Chapter Text
As November approaches December, Harry finds his time split between homework, Coalition meetings and Quidditch practice.
The first needs no explanation - as the end of the winter term approaches, the professors seem hell-bent on drilling the O.W.L.S. preparation into the minds and magic of every fifth year in the school. Even Ron, who normally is more lackadaisical about his work, finds himself staying late at the library to cram for the next day.
Coalition meetings are more enjoyable, but also more demanding than his curricular work. Sometimes it feels as though he and Percy are constantly planning for upcoming lessons, stopping each other between classes to exchange pieces of parchment covered in notes on their ideas and proposals for one another. Since the Disarming Lesson, the O.W.L.S. students covered the general counter-curse, Protego Duo (and its physical uses), as well as Stupefy. The N.E.W.T.S. students had covered the Imperturbable charm and general non-verbal versions of various spells, with Harry joining in on lessons while the O.W.L.S. students practised.
As the meetings progress, Harry finds that he is actually improving at teaching. His critiques come out softer, and his encouragement carries more enthusiasm, leaving the members of the Coalition with more confidence than they had when they walked in. He finds that he is so proud of himself that he almost enjoys going to Umbridge’s DADA lessons. Not to actually listen or learn, but to compare his teaching to Umbridge and think smugly about his obvious superiority.
It’s petty, sure, but it’s also really satisfying.
In Coalition news unrelated to lessons, Fred and George have taken to using the Coalition members as a means to sell more of their sweets, much to the displeasure of Hermione and the amusement of Harry. So far, Hermione has attempted to stop fifteen sales and failed to stop seventeen, leaving the twins satisfied enough with their odds to keep the charade going. For his part, Harry sees it as no major issue and delights in watching the low-stakes chaos and arguments the three of them have mid-meeting.
Besides her attempted take-down of Fred and George’s snack business, Hermione’s other Coalition-related worry seems to have decreased. As more meetings pass, Hermione seems to become increasingly relaxed in her wariness of Percy, which Harry takes to be a big win. Maybe it has something to do with how he teaches, or his gentleness with younger students, or the way that he lets some of the less confident students beat him, but something seemed to have endeared him to her to a point where she no longer stares at him with her lips pursed in perpetual suspicion.
(This, however, hasn’t completely dampened her curiosity. Harry doesn’t miss the way she slips into sections of the library unrelated to their school work.)
Besides the Coalition, Quidditch is arguably the most stressful thing occupying Harry’s mind.
Since the instatement of the educational decree, Angelina had spent a good majority of her time creating her appeal; only to get it rejected immediately, while the Ravenclaw and Slytherin were allowed to practise, leaving her and Cedric to scramble for a second appeal. It was only with the help of their heads of houses that they were able to finally get their team approved, but even that was weeks after Slytherin and Ravenclaw had been back on the pitch.
As a result, Angelina had been running them into the ground with drills and practices, leaving his body constantly sore, and his hair in an even worse state than usual.
It’s coming home from one of these practices that he sees Hedwig, flying towards him with a letter between her talons.
Since Ron is staying back for a couple more drills with the keepers, Harry and Hedwig are the only ones in the hallway.
“Hey there, girl,” he says as she perches on his shoulder. “What have you got there?”
As he grabs the letter from her, she relaxes her grip, letting him pull the parchment away from her easily. He unrolls it gingerly.
Gryffindor fireplace. Tonight at half-nine.
Snuffles.
He casts a tempus and curses when he realises it’s already quarter-past. He picks up the pace, running through the hallways towards Gryffindor Tower with renewed fervour.
He makes it into the common room with ten minutes to spare and enough time to change out of his Quidditch practice robes. By the time he reaches the fireplace, the minute hand is rapidly approaching the six.
The heat from the coals is pleasant, warming him to his bones and ridding the persistent November chill from his body. As he promised, Sirius’s head appears in the flames the moment the time hits half-nine.
“Hey there, Harry,” he says, “How’s Hogwarts been treating you so far?”
“Not too bad.” Harry is aware that he is smiling wildly, unable to contain the joy that comes with talking to his godfather. “Though, my scar’s been hurting something awful.”
Sirius’s coaly face frowns.
“I don’t think that’s something too concerning,” he admits, “It makes sense for it to be hurting more now that he’s returned.”
“You don’t think it has anything to do with… anyone I’ve been interacting with?” Harry asks slowly.
Sirius shakes his head.
“Unless you’ve been interacting with another Quirrel I’d say you’re in the clear on that front,” he says wryly, “Plus, I don’t think Dumbledore would let any Deatheaters into the school anyway.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Harry mutters, “Umbridge is awful enough to be one.”
“The world isn’t split into deatheaters and good people, my boy,” Sirius says, “Though I know it does seem that way sometimes. I know of that woman. Trust me when I say she doesn’t want a war as much as you and I.”
Harry frowns, but drops it.
“Is there something specific you wanted to call about?” Harry asks, cutting to the chase. “Or is this a purely-pleasure related call?”
“Of course it’s not.” Sirius looks pained. “Just… wanted to ease you into the topic before I dumped it all on you.”
At this, Harry leans forward.
“What do you mean?”
Sirius’s infernal face looks conflicted before it settles into something more grim.
“I’ve been hearing whispers about your friend, Percy,” Sirius admits. “Snape reported to Dumbledore about what happened while he was held captive.”
“What happened?” Harry asks, “Like, besides him being tortured?”
Harry’s voice is blunt even to his own ears.
“Have some tact there, Prongslet, blimey,” he mutters, “But yes. Snape of course wasn’t present for most of Jackson’s imprisonment, since he would’ve recognized him, but heard that he has abilities far beyond any normal wizard. Maybe even beyond Dumbledore or Voldemort themselves.”
Sirius looks pained, as if sharing this knowledge with him hurts him physically.
“I know that he’s your friend Harry, but I wanted to warn you to be careful. Sometimes people are more than what they seem.” Sirius goes quiet.
Of course, Harry could tell him that he already knows this, that it’d been clear to him since the moment in the graveyard that Percy is something beyond the normal wizard.
He doesn’t.
Because for Sirius, this is more than a warning. This is him begging Harry not to make the same mistake he did, trusting Pettigrew.
“I’ll be careful,” Harry promises, deliberately vague. “Promise.”
Sirius stares at him critically, like he’s trying to decide if he believes him.
Harry clears his throat.
“Any other news?”
“Only that the Ministry is more ridiculous than ever,” Sirius grumbles, snapping out of whatever stupor his worry had stuck him in, “That Umbridge woman, the one you said won’t teach you anything? Supposedly she’s been instructed to do that in order to prevent students from being trained in combat.”
“Trained in combat?” Harry says, deliberately not thinking about the Coalition, “Do they think we’re running some child army?”
“That’s exactly what they think you’re doing,” Sirius confirms, “Or rather, what they think Dumbledore is doing. Fudge seems to be convinced that Dumbledore will do anything to have power at the Ministry. I’m personally surprised he hasn’t tried to have the old man arrested yet to give Umbridge more power.”
Harry desperately does not want to think about Hogwarts with Umbridge at the helm instead of Dumbledore.
For all that Dumbledore is suspicious and questionable around Percy, he at least does his work without impeding on the education of the students. The same cannot be said for the Ministry, which is deliberately failing the youth in order to cling to whatever influence it has.
When Harry doesn’t speak, Sirius continues.
“Look, I know that that all sounds pretty terrible, but I was thinking that for your next Hogsmeade weekend—”
“No. No way,” Harry says firmly. “You can’t. The risk is too high.”
“But they never really know where I am,” Sirius insists, “Not as Snuffles.”
“I don’t think we can risk that form being compromised,” Harry mutters, “Especially since Pettigrew will know it. The chance that he hasn’t told his Lord about it is abysmally low. It’s too dangerous.”
“The risk is what made it exciting for James,” Sirius mutters, almost seeming like he’s talking to himself.
“Yeah, well, I’m not my father.” Harry’s heart aches as the words leave his mouth.
Sirius stares at him forlornly.
“But in some ways you are,” he whispers, “That’s the hard part.”
Sirius’s head disappears from the fire with a pop but no goodbye.
Harry thinks about the expression on his godfather’s face until he falls asleep, when it’s replaced by a crowd of Death Eaters that grovel at his feet.
He’s back in that big drawing room, the one with portraits decorating the walls and the mahogany furnishings.
Harry’s eyes fall onto a blond man.
“Lucius. I trust that our plans are set in motion?”
Malfoy visibly swallows.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Harry smiles, pleased.
“Good,” he whispers. “The more information we have on him the better.”
“What is so important about this boy, my Lord,” utters a peculiarly brave follower, “If it is not so terrible of me to ask?”
Harry cocks his head to the side, his eyes fixed on the speaker. It’s someone he doesn’t recognize, with curly dark hair that stays tied at the base of his neck.
“That boy holds a power greater than any of you—” Harry says that last word venomously, “—Could ever fathom. Lucius’ mission is to give us a greater idea of what exactly we can do with that power when the boy is in our clutches once more.”
Harry’s eyes flick towards another deatheater. This one he recognizes. It’s the wizard Voldemort tortured when he found out that Percy escaped.
“When this is accomplished, I trust that there will be no repeat of the last time,” he drawls, “Correct, Dolohov?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Good,” Harry mutters. “It is important to me that you all understand the gravity of the situation. Having that boy in our grasp could be the difference between your deaths and our glorious victory. Do you understand that?”
Mumbles of yes, my Lord rumble through the crowd, but otherwise, there is no other movement. It’s as if Voldemort commanded an army of statues, waiting to be animated by their master.
“That boy is our key to destroying the old coot and Harry Potter in one fell swoop,” he declares, “When I hold his power in my hands, we will have finally won.”