Harry heard the yelling from the kitchen. Mrs Weasley was telling him about how the Burrow was fixed now and better than ever with a new oven, and that she wanted to get back as soon as possible but he’d be welcome for dinner any time when he heard the first scream.
He came out pushing the door open with his mug of tea and slopping a bit on the floor, and was slightly disgruntled to see that there was no emergency.
“Potter!” Malfoy shouted, coming down the stairs with Ginny clinging to his back and laughing her head off. “Where have you been? We’ve been shouting all through the house.”
“Harry,” she called in a lower and much sweeter voice than Malfoy’s, her arms locked around Malfoy’s neck. “You have to come and see!”
Harry answered Malfoy. “I was in the kitchen.”
Malfoy frowned. “Well, you shouldn’t go in there. That’s menial labour: you should send Kreacher in there for you.”
“I will not,” Harry said darkly. “Kreacher gobs in my tea.”
Malfoy smiled the cheerful smile of a man who, if he’d ever asked for tea, would’ve got it in a silver chalice with ‘For Master, Love Kreacher’ written on the tea tray in rose petals. “I’ll tell him not to.”
“Yeah, great,” Harry said. “I can’t wait to see what he comes up with instead.”
Ginny plucked at the material covering Malfoy’s shoulder. “Malfoy, let’s show him now.”
“Your lightest word is law to me, Girl Weasley,” Malfoy said. “C’mon, Potter. It’s my secret project, it’s finally done and you are privileged to be among the first to witness this latest and greatest display of my genius—”
Harry put his cup down on the side table in the hall, bounded up the stairs and said agreeably: “Put a sock in it, Malfoy,” just as Ginny put her hands over Malfoy’s mouth.
Malfoy bit her fingers lightly, Ginny shrieked, let go, windmilled for a moment and then fell backwards. She grabbed Malfoy and he went down with her, and if Harry hadn’t been there she would’ve caught herself a nasty crack on the stairs.
He dived and caught her instead, and everyone landed in a relatively unharmed heap.
“Gryffindors are the epitome of grace and dignity,” Malfoy said, leaning back against Ginny’s knees and kicking Harry amiably in the ankle.
“Thanks for saving me,” Ginny said, tucking her head in under Harry’s chin.
“Um—that’s OK,” Harry said, and kicked Malfoy back.
That was when the front door swung wide open and Snape stood, cloak and robes billowing around him as if he’d transported himself to their door on a black cloud, and Malfoy went from easy and relaxed to taut and upset in a moment.
“Off me, Gryffindors,” he ordered, and scrambled to his feet. “Sir?”
“Mr Malfoy,” Snape said. “It’s time.”
Malfoy swallowed and his chin came up. “I’ll get my stuff.”
Harry picked Ginny up, stood and put her on her feet, and then started down the stairs just as Malfoy turned to go back upstairs. Malfoy shoved him as he went past, and Harry was about to snap at him when he saw the unhappy twist of Malfoy’s mouth.
Harry glared at Snape instead.
“He’s not going anywhere,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t listen to him, sir,” Malfoy said over his shoulder.
“It is my constant endeavour,” Snape assured him in a bored voice. Malfoy disappeared onto the landing.
The drawn-together nervous tension of Malfoy’s back before he vanished from sight only made Harry angrier.
“You’re not having him,” he snapped. “Last time you put him under the Cruciatus. That’s enough. He’s not going again.”
“I have given him all the time I could to recuperate,” Snape said coldly. “If he’s recovered enough to be rough-housing on the stairs with a pair of Gryffindors, he’s recovered enough to do his part. Do you have any idea the kind of questions which are being asked about his continued absence among the Death Eaters? Do you want the Dark Lord to think that he has been deceived in Mr Malfoy twice? Do you realise what kind of vengeance he would take?”
“He won’t get to him,” Harry said. “I won’t let that happen.”
“Mr Potter,” Snape said, ceasing to drawl all of a sudden and drawing himself up to his full height. “The rest of the Order is unaccountably under the delusion that you can do anything. Let me assure you that I have no faith in your supposed omnipotence, particularly since you continue to be entirely incapable of standard Occlumency or basic good manners. I certainly will not trust you with Mr Malfoy’s life, especially since all you’ve done with Mr Malfoy’s life so far is attempt it. I suggest you walk away from this ill-considered little scene you’re staging, because I am not enjoying this errand and I do not have the patience.”
“When is he coming back?” Harry demanded. “You can’t take him unless you tell me when he’s coming back.”
“Do try not to behave like the stupid child you are, Mr Potter,” Snape said. “We are going into the service of the Dark Lord. There is no guarantee that either of us will ever come back.
There are never any guarantees.”
“Shut up,” Harry said savagely. “I’ll go talk to him. He’ll listen to me—”
“I very much doubt that,” said Snape, but Harry didn’t have time to deal with him. He stormed up the stairs. Ginny made a grab for his sleeve as he went past, but he didn’t have time for her right now either: he left her and hoped she’d keep Snape down there as long as she could: he’d explain to her later.
He pushed the door of Malfoy’s bedroom open, only to find Charlie in there with him.
“What d’you mean, you’re going?” Charlie snapped. “You said we were going to talk!”
Since Charlie was yelling at Malfoy, Harry was delighted he was there. He leaned against the doorframe and let Charlie have at it.
“Well, I can’t right now,” Malfoy said, tight-lipped and packing with a sort of vicious intensity. “If I live, we’ll talk. For now I have to go back and be an undercover Death Eater and I’m not particularly looking forward to it, Charles, so you needn’t shout at me.”
Charlie’s sigh seemed to be dragged out of him. He clawed his hand through his curly hair and it stood up all over his head like a dozen dragon’s horns. Malfoy was throwing his things into a bag on the bed, and did not even look at him.
“Look,” he rasped, in the manner of a very patient man much tried. “I can’t—you’ve barely said a word to me in weeks, I don’t know what I’ve done. I can’t let you go somewhere and—not if you’re angry with me, all right? Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong and how I can fix it.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Malfoy said. “We’re fine. I have to go.”
He went to grab his bag and Charlie caught his arm. Malfoy looked down his nose disdainfully at Charlie, which he shouldn’t have been able to do since Charlie wasn’t that much shorter than he was. Malfoy had made looking disdainfully down his nose at people into a fine art, though, and he managed.
Harry was just about to make it clear in no uncertain terms that while he had every sympathy with Charlie being annoyed about Malfoy leaving, Charlie still wasn’t allowed to grab him, when Charlie said: “Don’t go,” in a hoarse voice, and Harry was in such enormous agreement that he let Charlie away with the grabbing.
Something about Charlie’s face or his expression must’ve got to Malfoy, because he threw back in a voice Harry recognised, a voice that said a nerve of Malfoy’s had been hit hard: “Why do you care?”
Malfoy tried to pull away and turn away, but he only half managed it because Charlie hung on. Harry couldn’t see Malfoy’s face now, just the back of his head.
He could see Charlie’s face, though.
He started to get a bad feeling about this. Maybe he should interrupt.
“I do care,” said Charlie, voice rough and scraping in his throat. “You’re being ridiculous, you know I—of course I—”
“Don’t call me ridiculous,” Malfoy snarled, his voice when he was hurt and sniping a familiar and, under the circumstances, almost comforting thing to Harry. “I’m not ridiculous, I thought we were friends, but since you don’t tell me the least little thing I suppose we’re not, and that’s fine, but it means you can’t wander around being all concerned and parental—” he spat the word. “I don’t need taking care of, I’m fine on my own—”
“You’re not on your own!” Charlie shouted. “And as for—if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, there were reasons!”
“What reason?” Malfoy demanded, and by the tone of his voice Harry could tell he was narrow-eyed.
He must be narrow-eyed enough to be blind if he couldn’t see Charlie’s face and what it so obviously meant, if he couldn’t feel that the atmosphere in this room had gone dark and waiting, like the sky when a storm was coming.
He must be blind and stupid, because he raged on and said in a thin voice: “What reason could there possibly have been?”
Just as Harry thought, I should do something right now, Charlie said with the quiet of a man driven utterly beyond endurance: “This one,” slid his fingers into Malfoy’s fair hair, dragged his head down and kissed him hard.
Harry slammed the door all the way open, so it hit the wall. The crack of the wall denting spun Malfoy around and Malfoy broke away from Charlie and dashed to him. Harry shoved his shoulder in front of Malfoy’s and glared at Charlie, whose face was wiped clean of expression by shock. Harry didn’t know whether he was shocked by Harry’s appearance or his own behaviour, and he didn’t much care.
“Snape’s waiting for Malfoy,” he said in tones that would’ve probably been better suited to the words ‘I have a sword in my room. Just give me a reason.’
“You’re right,” Malfoy said in a voice that seemed to be squashed flat with astonishment. “I should go. Bye, Charles,” he added helplessly. “I—we’ll—talk later, or something. Bye.”
“Bye,” Charlie said, looking at the floor.
Harry shoved Malfoy out into the hall. Charlie looked up as he was closing the door, but he didn’t get a last glimpse of Malfoy or whatever he was looking for: he just caught Harry glaring at him, and then Harry shut the door.
To Harry’s immense relief, he did not have to forcibly restrain Malfoy from running down the stairs to Snape and the Death Eaters. Malfoy looked around a bit wildly and then headed for the narrow attic stairs.
For a moment Harry thought he was going to go up to that attic with the Black portrait in it, and he steeled himself to follow him, but Malfoy just sort of collapsed on the stairs. Harry sank down on the step beside him.
“I don’t believe it,” Malfoy said.
“It’ll be OK,” Harry said.
He tried to think of something to say that involved his complete sympathy with Malfoy who was obviously traumatised by older men mauling him, a promise to watch out for him without making it sound like he was protecting Malfoy’s virtue, and an offer to sort Charlie out without committing himself to actually having a gay talk about Malfoy’s virtue with Charlie.
“I cannot believe you were actually right about something that involved human interaction,” Malfoy said. “My whole worldview is collapsing in on itself.”
“Thanks very much,” Harry said. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice. It was obvious. Anyone else would’ve noticed before he did something—not that I’m saying you deserved that,” he added hastily. “I mean, you clearly weren’t—you didn’t ask for it or anything, of course not, you were—”
Thankfully Malfoy interrupted him before he could say anything supportive and entirely ridiculous about Malfoy being taken advantage of, or the innocent victim of Charlie’s predatory advances.
“Was it, was it really obvious?” Malfoy asked, and sounded like he was panicking. Harry was going to kill Charlie. “Oh my God, does Mrs Weasley know?”
“Um,” Harry said. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, thank Christ,” said Malfoy, and then put his face in his hands.
Harry was left at a bit of a loss. He wasn’t sure of what he should do. It occurred to him that he should pat Malfoy on the back and tell him Charlie was a bad man, but frankly he really didn’t think he could do it.
“Oh my God,” Malfoy said, and then in a slightly less blank voice: “Oh my God.”
“What?” Harry said tensely. He didn’t like Malfoy’s new tone.
“I had no idea,” Malfoy informed him. Harry had sort of gathered that. “D’you,” Malfoy looked down at his hands and rubbed at his left wrist a bit. “D’you actually think he fancies me?”
“I more or less got that impression, yes,” Harry said dryly.
“Oh my God,” Malfoy said again. “I had no idea.” He paused, and then said in a testing voice: “D’you think I should—”
“No!” Harry almost shouted at him. “I mean, Malfoy, for God’s sake—he’s years older than you—you’re going through a difficult time—anyway what, I thought you said you weren’t sure—taking advantage—”
As his words spun out of control and he actually heard himself saying the actual words ‘taking advantage’ he was relieved to notice that Malfoy was frowning, clearly deep in thought and not paying attention.
He spoke and cut Harry off, which was probably for the best.
“I told him about Zabini,” Malfoy said thoughtfully.
“About… I—um,” Harry said. “Oh. Before you told me?”
“Yeah,” Malfoy answered. “Ages before. I mean, when nobody else in the Burrow would talk to me. I was—lonely,” he said in an unpleasant voice, as if he was sneering at himself. “I was really angry when you told me about him. I thought maybe he’d just felt sorry for me, thought of me as some helpless kid.” He laughed and there was definitely a tinge of pleasure there, this was no good at all. “Guess not.”
“He should’ve told you,” Harry said severely. “He should’ve let you know how things stood without—”
“Really, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I heard the stories about you and Girl Weasley. Did you let her know how things stood without—?”
Harry felt himself go red. “That’s different. Ginny’s not—”
“A man?” Malfoy asked in a somewhat dangerous tone.
“She’s not miles younger than me,” Harry said firmly. “Or confused. And I might add that if you were sending Charlie Weasley singing Valentines when you were eleven, you were really sneaky about it.”
Malfoy smirked. “That was a great song,” he said. “We all sang it in the Slytherin dungeons over and over and over again. I had a really great imitation of that dwarf who sang it to you. It was one of my best impressions ever.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t see it.”
Malfoy made a face. “I couldn’t have sung it to you, that would’ve been really gay,” he said. “Uh. Fitting in nicely with the general tenor of this conversation, oh my God, a Weasley hit on me. I’ll never get over this, never.”
Harry had the thought at this point that he should probably try to heal Malfoy’s emotional scars and ask him to talk about his feelings. He felt as if he was staring into the abyss.
“Did you actually say the words ‘taking advantage’ earlier?” Malfoy asked.
“No,” Harry lied. “I still think Charlie should’ve told you. I mean, I would’ve told you, when you told me. If I’d had anything to tell. Which I don’t. Because I’m not. Uh.”
“Except for the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said, and cackled.
Harry shoved Malfoy’s shoulder a bit. He couldn’t manage to move much since they were squeezed up slightly on these stairs and he was afraid that the flimsy-looking banister might go and take Malfoy with it.
“Charlie was right,” he said loftily. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Oh God, I left my bag in there,” Malfoy said despairingly. “I have to go get it.”
“I’ll get it,” Harry said. “Actually, no I won’t, you don’t need your bag. I don’t think you should go.”
Malfoy looked extremely irritated. “Not this again.”
“Seriously,” Harry said. “Look, it’s dangerous.”
“You don’t say,” Malfoy drawled. “Look, Potter, what if someone told you that you couldn’t go defeat the Dark Lord because it was dangerous?”
“That’s different,” Harry said at once. “I have to do that. It’s me or no-one: there was a prophecy.”
He refrained from saying that he was the Chosen One, because it always made Malfoy laugh like a hyena.
“But there’s no prophecy about you,” Harry said.
Malfoy scowled. “There could be. Maybe it’s just that nobody’s happened to mention it yet. There could be dozens of prophecies about me for all you know.”
“Just listen to me, Malfoy. It’s not the same. There’s no prophecy for you, there’s no reason for you not to be safe. Snape even said that you were doing your bit, you have the Horcrux and your little plan and—you can stay here and you’ll be safe and the Horcrux will be safe—”
“The Horcrux is safe anyway,” Malfoy said in a distressingly distant voice. “That’s part of the spell. If anyone kills me, it destroys the Horcrux too.”
Harry thought of Mad-Eye Moody, felt a twinge of panic and said: “Don’t tell the Order that, Malfoy.”
“Of course not,” Malfoy answered, still in that distant voice. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“Well anyway I don’t want you to die,” Harry said desperately. He added in a defensive tone: “I promised your mum.”
“Right,” Malfoy said, still looking at his hands. “Well. What you say makes sense, Potter.”
“Yeah?” Harry said, and grinned. He should’ve known Malfoy would see reason: that would show Snape, Malfoy did listen to him, and now he’d be safe.
“I won’t go,” Malfoy said. “I promise.”
“Great,” Harry said.
“I will of course expect the same thing from you,” Malfoy added casually.
“Wait,” Harry said. “What?”
“Well, I understand perfectly that you have to go and face the Dark Lord in the final confrontation,” Malfoy said in a very reasonable voice. “There’s a prophecy. I quite see: you explained it so well.”
“Yes,” Harry said uncertainly.
“But until then, you have to stay in Grimmauld Place,” Malfoy said.
“Hey!” Harry said, outraged. “I can’t—”
“Oh yes you can,” Malfoy said. “No more of this dashing off to kill banshees or save orphans from burning buildings or going out to find Horcruxes. There are other people who can do it, you know. You can’t possibly, because I don’t want you to die either and it’s dangerous.”
“No,” Harry protested. “No, look, it is different. Voldemort—”
“What?” Malfoy demanded, glancing over at him for a moment, grey eyes close and sharp. “Killed your parents?”
“I,” Harry said, his mouth dry.
“Your problem, Potter,” Malfoy said, adding out of long habit: “One of many—is that you’re too used to people following behind you like sheep. This isn’t just your war: sometimes people have to do things on their own.” He leaned forward and spoke into Harry’s ear. “Potter.”
“What?” Harry said quietly.
“I’m going,” Malfoy whispered. “Get the hell out of my way.”
Oh, fine, if Malfoy wanted to put it like that. It was true, Harry would’ve punched Malfoy if he’d tried to get in his way when he knew there was something to be done. He still didn’t think Malfoy needed to do it, it wouldn’t do the war much harm if Malfoy stayed safely where he was and it would make Harry feel a hell of a lot better, but short of Stunning him there was nothing Harry could do.
And Stunning him wouldn’t be practical in the long term.
“I’ll get your bag,” Harry said grudgingly, and climbed to his feet.
“Oh, hey,” Malfoy said, and reached out to catch his wrist. “Snape said the next time he came back for me, he’d drop me off and then come back and test your Occlumency again.” He smiled up at Harry. “I’ve told him how well you’re doing.”
Harry was torn between despair at the idea of an Occlumency lesson with Snape, delight at the prospect of finally getting a step closer to Nagini, and being a bit flattered.
“OK,” he said.
“I’ve left my Pensieve in the study, you can practise on it,” Malfoy said. “Make me proud, Potter. Failing that, please try not to embarrass yourself.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I’m not promising anything here,” he said, and Malfoy laughed and let him go.
He fetched the bag and they went down to where Ginny was valiantly telling Snape about a wonderful hairdresser’s she and Malfoy had been to recently, and Snape favoured Harry with a poisonous look and several poisonous observations about timeliness before sweeping out with Malfoy in tow.
Malfoy squared his thin shoulders under the weight of the bag and glanced back for a moment before following Snape down the steps and into the street.
He said: “I’ll come back soon.”
Harry got everyone else rounded up to go see Zacharias Smith as soon as possible. The alternative was sitting at home feeling panicky and generally miserable: he wanted to get something done.
He left it to Ron to explain to Ginny that she couldn’t come because Zacharias Smith had thought she was a raging harpy ever since the incident with ramming the Quidditch stands and wouldn’t let them inside the house. He found Ron’s remark that they’d be lucky if Smith let Harry in the place totally unnecessary.
Hermione, of course, had secured the address for the Ancient and Noble House of Smith after about ten minutes’ research, and then remembered that Smith had sent her a postcard last summer with the address on it anyway.
“What’s he doing sending you postcards,” Ron said in a revolted tone.
“Really, Ron, because we were all friends together in the D.A.,” Hermione told him, looking rather pleased with herself. “It was very thoughtful of Zacharias to ask how I was during the summer.”
“I write you during the summer,” Ron muttered. “And I invite you round our house.”
He looked triumphantly at an invisible Smith.
“Yes, but you do the same thing with Harry,” Hermione said impatiently. “I wouldn’t call that thoughtful.”
She stopped and checked her postcard again, steering them down another small suburban road in Kent. They’d approximated the distance when they Apparated and hadn’t been quite as accurate as they’d hoped.
“I should really have invited Zacharias Smith to Professor Slughorn’s party,” Hermione continued dreamily. “He would’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
Ron’s mouth fell open. “What did that McLaggen try,” he said. “I’ll kill him.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Ron,” Hermione informed him.
“Yeah, well,” Ron mumbled, scuffing his trainers in the dusty road. “I know that, of course. Only I’m your mate—I mean, Harry and I are your mates—and we’re, er, concerned about you. Aren’t we, Harry?”
“Deeply,” Harry said.
Hermione went pink and cross. “I thank you and Harry for your friendly concern,” she said. “I’m so touched, I just don’t know what to say! Except that I should have chosen some friends who were girls because sometimes you two are so dense it’s unbearable!”
She stormed on up ahead, bushy head bowed and churning the dust furiously underfoot. Ron hung back with Harry.
“That’s stupid,” he said unhappily. “I don’t think the girls at school even like Hermione. Lav certainly didn’t, she was always complaining about her.”
“There was a reason for that, though,” Harry pointed out.
“Well—yeah,” Ron said, his ears going red. “But Celandine doesn’t like her, either.”
Harry wasn’t sure who Celandine was, so he didn’t comment and sort of hoped she wasn’t actually in their year.
“What do women want, anyway?” Ron asked, somewhat wildly.
“What, I’m supposed to know?”
“You seem to keep Ginny happy enough!”.
“We’re broken up,” Harry said. “And anyway, yesterday she pitched a fit at me because I didn’t know the names of her friends or something.”
“What, Gem and Lucy and Alsatiana and that lot?” Ron asked, sounding puzzled.
Harry eyed him coldly. “You couldn’t have come through with that information sometime before yesterday?” he said. “You’re supposed to have my back, here.”
“I can’t help you with stuff with Ginny,” Ron protested. “She’s my sister.”
“Well, Hermione is like my sister,” Harry said. “But I think probably what she wants is, you know, for you to ask her out.”
“Ask her out,” Ron said experimentally, and panic instantly flooded his face. “What, you know, walk right up to her and ask her. Hermione. Her.”
Ron never used to say Hermione’s name in reverential tones when they were twelve.
“That’s the one, yeah.”
“I think I’m going to need a bit of a run at it,” Ron said after an introspective pause. “I was thinking maybe I wouldn’t have to. I thought perhaps we’d, you know, get into some really life-threatening situation and she might—er—grab me in the heat of the moment and snog me passionately or something.”
“That’s—also a plan,” Harry said. “What am I supposed to do while you two are snogging passionately?”
Ron thought that one over. “You can defeat whatever’s threatening our lives,” he said eventually. “We’ll be a bit occupied.”
“Oh thanks,” said Harry.
Ron grinned at him. “We’ll really appreciate it. Once we surface.”
“I see you’ve thought this through in detail.”
“I have,” Ron admitted gravely.
“Good luck with that one,” Harry told him.
They drew level with Hermione because she’d stopped and figured out they were going the wrong way, so she worked out which was the right way, Ron said something about how she was good at knowing directions and smoothed her ruffled feathers, and Harry got back to scowling at the road.
“Hey,” Ron said quietly after a bit. “Um, Harry, mate, I don’t really know how to put this.”
“What?”
“You’re—pining a bit, aren’t you,” Ron said, looking as massively uncomfortable as he had when they’d had the ‘a bit obsessed’ conversation in sixth year. Stupid Malfoy, making things awkward with Ron and plotting to kill the headmaster and going away.
“No,” Harry said sullenly.
“Right,” said Ron. “OK. Hey, anyway, soon we’ll see Smith!”
That seemed such a complete non sequitur that Harry stared at him. “What? We don’t even like Smith.”
Ron scratched the back of his head, looking dusty and lost and as if he wished he hadn’t started this conversation but he was determined to carry it through to the end.
“Well, no,” he said. “But he’s a bit like Malfoy, isn’t he?”
“No he is not,” Harry and Hermione said in steely outraged unison, and then they exchanged startled glances.
Hermione cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Ron, that’s a terrible thing to say,” she scolded. “Zacharias was a part of the D.A., you know. I admit that Malfoy hasn’t turned out to be so very bad, but after all—he took the Dark Mark and he almost killed people, he’s extremely morally reprehensible. Zacharias may be a little outspoken, but he’s never done anything wrong in his life!”
“Why don’t you just marry him,” Ron said in an undertone that wasn’t quite under enough. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Well, anyway,” Ron said with some haste. “I wasn’t meaning to compare their morals or anything. I just meant, you know. Smith and Malfoy look sort of—similar on paper. Kind of, you know, both snotty to us and complete gits and blond.”
“Malfoy’s not a git,” Harry said furiously, and then caved at Ron’s stare. “Oh all right, he is,” he said. “He’s a complete git but it’s not the same, he’s different—”
“Zacharias Smith,” Hermione said with the calm of a woman who had found her perfect vengeance against her chosen Weasley, “is much better-looking.”
“No he isn’t!” Ron and Harry said in outraged unison, and they exchanged really startled looks.
Ron suddenly looked as if he had a bit of a headache. “Not that I have any opinion on that at all, really,” he added. “They’re both ugly gits. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m not having this conversation. Are we there yet?”
Hermione stopped in front of a large gate with honey-coloured collie dogs barking outside it and a badger carved on the front.
“Yes,” she said with some surprise. “I think we must be. These guard dogs are very expensive, you know. Madame Maxime breeds them in the kennels at Beauxbatons.”
Ron looked appalled. “He’s rich? Oh, he would be,” he added, rolling his eyes. “See? Rich snotty blond gits. They’re exactly the same.”
“They’re not,” Harry said. “Though Malfoy did once say he’d pick Hermione over Ginny.”
“They are the same,” Ron said darkly. “And I will kill them both.”
“Hello, doggies,” Hermione said in the same crooning tone she used to address Crookshanks. “Will you please tell Zacharias that Hermione Granger is here to see him?”
The dogs perked up their ears and ran across the gravel, their bodies sleek twists of sunlight.
“They can communicate with humans through a system of barks that sends the necessary information right into the human brain,” Hermione told them both as if they cared at all. “The story goes Madame Maxime had to breed dogs to follow a particularly accident-prone student around. They were trained to go and tell people whenever Timmy fell into the well.”
Hermione kept talking about the fascinating history of Beauxbatons while Harry and Ron peered through the gates. They saw the front door to the big house open: the house itself was a severe building with a couple of stern-looking gargoyles and pillars, and painted an incongruous bright yellow.
Zacharias Smith came out in very nice robes and began striding over the gravel, dogs at his heels yapping happily.
“Hermione,” he said, and smiled. “What a nice surprise!” His gaze flickered over Ron and Harry. “And you two,” he said, scowling at Harry.
“You cannot kill Malfoy,” Harry said in an undertone. “But if you’re actually overcome with the need to kill Smith, I will understand.”
Smith let them all in, though for a moment it looked as if he was seriously considering doing otherwise. He probably realised that Hermione would be hardly likely to nip in the gates and then let him close them on Ron and Harry.
He led them into what was apparently The Conservatory, a stifling room which was all glass walls and fancy parlour furniture, and a house elf brought them all tea on a tea set that was all paper-thin china and metal with swirls on it. They all sat down, Hermione looking appreciatively around with her hands folded in her lap, and Ron and Harry mostly trying not to break anything.
Then they all sat around. Smith was silent and irritable-looking: nothing like Malfoy, Harry thought, the insult rankling with him. You could never shut Malfoy up. He bet Smith couldn’t do impressions either.
“Hermione, don’t think I’m not pleased to see you,” Smith said with what appeared to be a very poor attempt at charm. “But I think perhaps you’ve come here to use me for something.”
“Why would you think that?” Hermione inquired, her face freezing.
“Because I’m not—really stupid?” Smith said. “And because you brought your goons.”
He gave Harry and Ron a look as if they were actually Crabbe and Goyle, or possibly a couple of monkeys Hermione had trained.
“Keep dancing around your point, Smith,” Harry said in a bored voice. “I could use a nap.”
Thinking about Crabbe and Goyle reminded Harry that Malfoy had friends, lots of friends, and Smith was kind of a bitter loner. He didn’t know what Ron was talking about.
Smith glared at him. He didn’t know what Hermione was talking about, either, Harry thought. It should’ve been obvious to anyone that Smith had a horrible hateful face, whereas Malfoy had quite a nice face once you got him to stop all the scowling and sneering and so forth.
“Is this about the Hufflepuff Cup?” Smith asked.
“What do you know about it?” Harry demanded.
Smith looked stroppy. “What d’you want it for?”
“Look, this is for the war,” Harry said shortly. “So get on with it, get over yourself and tell us everything you know.”
“I don’t think so,” Smith said. “You people are the end of enough! What d’you think you’re playing at? You need people to stand against Umbridge so you form the D.A. and then once you don’t need a big club anymore it’s all, sorry chaps, we’re back to being the super special ones and heaven help you if you ask what happened at the Ministry in fifth year because this war affects everyone’s lives and the whole school is terrified. You set your crazy harpies on us!”
“Don’t talk about Ginny like that,” Ron snapped. “I’ll just bet you walked up to her and asked her politely, did you?”
“Why should I have to go begging for information?” Smith snapped. “I joined your club. I’d join this war if I could. I’m no supporter of You-Know-Who, I want to help, and I don’t appreciate being kept out in the cold!”
Hermione leaned over the table and said: “I told you—some of what happened at the Ministry, Zacharias.”
Smith regarded her with a little more warmth. “I know you did,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
“All right,” Harry said. “You don’t like us much? Fine. We don’t like you much, either. And maybe we could’ve told you more than we did, but actually someone I loved died in the Ministry and it was a little painful to talk about, and also if you don’t know things you might feel a bit left out but if I don’t know where the Horcruxes are then Voldemort might win this war. So tell me where the Cup is. Right now.”
“What’s a Horcrux?” Smith asked.
Hermione started to explain and Smith started firing questions at her. Harry and Ron reached for tea and biscuits.
“Great-Aunt Hep’s kind of a legend in our family,” Smith said at last. “I didn’t—uh, I didn’t know she was murdered by You-Know-Who, though.” He looked a bit shaken by the information. “The Cup’s in Albania,” he said at last. “We can—when we made it we built in a tracking charm with Smith blood in it. But Dad heard rumours that there was dark stuff going on in Albania, and then there was You-Know-Who, and we thought it’d be best to wait and—bide our time until we went to get the Cup.” He looked around at them all. “I know everyone thinks Hufflepuffs are stupid,” he said, a bit aggressively. “But we’re not. We just play a long game.”
Harry didn’t know what kind of long game Justin Finch-Fletchley might be playing, but unlike Smith he remembered what was actually important and didn’t comment.
“Can you tell us where in Albania the Cup is?” Hermione asked eagerly, going for a quill, parchment and ink that she’d somehow managed to conceal in her light jacket.
“No,” Smith said, and looked honestly sorry to disappoint her. “The closer I get to it, though, I’d know,” he offered. “It’s like—feeling something is hot and cold. If I could go scouting around Albania, then I’d find it. I’m sure I would, if only my Dad would let me.”
“Oh, your daddy won’t let you?” Harry said, raising his eyebrows. “Is he one of the other side?”
“Of course he’s not!” Smith yelped. “He’s just really protective, that’s all.”
“I thought you said you wanted to help,” Harry said, leaning forward across the table and the stupid tea-tray. “This is your chance, Smith. You don’t want to be left out? Then don’t be.”
“Travelling overseas by magic takes ages,” Smith informed him. “Apparation won’t work properly, and Portkeys are too conspicuous. Not to mention I’ll have to pretend to be a Muggle half the time in Albania, and deal with God knows what stuff You-Know-Who’s put up to guard it.”
“What’s your point, Smith?”
“I want help,” Smith said flatly.
“What d’you want us to do?” Harry demanded. “The war’s on here in England. Voldemort’s taking England first, the Order is busy here, I have to be here—”
“Who wants you?” Smith asked. “I need someone with brains. I want Hermione to come with me.”
He looked at Ron for a moment after he said that, and looked very amused. Harry didn’t dare look at Ron.
“I,” Hermione said. “The three of us, we really need to—we always stick together.”
“Then no deal,” Smith said with finality. “You want me to walk into God knows what by myself because you three snap your fingers?”
“No,” Harry snarled. “We want you to walk into God knows what because it might save the world.”
“Fat lot of good it’d be if I didn’t get the Cup and got torn to pieces,” Smith said. “I want help. If it’s that important, Hermione can come with me.”
“Alone with her in Albania?” Ron roared. “And what would you be planning to do with her there, may I ask?”
“Find the Cup,” Smith said. “Remember?”
“I,” Ron said, and opened and shut his mouth like a fish. Harry thought he might be about to make good on his plan to kill Smith when Hermione spoke. Her hands were clenched into fists in her lap now.
“I’ll go,” she said. “It’s a Horcrux, I have to. Someone has to.” She smiled around at all their stunned faces. “I’ll be back in no time.”
“You have to search Albania,” Ron exploded. “You could be gone for months!”
Hermione gave what was clearly supposed to be a dismissive tinkling laugh, even thought it came out more like a gasp. “I’m sure I can figure it out before that.”
“I,” Ron said. “Then I—”
“Can I have a word, Ron?” Harry asked, and nodded towards the doors of the conservatory. Ron nodded dumbly and followed him out into a considerably less intimidating hallway.
Harry was trying to think past the screaming fury in his head. He wanted to strangle Smith because this was Ron and Hermione, they’d always been there, right there, Hermione’d just said it.We always stick together. They were his friends, his first friends, his only real friends. He needed them.
Only Hermione was going. She’d said so, and they both knew it was easier to turn back the sea than Hermione when she’d made up her mind.
Hermione was going and they couldn’t let her go alone. Not into a strange place filled with the traps Voldemort has laid, with only that unknown quantity Smith at her side. But Harry couldn’t go, he couldn’t: he thought of burning orphanages and the great snake who might be a Horcrux and Voldemort’s laughing red-eyed face. He couldn’t concede the battleground. He wouldn’t do it.
Ron couldn’t let Hermione go alone. He loved her—well, Harry loved her. But Harry knew, had known for some time while trying not to know because surely that would change things between the three of them, that Ron might be—well, really in love with her.
He’d want to go with her. But it would hurt him to have to ask Harry that, to think of himself as deserting Harry. They’d meant to stick together, Harry thought with a twist in his chest. The three of them. Always.
“What is it?” Ron asked, putting his back against the door of the conservatory as if waiting to be shot.
You’re too used to people following behind you like sheep. This isn’t just your war: sometimes people have to do things on their own.
Harry cleared his throat and said: “You should go with her.”
Ron blinked. “What?”
“I mean, you have to,” Harry said, speaking with less difficulty now the first words were out. “You can’t let her go off with just Smith. You guys can get it done quickly and come back with the Horcrux. I know you can.”
Ron kept looking at him directly for a moment, then tearing his eyes away, then looking back. “But Harry, mate,” he said, and sounded eleven years old again: it broke Harry’s heart. “What about you?”
“Oh, me,” Harry said. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Malfoy, and your mum and dad and Ginny back at Number Twelve. Spoiled for choice, really. Not that you shouldn’t try to get back pretty sharpish.” He tried to grin and felt it was a ghastly failure. “You don’t want to miss all the fun.”
“No,” Ron murmured. “No, we don’t.” He stopped and said: “But Malfoy’s gone.”
“He’ll be back soon,” Harry said. “Told me so.”
“Oh,” said Ron. “Oh. That’s good.” He looked at Harry for another moment, at him and away, at him and away, as if he was pausing for necessary breath between gulps of water. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Are you sure?”
“Ron, I hate it,” Harry said. “I’m really sure.”
“I—” Ron said, and exhaled sharply, as if he’d been hit. “OK. I guess. I suppose we don’t have any other choice.”
Hermione argued in much the same way, but she did so while clinging to Ron’s hand as if she would never let go.
“Then that’s settled,” Smith said, looking less than pleased. “We’d better get out of here quick before my dad comes home from work.”
Smith was pretty insistent about getting started right away. He was right too, of course: the sooner Ron and Hermione left, the sooner they could get back to him.
Harry still found himself walking down dusty roads in Kent while the sun sank and the sky turned darker and colder, with Ron and Hermione pressed solidly on either side of him. Smith was trailing sulkily behind.
Harry was clenching his jaw so tight it hurt. They all kept walking into each others’ legs: they didn’t want an inch of space between them. Harry felt like he was twelve again and he thought his friends weren’t writing him letters, had somehow been pulled out from under him, leaving him alone again.
“We’ll be back soon, Harry,” Hermione whispered, her voice sweet and soothing in his ear. “Soon, I promise.”
“You’ll hardly know we’re gone,” said Ron, and punched him in the shoulder hard enough to bruise.
“OK,” said Harry, who already knew they were going, gone, down to his bones.
“It’ll be dark by the time we Apparate to the port at this rate,” Smith said from behind them.
“Shut up Smith,” Ron said savagely.
“No, he’s right,” Harry said thickly. “You should—” He cleared his throat. “You should probably go.”
He stepped forward, away from them, and felt the cold night air where they’d been surrounding him.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione wailed, and threw herself into his arms. She almost knocked the breath out of him and he gathered her up off her feet and against his chest, hiding his face in the mass of her hair. She was shaking with silent sobs.
“It’s OK, Hermione, really, it’s OK,” he murmured, holding her so tightly he thought he might break her ribs. She gasped and sobbed until he worried he really was depriving her of all air and then he put her down and pushed her back so he wouldn’t grab her again.
She stepped further away, uncertainly moving towards Smith. “We’ll be back soon,” she said again, blinking back more tears as others rolled down her face unchecked. “Really soon, oh Harry, I promise.”
“I believe you,” Harry said.
“Yeah—we’ll be back in no time,” Ron said, hovering in front of him. He punched Harry solidly in the chest.
“Yeah,” Harry said, and punched him back.
“Right,” Ron said, and moved towards Hermione, and then wavered. “Oh hell,” he said, and went back and grabbed Harry in a rough hug.
Harry took a sharp breath and tried not to lose it.
“Catch you later, mate,” Ron said, thumping Harry on the back with one hand while the other held Harry’s shirt clenched in his fist. “Tell Mum I—love her and everything, and you, you—take care of yourself, OK?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah. I will. Catch you later.”
Ron stepped back and then stepped quickly towards Hermione, who was crying and who Smith might slide in to comfort any moment. They all stood together with their wands out, and Harry stood watching them.
“I always thought you two were overly close,” Smith said, eyes flicking between Ron and Harry.
“Shut up Smith, I swear to God,” said Ron, and they Apparated.
Harry was left standing alone in some Godforsaken road in Kent, he’d never been to Kent before and he never wanted to go again, taking deep wet-sounding breaths. He wasn’t crying: he wasn’t a little boy howling because he was all alone. He was fine.
He remembered being six years old in school. Dudley was home sick, and Aunt Petunia had become worried about his temperature and decided to take him to hospital and she’d called Uncle Vernon and he’d gone to join them. Nobody had thought to call the school. Harry had waited outside the gates until it was dark and cold and deserted, crisp packets floating around the playground like lonely ghosts, until he was absolutely sure that nobody was coming, that nobody would ever come. Then, weary before he began, he’d started the long walk home.
He Apparated to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and found all its windows dark.
He wandered through the empty, shadowy house and found Mrs Weasley’s note on the table. He cursed himself for not listening to when she’d said they were all going back to the Burrow, and he thought about going to the Burrow tomorrow and breaking it to them that Ron and Hermione were gone.
For now, here he was—alone in the Black house, with dead people in portraits whispering to each other upstairs, every inch of the place cold and deserted and tainted by evil and misery. He thought of Sirius trapped here, going mad—he was just like Sirius—
Not yet, a voice in his mind said coldly. Sirius’ best friend was dead.
Not yet but maybe soon, and Harry wouldn’t be there. He was supposed to be there, they were all supposed to be together.
Harry couldn’t bear thinking about it, he wasn’t going to. He crumpled up Mrs Weasley’s note in his fist and threw it against the wall. Kreacher was here too, Kreacher who’d betrayed Sirius, somewhere lurking around and Harry was damned if he’d give Kreacher a laugh at his expense.
He had the sudden mad impulse to burn down this whole horrible place with Kreacher inside it. Kreacher would deserve it, and Harry could do it, too. The house was his, he could do what he liked.
Only Malfoy loved this bleak terrible house, and he was coming back.
Harry left the kitchen and went running up the stairs to stand on the landing in the dark. He didn’t want to go into his own room, try to sleep while the house whispered and creaked around him and know that he was alone. He didn’t want to stay here, but where was he supposed to go? Was he supposed to go to the Burrow when Ron wasn’t there to invite him, when he’d have to tell them their son was gone into danger and Harry wouldn’t be there to watch his back?
He crossed his arms over his chest. It was freezing in this stupid house.
At least Charlie wasn’t here, he thought. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with Charlie: mostly he didn’t want to see him and he didn’t want Malfoy to see him either. Maybe he was a little freaked out by the whole gay thing, but he wasn’t letting that matter. Harry wasn’t prejudiced or anything, he just wasn’t really used to it, but he wouldn’t let that stop him, he was going to be accepting and understanding. And Charlie was going to back off.
Harry tried to put his thoughts together so they made any sort of sense, but it was like breaking glass in a dark room and trying to pick up the pieces. It just hurt, and everything continued to make no sense.
He stood, arms locked around himself, and didn’t think, and then bolted for the study. He didn’t look at the book Hermione had expected to come back and open at the right page by memory, or where Ron had made himself a miniature fort of cushions to study in. He went straight for the Pensieve, drew his wand with trembling hands and slid it into the silvery waters of memory.
He found himself in a place that he recognised: the Slytherin common room. It looked different in near darkness and total silence. Malfoy was sitting in a chair beside the dying embers of a fire, reading by the light of his wand.
The sight of him uncoiled something tight and hurting in Harry’s chest. He took a deep, shaky breath and he went and sat on the floor, close by, pretending that Malfoy at least was here and that he was all right.
Malfoy didn’t look very different, and he did look drawn and tired from lack of sleep. The fine lines Harry knew were etched at the corner of his eyes now had just started to grow: he was reading a book about magical repair, and Harry thought it might be late autumn or winter in their sixth year.
This darkness was different: Malfoy was here. Harry felt better.
Malfoy made a small pained sound and shut his eyes, leaned his face briefly into his open palm.
“You too, huh?” Harry asked. Malfoy, not hearing him, drew a determined breath and returned to his book.
“Up late reading again, Malfoy?” drawled Blaise Zabini, lounging in a suddenly open doorway.
“Oh, go away,” Harry snapped, but of course Blaise Zabini couldn’t hear him either.
“Bothering me again, Zabini?” Malfoy snapped. He sounded really tired: he should go to bed.
“Just concerned,” said Zabini smoothly.
Malfoy laughed, a sharp swift sound. “Sure you are.”
“We all are,” Zabini said. “Word has it that Pansy cries herself to sleep every night. Quite the heartbreaker, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Harry growled at him.
Malfoy made another small pained sound, lifting a hand ostensibly to cover his eyes from the light issuing from the door Zabini had opened, but really to hide his face from Zabini. Harry saw his face: it looked like Malfoy was close to breaking his heart himself.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?” he asked through locked teeth. “Your concern is really touching, Zabini.”
“No,” Zabini said thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine her mooning over you is making you feel better. You’re trying to do something really important here, and you don’t need that. What you need, Malfoy, is to have some fun. That’s what I think.”
Malfoy looked up, caught by something: whether it was the implied flattery, the idea of relief or both.
His voice wavered on the edge of interest. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well—a Muggle pub,” Zabini said. “Not one near Hogwarts. A proper one. Maybe a club. I know a few places. What d’you say, Malfoy? Are you up for it?”
Malfoy had his head tilted in that way he had when he was questioning the whole world, trying to put it in the correct perspective, but he was smiling a tentative, crooked smile. “Maybe.”
Zabini walked towards Malfoy in a weird way, flowing, deliberate and actually Harry thought he looked like what he was, which was a total git, and it was then—somewhat belatedly—that Harry realised what was going on. He’d gone into the Pensieve with some part of his mind still thinking about the weird gay stuff, and now here it was, this was how it had started, and Malfoy was such an idiot, how had he fallen for this, and God, he looked so tired.
“Then c’mon,” Zabini coaxed, reaching the side of Malfoy’s chair, and he offered his hand.
Malfoy took it.
Harry had to get out of this stupid memory, he had to, but he didn’t want to leave and go back to that house. He couldn’t leave—if he just concentrated on a different memory, on something else.
The scene before him, Malfoy with his hand in Zabini’s, melted and blurred like a series of images going by him on film too fast for Harry to see, and Harry had a moment of great relief right before he saw the other picture, the new memory resolving in front of Harry’s eyes, which was Malfoy and Zabini on a bed, somebody’s wand glowing on a pillow.
They were kissing.
“Oh my God, what?” Harry said. “This had better not be the same night, Malfoy, because if it is you’re kind of easy!”
He stopped telling off a Malfoy who couldn’t hear him about his loose morals, and realised he felt kind of hysterical. They were kissing, not like with Charlie when Malfoy was frozen with shock but actually kissing, guys kissing, Ron would’ve had a fit. Harry could only see anything because they’d left the curtain at the foot of the bed half looped up, which was careless in the extreme.
“Is this the Slytherin dormitory?” Harry demanded. “I hope you’ve cast a Silencing Charm!” He was overcome by a rush of pity for Crabbe and Goyle and the other one. Nott.
Malfoy once again couldn’t hear him and in any case was otherwise occupied, leaning against either his or Zabini’s pillows while Zabini kissed him, really kissed him, and Malfoy made small soft sounds and moved underneath him, hands stroking up and down Zabini’s back.
Actually, Harry told himself, it was fine. Harry was fine. Not freaked out at all, he was very understanding about the whole gay thing, and it could’ve been a lot worse. They were both fully clothed. Well, Malfoy was wearing pyjamas. Fully clothed in pyjamas.
Zabini pushed up Malfoy’s pyjama shirt, skimming a hand up along his ribs, and all right, Harry had been fine before Zabini’s wandering hands, but now he thought it was time for the next memory, please.
Malfoy sat up, pushing Zabini off a bit, and pulled off the shirt. Harry was caught by a vague sense of—something wrong there, something not there—and then he realised.
Malfoy was breathless and flushed, the blush following Zabini’s mouth down his neck, down his chest. Which, of course, had no scar.
Harry hadn’t given it to him yet.
The cold realisation held Harry there, and then blessed relief came when Zabini stopped taking advantage of Malfoy or whatever and started talking.
“I thought you hadn’t done this before,” he murmured.
“Uh,” Malfoy said, distracted and blinking, breathing hard: “You did? Then Pansy’s been telling lies to protect her virtue.”
Zabini laughed, sounding impatient and a little distracted himself. “I meant with guys.”
“Oh,” Malfoy said, sounding more uncertain. “Yeah. That’s right.”
He looked a little bit anxious and a little bit pleased that Zabini hadn’t been able to tell. The crazy things Malfoy’s vanity led him to, Harry despaired, and Zabini should’ve known better than to confuse someone who was supposed to be his friend—
“Maybe,” Zabini said slowly, and sat up and moved back, away from Malfoy, towards the foot of the bed. “Maybe we should call it a night.”
“What?” Malfoy said.
“Good decision,” Harry said.
Zabini almost made it off the bed too, though Harry thought he was moving unacceptably slowly, when Malfoy moved—not in a stupid obvious way like Zabini had moved, but like a predator, which was a ridiculous thought considering Malfoy was on his hands and knees on a bed. He had Zabini pinned on the mattress before Zabini could blink.
“Hey there,” Malfoy murmured, shoulders and ruffled hair gleaming in the wand’s light, smiling a familiar crooked smile with an unfamiliarly swollen mouth. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He glanced up for a moment and saw the curtain, still half looped up. He laughed, almost in Harry’s face, said: “Whoops,” and drew it down, obscuring the bed from sight.
Well, that hadn’t helped with anything, being understanding or anything, and now Harry was kind of too afraid of what memory he might see next, so he left the Pensieve.
He blinked around the darkness of the study. That’d been weird. Gay stuff was weird. Blaise Zabini was a terrible person and an awful friend.
He saw the book Hermione wouldn’t open on a table, and had to leave. He could cope with anything, really, he felt, anything besides a reminder that Ron and Hermione were gone and going further away every moment.
Harry went and checked in Malfoy’s bedroom to see if he’d come back yet.
He hadn’t. It was dark and still in there, just like it was in every room in the house.
Harry remembered this morning, which in cliched fashion seemed a very long time ago, and Malfoy and Ginny babbling about his secret project being finished. They’d been about to show it to him.
He couldn’t see anything that looked like a work of genius, even considering Malfoy’s talent for exaggeration. Then he realised that the bed was covered with actual covers, and not with canvas.
Harry went over and sat on it, examining it. He wondered if Malfoy had, in wild emulation of Mr Weasley, made a flying bed.
Something caught his eye and Harry tipped his head backwards, lay backwards and thought: that was why Malfoy’d been reading Hogwarts: A History. He’d wanted to read about the Great Hall.
Above Malfoy’s bed was the sky, stars glittering in an endless wash of blackness, hemmed in by Malfoy’s bed curtains. It was the sky, just like Harry had eaten under at school every day for years, and how had Malfoy done it, and Harry was staring when suddenly a little figure on a broomstick broke into the quiet peace of the sky, careening through the stars with a tiny helicopter in hot pursuit.
Harry laughed, a soft incredulous sound, and eased himself up on the bed, head on the pillow and hands behind his head. Of course Malfoy hadn’t left it at that: of course Malfoy had done this.
There was a flying car, and random clouds in the night sky shaped as no clouds in the world had ever been shaped according to Malfoy’s whim, and a weird thing that looked like a corkscrew which Harry thought might be Malfoy’s idea of a rocket.
“Harry,” Ginny’s voice said softly from the door. “You found the sky canopy. Do you like it? Isn’t it cool?”
Harry levered himself up on one elbow. Ginny was standing in the doorway, freckles dark against her moonlit-pale skin.
“I thought you’d all gone,” he said in a low voice.
“We have,” Ginny said uncertainly, walking from the door towards the bed. “Mum was really set on going home, she made me promise, but I thought—well, I hadn’t said bye in person, and I thought—where are Ron and Hermione?”
“Don’t,” Harry said sharply, and then at her look of fear: “It’s just—they’re not here, that’s all. Ginny, come here.”
She came over and sat on the edge of the bed and Harry sat up and pulled her towards him, warm and real in his arms, and she was there, he wasn’t alone, and he kissed the curve of her neck.
“Harry?” she said on a gasp, sounding startled.
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, his blood simmering, moving slow and hot in his veins. He wasn’t cold anymore, either. “I know we’re—we’re not—”
“Harry, I can’t stay,” Ginny whispered. “I promised Mum I’d come home. I have to go home.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, thumbing a curl off her neck, kissing the place where it had been, and then looking up at her troubled dark eyes and kissing her soft mouth urgently.
He used his light clasp on her neck to pull her down to the pillows, just beside him, just kissing her. She was kissing him back now, mouth opening for him, hands sliding lightly down his chest.
“Yeah,” he said, eyes closing, kissing her deeper. “I’m sorry, I understand. You’re going home.”
Must be nice.