Ten
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies; tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I. --Pink Floyd
*
The next time Harry woke he was alone, weak winter sunlight pressing through the windowpanes, the air full of the appetizing smell of frying bacon. He stretched slowly, sleepily. His legs and back were incredibly cramped; for some reason he seemed to have restricted himself to the smallest sleeping space possible, right up against the back of the couch.
He stretched again, brushing away a long, wavy hair that was tickling his neck. Oh. That was why. He frowned, wondering when she had left.
Harry closed his eyes, picturing a variety of possible scenarios. Hermione had stayed with him until morning, getting up only when she heard Remus stir. Hermione had stayed until he had snored or drooled or done something else embarrassing that had driven her away. Or - Harry could see this one most clearly of all - Hermione had been awake when he'd done, well, what he'd done, and then put as much distance between them as possible the moment he'd fallen back asleep.
Getting off the couch was looking like an unattractive option.
Harry had finally worked up the momentum to reach for his glasses and wand when the lounge door creaked open.
"Oh good, you're awake," Hermione said softly, from the doorway. "Breakfast?"
"All right," Harry croaked. He was still holding his glasses, and he didn't put them on. Easier not to see her face. "I'll be ready in a minute."
He dawdled in the lavatory. First he decided it was absolutely necessary to brush his teeth, even though it would assuredly make his breakfast pumpkin juice taste terrible. Then he decided that he simply had to be dressed and clean before joining Remus and Hermione, despite the number of times in his life they'd seen him in his pyjamas.
He was flattening his damp hair for the fifth time when the mirror grew tired of looking at him. "Other people might want to use the bathroom at some point," it remarked. "Politeness is a virtue, they say, something you might want to keep in mind. . . ."
Harry glared at it, which proved supremely unsatisfactory, as it translated into glaring at himself.
"Ooh," it said, and Harry could somehow hear it rolling its nonexistent eyes. "Ooh, I'm scared, I am."
"Sod off," Harry muttered. He scooped up his dirty clothes and gave the mirror one final glare before stepping into the hall, closing the door with a nice pointed bang.
He hovered in the kitchen doorway a moment later, watching Hermione set the table, and bacon and eggs shuffle around a frying pan in time to flicks of Remus's wand. He wished that he felt like talking to either of them.
"You're just in time," Hermione said, shooting him a smile.
He tried to smile back, but it was a feeble attempt. "How can I help?"
"By sitting here," Hermione said, steering him to a chair, "and eating a lot."
"Pretend I'm Ron, you mean?"
"Exactly."
Harry tried, he really did, but he found it very difficult to concentrate on breakfast or conversation or anything at all with Hermione sitting right beside him. She and Remus carried on a conversation, but he didn't really pay attention. He vaguely heard them settle on doing the interview for Witch Weekly right after breakfast.
When everyone else was through eating, Harry banished his half-full plate to land on the counter beside Hermione's empty one. She frowned, but didn't comment, and then left to gather up her notes.
Harry turned on the tap, thinking he'd pass the time washing up while Remus and Hermione talked. But Remus waved his wand, and the water stopped. "Enough of that," he said. "Come on."
Harry followed curiously into the hall, where Remus opened a narrow cupboard door. "Thought you might prefer flying," he said casually.
Harry grinned, a real, true, spontaneous expression. "Brilliant," he said, and Remus laughed.
There were three brooms to choose from, hanging neatly on a rack. One had belonged to Sirius; Harry had first seen it in the attic at Grimmauld Place, when they'd sent him up there 'to see if there was anything he wanted.' He couldn't take anything then and he couldn't use that broom now, and Harry turned away from it to consider the other brooms. Both had the initials R.J.L. carved into the handle. Harry hesitated over the newer, sleeker model, before grasping a dusty Cleansweep that he felt sure dated back to Remus's school days.
He was just summoning his coat from down the hall when Hermione re-appeared, holding several rolls of parchment and two quills. "Cheers, Remus," Harry said. "Have fun, Hermione." He gave her a little wave, then turned and banged out the front door.
It was a cold, brilliantly clear day, and Harry quickly pulled on his coat. He muttered a quick Disillusionment Charm as well. He didn't run a great of a risk of being seen - Remus lived too far from most other people for that - but if a Muggle did happen to spot him, he would most likely be mistaken for a very large, fast bird.
He was smiling when he kicked off the ground a moment later. It was wonderful to be flying for the sheer pleasure of it again; he couldn't quite remember the last time it had been just him, a broom, and clear blue sky. He sped up as Remus's cottage grew small beneath him, testing the old broom's limits for speed as he passed over one field, and then another. It wasn't as fast as his own, but Harry found he didn't mind. There were fewer charms on this broom, less between him and his skill and flight itself, and he threw himself into it, concentrating on dives and turns and loops instead of the lingering nightmares and worries waiting on the ground.
Harry flew until he was hot and sweaty and all the turning, flipping, and squinting into the sun made his head spin. He hung in midair for a moment, catching his breath. There was something so peaceful about the world from up here, high above the trees, and it was with reluctance that Harry performed a Four Point spell and turned back towards the cottage.
He landed outside the front door with a thump. Harry entered quietly, not wanting to disturb Remus and Hermione, and tucked the broom back in the cupboard. He could hear Remus's voice from where he stood, describing an inspection by the Werewolf Registry. Walking on tiptoe, Harry peeked around the open lounge door. Hermione was sitting on the couch, parchments spread out all around her, quill skidding furiously over a sheet in her lap. Harry could only see her profile but it was enough; she was wearing an expression of righteous outrage that he had seen on a healthy number of occasions.
Harry sighed, watching her. He was no longer certain that this interview - this everything - was a good idea, now that he knew how some people were reacting to what Hermione and her friends were trying to do. But Hermione looked more determined than ever, and he knew from experience how difficult getting between Hermione and something she'd set her mind on could be.
Filing that worry away for later, Harry went to the kitchen to begin the washing up. He hadn't gotten far when a creak of the floorboards made him turn.
Remus crossed the room. "Hermione's doing a bit of writing, while things are fresh in her mind."
"Oh, okay," Harry said, turning back to the sink.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Very much," Harry said. "I don't get much chance to get out and fly like that in London. It was wonderful."
"Good."
Harry cast a few drying charms on freshly scrubbed dishes. He could feel Remus watching him for a moment, then the older man reached into the sink and began working on a frying pan.
Harry searched for small talk, but he couldn't think of anything. He didn't know what to say to Remus, hadn't for about two years now. He'd said it all, once: It's my fault, go ahead, stop pretending, tell me you hate me! And Remus had been kind but unflinchingly honest in return, one of the few people in the world who allowed Harry to own his share of the blame.
Harry smiled, thinly. All the time he'd spent raging because no-one was honest with him, and here he was in a house with two people who were exceptionally good at being just that, and not a clue what to say to either of them. Fair enough. He rubbed his forehead with wet, soapy fingers.
"You're always welcome to come out here and fly," Remus said, almost - but not quite - casually.
Harry looked out the window. But it's not easy, he thought. Standing here in the little silent house, it struck him how inadequate, childish, and entirely selfish those words were.
"I know," he said, finally. "I've been really busy lately." He cringed at how weak the excuse sounded.
"Yes, Hermione mentioned that."
The words contained no rancour, just a gentle curiosity that Harry recognised as an invitation to speak, to confess his worries, to perhaps gain some advice. "I might get some time off at Christmas," he blurted. "If you'd like company?"
"Of course," Remus said, with a smile.
Harry watched the newts splashing happily in their windowsill tank while resisting the urge to smack himself on the head. Avoiding conversation by promising the opportunity for more conversation was not, perhaps, the most brilliant of plans.
He was sure that the newts were laughing at him.
Harry might have said something hurtful to the slimy little creatures - a comment upon the versatility of newts' eyes in modern potion-making, perhaps - but was distracted by the coffee pot, which chose that moment to lurch down the counter and plunge itself into the sink in front of Remus.
There was something indisputably funny about watching an older, more distinguished sort of person get an unexpected bath. Harry looked at Remus, who was dripping with suds, water, and the remnants of that morning's coffee, and tried to stop laughing long enough to perform a drying charm. "It thought you had forgotten it," Harry managed, gasping and waving his wand.
A slightly drier Remus reached into the sink and held the pot aloft by its handle. "Stupid bugger," he growled. "I don't know why I put up with you. I should have smashed you ages ago."
Hermione poked her head around the door, grinning. "Everything all right?"
"Yep," Harry said.
"It will be soon," Remus said, the pot twitching and jumping in his hand.
"You're not going to hurt it, are you?" Hermione stepped closer to Remus, tilting her head to examine the coffee pot. "It's still fascinating to me, we give them a sort of life with our animation charms, but the personalities. . . we don't plan for them but they happen anyway."
Rights for coffee pots, Harry thought, smiling. He could see it now. . . As he watched Hermione and Remus talk, Harry's thoughts turned back to that night, to Kreacher, to Voldemort knows you, Harry. . . .
He put a hand on the countertop. There was no reason to suspect he wasn't alone in his own head again, absolutely none. His scar hadn't hurt, every bad dream had had a real-life trigger and anyway, they were scenes from the past, his past, it was all him.
It had to be.
*
It was dark when they popped into Hermione's flat, and she was frustrated.
Harry had never been the chattiest friend a witch could have - if she wanted non-stop conversation, she simply turned to one Ronald Weasley - but today he had been so quiet she couldn't help but be worried, and just a twinge annoyed.
She had given up on trying to get him to talk. Hermione supposed he felt uncomfortable, after sharing so much the night before. She'd been very careful not to mention it, to show she wasn't going to pry, and had spent their walk back to the Apparition point talking about other things, but he had barely responded.
She flipped on the light, then bent down to pet Crookshanks, who was fussy at having been left.
"I'd better ring and see if Ron's ready for me to come home," Harry said.
Hermione nodded and shrugged off her coat as Harry made his way across her tiny kitchen to the telephone. "No answer," he said a minute later.
"Do you think he's out?"
Harry shrugged. "Maybe."
She watched as he fiddled with the strap of his duffle. Hermione was sure he would disappear any second, but she didn't want him to leave, not until they'd somehow regained the closeness they'd shared last night. She thought about going over and putting her arms around him, a friendly thank-you-for-taking-me hug, but the fear that he would just stand there like a statue stopped her.
"Does Ron know where we went?" she tried instead.
Harry shook his head. "No. I know I shouldn't have kept it from him, but -"
"But you wanted some peace," she finished for him. "I understand."
When he popped out of sight just a few moments later, Hermione was left with a squalling cat and the lingering, depressing thought that peace was one of the last things Harry ever seemed to have.
*
Harry was mindlessly listening to the wireless, trying not to dwell on his day with Remus and Hermione, when Ron came home.
"Have a good trip?" Ron asked. He took off his coat and dropped it onto a chair.
Harry shrugged. "About as good as I expected." He sat up to make room for Ron on the couch. "How was your weekend?" he asked, eager to change the subject.
"Good."
"Just good?" Harry asked, noting the flush creeping up Ron's neck.
"Er, really good."
Harry grinned, wishing Dean and Seamus were here to do the thing properly. They had an inimitable way of extracting juicy private details, honed over the years in the Gryffindor dormitories. He would never be able to do this justice.
His friend was frowning. "Harry," Ron began slowly, "you have more experience with Muggles than I do, right?"
"Depends on what you mean by exper-" Harry broke off, realising that Ron wasn't in a joking mood. "Yes, I'd have to say so."
Ron glared at the carpet. "Sarah made me wear this - this thing," he said. "To prevent - you know. And I told her that I knew a spell that would take care of all that, but she wouldn't let me use it."
"Considering how many Weasleys there are," Harry said, trying not to smile, "I really can't blame her."
Ron stopped glaring at the carpet and started glaring at Harry.
"Besides," Harry went on, "no matter how okay she is with magic and everything, the idea of having it performed on her - that's different, I think."
Ron nodded. "True. Yeah, I can see it might be scary for her." He sighed pathetically. "It was awful, though. Suffocating. There I was, trying to do my business, and all I could think was that it was going to wither and die!"
Harry howled. "Thanks, Ron," he sputtered finally, tears streaming down his face. "I needed a good laugh."
"I don't know how you can," Ron grumbled. "Have you used one of those things?"
"No -" never had a reason to "- but I caught Dudley practising with one once."
Ron looked horrified.
Harry collapsed further into hysterics. "On a cucumber! On a cucumber!"
*
It was dark outside, dark and cold and cheerless. There were few holiday decorations in this tiny slice of the city; here wreaths and fairy lights were trappings of another way of life, one that too many people here still saw as inferior and, when they would admit it, dangerous.
It was warm inside, with a roaring fire and wall torches punctuating the gloom, but Harry looked around the pub with distaste. It hadn't changed much since the first time he'd visited, a month ago. It was still smoky, still crowded, still loud, and he still felt very much out of place.
He looked like he belonged, though. Harry was at this moment the spitting image of Vincent Crabbe, Jr., down to his extremely chubby knuckles and pudding-bowl fringe. The wizard had, as per his custom, arrived at the pub well before his father in order to take full advantage of happy hour. He had been Stunned rather abruptly on his first trip to the loo, and was now lying on the sticky floor of a stall, out cold, with Dean's wand trained on him.
Harry checked his watch casually. It had been ten minutes since he'd drunk the Polyjuice, and Crabbe the elder still hadn't shown up. He swallowed, still feeling queasy; Polyjuice was one of the most stomach-turning potions known to wizardkind.
Another few minutes, and Crabbe Sr. finally appeared in the pub's doorway, flinging back the hood of a heavy cloak. Harry waved in what he hoped was a Crabbe-like manner to hail the man over to his table. As he lowered his hand, he checked the earplug link to Dean with a quick, inconspicuous motion. It was secure.
"What, no drinks?" The older man slapped Harry on the back in greeting.
"Sorry. . . father." The words felt strange in his mouth. "I'll do that now." He began to rise, but Crabbe waved him back into his seat and headed to the bar himself.
Harry tried not to wrinkle up his nose a few minutes later when he was presented with the same nasty-looking drink he'd encountered on his earlier visit to Knockturn Alley.
"So." Crabbe set his goblet down on the table. "Tell me you've done something useful since I last saw you. Tell me you've gotten a job."
"Well. . . ."
Crabbe snorted. "What I thought. You and that Goyle, you sit around all day. . . if his father weren't such a soft touch, you two would've starved to death by now."
"I do stuff," Harry muttered rebelliously. He hoped Crabbe wouldn't ask him what sort of stuff. He couldn't imagine what Vincent got up to all day, barring eating, sleeping, and scratching himself.
"Right. Of course you do."
They lapsed into silence. Harry tried not to be too obvious about the fact that he wasn't drinking anything, or that he was keeping a close eye on his watch. He had decided to say as little as possible - because Vincent had never really seemed the talkative type, and because the more he spoke, the more likely he was to say something suspicious.
Crabbe scooted his chair closer to Harry's. "You're about to do more stuff," he said. "I have a job for you."
Harry swallowed. "You do?"
"Yes. Do you good to get off that arse once in a while."
"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked.
"I've been collecting something for - for a friend, and you're going to help me."
Harry tried very hard to look annoyed by this interruption in his busy schedule. It was hard, because his heart was pounding. For a friend. He hoped the recording charm on his earplug was catching everything.
"What is it, then?" he asked grumpily.
"Buy as much of this as you can find. Bring it over to the house." The old wizard reached into the pocket of his cloak, pulled out a dirty glass bottle, and pressed it into Harry's hand. Harry ran his finger over the picture on the cap, memorising the detail of fangs and scales. When he handed it back to Crabbe, something as red and nasty as the untouched drink in front of him clung to his fingers.
Harry curled his fingers up, not wanting to lose a drop that could be analysed at the Auror headquarters. He furrowed Crabbe, Jr.'s large forehead. "Why?"
For a moment, his companion looked eerily like Uncle Vernon, as if he'd like nothing better than to cuff Harry about the head. He scanned the crowd slowly, then leaned over to speak in Harry's ear. "I've told you before, boy - when you get a parchment signed with that mark, you don't ask questions. You do what it says."
Harry decided to push his luck. "Like last time?"
Confusion passed over Crabbe's face. "Oh, you mean Avery, that old bastard." He laughed unpleasantly. "Yes. Merlin, that was fun." He drained his drink and stood up. "I'm going for a refill. Do you need one?"
"No." Harry waited until the man had joined the throng at the bar, then pulled a flask out of his pocket and forced himself to drink another dose of the sludge-like potion, even though the hour wasn't quite up yet. He resolutely ignored the unpleasant way his insides were churning.
Thankfully, he was nearly done here. Crabbe appeared to be a man who knew his orders and nothing more, as Harry had suspected, and the interview needed only a memory charm to complete it. Harry had hoped that wouldn't be necessary - he had been planning on casting a quick Confundus, just enough to blur the conversation in the man's mind - but now that Crabbe had assigned a task his son knew nothing about, he had no choice.
Harry sat quietly, waiting for Crabbe to return, and the potion to settle. The moment the wizard sank into his chair, Harry rose. "I need to use the loo."
Crabbe grunted. Harry crossed behind him, carefully gesturing with his arm - his wand was strapped to it, underneath his sleeve - and whispered, "Obliviate."
Harry walked unsteadily across the pub. He breathed a sigh of relief when the door of the lavatory closed behind him. He saw feet he hoped were Dean's peeking out from under the farthest stall.
"Dean?" he said quietly, tapping on the door.
"Yeah," his partner answered. It took Harry a second to realise why his voice was so loud. He quickly removed the plug from his ear, then squeezed inside the stall.
He'd never really wished for being short and thin before, but he was seeing things a bit differently, crammed into such a small space with Dean, who was built for football (and American football at that) and Crabbe, Jr., who was slumped on the toilet and taking up a great deal of space.
"You look like hell," Dean remarked.
"I'm him, what do you expect?" Harry said half-heartedly, leaning against the wall. Dean and Crabbe and the grey tile walls were swimming in and out of focus.
Then his legs gave out.
"Harry?"
"Will you Obliviate him for me?" Harry asked, vaguely aware that his cheek was pressed to a grimy tile floor. If he didn't move, he might not be sick. And the black spots might not take over his vision completely.
"Of - of course," Dean replied. "But -"
"Do it," Harry said, closing his eyes. He listened to the rustling, grunting, and whispered spell that meant Dean was taking care of their companion.
"Okay, he's gone," Dean said, kneeling down beside Harry. "What the hell happened? Can't hold your liquor?"
"Didn't drink anything," Harry mumbled. "Well - the Polyjuice."
"That wouldn't. . . Never mind, let's get out of here. Can you Apparate?"
"Of course," Harry said.
"There's no of course about it," Dean said, grabbing his arm. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"All right," Dean replied.
And in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
*
It was a good thing Dean held onto his arm.
Harry woke up on a different floor. He blinked a few times and realised, fuzzily, that he was in Moody's office. Dean was still kneeling at his side, but was now running his wand over Harry as if scanning for curses, while Moody stood nearby. Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but it must have been less than an hour; a large mound of stomach stopped him from seeing all the way to his - make that Crabbe's - feet. He struggled to sit.
"Stay down, Potter," Moody said at once. Harry complied.
"Thomas says you didn't eat or drink anything, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. Just Polyjuice."
"We need to focus on curses rather than poisons, then. Continue scanning, Thomas."
"Sir-"
"Yes, Potter?"
Harry took a breath. "It's not a curse. It's just. . . me. I think I have a virus or something, this has happened before -"
Moody was never particularly light-hearted, but now his face was fiercely grave. He spoke in a whisper. "You knew you were ill?"
"Well -"
"And you jeopardised this operation?"
Harry knew it was no good to make excuses. "Yes, sir."
"You may stop, Thomas," Moody stayed sharply. Dean dropped his wand to his side.
Moody was silent, and Harry held his breath. He wished Dean would leave.
"There will be consequences."
Harry nodded. He wanted to sit up now - the indignities of being chastised while lying on a dusty floor were legion - but was afraid of angering Moody further.
"It would not be fair for me to amend your punishment in any way because you managed to carry out the operation successfully. There was every chance you would fail, and that failure could have easily been prevented.
"Nor would it be fair to adjust your punishment because you are the only Parselmouth on our staff. Or because that mark on your forehead means that if our dearly departed Dark Lord manages to resurrect himself once again, you may be the first to know and the best to deal with him.
"But," Moody gave a twisted, humourless smile, "it has well been established that life is not fair. So your punishment is this. You will go to the hospital wing and take whatever medication the nurse gives you. You will take every dose she prescribes, and you will not come back to work until you have done so."
"Yes, sir."
"Thomas, take him to the hospital wing."
*
The hospital wing was hopping. There was only one nurse on duty, and she was rushed off her feet, tending to some Aurors that had caught nasty hexes during a raid. Harry gave Dean a we'll-just-be-in-the-way sort of look, but Dean was having none of it. He made Harry lead the way into the ward.
The fact that Harry looked like a suspected Death Eater triggered no comment as he and Dean sat down to wait on hard wooden chairs. Harry's chair was nearly too small for Crabbe's large rear; he thought, with half a smile, that the older man had been right in suggesting his son get off his arse every now and then.
It did cause some discussion when Harry began slowly changing back into himself. He distinctly heard a "Fucking hell" as he slid on his glasses. Dean took advantage of the attention they'd gained and strode over to speak to the nurse, while Harry rolled up the sleeves of his now tent-like robe. After she heard his symptoms, the nurse thrust a potion bottle at Harry, watched him drink a dose, and sent them on their way.
Harry didn't argue when Dean insisted on accompanying him home, as well. The potion wasn't working yet, as far as he could tell, and he felt unsteady on his feet as they walked out of the building.
Dean wouldn't let him Apparate for fear of splinching. Harry knew that he was damn lucky to be in one piece after his last attempt, so he didn't complain. Floo powder was out of the question, since the flat didn't have a fireplace, so Dean steered him out to Charing Cross Road and bundled him into a taxi.
Harry let himself float along, not quite there, not quite not, the world a blurry, swirling place. Streetlights and headlights merged together until he closed his eyes, and before he knew it they were in the flat. He leaned against a wall while Dean woke Ron up and told him how much potion Harry should take and when. He let himself be led to the bed, where Ron pulled off his boots and glasses before turning off the light.
Ron left the door open, and Harry listened as Ron tried, unsuccessfully, to make a stealthy telephone call.
"Hermione?" Ron said, in what he obviously thought was a whisper.
No, thought Harry. No, no, no.
"Dean just brought Harry home from work," he continued. "He's this awful grey colour, and Dean said he passed out on the job -"
Harry turned over miserably. She was going to come over, and he couldn't face her. He just couldn't.
There was a long silence from the other room, and Harry held his breath. Finally Ron said, "All right. Probably is just best to leave him be, for now." He was quiet a moment. "I'll ring you tomorrow, then. Good night."
She couldn't face him. Not in a darkened bedroom, not after Saturday night.
Harry was sure of it.
*
A/N: Many, many thanks to Calliope, Cynthia Black, Dorotea, Paracelsus, and Stacy for betaing this chapter in its various forms. And thank you so much to everyone who's been kind enough to review!