
magic with no guidance from a teacher!”

“You just messed with the dark arts without any other guidance besides Harry.” Zabini scowled.
“And our families teach us because Hogwarts won’t,” he said. “That doesn’t make them -”

“But Harry’s using spells that he doesn’t even understand!” Hermione said, flushing at the fact that
Zabini was right - she had tried a dark spell that Harry hadn’t even known. “Like the spell that he
used on Nott - he doesn’t know about the mechanics of it and he can’t explain how it works, and
for a curse that’s dangerous enough to land someone in St. Mungo’s -”

“What spell was it?” Zabini interrupted her. “I haven’t asked him about it.”

“I…” Hermione narrowed her eyes in contemplation as she recalled her conversation with Harry. “I
think he said it was something called ‘Reditus Dolorit’ - the return of suffering. It’s supposed to
make someone feel all the pain they’ve ever caused to others.”

Zabini’s eyes widened.

“What?” Hermione asked suspiciously. “Do you know about it?”

Zabini seemed to school his impression before shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of it, but it
sounds like…”

“Sounds like what?”

Zabini smiled at her. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “And that’s something else we agree on - Harry
shouldn’t be using a dark spell that he hasn’t studied thoroughly.”

Hermione paused, studying Zabini.

She’d spent some limited time with him late in the school year as he’d been gathering evidence
against Umbridge, but even then he’d addressed the Ravenclaws they worked with far more than
he would speak directly to her. She’d never bothered to imagine what an actual conversation with
Zabini would be like, but if she had she certainly wouldn’t have imagined it to be like this.

After a moment’s contemplation, Hermione finally pulled out the chair opposite Zabini and sat
down.

“You talk about the dark arts much differently than Harry does,” Hermione said quietly.

“How so?” Zabini asked.

“Sometimes he…” Hermione paused, unsure if she really wanted to reveal the thing that had been
nagging at her about Harry ever since he’d first told her about being a dark wizard.

“Oh, come on, Granger,” Zabini said, rolling his head back in annoyance. “The suspense isn’t
killing me, but it’s not exactly entertaining, either.”

“Well… sometimes he sounds….” Hermione sighed. “… he sounds strange when he talks about
the dark arts.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She paused, swallowing. “I’ve known him much longer than you, and when he’s
talking about the dark arts he doesn’t sound like himself.” She shook her head. “And I can tell he’s
happier, and I can’t fault him for that - I mean I don’t want to fault him for that. Believe me, I’m
pleased that he’s happy!

“But there are times where he sounds… completely and totally obsessed.” Her breath caught in her
throat before she continued. “And I mean obsessed in a way that isn’t healthy. He gets so defensive
- sometimes angry - when I point out that it could be dangerous. He talks about the dark’s love for
him and… it’s strange. The way he talks… it feels like… like it’s got a hold of him, somehow.”

“You mean the dark has a hold of him?” Zabini asked.

Hermione nodded.

“Well, to continue adding to your newly expanding knowledge about affinities, you should know
that different witches and wizards can have stronger or weaker affinities for the dark… if they have
one at all.” He paused. “And Harry has an absolutely insane affinity for the dark. It’s the strongest
affinity I’ve seen by far, and the others… well, everyone who saw his affinity rite thinks it’s likely
the strongest our parents have seen, as well.”

“What… what does that mean for Harry?”

Zabini leaned back in his chair. “Having a stronger affinity almost always means that the witch or
wizard will be more powerful, but it also means having a stronger connection with the dark.” He
paused. “For me, it’s more like… it’s just a part of who I am. I am a dark wizard and I know the
dark will care for me, but it doesn’t run much beyond that.”

“It… cares for you?” Hermione asked. “I suppose… Andromeda said that ‘the dark protects its
children.’” Zabini nodded at that. “You - and Harry and Andromeda - you all make it sound like
it’s sentient.”

Zabini let out a laugh. “That is almost exactly what Harry said when we first spoke with him about
affinities,” he said. “And all magic is somewhat sentient. Why do you think enchanted items seem
to develop their own little quirks? Why do you think mirrors and paintings can have conversations
with you?” He grinned.

Hermione frowned, and Zabini noticed. “What is it?” he asked.

“If it truly is sentient, then that makes me all the more worried for Harry,” she said. “Because that
would mean he’s completely obsessed with something that could have its own needs or desires.”
She paused, swallowing. “What if it wants something from him?”

“If it ‘wants’ anything, it truly is to protect its children,” Zabini said. “Harry just feels that
protection much more keenly than most do. I think that means quite a bit to him.” He scoffed.
“He’s told us about how often he’s been in mortal danger every single year he’s been at Hogwarts.
I don’t blame him for welcoming that protection as much as he has.”

Hermione blinked. That hadn’t occurred to her.

“You don’t have to worry about Harry,” Zabini continued. “It does prove that you’re a good friend
to him for you to be so worried, but you don’t have to be. Harry is probably… better than he ever
has been before. He’s fine.”

Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t entirely satisfied. “I suppose.”

Another silence fell, but it felt far less tense than it had earlier. It was broken by Zabini suddenly
letting out a snort. “You know, Granger, it’s pretty funny that you’re sitting here accusing Harry of
being obsessed with the dark arts when he essentially just accused you of the same thing.”

Hermione knew she was blushing. She knew she was being a hypocrite. She couldn’t defend it, and
she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

“So… did you enjoy those books I sent you?” Zabini finally asked. “I assume you finished them,
and that’s why you thoroughly redecorated the library upstairs?”

“I did finish them,” Hermione admitted.

A smirk appeared on Zabini’s face, though this time it was more knowing than cocky.

“I… finished them rather quickly,” she said, her voice growing quieter. “They were very…
interesting, although they skimped on details that I would have liked.”

Zabini leaned forward. “What kinds of details?” he asked curiously. “What do you want to know
more about?”

With a slight pinch of annoyance, Hermione realized that Zabini had somehow managed to bring
the conversation full circle. She was even more annoyed to realize that she had so many questions
that Zabini could likely answer, and he had just very purposely reminded her of that.

Thankfully, Andromeda walked in just at that moment with Ron awkwardly trailing behind her.
“Hermione, could you please retrieve Harry from wherever he might be hiding?” she asked. “It is
time we discuss Sirius.”

Andromeda had exceptionally good timing, Hermione felt.

***

“We probably have to leave Snape out of it,” Harry said dully, and Malfoy made a strange sound at
his comment. Hermione dutifully ignored it, instead choosing to focus all of her attention on Harry.

His observation about Snape was one of the few things Harry had added to the conversation with
Andromeda. He’d been disturbingly quiet ever since she’d retrieved him and Malfoy from the
library.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were rehashing the events from their third year as Andromeda walked
them through what would be appropriate to use in a trial and what wouldn’t. Throughout their talk,
Hermione found herself growing more and more concerned about Harry.

He was quiet. He’d barely added anything to Hermione and Ron’s take on that night. He was
somewhat sullen and withdrawn, and Hermione thought he would have been thrilled. He was
finally getting a shot at clearing Sirius’s name, and he had his Slytherin friends - including his
boyfriend - likely living with him for the remainder of the summer.

“What… why was Snape even there?” Zabini asked, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts.

“Why are you even here?” Ron sniped. Even though she somewhat agreed with his sentiment
Hermione kicked him in the ankle, and Ron shot her a sheepish look before ducking his head at
Zabini. “Uh, sorry. You just… don’t need to be here.”

“I’m bored,” Zabini replied, leaning his head on his hand. “I don’t know what there is to do in this
house yet. Granger is a terrible tour guide.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You -”

“What happened after Severus arrived?” Andromeda said, immediately drawing their attention
back to the topic at hand.

Ron started laughing.

“He was knocked unconscious,” Hermione responded, thrusting her foot into Ron’s ankle again
with a glare. Ron shut his mouth, but he continued grinning, obviously finding it hilarious that
they’d knocked out a teacher when they were barely teenagers.

“Then Severus will not be helpful,” Andromeda said, and Hermione silently admired her ability to
keep everyone focused. “What happened after that?”

Ron and Hermione, with no input from Harry, walked her through how Scabbers had actually been
Peter Pettigrew in disguise and how he’d confessed to working for Voldemort because he was
afraid of being killed.

Andromeda was frowning when they had finished. “I suppose Remus could reiterate your story, as
well as confirm that Pettigrew had an Animagus form of a rat, but…”

“But what?” Harry asked gruffly.

With a sigh, Andromeda shook her head. “I’m not certain it will be enough to free Sirius.”

“Why not?” Ron demanded.

“As I warned Harry earlier - three children and a werewolf will likely not sway the Wizengamot,
especially over someone whose name has been besmirched for well over a decade.” She looked
truly regretful as she explained. “Dark creatures are rarely even called upon as witnesses -”

“What about Veritaserum?” Harry asked. “What if we volunteered?”

Andromeda shook her head. “You should never volunteer for Veritaserum,” she said adamantly,
“and anyone under the age of 17 is never subjected to the use of Veritaserum, as it is.”

Harry seemed to deflate even more, and Hermione could tell that Andromeda noticed.

“We’ll be going to see Marshall in two days' time, Harry,” she said gently. “He’ll let us know if
there’s anything else we can do.” Hermione felt another wave of appreciation for Andromeda.
She’d known that Harry had developed a lot of respect for Andromeda in the last year, and she was
beginning to understand why. She always seemed to know exactly what needed to be said, whether
it was an unwanted fact or a statement of comfort.

“What if I testified?” Malfoy suddenly asked.

Hermione, who had been pointedly ignoring Malfoy for the entire conversation, spun her head
towards him in surprise. “What?” she asked, stunned.

“What could you say that would be…” Ron paused, his eyes widening in realization. “Oh. Oh.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at Ron, and Hermione felt a little stunned at the fact that he wasn’t
responding to Ron’s half-dig, instead choosing to focus on Andromeda. “My father is a Death
Eater,” he said. “I have heard him talk about Sirius Black, as well as Peter Pettigrew. It’s why I
knew Black was innocent of the crimes he was imprisoned for even before…” He paused, glancing
at Harry. They shared a look before Malfoy swallowed, his attention shifting back to Andromeda.
“... before I had confirmation from someone else.”

“Draco…” Harry said quietly.

“Draco.” Andromeda’s voice was far more forceful in comparison. “You need to speak to your
mother before you offer to do this.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened before turning to Harry.

“She’s right, Draco,” Harry said.

The conversation fell quiet, and Andromeda soon departed to say goodbye to her sister.
Immediately after that, Mrs. Weasley came into the dining room to retrieve Malfoy and Zabini in
order to give them enough clothes to last at least a few days, as well as to get their shared bedroom
in order. Malfoy didn’t hide his disgust as they followed her out the door.

Hermione was grateful for their absence, immediately turning to Harry, but Ron managed to beat
her to the question.

“Are you okay, Harry?” he asked.

Harry had been slouched in his chair with his arms crossed, staring at the table with a pinched
expression. He glanced up in surprise and sat up, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he said.

“But clearly you’re not,” Hermione said. “We can tell.”

“I… it’s nothing,” Harry said. “Nothing major, anyway. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Hermione repressed a sigh. At least he wasn’t completely denying that something was bothering
him. Part of her wanted to pry, but she decided against it.

“What did you want to tell me earlier, Hermione?” Harry asked. “What was it you didn’t want to
say in front of Draco and Blaise?”

Harry was quite blatantly trying to steer the conversation away from whatever was troubling him,
and Hermione wished he had used almost any other topic besides that one. She shook her head. “It
doesn’t matter,” she said. “I actually… I wound up talking to Zabini about it. He cleared up my
concerns a bit. Not completely, but -”

“Huh?” Harry asked. “What concerns?”

“Harry, it doesn’t matter -“

To her surprise, Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, I get it,” he said, his tone a bit snide. “You’re afraid I
won’t like whatever it is you two talked about.” Then his expression softened, and he let out a sigh.
“I… feel like you’re avoiding talking about certain things with me. I’m sorry I keep losing my…”
He paused and then shook his head. “You can tell me. I promise I won’t get mad.”

Hermione studied Harry for a moment before glancing at Ron.

“Why are you looking at me? I’m just… confused,” Ron said, shrugging.

Hermione bit her lip before leaning forward. As if by instinct, Ron and Harry leaned forward as
well, and a brief flare of gratitude and nostalgia welled up inside her. It almost felt as if they were
back in Gryffindor tower, discussing the latest Hogwarts conspiracy. “I was… well, I was a bit
worried about you,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry’s expression soured. “Why?” he asked.

“There have been a few times where… when you talk about the dark arts, you sound… different,”
she said. “Sometimes you don’t sound like yourself.”

“Really?” Harry asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I… huh.” He sat back then, his eyes
dropping back down to the table. “I guess… relatively speaking, the dark arts are still pretty new to
me. And with getting resorted to Slytherin last year, you guys weren’t around when I discovered
this part of myself.” He looked back up, and a smile that seemed sad appeared on his lips. “I didn’t
feel like I could talk to you guys about it for… obvious reasons, so I guess you weren’t with me to
see what changed.”

“What changed, though?” Ron asked. He glanced back and forth between Harry and Hermione
before continuing. “I haven’t seen what Hermione’s talking about - you not sounding like yourself -
but I guess… you haven’t really talked to me about the dark arts.”

A bemused expression appeared on Harry’s features. “Do you want me to talk to you about the
dark arts?” he asked. “I thought you said it seemed like it was all… uh… ‘weird people fluids.’”

The face that Ron made was so hilariously disgusted that Hermione nearly laughed. “Gross,” he
said. “And… yeah. I don’t like them, but I already told you - I can tell they mean a lot to you, but
you haven’t explained why.”

“It’s because of your affinity, right?” Hermione said. “That’s what Zabini was explaining to me.
He said you’re so attached to the dark arts because you have an incredibly strong affinity for the
dark.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “So I keep hearing.”

“You mentioned something about a ‘dark affinity’ when you were talking to my parents,” Ron
said. “What does that mean?”

Hermione was completely unsurprised when Harry’s earlier withdrawn demeanor disappeared as
he set about explaining magical affinities to Ron. His eyes lit up and his voice was eager as he
spoke about his new favorite topic.

“Why… why don’t more people know about this?” Ron asked. “We know that there’s light magic
and dark magic. So… if there are dark affinities, there’s gotta be light affinities, too… right?”

Harry nodded. “I think there has to be,” he said. “A ton of the books I’ve read all say that almost all
the old light traditions have disappeared. I know your mum used to practice the light traditions, but
it sounds like even what she practiced is just stripped down from what they used to be.” He
shrugged. “I think the knowledge of light affinities disappeared right along with the traditions.”

“Why?”

“I wish I knew,” Harry said.

Ron sat back, appearing to contemplate Harry’s words. “How did you know? About your… dark
affinity, I mean?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know,” Harry said. “Not at first, anyway. I started digging into the dark arts last
summer, and I just… I felt like I needed to know more. I just didn’t know what it meant until Draco
and Blaise and Theo explained it to me.”

“Like you had to explain it to me,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry nodded.

Ron glanced back and forth between Harry and Hermione, his eyes growing wider and wider the
whole time before he finally settled on staring at Hermione with his jaw dropped open in surprise.
“Wait… what?” he asked. “Are you saying that… you…”

Hermione blushed and nodded. She hadn’t intended on telling Ron, but she also had no intention of
hiding her possible affinity from him. She didn’t want to lie to Ron as Harry had lied to her all
throughout the previous year. “I don’t know for sure, but Harry… and Zabini… both seem fairly
convinced.”

Ron’s eyes darted to Harry and back to Hermione again. “They’re convinced that you’re a dark
witch?” he asked, his voice seeming to rise by a full octave.

“That’s not how it works,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You can’t be a dark witch or wizard until
you’ve declared for the dark. You can’t declare for the dark unless you have a dark affinity.” Harry
then fixed Hermione with an odd look; it was as if he were studying her, and Hermione resisted the
urge to squirm uncomfortably. “And you can’t be absolutely certain that you have a dark affinity
until you complete an affinity rite.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes as a toothy grin appeared on Harry’s face. “You have to do the
affinity rite on a cyclical day, and the next one is Lammas,” he continued. “It’s coming up pretty
soon, so you could do it then and -“

“I’m not sure if I want to, Harry,” Hermione said, cutting him off.

“Huh?” Harry asked in surprise, looking genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“It’s a dark ritual,” Hermione said. “I’m not interested in taking part in that.”

“The affinity rite doesn’t bind you to anything if that’s what you’re worried about,” Harry said, his
voice unusually intense. “It doesn’t mean you have to declare. It’s just going to help you figure out
if you work better with dark magic than with other kinds of magic.” He leaned forward, an odd
smile on his lips. “Aren’t you curious?”

An unidentified feeling seemed to trickle down Hermione’s spine at that, and she found herself
unable to tell if it was because Harry was again not sounding like himself or if it was because she
actually was curious.
“She said ‘no,’ Harry,” Ron said. Hermione glanced at him to see a deep scowl on his face.

Harry’s eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he seemed to have the sense
of mind to look ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to… pressure you or anything like
that.” He ducked his head. “It’s just… exciting. It really is completely up to you.”

“Why is it exciting?” Hermione asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron stare at her in
shock. “You mentioned earlier that you wanted me to be able to… understand, but it sounds like
there’s more to it than that.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “It’s just… you would turn the dark community completely on its
head,” he said quietly, “in a really good way.”

There was a beat of silence before Hermione responded. “Because I’m Muggleborn.” That was
what Zabini had told her.

“Yeah.” Harry gave her a fond smile. “But… don’t let your decision be about that,” he said. “You
need to make that decision for you and no one else.”

Hermione sat back in her chair with a sigh. She felt exhausted, but her mind was still racing.

“Hermione?” Ron asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just… it’s a lot to take in.”

“Trust me, I know,” Harry said. “And I am sorry. I really didn’t mean to… push you to do
something you don’t want to do.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I’m… going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.” She bid them both a
good night and left, ignoring the concerned looks coming from both of her friends.

Just before she reached the staircase, she came upon Andromeda quietly shutting the door to the
sitting room. Hermione thought she had left already, but she supposed she and her sister had quite a
bit of catching up to do after being separated for decades.

“Good night,” Hermione said. “Thank you for all your help with Sirius, even if we can’t…”

“Don’t lose hope,” Andromeda said. “There’s still a very good chance we can prove his
innocence.” She paused, studying Hermione for a moment before offering a warm smile. “But
could you do me a favor?”

Hermione blinked, then nodded.

“Would you please help Harry be ready and presentable on Thursday morning?” Andromeda said.
“I’d hate to take a rumpled sack of potatoes to see Marshall.”

Hermione let out a laugh that realized she desperately needed. “I will,” she agreed.

“Thank you,” Andromeda said, bowing her head elegantly. “Have a good night, Hermione. Sleep
well.”

Hermione watched her depart down the hall with a fond smile. It had been a whirlwind of a day
ever since she’d decided to try a dark spell, with far too much information thrown at her in far too
short a time.

Andromeda had somehow managed to release some of Hermione’s tension with one short
 exchange. As Hermione ascended the stairs, she found herself thinking that if she were ever going
to be a dark witch, she’d like to be one like Andromeda.

She then spent the rest of the night wondering where that thought had come from.

Chapter End Notes

Feel free to stop by my Tumblr.

 Born a Long Long Time Ago
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

For the first time in over a year, Harry sat down with Ron to play a game of Wizard’s Chess.

Ron took white while Harry played black, and as they were setting up the board Ron let out a quiet
snicker. “Feels like that suits you more than it used to,” he said, and Harry grinned in response.
Ron wasn’t wrong, and his subtle acceptance was welcome.

It was too quiet at first, with the two of them only occasionally making stilted, awkward
comments. Even though they both seemed to want to make a genuine go at being friends again, it
felt as if they weren’t entirely sure how.

But the familiar scrunching of Ron’s nose as he contemplated the placement of his pieces warmed
Harry’s heart.

He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Ron. He knew that even though it would take them
a bit to get there, they’d manage to find a way back to being good friends again. They would make
it work.

Ron thoroughly trounced Harry as expected, and Harry’s few remaining pieces groaned as their
black king fell.

Harry snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You should play Draco sometime this summer,” he said.
“I don’t think he’s as good as you, but he’ll probably be more of a challenge than I am.”

Ron looked a tad startled at that. “Uh… sure. Maybe.”

“Give him a chance, Ron,” Harry said. “I know that he can be a complete prat sometimes, but
he’s…” He paused, swallowing. “He’s important to me now.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “I could tell that when you blew away a dozen
Death Eaters because Bellatrix stuck a wand in his face.”

Harry looked away, fighting down a blush.

“Harry,” Ron said, sitting up. “Can you promise me something?”

Harry blinked. “Uh… maybe? Depends on what it is.”

“Don’t try to convince Hermione to become a dark witch.”

Irritation bubbled up inside Harry, and he tried and failed to fight down a scowl. “What if she
wants to?” he asked challengingly. “Shouldn’t that be her choice?”
Ron’s eyes widened, and then he set his mouth in a grim line. “Hermione’s right,” he said. “You do
sound different when it comes to the dark arts.”

“How?” Harry demanded before shaking his head. “No, never mind. We’re talking about
Hermione, and that’s her choice.”

“I know that,” Ron said. “All I’m asking is that you… don’t pressure her, like you were earlier.”
He paused, frowning. “You sounded weird.”

“I wasn’t trying to…” Harry paused, deflating a bit. “I really didn’t mean to. And I won’t try to…
convince her.” He tilted his head to the side. “But if she has questions about the dark arts, I’m not
going to ignore them.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Ron said quietly.

A tense silence fell, broken by Harry letting out a sigh. “Would you… make the same promise?”
he asked.

“Huh?” Ron’s face screwed up in confusion. “Why would I convince Hermione to go dark?”

Despite himself, Harry laughed. “No, I mean… if Hermione decides that she does want to
declare… or if she just wants to explore the dark arts a bit, you won’t try to talk her out of it.”

To his surprise, Ron didn’t even hesitate before he nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”

Harry smiled. “I promise, too,” he said. “It’s up to her.” He paused before his lips quivered in
amusement. “It’s a bit ridiculous that we’re sitting here talking as if we could convince Hermione
of anything.”

Ron laughed. “That’s true,” he said. “When has she ever listened to either of us?”

“Oh… never.”

Ron’s response was cut off by a jaw-splitting yawn.

“It’s late,” Harry said. With a nod, they both cleaned up the chess set and made their way up the
stairs.

Blaise was waiting for them at the cluster of bedrooms on the landing. “My apologies, Weasley,
but could I borrow Harry for just a bit?”

Harry was faintly surprised to hear Blaise’s now-familiar smarmy tone that he usually reserved for
adults and teachers. Being stuck under the same roof as Ron and his family had evidently resulted
in Blaise deciding he needed to kiss everyone’s arse - even Ron’s.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Blaise’s smile was disgustingly polite. “Draco’s having a bit of a crisis,” he said. “He’s quite
upset.” Harry’s eyes widened in alarm.

Ron rolled his eyes. “And I’m gonna take that as… I’ll see you in the morning, Harry.” He bid
Harry good night and, after a moment’s hesitation, offered Blaise a nod. He slipped into their room,
shutting the door behind him.

Harry quickly made for the door of Draco and Blaise’s room, but Blaise immediately stuck an arm
across the jambs, blocking Harry’s way.
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” he said, his voice turning almost predatory. “That was just an excuse to get
the Weasel out of here.”

“So Draco’s okay?” Harry asked, breathing a sigh of relief.

Blaise gave him a crooked smile. “Well… he is having a crisis, but it’s about the fact that he has to
wear secondhand pajamas that were once worn by a Weasley.” He shook his head. “I know you
want to coddle your boyfriend, but don’t feed into Draco’s pointless tantrums, for Merlin’s sake. It
won’t gain you anything.”

Harry blinked.

“Your boyfriend is a spoiled brat. Don’t encourage him,” Blaise reiterated. “Besides, I have
something far more important to talk to you about.” His smirk morphed into a scowl. He fixed
Harry with an intense stare and pointed up the stairs.

“What?”

“Up!” Blaise hissed. “We need to have a chat in your adorable little library.”

When they reached the library Blaise swiftly shut the door behind them and immediately headed to
the same shelf he’d been perusing earlier. He pulled a book down and shoved it at Harry with a
surprising amount of force.

“The spell you used on Theo’s father,” Blaise said. “Did it come from this book?”

Harry peered down at the book, flipping it around so he could identify it, and he swallowed hard
when he saw it was the same book on soul magicks that Blaise had been looking at when he’d first
entered the library.

Earlier in the day, when he, Draco, Blaise, and Hermione had been standing in the same room
having a conversation about the same book, a tiny voice had started ringing in Harry’s mind,
saying the same thing over and over again. It had been repeating itself to the point of distraction.
He'd finally shoved it from his mind, but Blaise had caused it to come roaring back.

I know you’re going to be a Slytherin like Andromeda…

Andromeda had questioned Harry about Reditus Dolorit and she hadn’t seemed at all happy that
Harry had used a curse like that one.

And as Harry had learned earlier, Lucius Malfoy apparently used soul magicks, which was the
same family of dark arts that Reditus Dolorit was a part of.

I know you’re going to be a Slytherin like Andromeda, not one like Lucius Malfoy.

The inner voice sounded exactly like Sirius, which wasn’t surprising considering Sirius had been
the one to say those exact words to Harry.

“Harry?” Blaise prompted, and Harry realized he’d been staring at the cover of the book without
really seeing it. “Well?”

“No,” Harry said.

Blaise’s shoulders seemed to sag in relief, and for a brief moment, Harry considered leaving the
topic to lie.
Even though Harry had lost count of the number of times he’d been questioned about the curse
he’d used on Nott, it hadn’t bothered him very much. He’d been more annoyed at the questions
themselves than he was alarmed at the fact that he’d put Nott in St Mungo’s.

Harry hadn’t cared. Or he hadn’t cared enough, rather.

But now with Blaise questioning it, Harry found himself stuck in a confusing loop of thoughts
where he found himself worried because he hadn’t been worried enough.

He finally let out a resigned sigh and walked past Blaise, replacing the book on the shelf. “It’s not
from that book,” he said, turning around to face the desk. The book he’d continuously returned to
over the last few days lay open on its worn spine, and he quietly flipped it shut before turning and
handing the book over to Blaise. “It’s from this one.”

Blaise’s eyebrows drew together in concentration as he peered at the book, looking it over before
creaking the cover open. Harry could see the realization dawning on Blaise’s face as he read.

“Merlin’s saggy… tits,” Blaise muttered. “This library has multiple books on…” He eased the
book closed and he fixed Harry with an indecipherable look.

Despite his doubts about using the same kind of magic that Lucius Malfoy evidently favored,
Harry felt his defenses begin to rise. “Blaise, I know you said that this kind of dark arts is taboo,
but -”

“Harry, I don’t really care about it being…” Blaise paused, shaking his head. “What I’m worried
about is that you’re messing with soul magicks without knowing what you’re doing. Do you know
how risky that is?”

“I’m not stupid, Blaise - I studied that spell for a long time! And besides, I’m not messing with
them now,” Harry protested. “It was only the one spell and…” He paused. “How do you know
what kind of magic it was, anyway?”

“Granger told me,” Blaise said. “She said you couldn’t explain the mechanics of it, so I asked her
what it was.”

“You've heard of Reditus Dolorit?” Harry asked. “Andromeda hadn’t even -”

“No, I haven’t heard of it,” Blaise said. “But I’ve been studying dark arts theory since before I had
my own wand. When Granger described it, it sounded very likely that the spell was soul magicks.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“It’s…” Blaise tucked the book under his arm and scrubbed a hand down his face before looking at
Harry with a tired expression. “Something like Cruciatus - that’s a spell that attacks the body. It’s
just pure blunt force, and it’s fueled completely by the caster’s desire to cause pain. You have to
want it. You have to enjoy it.”

“And that sounds much worse than the spell I used!” Harry said insistently. “I don’t want to cause
pain; all I wanted was to stop Nott!”

“A spell that’s centered around the pain that the victim has caused to others can only be drawn
from one place,” Blaise continued, ignoring Harry’s protestations, “and that’s the victim’s soul.”
He emphasized his last word by taking the book back in his hand and thrusting it upwards with a
flourish.
“I can get that causing someone pain in any way is bad,” Harry snapped, tearing the book out of
Blaise’s hand. “But you sound like you would have preferred that it was an Unforgivable instead.”

“I would have!” Blaise said, his voice becoming surprisingly heated. “The Ministry made the
Unforgivables unforgivable, Harry - not dark wizards!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You seriously -”

“I’ll admit that Cruciatus is probably the worst of the Unforgivables since all it’s ever been meant
for is torture, but yes,” Blaise continued, “I would have much preferred that over this kind of
magic!” He pointed down at the book, now in Harry’s white-knuckled grip. “What the in the
fucking name of Morgana’s steaming blue balls were you fucking thinking, Harry?”

Harry’s defensiveness began to turn to anger. He’d seen Neville’s parents, and he’d seen what
Cruciatus could have done to a person. How was that any better than what Harry had done to Nott?
“Then just tell me what’s so wrong with me using that spell!” he snapped. “It’s not like I haven’t
already been asked a million stupid questions about it. Dumbledore and… I wasn’t expecting a
complete shaming from a dark wizard!”

“You’re using soul magicks -“

“So just tell me that, then!” Harry sneered. “You can stop with your stupid lecture. ‘Soul magicks
are evil.’ I get it. I won’t do anymore -“

“They’re not… evil, and that’s not why I’m worried, Harry!” Blaise spat. “I’m worried because
Granger said you couldn’t explain how the spell worked!”

Harry paused, swallowing.

Blaise suddenly scrubbed both of his hands down his face which stretched his cheeks down almost
comically before pressing his palms together and leaning towards Harry. “Do you realize that my
mother is currently in St Mungo’s because she used soul magicks to…” He shook his head. “And
my mother knows what she’s doing! She knows what the risks are. You don’t!”

“I…” Harry sighed, slamming the book down on the desk before creaking it open and flipping to a
familiar page. “I studied it and it… I guess I didn’t know that Theo’s dad would wind up
permanently unconscious, but the only reason he’s like that now is that he’s hurt a lot of people!”
He pointed down at the spell adamantly. “I figured it would be useful when fighting Death Eaters
considering how much pain they’ve caused.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes at Harry, then tugged the chair out from the desk. He plopped down and
leaned over the book, scowling.

“And… it’s not like I was just choosing dark spells at random, Blaise,” Harry continued. “I did
study that one for a while. I’d never actually tried it before. Hell, I’m surprised it even worked.”
He let out a frustrated sigh. “And Hermione… you don’t know her like I do. She always asks
questions that I don’t even understand, so of course, I’m not going to know how to answer -”

“Harry, do shut up,” Blaise said, holding up a hand. “Let me read.”

Harry scowled and turned towards the shelves. His earlier worry abruptly returned in the ensuing
silence. Now he not only was using the same type of dark arts favored by Lucius Malfoy but also
Jeyne Zabini - both renowned blood purists. Oddly, having something in common with them was
bothering Harry far more than Blaise’s concern.
Blaise, he felt, was underestimating him.

As his eyes traced over many now-familiar titles, he began to grow more and more irritated. He
could respect the fact that Blaise had been studying the dark arts for far longer than Harry had, but
it wasn’t as if Harry was completely ignorant. He felt he had thoroughly studied the spell the
previous summer once he realized what it was supposed to do, and he’d spent days practicing the
wand movement. He thought it might come in handy against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and
it had.

So what if he couldn’t explain exactly how the spell worked? It wasn’t as if he could explain the
exact ins and outs of how Wingardium Leviosa worked, either.

Harry heard the chair creaking behind him, and he turned to face Blaise, crossing his arms.
“Well?” he asked dourly. “Satisfied?”

Blaise had his elbows propped on the desk, and he slowly clasped his fingers together and then
rested his forehead against them, eyes slipping shut. “You’re very lucky, Harry,” he said softly.

“How?”

Blaise heaved out a sigh and he seemed to almost melt into his folded hands. “Soul magicks almost
always take a piece of you with them.” He sat back, looking pained as he did it, and he finally met
Harry’s eyes with a weary expression. “And I mean a piece of you. Not a physical piece, but a part
of who you are. They can… scar you.”

Harry’s lips twitched against his will. He was already scarred, after all.

“My mother… she used to be different when she was younger.” Harry could see Blaise’s throat bob
as he swallowed hard. “Many husbands later, she’s… different.” He paused, and his eyes started
drifting away from Harry, seemingly staring sightlessly at the wall. “And now I feel like I’m
waiting to see how much she’s changed again after using this type of magic… again.” He shook
his head. “I don’t know what kind of person I’m getting after she gets out of St Mungo’s.”

“What do you mean?”

Blaise gave Harry a quick glance, then shook his head. He slowly, quietly closed the book and ran
his fingers across the cover. “She’s just different from how she used to be.” His voice was soft.

Harry frowned. “But you said I was… lucky?” he asked.

Blaise offered him what seemed like half of a nod, his lips turned downward. “Yeah,” he said. “It
looks like this spell is completely focused on the person you’re casting it on, which is… rare for
this kind of magic.”

Harry felt a little unsettled at Blaise’s unusually severe demeanor. It didn’t feel like Blaise.

And then out of nowhere, it suddenly, finally, and somewhat inappropriately occurred to Harry
that Blaise hadn’t actually laughed a single time since coming to Grimmauld. Blaise was almost
always laughing - sometimes far too much.

“Blaise?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

Eyes drifting back towards Harry, Blaise gave him a smile, but it was melancholy and haunting. It
looked completely out of place on the boy who loved to laugh.
“No.”

***

Blaise swiftly shut down the topic after that, instead choosing to declare that he needed Harry’s
help with something else. He beckoned Harry to follow him as he disappeared through the library
doorway.

As they descended the narrow stairs, Harry kept glancing at the tense set of Blaise’s shoulders.
He’d seen his friend get tightly wound before, but this quiet distress wasn’t anything like the
erratic storm that had been Blaise during their O.W.L.s.

Harry chose not to prod. Blaise’s mother was still in St Mungo’s, and it was clear that despite the
occasional misgivings Blaise had expressed about his mother in the past, he clearly still cared for
her.

Harry supposed that Blaise’s pensiveness was well deserved. After all, Blaise had also lost his
home along with nearly everything he owned; the only things spared were his wand and the clothes
on his back.

After they reunited with Draco, Blaise was, with an air of disdain, staring down at clothes provided
to him by Molly Weasley.

“Like a charity case… a common…” Draco was muttering from the other side of the room.

Harry glanced back and forth between the two of them. The whole scene seemed vaguely
ridiculous: two rich Slytherins who had just gone through a life-threatening attack were behaving
as if wearing second-hand clothes was the end of the world.

Until he joined Slytherin, nearly all of Harry’s wardrobe had been second-hand. His friends seemed
so distressed that he felt like he should have had some sympathy, but it just wasn’t materializing.

“Pansy never hears of this,” Draco suddenly declared defiantly. “Do you both understand me? If
you dare -”

“Oh, for Merlin’s… shut up, Draco.” Blaise bit out, turning to give him a fiery glare. “You know
your mother will find a way to retrieve some of your posh clothes from Malfoy Manor by
tomorrow.”

“But that’s not until tomorrow!” Draco whined.

“It’s one bleeding night, you pointy, spoon-fed git.”

“No,” Draco said adamantly, shaking his head so quickly that it was nearly a blur. “I’m not
wearing them. I’ll sleep naked if I have to.”

“You are not sleeping naked,” Blaise replied blandly. “I’m not waking up to your pasty arse.”

Draco turned to Harry with a look of desperation. “Harry, please tell me you have something I can
wear.“

Harry couldn't resist the urge for more than a moment; he started laughing. He knew that it wasn’t
the greatest idea to laugh at Draco’s turmoil, but he couldn’t help it. Draco was being ridiculous.

Draco’s face fell and Harry wondered when he’d begun to find certain aspects of Draco’s inherent
brattiness cute… and he started laughing harder.

“Can you please put your overly-dramatic dilemma aside for five minutes, Draco?” Blaise asked,
ignoring Harry’s partial hysterics. “We have something far more important to discuss.”

Harry managed to get his laughter under control, glancing at Blaise.

“Such as?” Draco asked.

“Such as how to get Mother Weasley to soften up to us a bit,” Blaise responded. “I’m fairly certain
that she’s got the power to eject us from this house at any moment.”

Harry blinked. “What?” he asked.

Draco’s distress softened to a pout, and he sat down heavily on one of the beds with a
melodramatic sigh. “Right. Dumbledore made that very clear.”

Harry felt a mild spike of irritation run through him but it dissipated nearly as quickly as it had
appeared. Even though Grimmauld Place was Sirius’s house, it was understandable that someone -
an adult - still needed to make day-to-day decisions. It made sense that Mrs. Weasley would turn
out to be that person, and he knew it wasn’t just because she had worked so hard to make it livable
again.

Besides, Harry reasoned, Dumbledore giving Mrs. Weasley that power was the only reason she
hadn’t flighted Ron and Ginny out of the presence of dark wizards. Harry had just gotten his friend
back and he was grateful that Ron was able to stay.

He knew Mrs. Weasley well enough to know that she was far more likely to remove her own
children from the presence of dark wizards than she was to eject other children onto the street -
even if those children were dark wizards, themselves.

He told Draco and Blaise that exact sentiment. “Besides,” he added, “she's let me stay.”

“She didn’t throw you out, but she’s got a prior attachment to you, Harry,” Draco said. “Not to
mention Dumbledore likely wouldn’t allow it. We don’t have that guarantee.”

Harry sighed.

“She clearly isn’t a fan of anything to do with dark arts, and she knows that we’re dark wizards,
right?” Blaise continued, glancing at Harry for confirmation, who nodded. “So how are we going
to get on her good side?”

“It’s impossible,” Draco replied. “At least for me. Malfoys and Weasleys have had it in for each
other for centuries.”

“Why is that?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “Who knows?” he said, and then his upper lip curled in disgust. “And who cares?
All I know is that the Weasleys have been trying to land every Malfoy in Azkaban for at least two
centuries.” He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s any point in even trying, Blaise. We’ll just
have to stay out of her way.”

“You and I both know that’s a terrible plan, Draco,” Blaise said tiredly.

Draco groaned and threw himself backward on the bed, arms outstretched at either side. “I don’t
want to get a Weasley to like me. And I wouldn’t even know where to start if I did.”

“I bet Harry does,” Blaise said, leaning up against the door before fixing Harry with a pointed look.
“Well?”

Harry stared back in confusion but only for a moment; he quickly realized exactly what Blaise was
looking for. “Death Eaters killed her brothers in a really terrible way, and she seems to blame all
dark wizards for what happened to them,” he said. “And she’s very protective of her children -
fiercely protective, really.” He sighed, crossing his arms. “She values family above everything
else.”

There was a beat of silence before Draco propped himself up on his elbows and shot Harry a
wicked smile. “Why, Potter,” he purred. “I’ve had almost an entire year to get used to the idea of
you being a Slytherin, but you just keep surprising me.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Appeal to her sense of family,” he continued quietly. “That
might do the trick.” He felt odd. He had a bizarre sense of pride at Draco’s compliment, but there
was also an undercurrent of guilt at how easily he was giving Blaise and Draco the tools they
needed in order to manipulate Molly Weasley.

It wasn’t truly manipulation, Harry reasoned. He just wanted to make peace with her. It apparently
just took the encouragement of his Slytherin friends to remind him that going about it in a
calculated fashion was probably wise.

Mrs. Weasley had been something of a surrogate mother to him since his first year. Even when
he’d been resorted to Slytherin, she’d still defended him to Sirius. The cold shoulder she’d been
giving Harry since he’d revealed his use of the dark arts stung Harry more than he wanted to admit.

If Blaise and Draco could figure out a way to get her to warm up to dark wizards, then Harry was
all for it - no matter the means.

“Family, hmm? Difficult angle, but not impossible,” Blaise mused. “Between the two of us I’m
undeniably more charming, but considering all the history between Weasleys and Malfoys, I think
Draco buttering her up would have more weight to it…”

***

Having Draco and Blaise back in his vicinity was more of a comfort than Harry had expected it
would be.

When he joined Slytherin it had taken him months to get used to their constant scheming, but now
he found himself almost joyfully taking part in the planning. Even the trickle of guilt he felt about
the scheme in question seemed to quickly evaporate, leaving his focus solely on the task at hand.

He spent much of the night with his friends. They plotted and planned how to live with the
Weasleys, even though Draco appeared as if he wanted to die the entire conversation.

Harry again expressed repentance for drawing them into a war and again was rebuked for his
apologies. Blaise reminded Harry that he’d come of his own free will, which was more of a choice
than Harry himself had ever had.

And in the early hours of the morning, when Grimmauld Place was completely overtaken by a
dead, sleepy silence, Harry informed them that he’d come to a decision - after Sirius’s trial, he
would tell the wizarding world that he was a dark wizard.
Draco seemed to run a full gamut of emotions - first terrified, then thrilled, next hesitant, and
finally resolved to ensure that Harry had all the support he would need.

Blaise, on the other hand, just seemed oddly smug - almost as if he’d been expecting that outcome
for a while.

When Harry finally returned to his own room, Ron was long asleep. As Harry sank into his own
bed, the occasional snore that erupted from Ron’s side of the room made him smile.

He had his first friend back. He had his new friends with him safe and sound, and he had a gut
feeling that Blaise would eventually find his way back to his humor. He also knew that no matter
what, he would find a way to save Sirius from Azkaban.

Even as terrifying as the future felt, he fell asleep with an oddly optimistic sentiment about what
that terrifying future might bring.

***

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed as she appeared at the head of the stairs. “You’re awake
already!”

Harry’s head swiveled towards her and he fought down a blush of shame. Even though he knew
Hermione wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what they were up to, he also knew very well that she
wouldn’t approve.

“Um, morning,” he greeted, feeling rather dumb.

“Good morning!” Hermione shot Blaise a sideways glance. “And good morning, Zabini,” she
continued, sounding far more reserved.

Blaise, finger still held up to his ear, spared her an oddly wide-eyed stare before raising his free
hand in salutation.

Hermione thankfully didn’t seem to notice Blaise’s odd pose. “I meant to ask you earlier, Harry,
but I suppose I’ve been…” Hermione paused, pursing her lips. “...distracted.”

“What’s up?” Harry asked.

“I was wondering if I could borrow Hedwig,” Hermione said. “I was hoping to send Greengrass
some of the Muggle biology books I brought with me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a deep scowl appear on Blaise’s face. Would Blaise and
Draco ever get over their dislike of Muggle things?

“Of course,” Harry replied, cheerfully ignoring Blaise. “She’s in Sirius’s room. She’ll be grateful
to get out.”

“Thank you!” Hermione beamed at him. “Greengrass has some really interesting ideas about
combining Muggle science with wizarding magic, and…” She paused, smiling. “Well, I wanted to
give her more material to work with.”

She turned towards Sirius’s room before glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at breakfast, I
suppose.”

Harry let out a relieved sigh as Hermione retrieved Hedwig and disappeared into her own bedroom.
He turned back towards Blaise, who was just plucking the flesh-colored string out of his ear.

“It’s time to make an appearance,” Blaise said, gathering up the Extendable Ear and stuffing it into
his pocket. “Draco hasn’t completely blown it yet.” Harry nodded and led the way down to the
first floor.

“… you have no reason to believe me, or even accept it,” Draco was saying as they turned the
corner and entered the dining room, “but I did want to express my gratitude for taking me and my
mother in. Death Eaters tried to kill us, and they almost certainly would have kept trying until they
succeeded.”

Mrs. Weasley appeared to have no idea what to make of Draco Malfoy saying ‘thank you’ to her.

Unfortunately, she also didn’t look like she was buying it at all. That was okay, Harry reasoned -
they’d come up with a few different lines they could try, after all - but he thought it might have to
do with the fact that Draco sounded rather cold.

Draco was seemingly incapable of letting go of old family rivalries - not even for a brief moment.

“You didn’t have to allow us to come here,” Blaise said, stepping forward. “I know you didn’t.
And I know you aren’t comfortable with… people like us.”

“‘People like you,’” Mrs. Weasley repeated flatly, frowning.

Blaise took a deep, shaky breath, and Harry silently marveled at Blaise’s acting. This wasn’t
anything like his usual oily way of sucking up to teachers. “Dark wizards, ma’am,” he said quietly.

It then occurred to Harry that Blaise’s nervousness might not have entirely been an act. After all,
dark wizards didn’t usually admit what they were to anyone who wasn’t dark themselves.

“I know a lot of dark wizards out there have done really terrible things,” Blaise continued. “There’s
no denying that. I just… I hope you’ll come to realize that we’re not all like that.”

Mrs. Weasley’s gaze hardened as she very deliberately slid her eyes over to Draco. Harry internally
sighed. All Malfoys had a reputation for being the worst of the worst, he supposed.

This didn’t seem to be going well.

Mrs. Weasley finally responded. “It’s possible that I’ll come to see that eventually,” she said, and
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment before she continued. “But even if there are…
‘decent’ dark wizards out there, the dark arts themselves have only ever been used for causing
pain.”

“That isn’t true, though,” Harry said, unable to help himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
Blaise shoot him a warning glance for going off-script.

“My mother saved all of our lives by using the dark arts,” Blaise said, clearly trying to rein Harry
back in before he said something stupid. “She protected her family with the dark arts. If she hadn’t
-“

“From what I could understand, she saved your lives by killing your attackers,” Mrs. Weasley said,
pursing her lips. “And I know what war is like, so sometimes that’s inevitable… but all that proves
is that the dark arts are a terrible weapon for someone to hold.”

“But they're not just a weapon, though," Harry replied. "All magic can be terrible… and just like
the rest of magic, the dark arts can also be beautiful."

“How can they be beautiful?” Mrs. Weasley asked scornfully.

Before Harry could even open his mouth to respond, an unexpected voice answered her. “The dark
can give us gifts that others take for granted.” Harry spun towards the doorway with a wide-eyed
gaze.

He had no idea how Narcissa Malfoy had managed to approach so quietly.

“It may be something that you would never be able to understand. After all, you have been blessed
with many children,” Mrs. Malfoy continued. “But I have only had the one.” She looked down at
Draco with a fond, wistful expression before fixing Mrs. Weasley with a hard look. “And I could
not have had him without the dark’s assistance.”

Harry stared at her in shock. He knew the story, of course, but he never expected Mrs. Malfoy to
open up to Mrs. Weasley with something like this. He shot a glance at Draco and Blaise,
wondering if either of them had asked Mrs. Malfoy to play a part in this conversation, but they both
seemed just as surprised as Harry.

Mrs. Weasley also looked a little startled at Mrs. Malfoy’s appearance, but she finally responded,
“How’s that?”

Mrs. Malfoy paused before answering. “I was unable to conceive. Luc…” She paused. “We had
been trying for years.” She reached down and brushed one of Draco’s fine, light locks behind his
ear. “I turned to the dark for help, and the dark gave us the child we’d been hoping for.”

After a beat of stony silence, Mrs. Weasley said, “And what did it cost you?”

Harry felt a little appalled at her question, but Mrs. Malfoy merely nodded. “You are correct that
some forms of dark rituals do require a sacrifice, but the dark is also not unfair or unforgiving,” she
said. “The cost was my own blood, and it was nothing that I couldn’t recover from.”

Mrs. Weasley still looked suspicious, but Mrs. Malfoy didn’t give her a chance to respond.

“I know that the dark arts have been used to cause an unfathomable amount of death,” she said.
“When the dark arts are only permitted in times of war, it certainly makes them seem as if that’s all
they’re good for.” She again peered down at Draco with an unreadable expression before she
continued in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “But they can also give life. They gave me
my son.”

Mrs. Weasley now looked more stunned than suspicious, and Harry’s astonishment continued
increasing. Mrs. Malfoy had to have somehow known about the conversation they’d been planning
on having with Mrs. Weasley. There wasn’t any other explanation as to why she seemed to know
that appealing to Mrs. Weasley’s sense of family was the best possible angle to play.

Or it was possible that she just knew exactly what needed to be said in order to diffuse the situation.

Must run in the family, Harry thought absently. It appeared that she and Andromeda resembled one
another more than he’d first thought.

Mrs. Malfoy placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “And I need to borrow my son for a short time,”
she said. “It is time we have a long-overdue conversation.”

Somehow Draco’s pale face seemed to grow even paler, but he nodded. He shot Harry a distressed
look before he followed his mother out of the room.

Blaise and Harry exchanged glances, and Harry swallowed. He knew that Draco and his mother
hadn’t been speaking and that it was high time they did, but he didn’t know enough about Narcissa
Malfoy to even begin to imagine how that conversation would go.

And he didn’t know what it was like to need to make amends with a mother… except, of course,
for Molly Weasley.

He looked back to Mrs. Weasley, a tentative determination flooding into him. He had to make it
right.

To his surprise, Mrs. Weasley still appeared astounded rather than angry.

As she turned her astonished look to Harry he could tell that she wasn’t all the way there yet - there
was still more than a hint of apprehension - but something in her steely demeanor had finally
cracked.

He swallowed and offered her a tentative smile. “Can I… can I help you make breakfast?” he
asked. “It’s been a while since I cooked, but… I’m not bad.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened, but she nodded. “Of course, Harry,” she said quietly before heading
into the kitchen.

Just before Harry could follow her, Blaise grabbed him by the elbow. “Mind your tongue, and keep
your temper,” he hissed quietly in Harry’s ear. “Try to be the… charming little boy that she
pseudo-adopted back in first year or something -“

Harry shook Blaise off, shooting him an annoyed look.

Mrs. Weasley was setting a tray of eggs on the counter when Harry entered. “I think eggy toast
might be a fine way to start today, don’t you?” she asked. She stared at him for a moment, looking
as if she wanted to smile, but she didn’t.

“Sure,” Harry said. “I’ll… uh… get the eggs ready.”

“Sausage will be nice, too,” Mrs. Weasley mused. As Harry began cracking the eggs, she shuffled
around the kitchen, pulling pans and spoons and bread from the cupboards.

Harry knew what he had to say and he didn’t want to. It just felt so deeply wrong to use his dead
family as a sympathy card.

But it was what they’d planned.

Any means.

“Mrs. Weasley…” He paused in his tapping an egg on the side of the bowl. “My mother used the
dark arts, too,” he said quietly. “She wasn’t a dark witch, but she’s where I got… my affinity
from.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Weasley freeze before finally turning towards him.
Harry felt as if it was the first time she’d truly looked him in the eye since that awkward,
uncomfortable conversation in the sitting room.

“Are you saying…” Mrs. Weasley paused, spatula held in a white-knuckled grip. “Lily Potter…?
Harry…” She shook her head. "That can't be true."

“I don’t have any… indisputable proof, but I have a lot of reasons to know it’s true,” Harry said,
swallowing. “My mother had a dark affinity, and she used the dark arts to save me… and to defeat
Voldemort.” He then brought the eggshell down on the edge of the bowl harder than was likely
necessary, and the crack reverberated across the tiny kitchen. “I had nothing to do with it. She’s the
one who beat him… but no one - light or dark or anyone in between - seems like they’re willing to
admit it.” He was surprised that the words were spilling from his lips so easily, but he quickly
realized why.

Harry turned to face her fully then, and all at once, all the thoughts of manipulating Mrs. Weasley
or steering her in their favor went out of his mind. He didn’t care. At that moment, he just wanted
someone to acknowledge what his mother had done.

But to his dismay, Mrs. Weasley was shaking her head. “I don’t believe it. Lily wouldn’t -”

“But she did,” Harry said desperately. He paused, his breath catching in his throat. “She used her
own death as a blood sacrifice. You won’t accept it because it means she used the dark arts. And…
and the dark community won’t accept it because she was Muggleborn.”

Mrs. Weasley remained silent.

“My parents are gone, and it’s Voldemort’s fault. I know that Voldemort terrorized everyone using
the dark arts, but my mother using the dark arts is what finally stopped him.” He paused, taking in
a deep breath. “And even if I told everyone, nobody will want to recognize what she did,” he
continued. “And…” He swallowed. “And that hurts more than I…” He cut himself off, shaking his
head. “Nobody wants to see her for what she really was ‘cuz it doesn’t match the version of her
they have in their heads… and it… it….”

Mrs. Weasley still had nothing to say in response, and Harry grew frustrated.

Draco was right. It was impossible. Harry threw the broken eggshell in the sink with a bit too much
force, and he shook his head, turning towards the door. “Forget it,” he muttered.

But Mrs. Weasley quickly stopped him before he could leave, wrapping her arms around Harry’s
shoulders in a tight embrace, and he stiffened in surprise.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” Mrs. Weasley said quietly. “Or what you think is the truth,
anyway…”

“It is the truth!” Harry spat, pushing himself away from Mrs. Weasley and fixing a scathing glare
on her. “Just like I said - nobody wants to believe it!”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened at Harry’s clear fury, and Harry tried to rein in his anger. Blaise was
right - it wouldn’t do to unleash his temper on her. He took a deep breath, clenching a fist.

“How do you know this, though?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “You were far too young to remember…
oh, Harry.” She let out a horrified gasp. “Please tell me you don’t remember that night. What you
could have seen…”

Harry’s eyes widened and his anger began to slip away. He wasn’t expecting her concern.

“Harry? How do you know?” Mrs. Weasley repeated gently. “You said you didn’t have proof, but
you said you know it’s true. How?”
He also wasn’t expecting her willingness to listen.

Harry swallowed nervously and chose his words carefully. “I… had a vision of Godric's Hollow
from… that night,” he said. “And I know it was real.” He chose not to say that it was the dark that
had given him that vision. A lie by omission was better than an outright lie, after all. It had to be.

Mrs. Weasley appeared horrified. “You… you saw… James and Lily when they…” She let out a
strangled sound.

Harry shook his head. “No. I didn’t see them,” he said. “But I know it was that night, and there
was… a symbol.” He paused, taking a breath. “And I found that same symbol in a book about
blood sacrifices. It’s called the Primum Cor.”

To his shock, Mrs. Weasley just nodded at him to continue, and Mrs. Weasley’s astonishment
seemed to grow as he explained what the Primum Cor did, how it worked, and how it was likely
the only spell known that could have saved Harry from an Avada Kedavra.

When he finished, Mrs. Weasley just stared at him with what seemed like pure awe.

“When someone says that the dark arts are… just… pure destruction and that nothing good can
come of them,” he said, “it hurts every time.” He swallowed. “And I know that even the spell that
my mother used was still technically destructive, but… that’s not all the dark does. It’s really not.”

Mrs. Weasley’s jaw lifted just slightly. “What else can the dark arts do, then?” she asked, and
Harry’s eyes widened. Was she really ready to listen?

“On the night that I declared for the dark…” Harry ignored the sharp intake of breath from Mrs.
Weasley and continued. “My friends performed rites of protection for me,” Harry said. “And when
we were in the Ministry, that protection helped me.”

“How?”

“The dark warned me that the Death Eaters were there, and later…” Harry closed his eyes. He
didn’t want to see her reaction to what he was about to say. “Voldemort… got in my head. The dark
helped me push him out.”

When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Weasley had covered her mouth with her hand, horror evident on
her face. “You-Know-Who was in your… oh, Merlin…”

“And he hasn’t been back since,” Harry said firmly. “All the issues I was having last year… I don’t
think they’ll be a problem anymore, and it’s all thanks to the dark.”

Mrs. Weasley dropped her hand. She looked at him for a long moment, and Harry wished he could
tell what she was thinking.

“I’ll take care of the rest of breakfast myself,” she finally said, and Harry’s heart sank. She seemed
to spot Harry’s shoulders drooping, and to his surprise, she closed the distance between them,
gathering him back in her arms. “You’ve given me a few things to think about, Harry,” she said
quietly, “and I do all my best thinking while I cook.”

When she drew back, her expression was the softest he’d seen from her since he’d arrived at
Grimmauld Place.

“So you’re… okay?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“No,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Far from it. But… it appears that I need to consider a few things.” She
offered him a sad smile. “Run along. I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

Harry nodded and left the kitchen feeling a bit bewildered and disappointed. He’d clearly made
some sort of progress there, but it still didn’t feel like it was nearly enough.

But it was far better than where they’d stood before, he supposed.

Blaise wasn’t in the dining room anymore, so Harry decided to head for the library. He wouldn’t
be able to hear when breakfast was ready, but surely someone would come and find him.

But just as he hit the bottom of the stairs, he overheard a harsh voice coming from down the hall -
the tapestry room, where Sirius’s broken and burnt family tree resided on the wall.

“You know as well as I do that Potter becoming a part of the dark community is a boon.”

Harry’s eyes widened at Mrs. Malfoy’s words. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but once he heard
his name he couldn’t help himself. He pressed himself against the wall, willing his breath to be
silent.

He momentarily regretted not taking part in the Invisible Ears fad that had swept through Slytherin
in the previous year, or that he had completed Andromeda's ‘enhanced hearing’ ritual.

“But by serving as his peer, I thought you meant to bring Potter to our side,” Mrs. Malfoy
continued. “I thought you would have educated him… as a Black peer is meant to! You should
have been enlightening him to the cause of the Dark Lord!”

An angry flush climbed Harry’s neck at the words. Was that the real reason why Narcissa Malfoy
had been so interested in him on Yule?

"Instead, it seems that you betrayed us. You joined Albus Dumbledore and his blood traitors -”

“I joined Harry, Mother,” Draco responded. Harry could hear his voice shaking. “I would never
join Dumbledore.”

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest, and he was unsure if it was because of the rushing adrenaline
from doing something he knew he shouldn’t have been doing, or if it was due to Draco’s words.

“And yet we are now trapped among Dumbledore’s people,” Mrs. Malfoy hissed. “My own
family’s ancestral home... packed full of blood traitors and Mudbloods. The sheer disrespect of that
man…” Harry narrowed his eyes at her words but still didn’t make his presence known.

“Their headquarters being here is how Harry discovered the dark!” Draco said. “They did us a
favor, in a way -”

“Draco!” Mrs. Malfoy’s voice came out as a harsh whisper. “How could you have allowed this boy
to change you so much?”

“He didn’t change me, Mother! He just…” Harry heard Draco sigh. “He made me see that we
might have a choice.”

“A choice of what?” Mrs. Malfoy snapped.

There was a pause, and then Harry had to strain to hear Draco’s quiet response. “Father wanted me
to take the mark. And I didn’t… I don’t want to be a Death Eater, Mother. The Dark Lord…
he’s…”

Draco trailed off, and the silence stretched out for so long that Harry thought Mrs. Malfoy may
have cast a silencing spell, but he finally heard her say quietly, “He’s unstable.”

“Yes, and -”

“Regardless, the Dark Lord will bring about everything this family stands for, Draco!” Mrs.
Malfoy snapped. “He will allow the dark community to step out of hiding, and he will finally rid
the wizarding world of those filthy Mudbloods!” Harry heard her let out a disgusted noise. “And
you… your actions have resulted in our family not being able to take part in that future!”

“Mother, I -”

“Draco, tell me the truth,” Mrs. Malfoy continued. “Are you truly with them now? Is my only son
a… a blood traitor?”

“No!” Draco immediately insisted. "They disgust me."

Harry’s stomach sank.

“But Harry proves that half-bloods can be a part of the dark!” Draco continued, and it startled
Harry. “You always told me that it was impossible - that only purebloods could have an affinity for
the dark!”

“There has never been an exception to that before -”

“But there clearly have been exceptions… like Harry, “ Draco responded. “And… like the Dark
Lord.”

Harry's skin crawled at the comparison between himself and Voldemort, but he was distracted by a
sharp intake of breath. “Draco, how dare you -”

“It’s true!” Draco said insistently. “The Dark Lord is a half-blood. His father was a Muggle. Not
even a Mudblood - a filthy Muggle!”

Harry closed his eyes. He supposed that while Draco had made a promise to him that he wouldn’t
use that slur around him, he’d made no such promises about not using it at all.

It still stung. He knew very well that Draco still held onto his thoughts of blood status; he didn’t
know why he could expect otherwise. Draco may have told Harry that his thoughts had been
evolving somewhat, but Harry still couldn’t expect him to let go of everything he’d been taught
overnight. It had been drilled into him since birth, after all.

“You shouldn’t spread such treacherous rumors, Draco -”

“It’s not a rumor!” Draco said. “And besides… Harry himself should be proof that witches and
wizards that aren’t purebloods can have a dark affinity!”

“That’s already known, Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy said.

After a beat, Draco said incredulously, “Then why did you always tell me that they couldn’t?”

“Because we don’t speak of such things, Draco!” Mrs. Malfoy spat. “We know they exist, but…”

“Like who?” Draco asked.

Mrs. Malfoy heaved out a noisy sigh. “Severus.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Professor Snape?” Draco said in disbelief. “Professor Snape is a half-blood?”

“And we don’t speak of that in polite company, Draco. It's disrespectful to Severus to bring up his
degraded blood.” Mrs. Malfoy paused. “And even if what you say about the Dark Lord is true,
that’s also -”

“But that means… that means you lied to me my whole life about what was true!” Before Mrs.
Malfoy could interrupt, Draco plowed on. “The Dark Lord… and Harry - they’re both half-bloods
and they’re both incredibly powerful!”

“You dare compare a mere boy’s power to the power of the Dark -”

“Harry fought back a dozen Death Eaters all on his own!” Draco said. “Including Aunt Bellatrix
and Father!”

“That’s right, Draco. Potter fought against your Father,” Mrs. Malfoy said bitterly. “And you
fought at Potter’s side… against your Father!”

Draco fell silent and Mrs. Malfoy continued.

“Your decisions have resulted in your father facing life in Azkaban, and sent us fleeing from those
who should be our allies,” she said. “And you did it without consulting us!”

“Mother, I’m sorry…” Draco trailed off before continuing. “You… are you saying that if I had
simply asked first this would have been… acceptable to you? I don’t believe that. Father would
have never -”

“At the very least we could have prevented your father from being arrested!” Mrs. Malfoy snapped.
“We could have figured something out as a family, Draco!”

“But Father wants Harry to die!"

“Your father didn’t know the boy was dark!” Mrs. Malfoy said harshly. “Your father couldn’t
attend the Yule gathering, so I couldn’t tell him. But you… you witnessed his affinity rite. You
spent the entire year with him, watching him walk the dark path. And yet you still said nothing.”

“How would that have made a difference?”

“Your father has always valued any person who is a part of the dark community. I know he would
value each and every single one of them even if that person turns out to be Harry Potter.” Mrs.
Malfoy said Harry’s name like it was a curse. “And Potter is young. If he survives what’s to come,
he will eventually come to see that the Dark Lord is the only answer for us!”

Fat chance, Harry thought bitterly.

“No, he won’t,” Draco said quietly. “The Dark Lord killed his parents, and Harry is too attached
to…”

“To what, Draco?” Mrs. Malfoy spat. “The filthy Muggles and Mudbloods?”

Draco didn’t respond.

 “Andromeda told me that the boy is intending on fighting for the rights of the dark community,”
Mrs. Malfoy continued. “That he is planning on using his name to make the wizarding world see
that the persecution of the dark is wrong and immoral. That is the only reason I could even begin
to… to forgive you.”

Harry jerked, startled. Andromeda had told Mrs. Malfoy what he was planning on doing?

“But you still allowed this boy to tear our family apart.”

Draco remained silent, and Harry’s eyes slid shut. A void yawned open in his stomach at the
words.

“Draco…” Mrs. Malfoy’s voice cracked and it sent an unexpected chill running down Harry’s
spine. “After his trial… we will likely never see your father again.”

The raw mourning running through Mrs. Malfoy’s voice was what finally convinced Harry to
leave. He couldn’t hear anymore.

When he hit the stairs he ran up to the library, but even the usual relief he would feel upon entering
his sanctuary wasn’t enough to calm his crawling skin.

He knew he wouldn’t allow himself to feel actual guilt over Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban. He had
embraced Voldemort’s ideology to the fullest; he’d murdered Muggles and Muggleborns. That man
deserved to be there, and Harry knew it to his core.

But Harry also knew that it had left a gaping void in Mrs. Malfoy and Draco’s lives - she without a
husband, and he without a father. Even as bigoted as Mrs. Malfoy was, the pain he’d heard in her
voice kept ringing in Harry’s mind.

Harry found his knees weakening, and he let them go out from under him, sinking to the floor.

Draco’s father was gone, and it was Harry’s fault.

Chapter End Notes

Feel free to stop by my Tumblr.

 Sing Part of the Scream, Believe
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry couldn’t bring himself to go to breakfast, instead choosing to distract himself by cleaning up
the mess in the library. Blaise later brought him a plate of eggy toast with an air of intense
annoyance.

“Draco and Narcissa and you all failed to show up for our first meal with the Weasleys,” he
sneered. “Do you have any idea how awkward that was?”

“Did anything happen?” Harry asked.

“No,” Blaise said. “It was just near complete silence, aside from the sound of the Weasel
chewing.” After a disgusted shudder, Blaise joined him, curling up in the corner and the two of
them read in companionable silence.

When Draco finally came into the library just before lunchtime, Blaise dutifully excused himself
with a sigh, making a snarky comment about how he wished they would take their alone time
anywhere else but the most interesting room in Grimmauld Place.

When the door shut behind him Harry met Draco’s eyes, but he realized that he had absolutely no
idea what he could say.

And, it seemed, Draco had the same loss of words.

They still managed to make idle conversation, but it was nothing of substance. They chatted about
a few of the books in the library, how they thought Quidditch would go in the upcoming year, and
when they thought Blaise’s mother might be released from St Mungo’s.

They didn’t dare approach the sticky topics of blood purity or of Draco’s father. Neither one of
them seemed to know how to begin the conversation, and the unspoken words hung between them
like a limp balloon.

***

On Thursday morning, Harry rose early enough that he thought he’d be ready and waiting before
Andromeda even arrived, but he’d barely finished breakfast when she swept into the dining room.
She looked unusually grim as she and Mrs. Weasley exchanged curt greetings. Harry swallowed
his last bite of toast and followed her into the hallway.

“Thank you for being ready with appropriate dress,” Andromeda said. She pulled him towards her
and immediately began running her fingers through his hair. “We should be leaving soon;
Marshall’s time is strained this morning.”
Harry glanced up at her, a bit startled by her trepidation.

Andromeda frowned at his unruly hair, which, despite Pansy’s hair potion, was refusing to do as
she commanded. “You will stay by my side,” she said sharply. “Take care of who you speak to and
what you say. If anyone questions you, remember that you do not have to answer.”

“What’s going on?” Harry asked curiously. “I thought we’d just be meeting Mr. Fawley at his
office in Diagon.”

Andromeda shook her head. “He sent me an owl this morning informing me that he’s being
waylaid at the Ministry. We will be meeting him there, instead.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He understood why Andromeda seemed so concerned; he wasn’t expecting
to have to show his face in the Ministry before the trial.

“Sirius is still being held at the Ministry, right?” he asked eagerly. “Will we get to see him?”

Andromeda shook her head. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “The only reason we’re going there is
that Marshall is in the middle of some other litigation and won’t have the time to meet at his
office.” She offered him a look of sympathy. “I am sorry, Harry. I know you miss Sirius.” Then she
smiled. “But with any luck, you’ll get to see him soon… and with him being a free man.”

Harry sighed but nodded.

“We should be off,” Andromeda said, offering her arm. “Hang on tight.”

Apparating with Andromeda was even more unpleasant than it was with Dumbledore, and he
nearly doubled over when they landed. Spying the grimace on his face, Andromeda peered at him
in amusement. “It’s easier as you get older,” she quipped. “And I apologize for the rough ride. I’ve
never been very talented with side-along.”

Harry nodded, attempting to compose himself.

Andromeda, with her inherent elegance and ornate dress, seemed to glow in the streets of Muggle
London. It almost felt wrong that so many people walked right past them without sparing her a
glance. “Come along,” she said, setting off with a click of her heel.

Harry trotted at her side and squinted at her out of the corner of his eye. As grateful as he was for
all of her help, the thoughts that had been plaguing him for two days straight wouldn’t fade. Now
that he was finally out of Grimmauld’s walls, the question bubbled out of him.

“Does… does your sister really believe that Muggles and Muggleborns should…” he paused,
suddenly feeling as if his original choice of words was too harsh. “Does she really want them…
gone?”

Andromeda’s pace slowed as she frowned at him. “It’s… complicated.”

Harry scowled. “I don’t think it’s complicated at all,” he said. “She’s just… wrong.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Andromeda said quickly. “And even I have a hard time comprehending
what she truly believes… even though I once believed the same.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief, his mouth falling open. Andromeda had once believed in pureblood
superiority? “You… you mean…”
“Does that surprise you, Harry?” she asked. “It shouldn’t. Sirius has told you of how firmly the
Black family believed in the purity of blood, has he not?”

Harry blinked. Sirius told him that he’d been unusual for not subscribing to the old Black motto.
He supposed he’d just assumed that Andromeda had always been the same. “How did you… get
over it?” he asked curiously.

Andromeda smiled. “I met Ted,” she replied fondly. “And he helped me unravel the web of deceit
that’s been wrapped tightly around pureblood beliefs for so long. I came to realize that much of
those beliefs were based on falsehoods.” She paused. “And that is why it’s complicated for those
like my sister. She doesn’t believe she’s wrong because she still believes the lies.”

Harry sighed. “I think you’re making it sound much simpler than it really is.”

Andromeda nodded. “I certainly am,” she said before tilting her head in consideration. “And I also
suppose I should admit something else to you, while we’re speaking of this.”

“What’s that?”

“Even after unraveling all the lies that I did decades ago, some of those false beliefs still lingered
for years until I saw proof that they weren’t true.”

“Like what?” Harry asked.

“I firmly believed that only pureblood wizards could have a true affinity for the dark,” she said.
“While I no longer thought less of anyone who wasn’t pureblood, some of the lingering beliefs in
our… differences still persisted. I thought the rumor about You-Know-Who’s ancestry was just
that - an unfounded rumor.” She paused. “And then I met you.”

Harry felt a bit uncomfortable at her statement, even though he knew he should have been used to it
by then. He’d just never expected that sentiment from Andromeda. “But your sister already knows
that being a pureblood isn’t necessary to being dark, and she’s still…”

“She likely thinks there are just… exceptions to the rule,” Andromeda continued. “But my point,
Harry, is that it will take more than one simple denial to unravel centuries of lies. It will take proof
upon proof. It will take work.”

Harry huffed out a sigh. He knew that was true. Even though he’d made some small inroads with
Draco’s beliefs, those beliefs wouldn’t be unlearned overnight. “Can I ask you something else?” he
said.

“Of course.”

“Why did you tell your sister about… what I’m planning on doing? Going public and all?” he said.
“I thought we agreed we’d keep it quiet until after Sirius’s trial. I know she’s your sister, but…”

“I told her because she is my sister, Harry,” Andromeda replied. “She was trying to understand
why her son would choose you." She paused. "Besides, there is no reason to hide your plans from
other children of the dark."

Harry frowned. He supposed that loyalty between siblings was something he would never really
understand, and it appeared that it trumped whatever bond he’d formed with Andromeda. It stung a
little and he wasn’t entirely sure why. "I just… wish you would've told me first."

Andromeda peered down at him with a sideways glance. “I’ve disappointed you,” she said. Harry
opened his mouth to respond but quickly realized that he wasn’t at all sure what to say, and she
continued. “I’m certain it will not be the last time I disappoint you.”

Harry’s pace slowed. The sting turned into indignation, and Harry scowled at the back of her head.

Andromeda merely turned to speak to him over her shoulder. “Am I correct in thinking that adults
have often disappointed you?” she asked.

Harry completely stopped in his path then, and Andromeda paused with him, her hooded eyes
studying him for a moment. “Dumbledore I already know of, and your caretakers…” she said, “...
they did worse than disappoint you, didn’t they?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’m… not really interested in talking about the Dursleys.” They always
seemed eons away when he was in the wizarding world, and he’d rather keep it that way.

Something flickered across Andromeda’s face, but she inclined her head in agreement. “Very well.
We will not speak of them,” she said. “But I still must say… I am so very sorry that more adults
seem to have disappointed you rather than aid you.

“But you will eventually learn that many people will disappoint you, just as you will disappoint
others,” she continued. “Not a being among us is perfect, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said, sighing. “I’ve already disappointed plenty of people.”

“You don’t owe them anything,” Andromeda said sharply. “Not a smile. Not a good mood. Not
complacency.” A small smile curled at the edges of her lips. “When you have children of your
own, they will owe you nothing… and yet you will still find yourself disappointing them time and
again.”

Harry looked away, a blush heating his cheeks. “I… I don’t think I’ll have children to disappoint,”
he said.

“Don’t dare to think that way, Harry,” Andromeda said, a startling fierceness bubbling in her voice.
“You’ll get through whatever’s coming -”

“That’s not what I mean,” Harry said, his flush growing hotter and heavier. “I just…” He paused,
clearing his throat. “I'm just not sure if I’ll ever be with… a woman.” He snuck a glance at
Andromeda.

Relief washed through him when she merely raised an eyebrow in response. “Even if your partner
does not bear children, you could very likely find yourself caring for a child,” she said, and then a
hint of a smirk appeared on her lips. “You might unexpectedly have a child of your own, even if
they do not come from your own seed.”

Harry’s embarrassment grew at that comment. Andromeda, to his horror, only looked amused.

“Regardless, I am sorry for having disappointed you,” she said. “And I also must thank you for
inadvertently finding a way to bring my sister back into my life. As much as I disagree with much
of her ethos, I have missed her very much.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had no interest in dwelling on Narcissa Malfoy’s
ideology any longer than they already had.

“Besides, we must consider your goals. You will need to begin courting allies,” she mused. “My
sister is as good a place to start as any, especially considering her reach and influence among the
dark community.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m not sure if…” he paused, shaking his head. “I’m not sure
if I want to ally with her. At least not unless…”

“Oh, I know. And I understand,” Andromeda said, turning on her heel and continuing on her way.
Harry hurried to follow behind her. “But I believe you will be able to convince her that she needs to
revisit those beliefs, just as you forced me to… years after I thought I’d already finished sorting
through them all.”

Harry doubted that very much. He trailed behind Andromeda with a pinched expression.

When they reached the red phone booth, Andromeda peered at him in concern. “Do not stray from
me, Harry,” she said.

He steeled himself. It would be the first time he’d shown his face in public since the article in the
Prophet came out, and of course, it had to be at the scene of his ‘crime.’

He found himself reaching out to the dark, asking it to watch out for him and to warn him if any
dangers were lurking within. The dark seemed to swirl in his ear in response, wordlessly letting
him know that it was by his side.

When they entered the bustling Ministry, Harry’s eyes immediately widened in surprise. There
were far more witches and wizards in the Ministry than there were students at Hogwarts; it was by
far the largest group Harry had been around in months. He’d expected that.

But he hadn’t been prepared to feel the presence of dark wizards sprinkled everywhere in the
crowd.

They weren’t the majority - not by a long shot - but there were far more than Harry could have
imagined - so many that Harry couldn't even count them. Draco had informed him that his ability
to sense other dark witches and wizards was unique, so he knew it was unlikely that the others
there could tell that Harry now counted himself among them.

After the initial shock of realizing that there were so many people just like him all around, he
became more aware of the rest of the crowd. As the people around them noticed him and realized
who he was, he could feel suspicion in their gazes. Even so, the silent, invisible camaraderie Harry
felt with so many other children of the dark seemed to trump any irritation he felt at the distrust he
felt from other corners.

A younger dark wizard, who was likely around the same age as Charlie and Tonks, sat at the
security desk. He had a bulkier build and startlingly blue eyes that were half-hidden behind a mop
of light brown hair. The wizard fixed Harry with an appraising look as he registered their wands.
There didn’t seem to be a trace of misgiving in his gaze.

If anything, this wizard seemed intrigued.

Harry felt somewhat grateful and a little surprised at the demeanor at first, but he supposed it made
sense; if the reports of Harry’s dark arts use had made so many wary of him, the opposite could be
true of any dark witches or wizards.

Harry found himself meeting the wizard’s assessing gaze without hesitation, and the wizard offered
a sly smile as he returned Harry’s wand. “Holly and phoenix feather is a rare combination,” he
commented.
Harry blinked as his fingers wrapped back around the familiar wood. “Mr. Ollivander said the
same thing,” he replied.

“Supposedly, it’s a clear sign that no one should dare stand in your way,” the wizard continued,
passing Andromeda’s wand back over the desk, as well. Eyes lit up and lips curled at the edges, he
leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hush. “Rasmus Nott is proof of that, isn’t he?”

Harry didn’t get a chance to react; Andromeda immediately ushered him along with a sweep of her
arm.

As Harry padded along beside her, his thoughts lingered on the wizard. Even though his words
concerning Nott had sent a chill running through Harry, everything about the wizard’s demeanor
had been almost… welcoming.

The chill changed as Harry realized that the wizard also hadn’t necessarily been wrong; Nott had
been standing in the way of Draco’s safety, after all.

Harry found himself wishing that he knew the dark wizard’s name, and he glanced over his
shoulder in vain; the crowd had long since engulfed the line of sight. “Was he -”

He immediately cut himself off as Andromeda fixed him with the most rigid, stern look he’d ever
seen on her. It screamed volumes at him, every level of it telling him ‘not here.’

As they filed onto the rickety elevator, he realized that she was right, of course. Considering where
they were, Harry had to keep his thoughts to himself.

They got off on a floor Harry had never been to before. The walls were a pale seafoam and strongly
reminded Harry of a Muggle hospital. The hall was thankfully far less crowded than the atrium had
been.

“Andromeda Black,” a polite voice said from behind them. They both turned around at the same
time, and Harry found himself face to face with someone he’d only seen in the Prophet: Rufus
Scrimgeour.

Shit.

“It’s been an age,” he continued, keen eyes flickering between Harry and Andromeda.

“I go by Andromeda Tonks, now, Minister,” Andromeda replied, offering Scrimgeour a nod in

greeting. “I have been married for quite some time now, though I doubt you’d remember Ted.”

Scrimgeour smiled in a way that was clearly meant to be pleasant and was actually anything but
pleasant. “I admit that I don’t remember him from Hogwarts, but I do remember the commotion
you caused when you married him.”

Harry bristled. If Scrimgeour knew Andromeda had married Ted, why had he used her maiden
name?

Scrimgeour’s yellowish eyes slid towards Harry. “Mr. Potter, it is a… pleasure,” he said. “I have
wanted to meet you for quite a long time. Were you aware of that?”

“No,” Harry said.

“I’ve been asking after you since I took office,” Scrimgeour said. “It seems Dumbledore keeps you
on a tight…” He paused, his pleasant and unpleasant smile taking on a strange curl. “... he keeps
you under wraps, that is to say.”

Slytherin, Harry reminded himself. Scrimgeour’s words were chosen carefully, and Harry easily
recognized them.

“I must admit, Mr. Potter - with all the gossip making the rounds, I am a little surprised that
Dumbledore is keeping you so close,” Scrimgeour mused. “After all, one of the few things he and I
agree on…” He paused, and his curly, odd smile broadened. “Well, I’d imagine that he is quite
suspicious of you now.”

“He… is,” Harry said slowly. After the words left his lips, he realized that they were almost
painfully, undeniably true.

Dumbledore suspected him. His wariness had seemed to ooze from the headmaster nearly every
time they’d spoken over the summer. Since Harry hadn’t given any indication that he was actually
doing anything untoward, the only thing Dumbledore could have based his suspicions on was
Harry being a dark wizard.

As irritated - as disappointed - as Harry was with Dumbledore, that little piece of their relationship
still felt like spikes being driven into his core.

So many of his very first friends - even those who had softened to him - were also still brimming
with mistrust simply because he was dark. It felt as if they had accepted Harry, but they hadn’t
accepted all of him.

“All manner of rumors are flying about right now!” Scrimgeour continued, tearing Harry away
from his thoughts. “Of course, you and I know how easily these sorts of things can be… distorted.”

“Of course,” Harry said, nodding, and then he dropped his eyes, feigning shame. “Some of those
rumors aren’t… untrue,” he continued in a near whisper. He silently sent an air of gratitude
towards Andromeda; she was the one who had helped him plan for any unexpected questioning.

“Oh?” Scrimgeour said, his eyebrows lifting in a clear inquiry.

“I was…” Harry paused, swallowing. “I was messing around with the dark arts. I thought they
could help me, but…” He shook his head. “I didn’t like how they made me feel, but I still…”

Harry felt a little astounded at how easy the act was coming to him. He wasn’t sure if it was
because he was now practiced at playing roles that he despised. He’d had to suck up to Umbridge
and play the part of a bully, saying all kinds of things he’d detested. In comparison, this felt like
child’s play.

The other possibility was that he just didn’t care all that much about Scrimgeour. Unlike Hermione
or Ron, Harry had no attachment to the man, and unlike Umbridge, Harry didn’t feel any deep
loathing for Scrimgeour.

Apathy, it seemed, was the key to playing a role with ease.

“Didn’t feel well, eh?” Scrimgeour said, narrowing his eyes in contemplation as Harry nodded in
agreement. “Most unusual that you were able to use so much dark arts if you were that… affected
by them.”

“I really didn’t use all that much as the Prophet implied - only a few spells,” Harry said. “I thought
it was the only way to save my friends, so I didn’t really care how they were making me feel.” He
swallowed. “Fight fire with fire, I guess,” he added softly. Andromeda laid a gentle hand on his
shoulder.

“I see,” Scrimgeour continued icily.

As painless as it was to play the role, Harry could tell the Minister wasn’t yet convinced. “I won’t
use them any more,” he said, shaking his head.

“Hearing you say that makes me quite relieved, Mr. Potter,” Scrimgeour replied. “But I do find it
most unusual that the Boy Who Lived is funding the defense for the man who betrayed his
parents… a man who is a member of the notoriously dark Black family.” His eyes seemed to grow
beady as he fixed them firmly on Andromeda’s face. “And yet here he is, being escorted by
another member of the Black family.”

“Sirius didn’t betray -” Harry cut himself off as Andromeda’s hand on his shoulder tightened. He
wasn’t sure if she was trying to silence him or if Scrimgeour’s words were getting to her.

“My cousin and I were both essentially expunged from our family,” Andromeda said. “You know
this.” She let out a quiet, strangled sigh. “I beg you to not pick at such a painful part of my past…
Rufus.”

To Harry’s surprise, Scrimgeour appeared a bit abashed at her words.

“And you were in Slytherin, Minister Scrimgeour,” Andromeda said quietly. “You know how
easily one could be drawn into the dark arts when one is a part of that house.”

“Ah, yes - you moved from Gryffindor to Slytherin last year, weren’t you?” Scrimgeour asked
Harry. “Most unusual.”

Harry nodded. “I know that the move was probably the right one, but I wound up learning… things
in Slytherin that I wish I had never learned.”

Much to his satisfaction, Scrimgeour appeared to finally be buying into Harry’s act; something like
sympathy fell across his face like a curtain.

“You were seduced by a power that you can’t begin to understand,” Scrimgeour said thoughtfully,
his tone suddenly far warmer than it had been.

Harry nodded even as his skin crawled a bit.

“It should have occurred to me earlier,” Scrimgeour continued. “I know Slytherin all too well, and
you are not the first Slytherin to have dallied with the dark arts.” He shook his head. “I am so very
sorry that you were put in that position in the first place, Mr. Potter.”

Harry felt strange at Scrimgeour finally appearing to believe Harry’s ruse; fluid was the best way
he could describe the sensation. The lies came to him effortlessly. The act was painless. Had it
always been this easy and he’d just never realized it before?

“Far too many students have found themselves in your shoes,” Scrimgeour said. “I think you’ll be
relieved to hear that we’re working on a few bits of legislation that will help prevent any wizard
from getting into your situation again, Mr. Potter.”

What? A siren of warning began to sing in the back of Harry’s mind.

“For far too long, our Ministry has been much too lenient on dark artifacts and dark books,”
Scrimgeour said with an air of righteousness. “That lack of oversight is why we are now being
subjected to the crimes of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters.

“Young wizards such as yourself should never be exposed to something so dangerous.”

Scrimgeour smiled then, and even though it was meant to be comforting it sent an awful chill
spiraling down Harry’s back. “When we’re through, the young members of the wizarding world
will no longer find themselves being tempted by such harmful magic.”

Although Harry had been warned about Scrimgeour’s harsh position on the dark arts, he still didn’t
feel prepared for the words spilling from the Minister’s lips. Even so, Harry still managed to reply
in a smooth tone. “I’m grateful to hear that, Minister Scrimgeour.”

Scrimgeour appeared extremely satisfied by Harry’s words. “Would you consider standing with the
Ministry on this, Mr. Potter?” he asked. “Your testimony concerning how easily children your age
are exposed to magic so terrible could go a long way in convincing people how serious the matter
is.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he hoped they appeared more startled than horrified. “I…” He paused,
then shook his head. “Right now, I need to concentrate on proving my godfather’s innocence,” he
said. “It’s important to me. He’s important to me.”

“I see,” Scrimgeour said thoughtfully. “Would you reconsider after Sirius Black’s trial, then?”

“Of course,” he said, knowing that he would never stand alongside Scrimgeour’s new crusade
against the dark arts.

For a brief moment, a ray of opportunity sliced through Harry. He wondered if he could somehow
use his empty promise to convince Scrimgeour to advocate on behalf of Sirius.

Thankfully, Andromeda interrupted the thought before Harry could impetuously act on it. “We
really must be going, Harry,” she said. “Marshall’s time is limited, so we don’t want to be late.”

“Ah, yes,” Scrimgeour said, nodding. “I won’t delay you any longer.” He extended his hand to
Harry. “It was a pleasure meeting you at last, Mr. Potter.”

They shook hands, and then Andromeda and Harry continued down the hall. When they turned the
corner, Andromeda caught Harry’s eye with a smirk.

“I’m quite proud of you, Harry,” she said, and a thrill ran through him at the praise.

Neither of them dared say anything more, but Harry found himself mulling over the short
encounter with the Minister.

Even though he’d walked away with the Minister’s suspicion seemingly lessened, a cloud of dread
still began to form all around Harry.

Rufus Scrimgeour had certainly made it sound as if he was about to declare all-out war on the dark
arts, and Harry knew he had a reputation for reviling the dark.

As the Minister for Magic, he was in a position to easily make the lives of dark witches and
wizards even more difficult than they already were.

Harry wouldn’t allow that to happen. He couldn’t allow it.

He found himself more resolute than ever to give the dark the freedom and respect it deserved.
***

Marshall Fawley was odd and kind, and Harry could see why he was such good friends with Ted
Tonks while they were growing up. He wouldn’t give Harry any false optimism - he, like
Andromeda, did not think that their testimony would be enough to free Sirius.

However, he also wouldn’t allow Harry to completely give up hope. He would keep looking, and
he instructed Harry to do the same. As he and Andromeda departed, Harry withheld a sigh. He
knew of one option, but he also knew it wasn’t a possibility.

Harry couldn’t consider Draco’s previous offer to testify. Draco testifying for Sirius would be as
good as a final nail in the coffin for Lucius Malfoy.

Harry would never expect him to do that, and so Harry couldn’t even ask.

The next few days didn’t ease the tension in Grimmauld Place at all, but at least there hadn’t been
any fraught confrontations or exchanges of spells. Everyone seemed to be on edge and they were
all treading carefully.

For the most part, everyone seemed to avoid one another, leading to a few days of strained, keen
silence.

As Harry’s birthday approached, Mrs. Weasley surprised him by making quiet plans for an
informal celebration, even going as far as to ask him what he wanted for dinner and what kind of
cake he’d like. Harry gratefully told her that he didn’t really care; he was happy just to have his
friends with him.

Unfortunately, that opened a pit in Harry’s stomach as he thought about one person who would be
missing his birthday: Sirius was still trapped in a prison cell. Harry idly wondered if he could
convince Scrimgeour to allow him to visit, but it was quickly brushed aside as unwise to try; he
couldn’t put himself even more in the Minister’s line of sight than he already was.

He woke early on the morning of his birthday feeling sour. Even the bathroom mirror commented
about how pinched his face appeared, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to correct his
expression.

He went downstairs and froze when he found Mrs. Malfoy sitting alone in the dining room. When
she rose from her seat it was strikingly clear that she had been waiting for him.

“Happy Birthday, Mr. Potter,” she said with an incline of her head. “It's high time that you and I
spoke in private.”

Harry wasn’t particularly interested in having any kind of private conversation with Mrs. Malfoy,
especially after overhearing her berating Draco. But in the interest of keeping the uneasy peace, he
reluctantly agreed. He followed her into the tapestry room, which was where Narcissa seemed to
spend most of her time.

He supposed she felt comfortable in the room of her family tree, defaced as it was.

“Mrs. Malfoy -”

“Call me Narcissa, please,” she said, cutting him off. “Even when I was still a Black, I have always
been more than just a surname.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He wasn’t necessarily prepared to be so friendly or familiar with her, and he
wasn’t sure what to make of her request.

“Or, considering your relationship with my son…” She paused, turning to face him with a strange
smile on her face. “... would you prefer to call me ‘Mother?’”

Harry suppressed a gasp, feeling a bit staggered. “Draco told you about… us?” he asked in
disbelief.

Mrs. Malfoy - Narcissa - suddenly looked a little smug. “No,” she said. “I merely thought it was
likely. Thank you for confirming my suspicions… Harry.”

Harry felt every hair on his arms rising. “Are you… what are you going to do about it?” he asked
dubiously.

Narcissa gave him an odd, discerning look that was strangely reminiscent of Andromeda. “What
are you implying?” she asked.

“I… I just didn’t think you would be…” Harry paused, swallowing nervously.

Narcissa let out a humming sound. “I continue to forget that you grew up with Muggles,” she said,
not bothering to hide her distaste. “Were you expecting us to be like them?” she scoffed. “We are
far more aware that you cannot control your own attraction or desires. Wizarding kind, unlike
Muggles, are not intolerant of someone else’s love.”

“But that’s not true at all,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes. “Your sister was disowned because she
married a Muggleborn.”

Narcissa’s nostrils flared in displeasure. “It is severely impolite to bring my sister into this
conversation, Harry.”

“How?” Harry asked, feeling quite impudent.

“My reconciliation with my sister is not your place to comment,” Narcissa said, nearly spitting.
“We are finding our way back to one another, and it is none of your concern.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut, his teeth grinding.

Narcissa let out a sigh, her shoulders drooping just a bit. Every motion felt incredibly familiar to
Harry, and he quickly recognized it as something he’d seen Draco do whenever he realized he was
getting too wound up about something and needed to decompress.

The resemblance was startling and, if he had to admit it, a bit unsettling.

“I did not wish to speak with you in regards to my sister,” Narcissa said, her voice much more
steady and even than it had been just a moment earlier. “I asked you in here to discuss my cousin’s
trial.”

It took Harry only a moment to realize that she was speaking of Sirius.

“Draco will not be testifying for Sirius Black,” Narcissa continued. “I will not allow him to.”

“I… I wasn’t expecting him to,” Harry replied.

“He is already being put onto the stage far earlier than I would have liked due to your presence in
his life,” Narcissa said, her words sounding sharp. “I would not nudge him into the light more than
you already have.”
“I’m not… ‘nudging’ him into the light,” Harry replied, a bit annoyed. “I want -”

“My son being seen in the light of your shadow is inevitable, but I would like to delay it just a bit
longer,” Narcissa said. “That is why I will be testifying in his place.”

Harry barely resisted letting his mouth fall open. “You… what?”

“I understand that you trust my son considerably more than you trust me, but I can still confirm my
cousin’s innocence when it comes to the crimes of which he was accused. And let me assure you
that my word will be weightier than my son’s.” Narcissa’s pale eyes seemed to grow hard even as
the rest of her features remained impassive. “Your own word carries weight, as well.”

Despite his growing suspicion, Harry let out a scoff. “Right now, my word is crap. Almost
everyone thinks I’m a… dark wizard.” He shook his head. “It’s true, so -”

“But as of now, that is just a rumor. It’s not known for a fact yet,” Narcissa said. “Your testimony
for Sirius can still be helpful just because of who you are and what you represent… though it won’t
be nearly as helpful as the testimony you could give for Lucius.”

What?

Harry blinked at least four times before he fully processed what Narcissa had said. “Are you
joking?” He stared at her incredulously, his mouth hanging open.

“No.”

Harry felt as if he were on the verge of laughing in Narcissa’s face. “What… what would you
expect me to say?” he asked. “Do you want me to confirm that your husband is a Death Eater?
Because that’s about all I could say!”

“I expect you to help free my husband by telling the Wizengamot all about how Lucius helped
save your life at the Ministry… and whatever else you must say in order to explain how his actions
were key to your survival,” Narcissa replied, and she sounded as if it were the only possible answer
rather than one of the most ridiculous, appalling things Harry had ever heard. “And in return, I will
testify to confirm the innocence of Sirius Black.”

A long beat of silence fell as Harry stared at her in horror. “What?” he asked, completely and
utterly stunned. Her offer to testify for Sirius suddenly made much more sense, but he still couldn’t
believe what she was proposing.

Narcissa did not care for Harry’s stupor. “I will do my best to rescue your godfather from Azkaban
if you do your best to do the same for my husband,” she said, staring down her nose at him.

“You can’t seriously expect me to agree to that,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “All you
have to do to free Sirius is tell the truth.” His eyes narrowed. “Freeing Lucius Malfoy means I
would have to lie.”

“It’s not strictly a lie. Lucius did take steps to ensure our son was safe, and since our son was with
you…” Narcissa sneered. “Besides, you are a Slytherin. I’m certain you’ve lied before.” Her chin
lifted and her lips twitched downward, and the sharp angles of her face were again annoyingly
reminiscent of Draco.

Harry scowled. “Sure,” he said, knowing that there was no point in denying it. He’d spent much of
his fifth year lying in one way or another. He’d recently lied to the Minister for Magic, of all
people. “But I’ve lied for a good cause. Your husband deserves to be where he is.”
Narcissa’s nostrils flared.

“I’m sorry that it’s split your family apart - I really am,” Harry said, plowing on. “I hate the
thought that I….” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “But your husband did that to himself.”

“Andromeda has told me of your plans to champion for the dark,” Narcissa responded calmly
without missing a beat, although her eyes flashed in anger. “And I know you intend to use that
fight in order to draw dark wizards away from the Dark Lord.” She paused, giving him a long,
evaluating look. “You intend to batter him down through attrition.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it,” Harry said insistently. “Or at least it’s not the only reason. But it’s
definitely not the biggest reason.”

“Biggest reason or smallest reason, it is still something that is driving you,” Narcissa said. “If you
expect to carve any kind of path within the dark community, you will need allies.”

Harry found himself grinding his teeth together. “I have allies.”

“I know you count my son among them,” Narcissa said, “as well as some of your other classmates.
I hope it’s occurred to you that school-age children will not have the influence you desire.”

“That’s not -”

“And my cousin and my sister will also not accomplish what you desire. They are pariahs in our
world.” Narcissa crossed her arms and fixed Harry with a piercing focus. “You will become just as
unwanted as them if they are your only agents.” She gave him something between a twisted smile
and a grimace. “You may attract a few of the odd outcasts, but you will not attract anyone with the
power to effectively support your endeavor.” Although her expression didn’t outwardly change,
something about her face suddenly seemed more stretched and steely.

“If my son has given you his patronage, I would rather not see you fail. In order to succeed, you
need allies,” she said. “And my husband is the most powerful dark ally you could have… outside
of the Dark Lord himself.”

Time briefly felt as if it both sped up and slowed down as her statement settled over him like a
viscous smoke. Harry wasn’t sure how long he gaped at her, all while completely and wholly
floored.

Lucius Malfoy… an ally?

“You’re… you’re completely fucking insane,” he finally said with a gasp.

“Mr. Potter, let us please keep this conversation civil,” Narcissa sneered. “I know you lack some
basic manners because you were raised by… Muggles…” She shuddered. “... but surely you can
find a more elegant way of expressing your… presupposition.”

Narcissa Malfoy was infuriating. She was possibly more infuriating than even Draco had ever
been. “Fine,” Harry gritted out. “I do not want to ally with your…”

… bigoted, murderous, conceited…

“... your husband,” he finished furiously.

“He’s not just my husband,” Narcissa said. “He is also Draco’s father.”
“That… doesn’t matter,” Harry said. He despised how his voice faltered as he said it.

“It should,” Narcissa nearly spat. “If you position yourself as my son’s partner, that also means that
you are his ally.”

Harry felt as if he might grind his teeth into dust. “Have you asked Draco what he wants?” he
inquired with a curl of his lip.

“Have you?” Narcissa shot back.

His mouth snapped shut and he glared up at her. Of course, he hadn’t asked Draco. Lucius Malfoy
was on the list of topics that he and Draco had been studiously avoiding speaking about.

After a moment, Narcissa shook her head in irritation. “You do want to prove to the dark
community that you are more preferable than the Dark Lord, do you not?” she asked.

“I… not really!” Harry said, feeling strangely relieved at Narcissa steering the conversation away
from Draco. “I just want to prove to them that Voldemort isn’t their only choice!” He let out a
frustrated sigh. “I just want the wizarding world to change. More than anything else, I want
everyone to accept us as we are!”

Narcissa then did something incredibly unsettling - she smiled. “That is exactly what Lucius wants,
too.”

Harry's skin crawled at her words.

“Yeah, but he also wants to murder all Muggleborns,” Harry pointed out incredulously. “In fact,
I’m pretty sure he has murdered Muggleborns.”

“You have never had a proper conversation with my Lucius,” Narcissa said. “You can’t make
assumptions such as -”

“If you’re about to tell me that he’s not a killer, you can stop there.”

“He is a killer,” Narcissa hissed. “He’s accepted that about himself. I’ve accepted him for what he
is. His son has accepted it. Why can’t you?” Harry opened his mouth to respond, but she quickly
cut him off with a sneer. “Your godfather is a killer. Your father was a killer.” She paused. “And
before this war is over, you will be, too.”

Harry froze at her words, a chill spiraling down his spine.

“And if you leave my husband to rot in Azkaban, you may as well have killed him.” Harry was too
stunned to respond, and she continued. “The Dark Lord has already proven that Azkaban can and
will fall to his power. Lucius will be punished for what happened at the Ministry, and that
punishment will likely be death.

“Lucius has not taken a life since the first war,” Narcissa continued after a pause, her tone tapering
into something more delicate. “Since before Draco was born, in fact.”

For some reason, Harry felt a bit startled at hearing that statement.

“How does that make it…” Harry shook his head, wishing the conversation was going at about half
the speed it actually was. “I can accept that he’s a killer, but I can’t accept that he killed people
because of their blood!”
“Harry, hasn’t it occurred to you yet?” Narcissa said. “Most of the dark community are like Lucius
and me. We don’t want Mudbloods in our world.”

“Don’t say that word -”

“Mudblood.”

Harry’s blood boiled. He could now see where Draco got his ability to poke in the most reactive
spot possible. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed.

A thoroughly unpleasant smile appeared on Narcissa’s face, and Harry’s fingers twitched. He
wanted to whip his wand out and curse her, and he wondered if the only thing stopping him was
her being Draco’s mother.

“I’m certain this will occur to you sooner or later, but I’ll just point out the obvious to you now,”
Narcissa continued. “If you intend to speak with nearly anyone in the dark community, you will
have to grow numb to hearing that word.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “Are you expecting that I'll just… get used to it?,” Harry asked. "Even if I
hear it all the time, I don't have to put up with hearing it.”

“Oh, but you will have to,” she said. “If you truly have the intention of enticing any of the Dark
Lord’s followers to your stead, you will have to give up on your crusade for the… Mudblood
prerogative.”

He wanted to curse her. He really wanted to curse her. “That’s not happening,” he snarled.

Narcissa’s nasty smile seemed to melt into complete disgust. “At the very least you will need to
remain neutral on the matter,” she sneered. “I am apparently… with you now because I have found
myself with no other choice. You have ousted my family from the good graces of the Dark Lord.”

“But you do have a choice!” Harry snapped, feeling completely disgusted at what she was saying.
Voldemort was the one who left people with no choice - not Harry. “You’re the one who offered to
do a Corsri -”

“The rest of the dark community still has the choice that I no longer have. How do you think they
will choose?” Narcissa continued, ignoring Harry’s protestation. “Most will remain neutral on
Mudbloods if you do the same. Many of them would be willing to put that… difference of opinion
to the side for the time being. My husband would because the rights of the dark community matter
more to him than the poison of Mudbloods. He will defend any dark witch or wizard - even you.”

Something rang in the back of Harry’s mind at her words, but he didn’t have time to delve into it as
she continued, unabating.

“At this time, the very few of us that know about your dark proclivity are cautiously optimistic
about you,” she said. “And many others are intrigued by the report that you used the dark arts and
then openly admitted it. Unlike when you were positioned purely as Dumbledore’s right hand, the
dark community is now primed to hear whatever it is you have to say.”

Harry looked away from her, swallowing. He’d known for months that dark witches and wizards
would see him as some kind of symbol of hope, but hearing her say it out loud struck him in a way
he wasn’t prepared for.

“You must circulate one message to the dark community, and that is that standing with you means
standing for the rights of the dark,” she continued. “If you mix that message with your beliefs
about Mudbloods, you will not be heard and you will wind up alone. You will be ostracized from
the dark community for your unorthodox stance on blood purity… and the rest of the wizarding
world will shun you for being dark.”

Harry twisted his gaze back at her with a snarl. “I won’t -”

“I am not trying to convince you to change your beliefs, Harry,” she said. “I am telling you these
things because I need you to succeed.”

Blinking, his mouth fell shut.

“I have come to terms with my son’s choice to stand by your side,” Narcissa said. “I could tell that
he was growing disillusioned with the Dark Lord. He would not have been happy if he…” She
paused, her icy demeanor showing the tiniest crack. “He chose to be happy, and for that, I am
proud of him.

“But if you fail, my son will fail with you,” she continued, and something painful seemed to be
bubbling up in the undercurrent of her voice. “I know you care for him. I hope you realize that
your actions in the coming months will have a great bearing on his life and his freedom.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

“For my son’s sake, please do all you can to gain allies in your quest,” she said. “So will you
simply remain silent when it comes to... Muggleborns?” She made a slight show of choosing the
word carefully.

Harry shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned and her cheeks seemed to hollow. “Then you will fail.”

Harry glared at her, and she simply let out a disgusted sigh. “We’ll end this conversation here,” she
said before moving past Harry with a few clicks of her heels. “Consider my words… as well as my
offer.” She paused at the doorway before turning back to face him again.

A smile slowly appeared on her lips, one that was nasty and poisonous and cruel. “And you should
make yourself ready to greet the newest guest,” she said. “Jeyne Zabini will be arriving at any
moment.”

She again made to leave, but paused as Harry called after her. “Mrs… Narcissa?” he asked. He
couldn’t bring himself to look at her, but a question was wriggling and winding its way to the front
of his mind and he needed to know the answer. “Would… would your husband really protect any
dark witch or wizard?” he asked, finally daring to sneak a glance at her. “No matter who they
were?”

Narcissa’s twisted smile seemed to grow softer and surprise danced in her eyes. “Yes.”

Then she was gone, and she left Harry’s head spinning in her wake. His ears were ringing and his
hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

She couldn’t be right about needing to remain silent when it came to Muggleborns. Harry wouldn’t
even entertain the thought.

Just as he had to prove to the wizarding world that the dark wasn’t evil, he needed to prove to the
pureblooded dark community that Muggleborns were their equals in every way. He knew it would
be hard, but he had to believe that it wasn’t impossible.
After all, Harry knew very well that a large part of the reason why the wizarding world despised
the dark was because of their hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns.

Pieces were slotting themselves into Harry’s thoughts with ease. He knew where they were leading
and he knew he wouldn’t like the destination. The deepest parts of himself were screaming that he
shouldn’t complete the puzzle, but something beyond him seemed to be making the beginning of a
plan in the back of his mind.

He needed to find a way to prove to the dark community that Muggleborns were worthy of their
respect.

Lucius Malfoy would value any member of the dark community. How true was that? Would that
value extend to anyone who was dark?

Narcissa said Lucius Malfoy would even hold Harry in high regard simply for being dark, and
Harry was a half-blood.

His mother - a Muggleborn - had at least been inclined towards the dark and had even used the dark
arts to great effect, but she was gone. Stories of his mother and what she’d done, even if anyone
believed him, wouldn’t be enough.

He needed something beyond himself and something beyond the memory of his mother. He needed
living proof.

Harry’s stomach twisted unpleasantly as his unwanted thought finally became fully formed,
swirling from the back of his mind to the front. It blanched Harry’s cheeks even before he’d
completely processed what it meant.

He couldn’t fight the Muggleborn bigotry on his own - not if he also wanted to fight for the dark.
He could find dark allies, but he needed an ally with him when it came to teaching the dark
community to value Muggleborns.

He needed Hermione.

Hermione, the most talented witch of their age, was the key.

He’d told Hermione that she needed to make her decision for herself and no one but herself. He’d
promised Ron that he wouldn’t try to sway her as she made her decision.

He couldn’t go back on his word to either of them.

Even so, he knew that Hermione would go a very long way when it came to opening the eyes of the
dark community. He’d already seen it begin in Blaise, and it was undeniable that Hermione had
been a primary influence on Blaise’s reevaluation of his pureblood values.

And as much as Harry continued to try to resist the thought, it was becoming harder and harder for
him to deny.

He needed to find a way to convince Hermione to declare for the dark.

His hands drifted upwards to run his fingers through his hair in despair, and he found himself
clenching his hands into fists. His fingers curled and tightened until his roots began to hurt.

One whispered word burst from his lips, and it was overly loud in the quiet, empty room.
 “Fuck.”

Chapter End Notes

Feel free to stop by my Tumblr.

 Keep It In Mind Eight Times Out of Nine
Chapter Notes

The Trevor Project and Trans Lifeline are two wonderful organizations that provide
great services for trans people. Please consider giving them a visit to see how you can
get involved!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Jeyne Zabini was easily one of the most striking figures Harry had ever encountered.

She seemed remarkably put-together for someone who had just been released from St. Mungo’s;
her black hair was perfectly coiffed in small curls, framing impeccable makeup that smartly
complemented beautiful umber skin. She almost seemed otherworldly, an impression only
amplified by a dark blue dress with tiny jeweled accents that shimmered as she moved, making it
uncannily resemble the night sky.

She was also impossibly tall. Her height was increased even more by her heels, and she towered
over every other person in the room.

Harry supposed it made sense. Blaise was tall, lanky, and… angular, in a way. It was obvious who
he had inherited that from.

In a manner that also seemed reminiscent of Blaise, she exuded an air of disdain as she stood in the
tiny Grimmauld dining room. Her focus first fixed itself on Blaise, and Harry was thankful that she
immediately looked to the person most familiar to her, but he also couldn’t help but feel a pang of
sympathy for Blaise.

Harry wasn’t able to make out the first few words they exchanged, but as the room quieted around
them the conversation was impossible to ignore.

“I suppose you did try to warn me what we were asking for,” Mrs. Zabini said, and the scorn in her
voice was nearly palpable. “But from what you had told me, I expected the Corsri to be sworn with
Harry Potter, not a known blood traitor.” A piercing gaze drifted toward Harry, her lips turned
downward. “Is your housemate truly what you… claimed he is?”

Harry felt chilled at the venom in her voice. Narcissa had deliberately mentioned Jeyne Zabini’s
imminent arrival, something he’d forgotten as he’d been fretting over what to do about Hermione.

His eyes flickered towards his friend tucked away in the corner, and when Mrs. Zabini continued,
he was glad her attention was on him rather than Hermione.

“He is a half-blood, after all.”

Blaise had told Harry very little about his mother, but he’d given Harry enough pieces for him to
start painting a picture. As nasty as Narcissa Malfoy was when it came to blood purity, Jeyne
Zabini could very likely be much, much worse.

With her arrival on the heels of his conversation with Narcissa, Harry was finally realizing exactly
why Dumbledore had been so hesitant to invite Narcissa and Mrs. Zabini to Grimmauld Place.

Why had Harry vouched for them coming to Grimmauld, where they would be among blood
traitors and Muggleborns?

All of Dumbledore’s objections and trepidation concerning his friends and their mothers had
infuriated Harry just days earlier, but Harry could now see exactly why Dumbledore had been so
concerned about their presence in Order headquarters.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked snidely before Blaise could respond.

Mrs. Zabini’s head tilted to the side as her eyes slowly looked Harry over from head to toe with an
evaluating air. “Your refusal to serve as keeper in the Corsri… it makes me wonder if you’ve lied
to my son.”

Harry knew exactly what Mrs. Zabini was implying: since the Corsri could only be sworn between
those who had declared for the dark, she doubted the fact that he was a dark wizard.

He felt as if he was barely able to hold back a smirk. He knew she’d figure out the truth soon
enough. “I honored the Ius Praesidium,” he said, and a flash of satisfaction swooped through him
at her seeing her eyes widen. “You’ll have to wait for some other kind of demonstration.”

Mrs. Zabini let out a hum, her lips curling in clear disapproval as Andromeda stepped forward with
an outstretched hand.

“Let’s not delay, Jeyne.”

Disgust was still clearly written all across Mrs. Zabini’s face, but she placed her hand in
Andromeda’s without hesitation. She shuddered as she did so, and Andromeda ignored it as she
traced the knife across the upturned palm. “Ego erit tenere fidem.”

Andromeda and Mrs. Zabini made their way through the Corsri oath with the most unlikely
audience Harry could have imagined. Blaise had drawn away from the two of them and stood at
Hermione’s side in a corner of the room. Narcissa watched with a bored air, and behind her, Mrs.
Weasley stationed herself in the doorway to the kitchen. Dumbledore observed from the far end of
the table, and Harry thought it seemed as if he was purposely keeping a healthy distance between
himself and Grimmauld’s newest arrival.

Draco was conspicuously absent, and Harry wondered if he was dragging out his morning vanity
routine even more than usual. Ron and Ginny were missing, as well, and Harry found himself
unable to blame any of them for not being there. The tension in the room already felt as if a bomb
was about to go off, after all.

Palms linked and droplets of blood falling to the wooden floor at their feet, Andromeda and Mrs.
Malfoy finished the oath with a strong impression that they were unaffected by the gallery of
observers.

“Vox creavi fide,” Andromeda said.

“Et ibi manebit,” Mrs. Zabini replied easily. As soon as the glow of purple swirled around their
hands and disappeared, she dropped Andromeda’s hand with a sound of revulsion.

Looking more than a little smug, Andromeda wrapped a kerchief around her palm and called over
her shoulder. “Would you welcome some help with breakfast, Molly?”
After a moment of stunned hesitation, Mrs. Weasley nodded. “Of course, Andromeda,” she replied,
disappearing into the kitchen.

Despite his surprise at the amicability between Andromeda and Mrs. Weasley, Harry kept his eyes
glued on Mrs. Zabini. He barely noticed his hand drifting to his pocket, but when his fingers
wrapped around the familiar rough of his wand, he felt calmer.

As Andromeda and Mrs. Weasley began sweeping in and out of the dining room, the rest of the
room’s occupants seemed completely unsure as to what to do with themselves.

Mrs. Zabini’s attention drifted over to her son, and then to the person at his side. “Who’s this,
then?” she asked, looking Hermione up and down.

Blaise seemed to shrink at his mother’s scrutiny and he glanced at Hermione in alarm. “Uh…”

Hermione didn’t give Blaise a chance to respond. “My name is Hermione Granger.” Her chin lifted
in the slightest sign of defiance, and Harry felt strangely delighted at her pride.

“‘Granger?’” Mrs. Zabini said, her lip curling in loathing. “That’s not a name I’m familiar with.”

“I’m Muggleborn,” Hermione replied. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she added, “ma’am.”

Mrs. Zabini’s nostrils flared in disgust as if she had just caught an appalling scent and she swung
blazing eyes back towards Blaise, who visibly swallowed. “My son failed to inform me that there
could be… Mudbloods here.”

Harry glowered at her, anger beginning to swirl up inside him.

“You will not use that type of language in this house!” Mrs. Weasley snapped, slamming a stack of
plates on the table so hard that Harry was surprised they didn’t shatter. “You are a guest here!”

Harry pretended not to notice how Narcissa’s eyes were suddenly fixed very firmly on him, and he
bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to hold his tongue. She clearly wanted to see what he would
do in response to Mrs. Zabini.

“Mother?” Blaise's voice shook in obvious nervousness. “I must remind you that we are all very
interested in keeping the peace here.” Harry felt a flare of respect for Blaise; he knew enough of
their relationship that it was taking every ounce of Blaise’s bravery to say even that much to his
mother.

Andromeda stepped forward and placed herself quite squarely between Mrs. Zabini and Hermione.
With a nod to Mrs. Weasley to retreat, she set a piercing look on Mrs. Zabini as she lifted her
wand, pointing it at the plates Mrs. Weasley had just set down.

“Lammas is tomorrow, Hermione,” she said casually as she levitated and then scattered the plates
to their proper place settings. “Have you made your decision about whether or not to participate?”
Her eyes never left Mrs. Zabini.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Weasley said, pausing at the doorway back to the kitchen.

Hermione shook her head. “Not tomorrow,” she said quietly. “I’d like to read more about… dark
circles first. Maybe at some point in the fall… on Mabon? Or… Samhain?”

Mrs. Zabini let out a choked sound, and Narcissa chimed in with a disgusted huff.
“Oh, Hermione, no! Not with them!” Mrs. Weasley cried, wringing her hands. “If you’re curious,
I’ll -”

“Molly.” Andromeda’s stern tone, which always made her voice seem like it had dropped an
octave, was turned on full force. “You’ve finally even told me that you would try. Please tell me
that you would do the same for Hermione.”

“You’re thinking about it, then?” Blaise asked Hermione curiously.

“What part could a Mudblood possibly play as part of a dark circle, Blaise?” Mrs. Zabini spat.
Blaise shrank back, his eyes snapping wide.

“I…”

“Hermione may be performing an affinity rite at some point, Jeyne,” Andromeda said, intense and
focused. “I’ve offered to walk her through the rite.”

Harry’s gaze flickered back and forth between Andromeda and Hermione, whose eyes were glued
on Andromeda’s back. Harry couldn’t help his mouth dropping open in shocked realization.

Had Hermione and Andromeda planned this?

Andromeda only cemented Harry’s suspicion as she continued. “Hermione has several signs of
having an affinity for the dark. It’s quite remarkable.” She paused, and then she very deliberately
shifted her gaze towards Narcissa. “The dark needs new blood, after all.”

With a scandalized expression painted across her pale face, Narcissa’s lips parted in shock.

“I don’t believe this. How dare you?” Harry’s attention was wrenched back towards Mrs. Zabini,
who shoved past Andromeda and set a burning eye firmly on Hermione. “You’re nasty and impure
-”

Harry couldn’t hold his tongue any longer, and he took a step forward. “Shut your mouth!” he
snarled. Andromeda pulled Hermione behind her again with one hand with her wand firmly
clenched in the other.

“First you invade our world and dilute our traditions,” Mrs. Zabini sneered over Andromeda’s
shoulder, clearly ignoring both Harry and Andromeda. “Now you claim you can access the same
beautiful magic that we can. Mudbloods aren’t worthy of the dark’s blessing. You’re too filthy for
the dark to want you as its child.”

Harry’s simmering fury boiled over at her tirade, and before anyone in the room could say a word
he drew his wand. He stabbed it into the air in front of him with a turn of his wrist. “Arma
Rostroma,” he said, sounding far calmer than he felt.

A small, silver piece of metal materialized over Mrs. Zabini’s mouth. Her eyes widened in a panic
as she raised her hands to tap and press at the metallic muzzle. She then stared at Harry with a
distinct air of distress, her manicured hands shaking in front of her.

“Harry!” Dumbledore admonished, the unease ringing in his voice.

“Magic… outside of school,” Mrs. Weasley said weakly, though it was clear that wasn’t what
shocking her. Harry knew it was far more likely that she was horrified at what kind of magic he
had used, as well as what he had actually done with that magic.
Harry ignored them both and his eyes never left Mrs. Zabini’s. “You won’t talk about my friends
like that,” he said with an oddly detached flavor of anger. “We should make that clear now, don’t
you think?”

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was an odd keening whine from Blaise.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered.

Harry’s wand, still pointed directly at Mrs. Zabini, didn’t move.

Andromeda was the first person in the room to move, making her way to Harry and then leaning
over to whisper in his ear. “Assaulting those you disagree with will not sway them to your side,”
she said, keeping her voice quiet enough so only Harry could hear the words.

It was eerily reminiscent of Narcissa’s earlier diatribe, though Harry knew that the sentiment
behind Andromeda’s words was as different as they could possibly be.

Harry shot her a sidelong glance, scowling. The matter of Muggleborns when it came to Narcissa
Malfoy or Jeyne Zabini went far beyond mere disagreement, but a part of him knew that
Andromeda and Narcissa were both right. No matter how small he wanted that part to be, it was
currently screaming at him.

Mrs. Zabini and Narcissa were not the only bigoted dark witches he would encounter, and he
couldn’t go on the attack every time they insulted Muggleborns.

“Fine,” Harry spat. Scowling, he twisted his wand again, dispelling the metal gag. Mrs. Zabini
stared at him for a few tense moments, her fear shifting into something that seemed like curious
interest.

“Dark conjuration is no small feat… Mr. Potter,” she said, clearly impressed.

Harry blinked in surprise. He’d expected her to be furious that he’d effectively attacked her right
after swearing a Corsri; instead, she seemed almost fascinated.

“It’s especially remarkable magic for a wizard your age,” she continued. “It seems that my son and
young Draco were right - a half-blood can be dark, after all.”

“My mother - the Muggleborn - was dark, too,” Harry replied. “In fact, she used the dark arts to
save my life and blow away Voldemort.” Predictably, Mrs. Zabini winced. “And you will
apologize to Hermione.”

“Harry, that’s really not… necessary,” Hermione said.

“Your son is always lecturing me about my temper,” Harry continued, eyes still locked with Mrs.
Zabini’s. “Insulting my friends is a surefire way to get me to lose it.”

Mrs. Zabini held his gaze unflinchingly before she finally nodded. “I understand,” she said. She
then peered at Hermione with a cool expression. “My apologies, Miss… Granger.” Polite as she
might have sounded, there was still a revolted uncurrent when she said Hermione’s name.

Hermione frowned, but after a moment she nodded. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I suppose.”

Nobody seemed to desire to be the first person to move, but Dumbledore finally broke the eerie
stillness.
“Harry, I believe the others can finish getting the table ready. Could I borrow you for a moment?”

It took all of Harry’s willpower to tear his eyes away from Mrs. Zabini at Dumbledore’s words, but
he pocketed his wand and faced the headmaster.

“Are you going to lecture me?” Harry asked in a half-mumble, suddenly feeling incredibly
exhausted. They hadn’t even made it to breakfast yet, and all Harry wanted to do was crawl into
bed and bury himself in the covers.

He really did not want to deal with Dumbledore at that moment.

“As… much as I feel I should, I’ll refrain from a lecture, Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “It is your
birthday, as well as the summer holidays. Lectures should be saved for the school year whenever
possible.”

Harry sighed.

“Though that does somewhat relate to what I need to speak with you about.” To his surprise,
Dumbledore did not beckon him out of the room, but simply pulled Harry to the side. Whatever
they needed to discuss, it seemed, was something that could be said in front of present company.

“I know and understand that you will not stop your study of the dark arts,” Dumbledore said
quietly.

Harry frowned, disinterestedly staring at the strange pattern of Dumbledore’s robe. “You’ve
already told me that.”

“I have,” Dumbledore agreed. “But I also must state that, as a headmaster of a magic school, it
would be remiss of me to not allow you to have a proper education when it comes to your chosen
field of magic. Despite the unanticipated… prowess you demonstrated here today, you do still need
a teacher’s guidance.” He gave Harry a smile that seemed more tense than happy. “We want to
ensure that you are staying safe as you cultivate your skills.”

“What?” Harry narrowed his eyes, suspicion rolling over him in waves. “Are you… are you trying
to restrict what I learn?”

Dumbledore paused, fixing a honed stare on Harry. “That’s a very interesting question for you to
ask, Harry.” It was obvious from the way he said it that he thought the question was something
other than interesting.

“Well, are you?” Harry snapped irritably.

“That’s not entirely up to me, Harry,” Dumbledore answered. “That will be up to your teacher.” He
paused. “After all, I don’t feel I’m qualified to be instructing anyone in the dark arts.”

“And who is qualified?”

“We already have a professor at Hogwarts who is quite well-versed in the dark arts.”

Harry’s thoughts immediately and almost desperately went to Slughorn. Harry might not have
known how knowledgeable he was when it came to the dark arts but Slughorn was a dark wizard.
Unfortunately, he was still fairly certain that Dumbledore was still blind to that fact.

That only left one possibility.

“No. No way!” Harry blurted out, shaking his head adamantly.

Dumbledore ignored the protest, instead immediately confirming Harry’s suspicions. “Professor
Snape will be tutoring you twice a week.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a few long seconds before he burst out laughing.

He was certain that he sounded a bit hysterical considering that was precisely how he felt. After the
morning he’d had, the news that Snape would be his bloody dark arts teacher felt like the icing on
top of the worst birthday cake ever.

Hysterics, he felt, were warranted.

Dumbledore looked startled at Harry’s abrupt laughter, which Harry supposed could have been
expected.

“You’re… you’re completely mad,” Harry bit out in between gasps. “Potions has been miserable
and Occlumency was unbearable. Snape teaching me has never gone well. What makes you think
that this is going to go any better?”

“I was hoping that since it is a subject you are both very passionate about,” Dumbledore replied in
an infuriatingly easy tone, “the two of you may finally find some common ground.”

“‘Common ground?’” Harry asked incredulously, his laughter fading beneath the surface of rising
irritation. “The only thing that Snape and I have in common is that we don’t want to be around each
other at all!” He paused, and he wrenched his eyes away from Dumbledore, turning his back on
him. “I told you before - I already have a mentor.”

“As you won’t tell me who this mentor is -”

“And I also told you that it’s not your business!” Harry snapped over his shoulder. “Why are we
having the same conversation again?”

“Harry, you are studying and practicing extremely dangerous magic,” Dumbledore said. “We
instruct students in riskier endeavors in other fields of magic, such as apparition and human
transfiguration. We must ensure that you have appropriate tutelage in the dark arts, as well.”

“Not from Snape!”

“We’re living with… Weasleys. We have M… Muggleborns thinking they could have an affinity
for the dark,” Mrs. Zabini said to Narcissa in what was a clearly staged side whisper. “And Albus
Dumbledore is offering a private Dark Arts course to Harry Potter… who is turning it down
because he dislikes the teacher?” She shook her head, eyes wide. “Has the world gone completely
mad, Narcissa?”

Harry glared at her, scowling.

“My mother isn’t wrong, Harry,” Blaise said incredulously. “You know how many of us would kill
for a private dark arts tutor?”

“Lots,” Harry said. “Which really makes me wonder why I’m the only one being offered this
private course.”

“From my understanding, many students learn from their families through home education,”
Dumbledore said. “Is that correct, Mr. Zabini?”
Blaise frowned, glancing at his mother. “Yes,” he said, sounding a little surly.

“But back to the topic at hand,” Dumbledore said, “you will stay behind after each Defense class
for lessons with Professor Snape.” His eyes then gained a twinkle and his lips spread into an
amused smile, which both startled and annoyed Harry. “If we’re going to be doing this at all, it
seems appropriate to follow up Defense Against the Dark Arts sessions with somewhat formalized
Dark Arts sessions, wouldn’t you say?” he said. “I think they’ll be quite complementary.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore in disbelief for a few long moments before shaking his head and
heaving out a sigh. He had to resign himself to the fact that he likely wouldn’t win this battle.

After all, it wasn’t as if he was going to inform Dumbledore that his mentor in the dark was family
- his only family, really. It wasn’t his secret to tell, and even if Dumbledore would accept that truth,
Sirius was still locked up. His mentor wasn’t available to advise him.

Harry knew that Sirius would absolutely despise the fact that Dumbledore was unknowingly filling
his shoes with Snape, but he couldn’t say a word.

“So… I just go to the Potions classroom after Defense, then?” he finally said, feeling entirely
defeated.

That damned twinkle seemed to grow threefold. “Oh, did I neglect to mention that? You won’t
have to go anywhere,” he said. “Professor Snape will be teaching Defense this year, after all.”

“Huh?” Harry asked before the words fully registered. “Snape is teaching Defense?” He groaned,
his head falling back in disbelief.

Snape was not only going to be tutoring him in his new favorite area of magic, but he was also
going to be teaching his favorite subject at Hogwarts.

Happy bloody birthday.

“So Slughorn actually teaches… Potions, then?” he asked tiredly.

“Professor Slughorn is back?” Narcissa commented in surprise.

“He was ready to retire when I was still a first-year,” Mrs. Zabini added.

Harry barely spared them a glance, but he let out a sigh, again staring pointedly down at the floor.

There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore spoke up again. “You won’t look anyone in the eye
anymore, Harry,” he said quietly.

“That’s not true,” Harry replied almost absently. “It’s mostly just you.”

“Pardon?”

Narcissa let out an amused sound. “It seems Harry doesn’t trust you to not invade his privacy,
Headmaster Dumbledore,” she said, a sharp smile appearing on her lips as Harry snapped his
attention her way. Her eyes flickered between Harry and Dumbledore in obvious interest.

“Is that… true, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, a sorrowful undertone in his voice.

After a moment’s consideration, Harry shrugged. “Yes. I suppose it’s better that you know why I
don’t want to look at you.”
A surprising sigh escaped from Dumbledore. “I suppose so.”

Harry was glad that he didn’t elaborate further, and was even more grateful for Mrs. Weasley
breaking the tense silence that followed. “W-will you be staying for breakfast, Headmaster?” she
asked.

“I wish I could, Molly, but no.” With somewhat deflated birthday wishes for Harry, Dumbledore
turned to leave, and Harry glared at his retreating back as Mrs. Weasley stirred into action again,
floating plates of eggs and toast from the kitchen with Andromeda’s help.

As Dumbledore disappeared into the hall, Harry’s eyes landed on Narcissa, who smirked back at
him in obvious amusement. It quickly occurred to him why she was amused; it seemed that Harry
wasn’t nearly as worried about meeting her eyes. He reasoned that Sirius was the one Harry was
trying to protect, and Narcissa already knew that her cousin was a dark wizard.

Mrs. Zabini was the one to finally break up their informal staring match. “Mr. Potter, might I have
a word with you?” She beckoned Harry over to the side of the room. His hackles rose at the request
but he still complied, crossing the distance between them with a great amount of unease.

As the others were distracted with conversation or getting breakfast to the table, that left Harry and
Mrs. Zabini facing each other down once again.

“I feel I should inform you that I will honor the Corsri, and despite the… company here,” Mrs.
Zabini paused, casting a disdainful look across the room, “I still should be thanking you for
managing to secure a… safe haven for me and my son.”

“The company here is just fine,” Harry said pointedly.

“Hmm, yes,” she said, though she certainly sounded as if she didn’t agree. “But I should also
apologize for doubting what you are,” she continued. “You’re nearly a proper dark wizard, aren’t
you?”

“‘Nearly?’” Harry repeated. “I am a -”

“Oh, I realize that you’ve likely completed your declaration,” Mrs. Zabini said with a nonchalant
wave of her hand. “I just mean to say that you didn’t grow up in the dark community. There are
still a few things you need to learn.”

“Like what?” Harry asked dubiously.

“Etiquette.” She took a step closer to Harry and peered down at him with eyes like knives, and
Harry suddenly felt quite small as she towered over him. “If you ever silence my voice again,” she
said in a dangerous whisper, “you will not appreciate the consequences.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but she continued.

“I have heard and will respect your wishes - as best I can, anyway,” she said. “But no one will take
my right to speak.” Her lips then twisted into something wicked. “My third husband tried, and he
certainly didn’t enjoy the outcome.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the insinuation. Blaise, after all, had informed him that the story of Mrs.
Zabini’s seven dead husbands was more fact than rumor.

“I understand,” he said, surprising himself at how steady the words came out.
Her smile became more kind, though Harry couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. “I’m pleased that
we now know where our limits are,” she said. “That’s quite an important first step to… trusting
one another.”

Harry thought it was unlikely that he would ever come to trust Mrs. Zabini, but her words still
pinged something in the back of his mind. “I know it’s not customary to offer you anything to eat -
or not yet, I guess - but you’re going to be here a while,” he said smoothly. “Considering the
circumstances, you’re welcome to check the food and drink for yourself before you sit down to
breakfast. I’ll make sure Mrs. Weasley understands why.”

Mrs. Zabini’s widened in surprise, and then her smile became a bit mischievous. “Vin Slaithe,” she
said.

“I’m sorry?” Harry asked, wondering if he’d misheard.

“Vin Slaithe,” she said again.

“What is that?”

“You’re not familiar? Based on your offer, I thought you would be,” she said. “It’s as I said earlier:
you do still have a bit to learn about the dark.” She gave his shoulder a firm pat and then slipped
past him, catching Blaise and drawing him into an embrace.

Blaise hugged her back, and the affection caught Harry off guard. He supposed that even as on
edge Blaise seemed to be around his mother and even with how prickly Mrs. Zabini was, they were
still family.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips in obvious displeasure when Harry explained Mrs. Zabini’s reason
for testing the food for poison, but she thankfully didn’t voice her judgment.

***

He found Draco, unsurprisingly, in the library, and Draco greeted him with a very thorough
birthday kiss. His morning had been filled with one unpleasant surprise after another, and Harry
welcomed Draco’s soft lips with a quiet sigh. All thoughts of Narcissa, Mrs. Zabini, Snape, and
Dumbledore all seemed to flee his mind; the only thing he wanted to concentrate on was the feeling
of Draco’s body and mouth.

When they finally broke apart, Harry couldn’t think of anything but Draco. “Wow,” he whispered.

Draco merely gave him a smug smile in response before finally drawing away, and Harry let him
go with reluctance.

After the stars had finally cleared from Harry’s eyes, the morning’s events began to creep back up
on him. “Do you know what ‘Vin Slaithe’ is?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard that term since my grandfather died,” Draco replied with a scoff. “Must have been
Blaise’s mother, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “She didn’t explain what it is, though.” He scowled as he plopped down in the
chair by the desk.

“It’s an acknowledgment of… open suspicion, I suppose,” Draco said, turning to browse the
shelves. “It’s also a way of expressing gratitude, but it only gets used in certain contexts, like…”
“... like telling her that she was free to check the food for herself before she ate with us?” Harry
said dryly.

Draco snorted in amusement, crossing his arms. “Yes, that would be one,” he said. “It’s rather old-
fashioned, but Mrs. Zabini is also quite the traditionalist.” He threw a smirk over his shoulder. “If
she said that to you, I think you did something to gain her approval.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I threw a spell at her. She definitely didn’t
approve of that.” He paused before shuddering as he added, “She made some… threats because of
that.”

Draco let out a full laugh at that. “But that’s the perfect context, then,” he said in dry amusement.
“You’re both well within your rights to suspect one another, and now you don’t have to pretend
that you don’t.”

Harry stared at him before a wry grin spread across his lips. “How… practical of us.”

“Didn’t you say you found the Ius Praesidium in one of these books?” Draco asked. When Harry
nodded, he continued. “I’d imagine Vin Slaithe is likely in that same book, considering how…
aged those both are.” He offered Harry a sly smile. “If you want to continue earning points with
Mrs. Zabini, you might want to familiarize yourself with some of the older dark traditions.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, then quickly located the book. As he flipped through the pages
and his eyes skimmed the words, he paused, abruptly wondering why he wanted to remain on Mrs.
Zabini’s good side. She’d already proven that she despised Muggleborns, as well as alluded to the
fact that she was a murderer.

Harry was somewhat startled to realize that the former bothered him far more than the latter. Her
blood purity nonsense was somehow more despicable than the likelihood of her killing all of her
former husbands.

He wondered when he’d begun to find murder more acceptable than bigotry, and it struck him that
it wasn’t even the first time that day he’d had that thought.

After all, he’d told Narcissa that he could accept Lucius Malfoy being a killer, but not that he killed
people due to their blood.

“Draco…” Harry’s fingers curled the edge of the page he’d paused on, his eyes glued sightlessly to
the text. “Did you know your mother is trying to make a deal with me?”

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Draco turn away from the shelves and towards him. “No,”
he said. “But I know Mother, and that sounds like her. What is it concerning?”

Harry took in a shaky breath and leaned back in his chair. “She’ll testify that Sirius is innocent if
I… somehow spin a story about how your father is innocent.”

“She wants you to testify for Father?” Draco blurted out. Then he paused, considering. “No… I
suppose that’s not all that surprising.”

“How is that not a surprise?” Harry asked, dumbfounded. “How could she expect me to…”

“Because you’re likely the only idea she has right now,” Draco said practically. “She’s not going to
just give up on my father, Harry.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Draco froze. “I…are you really asking me that?” he asked. “I wouldn’t think I would have any say
in this.”

“I… I just…” Harry paused. He thought back to all of their conversations throughout the last
school year. Draco had expressed everything from deep regret over the implication that his father
was a murderous Death Eater to knowing that his father loved him, but he realized that he had no
idea where Draco actually stood on the matter of his father.

He and Draco still needed to get to know each other better, it seemed.

“I guess I just don’t know how you actually feel about your father, Draco. You -”

“I love my parents, Harry,” Draco said, cutting Harry off. “I know they’re not always…” He shook
his head. “But my father has always… he just wants what’s best for me and Mother. And I always
just wanted my father to be proud of me.

“He has a very… distorted view of who you are, Harry. If he got to know you - the real you - I
know he would be proud of me.” Draco paused, swallowing.

“Why?” Harry asked in disbelief. “It can’t be because we’re… together.”

The look Draco gave Harry was dripping in fond annoyance. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, and then
he sighed. “I’m choosing a dark wizard who wants to fight for the dark.” His lips twitched at the
sides as if he were trying not to smile. “And that dark wizard is likely influential enough and
almost certainly powerful enough to succeed at his goal.”

Harry felt himself blushing. Draco had brought up Harry’s power so many times that he felt he
should have been used to it, but he still was fairly uncomfortable every time Draco did. “I… I’m
really not that powerful,” he mumbled.

“Of course you are,” Draco said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “But I mean to
say, Harry… my father doesn’t even know you’re a dark wizard! He might suspect it after seeing
all of the dark arts you used in the… confrontation, but he has no idea that you’ve gone all the way
in and actually declared for the dark.” He paused. “That would matter quite a lot to him… likely
enough for him to completely change his tune on you.”

Harry didn’t respond for a moment, staring down at the book in front of him in silence. When he
finally did offer his reply, his voice was quiet. “You want me to testify for him, don’t you?”

“Seriously, Harry - why are you asking me that?” Draco snapped, and Harry jerked his gaze back
up in surprise at the bite in Draco’s tone. “You already know what the answer will be.” He shook
his head and sneered, “Of course I want you to save my father from Azkaban!”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“But I know how you feel about my father,” Draco continued. “I know you might think that… the
rights of Muggleborns are more important than the rights of the dark community, so you…”

Draco trailed off, shooting Harry an alarmed glance, and the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose
as he stared at Draco with horror he wasn’t bothering to conceal.

“I… I shouldn’t have said that,” Draco said.

“Probably not,” Harry said, scowling. “But you know that… they’re both important, right? Equally
important, I mean?”
“I know they are to you,” Draco replied quietly.

Harry was becoming more and more unhappy the further the conversation was going, but he also
couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised. Despite knowing that Draco’s views had shifted
somewhat over the last year, he and Draco still did not see eye to eye on the topic of Muggleborns.

“But because they’re important to you, they’re becoming important to me,” Draco continued.

When Harry registered the words completely, he felt as if he’d been smacked. “What?” he asked
dumbly.

“I just… want you happy,” Draco replied quietly, his storm-ridden gray eyes peering at Harry from
behind fine wisps of white-blond hair. With waves of affection cresting over him, that new,
pleasant flutter rose in Harry’s stomach as their gazes locked.

He let out a breath. “I feel the same way,” he admitted. “I mean - I want you to be happy, too.”

And that was a loaded sentiment that Harry didn’t think he could fully face - not yet, anyway. He’d
asked and he’d gotten his answer of what would make Draco happy, even if he hadn’t wanted to
hear it.

“Can we… can we change the subject?” Harry asked weakly. “I can’t… about your father… I
don’t…”

Draco studied him for a moment, and finally, thankfully nodded. He sat on the floor, leaning up
against one of the shelves. “Yes,” he said, then he smirked. “I’ve actually been dying to… you
mentioned that you cursed Mrs. Zabini this morning. I wish I’d been there to see that.”

Harry let out a groan as he sank to the floor next to Draco. “It wasn’t a curse,” he said. “And I
really shouldn’t have done it. Whether it impressed her or not… it definitely wasn’t a good
impression.” Then he scowled. “But she… upset me.”

“What did she do?”

Harry quickly rehashed the morning’s events. Considering the exact topic that he and Draco had
been dancing around only moments earlier, he hesitated when it came to exactly what Mrs. Zabini
had said to make him lose his temper. Draco didn’t bat an eye or make a comment on her insults, to
Harry’s surprise.

“I’m beginning to see the resemblance between my mother and Aunt Andromeda,” Draco said
instead. “Bringing up the possibility of Granger having a dark affinity certainly seems…
calculated.”

Despite himself, Harry let out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said.

“Were you in on that little plan?” Draco asked. “If so, you shouldn’t have been all that surprised at
Mrs. Zabini’s… reaction.”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he said. “But I think Hermione was.” He let out an amused sigh.
“Since your mother had talked to me, I’d only just really realized…” He paused. “I was worried
about what to say to Hermione, and here Andromeda has already gone and talked to her anyway.”

“Harry, you’re doing that… babbling thing,” Draco said loftily. “I don't have a clue as to what
you’re talking about.”
Harry bit his lip, staring down at his hands. “I… kind of promised Ron and Hermione that I
wouldn’t try to convince her to declare dark, or even do the affinity rite,” he said. “But I… well…”
He swallowed, finding that saying the words out loud was far more challenging than leaving them
to stew in his mind as they had been all day. “I know she said she wanted to wait and do more
research before she tried, but even though I promised I wouldn’t, I still wish I could convince her to
do the affinity rite tomorrow. I know she has a dark affinity, and I know how… monumental a dark
Muggleborn could be.”

He saw Draco shift out of the corner of his eye. “You want Muggleborns to be… free of
accusation,” Draco said quietly. “Much like you want the dark to be.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “And… I know that you and Blaise have…” He paused, searching for the
right words. “You’ve said before that the hatred of Muggleborns and the dark have nothing to do
with each other, but… I’ve seen that it’s not true.” He finally met Draco’s eyes, willing and hoping
that Draco wouldn’t get angry at the sentiment. “The only people I’ve met that actually think that
Muggleborns are somehow… worth less than the rest of wizarding kind have been dark.”

To Harry’s surprise, Draco held Harry’s gaze without so much as a twitch in his expression. He
seemed almost frozen before he finally let out a sigh. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I didn’t
want to believe that last year, but I’ve thought about it, and… you’re right.”

Harry felt too shocked to respond. He wasn’t expecting Draco to agree.

“You feel… out of place in the dark community, don’t you?” Draco asked quietly, his fingers
winding around Harry’s. “You’ve told me what the dark means to you, but some of our… beliefs…
they make you uncomfortable to keep company with other dark witches and wizards.”

Harry didn’t answer, but Draco, as usual, was completely right. He was beginning to suspect that
Draco was secretly an experienced Legilmens due to how well he always seemed to read Harry. He
squeezed Draco’s hand in response.

“You don’t just want Granger to complete an affinity rite,” Draco continued. “You want her to
declare, don’t you?”

Harry’s nodded again before taking in a shaky breath. “But I feel like it’s… wrong?” he said, and it
came out sounding far more like a question than a statement, almost as if he wasn’t sure of his own
words. “If I’m going to try to convince her all, I’ll be completely honest about why I’m doing it - I
have to be,” he said, determined. “She’s my friend, and I can’t lie to her. But trying to convince her
to declare dark just because it’s a good…” He trailed off with a shake of his head, unable to
continue.

“It’s a smart move,” Draco finished for him in a somewhat dry tone. “You know exactly what kind
of proof is needed to achieve your goals, and Granger is that proof.”

And once again, Draco had perfectly summed up all of Harry’s conflicting thoughts into one,
convenient, easy-to-understand ball. Harry let out a sound that sounded like half of a tired laugh.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But that makes it feel… it feels like I’m using her.”

A beat of silence fell, and Harry felt Draco squeeze his hand just slightly.

“Harry, you…” Draco’s voice seemed hesitant and completely absent of his characteristic
arrogance.

But he didn’t continue, and Harry finally raised his eyebrows in a prompt for Draco to go on.
“What?” he asked.

“You do remember that we wanted you to declare, right?” Draco finally asked. “I mean… me,
Blaise, Pansy, Theo… we all talked about it often. Sometimes you were there for those
conversations and sometimes you weren’t, but it was quite a… popular topic for a few months.” He
paused, narrowing his eyes. “And we told you why we were excited about the possibility; I’m
certain you remember that.” Pretension began to creep back into his tone, and for some reason, the
familiarity of it was a bit of a relief. “We knew what your declaration could mean to the wizarding
world. Do you think we should’ve felt guilty for trying to convince you?”

Harry could only freeze and stare at Draco in shock.

But as he thought about it, he realized that Draco had been convincing him to declare. He - and
others - had been quite intrigued about the potential of Harry becoming a dark wizard months
before he’d even decided to begin walking the dark path. The excitement and the encouragement
had all been there, right from the beginning.

“Are you angry that we did?” Draco prompted.

After a quick glance at Draco Harry leaned back, deliberately letting the question roll over him.
“I… don’t think so,” he finally answered truthfully. “I mean… all of you… you showed me where
I was meant to be.” He let out a wry smile at how absurdly true that felt, rubbing a thumb across
the arc of Draco’s hand. “And I suppose it’s not like you hid the reason why you wanted me to
declare.”

“Then why are you feeling guilty for trying to tell Granger the same thing?” Draco asked.

“Because I promised that I… wouldn’t.” Even as he said it, Draco’s words wormed and wiled their
way into Harry. They were, at their core, at least mostly true. Harry’s declaration for the dark had
meaning, just like Hermione’s potential declaration would.

But something even more startling was the fact that Draco seemed completely willing to accept it.
His animosity towards Hermione wasn’t something he’d ever bothered to keep concealed, even
after he and Harry had drifted from enemies to housemates to friends and then more.

“So you…” Harry paused, considering Draco for a moment. “Do you believe the fact that
Hermione is dark?”

Draco tilted his head to the side, appearing utterly confused. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “I
believe that your mother was, after all.”

“But you…” Harry paused. “You’ve never been exactly… kind to her.”

“Granger, you mean? I’m… unkind to Granger primarily because she is an infuriating, self-
righteous, know-it-all windbag,” Draco said. “That all has nothing to do with the fact that she likely
has a dark affinity.”

Harry frowned. Draco wasn’t telling the whole story, and they both knew it. This time, though, he
couldn’t let the unspoken remain unspoken. “But you were the first person that I ever heard call her
a… a…”

“... a Mudblood?” Draco finished dryly, and Harry bristled at the word he'd already heard far too
many times that day.

“Yes,” he bit out. “I’d never even heard that word at all before you called her one.”
To Harry’s surprise, a look of shock appeared on Draco’s face. “Really?” he asked. “You’d never
heard the term? Not even once?”

“No,” Harry replied, scowling.

“I… I don’t even remember learning what the word meant,” Draco said almost absent-mindedly.
“It’s just… I mean, I knew it wasn’t a word to use about someone in polite conversation, but… I
wasn’t particularly interested in being polite towards you and your lot at the time.” He scoffed. “I
meant it to be as insulting as possible.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “And it was,” he said. An acerbic statement was perched on the tip of his
tongue, and he tried and failed to prevent it from tumbling off. “That was certainly you at your
wittiest.” It came out sounding far nastier than it sounded in his head, but he still lifted his eyes to
meet Draco’s in something that felt like a challenge.

Draco’s expression seemed to gain another shadow before rippling into something Harry couldn’t
hope to recognize. He held Harry’s gaze for a long moment before sighing. “I just wanted to make
you angry,” he said. “I didn’t think we would ever be in a position where I would have to apologize
for it.”

“But you never have!” Harry found himself snapping, dropping Draco’s hand. “Blaise apologized.
His mother apologized! You still haven’t.”

“Why are you being such a prat?” Draco sneered. “I thought we were past this, Potter.”

“You tormented Hermione for years just because of her blood!” Harry snarled.

“It’s not just because of her blood!” Draco said.

Harry scowled. “Oh, not just because of her blood,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Her blood still
factors into why you hate her, then?”

“I don’t…” Draco paused, shaking his head. “Would you just stop for one bloody second?”

“You can’t seriously expect me to believe -”

“Would you shut up, Harry?” Draco snapped, springing to his feet. He glared down at Harry with
icy eyes and an unpleasant curl to his lips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Harry clambered to his feet as well. “I’m just sick of all this… this purity rubbish!” he snarled.

“You’re the one who brought it up!” Draco volleyed right back at him. “I have been quite dutifully
not bringing it up - for you - you witless, preachy, uncivilized imbecile.” Then, amazingly, he
paused, and his entire face became pinched as his eyes narrowed and his lips curled unpleasantly.

“What?” Harry challenged.

“You are by far the stupidest Slytherin I’ve ever met,” Draco announced, his mouth twisting in a
wickedly familiar way.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m wounded, Malfoy, really -”

“If you were speaking to my mother like this, or to the likes of Mrs. Zabini…” Draco spat. “You
still behave as if you can shame us all into thinking like you!”

“You don’t -”
 “You have no idea how to behave around respectable people,” Draco continued, his voice rising
louder and louder.

“‘Respectable?’” Harry scoffed.

“You owe me respect!” Draco shouted. “I put my father in Azkaban for you!”

The words made Harry feel as if a bucket of ice had been dumped all over his burning fury.
“Draco…” He reached out and caught Draco’s arm when he tried to turn to leave.

“Sod off, Potter,” Draco spat, wrenching his arm out of Harry’s grasp. He swept out of the room,
the door slamming with a clatter.

Harry inexplicably found himself staring at the knob, and in the sudden quiet of the room his
horror slowly began to slip away and the anger returned.

Draco hadn’t used that ability in quite some time - he still knew exactly where to strike Harry in
order to wound him. The difference between then and now was that Harry actually cared.

Draco had also essentially admitted that the only reason he’d been keeping quiet about
Muggleborns was in order to keep the peace in their newfound relationship.

And Harry had known it. It shouldn’t have surprised him, and yet it came as an immensely
unpleasant shock.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was more irate at Draco or himself.

His teeth clenched and his fingers twitched. He wanted to curse something. If he’d been at
Hogwarts he’d throw a bolt of raw magic at the wall just to see the stone shatter under his force,
but he wouldn’t dare risk that in the library.

But he still wanted to break something, and he found himself stabbing his hand into his pocket. As
he was drawing his wand, though, he felt a whisper roll through him.

You will get through this.

The dark swirled forward out of nothing, and he realized that he could actually see the familiar,
ethereal purple light twisting in front of him. As it flickered and danced around him, his fury
cooled down to a simmer. It was still there in the back of his mind, but it almost felt as if it was an
afterthought.

The magic wrapped around him like an embrace. It wanted to soothe him, and his eyes slipped
closed at the feeling.

And he gladly allowed it to do what it wanted.

Chapter End Notes

I don't do chapter summaries, but if I had to do one for this chapter it would be
something along the lines of "... in which every single goddamn person is at least a
little bit of an asshole."
 Also, 'Vin Slaithe' is 100% made up. I googled it to make sure, but please notify me if
it really DOES mean something in a language I am not aware of. :P

Feel free to stop by my Tumblr.

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