Chapter Text
It was a glorious summer day. From his perch on the window sill, Harry watched the families strolling past on their way to the canal, decked out in shorts and summer dresses and wide brimmed hats. The boys from number three were playing football in the road, forcing cars to slow down (and kicking the ball at anyone who dared honk their horn). A black and white cat was sunbathing on top of a brick wall, one paw hanging lazily over the edge. It allowed a passing girl, wearing far too much black for the weather, to fuss it without complaint. Across the road two magpies were waddling on the roof, proof that the rhyme was wrong. He very much doubted anything joyful was coming his way.
He ignored the knock at his door; only the second today. He’d tried warding the door against letting in sound, which had held for a few hours before Sirius had cottoned on and taken it down. He’d asked Harry not to put it up again, worried he wouldn’t hear if they were attacked, and whilst he’d not acknowledged the request he had abided by it. The man had a point. He didn’t want to die hiding out in his bedroom.
Banging his head lightly against the wall in frustration, his eyes flickered over to the poster newly stuck to his bedroom wall. Against his will it made the corners of his mouth turn up. The twins had created a fantastic range of products, some surprisingly practical, and their new shop in Diagon Alley had been packed when Harry had visited the week before, full of people drawn in by their in-your-face approach to marketing. Harry, as their main investor, had been free to take whatever he wanted. They hadn’t expected that to include a foot tall purple poster advertising a pill to give people constipation, but it had made him laugh, and he’d known Sirius would love it.
‘WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO?
YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT U-NO-POO —
THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!’
He’d brought Sirius back a going away present, a black half-kneazle with pointy ears and a ridiculous tuft of a tail. He’d tried to sell it as an additional (and very late) birthday gift, but the man had seen right through him, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he’d said, “I’ve got company.” But worry he did. Remus was splitting his time between skulking in dingy pubs and loitering down dingy alleyways, trying to get some intel on Voldemort’s plans. Tonks was working more often than not, which meant she stayed round much more rarely. Even Andromeda was rushed off her feet, the demand for tutoring growing as parents began to worry about the future of the magical world. If that future was pureblood supremacism, they wanted their children to be as prepared as they could be.
It would be stupid to think a cat could make up for the Harry-shaped hole that would be left in Grimmauld Place. He knew that it wouldn’t. And maybe there was nothing he could do if Sirius started slipping again, confined to the house with Kreacher whilst everyone else prepared for what was coming. But he used to enjoy sitting with Rabbit in his lap, found purpose in keeping Buckbeak clean and preened. Maybe having another life to look after would give him something to hold onto. Even if it had scratched him immediately and hidden under a display cabinet.
They were the concerns of days ago, when his godfather being lonely had been a large and pressing problem. How quickly the world changed.
The Daily Prophet was on his bedroom floor, with his cotton summer robes and barely eaten plates of food. He’d read it so many times now he likely could have quoted it off by heart, and still every few hours he was drawn to pick it up and read it again. As if the words would have changed since then. As if things would go back to the way they were. He dragged himself over to the bed, flopped on top, and reached his arms over the side to turn the front page so he could read it yet another time.
‘The Prophesied Potter’
At least they’d had the decency to use a good photo when they ruined his life. It was unusually kind of Skeeter, though he knew full well that wasn’t why she’d done it. The photo of him from fourth year, small and skinny with broken glasses, that she loved to use when she slandered him for half of last year, wouldn’t have fit the new narrative. Harry James Potter, son of parents who had thrice defied a dark lord. The boy with the power ‘he knows not’. Prophesied.
He’d wanted to know why Voldemort came after him that Samhain night, why he’d been so determined to slaughter a toddler in his crib. Now he knew the secret. The secret that half the fucking Order seemingly knew. He’d known, of course, that Sirius had some idea as to why. And yet somehow it still hurt that after this year together he’d still not told him. Not after Harry dreamt night after night of those corridors in the bowels of the Ministry. Not after the hours upon hours they’d spent trying to understand the link between him and Voldemort. It wasn’t even just an idea - the man had known word for word, had admitted as such when he couldn’t pull off the required amount of shock at seeing the words printed in the national news. Just a murmured ‘fuck’ that was rather an understatement.
Harry had shouted, of course, jumbled words he barely remembered. Had thrown plates, broken chairs, bit his lip to bloody to hold back the curses that were burning on his tongue (the ones he shouldn’t ever use, that only Sirius knew he knew, had let him read for theory and for last resort, tricksy and twisting and dark, dark, dark). Glass had shattered and the table had cracked and the rug caught fire beneath his feet and Sirius had just stood there, quiet and sad, like someone had lied to him, like someone had told him he had to defeat a dark lord, like he finally had confirmation of what he’d always suspected - that he was the reason his parents were dead.
Before he did something he couldn’t take back, he’d fled to his room and channelled all that rage into weaving the most vicious wards he knew to bar the door. As the master of the house Sirius still could have forced the door to open. Whether he could have prevented the consequence, well, that was a bet Harry would have taken. Power and intent. The prophecy said he had the first, and he was full of dark intentions.
He’d screamed and cried, broken half his room. He’d thrown spells at the walls, at the furniture, until there was nothing left in him, until there was nothing left at all but the quiet drowning emptiness.
The next day he put it back together again, but he didn’t leave and he hadn’t since. To leave would be to enter a new world, one where everyone was looking at him to save them. There was a niggling voice in his head that said this was what you wanted. You wanted to be great. The fairy tales were right. Be careful what you wished for.
Another knock. He was starting to feel bad for ignoring them.
“Harry?” That was not the voice he’d been expecting. He rolled over on the bed to sit up.
“It’s me, Neville,” said Neville, unnecessarily. Admittedly, given he was not supposed to know the location of Grimmauld Place, he had good reason to think Harry might need the extra confirmation. And actually
“What were you looking for when we first met?” Harry asked. It wasn’t that he thought someone could have broken in, certainly not without Kreacher alerting him. More that he didn’t put it past Sirius to pretend to be someone else. People forgot how tricksy he was, how years of pranking experience could be applied in a different way.
“What? Oh! Ummm, Trevor. On the train. With Hermione.”
“Why are you here?” Harry asked, rather rudely.
There was a pause, long enough to be uncomfortable (if Harry hadn’t already achieved that, which he suspected he had). Then Neville spoke, in a voice so shy it reminded him of first year Neville, not the one he’d become now. “I…I thought…well. It could have been me, right? I mean, that’s what Gran said. They thought it could have been me. That’s why they came after us. That’s why they- they tortured my parents.”
Harry slid to his feet, padded softly over to the door. Two quick slashes of his wand paired with a repetitive murmur removed the worst of the wards, a nasty Egyptian combination that Bill had taught him after a 45 minute safety lecture. The rest wouldn’t hurt him when Harry was the one that opened the door. Which he did, letting the boy squeeze in before shutting it quickly after him.
Compared to the mess and filth of the bedroom, Neville looked impeccably put together in some tailored linen shorts and a matching shirt, his brown hair cut shorter and slicked slightly back. Harry flushed with shame and resisted the urge to vanish the dirty plates. Kreacher wouldn’t forgive him for losing Black family china.
“So she knew?” Harry asked, gesturing to the windowsill before taking up his usual position. Neville was both taller and broader than him, and didn’t fit quite so easily into the space. Seeing him try so hard to arrange his limbs neatly softened a little more of his anger.
“Gran you mean? Yeah. Dumbledore told Mum and Dad when he heard the prophecy, and they told Gran. She said she never told anyone else. Uncle Algie knew that Voldemort was after them, that was all.” He trailed off, lost in thought, and Harry didn’t prompt him, let him take his time to find the words. “The thing is Harry, Longbottoms have never been that big on divination. We’ve never had the talent for it, but the Potters took it seriously so my parents did the same. Gran had a safe house ready in Wales, they were ready to run.”
“So what happened?”
“Your father told my Gran that it was about you. The prophecy I mean. That it was definitely you.”
“He couldn’t have known that!” Harry exclaimed. Except that wasn’t true, was it. Unlike the Longbottoms the Potters were big on divination. Had his father bled to see his son's future?
“I don’t know how he knew,” Neville shrugged, mouth twisted with consternation. “Gran said he ‘asked the sea and stars’, whatever that means.”
Sirius had mentioned the sea and his father before. Harry had never tried using such a large body of water to see. Maybe it made sense, in a weird magical way. The sea would know more than a lake, and a lake more than a pond, and a pond more than a glass of tap water. Was that it? And the stars, well, that needed no explanation.
Then realisation hit him. “Your parents - they would have hid if -”
“They did hide,” Neville interrupted, clearly seeing where his mind was racing to. “Everyone agreed it was still safer. Then Samhain happened and the Death Eaters scattered and I got ill with dragon pox - I hadn’t finished my vaccinations you see, being in hiding and all - and I ended up going to St. Mungos. And everything was fine, so, my parents moved back into the estate and went back to work. They were following up on a lead when it-when it happened. It was a trick, you see, to draw my parents there. They thought they might know something about what had happened to him . Ridiculous, obviously…”
That still sounded like they were tortured by association. Or perhaps it was because their child may have been the one prophesied - did they think they started a club? Or perhaps it was because they were aurors, and Harry should stop making everything about him.
“How do you feel? About, I don’t know, everything? “ It wasn’t the most articulate question he’d ever asked. He wasn’t quite sure how to articulate what he was asking.
“Gran didn’t want to burden me, especially because it all came to nothing in the end. Thought it would give me too much to live up to.” Harry thought that was a bit rich given Augusta’s insistence, lessening of late, of comparing Neville to his father. “She didn’t think it was her place to tell you. Apparently her and Lord Black have been exchanging snotty letters about it for the last few months. She thought you were ready, he said Dumbledore was insistent you not know. She’s giving the Headmaster an earful about that now, actually,” Neville said with a small grin, filled with pure glee that someone else was taking the full brunt of his gran’s rather cutting temper.
Harry laughed with delight. “What?”
“Well I wanted to talk to you and your godfather agreed, so Dumbledore had to come and tell me the address and, well, Gran’s never been one to miss an opportunity to give someone a piece of her mind.”
“Couldn’t be happening to a more deserving person,” Harry grinned, all teeth. Neville, who knew a little of the frustration Harry had felt toward the old wizard of late, looked equally pleased on his behalf.
“I don’t know how I feel really,” Neville shrugged, returning to the question. “Relieved, mostly. Merlin I’m so sorry that’s a terrible, insensitive thing to say I -”
Harry put a hand up to cut him off, leaning his head against the window pane. “It’s fine. If I were you, I’d be relieved too.”
“How are you feeling about it?” Neville asked in return, with just the right amount of softness (too much and Harry’s instinct was to bite, and they both knew it).
Harry wondered how to answer. I could have burnt this whole house down in a rage seemed a bit too dramatic. I don’t know whether to scream or cry. I’ve tried both and neither fixed it was a bit too classical teenager. He kept it from me. Maybe that’s what hurts the most. Well, that was far too honest. “Angry, mostly,” is what he said finally.
“Yeah, I’d be angry if people thought I should fight a dark lord.”
That was part of it, Harry thought. Not that it was him the prophecy was about, but that people so readily decided that he alone should bear the burden of defeating one of the most powerful wizards in living memory. The fact that Skeeter had plastered it all over the paper without caring about the consequence, that was a pretty big factor as well. Then, of course, the amount of people who had known. Maybe not the content of the prophecy, that was a pretty big secret until now. Its general existence, however, seemed to be known by all the Death Eaters, half the Order and at least the employees of the Department of Mysteries. And then anyone they all told.
It was embarrassing. He felt like an idiot, fumbling through his years at Hogwarts whilst all these people were watching him, waiting for him to turn into some impressive hero, manifest some mysterious power. Based on what? His ability to turn a thimble into a thestral?
“I don’t think Hogwarts curriculum is going to prepare me for my pre-destined career choice, Nev,” he said dryly, feeling the sting from where he’d been chewing his lip.
“Probably not,” the other boy agreed. “Don’t suppose you have any ideas about this ‘power he knows not’?”
Harry snorted. “Not a bloody clue.” This had been the topic of most of the speculation in the days that followed. Kreacher, at his request, swiped the paper every day from where Sirius left it on the dining table and brought it to Harry with his lunch (which got progressively more dull as the days went on, as if he hoped to starve him out via flavour deprivation). Readers wrote in with progressively more insane suggestions for what the power could be. His favourite suggestion was the ability to control fish, purely because of how utterly useless it would be unless Voldemort decided to accost him in the depths of the Black lake.
“At least everyone knows Voldemort is back now,” Neville offered as a consolation. Which it was. There was no denying Voldemort had well and truly outed himself. According to the papers their infiltration of the Ministry had set off a number of alarms, which had in turn called in the aurors, who were well prepared for the event. Fudge may have had them undertaking pointless raids for show, but Madame Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour had them running weekly scenario drills. The Death Eaters had not found the Department of Mysteries as undefended as they’d expected, and within an impressively short time what must have been a carefully planned attack degenerated into chaos.
Without Harry or Voldemort there, no one could have picked up the prophecy to hear it. Unfortunately, one side or the other knocked over a shelf, kicking off a domino effect that smashed half the prophecies in the department. Including Harry’s. And somehow, amongst all the violence and noise, they unanimously agreed to lower their wands when a voice proclaimed that ‘the one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches’. And amongst the ensuing carnage the dark lord himself arrived to tray and get his people out.
Who told the Prophet no one seemed to know, and it didn’t really matter. There were more than enough people there that it would have gotten out somehow.
And Harry had known before he’d even seen the article. Had known when he woke up with an overwhelming, all encompassing feeling of hate and victory and a sickening frisson of fear, despite all his months of Occlumency training, that Voldemort had finally got what he’d been obsessing over all year. He wondered if it made more sense to him.
“It feels like if I leave this room, the whole world will have changed,” Harry said quietly. He’d thought that after Arthur was bitten by the giant snake, sitting with Hermione in the fields outside the Burrow. Now that seemed like a simpler time. Even if the world had gotten a bit darker, he’d known his place in it.
Neville nudged him with his foot. “Not the whole world. Not the bits that matter.” It was the right thing to say, even if he didn’t believe it fully right now. Neville was still Neville, kind and loyal. Kreacher was still curmudgeonly and casually vitriolic and a fearless defender. Sirius was - no, Sirius still hurt to think about.
“Thanks Nev,” he said, catching his eyes. It was him coming here, more than the words themselves, that had made him feel the tiniest bit better. Not even Ron and Hermione had. And it wouldn’t be that they didn’t care. They’d have listened to someone who told them to give him time, give him space. They’d have listened to
“Dumbledore,” he muttered with an exasperated roll of his eyes.
“Er, what about him?”
“I think he has some explaining to do.” Harry said, resolve creeping into the space left by his ebbing anger.
Avoiding the world wouldn’t change it. He may as well greet it on his own terms.
The Slytherin in him knew an opportunity when it arrived. Guilt was a motivator as good as any other.
He called for Kreacher.
—--------
The dining table was laid out with the Black’s finest china tea set, leaves already steeping in the pot. Neville, looking slightly uncomfortable and very much out of place in his casual summer clothes, had already taken a seat. He was watching Sirius with great interest, and it reminded Harry that to many people the Black Lord was barely more than a folktale. Seeing him in the flesh, even when he was finally exonerated, would likely cause a stir for quite some time.
Harry slipped past the man, close enough to smell the musk of his cologne. When a hand made to grab him he twisted quickly out of the way, not fast enough to avoid the brush of warm skin. In the brief glance in which he’d seen his face he’d caught the mix of concern and confusion, the pleading grey eyes fixed on his face. It tugged at him, made him want to turn around, reminded him how much he’d missed him and it had only been a few days. That time was gone though. In two weeks he’d be back at Hogwarts. He wouldn't be able to rely on Sirius anymore. And relying on Sirius had only got him hurt.
Smoothing his face and straightening his back, he took the seat at the head of the table, Neville on his left. An insult to the lord of the house; one he was sure Sirius would let slide. His first instinct had been to put on a formal robe, something stiff and black. Instead he’d gone for a shirt pushed up to the elbows, a rust orange waistcoat over the top. It was his godfather’s signature style and he worried it would look too much like imitation, but it was the perfect blend of stylish and casual, formal without trying too hard. Luckily, Sirius was just wearing a casual blue robe or else they might have matched.
Chilled white wine was waiting for him in a crystal glass. He’d not yet developed Neville’s taste for the deep red he’d opted for, though he suspected it looked classier. They were the only table seating with alcohol. Any other guests had the option of tea or nothing. The scrape of a chair being pulled out told him that Sirius had given up on getting an explanation and decided to sit anyway. Against his will, he loved him for that. Even when he didn’t know why, or against who, he still sided with Harry.
Then the floo flared, and he pushed any sentimental thoughts out of his head.
Dumbledore was wearing his usual layered, flowing robes. He wasn’t a man who bought into the concept of seasonal dressing, seeming to wear the exact same number of layers come summer or winter. Doable, Harry supposed, with temperature charms, though unnecessarily complicated when you could just buy a t-shirt. He suspected that was the point. There was no easier brag than expending magical power on needless tasks; it proved you had enough to waste.
The widening of his eyes gave away his surprise at the scene that greeted him, and it gave Harry a malicious thrill.
“Headmaster, I’m so glad you could come so quickly. Tea?” He gestured to a seat halfway down the table, the teapot pouring over the strainer and cup with a point of his finger. He floated the cup and saucer wordlessly, letting it hover in the air until Dumbledore had no choice but to take it. There was only a moment's pause before the Headmaster took a seat with as much grace as he could muster.
“I must say Harry, I was rather surprised to receive your ethereal summons. Especially since Mr Longbottom had only left half an hour before.”
“Prongs needed some exercise,“ Harry said with an admirably straight face. There had been few opportunities to use the spell Tonks had taught him all those months ago, given he wasn’t supposed to have a wand and had little cause to summon anyone he didn’t see daily anyway. He could have floo called the Longbottom estate, hoped Dumbledore was still dealing with Augusta’s tirade. Gone to Hogwarts if not. But he was sick of chasing after the man, begging for the smallest bit of attention. If there was any benefit from the prophecy it was that he finally knew that he was the most important person here. At least when it came to Voldemort. And he was done begging.
“He was looking very fine,” Dumbledore conceded with a slight smile, “Lady Longbottom was quite impressed.”
“Augusta has good taste.” Two points to him in four words. A subtle compliment to himself, and an easy indication that he had a closer relationship to a powerful and influential family than Dumbledore did.
It seemed, however, that the Headmaster wasn’t in the mood to play games. He took a sip of tea, gently placed the teacup back on the saucer, and clasped his hands together on the table. Peering at Harry through his half-moon glasses, his blue eyes seemed to dim.
“What is it you’d like to discuss?” No ‘my dear boy’, no ‘Harry’. For once, it felt like they were on something close to an equal footing.
“Tell me everything you know about the prophecy.” It was not a request and Dumbledore knew it, his brow furrowed. It was only then that Harry realised the man was meeting his eyes. Perhaps it was his proficiency with Occlumency now, or perhaps there were no secrets worth keeping from Voldemort now the prophecy was out. He hoped it wasn’t the latter. If a vague prophecy had been their only ace they were all doomed.
Next to him, Neville shuffled slightly. Harry refused to let his eyes be drawn.
Then Dumbledore sighed, eyes flicking to Sirius, who said nothing in objection; only raised a dark eyebrow.
He began to weave a tale of a meeting in the Hogs Head, all those years ago. The darkness of the war drawing in, the creeping paranoia felt by both sides, and the vacant position of divination professor.
“Do not tell me it was Trelawney,” Harry demanded.
It was Trelawney, of course.
A prophecy to defeat a dark lord, given by a hack in the back room of a dingy pub, with only one man there to hear it.
“So how did Voldemort learn about it, if no one was with you?” Harry asked.
If possible, Dumbledore looked more uncomfortable, stroking his long white beard whilst considering his answer. “Supporters of both sides often hung around the Hogs Head, hoping to glean information from opponents who were deep in their cups. Unfortunately, not expecting to receive a prophecy, I took no precautions against eavesdropping. They did not hear the full prophecy, but they were removed before I could handle the situation.”
“And they told Voldemort,” Harry concluded easily. “Who was it?”
“I don’t think that matters any more,” Dumbledore said firmly.
Harry’s reply was blunt and immediate. “I disagree.”
“It was many years ago now, and many things have changed in that tim-”
“Cut the bullshit, Albus.” Sirius’ lip was curled, twisting his face into a perfect pureblood look of haughty revulsion. “Everyone knows it was Snape.”
Neville actually startled beside him, reaching immediately for a drink of wine to cover it. For a moment, Harry’s mind went blank.
“Now Sirius-”
“No. Make your excuses if you must, but don’t lie for him. He was a filthy snivelling Death Eater, and he only came crawling back when he realised Lily’s life was on the line.”
“Wait, what?” Harry was struggling to keep up.
“Your mum and Snape grew up together, knew each other before Hogwarts.” Sirius shared this information as if it was no more shocking than the weather, a flippancy that Harry found rather irritating. “They were friends until fifth year.”
“When the behaviour of you and James made such a friendship untenable.” Dumbledore’s voice was mildly chiding, though there was an undercurrent of something heavier.
Sirius barked a sharp laugh, and his reply was quick, without a hint of regret. “When he called her a Mudblood in front of half the year group and she decided she’d had enough of trying to save him from himself.”
“He may not have found himself so keen to ingratiate himself with his peers if you did not insist on tormenting him.”
“Shouldn’t have made himself so easy to torment then should he?” Sirius drawled, shockingly cruel. “He was determined to be wretched from day one, greasy little snake.”
“You would think given the similarities of your upbringings -”
“Enough!” Harry shouted, with a slam of his hand on the table. The crockery rattled, and he caught his wine before it toppled, taking a deep breath to calm down. “No one is debating whether Sirius was a bully - which he was - or whether Snape had a sad little life that drove him into Voldemort's pasty arms. Which, by the way, I don’t fucking care about. I grew up with a cupboard for a bedroom and you don’t see me spouting supremacist nonsense.”
This was news to Neville, who blanched and gasped and clenched a fist, just visible from the corner of his eye. It was clearly not news to Dumbledore, who at least had the decency to look suitably guilty, curling in on himself like a weight had been placed on his back.
When he first got to Hogwarts he presumed they all knew, given the letter had been addressed to his cupboard. Hermione had cleared up that misconception when she was still in her phase of spouting knowledge from Hogwarts: A History in an attempt to make conversation with anyone who would listen. Whilst the letters were hand written, the addresses were added by a magical quill. Which didn’t mean Dumbledore hadn’t known of course. Dedalus Diggle had been in and out of Grimmauld last summer, and never seemed to realise how quiet Harry got when he would talk about keeping an eye on him at the Dursleys. But if he’d seen anything he never mentioned it. And maybe he hadn’t. He’d never struck Harry as particularly observant. And now he was dead, of course.
Mostly likely, anyway, Sirius had thrown it in Dumbledore’s face during one of their rows last year. Never one to shy away from using trauma to get one over on someone. A trait he shared with Snape, actually. And as he thought that he laughed out loud, embarrassingly high pitched, concerningly brittle.
“All these years he’s mocked me for being a celebrity and he’s the cause? All those times he took the piss out of my dad, and he’s the reason he’s dead? He killed him, and he still can’t get over some school bullying?” I’ll kill him, he thought, cold with rage, One day..
“On the one hand, attacking a professor would be bad for my reputation,” he mused in barely more than a whisper, dripping with vitriol. “On the other, well, he’s not exactly in anyone’s good books is he. ‘The boy-who-lived takes revenge on his bullying, Death Eater professor’. I think Andromeda could sell it, don’t you?”
“Undoubtedly,” Sirius agreed, with a dark, savage grin. His eyes were sparkling with malice, and Harry suspected he was glad to have something to replace the week’s anxiety. “I rather think she’d delight in it.”
“I’m sure my gran would send a letter in support,” Neville offered, only a slight tremble in his voice. “She’s sent more than a few to you, I believe, sir.” It was a pointed remark, and well deserved. Harry knew how Snape had eaten away at his friend’s confidence, nibbling at him every class, taking chunks out of him every exam.
A few tense seconds passed, counted by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Harry took a sip of wine, starting to understand how people came to savour the burn of alcohol. Placing it back on the table, he duplicated the glass, murmuring the spell lightly under his breath. There was a moment he thought it wouldn’t work without a wand, then it appeared on the table, crystal perfectly formed. It took only a heartbeat for it to fill with wine (he’d known Kreacher would be watching, he always was). He offered the glass to Sirius, a minor peace offering and a show of unity combined. His godfather took the glass gracefully, fingers accidentally brushing against his, and took a deep sip, tongue darting out to lick his lips. As he placed the glass between them on the table it refilled without prompting.
“Professor Snape is a difficult and complicated man, and I cannot deny that he has treated both of you abysmally. He is, however, of value to me.”
They were on dangerous ground now. Snape’s status as a spy was the worst kept secret in wizarding Britain, given it was how he escaped an Azkaban sentence. However, only the most trusted Order members knew how deep Dumbledore’s faith ran, and if Voldemort ever realised it his days as a double agent would be over. Harry couldn’t reconcile that faith with what he now knew the man had done. People could change, of course; on the surface at least. But deep down below? He wondered if Snape still believed in some of what Voldemort valued. There must have been something he found enticing. There must be something so many powerful, intelligent people found enticing. It hit Harry that he had little awareness of what that was.
“I cannot have students threatening my employees, Harry.” Dumbledore had clearly taken the stony silence as a challenge.
“I won’t be a student forever.” Was what Harry said in reply, though he suspected by that point he’d have greater concerns than one once Death Eater. Dumbledore wasn’t an idiot and he wasn’t as soft as people thought. If he thought Snape was useful, likely he was. Not that any of it mattered. His anger was a forest fire, hot and fierce and sparked in an instant, no care for what was in its path. Once doused it rarely flared back to life, and in the ashes new things grew. One day he would look at Snape and feel absolutely nothing, most likely (if he didn’t kill him first).
Before Dumbledore could try to sway him, Harry got back on track. “Why were you so determined that I not find out?”
“Is it really so hard to understand Harry?” The resultant silence suggested yes, it was. “I wanted you to have a normal childhood, free from the weight of destiny. It is, I think, what Lily and James would have wanted.”
Sirius snorted, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t realise they’d left you instructions.”
“Let us not forget that you also chose not to tell Harry, Sirius.” The Headmaster’s tone had gone from chiding to full disapproval. It was wasted on the Black Lord, who cared impressively little for others' opinions.
“Because I was outvoted by the Order, despite my protestations,” Sirius said dismissively. “And I worried that you would keep him from me if I did not agree.” Then he glanced at Harry, ran a hand through his hair, looked away, and Harry knew that wasn’t the whole story.
“Tell me,” he said, softer than he intended in the face of Sirius’ nervousness.
“I did start to wonder if he was right,” Sirius said carefully. “It’s like the star charts, you remember?”
Harry did. No Black could read their own chart until they were seventeen, lest they change the future or crumble under the weight of it. Walburga was proof that even at seventeen some predictions were best left unknown. And he understood, then, how the decision to keep it secret had been reinforced throughout the year, despite Harry’s growing desperation to know what was at the end of that corridor, and what had led Voldemort to Godric’s Hollow.
“Your parents would have told you,” Sirius said with sad certainty. “The Potters were never afraid of destiny, and Lily had faith in the will of the gods. It was me that was - I was weak. I didn’t want to see what the knowing would do to you.”
It was hard to meet that sadness with anger. Harry didn’t bother to try. Just gave a small, barely perceptible nod and filed the conversation away for later, when there wasn’t an audience.
“I presume my connection with Voldemort also had an impact?” he said to Dumbledore, who was watching them with keen eyes.
The man nodded gravely. “He only ever heard part of the prophecy, and it became clear when he returned that he was desperate to know the rest. We cannot know how much access Voldemort has to your own knowledge. Or had, at least. Sirius assures me you are quite proficient when it comes to Occlumency now.”
“Enough to get by,” replied Harry. He doubted it would hold up if Voldemort was right in front of him but then again, by that point he’d have worse things to deal with.
The most important question was all that was left. “What do you think it means?”
“No one can say for certain. As I’m sure you have learnt from your hosts, prophecies are not an exact science. They are often vague and open to interpretation. There are, for example, many children born as the seventh month dies. Having parents that have thrice defied the dark lord does narrow it down a bit, but what does it mean by defy? There could be any number of people who defied him in small ways that you and I will never be aware of.”
“But you clearly thought it was me or Harry, or you wouldn’t have told our parents to hide.” Neville, who before today had possibly never had a conversation with the headmaster, kept his voice admirably level. The shine of him had rather worn off for Harry, who had been the victim of his fallibility too many times to hold him as a god. For Neville, he suspected there was still a hint of awe, lessened, perhaps, by seeing him humbled by his grandmother.
“It seemed the most likely answer, and I thought it prudent to act with an abundance of caution. Voldemort is a paranoid man, even superstitious in his way. I knew that he would act upon it, and that he would look to those most powerful. The heir to House Longbottom, the child of two aurors, was an obvious choice. And Harry Potter, son of an old and distinguished bloodline, child of two people brave, intelligent and powerful. Some would have assumed that he would have disregarded you, due to your mixed blood, but-”
“He saw himself in me,” Harry finished for him. “He presumed the most likely candidate would be the one most like himself.”
“You begin to understand him, I see.”
“He likes to monologue,” Harry answered dryly. We share a mind, sometimes, he didn’t say. I doubt there’s any who know him better. “So he chose me, and put the prophecy in motion right? ‘Mark him as his equal’ refers to my scar? So if he’d just ignored it, what, it would be irrelevant?”
“A self-fulfilling prophecy?” Sirius clarified his question.
“Like Oedipus.” They’d discussed this during his divination lessons, the perils of prophecy, and the things done to avoid them. “Though there’s the theory that they would happen regardless right? That even if they’d ignored the prophecy and never sent him away he still would have somehow ended up…” he trailed off, unable to bring himself to mention sex in front of someone so ancient.
“Yes, the likelihood is even if he hadn’t come after you in particular, there’d have been a confrontation eventually. An attack on Diagon Alley when James and Lily were out shopping, or later, when you were old enough to stand against him yourself. They could have fled, and still you might have met by chance. Or perhaps not. No one knows for sure Harry, that’s the problem. It’s all just guesswork.”
“But Voldemort believes it. So even if I think it’s rubbish, he’ll be after me anyway.” In that sense the truth of the prophecy was irrelevant. What mattered was what it had led to; a mad man determined to kill him. But also, a mad man that was, for once, afraid. “And ‘the power he knows not’?”
“I have pondered over that for many years Harry, and I have only been able to reach one conclusion.” He paused purposefully, looking directly into Harry’s troubled green eyes (there was no itching in his head, though he looked for it, no attempt to see deeper into his mind). “Love.”
And Harry stared at him blankly for the longest second. Then he laughed and laughed and laughed, whole body, head on the table, tears streaming.
Until Sirius put a hand on his shoulder in concern, quickly shrugged off.
Then he looked at Dumbledore’s sad, blue eyes, and he told him to get the hell out.
—--------
Neville left shortly after, with a promise to share what he’d learnt with no one but his gran. Kreacher, never ashamed to be eavesdropping, had spent the whole conversation skulking nearby and swooped in as soon as their guest left, swiping the wine glasses from the table with a glare, as if he suspected Harry was drunk.
On his way out he stopped by Sirius, standing by the fireplace, and hissed “Master will fix this.” How the implied ‘or else’ would materialise was not expanded upon. Once, when Sirius had hit Harry with a particularly vicious spell during duelling practice and flayed the skin from his back, Kreacher had cooked only his most hated meals for eight days straight. Sirius had eaten the creamy piles of mixed fish and the plates of liver and onion and the pie of blackbirds baked in a pastry coffin that put Harry off his own meal of perfectly good carbonara, and he’d done it without complaint. It was days before he would look Harry in the eye, and he only stopped pulling his shots in practice when Harry sliced two of his fingers off and had to be taught how to reattach them. Harry was not sure where this ranked in Kreacher’s long list of offences committed by his master. Quite high would be his guess.
Sirius re-took his seat at the table, after kicking the chair so it faced Harry more directly. “Ballsy,” he said, after giving Harry another once over.
“Figured I should make the most of my leverage while he felt bad enough to let me use it.”
“Spoken like a true Slytherin,” Sirius smiled weakly, an old joke that evoked a ghost of humour.
“I don’t think bravery alone is going to defeat Voldemort, do you?”
“Harry…” Sirius went to touch him again, pulled back before Harry could flinch away. “You know you don’t have to, right? No one can make you fight him because of some stupid prophecy.”
“He’s coming for me whether I want to fight him or not,” Harry countered. “And the public - they expect it of me now. Imagine I just stood by and let it happen. I couldn’t stay here. And I couldn’t live with myself.” The shame of it, if he ran. That sting of cowardice he felt so often as a child. It would taint his entire life.
And
“Part of me wants to kill him,” Harry whispered, so low Sirius had to lean in. “Part of me, a really small part of me, is glad for the prophecy. Because I wanted to do it anyway and this…”
“Gives you an excuse,” Sirius finished with a nod.
“No one can tell me to turn the other cheek now, can they?” It was a hypothetical question, said with wry amusement, and one that made his godfather flash a savage smile in return. “And it means it’s possible. I have the power to vanquish Voldemort.” It was a heady thing to think about, something that could lead him down a dangerous path if he let it.
“Harry I-”
“Don’t.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, afraid if he looked at the man all that rage and pain would come rushing back. “I understand. I do. It just-”
“Doesn’t make it hurt less,” Sirius said sadly, knowingly. It was something he would understand. How long had it taken him to look at Remus without being reminded that the man had thought him a traitor? To sit across a table from Dumbledore and not lunge for his throat with Padfoot’s slathering, sharp teeth? He may have understood why they had thought him a traitor, why they hadn’t saved him. That hadn’t made it hurt any less. Only time had managed that.
“Just…don’t stay cooped up in your room, okay? It’s not good for you. And Kreacher says it’s starting to smell.”
Harry (in a welcome reminder to his godfather that despite everything he was still a normal teenager) rolled his eyes and returned to doing just that.