Silence ruled the classroom with an oppressive hand, as it had ever since Sinclair had left the room.  It felt as though hours should have passed since he'd opened the door to the old classroom where Harry and Sinclair had sequestered themselves, but James knew this wasn't so.  Minutes and seconds trickled arduously into the past, yet he and Harry remained taciturn.  Not that Sinclair had been terribly informative, either, delivering only an unfathomable glance and a bland "Professor" before absenting himself from the room.

Harry wouldn't even look at him.  Hadn't looked at him since he'd entered the classroom.  His head hung low, his gaze seemingly locked onto his hands, clasped lightly together in his lap, his legs dangling limply below the desk he was perched on.  James found he couldn't look away from the stranger who wore his son's face.  His mind was a whirlpool of questions that ran into and over and through one another so that he couldn't think how to ask any of them.  Instead, he stared at Harry, and tried desperately to make sense of the situation.

"I'm... sorry."

The words shattered the silence like a mirror, sending a myriad of images flickering through James' mind.  What, precisely, was he apologising for?  For injuring the Longbottoms and Parkinson?  Or was it for the confrontation in Albus' office, and his argument with Lily?  Or something else entirely?

James continued to observe Harry, catching his gaze at last.  His green eyes were ringed by dark shadows, yet they burned with an intensity of emotion that strangely calmed the turmoil in James' own mind.

"I'm sorry," the boy repeated quietly.  "I never meant... to hurt anyone."

"I believe you," James said, at last finding words to say.  "I spoke to Madam Pomfrey before I came here.  She informed me that Mr Longbottom and Miss Parkinson were both well on their way to being healed by the time they reached the hospital wing."  He paused a moment before continuing.  "According to Miss Granger, no-one else in that class did more than bandage them up."

Harry's eyes were downcast again, his hands white-knuckled as he wrung them together.  "They'll be alright," he murmured softly, not quite a question.

"Yes."

There was a slight pause before Harry queried, "Professor Longbottom?"

James hesitated a moment before replying.  "He'll be fine.  Physically."

Harry's head shot up at that last, the question evident in his eyes - but he remained silent.

"I understand," James began slowly, "that he... said things, about... Lily and myself."  Harry's falling out with Lily discouraged him from referring to either one of them as his parents, no matter his vivid memory of Harry stating just yesterday that they would always be his parents.   "Due to... certain circumstances, he blames us to some degree for the loss of his wife and daughter.  Which is why he...  reacted badly when you... hurt his son."

"I... see."  A brief surge of emotion drained away to nothing as Harry's face once again developed mask-like qualities.  He lowered his head once more.

James pushed himself away from the desk he was leaning against, moving to reseat himself on the one opposite Harry's, glimpsing the barest hint of green beneath dark lashes as he shifted locations.  His own gaze sunk to his hands, blinking as he realised he was wringing them just as Harry had been.  He forced himself to relax as he sought for words with which to begin.

"I grew up at Hogwarts, did you know that?"  He didn't expect an answer, nor did Harry supply one; yet he knew he was listening.  "I can't remember ever living anywhere else as a child, although I must have at some point.  My earliest memories are of this castle and the people in it, yet sometimes I almost think I can remember further back, to when my parents were alive.  Sometimes it seems I can remember them dying.  Sometimes I'm sure it's just my imagination.  And there's no one alive who can tell me for certain."

Their screams, their fear, their arms holding him tight, and green the colour of Lily's eyes - or their son's.  James could feel Harry's eyes on him - yet now it was he who could not meet the other's gaze.

"I wanted my own children to have a proper home, with parents who were always there when they needed them.  Voldemort changed all that."  He bit his lip, pondering just how much he should tell this boy, almost a man.  "When I found out Lily was pregnant that first time, I was absolutely terrified.  With a dark wizard running around causing murder and mayhem, it wasn't really an ideal time to have a child.  We were both working for the Department of Mysteries then.  I kept thinking - remembering - what it was like to grow up without parents, and I didn't want that to happen to my child."

He'd had far too many nightmares regarding that possibility, which culminated in an extremely serious - not to mention nerve-wracking - discussion about abortion.  Fortunately, he and Lily had shared the same opinion on that option.  Furthermore, she'd pointed out several other couples with young children who were in similar positions - including the Longbottoms - who had come to no harm.  He'd let her believe that the talk had settled his anxiety on the subject, and dosed himself with Dreamless Sleep draught for the remainder of her pregnancy.

"Then," he raised his eyes at last, "you were born."

A frown flickered across Harry's face, like a flash of lightning.  James held his gaze.

"You made it all worth it.  All of it.  The worry, the waiting, the extra precautions, Lily's insane craving for marinated artichokes with white chocolate..."  He couldn't help but smile a little as Harry blinked at that last.  It faded with his next words.

"And then, we lost you."

He yearned to be able to hold the boy before him and forget that his own Harry had ever died; but he knew he could never do that.  It would be a disservice to both Harrys - and he couldn't lie to his heart.

"I never acknowledged I was a seer until after that night.  Before then I'd always been able to attribute any visions I'd had to simple dreams or nightmares, or even too much dessert.  Looking back now I know them for what they were, but at the time I repressed my 'gift' and resisted it with every ounce of my being."  And several potions.

He stared sightlessly at the wall.  He'd been so blind.

"I didn't want to know the future."  He still didn't.  "But I can't stop my foresight."  And hindsight brought with it regrets and recriminations.  The words 'if only' were a truly horrendous curse to live with day in and day out.  "I could have saved so many more..."  He shook his head abruptly, refocussing on Harry, sitting before him with widened eyes.

"Emily Longbottom was five years old when she died," he informed the young man opposite him.  "She was hung from an oak tree in the woods near her home.  Her neck didn't break, so she suffocated, slowly.  It was a horrible death for a child.  I saw it in my nightmares.  Only, I didn't realise it at the time."  He'd been too preoccupied with protecting his own family then, as Lily had fallen seriously ill, suffering complications of her second pregnancy.  "If I'd just said something to Frank that day..."  Instead he'd kept his silence, until after Eliza's death.

A broken locket, a bloodied ribbon, an enchanted ring.  That was basically all it had taken to link the deaths of both mother and daughter to their murderers.  "I could have saved one of them..."  His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.  Frank had accused him with those very words.  It certainly didn't help that Eliza had gone to get something on Lily's behalf that day, or that Frank had been assigned to protect the Potters while his wife was being tortured and killed.

"I don't know what it's like in your world," James continued, choosing his words with painstaking care, "but in this world I've made plenty of mistakes.  So has Lily.  I'm sorry if we don't live up to your expectations, but we're only human."  It wasn't much of an excuse, but it was the only one he could offer.

Harry's eyes were slightly glazed, his expression still blank but somehow different from the mask he'd presented before.  James lowered his own eyes, waiting to see how Harry would respond to his impromptu speech.  He was half-prepared to wait the rest of the day for it, and was duly startled when Harry spoke.

"They're dead."

James stared at him, not comprehending.

"My parents.  They died on Halloween, 1981.  Just like your son."

James could only stare in growing horror, the words echoing in his mind, his gut clenching in dismay.

"The only memory I have of them is of the night they died."

He was reaching out before he knew it, responding unconsciously to the half-dead ache in Harry's tone.  He wrapped his arms around narrow shoulders, and pulled him close, holding him firmly.  Harry tensed at first, then gradually relaxed into the embrace.

"I'm sure they loved you," James found himself murmuring into unmanageable black hair.

"They shouldn't have," came the pain-filled reply.  "It's why they died.  Why they all died."

James could only hug him tighter, stroking his back soothingly and muttering nonsensical words of comfort, even as he recalled his own parentless childhood.

It was some time before he realised Harry had fallen fast asleep.
 

Blood.

He felt as though he had been drenched in the viscous red liquid, half-smothered by its metallic tang.  It crawled along his skin in multiple rivulets, marking his flesh with its passing, just as it stained the ground beneath him.

So much blood.

He remembered hearing once that the human body only contained about five litres of blood.  He wondered distantly how many bodyfuls had been emptied in this place.  It would likely produce as accurate an estimate as from the number of corpses he could see littering the area.  It was an all-too-familiar sight, yet he sensed that something was out of place.  Cautiously, he wandered amidst the aftermath of battle, pausing every now and then to identify a fallen comrade or foe as the case may be.

He stopped dead in his tracks as one in particular caught his eye.  She hadn't died here in this battle.  Her body should have been safely buried in a quiet little cemetery far from this place.

He brushed her cheek lightly, his fingers leaving a smear of red in their wake.  He stared at the blemish, a mockery of the flush of life that should have painted her cheeks, and realised part of what was wrong.  There had been blood in the battle, but it had not touched him like this.  He'd only been like this when -

"You thought you'd won, Potter?"

He whipped around to face the speaker, only to stare at the gaping hole in the other's throat.  His eyes flicked up to meet relentless, stormy grey.

"It's not that easy."

He reached for his wand only to remember it had been destroyed in the battle.  Instead, Ron's was in his hand.  He fired off a stupefying curse.  The magic twisted and writhed - and Malfoy fell to the ground, twitching as though under the cruciatus curse.

"You shouldn't have done that."

He spun on his heels once more, to see Hermione had opened her eyes, yet she was still as pale as death - bar the dark red splotches marring her hospital robe.

"I didn't mean to," he answered.  His mouth tasted of blood.

"You have to learn control," she chastised, and faded to intangibility as he reached out to her once more.

"You'll never have such control," another familiar voice sneered, black eyes piercing him through.  "Not until you accept your true nature."

"True nature?" he asked, even as sibilant voices whispered in his ears of pain and blood and murder and agony.  Snape disappeared into the shadows without deigning to answer.  Another tall, dark figure stepped forward in his place.

"That," twinkling blue eyes informed him from beneath a black hood, "I will answer another day."

And so the sun set and never rose again.
 

"... and if they don't expel him for this then..."

Draco nodded and hummed agreement every now and then as Pansy continued her rant from her bed in the hospital wing.  There was little remaining of her injuries save a couple of deep pink scars, but Madam Pomfry had wanted her to stay for observation, just in case.  Draco was fairly sure she was regretting her decision, given that she'd had to listen to both Pansy and Professor Longbottom's vituperation on the subject of Harry Potter for most of the day.  In the end, she'd silenced the Professor with a spell, and threatened Pansy with the same if she didn't modulate her tones out of the earache generating level.

"Miss Parkinson," Pomfrey's stern voice overran Pansy's tirade.  "You have visitors."

"Mama! Papa!  You came!"

Draco nodded politely and stood aside Mr and Mrs Parkinson walked past him to Pansy's bedside.  Mrs Parkinson settled on the bed, her husband looming behind her.

"I'll see you later, Pansy."  Draco started to leave, only to be held back by Mr Parkinson's firm grip on his shoulder.

"No need to leave just yet, my boy," he said in a peculiar tone, his eyes fixed intently on Draco.

"After all," Mrs Parkinson chimed in, smiling dangerously at him.  "We're all family here."

Draco's eyes darted between them, widening as Mrs Parkinson cast a different kind of silence spell, one which would prevent would-be eavesdroppers from overhearing their conversation.

"Yes," Mr Parkinson murmured, reaching out with his free hand to brush Draco's cheek.  "Family."

Their gazes locked, and despite outward appearances to the contrary, Draco knew where he had seen that look, felt that touch, before.

Lucius Malfoy had come to Hogwarts.
 

Previous | Next