Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Milliphutt Meeting Room
On the first floor of the Ministry of Magic, wedged into the far corner of the dingy Milliphutt Meeting Room, stands an enormous grandfather clock. It’s an ornate – even fussy – thing, with carved vines sprouting from every surface, and topped by a pair of cherubs aiming arrows at one another, their fixed blank eyes completely at odds with their mischievous grins. The case has a glass door, through which Harry’s gaze follows the dull brass pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth, hour after hour and week after week. All quite ordinary, then, except that between the pendulum and the cherubs, right where the clock face should sit, surrounded by a delicate gold leaf frame, there’s… nothing.
No, that’s not quite it. There are gears and levers of various sizes – the inner workings of the clock exposed – and behind them all a gaping darkness. But the face is missing – there are no numbers, and at the very centre the hands themselves are gone too, rendering the slow rotation of cogs within utterly futile.
When Harry first started attending these Wednesday lunchtime meetings, hungry and tired and bored to distraction, he’d naturally assumed the clock was magical. Perhaps it was charmed so that only the speaker could tell the time, or could secretly indicate if a meeting was running over. But one by one, each of his theories was proven false, until finally he thought to ask Hermione, pulling her aside one day just as Percy called everyone to attention. Whatever solution he expected to hear, though, he was disappointed – she just frowned at him, glanced sidelong at the clock as if she’d never noticed it before, and said tersely that no, it was Muggle, before settling down and pulling out her files.
Why would the Ministry keep a broken Muggle clock on display? It makes no sense whatsoever, of course, but yet there it is, crammed incongruously between a dying houseplant and a portrait of Minister McPhail in a velvet top hat. And it’s not just Hermione – no one else seems to notice, or to care, preoccupied as they are with their important discussions, and their demanding jobs, and their busy lives.
Harry doesn’t have a demanding job, or a busy life, and he has nothing important to add to discussions. Harry has his lonely, sterile flat, his old racing broom (gathering dust), his Cloak, and these weekly torture sessions at the Ministry, where critical decisions are made, and essential tasks meted out, with none ever falling to Harry. Tired, perhaps, of being met with blank stares, the others have long since stopped asking for his opinions. He’s really there as Boy-Who-Lived window-dressing, more a name than a person, or possibly, even worse, as a favour to Hermione. It doesn’t matter – either way, he’s as broken and worthless as the old clock, and the constant sway of the pendulum right in his eye-line does nothing except serve as a deeply irritating reminder of that, week after week.
The room is kept uncomfortably warm – for Danto, Harry assumes, the scheming, bloodthirsty head of Creature Liaison – and the cushioning charms are laid on so thick that sitting down feels like sinking into a cloud, and so every week, it takes mere seconds for the clock’s thunk-thunk-thunk to lull Harry into a stupor. If he focuses hard enough for long enough, sometimes he can almost spot a tiny stutter in its movements. It’s wishful thinking of course; he’s willing it to pause, for time to stop, for something – anything – that might get him out of this ridiculous seat, away from these dull people, out of this stuffy, overcrowded room. But it never does. Back and forth it swings, Harry’s sleepy eyes tracking it, hating it, and on and on goes each interminable meeting.
No matter the topic, they’re all the same. Kingsley’s deep, measured baritone. Jory’s heavy, cheerful accent. Danto’s sarcastic drawl. Slughorn’s drawn out, self-important, digressions. Hermione’s passionate pleas. The conversation might occasionally become heated, or perhaps there’ll be a pause, followed by a few restrained laughs. But eventually things always start to die down; more shuffling, the occasional yawn. Longer silences, discomfited groans, the rumble of empty bellies. Then finally, just as Harry feels he can take no more, the scrape of a chair heralds Percy getting to his feet. That’s Harry’s cue, the moment he’s been waiting for, and he straightens, slightly, waiting for Percy to line up his file and shuffle it against the polished wood. When the rustle comes, Harry allows himself the hint of a smile, and cocks his head, anticipating the throat clearing.
A-hem!
Any other business? Harry thinks silently; the question taking on a cruel nasal whine in his mind.
“Any other business?”
Another chair is pushed back, and heels planted firmly, decisively on the floor. Collective sighs echo through the room as Hermione launches into action, her speech timed to perfection as always. But Harry doesn’t care. As soon as she’s talked them all into exhausted acquiescence, it’ll be over for another week, and he can focus on donning his Cloak, slipping out of the door unnoticed, and getting back home to…
Well, to somewhere that isn’t here.
It’s not like there’s nothing to do at his flat. He could – he really should – make a start on that enormous pile of letters on his desk. Or he could Floo over to Grimmauld, grab his post, check the place hasn’t fallen to ruin, that Kreacher hasn’t finally popped his clogs right in the middle of the dining room table. But, then again… perhaps not. Maybe he’ll go round to Ron’s, find out how the twins are getting on. Although – no, Ron takes them out swimming on a Wednesday afternoon, doesn’t he? Frustrated, Harry taps his fingers on the underside of the desk. His thoughts turn, as they often do, to flying, and he glances out of the charmed window, where the sky’s a heavy slate-grey, wind whipping the last of the autumn leaves in endless circles on the pavement.
None of it makes a difference anyway.
“Mr Potter! Mr Potter!”
Harry feigns obliviousness, ducking his head and cursing under his breath. He’d chosen his usual chair nearest to the door, and had been on his feet before the final syllable of the word adjourned had left Percy’s lips. He should have made it out unbothered. In his pocket, his fist clenches around the silky fabric of his shrunken Cloak.
“Harry!”
He pauses, closing his eyes for a long second, before affecting a smile so false it almost pains him, just as the inevitable fingers land heavily on his shoulder. He spins round, trying not to shrug them off too forcefully.
“Horace?”
Slughorn swallows a couple of times, drawing a large emerald handkerchief from his robes to dab at his forehead. He’s breathing hard – as well he might be, thinks Harry, given the utter impossibility of extracting one’s self from those damned squishy chairs.
“Harry, my boy. So glad I caught you.”
“How can I help, Horace?”
“Oh, it’s nothing important. Not really. It’s just… I rather wondered…”
Several others have caught up with them now – Harry can see them hovering behind Slughorn, waiting their turn. They’re eavesdropping too, of course; the confidentiality charm on the room might prevent them from mentioning Harry at all, let alone passing it on, but – well, gossip’s still gossip.
“You see, it’s just so rare to spot you out and about these days, except for at these meetings, and – well, I know you’re a busy man, but I simply had to ask…”
Hermione’s joined the crowd of onlookers now, muttering something to Percy, her face gone tight with worry.
“…I did mention it, I don’t know if you got my owl… or the one before? No? Oh, no need to apologise, it’s hardly important…”
There are voices in the corridor outside, and Harry clenches his teeth, toes curling in his shoes and nails digging deeper into his palm. God, he needs to get it together. Perhaps after this he’ll finally work up the courage to tell Hermione where she can stick her stupid policy meetings. But then again, perhaps not.
“…little engagement party I’m throwing, and I know it would mean so much to them if you could attend. Such a beautiful couple – and I should know, I made the match myself. Not that I go around shouting about it, of course.” Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes as Slughorn continues, louder and more insistent. “Matters of the heart, Harry – it’s a gift. In fact, as I’ve told many a young couple, there’s no need to thank me, I’m merely acting as love’s conduit. It’s my privilege, really.”
His foot nudges against Harry’s just briefly, dragging forth a response.
“Mmm? Oh yes, of course.”
“So, can we count on your appearance?”
“What? Sorry, I…”
“You can bring a plus-one, naturally. I imagine you do have a plus-one, Harry? I’m not prying, you understand, not like those awful gossips at the Prophet…” He wrinkles his nose, squeezing Harry’s shoulder in sympathy.
“A plus-one? I mean, no, I—”
The whole room’s gone quiet now. Kingsley’s gone, and Percy, but otherwise no one else is making any more towards the door. Everyone’s usually so desperate to leave. Why aren’t they sodding leaving?
“No plus-one? No special lady – or gentleman, I suppose – in your life? No? Well, I must confess I’d rather hoped you might say that. As it happens, you’re in luck.”
“Luck?”
“Luck!” echoed Slughorn, brightly. “Tremendous luck. Now, don’t get too excited, but I think I’ve found just the one for you. Lovely girl. Very accommodating.” He leans in to Harry. “Very discreet. You do still go for, er, both, don’t you?”
There’s a snicker from the back of the crowd. Harry can’t even answer, just lets out a pained sort of noise which Slughorn must take as agreement, because the smile returns to his face, brighter than ever. “Excellent. So. Violet. She’s my sister’s youngest, in fact. Hmm,” he continues, reaching deep into his pockets, “I know I have a picture in here somewhere…”
Harry shakes his head, trying to dispel the fog. “Oh no. Please, Horace, I don’t want…”
“Patience, dear boy,” says Slughorn firmly, discarding a handful of owl treats with a frown. “It’s no wonder you haven’t found Miss Right yet with that attitude. You and Violet would look absolutely perfect together at the party, let me just… ha!” He pulls out a crumpled photograph, wiping it a couple of times on his sleeve, before thrusting it towards Harry. As he reaches out for it, though, there’s a commotion behind him, and he turns to find a huge silver cat materialising from beneath the table. It stalks straight towards him, passing through the crowd of onlookers, a trail of smoke following it. Slughorn takes a reluctant step back, grumbling, and the creature stares at him for a second, pointed ears twitching, before its enormous jaws open, revealing sharp teeth beneath.
“Harry,” it begins – Kingsley’s voice, of course – and the tension behind that single word makes Harry’s heart leap into his throat. He’s never been too keen on surprises, and he still has nightmares from the last time a Lynx Patronus appeared out of thin air.
“We’ve just been alerted to an emergency down in the Beast Division,” the creature continues, its expression grave. “It requires your urgent assistance. Please make your way there immediately via the nearest Floo.”
An emergency requiring his assistance? Harry almost snorts. More than half the people in this building would be better suited to dealing with an emergency than Harry, he has no doubt. What qualifications might he employ in the Beast Division, anyway? A NEWT in pissing off the press? A degree in fucking up Auror training? He can’t even remember the last time he cast an offensive spell. Besides, after that ridiculously dull meeting, part of him wants to send his stag soaring back to Kingsley with a rude noise. But he’s technically employed as a Ministry consultant – another of Hermione’s grand ideas – which he supposes makes Kingsley’s request actually an order.
He wavers a second longer, but then Slughorn clears his throat, and that makes up Harry’s mind. Any hideous creature that the Beast Division might throw at him has got to be preferable to being stuck here in the middle of all this. So as the last wisps of silver dissolve into the air, Harry turns towards the fireplace.
“Now hang on just a second there…” splutters Slughorn, behind him.
“Sorry, Horace,” says Harry, aiming for a regretful tone. “You heard Kingsley. Emergency, requiring my urgent assistance.”
Harry doesn’t wait for an answer, leaving a blustering Slughorn behind him. The eyes of the room are still on him, and he’s itchy and nervous as he heads over towards the Floo. To compound his frustration, Hermione gets there first, grabbing the little clay urn of powder and holding it just out of reach.
“Harry, I…” she begins, before falling silent. Harry looks at her, surprised to find her face moving through a complicated series of expressions. He wonders if she’s simply concerned for his safety – she knows how little proper magic he does these days, after all – but no. He knows Hermione. There’s something else going on.
Harry waits.
“It’s just… did he say the Beast Division?” she says, slowly.
“Yes…?”
“I…” Her right eye twitches as though she’s weighing up carefully what to say. Harry finds he doesn’t much care. His goal is clear: get down there, sort out whatever mess lies in wait, then put his beloved Cloak back on and get the hell out of the Ministry. That’s all that matters. He shuffles closer to her, reaches straight into the urn without waiting for a response. Hermione looks down and sighs. “No, you know what? Never mind.”
“Great.”
And before anyone else can interrupt him, he tosses the powder into the grate, mumbles ‘Beast Division’, closes his eyes and lets himself be swallowed by the flames.
It’s the smell that hits him first – or rather the smells, for they are numerous and extremely pungent. Firstly, there’s the musky, earthy scent familiar to him from childhood evenings spent drinking tea in Hagrid’s hut. Layered over that is the metallic, sour stench of raw meat, along with the sharp, brackish tang of seawater, all topped with an unsettling note of singed hair that reminds Harry of the time his accidental magic set Vernon’s moustache alight. The combination is overwhelming and eye-watering as it forces its way into Harry’s nostrils. and he ends up steadying himself against the mantlepiece, fighting the urge to gag. There’s a roaring in Harry’s ears too, and as he tries to recentre himself it sharpens, increasing in pitch and intensity, until he realises it’s not roaring at all – it’s screaming.
His eyes snap open, and the sight before him is so unexpected, so horrible, that he instinctively takes a step backwards, almost burning his foot in the fire. He’s in what appears to be some kind of enormous room, or warehouse – but no, that’s not quite right. The wall behind him is bare brick, and the floor is cold and synthetic-looking, but he can see movement in a patch of trees over to the left, and the sound of rushing water in the distance, and above him, clusters of birds are soaring back and forth, calling to each other, all beneath a warm blue cloudless sky.
Harry doesn’t have time to consider any of that, though, on account of the many-headed snake creature right in front of him.
It’s enormous, far bigger than Harry, and it seems angry, its scales gleaming in the artificial sunlight as its body ripples, thick, gelatinous saliva dripping from razor-sharp teeth inside each one of its twenty-or-so mouths. As Harry watches, stunned, the tip of its tail wriggles, and the screaming redoubles in intensity, and Harry realises with a sudden jolt that the lower half of the creature’s gigantic body is coiled tightly around something. Someone. And each of the coils is contracting and relaxing in turn, as though it’s squeezing.
There’s no one else around. Harry has to do something. He takes out his wand and grips it firmly, his hand shaking like a first-year practicing Transfiguration under McGonagall’s eagle eyes. He takes a tentative step forwards, the sound echoing in the enormous space, and the snake spots him then and pauses for a second, row upon row of slit-like eyes – horribly familiar – all focussing on Harry as one.
He swallows hard, fragments of half-remembered offensive spells running through his mind.
“’s there?” comes a voice, breathy and frantic, from beneath the creature. “...lp – me –!”
“Er, hello?” Harry says, taking another tiny step forwards, as a dozen necks shift to track his movements.
There’s a cough, followed by a wheezy but very distinctive, “Fucking hell.”
“What, uh—”
“G’na murder him. Found a Parselmouth, he says. Fuck’sake!”
“Oh,” says Harry, feeling stupid. Parseltongue, right. Obviously.
Only it’s been an age since Harry spoke Parseltongue, and he’s not actually certain he still can. But needs must, so, feeling foolish, wand arm shaking, he turns to look the largest head directly in the eyes.
“Let go of him!” Harry tries in his most commanding voice, both gratified and relieved when it comes out as an aggressive-sounding hiss. It doesn’t have the immediate effect he was hoping for, although the snake does pause in its efforts to crush its victim, peering at Harry curiously.
“Why?” asks the main head. Several others repeat the question afterwards in a slow, disconcerting chorus.
It’s a good question.
“Because I’m telling you to, Creature,” says Harry. “Or else I’ll—” He jabs his wand forwards, threateningly, and the beast cocks a few of its heads – nonplussed, if Harry’s not mistaken – but eventually lets out a sigh, all the tension dropping out of its coils, which fall with a thud to reveal a glimpse of a spluttering, slime-coated body in their centre.
“Let him out,” says Harry, and again the creature complies, unwinding its body just enough to allow the man to clamber up and over the lower coils. He stumbles as he does, cursing, then lifts his top to swipe at his face. His skin’s a ghostly silver-white beneath, marred with various scrapes and bruises, and a dark pink claw-shaped gash which winds around from his flank, and he’s breathing hard as he runs his free hand lightly over his ribs, examining them.
“Yuck. Merlin, now that was a close one,” the man says, half laughing, voice gone shaky with adrenaline. He lets go of his top, lifting his head to look at Harry. “Took you long enou—”
He stops, mid-sentence – no, mid-word – and for a moment, his mouth hangs open in shock. Familiar eyes narrow in disbelief, darting back and forth across Harry’s face. Up to his forehead they flick, and again, as if double- and triple-checking it’s really Harry.
To be fair, Harry can relate.
The thing is, no one’s heard from Malfoy in years. Over five years, to be precise – since that first long, hot, confusing summer, everything clouded in that post-war hazy mix of grief and celebration. The surviving Death Eaters and their sympathisers had been rounded up, stuck in holding cells or placed under house arrest while the Wizarding World drew its collective breath. It had been a long, drawn-out excess of emotion, which had sharpened under the quills of the tabloid press and curdled in the stifling July heat, until finally a nasty spate of vigilante justice attacks had broken out and spurred Kingsley into action. The trials were wrapped up in a matter of weeks, all punishments decisive and unforgiving and very, very public.
All except Malfoy’s, which was held behind closed doors in view of his age.
It had been Ron who’d shown Harry the article; greasy fingers shoving the newspaper across the breakfast table one morning at the Burrow. Lavender’s funeral had been the day before – it had taken months for her to succumb to her injuries – and they were all raw and hungover from alcohol and sentimentality.
Oi, look at this, Ron had said, through a mouthful of curative bacon – and there Malfoy was, Harry’s stomach churning at the sight. It was all very blurry, just a couple of seconds of lank blond hair, eyes bloodshot and lips bitten bloody, face nestled into his chest to hide from the flash of bulbs as someone out of shot shoved him roughly down the corridor. How the mighty have fallen, George had sneered, and they’d all laughed, and then the conversation had moved on and that was that.
Then the years had rolled past, and the world had righted itself, the torn fabric of society beginning to mend, and Harry’s friends had found work, and fallen in love, had married and reproduced. But Harry, for whom time had stopped somewhere between a well-chosen Expelliarmus and a poorly-chosen love affair, was stuck. His own life was tipping the wrong way, had begun to unwind, faster and faster, his brain slowing, curling in on itself, choking on monotony and dread.
The other Slytherins are around now too, hovering on the periphery of Harry’s narrowing little life; Zabini, running that Muggle-fusion fashion store on Diagon, Parkinson, working in PR for the Harpies, and to Ron’s eternal frustration, on-again-off-again with Ginny. The Greengrass sisters, stars of the society pages. Bulstrode, colleagues with Seamus in the Auror department. But from Malfoy, they’ve heard nothing. There are rumours, of course: that he’s changed his appearance completely, or moved abroad. Candid photographs of blond, pointy, confused Muggles sunbathing on the French Riviera or working in American roadside diners sometimes pop up in the press on a slow news day, but it’s quite plain that no one knows anything concrete.
So Harry can hardly be blamed for the fact that seeing Malfoy – still wearing his own face, still with that sharp, bitter countenance, but somehow so different – in the Ministry, just three floors down from that stupid conference room where he’d spent every single pointless Wednesday lunchtime for the last two pointless years, knocks him for six.
What the hell’s he doing there, anyway? Later that evening, as he Aguamentis his Pot Noodle, Harry wishes fervently that he’d actually bothered to look around properly; that his brain hadn’t frozen at the sight of Malfoy, flushed and fuming and covered in snake slime. That he hadn’t listened to Malfoy, who’d stood, hands on hips, as Harry had coaxed the snake-thing into a strange warded water tank, and then in lieu of thanks had told him to piss off. Honestly Potter, he’d said, haughty as ever, as though Harry had rudely interrupted him at some kind of formal event, if I have to make the choice between your so-called help and a gruesome demise, next time please kindly leave me to asphyxiate in peace. As if Harry had actually asked to be there.
All in all, it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to Harry in… well, a very long time.
Sunday dinner, then, at the Burrow; yet more weekly torture. Harry, a perpetual disappointment; a dark, awkward stain amidst the laughter and the teasing and the conversation that moves far too fast for him to even attempt to keep up with. Bill and Fleur are here this week, and they’ve brought the kids, and normally Harry would be grateful for the distraction, for the extra bodies there to divert Molly’s keen eyes away from him, but today he doesn’t care. Today, for the first time in a long time, he has something to ask. The question tingles on the back of his tongue, buzzes like a fly around his head until he’s halfway through dessert and can wait no longer. He sets his spoon down carefully; turns to Ron, who’s cramming sticky toffee pudding into his mouth, great blobs of ice-cream falling distractedly onto his napkin as his gaze flicks intermittently across the room to where Raya is asleep in her pram top under a Silencio.
Harry clears his throat. “Did you know?” he begins, but his tongue’s thick with unuse, and it comes out louder than intended. A hush falls over the table, Fleur’s tinkling laugh hanging in the air as the hubbub of voices dies out, and a line of ginger heads swivel, as one, towards him.
On instinct, he looks down.
“Go on, Harry,” says Hermione, gently. “You were about to say?”
“No,” mumbles Harry in the direction of his dessert, “it’s fine. It’s nothing. Carry on, really.”
“No, no,” insists Molly, syrupy sweet, reaching over to curl her fingers over his where they rest on the placemat. “Whatever you’ve got to say, we’d all love to hear it.”
Harry sighs; briefly considers inventing something but can’t quite manage to gather his thoughts. His head is fuzzy, warm, and all this attention is making him nauseous. “Well,” he says, voice terribly loud in the aching silence, “I was just going to ask Ron, er, and Hermione, if they knew that… that Malfoy was at the Ministry. That he works there. At least, I think he does.”
There’s a confused jumble of voices, and now Harry really wishes he’d never said anything. He takes another mouthful of warm toffee sauce, thinks wildly of Disapparating back home.
“Malfoy? At the Ministry?” he hears Percy ask, incredulously. “Draco Malfoy? Are you quite certain?”
“Sullying our beloved Ministry?” mimics Ginny, gasping theatrically while topping off her third glass of red wine and winking at her date. Harry watches the blob of melting vanilla slide slowly off the top of his pudding as she continues. “And without your knowledge, oh mighty undersecretary? Surely not.”
“Ginny!” says Molly sharply. “Don’t speak to your brother like that.”
Another whispered argument starts up from the other end of the table – a merciful distraction – and Ron kicks Harry lightly in the shin.
“You sure, Harry?” he murmurs. “Only no one’s heard from Malfoy in forever, right?”
“I thought he was spotted in St Tropez last month? That’s what Rita Skeeter said, anyway,” pipes up George, grinning, as Ginny elbows him in the ribs.
“Besides, mate, Hermione would have known, wouldn’t she?” says Ron, leaning forwards, his brow creased in concern. “Wouldn’t you, Mi?”
Hermione hums in agreement and looks down, fussing at Finn’s blanket. Her face is carefully neutral. All in all, it’s a good effort, thinks Harry. It might even fool someone who hasn’t known her for over a decade.
“Hermione?” Harry says. She still doesn’t look up, and Harry watches her fingers stroking again and again over dark curls. Finn’s eyelids flutter as he turns into her chest, and her arms tighten a fraction around his tiny, sleep-heavy body. Her face remains guarded, though, and Harry remembers the way she behaved after the meeting on Wednesday; the tension around her eyes, her careful choice of words.
“You did, didn’t you? You knew. You knew all along, and you kept it from me – from us – and…” He stops when he notices Ron glancing warily back and forth between the two of them, spoon hovering, mouth gone slack. Harry feels almost angry at her, although he couldn’t say why. It’s not as though he’d ever asked, of course. Not as though she’d lied.
“What?” she asks, shaking her head, but her hand stills as Harry narrows his eyes at her. “Well, I mean—”
“So what’s the bastard – sorry Mum! – what’s the little ferret up to now, then, Harry?” George cuts in.
“Hope they’ve got him doing something really awful,” says Bill, as Fleur squeezes his hand.
“Kingsley won’t have let him off easy,” says Molly, primly. “Lucius and Narcissa got exactly what they deserved, after all.”
Intimate details of the procedure which had been used to strip Lucius and Narcissa of all traces of magic had been front-page news for weeks. For over four long hours, the Head Unspeakable had worked on transforming them for all intents and purposes into the Muggles they’d once despised – and it seemed as though everyone who’d been in the Ministry that day had borne witness to their agony. Their wands had been ceremoniously snapped by Kingsley himself straight afterwards, the pieces displayed on Diagon along with all the others, in an unbreakable case just behind all the flower tributes. The last time Harry was there, people were still spitting at the glass as they passed by.
“Hope they’ve got him down in the mail room, covered in bird poo, opening all the Howlers,” says George. He waves his wand, and Percy’s napkin flies up into the air, rearranging itself into the shape of a Howler before exploding into a hundred tiny fragments, which rain down over a shrieking Louis and Victoire. Sorry, Angelina mouths at Molly, flicking her own wand to collect up the pieces.
“I hope he’s mopping all the floors, Muggle style,” adds Ron.
“Cleaning toilets. It’s all the poncy little prat deserves.”
“So what is it, Harry?” cuts in Arthur, voice soft. “What’s Malfoy up to?”
Everyone’s quiet again, waiting on Harry’s next words, and Hermione’s looking at him now, her eyes wide in warning. Harry thinks again about Malfoy – the state of him. He recalls the enormous scar which streaked across the exposed skin of Malfoy’s stomach, the way Malfoy’s voice shook as he clambered out of the snake’s grip. The little flicker of humiliation in his eyes just before he composed himself.
“Oh, er, sorry,” Harry mumbles, trying to look embarrassed. “I just thought I spotted – in the corridors – that hair, you know? But no, you must be right, Percy. If he was there, you’d know. I’m sure I was mistaken.”
Percy hums in satisfaction. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Harry. It was probably just Trenchard you saw. Caught the wrong end of a nasty Ageing Hex last week, and now no one can get his hair back to normal. Easy mistake to make.”
“But—” starts Ginny.
“Mama? Mama, I need a wee-wee!” calls Louis, eyes wide with urgency. He’s grabbing at his crotch and squirming, and Bill laughs heartily at the sight. Fleur hovers over Louis, herding him up and out of the room as Molly launches into an old anecdote about potty-training the twins, and George chimes in with something or other, and Harry lets out a sigh of relief. Molly begins collecting up the empty dishes, and Hermione’s still avoiding Harry’s gaze. Only Ron is still staring at Harry, brow furrowed as though there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but Harry shakes his head minutely and watches, thankful, as Ron’s expression softens.
“And what about Ginny, Dad?” Ron interjects. “Tell the one about the time you took her into work and she took her nappy off and ran through the Atrium completely starkers.”
“Cheers for that,” Ginny says, then mouths “shithead”.
Harry stands to help Molly clear the table, alone once more in a sea of people.