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beware-of-pity · 1 month ago

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Cinnamon Girl - III

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter Two - Next

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

In my restless dreams, I see that castle. Hogwarts.

Chapter III: But then she noticed me glance at her (I had no choice but to dance with her)

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Harry was certain it wasn’t good for him to think so much. He was frying whatever last sane thought he had left in his mind, and it wasn’t helping his shaky belief about what he, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had witnessed a few days ago in Knockturn Alley. He pondered it repeatedly, twisting and turning it in every possible way, yet he could not shake that he always arrived at the same conclusion: that Draco had become a Death Eater.

His anxious looks — constantly turning his eyes to watch his back in case he and his mother were being followed — twitching demeanour, and a sense of unwillingness in whatever he was lead into could indicate that whatever he and his mummy were seeking out of Mr Bourgins was no average day-to-day incanted necklaces or dragon skulls, that Harry would rather not like to think how Mr Bourgins got his hands on, request of customers willing to pay a petty penny for whatever they were there for.

To add to his annoyance of the matter, it was the fact that neither of the other witnesses of this event seemed as bothered by it as he was. Harry thought that Ron and Hermione, who were more than familiar with Malfoy’s antics, would be the ones raising eyebrows over what they had seen, and yet he barely got a reaction from them — not what he had hoped for. Neither shared an interest in discussing the many possibilities leading to and resulting in Draco and his mother’s actions.

Nor could he hope to turn to Ginny either. As the one often kept out of the trio’s adventures for obvious reasons, mainly her safety, she could not understand the seriousness of Draco’s unusual change of character. The most she knew was that he was a prick, but that was public knowledge to anyone familiar with Draco’s name. If anything, Ron and Hermione had grown more than annoyed by Harry’s insistence on the matter and his constant blubbering over the theories he came up with. It came to a head on afternoon, where after the last of endless dismissals, Harry got the point and decided he would not share his conclusions until he was certain of them. He didn’t feel heard, and he wasn’t sure even the adults would be willing to listen to him.

Sure, he was just a boy, but no boy his age had faced the things he had. He possessed a maturity unbecoming the nature of his boyhood, and yet it was one he could not rid himself of. No, he stunk of it; he carried it within him like heavy baggage weighing down his shoulders. Always at his back, pushing down, as a reminder that he would never be normal and he would never be given the normalcy he craved and deserved.

But for how much he wishes for someone to hear his opinions, even he was uncertain of his thoughts. After all, for whatever reason would a boy of Draco’s age even become a death eater? But for Harry, many, many reasons would ditto so.

For one, Lucius’ imprisonment following the guilty verdict of his trial. Draco had always been one to hold onto his feelings. Harry was sure that injustice was swelling within him as his father was carried out of the room, soon to be thrown into Azkaban. He could not dismiss the fact that Draco and his family had taken it upon themselves to ensure they lay their own perverse sense of justice in the matter. Revenge is a dish best-served cold, or so they say, but Draco’s rage may be surging too intensely through his body for whatever he was planning not to have a greater impact than what his initial impression of the situation suggested.

What happened to Lucius wasn’t an injustice by any means. If anything, Harry had wished he’d faced a much grander show of humiliation. Had Harry had his way, he wasn’t sure if Lucius would have met a more deserving conviction or not. As much as he craved to hurt those who had hurt him far more than they had him, he did not have it in him to hurt others.

The cruciatus curse he had failed to throw at Bellatrix Lestrange was testament enough to that.

He had to mean it; he had to, and yet he did not. The woman had killed his godfather, the man he viewed as a second father, and yet even when given the opportunity, he could not bring himself to hurt. He wished to see her writhe in pain, begging him for mercy, hearing her screams echo through the halls of the ministry as his magic coursed through her body, injecting her with the same pain he was hurled constantly by the man she was devoted to.

And yet she did not. It hit her, but all the red blast of magic coming from the tip of his wand did was startle her in slight shock, if not anger at the audacity he had done so with, and him to a degree. All because he did not mean to. He spoke it, directed it at her — but as they say, if the heart does not mean so, then, even as the mind screams against it, it could not carry itself to complete what his nerves had begun almost automatically. Hurting Bellatrix would not bring Sirius back, that he knew.

Poor Harry. Even when given the opportunity, the opening, into a situation where he could have had every right to act upon his feelings, raging inside of him like a storm, as his heartbeat to a mile, and adrenaline rushes through every crevice of his body he could not but face the true nature of his self.

And despite everything that life threw at him, Harry could not, and would not stray, from who he was. No, he could not allow it. If he loses himself, what else would he allow himself to lose? It all begins with him, and if he ends up ending himself before everything is to come to an end, what will remain when everything is gone and done?

He wants to be tender and merciful because if people like him did not exist, then who would battle the wretchedness of mankind? He was sure it sounded overly valourous.

‘Sounds like penance’ he could almost hear a certain someone resound in his ears. But it wasn’t you, not it could not since you had not appeared in his dreams following the night he came to face you in the dark woods of the burrow.

He spooked you, perhaps? But you had sought him out, led him to meet you there. Angered you? He’d asked if he would see you again, and your absence could not be a clear answer to the question that had been left unanswered. As if he needed more things to trouble himself with, this wasn’t it.

It... bothered him. How empty his mind was without you swimming along the banks of its river, at the edge between the living and the surreal, the real and the fake. It came to the point where he’d come to imagine the sound of your voice speaking his thoughts to himself.

How pathetic. How low had he stooped? How high had he risen in the first place? This wasn’t normal, but then again, whatever was normal in his life?

You... heard him in ways others did not. Perhaps it was the fact that he could not hide anything from you, or maybe it was the fact that you did not judge him for some of his... darker thoughts. No, no, you never did. You never judged; you just listened, heard, watched, perhaps because there was nothing more you could do.

His thoughts, of all kinds, open and secretive, light and dark — you knew of them.

If he speaks, you listen. If he thinks, you hear. If he asks, he shall receive.

Dreams, altered memories, visions of those lost souls he wished he could mend unsaid and unfinished business with, have one last talk with. He’d never been denied an open ear or shoulder to bear his worries to by you, and that made him feel more welcome to express himself to a practical stranger, like you, rather than his friends and guardians of years.

As so, he dreams. Sometimes, he thinks that’s the right thing to do. Dreams — places where he can envision whatever he wants with no consequences. Where he can ask for anything if he’d so likes, and it will be given to him.

Every night, as he lay in bed, he drew the curtains open to let the light from the outside in. As the candles by the bedside tables are flicked off, he hopes that as he closes his eyes, he’ll see you.

He wishes to see you again. He has so many things he still has to ask, your last and first conversation ending before he could truly say, elaborate, articulate, and speak what he desired to open his mind about. You knew that Draco was up to no good; if there was someone who would listen to his intuition, he knew it would be you.

But without you in his dreams or your magic surging through him, his nightly escapades into his dreamscapes were far less grand and... comfortable for him to enjoy. Boring and unvaried scenarios playing in his head were leaden in the far bigger scheme you and him had ended playing into with your games. He felt that it did not matter who he was when you riddled him with confusing words and unravelling truths, even as he understood that they played along with what you were there for —him.

There was Harry before there was ‘The Chosen One’, but how many will remember him as just Harry if he dies at the hands of his fated enemy before he fulfils the prophecy his mother and father died as a result of? But then again, was there ever just Harry? Or had it always just been Harry Potter?

Harry Potter ‘The Boy Who Lived’; Harry Potter ‘The Boy Who Escaped Death’ when drawn against him when he was just a babe? He was the Harry Potter before he knew who he was in the eyes of many. Had he ever come to know who he was apart from who others told him? Apart from what he had been turned into? A spectacle for all to behold. A freak of nature or the result of a freak accident. No other babe in their cradle could have withstood what he had; that alone made him special, and yet Harry did not feel special. He felt exhausted.

In the end, it would not matter. All that did was that he would finish what with his survival he’d been tasked to end. His feelings never mattered because what if he just disappeared and was given the task of being the chosen one by someone else? Selfish, he was sure to be called upon many things, but at this point, Harry would not mind being selfish, even if he could not bring himself to be. All he had ever known was to save people; how could he run from what came naturally to him?

He grew up knowing he had no choice in the route his life led down. The question was, where would it end?

So young and so doomed. A boy, he was, and yet here he was contemplating his possible, perhaps imminent death. He did not want to die. No, he did not.

Afraid, that’s what he was, when the thought would rise like a wave and wash over him in the most random of moments. It would choke him out of the air he breathed and clog his throat and senses in the worst ways possible, making it so that he could not think of anything other than the images his mind conjured up.

The normalcy you provided him with cleared his mind of such troubling feelings, and when even you left him with nothing to distract himself with, he had Mrs Weasley endlessly fussing over him, Ron, Hermione and Ginny about their upcoming return to Hogwarts. Just a few days before he was set off to the place he called his own home, he got to meet an old acquaintance of his, Fleur, engaged to Bill, Ron’s brother. The same Bill that the whole family had gone to visit in Egypt just as Sirius had first broken out of Azkaban. Lovely as always, Fleur was a delight to reacquaint with; Ginny and Hermione thought otherwise, especially the latter, who could not but roll her eyes every time Ron would lose himself in his brother’s fiancee, juvenile puppy love swirling along his irises.

They were planning a wedding, or so he was told, around his birthday next year. That meant he would likely spend it at the Weasleys, and Harry could not see a better way to spend the day he was celebrated.

On the night of the 31st of August, Mrs Weasley had let everyone know that she would not have the evening go in any other way than to see everyone’s truck well filled and planted at the doorsteps within the hour of their bedtime, well-meaning into getting a good inspection out of them, always worrying if anyone had missed something on their list or if they had just not packed well enough in her opinion, which was often the case for Ron, never good at fixing his own mess.

“It’s going to get messed along the way anyways!” He argued as his mother laid his truck bare open on the living room area’s floor, her hands skimming along his strawn-together robes and books neither in order nor pilled, the lighter ones falling on everything along the surface before them.

Both Harry and Ginny stared in amusement as Hermione only shook her head at what he had chastised Ron to be the outcome of the dismissal of the warning she’d given him as he just threw everything in the trunk. Despite the assail of the evening before, the morning of the 1st had been smother than the other six years past had been. Waking up early had always been a sore, he would always complain about so, but he could very well catch on it on the train the sooner he got on it.

The Ministry cars glided up to the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks packed, their personal belongings and animals delicately picked from the bunch.

But as smooth as their early morning had been, the same could not be said for the latter half of it. No cheerful Hagrid awaited them at King's Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced Aurors dressed in Muggle suits made quick work of escorting them into the station. Harry was not fond of being manhandled up to the barrier, but so was protocol, and he only gave a sign of his displeasure on the new order of things as he reminded the man in front of him of his rather exceptional ability to be able to walk by himself, on his own two feet, something he’d mastered since he was a baby, thank god.

The scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching before the crowd of old and new students as it did every year, steaming over them, ready for departure any minute. With one last farewell to Mrs Weasley, he hopped onto the train, followed by the others, his eyes skimming over the overcrowded compartments to find one empty for them, but he realised that such a thing would be futile when Ron and Hermione had prefect duties to fill into and that Ginny had already left to join Dean wherever he was.

People stared shamelessly as he passed, some pressing their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a better look at him. He frowned at the desperation of many, finding no reason whatsoever of why he would be the cause of such reactions — but he could not complain; it was far better than the cold reception he received upon his return last year. He supposed it was to be expected. His face had landed on every possible surface a witch or wizard could land their eyes upon, and the infamous battle he had taken part in was sure to be the cause of the upswing of gaping and gawping he would have to endure as the so-declared "Chosen One" gazettes like the Daily Prophet were spreading around.

His fame had reached an all-time high, but even then, he did not enjoy the sensation of standing in the bright spotlight he was thrown into.

He sat alone in a lonesome section of the train, yet to be filled by the overly enchanted first years wanting to explore it all and the older students in search of their friends. But the loneliness of where he had ended did not keep him company for long.

First, it was Neville, same, good, old Neville. Round-faced, a bit skirmish, and struggling his way through the hall before he stopped at the door of his compartment. They chatted a bit, caught up in each other’s summer before they were joined by, none other than, Luna. A pair of spectrespecs stood high on her head as she clutched to her a few copies of the Quibbler she’d been handing out throughout the train. Harry took one cheerily, always sharing a fodness for the magazine since he’d given them a private interview last year.

Despite her more than serene outlook, as he spoke, Luna’s attention was anywhere but on him. Instead, her eyes skirred all over the packed hall of the train as if in search of someone.

“Waiting on someone?” He asked. She smiled with the same loopiness as always.

“I am. A friend, or so she insists. My roommate. You see, I was looking for her, but it was quite useless. She’s everywhere all at once; I could never hope to find her, so I wait until she comes to me,” she hummed. “She always does, after all. I envy that of her—being always able to find her way back. You know how lost I get at times.”

Harry’s brows furrowed at the vague mention of a friend from Luna. A friend? Luna wasn’t exactly sought after as a friend by others, even if he considers her one of his, very dear and understanding despite her odd nature.

“Did you change roommates?” He asks, trying to hide his curiosity but failing to do so.

“I have. After an accident at the end of last year, I’ve been allowed to share a room with the sixth-year girls. The others kind of stray to let me have space to myself, but she’s been the only one I feel like being something of a friend with.”

Oh? Well, if that is how it is, he could not question it. It made sense that Luna would feel more comfortable with an older girl, one who could understand her quirks and oddities.

Luna is simply Luna, and he appreciates her for that and he trusts her while at it. With her, there’s no need for deeper meanings or hidden intentions buried within her words — unlike a certain someone he can think of. He wondered if you were around here, with someone, in one of the many train compartments occupying your ride.

He bid both Neville and Luna farewell once Luna seemed more than eager to continue her distribution of the Quibbler, Neville proposing his help in the endeavour as they both walked away at the same time as Ron and Hermione joined him in the compartment he had made himself welcomed to.

As he asked how their roundabout of the train went, Ron passively said, “Malfoy's not doing prefect duty. ‘Sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed. Quite the sight he was”

Harry’s eyes followed Ron slumping into the seat cushion, before moving to Hermione’s in front of him.

“Unlike him, don’t you think?” He commented, a hint of sarcasm unbecoming of him laced with his words. “I’ve been telling you. That day, at Bourgins and Bourke, it was a ceremony. An initiation-“ “I know where you’re going with this, you’ve been muttering about it all week.”

Hermione’s exasperated tone overruns him, but that doesn’t stop him.

“It’s happened. He’s one of them”

“One of what?” Asks Ron, confused by the banter.

“Harry is under the impression that Draco Malfoy is now a Death Eater”, sighs Hermione as she straightens the copy of the Daily Prohpets in her hands.

“You’re barking. What would You-Know-Who want with a sod like Malfoy?” Ron is incredulous by the assumption laid before him. Harry can see it; he doesn’t believe in it at all.

“His father’s a Death Eater. It only makes sense. Besides, Hermione saw it. With her own eyes.” Insists Harry.

“I told you. I don’t know what I saw.” It’s almost like Hermione’s voice is about to rise at her last spoken words. She does not want to argue about this any longer than they’ve already had. But she’s cut off by a knock on the screen of the compartment’s door.

A third-year girl stepped forward, a scroll of parchment paper held high in her hand.

“For Harry Potter?” Her voice is uncertain as her eyes travel from Ron to Hermione and finally to him “From Professor Slugghorn”

She rushes out the moment the scroll lands in his hands. The paper is almost heavy with whatever's written on it.

He pulls at the purple ribbon holding the paper together. The silk of the string is unlike the velvety cord he pulled from your hair at the Joke shop, always nestled tight in his pocket. He seldom parted from the possession —sometimes, when in the solitariness of his own self, he would twist and turn the line of thread over and over in between his fingers. When without a pocket in hand, he would secure it around whichever wrist was free of confines, the many turns of the fabric adorning his skin like a bracelet, such as now.

The words written on paper read :

‘Dear Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely, Horace.’

“Well?” He heard Ron ask as he stared at the sea of letters.

“An invitation for lunch” he tucks the letters in the back pocket of his pants as he stands from his seat, “I’ll be back in a short while. I don’t expect this to last long”

Lying was something he would not easily do unless the occasion required it of him. This was one of them. A simple, white lie meant in good riddance — and anyway, if he were to say he later got caught up in something to cover up for his abnormal absence, he would not have been lying earlier, would he?

"Good luck?" Ron says with a chuckle.

Hermione does not seem as amused as her friend is. "Be careful, will you?" she tells him, her expression worried.

Harry gives them a small nod before making his way out of the compartment and into the hall.

That’s why he had slipped the invisibility cloak right from beneath Ron and Hermione’s eyes as he walked out of the compartment, stowing it messily under his shirt, to be careful, no?

The corridors were overflowing with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley. He pushed past them despite his inability to avoid all the staring from passersby and lingering students.

He continued until the door to Compartment C stood in front of him. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for what lay beyond him, then pushed the door to the side and entered the railcar.

"Harry, m’boy!" His reception was most welcome, especially from Professor Slughorn, who made a grand show of greeting him. He stepped forward to take Harry's hand, shaking it as if they were long-lost friends reconnecting after a long time.

Stepping beside him with the old man’s hand patting his back, he was presented to the professor’s fellow guests. A lovely assembly, for sure — he was surprised to see both Ginny and Neville among the callers of this soiree.

Neville squirmed in place while Ginny looked like she didn’t know how she’d ended there, sitting at the table right beside Neville, with only an empty seat dividing the two. Beside Neville, McLaggen, of all people, sat there; the wiry-haired youth raised a hand to Harry, who nodded in turn. Marcus Belby sat in between McLaggen and Slytherin twins sisters Flora and Hestia Carrow, the youngest of the bunch, a quiet duo, not much for words. It seemed as if the girls were making Marcus as green-sick as if he were on a ship.

And then…

Slightly off the others, just beside Zabini, who sat at the other end of where Ginny did, sat you, clad in a smooth, fancy, vest dress in a dark blue with a rich, white dress shirt underneath. Peaking through the collar of your shirt was a string of pearls, the same as the ones adorning your ears.

Your eyes pierced through his with the same old intensity he had come to know them by.

He gulped down a knot castrating his airway, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding that had caught in his troath when he first landed his eyes on you.

“And here he is," Professor Slughorn boomed, clapping Harry on the back. "Our very own Harry Potter! Now, now, let me introduce you to everyone.”

But Harry heard none of it; he was far too entranced by you to be able to focus on anything else.

You smiled, but it lacked the warmth smiles usually held. It is subtle, never apparent. It is not cold but as still and firm as a painting, like brushstrokes, firm and steady, perfectly detailed the upturn of the soft, plump, rosy skin of your lips. Your eyes, as sticking and downturned as always, are endless pits he could not but lose himself in. Mirrors for his reflection to stare back at him. A gentle sort of horror, the one that haunts and remembers, that sends trill down his spine and back to the nape of his neck and makes every nerve in his body shiver.

So pleasant to those who look upon you, you appear, and through your eyes, a sweetness touches the heart that cannot be understood by those who do not feel it, except for him, because he knows, deep down, that it’s reserved only for him. A beauty that appeals only to the withered eastern lilies and white bellflowers, dry and gone but begrudging in their demise. One that resembles the edge of a sharp knife, myrrh on wrists and wood — beams of moonlight protruding through the trees of a forest, which he gazes up at as he lies in the vastness of the wastelands that is the ground. Damned, knowing he is damned, but living still, prevailing through the doom. Magdalenian, divine and... sad.

There was a sadness in your expression, a profound melancholy that spoke of a heartache too severe to be named. It was as if you had seen too much, known too much, and carried the weight of the world on your shoulders. It mesmerised him, like an inexplicable pull that he couldn't resist. He was drawn to the rawness of your pain.

Prophet girl,

Chosen by the moon,

Did you cry when the gods whispered words of solemn stardust in your ears?

It was a feeling he was all too familiar with, but it still had the power to make his skin tingle and his heart beat just a little faster.

He tried to maintain his composure, to act as if nothing was amiss, but his palms were becoming clammy and his heart was thundering in his ears, but it was futile. Once you’d caught his gaze, you held it until it hurt.

“And, of course, here we have, Miss Y/N Gaunt!” introduced Slugghorn once he arrived where you sat. “A fine addition to this gathering, if I do say so myself.”

So, that was your name, the thing he’d been chasing for a month on end. He had never heard of anyone with the name “Gaunt”. He tried to school his features, hoping to hide his confusion, as he watched Professor Slughorn gesture towards you. Despite this, It seemed to ring a bell, but he couldn't quite place it. He had a face, a name, and a person to which to look in time and space, and yet he could never place you anywhere. He tried to recall if he had ever read the name before, but nothing stood out in his mind.

“Such a pity your brother could not join us, Miss Gaunt,”, said Slugghorn “but so generous of him to send us Mr Zabini in his steed. Ah, but alas, I understand, prefect duties, we all must do our part for this school, no?”

Harry couldn't help but notice the change in your expression as Professor Slughorn mentioned your brother. There was a subtle shift in your gaze, a hardening of your features. It was brief, but it was enough for him to pick up on it.

"Of course, professor" Your voice was light, unconfrontational and agreeable as you spoke, but void and empty as if you were agreeing for the sake of agreeing, not really because you agreed with Slugghorn. But despite how captivating it was, there was something a bit unnerving about it as well. It was almost too polite, too agreeable. It lacked any sort of emotion or enthusiasm, and it felt like you were just going through the motions.

“We all have our part to play,” you added, and the word struck him to his very core. And in a moment, he was transported back to that moment in the forest. The memory as vivid as the rays of sunlight coming in the window beside you — he felt it — the cool night air against his skin and the dampness of the forest ground filling his nose. It was as if you had just spoken those words to him once more.

He found himself unable to respond, his mouth suddenly dry and his mind racing. He could only stare at you, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Indeed", agreed Harry, voice choked on the edge. Slugghorn looked between you two, trying to decipher the edge that laced the shared moment. A beat, then -

"Well now, this is most pleasant," said Slughorn cosily. "A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on liquorice wands, and a poor old man's digestive system isn't quite up to such things... Pheasant, Belby?”

The boy looked pale, Harry now realised, as Marcus took what looked like half a pheasant. He was eagerly moved to sit between Neville and Ginny, the latter sending him a furrowed look, which he dismissed.

Slugghorn set on about talking of each most prominent trait or fact he could find about his guests. Marcus’ uncle, Cormac’s uncle, Zabini’s mother, the twin’s family prestige and so on and on and on he went.

It was as Dumbledore had said and as he had come to understand on their first meeting. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential. Neville didn’t fare too well under Slugghorn’s interrogation, and by the end of it, Harry had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents' flair and place in the world.

He noticed that you didn't seem to be offering much in terms of conversation, but you were following and listening intently to what the others were saying, unlike him who had grown restless and rather annoyed by the professor’s interest in slithering his way into the secret of each of them.

“Of course, I don’t have to spare introductions between you and me, Miss Gaunt” teased Slugghorn, all too excitedly. "Of course not," Professor Slughorn continued, "Miss Gaunt is sure to become one of my brightest.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Professor Slughorn's enthusiasm. He knew that the professor was known for his preference for ambitious students, but this seemed just a little excessive and he couldn’t help but frown at the familiar nature the professor seemed to share with you and your family.

“my father would be pleased to hear you say so, professor," you said, with the same monotony as always, but it was neither passive nor annoyed. It is a calm and rather natural kind, one you seem to wear like a second sleeve — a stark contrast to the warmth and enthusiasm that Slughorn was displaying.

"your father, of course! Dear Abelar, I always knew he was destined for great things. I expected nothing more than for his children to follow in his footsteps," exclaims Slugghorn, bumping his leg up the table ever so slightly it made everything on the surface tremble. Ginny and he readied to stabilise their cups filled with pumpkin juice.

He bristled at Slughorn's words. It was one thing to be placed on a pedestal for a legacy one shared with someone; expecting you to live up to your father's legacy was another. He had seen firsthand how such expectations could weigh heavily on someone's shoulders. He wondered if the professor was being sincere or merely pandering to you. Nevertheless, the sympathy coursing through him for you was very much real. The way he spoke of your father was certainly over the top. He stole a glance, just with the tail of his eye, but then again, he didn't expect to see anything but the same impassiveness as ever. Of course, you would be, it was your father they were talking about, he was you knew best what Slugghorn was talking about. What he was most curious about was the fact that now, he could place another piece to the puzzle he’d been building in his head. Perhaps it had been his fault that he’d not asked more of the man he’d seen conversing with Narcissa just before the whole fiasco with Draco blew in their faces. But you were the daughter of the man who had deserted the order in exchange for a life far away from the reach of the dark lord.

You were Sirius’ cousin. He realized. Or something like that…

That explains the resemblance, he mused inwardly. But your demeanour was the complete opposite of Sirius’s. He was loud, impulsive, rash, and quick to emotion, especially anger, while you were calm, aloof, and composed, almost cold, your face betraying nothing. It was like night and day.

"Ah, so you see, I had the pleasure of teaching Y/N's father" said Slughorn as he chews on a roll "I might say, perhaps the best of the best I've had the pleasure of teaching. Sad to say, he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth! I was hoping to catch his eye this morning but it seems he didn't accompany you and your brother?”

“My father is a busy man” you explained, as simply as that “but he’s aware just how hard you've been trying to contact him, professor, so he's asked me to send you his regards”

"Oh, of course, of course, how kind of him" Looking rather pleased with himself, Slughorn continues "Tell me, my dear, what is he up to these days? Last I heard, he was in Albania.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on your face, Harry noticed with curiosity. “still there. He’s gotten rather invested in the magical creatures found within the Albanian forest, doing some research as always.” You took what seemed like a dainty bite from your roll, chewing slowly and in silence for some moments before adding, "he’s doing fine, though”

Slughorn nodded, slightly confused and…nervous, almost guarded, as if he knew something about your father that he wasn't sharing "Well, who would have thought that of him”

“he’s always been a curious soul, my father, as I’m sure you know,” you took the cup in front of you “Always been an enthusiast of the less common creatures," you said, with a hint of a smile in your voice, as you took a sip from your juice, looking across the table as if you were searching something - or someone. Your gaze met his, and he looked away quickly. "I’m sure he’s discovered all sorts of things about the forest; it is a very untamed place.”

There was a fondness in your voice that betrayed your otherwise indifferent tone. He wondered what Abelar Gaunt was like as a father. Had he helped build that strong exterior you so easily hid behind, or had it been the result of a childhood lived in solitude? And if you loved him, then what about your brother? Harry shook himself, trying to focus on the conversation at hand rather than the questions swirling in his head.

“Oh, yes, untamed, alright’” Slughorn nodded along his word, but anyone could see he was eager to change the topic of the discussion. He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence of his prime as a professor and how eager he was to teach once more so many prominent and able students like them.

He was growing tired, if he may say so himself, all this talking and waste of time was truly getting to him, and he could see from the others that he was not alone in his sentiment. Except for you, who continued to indulge blissfully and unawarely in the food in front of you, ever so slowly raising a bit of your choosing to your lips.

The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the "Slug Club" at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn't see how to do so politely. Finally, the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.

"Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on dog tails. Harry, Blaise ... any time you're passing. Same goes for you, miss," he twinkled at Ginny. “And Miss Gaunt, do tell your brother I want him there for our next meeting. No compromises! Well, off you go, off you go!"

Harry was one of the first to rise and almost ran to the compartment door - and then remembered that he was supposed to wait for everyone to leave so that he could, well, sneak off without being noticed. He cursed himself and tried to make the best of waiting for everyone to go first as he stood by the side of the door outside, as everyone passed him, his muscles itching to move.

But then, he heard a pair of soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know it was you. You closed the door behind you with one last goodbye to Professor Slughorn before you turned to him, the quiet and silence of the hall making this all the more….intimate.

Your expression was unchanged, but there was something in the way you looked at him - no, through him - that made his skin tingle momentarily.

“Be careful” you say, as soft as a whisper “he’s scared and watching all the time”

"how do you know?" he muttered back, his fingers clenching and unclenching involuntarily.

You smiled the same as you had before, your eyes wandering all over his face until they landed on the ceiling as if you could see beyond it. "How would I not know?"

He swallowed dry, racking his brain for a response, but his mind came up blank, as white and empty as paper. Instead, he stared back, as if trying to decipher the riddle behind your words.

"Right," he responded weakly. "Stupid question."

you hummed "I'd think not”

He felt the edge of his lips turn ever so slightly upward. He might have found comfort in your words if he weren't so unsettled by your gaze or…wording.

"You seem to know a lot," he said, his voice quiet. "Too much, if you ask me." he breathed in "I'm...glad to see you....somewhere that's not my head”

The words had slipped out before he could stop himself. He felt the blood rush to his face, his checks coming alight, and he closed his mouth as If that could take his words back but it was far too late. He braced himself for your reaction, hoping you hadn't heard the double meaning he had only just realized himself.

“As am I” you breathed gently, and for a moment, it was like he was dreaming again. Your breath fanned his face, and his nose whiffed with the scent of vanilla and candescence coming from your hair.

You sounded sincere, and a part of Harry hoped you were. He wanted it to be, needed it.

"You...you are?" he found himself asking, his voice low and hesitant.

You hummed once more and nodded along. Your simple gesture of acknowledgement was like a small flame of hope that flickered within him. He wanted to say more, to ask you more questions, but he felt strangely tongue-tied.

"Is it...?" he started "Why-" he found himself pausing, feeling a lump in his throat “Never mind.”

He cursed himself inwardly, feeling foolish. This wasn't how he wanted to present himself in front of you. He should be confident and suave, not stuttering like an idiot. But you disarmed him, made his walls come down, leaving him vulnerable.

Maybe that’s how you liked him…

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. "how do you know where I'm going?

“I saw it” you only said "You'll get hurt, be careful. But..don’t worry I'll come back to get you"

He certainly did hope that you would come back to get him since he couldn’t move a muscle, and the train would soon leave to return to London. He’ll be damned if he didn’t get his comeback for this. The Invisibility Cloak he laid under hid him from the bare eye, and perhaps, maybe, it was for the better with the way his face must have looked now. The blood seeping from his nose flowed, hot and wet, down his nose and over his lips, throbbing and pulsing heavily with each breath.

He didn’t know for how long he’d been lying there, but gosh, did he hope someone would just notice how long he’d been gone. Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and down the Gryffindor table a few times, and finally realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London.

He just wanted to prove his suspicions right, was it so wrong of him? He always chanted in his head that the end would justify the means — he didn’t know if to regret it now.

His head was pounding from the adrenaline, but most of all, from the kick that little blonde git had thrown at him.

He’d never hated Malfoy more than as he lay there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a stupid situation to have landed himself in... and now the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was shuffling along the dark platform outside he thought himself doomed.

Until he wasn’t. The cloak had been pulled from him, and there again, true to your words, stood you. And for a moment, he could move once more. Like a fish out of water, he breathed hard, trying to open his lungs to the not-so-fresh air of the compartment. He tried to stand, but you placed a hand on his chest as you knelt before him, pushing him back down.

“I told you to be careful, didn’t I?”

He wanted to snap at you, to tell you that it was no fault of his that he'd ended up in this position.

But you had warned him. You'd warned him, and he had been too stubborn to listen. That, and maybe a bit too intrigued by you.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah," he groaned, wincing as pain shot through his head. "You did.”

"where else are you hurt?" your eyes scanned over his blood-soaked face, trying to see if he'd been inflicted any more damage.

"Just my face," he muttered. "I think my nose is broken."

He reached up to touch his face, but you batted his hand away, surprising him. You gently placed your own hand on his cheek, and he couldn't help but shiver at the contact of your warm skin on his cold one.

“You blasted fool” you whispered “he didn’t know you were only bluffing”

"Yeah, well, I couldn't just do nothing", he grumbled, looking away from your intense gaze. He knew he’d been foolish, but his anger and frustration at Malfoy had gotten the best of him. He didn't want to admit it, but he too was disappointed in himself for his recklessness.

"I was sure he was up to something" he muttered. "I just had to find out what.”

You raised an eyebrow at his words, a small disapproving look in your eyes.

"But at what cost, Harry?" you asked quietly. "Look at you now."

His cheeks burned with embarrassment, but not at the fact that you were right, but rather, at the way you’d said his name. So different coming from you, it rolled in a way that was so pleasant to the ear it could send waves of pleasure through him., his chest twisting in just the right way.

"Come," you said "we must get off before the train leaves”

He nodded, feeling a twinge of pain coursing through him as he tried to sit up. His head was spinning, but he gritted his teeth, pushed on, and did as you said. With your help, he managed to get to his feet, if unsteady and wobbly.

"I can walk" he protested weakly, as you put a hand under his arm to support him.

“Just let me help you”

Help. Harry never often asked for help. Most times, it was people asking Harry for help, not the other way around. And yet, he didn't protest as you took his arm in yours, clutching it in between your hands. Instead, he almost melted into your touch.

You held him tightly, keeping him upright.

"Easy," you murmured.

He let out a shaky breath, grateful for your steadying presence.

“It’s rotten work”

“Not to me” you argued, “Not if it’s you”

The castle glitters as you two finally arrive at the front steps, where the gates limit the access to the school grounds. Harry, face blood-spattered, nose slightly off-centre, has now steadied himself on his feet but hasn’t said a word about the feel returning to his legs, as he embraces his arm with yours, fingers silently intertwined with the others.

“I’m sorry I made you miss the carriage” he murmurs as he daps at his nose with the handkerchief you’d given him with his free hand.

“It’s alright”, you smile faintly “I’m very fond of walking. Especially when in good company"

He smiled in turn, feeling a strange flutter of warmth in his chest. He had never been in this position before - walking arm-in-arm with a girl, and he found himself strangely comfortable with the situation.

"I'm glad..." he muttered, still dabbing at his bloody nose. "That you like walking, I mean.”

“Sure,” you said “Perhaps you could join me for some time,” you said, passively, as if you'd not given your words a second thought, as you always did, it seems.

Harry's heart skipped a beat at your words. The thought of walking with you - just the two of you - filled him with anticipation and nervousness. Although, he couldn't help but feel a small bubble of excitement at the prospect.

"I'd...I'd like that" he replied, trying to sound casual, although he was sure his voice had betrayed him.

"We have much to talk about, you and I, don't you think?" you tilted your head as you turned to look at him.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "I think we do.”

Just then Professor Flitwick rushes forth clutching a long roll of parchment bearing all students’ names, finger pointed and tone inquisitive.

“About time! I’ve been looking all over for you two. Names.”

Harry turns to look at you for a moment before saying “Professor, you’ve known me for five years”

“No exceptions, Potter!” He then turns to you “And you, Gaunt, you were lucky we didn’t have to perform tonight. The disaster it would have been without you in the choir. Can you imagine?!”

Harry stifled a chuckle as Professor Flitwick chastised you. He was surprised to hear that you were part of the choir, but it made sense given your penchant for singing.

"I can only imagine," he said dryly, suppressing a grin, which garnered him a look from you as if you were asking him not to encourage the man.

"Forgive me, professor. It will not happen again" You sounded apologetic, if not, that your face said otherwise, or rather, nothing at all. You looked past the little man, or just...looked ahead "Who are those people?”

Harry turns and sees you staring into the darkness, where shadows drift eerily like ghosts.

“Aurors. For security.” Responds Flitwick in chill distaste.

A voice not far ahead catches the attention of the three of you. Draco, standing amidst a mountain of trunks, owl cages and other animals alike, eyes Filch intently as he passes a long security detector over a…stick.

“It’s not a cane, you cretin. It’s a walking stick!” Just as things seem to tense between student and caretaker, out of the shadows emerges Snape, coming to Draco’s defence.

Snape watches Malfoy carefully wrap the stick in felt and lay it back inside his trunk.

“I’ll vouch for Mr Malfoy” simple words from a simple man, but Harry knows the implications of those words are not simple at all. If he’s vouching for a walking stick, he cannot imagine what he’ll have to vouch for in the coming school year.

Draco eyes Snape warily again, then begins to slouch off, catching you two staring at him.

“Nice face, Potter” he comments smugly before he turns to you, eyeing you wearily “Cousin” he sneers, a mix of emotions underlying the title he used to address you before he turns his back to walk away.

His blood boiled at Malfoy's words. He’d opened his mouth, about to say something in rebuttal, when he felt a hand on his arm restraining him. He looked over to see you shaking your head slightly, silently telling him to let it go.

He wanted to argue, but the pleading look in your eyes made him hold his tongue.

“Cousin, huh?” He asked dry sarcasm in his tone.

“It’s a long story”

Harry felt like there was always a long story with you. He wanted to know more, but before he could ask, Professor Flitwick cleared his throat.

"Alright, everyone to the castle, chop-chop.” He said “And, Miss Gaunt? Your friend Lovegood is waiting for you on the way. She’s got your bag.”

You nodded and gave him a soft "thank you”

Luna, good old Luna, was indeed not waiting far from the gate, with your bag in hand. She smiled and greeted him as if they had not talked last on the train before it journeyed to Hogwarts.

“Whatever happened to your nose? Nasty thing, if you ask me”

Harry chuckled despite himself. Luna's blunt honesty was always a breath of fresh air. "Yeah, it is a nasty thing" he agreed, gingerly touching his nose. "Got a friendly greeting from Malfoy.”

"Fix it for him, will you, Luna?" you asked as you dabbed with the handkerchief his nose, even as he gently prodded you off.

Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, as Luna took out her wand.

“I’ve learned a few spells, you know” she mentioned off-handedly, flicking her wand at his face “Episkey.”

Harry felt the bones of his nose realigning, but the pain still lingered. He groaned out before releasing a little breath “Thanks, Luna,” he muttered, giving her a grateful smile.

Reluctantly, he turned to you and asked "How...do I look?”

You took a few steps closer to him, tilting your head slightly to examine your and Luna's work. “perfect,” you said decisively.

Harry felt his heart skip a beat at your words. "perfect" he repeated softly, his cheeks feeling warm.

He couldn't help but feel like the adjective wasn't just referring to his nose.

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beware-of-pity · 29 days ago

Text

Cinnamon Girl - IV

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter Three - Next

Harry James Potter x Reader

Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence.

Summary :

Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.

Chapter IV: This is a happy house (We're happy here, in the happy house)

. ⚯ ͛

The change of robes had been a hasty affair.

He did not wish to be reprimanded for entering the hall in his ‘muggle’ clothes.

When he reunited with you and Luna just at the steps of the door, his nose was still pouring out blood, even if less than before.

The handkerchief you’d given him was soaked red. The white cotton was sure to be left stained no matter how much washed it would be.

He felt bad.

It was a pretty thing with embroideries on the sides. He could spy the protruding needlework mark songbirds and roses, once blue and now a crusty deep red.

Blue. The same colour as the tie, stripes and crest of your uniform, the same as Luna’s beside you.

Ravenclaw.

Of course, you are. He thought. Fitting, he supposed. Great minds think alike, after all.

Therefore, it must have been you; he could only assume — the roommate Luna was talking about on the train.

Everywhere and nowhere at once, Luna was right. If until a month ago he didn’t know of your existence, it was as if you had entangled yourself in every way his life went.

The Great Hall was already brimming with students when the three of you walked in. Several students looked up from their meals, their gazes lingering on his blood-stained handkerchief and nose. In the light of the hall, Harry’s blood-spattered face is quite the sight.

Hermione spins, watching the three of you approach, concern etched on her face.

He leaves you and Luna to take his seat at the Gryffindor table, Ginny beside him, while you, hand in hand with Luna, walk towards the seats Choo had left you two.

His eye spies with his hand the way your cloak sways in the air and your hair bounces behind you, your perfume lingering up his nose still.

“Where’ve you been, Harry? And what happened to your face?” Hermione urges in great worry.

“Later” he dismisses “What I’ve missed?”

“Sorting Hat urged us all to be brave and strong in these troubled times -- easy for it to say -- it’s a hat, isn’t it? First Years seemed to enjoy it, though. Wankers.” Ron shrugs as he continues stuffing his pace with the gelatine in his golden plate.

Harry steals a spoonful of it, gulping the only bit of dinner he’ll get tonight.

He hadn’t noticed Ginny and Hermione’s eyes eying the handkerchief with curiosity.

“Where’d you get this from?” Asked Ginny, taking it from him and offering a damp napkin which to clean himself with.

Harry took the napkin, trying to clean the blood from his nose, which had now stopped leaking. "from a friend," he muttered. The vagueness of the response was not lost on his friends.

The indistinction of his answer leaves Hermione and Ginny in an exchange of bewilderment, but they don't press on further, which he is grateful for.

He was in no mood to discuss exactly how he had gotten the handkerchief at all.

“Like the one you came in with? Who was that beside Luna?” Asks Ron in great amusement.

Tease. Frowns Harry. He was sure Ron knew who you were, to a degree, and was just asking for the thrill of the game. He shoots him a warning glare.

"A friend," he repeats, more conviction in his words again, more emphasis on the word.

Before Ron can continue his prodding, the light in the Hall dims gently, and all eyes turn to Dumbledore, standing at the top of the Hall, ashen hand raised to the enchanted ceiling, where clouds respond to his gestures and shroud a gleaming full moon.

Dumbledore always knew how to gain the attention of his students, and it was no different this time.

“What happened to his hand?” Hermione whispers in horror at the sight of the darkened flesh of the professor.

“It was like this the last I saw of him, too,” he tells her, his eyes too stuck on the raised hand.

“The very best of evenings to you! New and old. First off, please join me in welcoming the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn raises from his seat, plump cheeked from the feast, a few buttons of his big waistcoated loose to let his stomach breathe from his indulgence. He smiles at the future arrays of students and possibilities laid before him.

“Professor Slughorn, I’m happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master. Meanwhile, the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be assumed by Professor Snape.”

The news is met with stunned silence. Harry groans in his head, and were it not for the bang he took to the head earlier, he might have let his bump on the table right now.

“Now, as you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why.” A beat, then “Once there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very Hall. Walked this castle’s corridors. Slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

The silence is deafening as the name of the darkest wizard of all is uttered so casually, too. It had become easy enough to speak of Voldemort as Voldemort and not as ‘You-Know-Who’. But Tom Riddle? Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to humanise him in such a way as a figure.

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name. Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains… you.”

He knows Dumbledore enough to know his eyes are not just wandering the sea of students for nothing. When his eyes stop, Harry finds that they’ve landed on you.

Dread rises up his troath and washes over him.

Harry turns his eye to watch on you. As unbothered as ever, you hold the gaze of the professor. An understanding is shared between you two.

Dumbledore smiles before his eyes flick to the Slytherin table, where they stare intently at a boy older than he and you —Harry’s do so, too.

He forces his eye to transcend past your figure to watch over him as well.

Tall and lean-faced, he has the cheekbones of a sphynx.

The likeness does not bypass him. When their eyes met, he was taken aback by the same striking eyes you stare at him with.

The same but not in colour.

Whereas yours are alive despite your disposition, his are dull, empty of the life yours alight with.

For a moment, he thinks, Sirius is staring at him again. A younger version of his godfather comes alive once more in this man.

His eyes are adorned with sunk dark caverns that highlight the light colour of his eyes. White, almost, if not grey. His by nature or not, Harry could not decide, but as they narrow in silent fury, he snaps his away from them to land on the seat beside his. On his white-haired companion — Draco.

He slouched low, lazily levitating a fork with his wand as if Dumbledore were unworthy of attention.

He can’t resist the urge to sneer lowly at the blatant show of disregard. Draco's arrogance and lack of respect knew no bounds. No matter the circumstances, the boy never fails to irk him, and Harry has not forgotten their earlier altercation.

This back-and-forth of eyes moving around the room seems to last an eternity, but in reality, it is but a moment lost in time before Dumbledore returns to end his speech.

“Just something to keep in mind. Now, off to bed. Pip pip!”

As Dumbledore dismissed the hall, a collective sigh of relief echoed through the students. Exhaustion washes over Harry and sets deep in his bones.

The day had started with the excitement of seeing Hogwarts again and had ended with the prospect of dark forces trying to penetrate Hogwarts.

His head was hurting just by thinking about it.

"That was cheerful" comments Ron with a small scoff as they rise from the table.

"Yeah," he said dryly, "A real morale booster.”

The heavy atmosphere lingers in the air and sets deep inside of him. The younger students are none the wiser to the implications of tonight’s speech as their chatter fills the air like a song of many voices, eager to be escorted to their common room for the first time in many to come.

Ginny taps his shoulder as they walk, returning him the bloodied handkerchief and it is then, just as he turns to regard her, that he catches the sight of you and that boy talking together.

He freezes just as he is about to put the handkerchief in his pocket, his eyes fixated on you two. There is something in the way you two conversed together that sets him on edge — the closeness, the familiarity, the hand that grips at your arm, protectively and angrily.

Two sides of the same coin and It is only as he sees the two of you side by side, just at the steps of the grand staircase he’d climbed halfway through, that it dawns on him that this boy is the brother Slughorn was insistent about earlier on the train.

It’s uncanny, he thinks. The theatrics of personalities coming alive. You were quiet, calm, almost demure, while from the short and brief interaction, he’s had with him, your brother seemed arrogant, cold, and proud. A true Slytherin, as green as spring grass, the same colour as his robes.

He couldn’t call it a proper ‘interaction’, for it would not be fair, and Harry was a fair person.

They’ve barely met the other's eye, and he was sure that to your brother, he might have come off as a pipping creep for staring at him from where he sat three tables over.

He can see that your brother is in a frenzy about what he’s inquiring about. Harry wishes he were closer so he could hear whatever it was clearly, but alas, he can only slow his steps to delay his departure from the scene any further. Ron, Ginny and Hermione don’t notice his slacking in climbing the steps as they advance forward in order to catch the stair in time, while his feet move to a slow drag as snippets of your brother’s low voice reach his ear.

"Where were you? I was looking for you everywhere, and then in you come, with Potter of all people. Haven’t I told you to stay away from him?”

It is one thing to hear Malfoy’s drawl; it’s another when he hears it from others. He frowned in confusion at the discontent your brother’s voice laced with when speaking his name and the insistence in which he urged you to not engage with him.

"Haven't I told you to be careful? Hasn't Father warned you enough? It's dangerous out there, Y/N! You can't go waltzing around as you please anymore.”

“I can take care of myself.” You neither flinched nor reacted to your brother’s harsh tone.

You knew him better than he did. He didn’t suppose you would shout in his face the few choices of words that came into his mind as he would.

“You think you'll be able to fend yourself against death eaters were they to come knocking at our door? Do you think this is a game you can play the way you do? You can't!” your brother heaved “Why do you wish to let me know what it is to come close to losing you?”

The pain in your brother’s voice was as clear as the night sky outside. He cared for you deeply, and Harry could hear the concern behind his harsh words. He could understand his fear for your safety, even if he didn’t agree with the way he expressed it.

He couldn't help but stare from his shoulder in fascination as you rose on your toes to place a kiss on your brother's cheek. It was a gesture of comfort, a wordless act of reassurance, and despite all, it seemed to come effortlessly from you. He wondered if that's what it was like to have a sibling — someone who would care for you and worry about you like that.

Your brother sighed as you did so. The harsh lines on his face softened slightly at your affectionate gesture.

Harry felt a pang of envy in his chest. It was a tender moment between a brother and a sister, it wasn't meant for his eyes. He felt like an intruder, a witness in something so private and intimate.

He slips away before he can hear what you say to your brother.

“My brother.My dearest brother.” You whisper to him tenderly, “You are not prepared for what is to come, and it will hurt you. But don’t worry, I’m with you, Leyton. I love you.”

Your brother is pained, he shows as much. His eyes are weary and wet as he places a hand on your cheek.

"I just want to protect you," he mutters.

You place a hand on his and give him a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance.

"I know.”

He knows that he cannot protect you forever, but for a moment, he can cling to that hope as he draws a shaky breath and kisses your forehead.

That night, Harry finds no sleep, even back in the comforts of the warm bed with red and yellow beddings. But neither does Ron, apparently.

The two talk for hours on end before they truly grow tired.

Ron asks about Harry’s nose, and Harry is lucky enough that Ron has known him for so long that he doesn’t laugh at the tale. In turn, Harry tells him what he heard before the altercation.

“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson. What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”

“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts?” Argues Harry.

“Whatever for would he?” Shrugs Ron.

Harry shakes his head, knowing it's a losing battle. He knows his suspicions are not unfounded, but perhaps a part of him understands why Ron didn't believe him. Ron is a logical person, even if he is a bit dense at times.

"You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, are you?" Ron shook his head.

"And you're not either, are you?" Harry shook his head, too. "And Hermione," said Ron, "she's not, is she?"

“I think not. I’m also not taking Divination.”

Ron snorts but tries to hide behind a sneeze. Harry knows better.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

"Oh, nothing" Ron mutters, trying to maintain a straight face.

“Come on, Ron, I heard you already. Spill it," said Harry

"It's nothing, just-" Ron tries, but he bites his lip to muffle a chuckle "That girl. Abelar's daughter. She's like the best in our class in divination. Wouldn't have thought you would drop out now that you've got a friend such as her to help you out.”

The emphasis on the word “friend” was not lost on Harry.

“We know each other," he said dryly.

"Since when?" Ron is confused, and perhaps he’s right to be. "Have you actually ever met her before tonight? You didn't even know of her existence until what? a few hours ago?”

"I know her well enough.”

But he doesn't. Sure, you two have this thing where for an entire month of his summer, you've done nothing but enter his head, make him see dreams you wished for him to dream, whisper some intelligible words he's supposed to pass as prophetic and warn him against the danger coming by the result of Voldemort's return. But apart from that, what was there he knew? That you were fond of walking? That you smell of vanilla and warm cotton sheets? That you like ribbons?

Harry sighs.

"She seems nice” The words feel wrong as they come out of his mouth.

Nice isn't enough to define you at all. You are captivating, fascinating, bewitching, and strange… but "nice" feels almost offensive… to you. You’ve been more than nice. You’d saved his skin a few hours prior when you had no obligation to. Not everyone would do that.

“Sure she is” murmured Ron “She’s weird.”

“That’s rude, Ron”, argues Harry, and all of a sudden, he’s ready to defend your honour as if it meant the death of him.

"You don't know the whole of it, Harry. She used to come visit the burrow with her lot of the family. Mom’s relatives, distant and all. One time, there was an accident. I was eight or something. She'd been murmuring and muttering things all day to herself, attached to her father’s hip. Then, he leaves a moment, you turn your back, and next thing you know, she's on the floor, convulsing as her eyes roll back, and she’s choking on her tongue while she turns blue. I had nightmares for days on end.”

"That's terrible", Harry mutters, feeling sympathy for you. "But she was a child too, Ron. Whatever it was, can you fault it on her?" "No, I suppose not" he responded quietly after a few moments.

"Then, it's hardly fair to call her weird, is it?”

"I guess not" he concedes with a reluctant sigh."Just…be careful, alright? There’s something about her…”

The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of the sky visible through the high-mullioned windows as they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon the morning after.

The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.

Turns out that spending his free period watching the parade of confused first-years wandering around trying to find their way was more entertaining than he thought, especially when it got Professor McGonagall in a frenzy.

Until it wasn’t, and in a moment, he’s beckoned forward by her with a disapproving shake of her head as he ‘swarm upstream’.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

“I’ve had a free period this morning, professor—“

“So I’ve noticed” McGonagall chastised. “I would think you’d want to fill it with Potions. Or is it no longer your ambition to become an Auror?”

“W-Well” he stutters “It was but I was told I had to get an Outstanding in my O.W.L. —“

“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching Potions. However, Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’” She smiled, oh so happily.

“Really? Well… brilliant. I’ll head there straight away”

“Good. And take Weasley with you. He looks far too happy over there.”

He does, and Ron has not stopped complaining about it still, arguing he had to practice for the Quidditch tryouts.

The class is packed, and the both of them look like two deers out of the headlight as everyone turns to stare at them the moment they enter. But they’re not embarrassed enough not to wrestle for the newer copy of the textbook in the abandoned cupboard. In the end, Ron stands triumphant as he goes off grinning, while Harry is left to stand defeated with the old, shabby and soiled copy.

As they settle in place among the crowd watching Hermione explaining the functions of Amortetia, Harry’s eyes settle on the little vial held in a ladle.

“You haven’t told us what’s in that one?” Ketie Bell asks.

“Ah, yes!” Slughorn smiles “What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. But it is more commonly referred to as —“

Before even Hermione can but in, a voice in the back calls for the name.

“Liquid Luck.”

A buzz runs through the class. Even Malfoy perks up. The crowd parts, their heads turning in the direction of the sound, even Harry’s.

Your eyes and his meet in a locked battle of who can withstand the longest the sight of the other.

Today, you seem light. Your hair is not loose but up into a loose updo. He can spy the lilac strings holding it together.

It gives you an almost juvenile look. It makes you look younger, and the fact that your eyes were not as sunken as they usually were may be the result of a good night's sleep. Which you much need, you must admit.

You smile his way, in that heavenly but soulless way that carries a thousand agonies.

But while he held the sight with no problem, those beside you look as if they have seen a ghost. Some back away, if slightly, in startled surprise from you.

"Yes, Miss Gaunt.Correct!" grins Slughorn. You were really proving his words on the train yesterday right, and it was just the first day of classes.

"Ten points to Ravenclaw. Now, this potion is desperately tricky to make. Disastrous should you get it wrong. One sip and you will find that all your endeavours succeed… at least until the effects wear off.”

Harry watches Hermione’s shoulders sag at being preceded for the answer, and he smiles at her reassuringly.

"But be warned!” Slughorn adds in a solemn voice “Taken in excess, it may cause overconfidence and recklessness. So. This is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of liquid luck to the student who, in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death, the recipe for which can be found on page ten of your book.”

Excitement seizes the class, and Slughorn smiles knowingly.

“You should know that in all the years of my previous tenure at Hogwarts, not once did a student brew a potion of sufficient quality to claim this prize. In any event — good luck! Let the brewing commence.”

The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws, including you. To his luck, his table and yours were not far from each other. That meant he could blissfully gaze whenever he wanted from across Hermione’s shoulder and there you would be, working on your own potion.

He tries not to think about it too much, as he finally opens the used book, only to find something else to worry about. The margins of the page before him are black with the tight scribblings of a previous owner. As he turns on the following, rows of graffiti, or rather notes, fill the pages going forth through the book.

Shaking his head, Harry runs his finger under the first printed instruction for one cauldron of Draught of Living Death.

“Cut up one Sopophorous bean.”

That had not proved to be the most useless of instructions, for the whole potion was wriggling with imperfections and misleading him in all ways. His silver dagger had not made a dent on the bean he was supposed to cut open. He had to instead duck from Ron’s bean, who shot across the room to bounce off Katie’s head.

Upon further inspection, Harry finds that everyone is struggling, not just to cut the resistant legume. He considers the instruction again. He notices an arrow has been drawn from the word “Cut” to the margin, where a modification has been written in the tight scrawl:

“Crush with blade -- releases juice better.”

Harry considers the dagger in his hand, then places the flat of the blade against the bean and presses. Instantly, the protective parchment covering the desk runs red with juice.

Despite his progress, Hermione is insistent that whatever he’s doing is wrong, even as doubt begins to gum at her when her potion goes awry midway through the process. But as he proceeded on, he and his mind were as calm as the gentle draft from the mountain on the horizon outside the window.

His eyes are divided between his cauldron, the book and you, who had sat on one of the stools, reading your textbook intently, your cauldron long forgotten. You do so without a care in the world, even as Slughorn comes to eye down on it and frowns at your lack of activity.

“Not working on your potion, Miss Gaunt?” Slughorn asks, his frown of disapproval making him look more like a bearded bulldog.

You look up from your book, unbothered by his words, as you smile at him in that way that makes the professor bristle.

“This potion's all wrong, Professor.” You affirm, leaving him in speechless confusion.

He can't help but snicker, if only under his breath. Hermione, beside him, is staring at you, too, wide-eyed, mouth agape at the blunt way in which you had chosen to answer the professor.

But Slughorn, as he often does in these situations, laughs it off.

“I suppose you need not worry about failing, now, do you?”

“I know I won’t, Sir”

Slughorn chuckled again as he patted your slumped form on the shoulder.

“Of course you won’t.” He mutters, before moving on as if to look over Malfoy’s progress, cut had just cut himself, cursing.

Harry, cool as a cucumber, adds one last ingredient, steps back, done…

Hermione, hair like Medea now, glowers at him.

Slughorn drops a rose petal in his cauldron, the two, or rather four, well five if he counts you as well, of them at the table, watch as it drops on the pearly sheer bubbling liquid.

“Merlin’s Beard! It is perfect. So perfect I daresay one drop would kill us all! Your mother was a dab hand at potions, but this… My, my, what can’t you do, m’boy? Perhaps you will save us all in the end…”

But his success is not met with the same enthusiasm by the exhausted crowd that stands before him as he’s handed the vial signifying his success.

“Here you are then, as promised. One bottle of Felix Felicis. Use it well.”

One clap, another reluctant follows until they’re all clapping.

But not you.

No, you just stare at him with that knowing look of yours as your eyes skim his face to land on the hand behind his back that holds the book to him secretly.

Harry knows you know about the book, he can feel it. And he can’t help but feel like a hypocrite under your stare. A fraud, almost, for how he had come to achieve such a success.

But he doesn’t dwell on it as much as he would like to. Because as his gaze locks with yours once more, the look of boredom on your face is gone, replaced by an almost…pride. He has no words for it.

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

The rest of the day was spent flying between lessons to lessons, but alas, to his dismay he didn’t see the likes of you until the evening. And in the most unexpected way.

Dumbledore has called for him to his office, through a letter given to him by Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, who was more interested in asking him when he would hold the tryouts than why he was delivering a letter from the headmaster to him.

It was late at night and for all rights, he should not be out of his bed, room, or common room altogether, but with the special permission he held between his hands, he was free to roam his way to the office as he pleased, taking as long as he liked.

He reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall.

"Acid Pops," was the word he’d been given instructions to use, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office.

He stopped just a few paces short of the office's door as he heard two voices coming from inside of it. His ears perked, and he paused, his hand hovering over the handle, listening curiously.

"Say, my dear. Have you made any progress with him?”

that was Dumbledore's voice, he was sure, but who was he speaking with?

"I think so, Sir" the voice responded "He's troubled. His mind is dark. Filled with the darkest of times, memories, and visions. He's plagued, but he remains strong and valiant…The road ahead is uncertain, but the end is clear. I can see it.”

You took a deep breath, one that filled your lungs and made your chest burn like fire.

“When the dark dims, and the sun sets, his presence in him shall end.”

It’s you. He knows it's you. He's grown accustomed to the way you speak. But there’s something in you. Something he can only recall to the night in the forest. Your voice, soft, feminine and as breathy as always holds the same authority as Dumbledore’s. A sureness as firm and calm as a sea on a moonless night.

"His presence…" Dumbledore echoed, his voice solemn as if the very words haunted him.

"That sounds rather poetic, my dear," he hears a hint of a smile in the man’s voice. "I suppose we should trust your judgment on the matter. I know better than to question your judgment by now. But say. You are sure of this?" He asks

"As sure as I can be" you affirmed "As sure as the oracles are.”

“The oracles have been wrong before, you know?”

“But I’ve never been.”

“That remains to be seen”, he mused “But your confidence is admirable, to say the least. Very well, my dear. You've done as I've asked, and for that, you have my graciousness, but i'm afraid that we must end our conversation short, for we are not alone anymore.”

The door flows open before Harry, surely by the flick of magic, revealing his form before he can hide. Dumbledore smiled at him from where he sat at his desk, and before it stood you, who tilted your head in that captivating way of yours.

He stiffens under the watchful eyes. Dumbledore smiled a benevolent smile at his discomfort.

“Ah, there you are, Harry. I trust you had little trouble finding your way here?”

"Yes, Sir" his voice is as weary as his form as he steps into the office. He eyes the open pensive on the side. "You wanted to see me?”

“Quite right” Dumbledore regards you with a warm smile “Thank you, Y/N. We will finish this conversation another time.”

You nod, giving him one last look before leaving the office and closing the door behind you. His nose catches the scent of puff pastry lingering among all the others he’s become familiar with. He waits until the sound of your steps fades before turning back to Dumbledore.

“How are you?”

The question is simple but it makes Harry smile.

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“Enjoying your classes? Professor Slughorn for one is most impressed by you.”

“I think he overestimates my abilities, sir.” He chuckled sheepishly.

“Do you?”

“Definitely”

Dumbledore smiles affectionately, a twinkle in his eye, and nods.

“That young lady doesn’t.”

Harry feels his face warm ever so slightly. The twinkle in the old man’s eye is almost as if he could read Harry’s mind.

“She tells me lots about you" the man comments offhandedly "It's no wonder, I presume, after the time you two have spent together.”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye has turned sharper, observant almost, and Harry can’t but feel like Dumbledore is trying to read all the thoughts in his head.

It’s almost like the man had known about your little…dream encounters.

"Quite pretty she is, no?”

That snaps him out of his thoughts. "What?" he asked, his voice a bit too quick.

Dumbledore chuckled, a knowing smile on his face.

"I said, she's quite pretty, isn't she?" he repeated his tone light.

"Um…yeah," Harry replied, a bit unsure of where this conversation was going.

"Very bright too," said Dumbledore "Though, I do suppose she does not play the part well"

Harry raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” He asked, feeling as if he was purposely being played at. You did that often enough.

"Unfortunately for our dear Y/N, her sight got the better of her when she was born," said Dumbledore "Some may perceive her as rather…odd. Different, no? But, as I used to say, it is what's beneath the surface that shows the true iron beneath. But on the contrary to what people might think, that one is a very bright and reasonably good witch at that. That and much more she is," he smiled "I'm sure in time, you will see what she's able to do as well.”

He took every single word in, absorbing it as if he were a dry sponge. He mulled the words, taking care not to put his own bias in them. He was silent for a moment, thinking, before finally speaking up again. Sight? he would have to ask about that later.

"How do you know so much about her, Professor?”

"I know much and more. Harry" Dumbledore said, before standing from his chair "but why don't I show it to you?"

The look on Harry’s face is one of confusion and curiosity as Dumbledore stepped around from his desk and made his way to the pensive. He swings open a cabinet where dozens upon dozens of glittering vials stand like tiny glimmering soldiers.

"You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added.

"And so I did," said Dumbledore placidly. "I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."

"But you think you're right?" said Harry.

"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. Being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger. Mine own mind does not stand the test of time, and time fades like a memory, which is why sometimes we must rely on murky methods to remember.”

Harry looked at the pensive then between Dumbledore and the basin, his curiosity slowly growing with every word out of Dumbledore's mouth, only to be followed with more and more questions as Dumbledore spoke.

"You look worried."

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts

and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling.

“I’m just…confused. I feel..like a pawn in some bigger game I’m not playing at,” said Harry, voice quiet.

Dumbledore gave him a sympathetic and perhaps a bit guilty look as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

"I am sorry, Harry," he said, sincerely "I know you have been burdened with so much. So much has been left on your shoulders, and it is far too unfair. But it is a necessary burden. I have confidence, in you, in your courage and in your strength. There is a long journey ahead, Harry, but I have every faith in you. You will not carry it alone.”

He gave the man a bitter smile. Who would choose this path willingly? All those who wished to be the ‘Chosen One’, how much would they still wish for the same if they were standing here right now?

The memory falls in the waters of the pensive as it swims along its current. He pushed his face in, and in a moment, he was no longer in the comforts of Dumbledore’s office, where the warmth of the fireplace seeped in him, and the dim light almost made him sleepy.

He’s in a country lane, bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of him stands a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks.

He follows after him as the man sets off on a frisky walk. Nothing on the horizon graces this short way, with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead.

Harry could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton from what Dumbledore had told him, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible.

Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawns.

He follows him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them.

Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it took Harry's eyes the beat of a moment before they could discern the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks.

Harry knows it’s there the man is heading.

Its walls were mossy, and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. It looks inhabited, and it should be by its condition, but there are signs of life all around it if one has a keen eye to spy on it.

Like, the dead snake some had nailed by the front door.

The place in front of him leaves him a furry of thoughts, all snapped away by the sound of a rustle and a crack, and the show of a man in rags dropping from the nearest tree.

“You’re not welcome.” He hisses, but the man before him does not seem to understand the boy.

The boy — or man?— had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions, almost serpentinely. He might have looked comical, but he did not. He was frightening, and Harry could not blame the man for backing away several more paces, as he did, as well as if he might be affected by the memory himself before he spoke.

“Good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —" "You're not welcome."

"Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you,” the man said, nervously.

But Harry does. He understands well.

Parseltongue. A sibilistic sound.

The boy in rags was now advancing on the man, knife in one hand, wand in the other. Until a bang and the man was on the ground, clutching his nose in pain.

”Morfin!" said a loud voice, angry, raging from the cottage, where an elderly man came hurrying out of, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically.

This one is even shorter than the first and oddly proportioned. With shoulders broad and arms too long and grown. His bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face gave him the look of a powerful, aged, distorted monkey. He came to a halt beside the boy with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.

"Ministry, is it?" said the older man, looking down at Ogden.

"Correct!" The one on the ground shouts angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"

Gaunt. The name leaves Harry’s troath dry and his lungs without breath. This is your family, your blood. And the scene before him suddenly makes much more sense.

"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" said Gaunt aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."

“From what?!”

“Busybodies and Intruders like you! Muggles and filth." Mr Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. "Get in the house. Don't argue."

Morfin looks over at him with a resentful look, before disappearing inside the house, the door banging shut behind him.

"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt!” argues the man, as he mops after himself "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"

“What’d you want from him?”

“We sent an owl —"

“I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters."

"Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors," said Ogden tartly. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —"

“Alright, alright. Just get in the bleeding house!!”

The house is tiny, and so are its rooms. It’s cramped, maybe just like the cupboard he used to sleep in. Two doors led off the main room, used both as a kitchen and living room combined. Morfin is off to the side, sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue.

A scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window takes on Harry’s attention as he realises there is somebody else in the room with them.

A girl wearing a ragged grey dress the exact colour of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, her hair a lanky and dull brown and a plain, pale, rather heavy face set in a frown. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person.

"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.

“That’s two. May I inquire about your eldest? Denyse Gau-“

“Do not speak that blasted name in my house!” howls Gaunt “That bitch is dead to me! To all of us! She chose her new ‘family’ over us! I will not have her be spoken of in my presence or in this house! I’ll be dead before that happens!"

At the raging, the girl looks up, fear evident on her face.

“Ssh!” she muttered, casting a horrified look at her father “Do you want Morfin to hear you -?”

"I don’t care!” snarled Gaunt, his face purpling with rage again. “Let him hear it anyway! He knows too what your sister has chosen! Money, riches over her own blood!”

The girl seemed more frightened than ever at her father’s words. She muttered something inaudible as she went back to her work by the stove.

The man in the coat seems almost as nervous as the girl, his eyes flickering towards Morfin, who is still sitting in the armchair with the snake in his hands.

“Mr. Gaunt," said the man with caution, “I’m not here for your family’s quarrels. I have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.”

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.

"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle. What’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"

"Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —"

"I heard you the first time!" snapped Gaunt. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him. What about it, then?"

“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden, clenching his hands inside his pockets “The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.”

He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.

"What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.

"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —"

"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"

"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," argues Ogden.

"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advancing on the man with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. "Scum, who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"

The fear is clear as day on Ogden's face at Gaunt's outburst. But his voice remains strong as he replies.

"I was under the impression that I was talking to Mr. Gaunt. And I seem to have a memory of the conversation turning to your son Morfin rather than yourself.”

“You are speaking to him!” Roared Gaunt.

For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before the man’s eyes with great pride.

"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"

The man tries to dismiss Gaunt’s flaunting, but with a howl of rage, Gaunt runs toward his daughter. Harry’s heartbeat to a mile as he thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat. His feet move ever slightly as if he could help the girl in any way, but the next moment, Gaunt is dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.

"See this?" he shakes a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.

"I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily.

"Slytherins!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"

"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope, who staggered away from him falling on her knees, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air.

The show horrifies Harry.

"So!" said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!"

“Quite so,” said Ogden loudly, "but you seem to have been present on the night that Morfin performed a jinx that rendered a Muggle completely mad, so you will understand that the Ministry had to act.”

Morfin giggled quietly.

“Quiet!” The boy falls silent again.

"Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —"

Ogden breaks off his commentary, as does Harry, when he catches the jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices drifting in through the open window by Merope, who raises her head, a starkly white.

"My God, what an eyesore!" rang out a girl's voice, as clear as though she were in the room beside theirs "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"

"It's not ours," said a young man's voice. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —"

The girl laughed, a girlish sound. Morfin made to get out of his armchair, a mad look in his eyes.

"Keep your seat," said his father warningly, in Parseltongue.

"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were right beside the house, "I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"

"Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling.”

The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again.

"'Darling,'" whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. "'Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway."

Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint as she looked back at her brother.

“What did you say, Morfin?" Gaunt's voice is dangerously low and for a moment they all forget about the minister, even Harry.

"Nothing," muttered Morfin, turning back to the fire. "'Darling,' he called her," he spat again quietly. “She likes looking at that Muggle. Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night — "

Morfin stares at his sister with a vicious look on his face, who now looks terrified as her father inches on her.

"Is it true?" said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. "My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.

"But I got him, Father!" cackled Morfin. "I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him. Did he, Merope?

Harry’s eyes widen as Gaunt goes for his daughter’s troath. He shouts but the sound is muffled through the sound barrier between the world of the living and that of memories. Ogden raised his wand and cried for him "Relaskio!"

But he’s off. The moment he blasted Gaunt, he was chased by Morfin, wielding a bloody knife as his weapon. But the memory does not stop, so he goes after them.

The man runs for his life. Merope’s screams haunt the scene before him even as they grow distant, and it is only then the memory ends — as he watches Ogden leap and fall into a chestnut horse ridden by the handsome, dark-haired young man whom it has been revealed Merope had the fancy for, as his companions beside him ring in laughter — that he can finally breathe again.

What a mess of a family.

He leaps his face out of the pensive with eyes wide and mind blank at what he’s just witnessed.

His stomach feels all over the place, and the chicken he’s had for dinner threatens to make its way out of his stomach, as well as the bonbons he indulged in for dessert.

"What was that, Sir?" he whispers in great agitation.

“The Gaunts,” said Dumbledore, raising Harry a glass of water for him to take “the beginning of a very long story, that I fear we won’t finish tonight.”

"Were those….?" he leaves his question hanging, but Dumbledore understands what he's asking. Your ancestors.

“Yes,” Dumbledore answers, “Y/N's family. Her ancestors.” he sighs deeply "Though the ones she descends from are not part of this memory, apart from Marvolo, of course.”

"Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly. “As in?”

"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “Voldemort's grandfather, yes. Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope. The last of the Gaunts, or so it was believed for a very long time. A very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense, coupled with a great liking for grandeur, meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."

You and Voldemort. It strikes fear into his heart. What if he's been commuting with the enemy all along?

Harry wants to ask more, so many questions, but Dumbledore holds a hand up.

“Have patience, all will be explained”

"What happened to those in this memory?" he all but asks “Did any of them survive? The girl, Merope, did she..?”

“You might wish you’d never asked. Survived she did, indeed, that and much more. That man, the minister, Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo received six months."

"So Merope," he’s star-struck. If the things coming together in his brain are right then that would mean ”She was…Voldemort's mother?"

“She was,” his sense is proven right. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"

“The man the brother attacked,” he concludes.

“Tom Riddle senior. The handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."

His brows furrow. But in the memory, Tom looked happily in love with that woman — what was it? Cecilia? Cecily?— so when did the two get together? Dumbledore watches the confusion etch into Harry’s face.

“You’re forgetting who Merope was” he instructs Harry, helping him solve the puzzle “A witch,despite all. I do not believe that her abilities appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorised by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you guess how?”

“The Imperius curse?” Or better, he recalled what Hermine’d been tested on just this morning. “Or love potion…”

“I’m inclined to the latter. Seems more romantic for a girl in such pessimistic circumstances, no? Shines a bright light upon her dreary outlook. In any case, within a few months of the scene, we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope. But no one was more shocked than Marvolo himself, for when he returned, the shack was empty of his daughter’s presence, and only a note had been left behind. He never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."

He did the same with his daughter as he’d done to the other one.

“There was another mentioned…” Harry trails off, trying to remember the name. “D-…Denyse?”

"Oh, yes. Denyse. Now that's another story," said Dumbledore. But I fear I've kept you up too late. Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow?”

“Right,” Harry said as he stood to leave. “I’d like that. But as for Merope. Did she die? She did, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”

"Indeed, she did. But as for the tale of how it happened, I must do a little guessing. Within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumour was that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment now lifted. But, of course, people come up to their own conclusions, and the villagers may have guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby and that he had married her for this reason."

"But she did have his baby."

"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."

“Why did the love potion stop working?" Harry asked as he himself thought of the reason as to why.

"I believe that Merope, deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. She may have chosen to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."

The sky outside was inky black, and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before, indicating the rather late hour.

"I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two.

He got to his feet but did not leave.

Harry had to ask, even though there was something in him that didn’t want to know.

”Professor.” He began before taking a deep breath. “Why have you allowed familiarisation with the Gaunt siblings and for them to remain at Hogwarts despite being…Voldemort’s family?”

Dumbledore smiled faintly at the question, an almost mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was waiting for you to ask," he confessed pleasantly.

“You know what they say. Keep your friends close…”

“And your enemies closer.” Finished Harry, voice above a breathy whisper. “But, Y/N—“

“Y/N is very valuable. Keep that in mind. An ally of mine” he looks at Harry, eyes serious “and yours. Remember that. As is the whole of her family.” He smiles in that knowing way “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Harry looked back at Dumbledore, a look of understanding passing between the two. He nodded, a realization washing over him.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, heading to the door.

“Oh, and Harry?” Dumbledore calls after him.

Harry paused, standing in the doorway, ready to leave.

"You may find that a good night's sleep does very well for the nerves" Again that smile, but this time it takes an amusing edge. "a dreamless empty sleep.”

It takes a moment for it to click, and when it does, Harry can feel a hint of a red tinge over his cheeks, flushing to his ears, which feel as if they might explode.

Despite the bewildered he feels, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth before saying, “I'll try. Good night.”

Who knew the old man could pull some jokes like that?

I was thinking that this story has grown its own following by now. Would anyone be interested in a taglist?

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