Chapter Twenty-Three.
“I don’t think-” said Harry, but he was interrupted before he could go any further.
“Shush,” said Susan Bones severely, turning back into the huddle that she made with Hermione and Luna.
Harry opened his mouth in irritation, to try and continue what he was about to say, but thought better of it. The three girls were only paying him marginal attention right now, but he knew that he only had a few moments before they started up again, and he was unlikely to have another break for quite some time. He sank back in his armchair, relishing the comfort and playing idly with the tattered piping on the arm. The Hufflepuff Common Room was warm and cosy, and ordinarily would have put him to sleep, but tonight, with his friends around him, still reeling from his revelation about the Prophecy, he couldn’t have felt more awake.
Harry only wished that he could have a few minutes to spend alone with Ron. The other boy had left not longer after Harry had finished speaking, with a set, angry look on his face, and Harry winced in remembrance. He wished that he had taken Hermione’s advice and let Ron in on it sooner, but the situation was difficult, and he had only refrained because Ron had asked him to. He sighed heavily. They were going to have to talk tonight, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but hopefully Ron had had some time to cool off, at least. Harry had tried to go after him, but had been prevented by Hermione, who had shoved him rather unfeelingly back in his chair. Then the Inquisition began.
It had gone on for about an hour, although no-one seemed to be getting tired of it. Harry thought grumpily that he even saw a few glimmers of amusement in the eyes of Fred and George, who were off to one side with Lupin, talking quietly. He had heard snatches of conversation from between the three that seemed to revolve about Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes and its products. Harry thought that it was a rather frivolous topic all things considered, but he had never had time to figure out what was going on. Still, he didn’t think that Lupin would be taking part if he didn’t have some idea behind it. Ginny, Neville, and the other Hufflepuffs (saving Susan) were in a small group in front of the fire, chatting quietly amongst themselves and drinking tea. Harry was relieved to see that Ginny was showing more life than she had since the news of Bill’s defection. Dobby, on the other hand, while listening closely, kept sneaking off to the bookshelf and trying to dust it with his tea-towel toga “ at least when Ernie couldn’t see him do it.
That just left Harry, with the other three girls huddling in front of him. He had to admit, they were bloody scary. After shoving him into the chair, it has only taken a few minutes before the Inquisition, as Harry had privately termed it, began. He might have been a Gryffindor, but he wasn’t brave enough to state it publicly “ it wouldn’t have gone down well. In his desire to ease the tension, he had made a few joking comments, but the scowls he had gotten from Hermione and Susan, and even Luna’s look of mild exasperation, had stopped him in his tracks.
The three girls were questioning Harry on every aspect of his dealing with Voldemort and Dumbledore over the past five years. They didn’t seem to have any particular plan, or any special goal in mind, and the questions ranged from penetrating to what Harry thought were faintly silly. He had tried to explain things on his own, but was constantly being hushed and derailed into other topics, and the matching foul looks he received when doing anything other than providing prompt, relevant answers were faintly chastening. He thought that even Snape might have been impressed. It would have made him far grumpier, he knew, had he not had a lot of respect for their intelligence. They were plainly cleverer than he was, albeit in different ways. Even Hermione was looking at Luna with respect, although her questions were often the most left field. Occasionally they would pause, and huddle together, and Harry would hear frantic whispering as they argued over what tack to take next, and whether or not he had said anything particularly fruitful. Then as one they turned back to him, and he unconsciously straightened in his chair, shooting a quick glare at Fred and George, who weren’t bothering to hide their smirks.
“You say that Voldemort has the same wand as you do?” Hermione queried.
Harry nodded grimly. Apparently they were back to the whole Goblet of Fire debacle, and that was something that he wasn’t pleased to remember. “That’s how they got sort of stuck together,” he said.
“I wonder if that’s always going to happen,” Susan said meditatively, and Harry could do nothing but shrug.
“I suppose so. It wasn’t as if-”
“Did you expect anything like that to happen?” Susan over-rode him. “You don’t think you could have influenced it somehow?”
“No,” said Harry. “It just happened. If I had known that it was going to do that, I would have…” he trailed off. “I’m not sure exactly what I would have done.”
“Do you think you could stop it happening in future?” Hermione asked, and Harry shrugged again.
“How would I know? And why would I want to? It turned out to be quite useful last time, you know.”
Hermione waved at him dismissively, and turned to Susan. Harry was a bit irked at being shut out, but he quickly began to feel more uncomfortable than annoyed, as Luna was staring at him mildly, chewing on a strand of her hair. She didn’t appear to blink, and just gazed at him as if he was some faintly interesting specimen from Care of Magical Creatures, staked out on a board for the class to look at. He shifted in his chair, and forced himself to look away.
“Maybe that’s something we could look up,” Hermione was saying, in a low tone.
“I’ll add it to the list,” said Susan. “We can draft in the juniors, they don’t need to know why they’re looking for information on similar wands, after all.” She turned back to Harry, and looked a trifle uneasy herself. “I don’t suppose you know if Voldemort is still using the same wand?” she said.
“How on earth would I know?” Harry replied.
“You do get some funny feelings when it comes to him,” said Hermione, a trifle nervously, gesturing a bit foolishly at his scar.
“It hurts when he gets really happy or really upset,” said Harry shortly. “Not when he goes bloody shopping.”
“Alright, alright,” said Hermione hastily. “It was just a thought.”
Not a very good one, Harry thought privately. “Besides,” he said, relenting a little, “Why would he give up his own wand? You just kind of get used to it…” he ended lamely.
“He might not have to give it up,” Susan said thoughtfully. “Just have a spare. So that if he’s fighting you, and his wand won’t do what he wants, he can just, well…”
“Whip out the other one and knock me off with that?” Harry finished for her, and Susan looked relieved that her point had gotten across without her having to finish spelling it out for him.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Thanks,” Harry commented dryly. “That makes me a feel a lot better, it really does.”
“I bet Dumbledore didn’t feel better,” said Luna dreamily.
“What?” said Harry, turning back to her. He noticed that she was still gazing at him vaguely, and he fought the urge to shift in his seat.
“It can’t have been very nice for him,” Luna went on.
“So what,” interrupted Harry shortly. “It wasn’t very nice for me either, getting myself sliced up so that Voldemort could resurrect himself with my blood.”
“I wonder if he kept any,” Luna went on, almost happily. “You can do all sorts of things with bits of people, you know. You didn’t give him any bits of hair or fingernails, did you? You remember my troll, Boris? I’m almost sure it’s not fake hair coming out of his head, you know. I expect Dumbledore must have been quite unhappy that you didn’t maintain bodily integrity.”
Harry just gaped at her, feeling more disturbed at that point that he could remember being for quite some time. He noticed that Ginny and Hannah, who were on the floor in front of the fireplace a few metres behind Luna, had expressions of identical disgust on their faces. Hermione and Susan just looked a bit interested, however. Suddenly Harry felt even more like a lab animal, being poked at to see how he would react.
“It wasn’t exactly my choice, you know!” he burst out, rather resentfully. “And I never gave anyone anything. As far as I know, they took the blood and that’s it. And Dumbledore wasn’t upset, if anything he looked happy about it!”
The atmosphere of the room sharpened, and everyone seemed to sit up a bit straighter and stare a bit harder.
“Really,” said Hermione interestedly. “Happy how, exactly?”
Harry deflated a little. “I don’t know,” he said in exasperation. “It wasn’t really happy, I suppose. Just like something he had wanted to happen had finally happened. Triumphant, I suppose. He looked like I feel whenever I’ve caught the Snitch.”
“Did you ask him why?” said Hermione eagerly.
“I had other things to think of at the time!” Harry pointed out, glancing miserably and automatically to the picture on the mantelpiece. “And he only looked that way for a second…”
“Fair enough,” said Hermione. She paused for a few moments, a sympathetic look on her face, and then burst out, obviously unable to contain herself for much longer, “Did you ask him later, then?”
“No I bloody didn’t,” said Harry resentfully. “I’d forgotten about it up until now.” He glanced at Luna.
“Nice work, Luna,” Susan said warmly, and Luna just smiled, distantly and sweetly, and hummed to herself.
Susan leaned back towards Hermione. “I think that’s another one for the list,” she said.
---
Harry looked in disgust around the empty Owlery. Ron wasn’t there, and Harry didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. He was annoyed because it meant that he would have to keep looking for his friend, and Harry had been wandering about the castle for a long time. He had even checked the greenhouses and the Quidditch Pitch, to no avail, and Hagrid’s hut was locked up tight. Harry wondered to himself, a little uncomfortably, as to why he had conscientiously avoided checking the Owlery. He knew that he had left it until last, and he had the distinct feeling that it wasn’t because he had expected Ron to be there. He had just hoped that he wouldn’t be. It was a bit unfair, but Harry had come to see the Owlery as the place that he and Neville spent time in. He felt slightly guilty that Neville had replaced Ron in any way, but there was a fascination to his relationship with the other boy that he just didn’t have with Ron, a “there but for the grace of God” feeling. More and more, Neville was the one that Harry went to when he had something he needed to get off his chest. Ron had so many sore spots that Harry was getting tired of trying not to poke them, and he had an ingrained horror of saying anything that might make Hermione cry again.
Bugger Gryffindor bravery, he thought. It doesn’t extend to being wept on.
He cast one last, disgusted look around the Owlery. It was almost funny that he and Neville seemed to be the only students who ever seemed to go there. It made Harry feel slightly resentful. He would have given a lot to have been tired of writing to his parents.
The resentment didn’t help him figure out where Ron was, though, so Harry plonked himself heavily down on the top of the staircase, thinking. The Owlery was really the last place he had thought to look, and he didn’t have any other ideas. Briefly he cursed himself for not having the sense to go back to his dormitory to get the Marauder’s Map, but upon leaving the Hufflepuff Common Room he had thought he would be able to find Ron easily. Now using the map would seem like cheating. Ron was obviously trying bloody hard to not be found, and Harry thought that it didn’t seem quite honourable to use magic to find him if he couldn’t figure out how to do it on his own.
Then the penny dropped. Ron was trying very hard not to be found. Where was the one place he could go where he knew Harry would never think to look for him?
Five minutes later, Harry skidded into the Library
Madam Pince glared at him, and he winced, ducking behind one of the bookshelves to avoid the foul looks she was sending in his direction, and trying to look like an upright student while doing so. He plucked a random book of the shelf and flipped it open, doing his best to look like he had a good reason to be in there. He knew that the grumpy librarian was perfectly capable of throwing him out if she thought that he wasn’t there to study. Madam Pince’s idea of the perfect library was one that didn’t have any students in it.
He sneaked through the rows of shelves, looking furtively in all the corners, and absent-mindedly flicking through the pages of his book. On one page a beaming picture caught his eye, and he was momentarily disgusted to find himself reading a volume on the love life of Gilderoy Lockhart, with associated magical hair spells. Not wanting to be seen dead with it (bad as his hair was, there was no way he was going to try and make it look like Lockhart’s) Harry shoved it back on the nearest shelf, and rounded the last bookcase.
Ron was sitting at the furthest table, nearly hidden behind a stack of astronomy books that Harry was quite certain that he wasn’t reading. The scowl on Ron’s face was quite apparent, and he wasn’t turning any pages. Harry realised that like himself, Ron was using the books as a reason to stay in the Library and not be bothered. He shifted on his feet awkwardly, wanting to go up to his friend and not knowing what to say.
I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I’m due to be murdered certainly wasn’t a very cheerful opening gambit.
“I know you’re there, Harry,” said Ron in a low voice, with heavy sarcasm.
“Er… right,” said Harry. He sidled up to the table. “Look, I know what you must be thinking…”
“I don’t think that you have a bloody clue about what I’m thinking!” said Ron, his voice rising. Harry winced again. Ron’s ears were turning red, and that was never a good sign.
“Look,” he said. “I tried to tell you. You know I did! But you didn’t want to know.”
“I would have wanted to know this!” Ron hissed back. “No matter what else was going on, you should have told me. You should have told me!”
“How was I supposed to know?” Harry shot back, beginning to feel supremely annoyed.
“Anyone with half a brain-” Ron began, his voice getting louder by the minute.
“Oh, anyone with half a brain!” Harry mimicked, in what he knew was an annoyingly high and childish voice. He knew that he was being petty, but he had the sudden, uncontrollable desire to fight with someone, and Ron was making it very easy for him not to resist. What right had he to be angry? He wasn’t the one slated for a horrible death, and Harry had only done what Ron had asked him to do, and now he was getting a bollocking for it. He firmly pushed down the knowledge that Hermione had told him to tell Ron, and that he himself had previously felt very guilty about not doing so.
“Pillock!” Ron sneered, slamming shut his book.
“Whinging git!”
“I’m not the one acting like the doomed bloody hero!”
“I’m not the one acting like Percy!”
Harry felt a twinge of shame at the last one, knowing that it was unfair and that he had gone too far. Ron made it easier for him to ignore that shame by promptly throwing the book at his head as if it were a Bludger. Harry ducked just in time, and was about to throw himself over the table in a right tantrum when the frozen look on Ron’s face made him freeze himself. The next moment, a bony, clawed finger pinched his ear in a death-defying grip, and he was dragged over to Ron anyway, as Madam Pince snagged the other boy’s ear.
“We do not throw books in the Library!” she said, in a voice as cold as Harry had ever heard. “They are older and more valuable than either of you.” She propelled them through the Library towards the door, and her grip was inescapable. Her arms were held up so high that even Ron couldn’t avoid having his ear half twisted off. Harry didn’t know what was more painful “ the claws of the old bat ripping through the cartilage of his ear, or the fact that half the Library was gaping at him like he was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, ready to blow. It didn’t do much for his temper, and he glared at Ron.
Ron glared back.
Madam Pince practically threw them through the door of the Library. “I don’t care if you rip each other’s heads off!” she said. “But kindly have the decency to do it where you won’t get blood on my books!” And she slammed the door in their faces, mercifully cutting out the sight of the gaping, sniggering hordes behind her. Through the door, Harry could hear muffled giggling, and a final dim swearing from Madam Pince. He was momentarily distracted by the sheer amazement that the librarian knew words that he had previously only heard from Fred and George. He wouldn’t have thought she had it in her.
His grudging moment of admiration was quickly cut off when Ron shoved him firmly into a wall, banging his head.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Harry yelled, shoving back. But Ron was bigger and stronger than he was, and Harry, in a red daze, resorted to kicking him sharply in the shin.
“Bloody buggery bollocks,” Ron swore bitterly, promptly letting Harry’s collar go and hopping painfully away down the corridor.
“Serves you right,” said Harry mutinously.
“How was I to know you’d fight like a girl?” Ron shot back, face the colour of a ripe tomato. “Even Ginny stopped kicking shins when by the time she was eight!”
“I do not fight like a girl!” yelled Harry, growing more furious by the second.
“I do not fight like a girl!” Ron mimicked, in the same annoying way that Harry had spoken to him just a few minutes ago. “Is that what you’re going to do to Voldemort? Kick him in the shins? Maybe you could pull his hair… after all, it’s not like you’re going to have anybody there helping you, is it? NO, OF COURSE NOT!! We’ll all be at home,” he bellowed, “stuffing down my Mum’s strawberry ice-cream, completely oblivious, because you won’t have had the common sense, the guts, and the sheer bloody DECENCY to tell us what’s going on and ask for help!”
Harry gaped like a fish. There was really nothing that he could say to that that wouldn’t sound hopelessly childish. Impotent, furious, with no good comeback he decided to retreat and stand on his dignity.
“I do not fight like a bloody girl!” he repeated at the top of his voice, and Ron rolled his eyes and launched himself towards him, giving him another strong shove. Harry tried to whack him but only managed a rather pathetic slap, and, in a fit of juvenility, Ron slapped back. For several minutes they slapped at each other, furious and squeaking, until Harry took a swing at him and connected, splitting Ron’s lip. He then tried again, but Ron swore, and put one hand on Harry’s forehead and pushed him as far back as he could. With Ron’s arms being longer than his, Harry could no longer reach him. Scowling, he kicked out again, and Ron, once again, crumpled.
“Serves you right for being so bloody thick,” Harry panted.
Ron laughed bitterly. “I was right from the first,” he said. “You do fight like a girl. No bloke would have kicked where you did.”
Harry blanched suddenly, noticing that Ron was gripping himself somewhere higher up than the shin. His anger fell away, and he awkwardly crouched down beside his friend, feeling incredibly guilty.
“I’m sorry-” he began, and was promptly cut off by Ron’s fist slamming into the side of his face.
It was Harry’s turn to swear to himself, as he clutched his eye. He glared at Ron balefully through his one good eye, as the other boy got to his feet, having promptly stopped clutching at himself.
“You faker,” he hissed, and Ron shrugged.
“Serves you right for being so bloody thick,” he shot back mockingly. “And for the record, you did kick me where no self-respecting bloke would think to kick another bloke “ in the sodding shin. Twice. I hope to Merlin you’re not this gullible when it comes to Voldemort...”
Harry gaped soundlessly as the other boy chuntered on, then his face split into a painful grin.
“What?” said Ron, clearly still annoyed.
“You said his name,” said Harry. “Voldemort. You said his name. That’s the first time…”
“Yeah, well.” Ron looked at him sourly, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “We can’t all be wusses. One girl fighting is bad enough “ and I didn’t mean Hermione.”
“I do not fight like a girl,” Harry repeated for the second time, but there was no heat in it.
“And I’m a crumpled horned Snorkack,” Ron muttered. He reached out to give Harry another shove, but there wasn’t much strength in it, and Harry shoved gently back.
“Git,” he said.
“Girl,” Ron shot back.
“Hey,” Harry pointed out, grinning, “You might want to reconsider, you know. It wasn’t just me in that slapfight…” Suddenly, despite the pain in his eye, which was rapidly swelling shut, things seemed very, very funny.
Ron shot him a look of genuine horror. “Fine,” he said. “Git.” He shot a look around the corridor. “You don’t think anyone saw that, did you?”
“I really, really hope not,” Harry said, and in mutual, silent agreement they scarpered back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, moving as fast as they could without it looking like they were running. Harry was unwilling to attract any more attention to either of them. He had a sick feeling that they’d both managed to make right fools of themselves, and he fervently hoped that no-one had been around to see it.
They stopped outside the Pink Lady to straighten their robes, and she clucked disapprovingly at them. Ron looked a fright, and Harry knew he didn’t look any better. He pushed Ron’s hand away from the Portrait, and Ron shot him a look.
“What is it now?” he said.
“You don’t want to think of a way to explain this?” Harry asked, gesturing at Ron’s lip and his black eye.
“Nope,” said Ron. “No-one else’s business.” He turned back to the portrait.
“Planning on telling that to Hermione, are you?” Harry hissed, and Ron froze.
“Ah,” he said, and cringed to himself. “Might be a bit tricky, that.” Harry nodded his head fervently, and Ron rolled his eyes at him. “We could have avoided all this if you’d just listened to her in the first place,” Ron pointed out.
“That’s a bit rich coming from you,” Harry said, taking hold of Ron’s robe and tugging him a bit further down the corridor. A group of second year Gryffindors were coming up to the portrait, and they goggled at the two boys as they went in. Harry and Ron turned away, trying to keep their faces out of sight.
“Even I catch on eventually,” said Ron, “Although that’s more than I can say for you.”
“Alright,” Harry grumbled. “I get the message.”
Ron just stared at him, and Harry was forced to reconsider. He knew that Ron hadn’t really been referring to Hermione, and he knew that the other boy had been truly hurt at Harry telling not just Lupin, but Hermione and Neville about the prophecy before he had told him. It was the fact that Neville had been told that had to hurt most, Harry knew. And he was forced to realise that Ron was right. He could no longer go about trying to keep it all on his own shoulders, trying to spare the people around him and keep them safe. It wasn’t up to him to make their decisions for them. They had to make them “ Ron and Hermione and Neville and all the rest had to make their own decisions, and they had to take the consequences. It wasn’t up to Harry to protect them from himself, to decide what they should and shouldn’t know, and when they should be allowed to know it. They were his friends, but he couldn’t decide for them. And because they were his friends, the one thing he truly had to do, before anything else, was to make sure that they were able to decide, because if things were reversed, that is what he would want and expect them to do for him. If it were Ron who was destined to fight Voldemort, Harry would have wanted to know, no matter what else was going on in his life.
Hermione had known this, and she had urged Harry over and over to tell Ron about the Prophecy, despite Ron’s unhappiness over his brother. Neville had shown that he had understood this, as he had stuck by Harry despite the revelation that he too could have been in Harry’s place.
It was, Harry thought, really only him that hadn’t known. It was odd, all things considered, that despite Hermione’s intelligence and Neville’s friendship, it had really been Ron’s well-timed fist to the face that had finally made Harry understand.
“I do get the message,” he said quietly, and it was possibly the sincerest thing he had ever said. “I promise you that I do, Ron.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Ron held his gaze for a moment, his face solemn, before he reached for Harry’s hand and shook it, his grip firm and lasting. “Good, then,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Why couldn’t you have saved us the bother and figured this out before?”
Harry shook his head, wordlessly.
“Six sodding years,” Ron went on, shaking his head in exasperation. “I don’t bloody know…” He reached out and clapped Harry on the shoulder, but before he could say anything else, a shriek was heard coming from the Common Room. It sounded eerily like Hermione when they told her that they had homework due the next day, and hadn’t started it yet “ a sort of long, drawn out “Whaaaaat?” that rose at the end like a kettle about to boil over.
Harry had a distinct feeling that he knew what had happened, and cursed the nosiness of second years to himself. He was sure that he had never been that annoying and tattly. Exchanging winces, he and Ron gingerly made their way to the Portrait. It flung open just before they got there, and Hermione’s voice came out, sounding very annoyed. “You won’t believe what I’ve just heard…”
She looked at them through the Portrait hole, her eyes narrowing as she took in the state of their faces. Harry could see her taking a deep breath, and she swelled ominously, in a manner rather reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley.
“Oops,” said Ron lightly, glancing at Harry. Both looked and felt a little sheepish.
“You better have a good explanation for this!”
“It’s not what it looks like, Hermione…” Harry started, but Ron cut him off.
“It’s exactly what it looks like, Hermione,” he said. “But don’t worry. I think he’s finally got it.” Hermione glared at Ron for a moment, and then shifted her gaze to Harry. He felt a bit awkward standing there being surveyed, and slightly more awkward when Hermione shifted her gaze back to Ron, somewhat softened, and nodded slightly. He had the distinct feeling that this was something they had talked about before.
“Alright then,” she said, more cheerfully. “I suppose you’d better come in before anyone else sees you. I’ll get you a cold flannel, Harry. And Ron, if you spill blood on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up yourself!”
“Yes, Hermione,” Ron and Harry chorused meekly. They followed her through the Portrait hole, and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt that things between him and his two best friends were looking up.