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kowaiyoukaiTitle: Metanoia - Part 1: Reconciliation, part II
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kowaiyoukai
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning(s): Slash, het, angst, language, convoluted plot, use of side characters who you may have forgotten, misuse of canon terms and items
Spoilers: SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, HBP
Word Count: 63,163 total; 9,062 for this part
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and I'm making no money from this.
Beta Acknowledgment:sizijee looked over a lot of this. Thanks! *gives Itachi*
Summary: Draco needs a safe place to stay. So does Harry.
A/N: Same as before.
"Professor, you have to help me."
Draco sped up his pace, walking briskly down the dimly-lit corridor in the Dark Lord's hideout. The walls were so dark they seemed to disappear into the shadows and, regardless of the amount of light that was used, they never got any brighter than they were at that moment. Draco wished they would, so he might have a chance at decoding the look on Snape's face. Instead, he merely watched as Snape turned slowly towards him.
Professor Snape, although no longer a professor, still maintained the ire and misery that had collected around him from years of grading awful essays and having to send students to the infirmary because of their own idiocy. The Death Eater robe he wore now was so similar to his normal attire that for a brief moment, Draco believed he was back in Hogwarts, simply hunting down the Potions Master to have a particularly difficult problem answered for him.
Snape pursed his lips together and frowned. "What is it this time, Draco?"
"Do you know anything about Kingsley Shacklebolt?"
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
Draco swallowed. "The Dark Lord has just given me a mission." Both of Snape's eyebrows rose at this comment, but he made no remark and so Draco continued speaking. "I'm supposed to kill Shacklebolt." After several seconds of silence, Draco made an impatient noise and sighed. "Professor, do you know anything that could help?"
"Why is it," Snape began. From the tone of his voice, Draco could tell he wouldn't like the end of the question, and with that in mind he began preparing several good excuses. "…that last time you were assigned to kill someone you continuously refused my assistance, and yet this time you actively seek it?"
Draco lowered his eyes. "I don't know." He looked back up at Snape to find the man scrutinizing him intently. "But if I don't kill him, my parents are dead. I can't let that happen, professor. I just can't."
"So you're willing to swallow your pride and admit that I might be able to help you?"
Draco thought it over. He wanted to answer quickly, to just tell Professor Snape that yes, in fact he was able to admit that and could they please get going already? But saying that would only end with him being rejected, and that was the absolute last thing he needed right now. He didn't know or trust any of the other Death Eaters enough to ask for their help, except perhaps for his aunt Bellatrix, who really was quite crazy, and therefore rather difficult to get information or decent help from. Professor Snape was both intelligent and sane, which could not be said for most of the other Death Eaters, and as such he was Draco's first and really only choice for getting help from.
Of course, while thinking over the question, there was the tiny bit of his mind that felt it had to point out that if it wasn't for Snape, Draco wouldn't even be in this whole mess to begin with. That wasn't entirely true. Draco had accepted the job to kill Dumbledore, and he had been attempting to do it all throughout sixth year. Of course, he had also been seconds away from accepting Dumbledore's offer of protection for him and his family. It was a good thing there had been no one there as a witness; otherwise, Draco might not have gotten this second chance to save his parents.
That was what this was all about in the end. Draco needed to save his parents. That was it. He would have to swallow his pride if he wanted Professor Snape's help. And, although he hated to admit it, he did need help. Professor Snape was the only one he could turn to. He wouldn't keep his damnable Malfoy pride if it cost him his parents' lives.
There were no other options. He had to agree.
"Yes."
Snape nodded. "Very well then. I'll have a look at the information we've collected on him, and we'll meet back here in two hours. That should give you enough time to curse your fate and coddle your foolish ego."
Draco sneered. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow and Draco's sneer vanished.
"Right then. Thank you, Professor." Draco fought to maintain a neutral voice. He thought he saw Professor Snape smile in response, but of course the former Potions Master never smiled, and he certainly wouldn't have done so in the presence of a student.
Professor Snape strode past Draco and continued down the hall. Draco turned to watch him go. Only when the last of his robe had cleared the corridor did Draco resume his original pace, now heading back towards his room. He would wait for two hours.
It would be just enough time to curse his fate.
~*~*~*~*~*~
When Harry first heard about it, going to live in Grimmauld Place hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. Yes, it did bring back memories of Sirius, but even those didn't hurt as much as they had a year ago. Besides, the Order still used it as it's base of operations, and the closer he was to the Order the more information he could obtain.
The Order had showed some anxiety, at first, about using Grimmauld Place. Concerns over how much information Kreacher had given Voldemort had come up. However, Harry had finally ordered Kreacher to tell him exactly what he had told Voldemort, and the Order had found out that Kreacher had never said where Grimmauld Place was. Instead, Kreacher had only told Voldemort how he could get to Harry. So, Harry ordered Kreacher to never tell anyone anything he had heard in Grimmauld Place. After that, he had ordered the mutinous house-elf to live at Hogwarts, help the house-elves with their work there, and never again go into Grimmauld Place. Just to make sure, Harry suggested that there be a new secret-keeper for the Order's hideout, but of course someone else had already thought of that. No one would tell Harry who it was, though, and Harry was forced to speculate. With all of the extra protection, Harry assumed it would be all right to keep on using Grimmauld Place as they had been. The Order wasn't completely convinced that Grimmauld Place was as safe as they had once thought it was, but it was their only option for a hide-out.
Harry was glad that the Order had continued to use Grimmauld Place, especially because that was the only guaranteed way that he would receive any type of information about the war. He was still considered too young to join the Order, which was a load of rubbish in his opinion, and he knew that it would require serious effort from him to be accepted into the ranks. After all, when Dumbledore had been alive, the Headmaster had been quite adamant that Harry wasn't to be allowed to join the Order until after he turned seventeen.
Of course, now that Dumbledore was dead, everything was slightly different. Some people felt that abiding by Dumbledore's wishes was the only way to give him the respect he rightfully deserved. Then there were others who believed that Dumbledore had been blinded to too many things during his tenure as Headmaster, and that now that he was dead it was time for someone who knew how to handle war without being sentimental lead the Order. For the most part, though, the majority of people were still uncertain about what Dumbledore's death would entail. There had been talk of closing Hogwarts, which had met with great opposition from many people. Professor McGonagall—Headmaster, now—had stated that the last thing Dumbledore would have wanted was for Hogwarts to close because of Voldemort's actions. Luckily enough, the school governors agreed and, with the promise of extra protection and safeguards, they decided to reopen Hogwarts as scheduled.
That decision seemed to be echoed in the entire wizarding world. Everyone was attempting to live their lives as if a war was not going on around them. Of course, people couldn't be expected to simply give up their lives and stay on the lookout all the time, but Harry had expected there to be some more caution present in everyone's daily routines.
Turns out, no matter how many times Death Eaters attacked, the average witch or wizard just didn't think it could happen to them. Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. The longer this war went on, the more casualties it would claim. All he wanted was for it to end. Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, and the countless others whose names he didn't know had been more than enough. Harry was ready to end the war. Now.
Harry opened his trunk and began taking out the clothes he had stored inside. He was in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. It was dusty from disuse and disheveled from the lack of care he had treated it with the last time he had been there. Normally, the house elf would have taken care of it, but since he had ordered Kreacher to leave and never return, the upkeep of the house had gone distinctly downhill. Apparently the Order had better things to do than clean house.
He eyed his belongings as he took them out. Harry had packed quickly, more then ready to leave the Dursleys, Privet Drive, and everything else his old life had contained. His new, Dursley-free life might be lived in wartime and he might be sleeping in a dusty, unkempt bed, but at least he was free of people staring at him in fear or hatred and talking about him behind his back.
Harry chuckled to himself as he continued unpacking. That wasn't exactly true. He didn't think he'd ever be free of people gawking at him, since he was the Boy Who Lived. As long as he had that lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he'd have people staring at him and gossiping about him. Even so, leaving the Dursleys felt like a victory to him, and he was going to bask in it until he was completely satisfied. They had made his life hell for years. There was no reason for him not to enjoy being gone forever from them now.
Harry picked up his empty trunk and dropped it on the floor. A small cloud of dust drifted up to him and he coughed from it. He waved his hand in front of his face and stuck out his tongue. He would definitely have to clean first, even before he put anything away. There had been some cleaning supplies in the closet down the hall from his room the last time he had been here. So, with a clean room in mind, Harry left his room and walked down the hall.
The closet was full of various cleaning fluids along with everything he could have ever wanted to clean with, including brushes, sponges, rags, and the obligatory broom. Harry shrugged and started grabbing things he thought he could use.
"What are you doing, mate?"
Harry looked up at the sound of Ron's voice and grinned. "My room's a mess. Just figured I'd clean it before all my stuff got dirty, too."
Ron looked at Harry and waved his hands about dramatically. "Well, this whole place could use a good once-over. While you're at it, I mean."
"Gee, Ron. Thanks."
"No problem, mate." Ron grinned cheekily and Harry swatted him with a sponge. "Ah, come on, Harry! Who knows where that's been?"
"Can't be as bad as your room at the Burrow," Harry said, grinning wider and dodging Ron's hand with a swift step backwards.
"Honestly. I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?" Harry heard a foot tapping and imagined the half-scowl on Hermione's face before he saw it. He turned around and smiled at her. "Oh, don't give me that," she continued. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning," Harry replied, holding up his armful of products as evidence.
Hermione turned to Ron. "And you're just bothering him, I take it?"
Ron managed to look offended and amused all at once. "Bother him? Bother Harry? I'd never! I wouldn't even dream of it!"
"Right," Harry agreed, nodding slowly. "He wouldn't even dream of it."
Hermione shook her head and finally cracked a smile. "Well, do you need some help, Harry? After all, we're not doing much of anything hanging around here." She paused and chanced a glance at Harry, who eyed her back. "Of course, if we were moving our own stuff in, we'd be—"
"Hermione!" Harry sighed and walked closer to her. He kicked the closet door closed and walked past her, back towards his room. "How many times have I got to tell you? You two don't need to move in here."
"But Harry," Hermione said, following closely behind him. "We promised we'd stay with you all the time, no matter where you went."
"Yes, yes, and you have," Harry responded. "But just because I'm moving in here doesn't mean you guys should leave your homes to live here too!"
"But Harry—" Ron started.
"No, Ron," Harry said, cutting him off. "I'm serious about this."
"Well, so are we!" Ron shouted, gesticulating wildly.
"You guys have already lived with me at the Dursleys—"
"Well, we told you we would, Harry, and—"
"—and I really appreciate it, but I'm not going to make you give up your families for me!" Harry took a deep breath, opened his mouth to continue, then stopped suddenly. He turned around to look at Ron and Hermione, both of who had stopped walking after he'd said that. Harry looked at them and then dropped his gaze to the ground. "Look," he said after a considerable period of silence, "I just don't want you to do something you'll regret later."
Ron stared at him, blinking occasionally. The redhead seemed like he was going to say something, but instead he just stood there.
Hermione, on the other hand, looked as if she had nothing to say. "But Harry," she said, and stopped there, as if she was surprised at herself for speaking.
Harry kept on looking at the ground, and then when the silence really was too much, he looked up at her. "What, Hermione?"
"We won't…" She took a breath, and then another, and then continued speaking. "We'd never regret spending time with you, helping you."
"Yeah, mate," Ron said, nodding a little. "We want to help you. The both of us."
Harry swallowed. "I know. And I really appreciate it. But you guys aren't thinking about this like you should be."
"What is that supposed to mean!" Ron shouted, shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. "Of course we're thinking about this! We just want to help you!"
"Harry… think about what you're saying," Hermione said, quietly.
"I am thinking about what I'm saying!" Harry shouted, finally losing his temper. "And you know what? You guys have families, okay?! Families that love you, and look out for you, and all of that! How would you feel if you never saw them again?"
"What do you mean?" Ron asked, raising his voice to match with Harry's. "Of course we'll see them again, what are you going on about?"
"This is a war, Ron, okay?" Harry looked at Ron and then at Hermione. He registered the look on Hermione's face, knew that she had gotten what he was trying to say, and went back to staring at Ron. "A war. If we're not careful, we could die."
"I know that, Harry, I—"
"No, Ron, you don't. Because if you knew that, you wouldn't be trying to convince me to let you stay here. Do you think, if I had a family, I'd be here right now? No! Of course not! I'd be with them!"
"Look, Harry, just because you don't—"
"God, Ron, just think about it! The more time you're with me, the less time you're with them. And the longer this war goes on, the more likely it is that someone you know is going to get killed. Don't you want to spend as much time as you can with your family, while you can spend time with them?"
Harry breathed quickly, shallowly, regaining his composure after losing it so spectacularly. He saw Ron's eyes widen and felt somewhat satisfied. Now both his friends knew what he had been trying to say. That if he had a family, he'd want to be with them right now. He'd want to be with them while he could, while he was still alive and relatively happy.
"But Harry," Hermione said. Harry turned to face her and nodded for her to continue. "We still want to help you."
Harry nodded once more. "And I want you two to help me. But I also don't want you guys missing out on spending time with other people you care about. Look, just think about it, okay? You can live at your own houses, and you can still help me whenever I need to do anything." Harry hefted the cleaning supplies in his arms and turned back towards his room. "Right now, though, I've got to clean."
He walked back to his room, trotting carefully to avoid dropping anything that could spill and potentially create even more of a mess than there already was. Half-way there, one pair of hands grabbed a bottle of cleaner while another took a rag from his armload. Harry smiled and followed his friends into his room, mentally preparing for the battles that would come, both against the dust bunnies and grime and against the more malevolent, harder to vanquish threats that seemed to constantly be right behind him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Snape was sitting on an intricately carved chair, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers in an unidentifiable tune against the armrest. The table directly in front of him was filled with rolls and rolls of parchment, all detailing various events that had taken place over the course of the Dark Lord's rise to power. Every one was handwritten, some of them in terribly illegible script, others in carefully done print. There were many more, just like those, that also existed, but since they had no relevance to the information Draco was looking for, Snape had left them behind.
Draco, for his part, was extremely interested in the writings on these scrolls. The collective knowledge of the Death Eaters was spread out before him, and it stood to reason that he would learn a lot about the way the Dark Lord worked and the types of missions that other Death Eaters had been sent on. Draco felt that it was his duty to learn as much as he possibly could, in order to complete his goal.
He would kill Shacklebolt and save his parents. That was all there was to it. Well, not all there was to it. There seemed to be quite a lot of other things that he hadn't prepared himself for, like going through all of this paperwork to study Shacklebolt's life. Of course, it was a necessary step. The process was time-consuming and tedious, but Draco felt that it would be well worth it in the end.
"Draco, are you listening?" Snape asked, eyeing him with impatience. His finger stopped tapping and he pointed at Draco. "You're the one who wanted my assistance. If you can't even be bothered to take it when it's offered, my time would be better served elsewhere."
Draco shook his head and leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the table in an extremely impolite manner. His mother would be appalled if she saw him now, he thought with amusement, but then he remembered why there was no way his mother would be able to see him and all of his amusement vanished. "I'm sorry, professor," Draco said, not sounding contrite at all. He felt as if the apology needed clarification or type of explanation to go along with it, but as he had none to give he merely sat there, waiting.
Snape raised his eyebrows and sniffed. "Hm," he said, resuming his tapping. He indicated a scroll with his other hand. Draco took it and unrolled it, glancing through the first part briefly before looking back up at Snape. "In there is a fairly detailed description of Shacklebolt's work schedule." Snape paused, letting the information sink in before he continued. "Yes," he said once Draco smirked, "that means you don't have to follow him for weeks on end to be certain of his schedule. You shouldn't, however, rely solely on that. It was written about a year ago, so it could very well be wrong."
Draco nodded. "I'll see if I can rely on this, then." He perused the parchment for a few minutes, noting what was probably correct information and what was probably outdated. He would need to follow him for a few days, at least, just to be sure, but he was relatively satisfied with what he had. "Professor?" he asked.
"Hm?" Snape replied, not even glancing up from the parchment he was reading through.
"Why did someone document this?" Draco asked, waving the parchment once.
Snape looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Well," Draco said, taking a moment to order his thoughts. "If someone was sent out to shadow Shacklebolt, it seems like there would be a reason for it."
Snape peered closely at Draco, who fidgeted under the intense scrutiny. "What are you implying?" he asked, voice low and unaccountably dangerous.
Draco swallowed. "Nothing, sir," he replied, voice quick and reassuring. "Nothing at all. I just thought that, you know, it might be easier to complete my current mission if I was aware of the other times that Shacklebolt had been the subject of one of the Death Eaters' missions." Draco looked down at the carefully complied parchment in his hands and then back up at his old Potions professor, who was studying him thoughtfully. "There's a lot of useful information here, but doesn't it seem odd that someone went through the trouble of finding out his schedule and never did anything with it?"
Snape leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Draco's face. "It does," he replied, speaking extremely slowly. "But what concern is that of yours?"
Draco shrugged. "It's not my concern," he said, nonchalantly. "I'm only concerned with my own mission."
Snape nodded. "Make sure it stays that way." His voice left no room for arguments, and Draco felt compelled to comply.
Instead of continuing on the same line of conversation, which seemed to be a somewhat hazardous one, Draco opted for reviewing more of the parchment he was holding. It appeared that this person, whoever he or she was, was very meticulous and also an exceptionally good observer. These were notes that had been taken over a two month period of time, mainly focused on his work life. There was a list of the specific times, down to the exact second, that he had entered and exited the building every day. There was a detailed map of the inside and exterior of the building, including points where security guards had been stationed and where things called "ID badges" were needed to pass by. Each room on the inside was labeled with its function and who used the room primarily, as well as the times and dates that Shacklebolt had entered and exited from each room. As for the area outside the building, this Death Eater had drawn a map that showed the area about half a mile in every direction, marking off the best apparition points and the areas that were most frequented by muggles. There was also a line drawn to show Shacklebolt's path to the building each day with notations on when it veered from routine and the reasons for the oddity.
Draco smirked. With information like this, his mission would be no problem. He even had the times when Shacklebolt used the restroom, for bloody sake. This guy had no chance against Draco, not when the blonde had access to information such as this.
"Who wrote this?" Draco asked, intending to speak to the Death Eater in person about his or her own experiences with Shacklebolt.
"That's none of your concern," Snape replied. "You'd be better spent wondering about how exactly you're going to complete your task than about who attempted it before you."
Draco paused. "Wait, they attempted it before me?" he asked, blinking. Snape frowned. "Then why didn't they succeed?"
Snape leveled a look at Draco. "You do know where Shacklebolt works, don't you?"
Feeling suddenly ignorant, Draco shrugged. "Some muggle place," he said, making a face to indicate just what he thought of that.
"Some muggle place, indeed," Snape said. He was silent for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth. "He works for the muggle Prime Minister." Draco was completely silent. "He's the Prime Minister's secretary."
"Oh," Draco said, sudden understanding dawning on him. "Oh."
"Yes," Snape drawled, clearly amused. "Oh." He looked at Draco, who was beginning to slouch down in his seat, and sighed. "This is not going to be as easy as you think it is, Draco. There are protections already in place on this building. Not only muggle protections, either. Magical precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of the Prime Minister."
"What type of precautions?" Draco asked, feeling a solid weight grow steadily in his chest.
"The type that you need to be prepared for," Snape replied. "Now finish reading that parchment. Once you're done, we can discuss your options for infiltrating the building."
Draco rested his head on his hands and stared at the wall behind Snape's head. His mission would require him to enter a heavily protected area that was filled with muggles. Not only that, but he would be expected to kill or otherwise subdue whatever muggles got in the way of his mission. He'd have to do it without being noticed, too. The thought seemed preposterous. Surely there was a way to get to Shacklebolt without having to go through a heavily populated muggle area that included a building whose defenses, while mainly muggle, would still present a problem for him since he was working alone.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the nameless Death Eater who had tried and failed to kill Shacklebolt had been something of an idiot. This person may have had the ability to make spectacular maps and take excellent notes, but what he or she didn't have was the knowledge about how to use all of that gathered information and make it work favorably. Just the idea of going into a building alone that has so many security features in place made his stomach churn.
No, there had to be another way. Draco leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. There was something else he could do, he was sure of it. He just needed to figure out how he was going to get to Shacklebolt. Draco reached out and lifted the parchment from the table, holding it up in front of his face. He skimmed the notes quickly, looking for the inconsistencies. There had to be a way that he would be able to work this to his advantage. He just needed to think about it.
His eyes fazed out, the parchment blurring in front of him. There was no logical way that Draco could enter the building. It just wasn't feasible. It was nice that he had the building's layout and all, but really, when it came down to it the muggles would attack him if provoked. Of course, entering the building with the intent to kill someone inside seemed like provoking them to him, and he did not want a horde of raging muggles after him. If he could place some sort of tracking spell on Shacklebolt things would be easier, but of course Shacklebolt probably had his own protection against spells of that nature.
Draco briefly thought about tracking down Shacklebolt's house, but instantly rejected the idea. Any members of the Order who didn't keep their houses well-guarded against possible attacks were either idiots or Harry Potter. In some cases, both. No, it wasn't at all likely that Shacklebolt had left his home open to attacks from random passersby. It was even more unlikely that, if there was a way to get around the defense, Draco would be able to accomplish the task and take Shacklebolt down before setting off some type of alarm that would alert Shacklebolt to his presence.
It seemed clear that the only time he would have an opportunity to complete his assignment would be when Shacklebolt was walking in-between his apparition point and the building he worked in. There were three blocks separating the two locations, and Draco knew that the Apparation area, at least, was well-hidden enough that he might have a chance at surprising him there.
Draco stared at the ceiling, blinking occasionally. If he got to the Apparation point before Shacklebolt went to work, he would be able to hide out there and lie in wait. Once Shacklebolt came, all he had to do was complete his mission. It would be easy.
Draco titled himself forward until he sat upright in his chair. He stared at Snape for a second before clearing his throat. "Professor," Draco said, calmly. He waited until Snape put down the parchment he had been reading and looked at him. "I'm not sure going into the Prime Minister's building is such a good plan." Snape continued looking at him, which he took to mean that he was to explain himself. "It seems like a better idea would be to attack Shacklebolt when he's outside, in the surrounding area," Draco said, gesturing at the map of the half-mile radius around the building.
"Agreed," Snape said, watching as Draco's mouth dropped open. Snape raised an eyebrow. "I was getting bored with waiting for you to figure it out."
Draco clamped his mouth shut and glared at Snape. "If you already knew, why didn't you tell me?"
"You need to do this one your own, Draco," Snape said. "I can help you, but only up to a point."
Draco swallowed and nodded. "Right," he said. He was about to go back to his parchment to study the apparition area ore closely when his curiosity kicked in. "Professor?"
"Yes?" Snape's voice was calm, as if he had expected Draco to continue talking. He probably had.
"Why are you helping me?" Draco's voice remained steady on the question, but his mind was racing. There was no reason for Snape to help him, none at all. Yet here he was, sitting in a dark room studying rolls of parchment with him.
"I made a promise to your mother," Snape said.
He offered no more information, and Draco didn't ask.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Living with Order members constantly coming and going was a lot less exciting and a lot more annoying than Harry had anticipated it would be. He had thought there would be plenty of action involved. Even if he wasn't in on it, he imagined there would be the same type of secret meetings and goings-on that happened the last time he had lived at Grimmauld Place. He remembered, quite clearly and distinctly, the way the Order members had constantly spoken to each other in hushed tones that he wasn't supposed to be able to hear. Of course, he had been able to hear them, and now he was swiftly becoming disappointed in the lack of covert actions taking place in his house.
Oh, there were a lot of swift, meaningful glances going on. In fact, he saw at least four or five a day. They normally occurred just after he had entered a room, in the brief moment in between when the conversation abruptly stopped and he took his second step into the room. This only served to irritate him rather than intrigue him, though, as he rather quickly assumed that the glance was code for ‘don't say anymore, Harry's entered the room, we'll talk later.' Of course, he could have been being paranoid. The glances could have just as easily meant ‘I have lost my ability to speak for the moment' or ‘I am an idiot, what were we talking about again?' But he thought the first option was much more likely than the last two.
Sure, he was underage and yes, he did have an unfortunate habit of running off to try and do things on his own. So there was the smallest fragment of a piece of a possibility that he might have been able to eventually understand where they were coming from in keeping things from him, yet again. But honestly. It was his house, for bloody sake. If it wasn't for him, they wouldn't still be allowed to use it as their base. So why the Order continued to leave him out of their plans was beyond him.
Still, with this being the current state of affairs, Harry could see only one option. He would try to pretend that it wasn't happening. It wasn't the best option, true, but it was better than ignoring the Order members and much better than moping about it. It did mean, however, that he had to act as if nothing was wrong whenever people started acting strangely around him.
You'd think they'd have learned their lesson from the last time people kept things from me, Harry thought. He had just walked down the corridor that led to the kitchen to make himself something to eat for lunch when he heard muted voices coming from inside his destination. Harry walked into the room, rolling his eyes when Tonks gave the familiar look to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Hey," Harry said, nodding at each of them.
"Hiya, Harry," Tonks replied, giving a cheerful smile and a friendly wave. Her short hair was bright pink today, and the color made Harry's eyes water for a second before he blinked the moisture away.
Kingsley nodded in return to Harry. "Hello, Harry," he said, speaking softly but with the power that was always present in his actions.
"We were just talking about going out to eat for lunch, wanna come with?" Tonks asked, still grinning.
Harry couldn't help himself; he grinned back. "Nah, it's all right. I'm just gonna make myself something here."
Tonks shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. But I should warn you, it was Mundungus' turn to go grocery shopping this week, so who knows what you'll find in there."
Harry laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm still not supposed to leave, you know."
Tonks smacked herself in the forehead. "Oh, right, sorry Harry," she said, sounding vaguely remorseful. "I keep on forgetting that you're not of age yet."
"You do act mature for your age," Kingsley agreed.
It had been decided that, until Harry was legally able to perform spells on his own, he shouldn't be walking outside. He rather thought it was a good idea, even if it did seem to be a bit too overprotective. Of course, he couldn't very well cast any concealment or protection spells on himself if he left Grimmauld Place, since the Ministry of Magic was sure to try and arrest him if he did. Harry wasn't on very good terms with Scrimgeour. Also, the idea of possibly encountering Voldemort, having to fight him, and then being arrested for it wasn't too appealing to Harry. The Order hadn't been too sure if he would get off for defeating Voldemort, but it had seemed like a sensible enough idea to wait until he turned seventeen, just in case.
Now, of course, Harry regretted the agreement. He was planning on going to search for the horcruxes himself soon, with or without the Order's help.
But since being thrown into Azkaban would be rather a wrench in his plan, he decided to wait and stay put for the time being.
So Harry shrugged and smiled. "Thanks," he said, looking at both Tonks and Kingsley. "I guess I'll take my chances with what's in here."
"All right. Come on, Kingsley," Tonks said, pushing out her chair. She stood up and stretched her arms. "We'd better get going."
Kingsley nodded and glanced down at his wristwatch. "I've only got another half an hour on my lunch break anyway." He stood up and pushed his own chair back, then walked around to do the same for Tonks.
"Thanks," she said, offhandedly. "I guess we'll see you later then, Harry."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, see you later. Say hi to Lupin for me, if you see him."
Tonks grinned even wider. "Will do."
She looked at Kingsley once more and they both Apparated away. The crack echoed in the kitchen for a minute, and Harry took the time to silently bemoan his fate. Being stuck in Grimmauld Place constantly just wasn't that exciting, when he thought about it. It was quite dull and boring and he rather wished he hadn't agreed to it. There was nothing he could do about it at that moment though, and his stomach rumbled loudly, protesting being ignored for so long.
He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it, preparing himself for the worst. Peering inside, Harry could tell that his fears were quite on target. When Mundungus Fletcher had gone food shopping this week, he hadn't paid any attention at all to what Harry had asked for. He sighed and took out a package of chicken, intending to make something, anything, that wasn't breaded chicken. Even grilled chicken would be fine. But if he had to eat chicken fingers, or chicken nuggets, or a chicken sandwich one more time, he thought he'd go mad.
Harry set about preparing to cook. If there was one thing he could thank the Dursleys for, it was being able to cook almost anything. It wasn't always great, but it was at least edible and that's all he wanted. Harry opened the cupboard and took out a pan, intending to grill the damnable chicken. He set about searching for the cooking oil, which of course wasn't in the last place he had left it. What with who knew how many people using this kitchen a day, Harry was surprised anything was where he had left it at all.
"Oh, Harry, we were just looking for you."
Ron's voice came from behind Harry, and he turned around expecting to see his two best friends standing there. Instead, he saw Ron and Ginny, both standing by the table looking at him. Ron waved a bit, smiling. Ginny smiled as well, but hers seemed less honest and more forced.
Harry swallowed. "Hey, Ron. Hey, er, Ginny. I wasn't expecting to see you."
Ron shrugged. "Hermione wanted to drop by too, but she's got some book or other to get at Flourish and Blott's. You know how it is." He motioned his hand sin the air in a carefree, what-can-you-do sort of gesture. "Anyway, I thought we'd just hang out until she got here."
"Oh," Harry said, nodding slowly. He looked at Ginny, who looked back at him. He looked away. "Well, I'm, er, just making some chicken." He indicated the pan and package of meat on the counter. "Do you want some?"
Ron shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. I just ate. Ginny hasn't eaten anything yet, though."
Ginny blushed and shook her head. "Oh, no, that's all right," she said. "I'm not really hungry anyway."
"Oh, come on," Ron said, nudging her. "Don't you want to eat Harry's chicken?"
"Ron," Ginny hissed, glaring at him.
"No, it's okay," Harry said, feeling awkward and unsure. "Why don't you both sit down?"
Ginny hesitated and then pulled out the same chair Tonks had been sitting on, making a loud screeching noise. She sat down and pulled the chair in. "All right. Thanks, then, Harry."
Harry turned back around to face the cupboards. "No problem," he replied.
"Sorry, mate, but I'm supposed to go and check in the library for some book Hermione needs," Ron said, grinning. "You know how it is."
Harry clenched his teeth together. Oh yeah. He knew how it was.
"Well, come back when you're done," Harry said, praying that Ron would understand and not take too long.
"Sure," Ron said. "I'll be back later." He walked out of the room, patting Ginny on the shoulder on the way out. Ginny shot him a look that was part death glare and part wordless plea, but he left without responding to her. She leaned back in her chair and specifically avoided eye contact with the general vicinity of Harry's body, instead choosing to look at the wall behind him.
Harry turned on his heel and began rummaging through the cupboards again. He found, much to his disappointment, that he was extremely conscious of Ginny's presence in the room. No matter which way he headed or where he was, the first and loudest thing his mind was reminding him was that Ginny was sitting in the same room as him. It told him, quite clearly, that she was watching him and studying him and not saying anything.
It was uncomfortable to the point of distraction. Harry couldn't even concentrate on finding… wait a minute, what was it again? He had completely forgotten whatever it was he had been trying to find. All he could think about was the last time he had seen Ginny—when they had broken up. He hadn't even passed her once since then, and now she was sitting in the kitchen while Ron was off somewhere doing something that was not helping to make the uncomfortable silence go away. Ron, his best friend, had left him there to live through an awkward moment that could have been completely avoided if he had only stayed in the room with them. Some best friend, Harry thought unkindly, making a mental note to tell him yet again that Ginny was not Harry's girlfriend anymore.
Cooking oil, that's what it was. Harry had been looking for cooking oil, to make the stupid grilled chicken. He sighed and opened another cupboard, expecting to have to search for it some more. It was right there, though, and he picked it up with a mixture of surprise and regret. Now he wouldn't be able to use this activity as an excuse to avoid speaking with Ginny.
He really was going to kill Ron the next time he saw him.
Harry walked over to the stove and began cooking. He twisted off the cap of the cooking oil and poured a bit into the pan, determined to avoid looking at Ginny the entire time. It was because of this that he had no warning at all when a hand lightly touched his shoulder. He startled, dropping the cooking oil on the floor. The bottle fell with a soft thump, knocking into the ground and spilling its contents all over the floor. The pale yellow liquid oozed and spread out of the bottle, slowly forming an odd shape on the ground.
"I'm sorry," Ginny said, retracting her hand immediately. Her eyes shone with guilt, remorse, hesitation, uncertainty, or some combination of all four. Harry wasn't quite sure. He looked away from her face, which really was too close for his comfort, and down at the puddle that was leisurely taking over the kitchen floor.
"It's all right," Harry said, sighing. He stooped down and picked up the bottle, righting it and placing it next to its cap on the counter. Then he turned off the heat on the stove, knowing that he wouldn't be able to pay attention to it with a mess to clean up. Harry stepped over the puddle, careful not to get his trainers dirty, and grabbed a rag from a drawer across the room. He walked back over to where Ginny was still standing and knelt down, intending to wipe up the liquid before the spill got any worse.
"Oh, no, it's all right. Here, let me," Ginny said, bending down until she was on level with Harry. "It's my fault, after all."
Harry shook his head. "No, it's okay, I can do it."
Ginny hesitated and stood back up. "Okay," she replied, nodding. "If you're sure."
Harry nodded. "I'm sure," he said, swallowing. "Just go wait over there or something." He winced at the way the words came out; it sounded much more dismissive than he had intended it to. But he couldn't change it now, and as he heard Ginny's footsteps walking away he felt relieved.
He took a few minutes cleaning up the spill, until the floor was entirely clean. Once he was satisfied, Harry went to the sink and began to wash out the rag. It was all sticky and covered in cooking oil, which he found vaguely appealing in an odd, twisted sort of way. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stuck the rag under the stream of water. Harry reached over and grabbed the bottle of dish detergent, squirting some onto his hand. He lathered the dirty rag with dish detergent, rubbing it repeatedly until the liquid soap morphed into bubbles. He continued his ministrations, watching the cooking oil slowly seep away and drip down into the sink.
"Harry, we should talk." Ginny's voice came from nowhere, it seemed, and Harry blinked, coming out of a trance. He looked over his shoulder at where Ginny was sitting. Her eyes flicked away from his the moment they met, and Harry pressed his lips together.
"Sure," he agreed in a dull voice. "What do you want to talk about?"
Ginny sighed. "About…" She trailed off, uncertainly.
Harry took this as his cue to stand there and say nothing while she struggled to come up with something to say. He watched her for a minute, noting the blush that was quickly spreading across her cheeks in an offhand manner. Harry placed the rug down in the sink and let the soap and water flow over it, hoping that it would finish washing itself. He pivoted until he faced her completely and stared at her. She appeared to be locked into a silent battle with herself. Her mouth would open, move just a little, and then close again. Harry looked at her, wishing that she would just hurry up and say it, whatever it was.
Harry had to say something, or else he'd go mad from the tension. "Ginny. What do you want to talk about? It can't be all that bad." Harry rolled his eyes and attempted a smile. He wasn't entirely sure he succeeded, but she did seem to relax a little.
"I just wanted to talk about… us," Ginny said, forcing the words out.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "There's nothing to talk about." At the look on her face, he hurriedly asked, "Is there?"
She licked her lips and hesitated. "I just think that… well, that maybe we were a bit too hasty."
Harry blinked. "Too hasty?"
Ginny nodded, blushing. "Yeah." After a prolonged silence, during which Harry contemplated what on earth she could be talking about, Ginny cleared her throat. "In breaking up, I mean."
"Oh," Harry said, voicing the only thought he had in his mind. Ginny looked at him expectantly, though, so he gave a half-hearted smile and said, "I don't really think so."
Ginny nodded furiously, then stopped suddenly. Harry assumed the gesture had made her dizzy. "I know you don't, Harry," she stated. "But I think that if we just tried a little bit, it could work between us."
Harry swallowed. He thought he had been clear when he told Ginny that he wasn't interested in her anymore. He had said that they had to break up, and it had seemed pretty clear to him that she knew why. She had acted like she understood, but now Harry realized she just didn't get it.
"I really don't think it could," Harry replied, shifting a little. He shuffled his feet and looked down at them, noting the stains that had gotten on his trainers from the cooking oil even though he had tried to be careful to keep them clean. He frowned and looked back up. "It's not going to work. We broke up."
"We could get back together," Ginny said hopefully. She had an odd look in her eyes that Harry couldn't interpret. "We could try again."
Harry grimaced and saw Ginny flinch. He felt a little guilty, but he had to clear this up with her. "Ginny, I just want to be friends with you, okay? I'm really not interested in going out anymore."
Ginny pursued her lips together. "No, Harry."
"Er?" Harry blinked, unsure of what to say.
"That's really not okay." Ginny paused and took a deep breath. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Then she moved towards him, slowly, as if approaching her new manager. She smiled and seemed to present herself at her best by standing straight up and walking smoothly. Harry was unmoved; his discomfort with the situation only increased. "I really like you, Harry."
"Ginny…" Harry said, trailing off. He wasn't sure what he could say to change her mind, though, and he ended up only watching her come closer.
"I've liked you for years, Harry. Way before you noticed me." Ginny stated it as if it was common knowledge, and upon reflection Harry realized it probably was. Hermione had mentioned something to him once, about the way Ginny had acted around him and his own obliviousness, but Harry hadn't really paid any attention to her. Now he was wishing he had listened.
"Er, Ginny, look, I…" Harry swallowed again. Why was his throat so dry all of a sudden?
"I know you're nervous, Harry," Ginny said, stopping in front of him. She glanced towards the ground and then back up at him. "I am, too. But there's no reason for us to be single anymore. We like each other, so we should get back together, don't you think?"
Harry stood there, staring at her. He realized with an abnormal combination of regret and excitement that he would have to tell her. He had never planned on telling her what he thought of her, since he knew that she still harbored some feelings for him. But now, with her standing here in front of him asking him to go out with her once again, he knew he really had no other choice.
"Look, Ginny," Harry said, clearing his throat. "It's not that I don't like you, I do, it's just… not like that."
Ginny blinked and titled her head. "What do you mean?"
Harry inhaled and held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling again. "I really only like you as a friend, Ginny. Just as a friend." When she failed to say anything, he added, "Not as anything else, I mean."
Thankfully, Ginny understood what he was trying and failing to say. "But we went out together," she replied, frowning. "You told me you liked me."
"And I do like you, but not like that. Not anymore," Harry explained, shrugging helplessly.
"But why?" Ginny asked, backing up a step and looking quite displeased. "I thought we were good together."
"I think you can do better than me, Ginny," Harry said, shaking his head. "There's a lot of guys that would be able to be a better boyfriend to you than I could."
"But Harry," Ginny said in a soft voice. "You're the only one I want."
Harry grimaced. "Look, Ginny, I'm just not interested in you anymore." Ginny's face paled considerably, and she took another step backwards. Harry attempted a smile and said, "Can't we just be friends?"
"I thought you liked me. You said you did," she said, speaking very quietly.
"I don't like you anymore, not like that," Harry repeated. He felt horrible, like he was kicking a puppy repeatedly. He just wanted her to understand and leave him the hell alone.
"Oh," Ginny said, retreating a step further back towards the door. "Oh." She swallowed and turned around completely, giving Harry a full view of her back. She walked away from him and to the door, stopping just before leaving. "I guess I'll see you later," she said, and then she bolted.
Harry heard her footsteps resound down the hallway, Mrs. Black's portrait making loud snide comments about blood traitors and their atrocious manners, and a door slam at the end of the corridor. He sighed and put a hand over his face, drawing it down slowly until it dropped to his side.
That hadn't gone well at all. He had wanted to make things easier for her, to be nice, to continue being friends with her. But it was extremely clear to him that there was no way he would ever be able to maintain a friendship with Ginny. In fact, it seemed like something that came out of a dream, like wishful thinking, like a dream that he had that would never become reality.
Harry swallowed nervously. He really was worried about losing his friendship with Ginny. After all, if he lost that, chances were likely that the entire Weasley clan would be out for his blood, so to speak. Ron had given him permission to date Ginny, and it seemed as though everyone in the Weasley family thought it was a good idea that Harry and Ginny went out together. He didn't want his break-up with Ginny to affect his status with the rest of the Weasleys, but he knew it would. Already, he hadn't seen Mrs. Weasley around Grimmauld Place, and last time he had been here she had been around almost constantly. He hadn't thought anything of it at first, but now he realized it might be because he had broken up with Ginny.
Harry sighed. His stomach growled, reminding him why he had gone into the kitchen in the first place. He spun around and faced the stove again, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.
He'd make this grilled chicken if it was the last thing he did.
To Metanoia - Part 1: Reconciliation, part III
Feedback is love, people. ^_^*
Author:
kowaiyoukaiRating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning(s): Slash, het, angst, language, convoluted plot, use of side characters who you may have forgotten, misuse of canon terms and items
Spoilers: SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, HBP
Word Count: 63,163 total; 9,062 for this part
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and I'm making no money from this.
Beta Acknowledgment:
sizijee looked over a lot of this. Thanks! *gives Itachi*Summary: Draco needs a safe place to stay. So does Harry.
A/N: Same as before.
"Professor, you have to help me."
Draco sped up his pace, walking briskly down the dimly-lit corridor in the Dark Lord's hideout. The walls were so dark they seemed to disappear into the shadows and, regardless of the amount of light that was used, they never got any brighter than they were at that moment. Draco wished they would, so he might have a chance at decoding the look on Snape's face. Instead, he merely watched as Snape turned slowly towards him.
Professor Snape, although no longer a professor, still maintained the ire and misery that had collected around him from years of grading awful essays and having to send students to the infirmary because of their own idiocy. The Death Eater robe he wore now was so similar to his normal attire that for a brief moment, Draco believed he was back in Hogwarts, simply hunting down the Potions Master to have a particularly difficult problem answered for him.
Snape pursed his lips together and frowned. "What is it this time, Draco?"
"Do you know anything about Kingsley Shacklebolt?"
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
Draco swallowed. "The Dark Lord has just given me a mission." Both of Snape's eyebrows rose at this comment, but he made no remark and so Draco continued speaking. "I'm supposed to kill Shacklebolt." After several seconds of silence, Draco made an impatient noise and sighed. "Professor, do you know anything that could help?"
"Why is it," Snape began. From the tone of his voice, Draco could tell he wouldn't like the end of the question, and with that in mind he began preparing several good excuses. "…that last time you were assigned to kill someone you continuously refused my assistance, and yet this time you actively seek it?"
Draco lowered his eyes. "I don't know." He looked back up at Snape to find the man scrutinizing him intently. "But if I don't kill him, my parents are dead. I can't let that happen, professor. I just can't."
"So you're willing to swallow your pride and admit that I might be able to help you?"
Draco thought it over. He wanted to answer quickly, to just tell Professor Snape that yes, in fact he was able to admit that and could they please get going already? But saying that would only end with him being rejected, and that was the absolute last thing he needed right now. He didn't know or trust any of the other Death Eaters enough to ask for their help, except perhaps for his aunt Bellatrix, who really was quite crazy, and therefore rather difficult to get information or decent help from. Professor Snape was both intelligent and sane, which could not be said for most of the other Death Eaters, and as such he was Draco's first and really only choice for getting help from.
Of course, while thinking over the question, there was the tiny bit of his mind that felt it had to point out that if it wasn't for Snape, Draco wouldn't even be in this whole mess to begin with. That wasn't entirely true. Draco had accepted the job to kill Dumbledore, and he had been attempting to do it all throughout sixth year. Of course, he had also been seconds away from accepting Dumbledore's offer of protection for him and his family. It was a good thing there had been no one there as a witness; otherwise, Draco might not have gotten this second chance to save his parents.
That was what this was all about in the end. Draco needed to save his parents. That was it. He would have to swallow his pride if he wanted Professor Snape's help. And, although he hated to admit it, he did need help. Professor Snape was the only one he could turn to. He wouldn't keep his damnable Malfoy pride if it cost him his parents' lives.
There were no other options. He had to agree.
"Yes."
Snape nodded. "Very well then. I'll have a look at the information we've collected on him, and we'll meet back here in two hours. That should give you enough time to curse your fate and coddle your foolish ego."
Draco sneered. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow and Draco's sneer vanished.
"Right then. Thank you, Professor." Draco fought to maintain a neutral voice. He thought he saw Professor Snape smile in response, but of course the former Potions Master never smiled, and he certainly wouldn't have done so in the presence of a student.
Professor Snape strode past Draco and continued down the hall. Draco turned to watch him go. Only when the last of his robe had cleared the corridor did Draco resume his original pace, now heading back towards his room. He would wait for two hours.
It would be just enough time to curse his fate.
~*~*~*~*~*~
When Harry first heard about it, going to live in Grimmauld Place hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. Yes, it did bring back memories of Sirius, but even those didn't hurt as much as they had a year ago. Besides, the Order still used it as it's base of operations, and the closer he was to the Order the more information he could obtain.
The Order had showed some anxiety, at first, about using Grimmauld Place. Concerns over how much information Kreacher had given Voldemort had come up. However, Harry had finally ordered Kreacher to tell him exactly what he had told Voldemort, and the Order had found out that Kreacher had never said where Grimmauld Place was. Instead, Kreacher had only told Voldemort how he could get to Harry. So, Harry ordered Kreacher to never tell anyone anything he had heard in Grimmauld Place. After that, he had ordered the mutinous house-elf to live at Hogwarts, help the house-elves with their work there, and never again go into Grimmauld Place. Just to make sure, Harry suggested that there be a new secret-keeper for the Order's hideout, but of course someone else had already thought of that. No one would tell Harry who it was, though, and Harry was forced to speculate. With all of the extra protection, Harry assumed it would be all right to keep on using Grimmauld Place as they had been. The Order wasn't completely convinced that Grimmauld Place was as safe as they had once thought it was, but it was their only option for a hide-out.
Harry was glad that the Order had continued to use Grimmauld Place, especially because that was the only guaranteed way that he would receive any type of information about the war. He was still considered too young to join the Order, which was a load of rubbish in his opinion, and he knew that it would require serious effort from him to be accepted into the ranks. After all, when Dumbledore had been alive, the Headmaster had been quite adamant that Harry wasn't to be allowed to join the Order until after he turned seventeen.
Of course, now that Dumbledore was dead, everything was slightly different. Some people felt that abiding by Dumbledore's wishes was the only way to give him the respect he rightfully deserved. Then there were others who believed that Dumbledore had been blinded to too many things during his tenure as Headmaster, and that now that he was dead it was time for someone who knew how to handle war without being sentimental lead the Order. For the most part, though, the majority of people were still uncertain about what Dumbledore's death would entail. There had been talk of closing Hogwarts, which had met with great opposition from many people. Professor McGonagall—Headmaster, now—had stated that the last thing Dumbledore would have wanted was for Hogwarts to close because of Voldemort's actions. Luckily enough, the school governors agreed and, with the promise of extra protection and safeguards, they decided to reopen Hogwarts as scheduled.
That decision seemed to be echoed in the entire wizarding world. Everyone was attempting to live their lives as if a war was not going on around them. Of course, people couldn't be expected to simply give up their lives and stay on the lookout all the time, but Harry had expected there to be some more caution present in everyone's daily routines.
Turns out, no matter how many times Death Eaters attacked, the average witch or wizard just didn't think it could happen to them. Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. The longer this war went on, the more casualties it would claim. All he wanted was for it to end. Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, and the countless others whose names he didn't know had been more than enough. Harry was ready to end the war. Now.
Harry opened his trunk and began taking out the clothes he had stored inside. He was in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. It was dusty from disuse and disheveled from the lack of care he had treated it with the last time he had been there. Normally, the house elf would have taken care of it, but since he had ordered Kreacher to leave and never return, the upkeep of the house had gone distinctly downhill. Apparently the Order had better things to do than clean house.
He eyed his belongings as he took them out. Harry had packed quickly, more then ready to leave the Dursleys, Privet Drive, and everything else his old life had contained. His new, Dursley-free life might be lived in wartime and he might be sleeping in a dusty, unkempt bed, but at least he was free of people staring at him in fear or hatred and talking about him behind his back.
Harry chuckled to himself as he continued unpacking. That wasn't exactly true. He didn't think he'd ever be free of people gawking at him, since he was the Boy Who Lived. As long as he had that lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he'd have people staring at him and gossiping about him. Even so, leaving the Dursleys felt like a victory to him, and he was going to bask in it until he was completely satisfied. They had made his life hell for years. There was no reason for him not to enjoy being gone forever from them now.
Harry picked up his empty trunk and dropped it on the floor. A small cloud of dust drifted up to him and he coughed from it. He waved his hand in front of his face and stuck out his tongue. He would definitely have to clean first, even before he put anything away. There had been some cleaning supplies in the closet down the hall from his room the last time he had been here. So, with a clean room in mind, Harry left his room and walked down the hall.
The closet was full of various cleaning fluids along with everything he could have ever wanted to clean with, including brushes, sponges, rags, and the obligatory broom. Harry shrugged and started grabbing things he thought he could use.
"What are you doing, mate?"
Harry looked up at the sound of Ron's voice and grinned. "My room's a mess. Just figured I'd clean it before all my stuff got dirty, too."
Ron looked at Harry and waved his hands about dramatically. "Well, this whole place could use a good once-over. While you're at it, I mean."
"Gee, Ron. Thanks."
"No problem, mate." Ron grinned cheekily and Harry swatted him with a sponge. "Ah, come on, Harry! Who knows where that's been?"
"Can't be as bad as your room at the Burrow," Harry said, grinning wider and dodging Ron's hand with a swift step backwards.
"Honestly. I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?" Harry heard a foot tapping and imagined the half-scowl on Hermione's face before he saw it. He turned around and smiled at her. "Oh, don't give me that," she continued. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning," Harry replied, holding up his armful of products as evidence.
Hermione turned to Ron. "And you're just bothering him, I take it?"
Ron managed to look offended and amused all at once. "Bother him? Bother Harry? I'd never! I wouldn't even dream of it!"
"Right," Harry agreed, nodding slowly. "He wouldn't even dream of it."
Hermione shook her head and finally cracked a smile. "Well, do you need some help, Harry? After all, we're not doing much of anything hanging around here." She paused and chanced a glance at Harry, who eyed her back. "Of course, if we were moving our own stuff in, we'd be—"
"Hermione!" Harry sighed and walked closer to her. He kicked the closet door closed and walked past her, back towards his room. "How many times have I got to tell you? You two don't need to move in here."
"But Harry," Hermione said, following closely behind him. "We promised we'd stay with you all the time, no matter where you went."
"Yes, yes, and you have," Harry responded. "But just because I'm moving in here doesn't mean you guys should leave your homes to live here too!"
"But Harry—" Ron started.
"No, Ron," Harry said, cutting him off. "I'm serious about this."
"Well, so are we!" Ron shouted, gesticulating wildly.
"You guys have already lived with me at the Dursleys—"
"Well, we told you we would, Harry, and—"
"—and I really appreciate it, but I'm not going to make you give up your families for me!" Harry took a deep breath, opened his mouth to continue, then stopped suddenly. He turned around to look at Ron and Hermione, both of who had stopped walking after he'd said that. Harry looked at them and then dropped his gaze to the ground. "Look," he said after a considerable period of silence, "I just don't want you to do something you'll regret later."
Ron stared at him, blinking occasionally. The redhead seemed like he was going to say something, but instead he just stood there.
Hermione, on the other hand, looked as if she had nothing to say. "But Harry," she said, and stopped there, as if she was surprised at herself for speaking.
Harry kept on looking at the ground, and then when the silence really was too much, he looked up at her. "What, Hermione?"
"We won't…" She took a breath, and then another, and then continued speaking. "We'd never regret spending time with you, helping you."
"Yeah, mate," Ron said, nodding a little. "We want to help you. The both of us."
Harry swallowed. "I know. And I really appreciate it. But you guys aren't thinking about this like you should be."
"What is that supposed to mean!" Ron shouted, shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. "Of course we're thinking about this! We just want to help you!"
"Harry… think about what you're saying," Hermione said, quietly.
"I am thinking about what I'm saying!" Harry shouted, finally losing his temper. "And you know what? You guys have families, okay?! Families that love you, and look out for you, and all of that! How would you feel if you never saw them again?"
"What do you mean?" Ron asked, raising his voice to match with Harry's. "Of course we'll see them again, what are you going on about?"
"This is a war, Ron, okay?" Harry looked at Ron and then at Hermione. He registered the look on Hermione's face, knew that she had gotten what he was trying to say, and went back to staring at Ron. "A war. If we're not careful, we could die."
"I know that, Harry, I—"
"No, Ron, you don't. Because if you knew that, you wouldn't be trying to convince me to let you stay here. Do you think, if I had a family, I'd be here right now? No! Of course not! I'd be with them!"
"Look, Harry, just because you don't—"
"God, Ron, just think about it! The more time you're with me, the less time you're with them. And the longer this war goes on, the more likely it is that someone you know is going to get killed. Don't you want to spend as much time as you can with your family, while you can spend time with them?"
Harry breathed quickly, shallowly, regaining his composure after losing it so spectacularly. He saw Ron's eyes widen and felt somewhat satisfied. Now both his friends knew what he had been trying to say. That if he had a family, he'd want to be with them right now. He'd want to be with them while he could, while he was still alive and relatively happy.
"But Harry," Hermione said. Harry turned to face her and nodded for her to continue. "We still want to help you."
Harry nodded once more. "And I want you two to help me. But I also don't want you guys missing out on spending time with other people you care about. Look, just think about it, okay? You can live at your own houses, and you can still help me whenever I need to do anything." Harry hefted the cleaning supplies in his arms and turned back towards his room. "Right now, though, I've got to clean."
He walked back to his room, trotting carefully to avoid dropping anything that could spill and potentially create even more of a mess than there already was. Half-way there, one pair of hands grabbed a bottle of cleaner while another took a rag from his armload. Harry smiled and followed his friends into his room, mentally preparing for the battles that would come, both against the dust bunnies and grime and against the more malevolent, harder to vanquish threats that seemed to constantly be right behind him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Snape was sitting on an intricately carved chair, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers in an unidentifiable tune against the armrest. The table directly in front of him was filled with rolls and rolls of parchment, all detailing various events that had taken place over the course of the Dark Lord's rise to power. Every one was handwritten, some of them in terribly illegible script, others in carefully done print. There were many more, just like those, that also existed, but since they had no relevance to the information Draco was looking for, Snape had left them behind.
Draco, for his part, was extremely interested in the writings on these scrolls. The collective knowledge of the Death Eaters was spread out before him, and it stood to reason that he would learn a lot about the way the Dark Lord worked and the types of missions that other Death Eaters had been sent on. Draco felt that it was his duty to learn as much as he possibly could, in order to complete his goal.
He would kill Shacklebolt and save his parents. That was all there was to it. Well, not all there was to it. There seemed to be quite a lot of other things that he hadn't prepared himself for, like going through all of this paperwork to study Shacklebolt's life. Of course, it was a necessary step. The process was time-consuming and tedious, but Draco felt that it would be well worth it in the end.
"Draco, are you listening?" Snape asked, eyeing him with impatience. His finger stopped tapping and he pointed at Draco. "You're the one who wanted my assistance. If you can't even be bothered to take it when it's offered, my time would be better served elsewhere."
Draco shook his head and leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the table in an extremely impolite manner. His mother would be appalled if she saw him now, he thought with amusement, but then he remembered why there was no way his mother would be able to see him and all of his amusement vanished. "I'm sorry, professor," Draco said, not sounding contrite at all. He felt as if the apology needed clarification or type of explanation to go along with it, but as he had none to give he merely sat there, waiting.
Snape raised his eyebrows and sniffed. "Hm," he said, resuming his tapping. He indicated a scroll with his other hand. Draco took it and unrolled it, glancing through the first part briefly before looking back up at Snape. "In there is a fairly detailed description of Shacklebolt's work schedule." Snape paused, letting the information sink in before he continued. "Yes," he said once Draco smirked, "that means you don't have to follow him for weeks on end to be certain of his schedule. You shouldn't, however, rely solely on that. It was written about a year ago, so it could very well be wrong."
Draco nodded. "I'll see if I can rely on this, then." He perused the parchment for a few minutes, noting what was probably correct information and what was probably outdated. He would need to follow him for a few days, at least, just to be sure, but he was relatively satisfied with what he had. "Professor?" he asked.
"Hm?" Snape replied, not even glancing up from the parchment he was reading through.
"Why did someone document this?" Draco asked, waving the parchment once.
Snape looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Well," Draco said, taking a moment to order his thoughts. "If someone was sent out to shadow Shacklebolt, it seems like there would be a reason for it."
Snape peered closely at Draco, who fidgeted under the intense scrutiny. "What are you implying?" he asked, voice low and unaccountably dangerous.
Draco swallowed. "Nothing, sir," he replied, voice quick and reassuring. "Nothing at all. I just thought that, you know, it might be easier to complete my current mission if I was aware of the other times that Shacklebolt had been the subject of one of the Death Eaters' missions." Draco looked down at the carefully complied parchment in his hands and then back up at his old Potions professor, who was studying him thoughtfully. "There's a lot of useful information here, but doesn't it seem odd that someone went through the trouble of finding out his schedule and never did anything with it?"
Snape leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Draco's face. "It does," he replied, speaking extremely slowly. "But what concern is that of yours?"
Draco shrugged. "It's not my concern," he said, nonchalantly. "I'm only concerned with my own mission."
Snape nodded. "Make sure it stays that way." His voice left no room for arguments, and Draco felt compelled to comply.
Instead of continuing on the same line of conversation, which seemed to be a somewhat hazardous one, Draco opted for reviewing more of the parchment he was holding. It appeared that this person, whoever he or she was, was very meticulous and also an exceptionally good observer. These were notes that had been taken over a two month period of time, mainly focused on his work life. There was a list of the specific times, down to the exact second, that he had entered and exited the building every day. There was a detailed map of the inside and exterior of the building, including points where security guards had been stationed and where things called "ID badges" were needed to pass by. Each room on the inside was labeled with its function and who used the room primarily, as well as the times and dates that Shacklebolt had entered and exited from each room. As for the area outside the building, this Death Eater had drawn a map that showed the area about half a mile in every direction, marking off the best apparition points and the areas that were most frequented by muggles. There was also a line drawn to show Shacklebolt's path to the building each day with notations on when it veered from routine and the reasons for the oddity.
Draco smirked. With information like this, his mission would be no problem. He even had the times when Shacklebolt used the restroom, for bloody sake. This guy had no chance against Draco, not when the blonde had access to information such as this.
"Who wrote this?" Draco asked, intending to speak to the Death Eater in person about his or her own experiences with Shacklebolt.
"That's none of your concern," Snape replied. "You'd be better spent wondering about how exactly you're going to complete your task than about who attempted it before you."
Draco paused. "Wait, they attempted it before me?" he asked, blinking. Snape frowned. "Then why didn't they succeed?"
Snape leveled a look at Draco. "You do know where Shacklebolt works, don't you?"
Feeling suddenly ignorant, Draco shrugged. "Some muggle place," he said, making a face to indicate just what he thought of that.
"Some muggle place, indeed," Snape said. He was silent for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth. "He works for the muggle Prime Minister." Draco was completely silent. "He's the Prime Minister's secretary."
"Oh," Draco said, sudden understanding dawning on him. "Oh."
"Yes," Snape drawled, clearly amused. "Oh." He looked at Draco, who was beginning to slouch down in his seat, and sighed. "This is not going to be as easy as you think it is, Draco. There are protections already in place on this building. Not only muggle protections, either. Magical precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of the Prime Minister."
"What type of precautions?" Draco asked, feeling a solid weight grow steadily in his chest.
"The type that you need to be prepared for," Snape replied. "Now finish reading that parchment. Once you're done, we can discuss your options for infiltrating the building."
Draco rested his head on his hands and stared at the wall behind Snape's head. His mission would require him to enter a heavily protected area that was filled with muggles. Not only that, but he would be expected to kill or otherwise subdue whatever muggles got in the way of his mission. He'd have to do it without being noticed, too. The thought seemed preposterous. Surely there was a way to get to Shacklebolt without having to go through a heavily populated muggle area that included a building whose defenses, while mainly muggle, would still present a problem for him since he was working alone.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the nameless Death Eater who had tried and failed to kill Shacklebolt had been something of an idiot. This person may have had the ability to make spectacular maps and take excellent notes, but what he or she didn't have was the knowledge about how to use all of that gathered information and make it work favorably. Just the idea of going into a building alone that has so many security features in place made his stomach churn.
No, there had to be another way. Draco leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. There was something else he could do, he was sure of it. He just needed to figure out how he was going to get to Shacklebolt. Draco reached out and lifted the parchment from the table, holding it up in front of his face. He skimmed the notes quickly, looking for the inconsistencies. There had to be a way that he would be able to work this to his advantage. He just needed to think about it.
His eyes fazed out, the parchment blurring in front of him. There was no logical way that Draco could enter the building. It just wasn't feasible. It was nice that he had the building's layout and all, but really, when it came down to it the muggles would attack him if provoked. Of course, entering the building with the intent to kill someone inside seemed like provoking them to him, and he did not want a horde of raging muggles after him. If he could place some sort of tracking spell on Shacklebolt things would be easier, but of course Shacklebolt probably had his own protection against spells of that nature.
Draco briefly thought about tracking down Shacklebolt's house, but instantly rejected the idea. Any members of the Order who didn't keep their houses well-guarded against possible attacks were either idiots or Harry Potter. In some cases, both. No, it wasn't at all likely that Shacklebolt had left his home open to attacks from random passersby. It was even more unlikely that, if there was a way to get around the defense, Draco would be able to accomplish the task and take Shacklebolt down before setting off some type of alarm that would alert Shacklebolt to his presence.
It seemed clear that the only time he would have an opportunity to complete his assignment would be when Shacklebolt was walking in-between his apparition point and the building he worked in. There were three blocks separating the two locations, and Draco knew that the Apparation area, at least, was well-hidden enough that he might have a chance at surprising him there.
Draco stared at the ceiling, blinking occasionally. If he got to the Apparation point before Shacklebolt went to work, he would be able to hide out there and lie in wait. Once Shacklebolt came, all he had to do was complete his mission. It would be easy.
Draco titled himself forward until he sat upright in his chair. He stared at Snape for a second before clearing his throat. "Professor," Draco said, calmly. He waited until Snape put down the parchment he had been reading and looked at him. "I'm not sure going into the Prime Minister's building is such a good plan." Snape continued looking at him, which he took to mean that he was to explain himself. "It seems like a better idea would be to attack Shacklebolt when he's outside, in the surrounding area," Draco said, gesturing at the map of the half-mile radius around the building.
"Agreed," Snape said, watching as Draco's mouth dropped open. Snape raised an eyebrow. "I was getting bored with waiting for you to figure it out."
Draco clamped his mouth shut and glared at Snape. "If you already knew, why didn't you tell me?"
"You need to do this one your own, Draco," Snape said. "I can help you, but only up to a point."
Draco swallowed and nodded. "Right," he said. He was about to go back to his parchment to study the apparition area ore closely when his curiosity kicked in. "Professor?"
"Yes?" Snape's voice was calm, as if he had expected Draco to continue talking. He probably had.
"Why are you helping me?" Draco's voice remained steady on the question, but his mind was racing. There was no reason for Snape to help him, none at all. Yet here he was, sitting in a dark room studying rolls of parchment with him.
"I made a promise to your mother," Snape said.
He offered no more information, and Draco didn't ask.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Living with Order members constantly coming and going was a lot less exciting and a lot more annoying than Harry had anticipated it would be. He had thought there would be plenty of action involved. Even if he wasn't in on it, he imagined there would be the same type of secret meetings and goings-on that happened the last time he had lived at Grimmauld Place. He remembered, quite clearly and distinctly, the way the Order members had constantly spoken to each other in hushed tones that he wasn't supposed to be able to hear. Of course, he had been able to hear them, and now he was swiftly becoming disappointed in the lack of covert actions taking place in his house.
Oh, there were a lot of swift, meaningful glances going on. In fact, he saw at least four or five a day. They normally occurred just after he had entered a room, in the brief moment in between when the conversation abruptly stopped and he took his second step into the room. This only served to irritate him rather than intrigue him, though, as he rather quickly assumed that the glance was code for ‘don't say anymore, Harry's entered the room, we'll talk later.' Of course, he could have been being paranoid. The glances could have just as easily meant ‘I have lost my ability to speak for the moment' or ‘I am an idiot, what were we talking about again?' But he thought the first option was much more likely than the last two.
Sure, he was underage and yes, he did have an unfortunate habit of running off to try and do things on his own. So there was the smallest fragment of a piece of a possibility that he might have been able to eventually understand where they were coming from in keeping things from him, yet again. But honestly. It was his house, for bloody sake. If it wasn't for him, they wouldn't still be allowed to use it as their base. So why the Order continued to leave him out of their plans was beyond him.
Still, with this being the current state of affairs, Harry could see only one option. He would try to pretend that it wasn't happening. It wasn't the best option, true, but it was better than ignoring the Order members and much better than moping about it. It did mean, however, that he had to act as if nothing was wrong whenever people started acting strangely around him.
You'd think they'd have learned their lesson from the last time people kept things from me, Harry thought. He had just walked down the corridor that led to the kitchen to make himself something to eat for lunch when he heard muted voices coming from inside his destination. Harry walked into the room, rolling his eyes when Tonks gave the familiar look to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Hey," Harry said, nodding at each of them.
"Hiya, Harry," Tonks replied, giving a cheerful smile and a friendly wave. Her short hair was bright pink today, and the color made Harry's eyes water for a second before he blinked the moisture away.
Kingsley nodded in return to Harry. "Hello, Harry," he said, speaking softly but with the power that was always present in his actions.
"We were just talking about going out to eat for lunch, wanna come with?" Tonks asked, still grinning.
Harry couldn't help himself; he grinned back. "Nah, it's all right. I'm just gonna make myself something here."
Tonks shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. But I should warn you, it was Mundungus' turn to go grocery shopping this week, so who knows what you'll find in there."
Harry laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm still not supposed to leave, you know."
Tonks smacked herself in the forehead. "Oh, right, sorry Harry," she said, sounding vaguely remorseful. "I keep on forgetting that you're not of age yet."
"You do act mature for your age," Kingsley agreed.
It had been decided that, until Harry was legally able to perform spells on his own, he shouldn't be walking outside. He rather thought it was a good idea, even if it did seem to be a bit too overprotective. Of course, he couldn't very well cast any concealment or protection spells on himself if he left Grimmauld Place, since the Ministry of Magic was sure to try and arrest him if he did. Harry wasn't on very good terms with Scrimgeour. Also, the idea of possibly encountering Voldemort, having to fight him, and then being arrested for it wasn't too appealing to Harry. The Order hadn't been too sure if he would get off for defeating Voldemort, but it had seemed like a sensible enough idea to wait until he turned seventeen, just in case.
Now, of course, Harry regretted the agreement. He was planning on going to search for the horcruxes himself soon, with or without the Order's help.
But since being thrown into Azkaban would be rather a wrench in his plan, he decided to wait and stay put for the time being.
So Harry shrugged and smiled. "Thanks," he said, looking at both Tonks and Kingsley. "I guess I'll take my chances with what's in here."
"All right. Come on, Kingsley," Tonks said, pushing out her chair. She stood up and stretched her arms. "We'd better get going."
Kingsley nodded and glanced down at his wristwatch. "I've only got another half an hour on my lunch break anyway." He stood up and pushed his own chair back, then walked around to do the same for Tonks.
"Thanks," she said, offhandedly. "I guess we'll see you later then, Harry."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, see you later. Say hi to Lupin for me, if you see him."
Tonks grinned even wider. "Will do."
She looked at Kingsley once more and they both Apparated away. The crack echoed in the kitchen for a minute, and Harry took the time to silently bemoan his fate. Being stuck in Grimmauld Place constantly just wasn't that exciting, when he thought about it. It was quite dull and boring and he rather wished he hadn't agreed to it. There was nothing he could do about it at that moment though, and his stomach rumbled loudly, protesting being ignored for so long.
He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it, preparing himself for the worst. Peering inside, Harry could tell that his fears were quite on target. When Mundungus Fletcher had gone food shopping this week, he hadn't paid any attention at all to what Harry had asked for. He sighed and took out a package of chicken, intending to make something, anything, that wasn't breaded chicken. Even grilled chicken would be fine. But if he had to eat chicken fingers, or chicken nuggets, or a chicken sandwich one more time, he thought he'd go mad.
Harry set about preparing to cook. If there was one thing he could thank the Dursleys for, it was being able to cook almost anything. It wasn't always great, but it was at least edible and that's all he wanted. Harry opened the cupboard and took out a pan, intending to grill the damnable chicken. He set about searching for the cooking oil, which of course wasn't in the last place he had left it. What with who knew how many people using this kitchen a day, Harry was surprised anything was where he had left it at all.
"Oh, Harry, we were just looking for you."
Ron's voice came from behind Harry, and he turned around expecting to see his two best friends standing there. Instead, he saw Ron and Ginny, both standing by the table looking at him. Ron waved a bit, smiling. Ginny smiled as well, but hers seemed less honest and more forced.
Harry swallowed. "Hey, Ron. Hey, er, Ginny. I wasn't expecting to see you."
Ron shrugged. "Hermione wanted to drop by too, but she's got some book or other to get at Flourish and Blott's. You know how it is." He motioned his hand sin the air in a carefree, what-can-you-do sort of gesture. "Anyway, I thought we'd just hang out until she got here."
"Oh," Harry said, nodding slowly. He looked at Ginny, who looked back at him. He looked away. "Well, I'm, er, just making some chicken." He indicated the pan and package of meat on the counter. "Do you want some?"
Ron shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. I just ate. Ginny hasn't eaten anything yet, though."
Ginny blushed and shook her head. "Oh, no, that's all right," she said. "I'm not really hungry anyway."
"Oh, come on," Ron said, nudging her. "Don't you want to eat Harry's chicken?"
"Ron," Ginny hissed, glaring at him.
"No, it's okay," Harry said, feeling awkward and unsure. "Why don't you both sit down?"
Ginny hesitated and then pulled out the same chair Tonks had been sitting on, making a loud screeching noise. She sat down and pulled the chair in. "All right. Thanks, then, Harry."
Harry turned back around to face the cupboards. "No problem," he replied.
"Sorry, mate, but I'm supposed to go and check in the library for some book Hermione needs," Ron said, grinning. "You know how it is."
Harry clenched his teeth together. Oh yeah. He knew how it was.
"Well, come back when you're done," Harry said, praying that Ron would understand and not take too long.
"Sure," Ron said. "I'll be back later." He walked out of the room, patting Ginny on the shoulder on the way out. Ginny shot him a look that was part death glare and part wordless plea, but he left without responding to her. She leaned back in her chair and specifically avoided eye contact with the general vicinity of Harry's body, instead choosing to look at the wall behind him.
Harry turned on his heel and began rummaging through the cupboards again. He found, much to his disappointment, that he was extremely conscious of Ginny's presence in the room. No matter which way he headed or where he was, the first and loudest thing his mind was reminding him was that Ginny was sitting in the same room as him. It told him, quite clearly, that she was watching him and studying him and not saying anything.
It was uncomfortable to the point of distraction. Harry couldn't even concentrate on finding… wait a minute, what was it again? He had completely forgotten whatever it was he had been trying to find. All he could think about was the last time he had seen Ginny—when they had broken up. He hadn't even passed her once since then, and now she was sitting in the kitchen while Ron was off somewhere doing something that was not helping to make the uncomfortable silence go away. Ron, his best friend, had left him there to live through an awkward moment that could have been completely avoided if he had only stayed in the room with them. Some best friend, Harry thought unkindly, making a mental note to tell him yet again that Ginny was not Harry's girlfriend anymore.
Cooking oil, that's what it was. Harry had been looking for cooking oil, to make the stupid grilled chicken. He sighed and opened another cupboard, expecting to have to search for it some more. It was right there, though, and he picked it up with a mixture of surprise and regret. Now he wouldn't be able to use this activity as an excuse to avoid speaking with Ginny.
He really was going to kill Ron the next time he saw him.
Harry walked over to the stove and began cooking. He twisted off the cap of the cooking oil and poured a bit into the pan, determined to avoid looking at Ginny the entire time. It was because of this that he had no warning at all when a hand lightly touched his shoulder. He startled, dropping the cooking oil on the floor. The bottle fell with a soft thump, knocking into the ground and spilling its contents all over the floor. The pale yellow liquid oozed and spread out of the bottle, slowly forming an odd shape on the ground.
"I'm sorry," Ginny said, retracting her hand immediately. Her eyes shone with guilt, remorse, hesitation, uncertainty, or some combination of all four. Harry wasn't quite sure. He looked away from her face, which really was too close for his comfort, and down at the puddle that was leisurely taking over the kitchen floor.
"It's all right," Harry said, sighing. He stooped down and picked up the bottle, righting it and placing it next to its cap on the counter. Then he turned off the heat on the stove, knowing that he wouldn't be able to pay attention to it with a mess to clean up. Harry stepped over the puddle, careful not to get his trainers dirty, and grabbed a rag from a drawer across the room. He walked back over to where Ginny was still standing and knelt down, intending to wipe up the liquid before the spill got any worse.
"Oh, no, it's all right. Here, let me," Ginny said, bending down until she was on level with Harry. "It's my fault, after all."
Harry shook his head. "No, it's okay, I can do it."
Ginny hesitated and stood back up. "Okay," she replied, nodding. "If you're sure."
Harry nodded. "I'm sure," he said, swallowing. "Just go wait over there or something." He winced at the way the words came out; it sounded much more dismissive than he had intended it to. But he couldn't change it now, and as he heard Ginny's footsteps walking away he felt relieved.
He took a few minutes cleaning up the spill, until the floor was entirely clean. Once he was satisfied, Harry went to the sink and began to wash out the rag. It was all sticky and covered in cooking oil, which he found vaguely appealing in an odd, twisted sort of way. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stuck the rag under the stream of water. Harry reached over and grabbed the bottle of dish detergent, squirting some onto his hand. He lathered the dirty rag with dish detergent, rubbing it repeatedly until the liquid soap morphed into bubbles. He continued his ministrations, watching the cooking oil slowly seep away and drip down into the sink.
"Harry, we should talk." Ginny's voice came from nowhere, it seemed, and Harry blinked, coming out of a trance. He looked over his shoulder at where Ginny was sitting. Her eyes flicked away from his the moment they met, and Harry pressed his lips together.
"Sure," he agreed in a dull voice. "What do you want to talk about?"
Ginny sighed. "About…" She trailed off, uncertainly.
Harry took this as his cue to stand there and say nothing while she struggled to come up with something to say. He watched her for a minute, noting the blush that was quickly spreading across her cheeks in an offhand manner. Harry placed the rug down in the sink and let the soap and water flow over it, hoping that it would finish washing itself. He pivoted until he faced her completely and stared at her. She appeared to be locked into a silent battle with herself. Her mouth would open, move just a little, and then close again. Harry looked at her, wishing that she would just hurry up and say it, whatever it was.
Harry had to say something, or else he'd go mad from the tension. "Ginny. What do you want to talk about? It can't be all that bad." Harry rolled his eyes and attempted a smile. He wasn't entirely sure he succeeded, but she did seem to relax a little.
"I just wanted to talk about… us," Ginny said, forcing the words out.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "There's nothing to talk about." At the look on her face, he hurriedly asked, "Is there?"
She licked her lips and hesitated. "I just think that… well, that maybe we were a bit too hasty."
Harry blinked. "Too hasty?"
Ginny nodded, blushing. "Yeah." After a prolonged silence, during which Harry contemplated what on earth she could be talking about, Ginny cleared her throat. "In breaking up, I mean."
"Oh," Harry said, voicing the only thought he had in his mind. Ginny looked at him expectantly, though, so he gave a half-hearted smile and said, "I don't really think so."
Ginny nodded furiously, then stopped suddenly. Harry assumed the gesture had made her dizzy. "I know you don't, Harry," she stated. "But I think that if we just tried a little bit, it could work between us."
Harry swallowed. He thought he had been clear when he told Ginny that he wasn't interested in her anymore. He had said that they had to break up, and it had seemed pretty clear to him that she knew why. She had acted like she understood, but now Harry realized she just didn't get it.
"I really don't think it could," Harry replied, shifting a little. He shuffled his feet and looked down at them, noting the stains that had gotten on his trainers from the cooking oil even though he had tried to be careful to keep them clean. He frowned and looked back up. "It's not going to work. We broke up."
"We could get back together," Ginny said hopefully. She had an odd look in her eyes that Harry couldn't interpret. "We could try again."
Harry grimaced and saw Ginny flinch. He felt a little guilty, but he had to clear this up with her. "Ginny, I just want to be friends with you, okay? I'm really not interested in going out anymore."
Ginny pursued her lips together. "No, Harry."
"Er?" Harry blinked, unsure of what to say.
"That's really not okay." Ginny paused and took a deep breath. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Then she moved towards him, slowly, as if approaching her new manager. She smiled and seemed to present herself at her best by standing straight up and walking smoothly. Harry was unmoved; his discomfort with the situation only increased. "I really like you, Harry."
"Ginny…" Harry said, trailing off. He wasn't sure what he could say to change her mind, though, and he ended up only watching her come closer.
"I've liked you for years, Harry. Way before you noticed me." Ginny stated it as if it was common knowledge, and upon reflection Harry realized it probably was. Hermione had mentioned something to him once, about the way Ginny had acted around him and his own obliviousness, but Harry hadn't really paid any attention to her. Now he was wishing he had listened.
"Er, Ginny, look, I…" Harry swallowed again. Why was his throat so dry all of a sudden?
"I know you're nervous, Harry," Ginny said, stopping in front of him. She glanced towards the ground and then back up at him. "I am, too. But there's no reason for us to be single anymore. We like each other, so we should get back together, don't you think?"
Harry stood there, staring at her. He realized with an abnormal combination of regret and excitement that he would have to tell her. He had never planned on telling her what he thought of her, since he knew that she still harbored some feelings for him. But now, with her standing here in front of him asking him to go out with her once again, he knew he really had no other choice.
"Look, Ginny," Harry said, clearing his throat. "It's not that I don't like you, I do, it's just… not like that."
Ginny blinked and titled her head. "What do you mean?"
Harry inhaled and held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling again. "I really only like you as a friend, Ginny. Just as a friend." When she failed to say anything, he added, "Not as anything else, I mean."
Thankfully, Ginny understood what he was trying and failing to say. "But we went out together," she replied, frowning. "You told me you liked me."
"And I do like you, but not like that. Not anymore," Harry explained, shrugging helplessly.
"But why?" Ginny asked, backing up a step and looking quite displeased. "I thought we were good together."
"I think you can do better than me, Ginny," Harry said, shaking his head. "There's a lot of guys that would be able to be a better boyfriend to you than I could."
"But Harry," Ginny said in a soft voice. "You're the only one I want."
Harry grimaced. "Look, Ginny, I'm just not interested in you anymore." Ginny's face paled considerably, and she took another step backwards. Harry attempted a smile and said, "Can't we just be friends?"
"I thought you liked me. You said you did," she said, speaking very quietly.
"I don't like you anymore, not like that," Harry repeated. He felt horrible, like he was kicking a puppy repeatedly. He just wanted her to understand and leave him the hell alone.
"Oh," Ginny said, retreating a step further back towards the door. "Oh." She swallowed and turned around completely, giving Harry a full view of her back. She walked away from him and to the door, stopping just before leaving. "I guess I'll see you later," she said, and then she bolted.
Harry heard her footsteps resound down the hallway, Mrs. Black's portrait making loud snide comments about blood traitors and their atrocious manners, and a door slam at the end of the corridor. He sighed and put a hand over his face, drawing it down slowly until it dropped to his side.
That hadn't gone well at all. He had wanted to make things easier for her, to be nice, to continue being friends with her. But it was extremely clear to him that there was no way he would ever be able to maintain a friendship with Ginny. In fact, it seemed like something that came out of a dream, like wishful thinking, like a dream that he had that would never become reality.
Harry swallowed nervously. He really was worried about losing his friendship with Ginny. After all, if he lost that, chances were likely that the entire Weasley clan would be out for his blood, so to speak. Ron had given him permission to date Ginny, and it seemed as though everyone in the Weasley family thought it was a good idea that Harry and Ginny went out together. He didn't want his break-up with Ginny to affect his status with the rest of the Weasleys, but he knew it would. Already, he hadn't seen Mrs. Weasley around Grimmauld Place, and last time he had been here she had been around almost constantly. He hadn't thought anything of it at first, but now he realized it might be because he had broken up with Ginny.
Harry sighed. His stomach growled, reminding him why he had gone into the kitchen in the first place. He spun around and faced the stove again, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.
He'd make this grilled chicken if it was the last thing he did.
To Metanoia - Part 1: Reconciliation, part III
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