Twelve, part 2
Nov. 1st, 2004 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[Het/Slash] [Harry Potter] [Harry/Ron, Remus/Sirius, Hermione/Remus, Fred/George] [NC-17 -- Character Death! Incest!]
Twelve
Step 4:
Sirius slams the Daily Prophet on the table, the expression on his face clearly miming his displeasure at the article splashed on the front page. “That Skeeter woman has no business writing,” he pauses to find a suitable word, “fluff like this and putting it into a paper read by half the wizarding world!”
Remus is sorely tempted to ask if it’s partly because of the altogether unflattering article Sirius’d once been featured in in the very same newspaper, not twenty years ago, but he holds his tongue. He’s learnt the usefulness of the skill, and is reminded of the benefits every time Sirius opens his mouth.
“I imagine Harry’s used to it,” he says, placidly, even though he suspects otherwise, because at this point in time, having Sirius fly into Hogwarts is not a good idea. Sirius mutters something under his breath, that Remus doesn’t quite catch, but he thinks he can hazard a guess. “Well, if it’s bothering you that much, let’s get rid of it.”
But Sirius knocks Remus’ wand away before he can mutter a vanishing spell.
“Would it kill you to stand up and throw it in the bin?” Sirius’ bad mood is lifted and he manages to keep a straight face as he points at the muggle commodity Harry had given them as an anniversary gift the week before.
“Right,” Remus says, taking the newspaper as he stands, “you’ll be in charge of garbage duty—”
“In our next lifetime.” Sirius nods, thoughtfully, “charming idea.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be the garbage in our next lifetime, Sirius,” Remus says dryly, making a clever feint and watching the newspaper soar neatly towards its goal with satisfaction. “And I’ll be left cleaning up after you, as always.”
Sirius snaps his wand out, and knocks the tabloid off course with a well placed wingardium leviosa, and when Remus makes a tsk-ing sound he only laughs, “I never said wands were off-lim—give me that!”
“Well now they are,” Remus cracks a smile, dropping Sirius’ wand and grabbing the Daily Prophet. He aims at the bin again, and Sirius comes up from under him as he throws it, just managing to send it flying in the other direction towards the fireplace.
“You used magic on that, didn’t you?” Sirius eyes the floating newspaper suspiciously, and as Remus gives him a small, unrepentant grin, Sirius reverses their positions so he’s got Remus pinned to the floor beneath him. He laughs at the look on Remus’ face. “Should have kept me where you had me when you had the chance, Moony.”
“I don’t think I quite mind this position,” Remus says mildly, and when Sirius leans down, Remus loses eye contact with the Daily Prophet, and they hear an all-too-familiar, “oh!” at the fireplace, and Remus sits bolt upright, causing Sirius to fall forward, sprawling out on the floor in a very prone position.
“Professor!” Remus struggles to look as though he hasn’t been engaged in a tug-of-war game involving rolling all over the floor with Sirius bending over him.
“Sirius, Remus,” Dumbledore – or his head, at least, which is hanging upside down in the hearth – nods, with a twinkle in his eye, “I did not think it wise to disturb you, but Minerva insists I tell you that Harry has successfully completed his First Task, and is currently preparing for his second.”
Sirius and Remus exchange significant glances, and at length Remus says, “thank you, Professor.”
“If Harry’s burns are anything like yours, I might be worried.”
Charlie starts as he turns in his chair, but when he sees Bill’s face in the fireplace, he only laughs. “Is there space left under your wings for another young one, mother hen?” Then he adds, more seriously, “Ron’s doing enough worrying about Harry; he’s doing you proud.”
Bill grins, “if you’re trying to drop me a hint about those two, you’re too late.”
“Ahh, good,” Charlie says, “you saw it too.”
“At the dinner, the last time.” Bill nods, then continues thoughtfully, “but at fourteen, it’s too young to tell. After all, where were you at fourteen?”
The expression on Charlie’s face as he glances at Bill is almost wistful, and he says mournfully, “I liked her.”
“Probably how those two feel about each other,” Bill smiles. Then someone says something over at Bill’s end, and he gives his brother a regretful look. “Tell the twins I popped in.”
Then he’s gone, and suddenly Charlie feels rather alone.
The Second Task, Harry thinks, was the hardest of all three. Faced with the prospect of losing Ron, Harry’d almost done himself in with worry. But now, faced with the prospect of a lost Cedric Diggory in a school full of people who either don’t believe his story about Voldemort or think he’s a lunatic, Harry’s almost willing to turn back the clock. Perhaps, he thinks humourlessly, he should have drowned himself after getting Ron out of the lake. The Merpeople seemed more than happy to help him.
“Honestly, they’re all acting like the ‘Boy Who Lived’ wanted to—”
“Live?” Harry interrupts, as Hermione wrings her hands in frustration. “Again, and again, and again?” When he sees no response in their faces, he sighs and shrugs. It’d sounded funnier in his head.
Ron’s voice is on the verge of breaking when he says, “don’t say that, mate.”
But Harry can’t think of a good enough reason.
Step 3:
Remus wonders what he’s doing at Hogwarts, teaching Harry – who looks so much like James it’s almost as though he’s facing his old friend again – how to conjure a Patronus. It’s painful, because remembering James means remembering everything that comes with his memory, like… like someone he’s been striving not to think of for the past twelve years.
‘He was the spy,’ he tells himself, the same thing he’s been telling himself ever since James and Lily died. The words still cut as deeply as they did then.
In the months Remus’ spent in Hogwarts, he’s never gotten round to looking for the Marauder’s Map. He’d assumed it had been lost, along with the glorious days of Hogwarts when James and—when they’d been in it. So finding it, and both Peter and Sirius’ name on it, had been enough to send him hurtling down the path to the Shrieking Shack faster than he’d thought himself able.
Standing here, now, though, seeing Sirius again, Remus feels like he’s aged ten years. The colour leaves his face, and when he manages to speak, his throat feels constricted, and he can’t say everything he’s meant to for as long as Sirius was in Azkaban. All he can whisper are facts, tangible and verifiable, and when he has Sirius in his arms again he wants to cry for all the time they’ve lost, except he knows he used all his tears up seven years ago.
Harry watches Remus in utter disbelief. He’s the closest thing Harry’s ever had to a mentor and Harry can’t accept the fact that he’s trusted the wrong person again. It happened with Tom Riddle, with Quirrell, and now…
The sickening crack of Ron’s breaking leg echoes loudly in Harry’s mind. He seems to get him and Hermione into worse trouble every year, simply because his judgement is all but distorted.
And when the story is said and done, when Remus finally finishes his explanation of the whys and the hows, Harry has to question his judgement all over again.
When the excitement of the night is over, Harry’s too physically and emotionally drained to properly go to bed. Hermione falls asleep in the middle of telling Ron about their adventure, and Harry smiles at the look of unadulterated frustration on Ron’s face when he realises she’s not going to wake till tomorrow morning – chocolate seems to have a very potent effect on her.
“No good asking you,” Ron says resignedly to Harry, “you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“You can wait,” Harry laughs as Ron sighs, but they’re both in good spirits, and their good-natured bantering is exactly what Harry needs to keep his chin up.
They spend the next half an hour in companionable silence, but there’s a lingering uncertainty in Harry’s mind, and he gets out of his cot and slips into the chair beside Ron’s bed, with a quiet, “I have a question, Ron,” before he fully comprehends what he’s doing.
Ron doesn’t reply. He simply lies back, studying Harry, and nods.
“Why would you do that?” Harry pauses, frowning at where Ron’s broken ankle is a hidden bump beneath the blankets, and licks his lips before he tries again, “I mean, in the Shack, when Sirius looked like he was going to murder me. Why would you—”
“Harry!” Ron looks at him like he’s grown a third head, and on reflection Harry knows it’s a stupid question. “D’you mean you wouldn’t do the same for me?”
At the dumbfounded expression on Harry’s face, Ron smacks him on the shoulder, “well, then I reckon I know better now. Next time there’s a cold-blooded murderer after your head, I’m not getting in the way!”
Harry winces as he rubs the sore spot beside his neck, craning his neck just enough to see five fingerprint-size bruises beginning to form. He laughs when Ron does, running his fingers over his shoulder again, feeling the warmth spread throughout his body as he remembers the feeling of Ron’s hand on his skin as Ron shouted, “if you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”
It’s difficult, Remus thinks, to imagine that he’s believed in the wrong person’s innocence for twelve years. And even more difficult to imagine that Sirius made the same mistake. He feels slightly guilty, leaving Harry in his office in such a hurry, but Padfoot is waiting quietly in the carriage when he comes, and it doesn’t matter, then, that he’s a grown man over thirty, he puts his arms around Sirius, and threads his fingers through grimy fur all the same.
Step 2:
When Harry steps into Ron’s – Ron and his? – room after dinner, he can sense, almost immediately, that something’s amiss. He’s not quite sure what it is, because the mattress on the floor is still there where they left it, his luggage is sitting on the table, and Ron’s by his tiny little cupboard putting his clothes away.
Oh. Harry’s brain kicks in a minute later. Ron’s putting his clothes away, it repeats, leaving Harry shaking his head uncomprehendingly. It’s not only the fact that Ron is not abiding by the normal routine of maintaining his reputation by ensuring that his bedroom floor is something Molly can only dream about seeing one day, but also…
“Err, Ron, what are you doing?”
“Packing,” Ron says sullenly.
“Percy just offered to help you with a cleaning spell.”
Ron stalks over to Harry’s mattress and sits on it. “I’m not going to ask bloody Percy to help me,” he sniffs, so Hermione-like that Harry nearly keels over in shock.
“Why not?” At twelve, Harry’s not old enough to know that there are some things he shouldn’t ask.
Evidently, Ron doesn’t know when not to answer, either. “He’s always talking about being a prefect. It’s only been one year and the git acts like he’s going to run the school a month down the road.” Harry thinks it’s better not to point out that in a year, Percy might do just that, because Ron already looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown.
“And it’s not enough that the only reason I get Percy’s robes are because Fred and George can’t fit them, and I’m not a girl, so there’s no good reasons for new ones, and—and look at my room! It’s got cauldron posters plastered on the walls from end to end, and it’s all thanks to Percy! When he finally decided he wanted the other room, guess who got stuck with this one? And if I only wasn’t the youngest son of the bloody lot, I wouldn’t have to care about outshining my brothers, but I am, so it’s all I can do to try measuring up to them!” Ron manages all this in one breath, and plunges on, “And of course it’s Percy who sets the standard, so I’ll give you one guess how many distinctions he’ll get on his NEWTS?
“And Mum’s always going on and on about Percy,” Ron rants bitterly, like a can of soda that’s been shaken so hard it’s blowing its cap off, “how he’s already halfway to making Head Boy. And about Fred and George: even though they’re idiots, they got more distinctions in their OWLs than I will, and then there’s always Bill and Charlie to live up to, and how can I even hope to be Quidditch Captain, Harry? I’m not even good enough to make the team!”
Ron wilts visibly at the end of his speech, his shoulders slumped like the world’s about to come crashing down on him. “Sorry,” Harry says quietly, as he sits beside Ron on the floor, searching for the right words he never learnt, “I didn’t think I’d be able to ride that broom either.”
“And so bloody well, too,” Ron says gloomily. “I mean, I grew up knowing I was a wizard and I probably haven’t learnt half of what you know yet!”
“Well, at least you don’t live with the Dursleys,” Harry says, as he watches Ron get up and kick morosely at a dirty pile of laundry that’s obviously been sitting there long enough to almost be Harry’s age. “Come on, if we finish quick enough, we can go for a quick ride on our brooms before it’s too dark.”
Ron seems to cheer up at the notion, and Harry sets about helping Ron tear the cauldron posters down.
A few days later, they’re back at Hogwarts, being introduced to their newest DADA teacher. Ron’s not amazed by the change, but this year, the candidate’s a definite shocker. He has to resort to desperately drastic measures to stop his snort of disbelief from escaping when Gilderoy Lockhart strolls into class to take their first lesson.
“This bloke’s a joke,” he mutters to Harry, out of the corner of his mouth, pretending not to see Hermione swoon at the other end of the table. “He can hardly tackle a suit, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hex himself when he’s off duelling his seven trolls.”
Harry nods, and hides a snicker, wisely not-mentioning the fact that at the moment Ron, with his broken wand, might not be able do much more than that himself. And later, Harry will think to himself that Ron, despite all his loyalty, should never try slug-hexing anyone if his wand isn’t in perfect working condition.
But then the tables are turned, as Harry’s coming to recognise is a pattern in his life, and the entire school year, save the few Quidditch matches Gryffindor won, goes down the drain with a Petrified Mrs. Norris, and the mistaken notion – thanks to Malfoy’s stupid snake – that Harry is the heir of Slytherin.
“This year can’t get any worse,” Harry says to Ron, one night, when they’re getting into their beds and he’s feeling a little more indignant than he’s usually wont.
Ron gives him a small, sympathetic smile, but after living as a wizard for twelve years, he has a good piece of advice, “it probably just did, Harry.”
Harry thinks about the conversations he’s had with Ron over the two years they’ve known each other, as they sit in the hospital wing playing wizard’s chess beside Hermione’s bed. Their banter makes as much sense as Hermione does about the exams, he thinks (which would be none at all), and he stares at Hermione with morbid curiosity as he replays Ron’s words in his head, in between his turns, while Ron ponders the merits of killing Harry’s bishop with his knight and getting killed by Harry’s queen in turn.
“Ron,” he says finally, getting impatient, “we can’t just sit here and wait for the next person to get Petrified. I know what I saw in the diary, and I can’t believe it, but if it’s true, then Hagrid will know how to solve this.”
“Hagrid’s not in, remember Harry?” Ron’s being marvellously level-headed for once, though how he’s managed to keep his composure through all this, Harry will never know. “I promise, we’ll go tonight, and then we’ll set things straight. Now you just have to sit here, and wait for the right moment.” He pauses. “Queen to F7.”
Harry sighs, watching uninterestedly as Ron’s queen swipes his bishop into three equal pieces.
They do go, that night, and after their bumpy return trip, Ron whines all the way back to Hogwarts. He’s still whining as they walk up the winding staircase, albeit quietly. “You just wouldn’t listen, would you? I try to tell you we’re in a life-or-death situation and all you can say is ‘not now, Ron!’ and guess what? We end up in the middle of a colony of giant spiders TRYING TO EAT US!”
Harry’s conjuring up some of the more colourful words that he’s learnt from Uncle Vernon over the years, preparing to hurtle them at Ron with all the muggleness he knows is still hidden somewhere deep, deep inside of him. “All right, Ron! Next time you’ll lead and I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Liar,” Ron says huffily, but he subsides nonetheless, and they manage to make it halfway to their dorm before they overhear the professors discussing the Chamber of Secrets.
Harry often thinks of himself as an accidental hero. Even now, with Ginny looking shyly up at him through her lashes, thanking him for saving her life, he can’t seem to understand why. He only saved her because there was really no one else who could do it, and she was Ron’s sister, and there was really no better reason than that.
But when Ron claps him on the shoulder in a silent thank-you, Harry thinks that maybe, maybe, he can learn to be a hero for this.
Step 1:
Harry doesn’t believe in luck, because for him the odds have always been in Dudley’s favour. This year, though, Harry thinks he might be willing to re-look into that. For the first time in his life, he’s among friends, away from the Dursleys, and to top it off he’s a natural at quidditch, something he’s grown so fond of he can’t imagine life without it.
And now this: this is the mirror staring Harry in the eye. He can almost feel his parents’ hands on his shoulder, and he’ll only stay long enough to hear them say something to him, anything, but when he shoves Ron in front of it, all Ron can say is, “I only see us.”
Harry hadn’t thought much of it till Dumbledore explains what the mirror actually shows, and then Ron’s words come back to haunt him. I only see us.
But Ron doesn’t bring it up, and things between them stay the same, so Harry buries it away, and life goes on.
The year passes by in a tremendous blur, and when Harry finds himself in a position where there’s nowhere to go but on, he finds himself hoping he’ll have his best mate beside him when they reach the end. So the game of chess knocks the wind out of him completely, and when Ron loses consciousness, Harry almost loses it along with him.
Harry’s tempted to tell Hermione that she can take on bloody Voldemort, and that he’s going to get Pomfrey because they can’t just leave Ron here alone.
But he knows, like Ron knew, that there’s nothing for it except to push ahead, so he touches Ron’s arm before Hermione can notice, and Ron’s warmth comforts him, so at least, when he tells Hermione they have to go on, there is no tremor in his voice.
Word of the battle with Voldemort is spread quickly throughout the school, and by the time Harry gets back to his dorm he’s almost tired of having people he doesn’t even know coming up to congratulate him on a job well done. He’s worked himself up into a temper, so when he sees a parcel on his bed, he nearly screams, “If it’s another attempt on my life you can have it!”
If this were a movie, Harry supposes this would be the perfect ending, poetic justice not withstanding, that he should be killed from a—a harmless Dungbomb after surviving Lord Voldemort twice.
“Aren’t you ready to go yet? Hermione’s about to blow her top.” When Ron enters the room he sees Harry standing beside his bed, staring at the little brown package. “Oh, you haven’t opened it yet?”
“What?” Harry looks up at Ron, and then down at the box, and back at Ron again. “What’s in it?”
“Your birthday present,” Ron says cheerfully, “from Neville. He says he read from the Daily Prophet about your awful Muggle life, and he says maybe the early gift will make it more bearable.”
Harry isn’t quite sure how to react, so he picks Neville’s gift up, and tears the wrapper open. Then he stares, and he stares, and he still can’t believe it’s Neville’s Remembrall he’s holding in his hand, with a line on the inside of the brown paper in Neville’s scrawl that says, ‘To Gryffindor’s Hero’.
Ron stares after reading it, too, and Harry recognises his offended tone of voice instantly when he says, “you save the world from You-Know-Who, and he thanks you for saving his Remembrall?”
They look at each other, and after a moment they’re both laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
When the Hogwarts Express pulls out of the station, Harry waves his goodbye, and then settles himself down on the seat next to Ron, who’s already helped himself to a Chocolate Frog from Harry’s extensive gift-pile. Harry laughs as he thinks about Ron, that first time on the Hogwarts Express, the way he’d ducked his head when he asked if they could share the same cabin, and how he’d seemed almost shy; he looks at Ron now, who grins at him as the Frog hops into his mouth, chocolate smeared over his hands and mouth, and Hermione wrinkles her nose.
He’d never have imagined they’d come so far, but the leftover trauma from meeting Voldemort lets him know that this is very, very real. He might be going back to the Dursleys, for now, but as Hermione throws a bogey-flavoured jellybean at Ron, all Harry can think about is next year, and the years that will come after that.
-start-
Twelve
Step 4:
Sirius slams the Daily Prophet on the table, the expression on his face clearly miming his displeasure at the article splashed on the front page. “That Skeeter woman has no business writing,” he pauses to find a suitable word, “fluff like this and putting it into a paper read by half the wizarding world!”
Remus is sorely tempted to ask if it’s partly because of the altogether unflattering article Sirius’d once been featured in in the very same newspaper, not twenty years ago, but he holds his tongue. He’s learnt the usefulness of the skill, and is reminded of the benefits every time Sirius opens his mouth.
“I imagine Harry’s used to it,” he says, placidly, even though he suspects otherwise, because at this point in time, having Sirius fly into Hogwarts is not a good idea. Sirius mutters something under his breath, that Remus doesn’t quite catch, but he thinks he can hazard a guess. “Well, if it’s bothering you that much, let’s get rid of it.”
But Sirius knocks Remus’ wand away before he can mutter a vanishing spell.
“Would it kill you to stand up and throw it in the bin?” Sirius’ bad mood is lifted and he manages to keep a straight face as he points at the muggle commodity Harry had given them as an anniversary gift the week before.
“Right,” Remus says, taking the newspaper as he stands, “you’ll be in charge of garbage duty—”
“In our next lifetime.” Sirius nods, thoughtfully, “charming idea.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be the garbage in our next lifetime, Sirius,” Remus says dryly, making a clever feint and watching the newspaper soar neatly towards its goal with satisfaction. “And I’ll be left cleaning up after you, as always.”
Sirius snaps his wand out, and knocks the tabloid off course with a well placed wingardium leviosa, and when Remus makes a tsk-ing sound he only laughs, “I never said wands were off-lim—give me that!”
“Well now they are,” Remus cracks a smile, dropping Sirius’ wand and grabbing the Daily Prophet. He aims at the bin again, and Sirius comes up from under him as he throws it, just managing to send it flying in the other direction towards the fireplace.
“You used magic on that, didn’t you?” Sirius eyes the floating newspaper suspiciously, and as Remus gives him a small, unrepentant grin, Sirius reverses their positions so he’s got Remus pinned to the floor beneath him. He laughs at the look on Remus’ face. “Should have kept me where you had me when you had the chance, Moony.”
“I don’t think I quite mind this position,” Remus says mildly, and when Sirius leans down, Remus loses eye contact with the Daily Prophet, and they hear an all-too-familiar, “oh!” at the fireplace, and Remus sits bolt upright, causing Sirius to fall forward, sprawling out on the floor in a very prone position.
“Professor!” Remus struggles to look as though he hasn’t been engaged in a tug-of-war game involving rolling all over the floor with Sirius bending over him.
“Sirius, Remus,” Dumbledore – or his head, at least, which is hanging upside down in the hearth – nods, with a twinkle in his eye, “I did not think it wise to disturb you, but Minerva insists I tell you that Harry has successfully completed his First Task, and is currently preparing for his second.”
Sirius and Remus exchange significant glances, and at length Remus says, “thank you, Professor.”
“If Harry’s burns are anything like yours, I might be worried.”
Charlie starts as he turns in his chair, but when he sees Bill’s face in the fireplace, he only laughs. “Is there space left under your wings for another young one, mother hen?” Then he adds, more seriously, “Ron’s doing enough worrying about Harry; he’s doing you proud.”
Bill grins, “if you’re trying to drop me a hint about those two, you’re too late.”
“Ahh, good,” Charlie says, “you saw it too.”
“At the dinner, the last time.” Bill nods, then continues thoughtfully, “but at fourteen, it’s too young to tell. After all, where were you at fourteen?”
The expression on Charlie’s face as he glances at Bill is almost wistful, and he says mournfully, “I liked her.”
“Probably how those two feel about each other,” Bill smiles. Then someone says something over at Bill’s end, and he gives his brother a regretful look. “Tell the twins I popped in.”
Then he’s gone, and suddenly Charlie feels rather alone.
The Second Task, Harry thinks, was the hardest of all three. Faced with the prospect of losing Ron, Harry’d almost done himself in with worry. But now, faced with the prospect of a lost Cedric Diggory in a school full of people who either don’t believe his story about Voldemort or think he’s a lunatic, Harry’s almost willing to turn back the clock. Perhaps, he thinks humourlessly, he should have drowned himself after getting Ron out of the lake. The Merpeople seemed more than happy to help him.
“Honestly, they’re all acting like the ‘Boy Who Lived’ wanted to—”
“Live?” Harry interrupts, as Hermione wrings her hands in frustration. “Again, and again, and again?” When he sees no response in their faces, he sighs and shrugs. It’d sounded funnier in his head.
Ron’s voice is on the verge of breaking when he says, “don’t say that, mate.”
But Harry can’t think of a good enough reason.
Step 3:
Remus wonders what he’s doing at Hogwarts, teaching Harry – who looks so much like James it’s almost as though he’s facing his old friend again – how to conjure a Patronus. It’s painful, because remembering James means remembering everything that comes with his memory, like… like someone he’s been striving not to think of for the past twelve years.
‘He was the spy,’ he tells himself, the same thing he’s been telling himself ever since James and Lily died. The words still cut as deeply as they did then.
In the months Remus’ spent in Hogwarts, he’s never gotten round to looking for the Marauder’s Map. He’d assumed it had been lost, along with the glorious days of Hogwarts when James and—when they’d been in it. So finding it, and both Peter and Sirius’ name on it, had been enough to send him hurtling down the path to the Shrieking Shack faster than he’d thought himself able.
Standing here, now, though, seeing Sirius again, Remus feels like he’s aged ten years. The colour leaves his face, and when he manages to speak, his throat feels constricted, and he can’t say everything he’s meant to for as long as Sirius was in Azkaban. All he can whisper are facts, tangible and verifiable, and when he has Sirius in his arms again he wants to cry for all the time they’ve lost, except he knows he used all his tears up seven years ago.
Harry watches Remus in utter disbelief. He’s the closest thing Harry’s ever had to a mentor and Harry can’t accept the fact that he’s trusted the wrong person again. It happened with Tom Riddle, with Quirrell, and now…
The sickening crack of Ron’s breaking leg echoes loudly in Harry’s mind. He seems to get him and Hermione into worse trouble every year, simply because his judgement is all but distorted.
And when the story is said and done, when Remus finally finishes his explanation of the whys and the hows, Harry has to question his judgement all over again.
When the excitement of the night is over, Harry’s too physically and emotionally drained to properly go to bed. Hermione falls asleep in the middle of telling Ron about their adventure, and Harry smiles at the look of unadulterated frustration on Ron’s face when he realises she’s not going to wake till tomorrow morning – chocolate seems to have a very potent effect on her.
“No good asking you,” Ron says resignedly to Harry, “you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“You can wait,” Harry laughs as Ron sighs, but they’re both in good spirits, and their good-natured bantering is exactly what Harry needs to keep his chin up.
They spend the next half an hour in companionable silence, but there’s a lingering uncertainty in Harry’s mind, and he gets out of his cot and slips into the chair beside Ron’s bed, with a quiet, “I have a question, Ron,” before he fully comprehends what he’s doing.
Ron doesn’t reply. He simply lies back, studying Harry, and nods.
“Why would you do that?” Harry pauses, frowning at where Ron’s broken ankle is a hidden bump beneath the blankets, and licks his lips before he tries again, “I mean, in the Shack, when Sirius looked like he was going to murder me. Why would you—”
“Harry!” Ron looks at him like he’s grown a third head, and on reflection Harry knows it’s a stupid question. “D’you mean you wouldn’t do the same for me?”
At the dumbfounded expression on Harry’s face, Ron smacks him on the shoulder, “well, then I reckon I know better now. Next time there’s a cold-blooded murderer after your head, I’m not getting in the way!”
Harry winces as he rubs the sore spot beside his neck, craning his neck just enough to see five fingerprint-size bruises beginning to form. He laughs when Ron does, running his fingers over his shoulder again, feeling the warmth spread throughout his body as he remembers the feeling of Ron’s hand on his skin as Ron shouted, “if you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!”
It’s difficult, Remus thinks, to imagine that he’s believed in the wrong person’s innocence for twelve years. And even more difficult to imagine that Sirius made the same mistake. He feels slightly guilty, leaving Harry in his office in such a hurry, but Padfoot is waiting quietly in the carriage when he comes, and it doesn’t matter, then, that he’s a grown man over thirty, he puts his arms around Sirius, and threads his fingers through grimy fur all the same.
Step 2:
When Harry steps into Ron’s – Ron and his? – room after dinner, he can sense, almost immediately, that something’s amiss. He’s not quite sure what it is, because the mattress on the floor is still there where they left it, his luggage is sitting on the table, and Ron’s by his tiny little cupboard putting his clothes away.
Oh. Harry’s brain kicks in a minute later. Ron’s putting his clothes away, it repeats, leaving Harry shaking his head uncomprehendingly. It’s not only the fact that Ron is not abiding by the normal routine of maintaining his reputation by ensuring that his bedroom floor is something Molly can only dream about seeing one day, but also…
“Err, Ron, what are you doing?”
“Packing,” Ron says sullenly.
“Percy just offered to help you with a cleaning spell.”
Ron stalks over to Harry’s mattress and sits on it. “I’m not going to ask bloody Percy to help me,” he sniffs, so Hermione-like that Harry nearly keels over in shock.
“Why not?” At twelve, Harry’s not old enough to know that there are some things he shouldn’t ask.
Evidently, Ron doesn’t know when not to answer, either. “He’s always talking about being a prefect. It’s only been one year and the git acts like he’s going to run the school a month down the road.” Harry thinks it’s better not to point out that in a year, Percy might do just that, because Ron already looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown.
“And it’s not enough that the only reason I get Percy’s robes are because Fred and George can’t fit them, and I’m not a girl, so there’s no good reasons for new ones, and—and look at my room! It’s got cauldron posters plastered on the walls from end to end, and it’s all thanks to Percy! When he finally decided he wanted the other room, guess who got stuck with this one? And if I only wasn’t the youngest son of the bloody lot, I wouldn’t have to care about outshining my brothers, but I am, so it’s all I can do to try measuring up to them!” Ron manages all this in one breath, and plunges on, “And of course it’s Percy who sets the standard, so I’ll give you one guess how many distinctions he’ll get on his NEWTS?
“And Mum’s always going on and on about Percy,” Ron rants bitterly, like a can of soda that’s been shaken so hard it’s blowing its cap off, “how he’s already halfway to making Head Boy. And about Fred and George: even though they’re idiots, they got more distinctions in their OWLs than I will, and then there’s always Bill and Charlie to live up to, and how can I even hope to be Quidditch Captain, Harry? I’m not even good enough to make the team!”
Ron wilts visibly at the end of his speech, his shoulders slumped like the world’s about to come crashing down on him. “Sorry,” Harry says quietly, as he sits beside Ron on the floor, searching for the right words he never learnt, “I didn’t think I’d be able to ride that broom either.”
“And so bloody well, too,” Ron says gloomily. “I mean, I grew up knowing I was a wizard and I probably haven’t learnt half of what you know yet!”
“Well, at least you don’t live with the Dursleys,” Harry says, as he watches Ron get up and kick morosely at a dirty pile of laundry that’s obviously been sitting there long enough to almost be Harry’s age. “Come on, if we finish quick enough, we can go for a quick ride on our brooms before it’s too dark.”
Ron seems to cheer up at the notion, and Harry sets about helping Ron tear the cauldron posters down.
A few days later, they’re back at Hogwarts, being introduced to their newest DADA teacher. Ron’s not amazed by the change, but this year, the candidate’s a definite shocker. He has to resort to desperately drastic measures to stop his snort of disbelief from escaping when Gilderoy Lockhart strolls into class to take their first lesson.
“This bloke’s a joke,” he mutters to Harry, out of the corner of his mouth, pretending not to see Hermione swoon at the other end of the table. “He can hardly tackle a suit, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hex himself when he’s off duelling his seven trolls.”
Harry nods, and hides a snicker, wisely not-mentioning the fact that at the moment Ron, with his broken wand, might not be able do much more than that himself. And later, Harry will think to himself that Ron, despite all his loyalty, should never try slug-hexing anyone if his wand isn’t in perfect working condition.
But then the tables are turned, as Harry’s coming to recognise is a pattern in his life, and the entire school year, save the few Quidditch matches Gryffindor won, goes down the drain with a Petrified Mrs. Norris, and the mistaken notion – thanks to Malfoy’s stupid snake – that Harry is the heir of Slytherin.
“This year can’t get any worse,” Harry says to Ron, one night, when they’re getting into their beds and he’s feeling a little more indignant than he’s usually wont.
Ron gives him a small, sympathetic smile, but after living as a wizard for twelve years, he has a good piece of advice, “it probably just did, Harry.”
Harry thinks about the conversations he’s had with Ron over the two years they’ve known each other, as they sit in the hospital wing playing wizard’s chess beside Hermione’s bed. Their banter makes as much sense as Hermione does about the exams, he thinks (which would be none at all), and he stares at Hermione with morbid curiosity as he replays Ron’s words in his head, in between his turns, while Ron ponders the merits of killing Harry’s bishop with his knight and getting killed by Harry’s queen in turn.
“Ron,” he says finally, getting impatient, “we can’t just sit here and wait for the next person to get Petrified. I know what I saw in the diary, and I can’t believe it, but if it’s true, then Hagrid will know how to solve this.”
“Hagrid’s not in, remember Harry?” Ron’s being marvellously level-headed for once, though how he’s managed to keep his composure through all this, Harry will never know. “I promise, we’ll go tonight, and then we’ll set things straight. Now you just have to sit here, and wait for the right moment.” He pauses. “Queen to F7.”
Harry sighs, watching uninterestedly as Ron’s queen swipes his bishop into three equal pieces.
They do go, that night, and after their bumpy return trip, Ron whines all the way back to Hogwarts. He’s still whining as they walk up the winding staircase, albeit quietly. “You just wouldn’t listen, would you? I try to tell you we’re in a life-or-death situation and all you can say is ‘not now, Ron!’ and guess what? We end up in the middle of a colony of giant spiders TRYING TO EAT US!”
Harry’s conjuring up some of the more colourful words that he’s learnt from Uncle Vernon over the years, preparing to hurtle them at Ron with all the muggleness he knows is still hidden somewhere deep, deep inside of him. “All right, Ron! Next time you’ll lead and I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Liar,” Ron says huffily, but he subsides nonetheless, and they manage to make it halfway to their dorm before they overhear the professors discussing the Chamber of Secrets.
Harry often thinks of himself as an accidental hero. Even now, with Ginny looking shyly up at him through her lashes, thanking him for saving her life, he can’t seem to understand why. He only saved her because there was really no one else who could do it, and she was Ron’s sister, and there was really no better reason than that.
But when Ron claps him on the shoulder in a silent thank-you, Harry thinks that maybe, maybe, he can learn to be a hero for this.
Step 1:
Harry doesn’t believe in luck, because for him the odds have always been in Dudley’s favour. This year, though, Harry thinks he might be willing to re-look into that. For the first time in his life, he’s among friends, away from the Dursleys, and to top it off he’s a natural at quidditch, something he’s grown so fond of he can’t imagine life without it.
And now this: this is the mirror staring Harry in the eye. He can almost feel his parents’ hands on his shoulder, and he’ll only stay long enough to hear them say something to him, anything, but when he shoves Ron in front of it, all Ron can say is, “I only see us.”
Harry hadn’t thought much of it till Dumbledore explains what the mirror actually shows, and then Ron’s words come back to haunt him. I only see us.
But Ron doesn’t bring it up, and things between them stay the same, so Harry buries it away, and life goes on.
The year passes by in a tremendous blur, and when Harry finds himself in a position where there’s nowhere to go but on, he finds himself hoping he’ll have his best mate beside him when they reach the end. So the game of chess knocks the wind out of him completely, and when Ron loses consciousness, Harry almost loses it along with him.
Harry’s tempted to tell Hermione that she can take on bloody Voldemort, and that he’s going to get Pomfrey because they can’t just leave Ron here alone.
But he knows, like Ron knew, that there’s nothing for it except to push ahead, so he touches Ron’s arm before Hermione can notice, and Ron’s warmth comforts him, so at least, when he tells Hermione they have to go on, there is no tremor in his voice.
Word of the battle with Voldemort is spread quickly throughout the school, and by the time Harry gets back to his dorm he’s almost tired of having people he doesn’t even know coming up to congratulate him on a job well done. He’s worked himself up into a temper, so when he sees a parcel on his bed, he nearly screams, “If it’s another attempt on my life you can have it!”
If this were a movie, Harry supposes this would be the perfect ending, poetic justice not withstanding, that he should be killed from a—a harmless Dungbomb after surviving Lord Voldemort twice.
“Aren’t you ready to go yet? Hermione’s about to blow her top.” When Ron enters the room he sees Harry standing beside his bed, staring at the little brown package. “Oh, you haven’t opened it yet?”
“What?” Harry looks up at Ron, and then down at the box, and back at Ron again. “What’s in it?”
“Your birthday present,” Ron says cheerfully, “from Neville. He says he read from the Daily Prophet about your awful Muggle life, and he says maybe the early gift will make it more bearable.”
Harry isn’t quite sure how to react, so he picks Neville’s gift up, and tears the wrapper open. Then he stares, and he stares, and he still can’t believe it’s Neville’s Remembrall he’s holding in his hand, with a line on the inside of the brown paper in Neville’s scrawl that says, ‘To Gryffindor’s Hero’.
Ron stares after reading it, too, and Harry recognises his offended tone of voice instantly when he says, “you save the world from You-Know-Who, and he thanks you for saving his Remembrall?”
They look at each other, and after a moment they’re both laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
When the Hogwarts Express pulls out of the station, Harry waves his goodbye, and then settles himself down on the seat next to Ron, who’s already helped himself to a Chocolate Frog from Harry’s extensive gift-pile. Harry laughs as he thinks about Ron, that first time on the Hogwarts Express, the way he’d ducked his head when he asked if they could share the same cabin, and how he’d seemed almost shy; he looks at Ron now, who grins at him as the Frog hops into his mouth, chocolate smeared over his hands and mouth, and Hermione wrinkles her nose.
He’d never have imagined they’d come so far, but the leftover trauma from meeting Voldemort lets him know that this is very, very real. He might be going back to the Dursleys, for now, but as Hermione throws a bogey-flavoured jellybean at Ron, all Harry can think about is next year, and the years that will come after that.
-start-
