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Author: parakletos Story: The Sins of the Fathers Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: Completed Reviews: 13 Words: 104,346
A/N: I've decided to give PS another try with this fic, hence the new chapter. I understand that AU is a part of fanfic that is not everyone's cup of tea and that some of the changes made will confuse some rather than entertain. My advice is to just go with the flow of things like I do when people talk about diapers, pancakes for breakfast, Hogwarts faculty, upper classmen et al. ~*~ Mornings had always been Harry’s favourite part of the day. No matter how controlled or scripted his life had been, he’d always been able to wake before the appointed time. Then, no matter how dark it was outside, he could achieve a sense of clarity where the demands of the day were placed into perspective and mastered accordingly. Dumbledore’s mantra about a ‘well-ordered mind’ had annoyed him at first, but as the demands on his time and his attention had increased, he had taken the first steps in ordering his thoughts. At first the organisation was very general but by the time he’d reached seventeen, it was as complex as any bibliographía. In short, stray thoughts became so rare that they were easy to roundup and put in their proper place. A similar exercise before retiring ensured that any unresolved issues from the day were subjected to the same diligent and dispassionate dissection, leaving their component parts easily understood and their place found in the day as yet untried. Today he had woken early, as usual, but his mind was a maelstrom of disjointed ideas, emotions and—because it was a state of mind he was unfamiliar with—incredulity: a disbelief that his well-ordered mind could be laid low thus. Like a seasoned general whose troops have been scattered, he tried vainly to bring order to the disarray. The disciplines and sheer bloody-mindedness that had served him so well proved toothless in the face of this new and all-pervasive enemy. Part of the problem was that he wasn’t entirely sure who this enemy was. No one had invaded his mind, his Occlumency powers were too good for that to have happened, neither had he ingested anything untoward. So why did his mind feel like someone had sashayed in and, with gay abandon, pulled all his neatly ordered scrolls and books from their niches in the wall and scattered them like late summer flowers before a blushing bride? Even as he tried to restore harmony, this invisible force ensured that order, together with the identity of his tormentor, remained as elusive as a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. Finally, he decided that discretion was the better part of valour and retreated to the one thing that would provide him with an escape: exercise. Rising from his bed, he paid a quick visit to the bathroom before donning his running gear, and with the aid of a Disillusionment Charm, he slipped unnoticed from the Slytherin common room and out into the castle proper. ~*~ Ginny Weasley was very confused. She was no stranger to the earliest part of the day. She habitually rose early, even on weekends, finding the early morning the ideal time to pursue the many goals that she had chosen for herself in place of the traditional concerns of a teenage girl. For her, there was none of the frivolity and cliquishness that she saw in her classmates. That fact that none one other than her family had been able to display any form of intimate affection towards was a minor thing. After all, she wasn’t the only girl she knew for whom boys were an unnecessary distraction. She had, however, avoided the self-absorption, which in some cases bordered on narcissism, that had overtaken many of her peers. Whilst she knew she wasn’t without fault, she was convinced that, as far as it was in her power, she had achieved everything she was able to. Often she was awake at six, reviewing her work from the previous night and preparing for the day ahead. Being an early riser also gave her the opportunity for exercise, something most magical folk avoided and openly mocked in Muggles. For Ginny, running helped her to wake up, and the regular rhythms of her stride enabled her mind to drift away from the mundane and often to unlock solutions to problems that had baffled her. On any normal morning she would now be either covering her bed with parchment and books or, having changed, be heading down to the Quidditch pitch to begin her exercise. However, instead of the normal energy that she usually felt at that time of the morning, she was listless and was having great difficulty in hauling herself out of bed. In fact, so great was her reluctance to get up that she began to wonder if she were ill. Despite her body’s protestations, she nonetheless threw back the covers and, with a great effort, she swivelled herself round until her feet rested somewhat heavily on the carpeted floor. She stretched, yawning and shaking her head as she did so, in a vain attempt to wake herself up. What had happened to her? Where was her normal energy? Had she reached the point where her busy day and short hours of sleep were finally catching up on her? She felt a wave of bitter disappointment wash over her. This couldn’t happen to her, not in her final year. Everything she had worked for, everything she had striven so hard to achieve and everything she had given up, had been working towards a final and most successful year. It was her intention to leave Hogwarts with an unblemished record, both academically and athletically. Was it all come to crashing around her now? She stood reluctantly, wishing that either the floor was bare or the temperature in the room was considerably lower—anything that would help to wake her up. She grabbed hold of her school bag and emptied the contents onto her bed. She stood staring at it disconsolately, wondering where the ever-organised version of her had gone to. In the back of her mind, a memory stirred. It was initially so vague that she dismissed it as a dream. In fact, it was so bizarre, so far-fetched it seemed that she was prepared to dismiss it out of hand. It involved a dark and mysterious, not to mention dashing, young Auror rescuing her on platform 9¾ and then, if that were not enough in itself, Harry Potter—the boy who lived, no less—introducing himself to her in a manner so intimate, not to mention erotic, that her body had been unable to do anything other than succumb to years of pent-up desire. But that was how she knew that it had to have been a dream: it was simply not true that she had denied herself for her first six years of Hogwarts. She corrected herself: it had not been a simple matter of denial; it was that she had chosen to focus on her studies and on Quidditch. To talk of it as denial would be to decry her achievements and to imply that better and infinitely more satisfying choices had been available. As quickly as the thoughts—or memories or dreams or whatever they were—had entered her head, she dismissed them as quickly and imperiously as she would dismiss a bothersome first-year. She, Ginny Weasley, would not be sidetracked. She did not know where the idea of such passion or the very idea of her having succumbed to its power had come from, but come hell or high water she was not going to let it destroy all she had worked for. Mentally berating herself for being so ordinary, she fished her running gear from her trunk and within a few minutes had left her room and was making steady progress towards the front door of the castle. So focused was she on her own problems that she failed to notice the very real young man who was already well into his own exercise regime. ~*~ Harry watched as Ginevra sped towards the Quidditch stadium, admiring her form and athleticism. From what he could see, she appeared to have a good general level of fitness that would place her at an advantage when dealing with other witches and wizards during a game. However, he doubted that her training would provide her with any advantage when it came to a real fight. No wife of mine is going to be helpless when it comes to defending herself, he said to himself, unaware of the level of commitment that such a statement betrayed. “It is more important, Nephew, that your wife is a steadfast ally in a fight as opposed to any other duty that she may be required to fulfil. A skilled steward can make good any deficiencies she may display in running the household, and time will grant her all the experience she may require in the bedroom. Choose for yourself a woman of spirit, of ability and, above all, the stomach for a fight.” He watched for a few more moments, his mind taking in every detail and storing it for future use. Finally, he turned from observing her and began the preparations for his own exercise. Throughout his training, his mentors had attempted to teach him how to fight like a Muggle. At first, he had been a willing participant, but he had quickly learned the limitations of what was on offer. The principal problem with learning to fight like a Muggle was that it gave you no advantage when actually fighting a similarly trained non-magical person, especially if they were toting a gun. When fighting someone who could wield a wand, it left you vulnerable, especially as Padfoot was under the mistaken impression that there was enough time in a fight to slip in the odd kung-fu chop or two. The Room of Requirement’s version of Avery had amply, and very painfully, demonstrated that fact. The solution had seemed simple to him, although it had evaded those who had the responsibility to train him. All that was required was to find a way to combine the two. This simple fact was complicated by one small detail: to be able to use the physical fighting style combined with a magical one required that the combatant was able to cast both wandlessly and non-verbally, all the while ducking and diving and generally participating in the sort of physical exercise that most wizards found beneath them. It had been hard, but ultimately very productive. The effectiveness of a well-timed kick or punch, powered by magic, and therefore capable of delivering both physical and spell damage, was far beyond Harry’s initial expectations. The drain on his physical and magical resources was immense and it had taken a number of years for him to build up the reserves to sustain him through prolonged combat. But, as his final confrontation with Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters had proved, it had been a price worth paying. Twice he had been cornered and twice he had been saved by the ability to cast with both wand and hand whilst immobilising another with a well-placed kick. So instead of charging around the grounds or repeatedly running up and down steps, he attached innocuous-looking, but nonetheless powerful, bracelets to his wrists and ankles and, after casting several spells to set weight and resistance levels, began to exercise. There was nothing fast or aggressive about the way he moved, even though he was simulating a fight. As his invisible opponent twisted and turned, so he too responded in the way he had been taught. Then he moved into the second phase of his training, firing off low-powered spells as his mock battle continued, slowly building up the magical force he used. And finally he conjured a series of dummies that were sufficiently sentient to provide both a target for his aggression and a challenge to his skill. ~*~ As she finally reached the stadium, Ginny headed towards the nearest set of steps and began the slow count that accompanied her ascent. The first time she took each step singly; the second time she bounded up two at a time, pushing herself painfully as she sought to banish confusion and restore normality. As she jogged slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, she smiled. Although her body was more tired than normal by her exercise, she was pleased by her efforts. The familiar ache in her muscles added to the pleasing picture: she was back in control and whatever had transpired the previous day was now just a distant and increasingly vague memory. ~*~ His morning exercises completed, Harry headed back to the castle and the challenges that his first day of lessons would present him. As he neared the castle, he paused to watch Ginevra as she jogged slowly back towards the main doors. Yes, he thought to himself, she’s more becoming than any witch of my acquaintance, even Tonks. But the witch who would birth his heirs had to be more than that. Ginevra would improve, he would see to that, and if she resisted, then it was his job as her husband to apply discipline. She had finally reached the entrance, and he allowed his critical eye to regard her form from an aesthetic point of view. Yes, she was beautiful, and her hips suggested that she had inherited her mother’s ability to bear children readily, but there was something more that arose within him as his eyes took pleasure in her. It was something that was insubstantial and yet, paradoxically, of sufficient substance to mock his earlier presumption as to his premeditated course of their future relationship. He waited a few moments until he was sure that she had already begun the ascent to her common room, and then he slipped inside the castle to prepare for the next part of his day. The Slytherin common room had begun to fill in preparation for the coming day. There were small knots of students scattered around the common area, each engaged in their own conversation and all discussing one thing: him. As his presence became known, the conversation died and everyone turned to look at him. Their intentions towards him were of no concern, as they were no threat to him. They could not best him in a fight, and socially he was beyond their reach with no vulnerable relatives to be leant on should he not comply to their pressure. But impressions were everything, so he casually removed his top as he moved through them, displaying his scarred and muscled torso. He also drew on his magic to produce a blue glow around his body. It was a cheap parlour trick, but it would add to the impression he was looking to create, as would the way he strode imperiously through them, making no eye contact, letting them all know that they were beneath him. Once he was away from his audience, he showered and changed quickly, counting on the longer distance to Gryffindor Tower from the entrance and the fact that Ginevra would, if she were anything like other females, take longer in the shower than he would. ~*~ Harry was not sure how long he was going to have to wait for Ginny to emerge as lessons did not begin until nine o’clock that morning. It was possible, although unlikely, that she would delay her departure for the Great Hall until eight o’clock, meaning he would be outside Gryffindor Tower for a while. He knew that by waiting in the corridor outside the Lion’s den, he might have to deal with contentious Gryffindors, but that was an inconvenience he was prepared to deal with. The alternative of waiting until she appeared in the Great Hall would present too many variables to be acceptable. That said, the scenario that had the greatest potential to cause trouble was her appearing, surrounded with friends. This he had discounted because, given what he had been told and his own observations—some of which were obtained by intruding other’s thoughts—she had not formed any lasting friendships, certainly none that would interfere with her ability to perform her Head Girl duties efficiently. Instead, she had series of relationships that served her purposes without requiring too much commitment on her part. He doubted that this had been a deliberate plan of hers, more the side-effect of being purpose-driven. However, it was just such a scenario that presented itself when she finally emerged from the common room at seven thirty, accompanied by Neville Longbottom. “Good morning, Ginevra,” Harry said with a small bow. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to breakfast this morning?” He stood and waited for both her and Longbottom’s reactions. As with all things involving pureblood communication, it was more than just a simple request. Ginevra looked at Longbottom uncertainly, which indicated to Harry that the full significance of what he had said, and to whom it had been addressed, had bypassed her. On her level, he assumed that this reluctance was born either from a desire not to offend Longbottom, or as a plea to him not to abandon her to a Slytherin. In fact, he had risked a great deal in asking her directly rather than deferring to the wizard at her side. One glance at Longbottom let Harry know that the Gryffindor knew the game that was being played. For a moment, Harry thought Longbottom would be true to his heritage and respond to the insult in the required manner. That he did not led Harry to infer several things: Firstly, Longbottom was aware that Ginevra was ignorant of the nature of Harry’s interaction and ultimate intentions towards her; secondly, the boy had no relationship beyond friendship with the girl; and finally, that he would not stand in the way of the courtship as long as Harry stuck to the rules. “Would you mind, Neville?” she asked nervously. “No, that’s not a problem, Ginny,” said Neville with a smile. “I’m not going to eat until after breakfast anyway, so I wouldn’t be much company for you.” Harry nodded at Longbottom and then offered his left arm to Ginevra, which she took uncertainly. “Thank you, Miss Weasley,” he said with a small bow. He turned towards Neville. “And thank you, Mr Longbottom. I had the pleasure of fighting alongside your parents. They are good people.” He extended his right hand, which the Gryffindor shook in the prescribed manner. It was the handshake of non-combatants rather than friends, but that was all he required from the boy. He turned back to Ginevra. “Shall we go?” he asked with a smile. She linked her arm in his, and after giving Neville a small smile, she allowed Harry to lead her away from the Gryffindor common room and down the steps towards the Great Hall. ~*~ Ginny’s leisurely shower, coupled with her earlier indecision, combined to destroy whatever was left of her normally well-ordered morning routine. Emerging from the shower, she let out a shriek of annoyance as she saw how late the time had become. “Fuck! Is that the time?” she asked the empty room. How had she allowed time to run away from her like that? Come to think of it, when did she start swearing like that? She hurriedly dried herself and, after dressing as quickly as possible, grabbed her school bag and made for the door. The common room, as was usual for the first day of term, was empty save for groups of nervous first-years huddled together, worrying about the day to come. After a summer full of late nights and even later mornings, the older pupils were still recovering from yesterday’s early start and the excitement that returning to Hogwarts always engendered. Before opening the door, she took a deep breath. This was her last year, and as Head Girl, she was determined to make the most of it. She would not be derailed by the things that she had seen most of her classmates waste their time on. The endless gossip, and the wildly swinging emotions connected with loves gained and lost, had derailed many a promising student. That would not be her. She took a few moments to compose herself, feeling relief as order was restored. There, that wasn’t too hard, was it? She was joined by at the portrait hole by Neville Longbottom. The seventh-year prefect nodded to her and gave her an encouraging smile. The normality of the situation helped her retain control over her feeling. She drew herself to her full height and, ignoring the stirrings of the confused memories of the events of the previous day, pushed open the portal and took a purposeful stride out into the corridor beyond. To her amazement, waiting just a few yards from the portrait and looking far more composed and handsome than any Slytherin had the right to be, was Harry Potter. Well, she thought, this is the ideal opportunity to put an end to this nonsense once and for all. It would be the easiest thing in the world to brush him to one side and walk away from him. If she needed him, Neville was there, and Harry Potter or not, Neville would not let her be bullied or browbeaten into anything. “Good morning, Ginevra,” Potter said with a small bow. It unnerved her how such a simple sentence, said without any fuss or nonsense, had the effect of dissolving all her resolve in one go. What had been vague images just a few moments earlier, now surged joyfully to the forefront of her mind. Every ounce of determination and proper, studious order that she had worked so hard in building was as nothing when faced with his charm and his good looks. And she hated both him and herself for it. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to breakfast this morning?” How did he do it? How could one person have this much affect on her? Everything she had worked for that morning was now in ruins. So intense were the emotions his presence engendered that she wondered why she did not dispense with all pretence and formality and give him what he had claimed in his greeting the previous day. It was not only her mind that had succumbed to him, her body had gone into overdrive, and it took all her self-discipline to keep the keening desire from overwhelming her. She glanced nervously at Neville, afraid that she had made a fool of herself in front of him. But he merely smiled encouragingly at her, and so she took Harry’s arm when it was offered and clung to it as if her life depended on it, hoping that her hands would stay where they should and not roam. Ever the gentleman, Harry turned to Neville and thanked him. She imagined that a Muggle-born such as Hermione Granger might have been offended by the suggestion that Harry needed Neville’s permission to walk with her. But although she might not understand all the subtleties of the art, Ginny knew enough of pure-blood ritual and ceremony to understand that the verbal transaction was about the status that Neville held and the honour and respect that should be paid to both the son of a pure-blood witch and to the witch herself. As Neville had not taken offence to what Harry had said, she assumed that decorum had been observed and that no one’s honour had been besmirched. As they turned to go, she offered Neville a grateful smile of thanks and with that she knew that her transformation was now complete. Gone was the persona of a disciplined ice queen for which she was famous, and in its stead was a contented young woman who was both proud and pleased to be on this young man’s arm. ~*~ When they arrived in the Great Hall, Harry and Ginevra discovered that both the Gryffindors and the Slytherins were reluctant to have anyone from another house, let alone someone from their main rival, sit at the breakfast table with them. Harry would have laughed, if the other students had not been so serious in their pettiness. Whatever her frustration with her fellow students, Ginevra did not let it show. “I suppose we could always sit at the Hufflepuff table. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” she said. “Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily, Ginevra,” said Harry. “I think that I have a more satisfactory solution.” With a small wave of his hand, he made a small round table appear between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables. Before Ginny could comment on what he had done, two chairs appeared together with bowls, plates, cutlery and goblets. “Would you like to take a seat, Ginevra?” he asked, pulling out a chair for her. “My pleasure, Mr Potter.” As soon as they had sat down, a house-elf appeared alongside them. “We is very sorry, Mister Potter, Sir, but us house-elves have never had an extra table in the Great Hall before, and therefore we is unable to make your food appear in the normal manner. Dobby is very sorry about this, Mister Potter, Sir.” “Do not trouble yourself, my friend,” Harry replied. “Just tell us what is for breakfast, and we will be happy to select from the menu.” “Thank you very much, Harry Potter, Sir. Dobby is happy to report that Mister Potter and Miss Weasley can have anything that they want.” “Ginevra?” “I’m not very fussy in the mornings,” she replied, “so some tea and toast would be fine, thank you very much, Dobby.” “What is Miss wanting on her toast?” asked the house-elf. “Just some butter and marmalade, thank you,” Ginny replied. “And how is Miss wanting her tea?” “Just let me have a small pot, Dobby, that will be fine. Oh, and some milk,” she added. “And for Mister Potter?” “Just the usual please, Dobby,” Harry replied. “Certainly, Mister Potter, Sir.” And with that, the house-elf disappeared, leaving Harry wondering what to say next. Small talk was not his strong point and his aunt had been silent on that part of a traditional courtship. To his relief, Ginevra broke the silence. “So,” she asked with a smile, “what brings the famous Harry Potter to Hogwarts after all these years?” He was surprised how little her reference to his fame bothered him. He hated those who did so normally and he wondered why that was so. Perhaps it was the effect of the contract, perhaps it was merely the fact that her face was prettier than any who had asked the question before. Regardless of the reason, he seized the opportunity presented to him and gave her the official reason for his arrival at Hogwarts. “My godfather thought that it would be good if I were to learn how to mix with witches and wizards of a similar age.” The tea that Ginny ordered appeared on their table, alongside Harry’s usual concoction. “You mean you don’t, normally?” “I haven’t really had much time for socialising,” he replied. “Too busy learning how to fulfil my destiny.” If she had heard the bitterness in his voice, she ignored it. Instead, she lifted the lid on the teapot and gave the contents a stir. “So,” she asked as she replaced the lid and played with the spoon, “were you slaying dragons before breakfast? Rescuing damsels in distress before dining?” It took him a few moments to realise that she was not being serious and the glint in her eye showed pleasure at her devilment at his expense. He felt his ire rise but before he could take steps to calm himself, her hand came to rest on his and the glint in her eye turned from one of mischief to one of desire. How small a gesture, how great its effect. Like the ripples from a stone cast apparently carelessly into a mill pond, so her caress lapped at the hardness of his heart, each small wave of affection warming his heart bit by bit and awakening a monster that now howled for release. For a moment, he thought he was about to lose all control and grab her hand so as to pull her to him. But instead, frightened by the consequences of such an outright display of emotion, he mustered his forces and slowly and painfully subdued the desperate beast. He took a deep breath and taking her petite main, answered her question. “I know now that you see me as an object for merriment, Ginevra. There are plenty of trained dragon handlers to deal with any miscreants that may wander from their reserves, and damsels in distress are merely the fabrications of nannies with overactive imaginations. “As I am sure that you are aware, my life was no fairy story, although there is more truth in those tales than one would surmise.” He paused to gauge her reaction. He knew that she was toying with him, but he was unsure whether his response was appropriate. Again, with a small gesture, this time a smile, she managed to reassure him that his response was appropriate whilst toying with the cage in which the beast she had unleashed earlier resided. “On the days we didn’t go looking for Voldemort or any of his followers, I would spend the morning training in various forms of combat. In the afternoon, I would normally be attended by one or more tutors, dealing with Charms or Transfiguration or Potions or any of the other subjects that my godfather thought would be useful.” She nodded along with his revelations in the way people did when they were not really listening but wanted to give the impression they were. Her face, however, betrayed her true feelings and he noticed her hand had again found his. “So, do you have many friends?” It was such a simple question, but it wounded him like an assassin’s blade. She was playing the game with such aplomb that he wondered if she had been schooled in the conversational arts. “Only Tonks,” he replied slowly. “She is a mixture of friend, sister and …” He left the sentence hanging because he was not sure any more what Tonks was to him. This was not a new development, as he had started to think of her as more than just a friend, possibly even more. His confusion had increased because of the recent actions of the young woman who sat with him. When he had been younger, Tonks had been his big sister, and in his teenage years she had become his confidante. Now, he was not sure what she might be. At times he thought that she was more than that, and yet... And yet here was his bride-to-be, initially the object of his ire, now ... now she was... what? Ginevra looked at him quizzically, for all the world oblivious to the flirting that had taken place, but he was saved from further explanation by the arrival of the rest of their breakfast. Harry watched as she buttered her toast and applied liberal amounts of marmalade to it. As she did so, she began to chat about her friends and her family, all thoughts of the intimate byplay that had characterised their earlier exchanges forgotten. His initial disappointment at her retreat to safer ground dissipated and instead he was struck by how strange it was to hold such a prosaic conversation with another human being. Despite the unsettling nature of their earlier conversation, he found himself warming to the redhead, who was now pouring herself a cup of tea. She looked up and smiled coyly at him before adding the milk and taking a sip. He returned her smile and started on his own breakfast. In the silence, he began to sift through the conflicting emotions he was feeling: he was angry at Sirius and Remus and the rest of the Order for denying him such a simple pleasure for so long, whilst at the same time he was enjoying Ginevra’s company. He looked down at his hand, wishing that it was wrapped around her hand rather than a spoon. ~*~ Breakfast was over all too quickly for Harry, and before he knew it, Ginevra was standing and picking up her book bag from the floor, telling him she must dash or be late for Potions. Her announcement brought him up short: he had assumed, being in the same year, that they would be in the same lessons together. As he stared at her retreating form, the numbers trickled through his disappointment until finally he remembered: because of the size of the year, it had been split into two forms. Harry watched as the door to the Great Hall closed behind her, wondering whether his task would be easier than he thought, or if this stirring attraction was an unwelcome complication. As he looked around at the other students, he noticed that he was not the only wizard also watching Ginevra as she departed. Although Sirius had promised him that there could be no ex-boyfriends lurking around corners waiting to exact their revenge, he wondered if this was another of those times when his godfather had deliberately misled him. Harry’s first lesson of the day was Transfiguration. It was not an area in which he excelled, although he was sure that his expertise was probably greater than that of the other students in the class. He knew that Professor McGonagall was a witch to be respected, having witnessed her battling Death Eaters as a member of the Order. He also knew that she was a no-nonsense, old-fashioned type of witch who would not be impressed by his celebrity status or be interested in any showing off. He decided the best course of action was to make sure that he did not stand out from the rest of the class. At least, until he got bored and then, he decided, all bets were off. ~*~ By the time Harry made it to the Great Hall for lunch, Ginevra was already seated with her friends at the Gryffindor table, and he decided that it was more trouble than it was worth to join her. As he took his seat at the Slytherin table, he noticed that many of their eyes were on him rather than the food in front of them. Their actions bothered him not a jot; he had been brought up to focus on what was important, and at this exact moment in time, that did not include other people’s opinions of him. The afternoon passed slowly. Although Professor Flitwick was enthusiastic, none of the spells that he was teaching the seventh-year NEWT students were new to Harry. His only amusement came from the grumbles of the majority of the other students regarding the difficulty of the work. The one student who seemed untroubled by the complexity of the spells was Granger. Although uncertain of herself, and Muggle-born, she had a natural affinity with this school of magic they were practising, which surprised him. Next to her sat the youngest Weasley male, who was as incapable as she was skilled. It’s a shame that she has chosen to associate herself with that idiot brother of Ginevra’s, Harry thought as he watched Ron Weasley struggle with spells that Harry had mastered at the age of ten. If she were trained correctly, she would be a witch of some worth to the right suitor. The afternoon ended with a double period of Potions. The subject had not figured as prominently in his pre-Hogwarts curriculum as Charms, Transfiguration, and Defence Against the Dark Arts, but he had still managed to achieve an Outstanding grade in his NEWT, one of only two that had done so by the end of their schooling since 1982. As he watched Severus Snape belittle his students, he wondered how Hogwarts thought that any child would get anything more than an Acceptable in the end-of-year exam. Snape may well be a Potions Master, he thought as yet another student was subjected to his housemaster’s bullying, but he knows nothing about teaching. After doing the rounds of the other houses, Snape finally arrived at the benches occupied by the four Slytherins who were in the class. As Harry added the ingredients to his potion, he felt the hovering presence of the Potions Master standing right behind him. “Mr Potter, as pleased as I am to be blessed with such an important task as imparting the subtle art of potion-making to one such as yourself, it troubles me to find that you do not display the very highest of abilities. Could it be that this, the most important of all subjects taught in these august halls, has been omitted from the education of someone so important?” Harry looked up from the ingredients that were scattered across his desk. He was annoyed at the intrusion, and it took a great deal of restraint not to respond in an aggressive manner. “I can assure you, Professor Snape, that nothing was omitted from my education. You may have formed the misguided opinion that my potion-making skills are merely adequate based on the way the ingredients are laid out upon my desk, but this is where your ignorance is so apparent. Had you taken but a few moments to observe correctly, you would have noticed that all of the required ingredients are now in my cauldron, simmering as required and only waiting the prescribed clockwise and anticlockwise stirring to complete the task you set.” “Be that as it may, Mister Potter, I think you will find that—” “Before I came to Hogwarts,” interrupted Harry, “I did a great deal of research as to the professors here: their strengths, their weaknesses, how many students passed their exams and how many obtained an Outstanding. It would probably come as no surprise to those who have endured your lessons over the years that, based on my research, you are by far the worst teacher in the history of Hogwarts. No other Potions professor has presided over so few pupils obtaining an Outstanding.” Harry stared at the professor, his eyes boring into him as he awaited his response. When none came, he continued. “The truth hurts, does it not, Professor?” If Harry had thought that his second bout of belittling the head of Slytherin house would dampen Snape’s predilection to obsequiousness, he was mistaken. Undaunted and undimmed in his enthusiasm, Snape rose to the challenge of refuting such allegations. “It pleases me that one so worthy as yourself took the time to look at the achievements of this lowly professor. Yes, it is true that the numbers of those who have obtained the highest possible grade in this glorious subject have fallen since my tenure first began at this noble establishment. And to the untrained eye, or if I may be so bold as to suggest to one whose prowess extends to the battlefield and the…” Here, Snape paused as if assessing the impact of his words. “…the less-subtle arts, this might in fact represent a decline. However, I would caution against such an approach and against such a superficial investigation of the facts. Were you to compare the potion-brewing prowess of those who have been awarded such an accolade as an Outstanding at NEWT-level under my tenure, you would find it vastly superior to those to whom such grades were awarded as if they were nothing more than handbills advertising some tawdry entertainment.” The Potions master beamed at Harry, as if the logic of his argument was indisputable and no wizard of sound mind and manners could dispute it. Harry sighed. He was unsure which annoyed him the most: the man’s stupidity or his arrogance. “Unaccustomed as I am to participating in the subtle and sophisticated magical arts, I can assure you that the most renowned and most lauded practitioners of this subtle art are those who were awarded the highest grades prior to your ignominious arrival. It is my intention, when my time here is over, to use whatever influence I have to have you removed from your post and thus to end your inglorious reign.” To his surprise, it appeared that he had gone too far and that Shape did indeed possess a backbone. “You may think, Mr Potter, that your celebrity status grants you the ability to insult the staff here at Hogwarts, but let me assure you that no student, famous or unknown, rich or poor, is treated any differently in my classroom.” “I am aware of your approach, Professor,” said Harry. “You treat most of your students as though they were something smelly you’d scraped off the bottom of your shoe. The rest of them you treat less favourably still. And as a result, the Ministry wastes time and money addressing the deficiencies caused by your myopia. “ “Potter, you will stay behind after this class and help me clear up the mess after the rest of these imbeciles have left.” “If he had been in Gryffindor,” muttered Ron Weasley under his breath, “you would have given him a detention and deducted points.” Unfortunately for Weasley, his voice carried all too well in the stunned silence following Harry’s eloquent dénoncier of the Potions Master. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Weasley. In order to assuage that disappointment, you will join me tonight at eight o’clock for two hours’ detention, and that’ll be twenty points from Gryffindor for your cheek. Now, get on with your work!” Harry concealed his repugnance easily. He wondered if Snape knew that he had just proven Harry’s point more effectively than Harry himself ever could. ~*~ By the time he reached the Great Hall, Ginevra was already seated at the Gryffindor table. He tried to catch her eye, but her gaze was resolutely forward, and so he found himself sitting alone at the Slytherin table for the second meal running. As he started his food, he realised that he was disappointed that he was that he was eating alone again. He chased a few of his peas around his plate whilst weighing his options as to his evening. Homework had been set, but it was nothing he could not handle with ease. The essays were laughably easy and, thanks to a modified Pensieve, coupled with a specially-charmed quill, writing them would take less than a quarter of the normal time. His time alone did not last long. Instead of the expected empty seats around him, he was joined by two of his fellow Slytherin seventh-years. “Mr Potter?” The question came from the tall young man standing next to him, who was accompanied by a willowy blonde. Their posture, coupled with his tone of voice, suggested that they represented little in the way of threat. So, the chameleon Nott has come to pledge his allegiance now that the dust has well and truly settled and there is no doubt as to the outcome. And who is the teenaged temptress that has accompanied him? Ah, yes, Zabini, now of age and of no interest to her mother’s suitors. “Can I help you, Mr...?” “Nott, Theodore Nott.” The young man extended his hand towards Harry. Harry remained seated but extended his hand nonetheless. Nott’s hand barely touched his, and the young man’s face remained expressionless as Harry subjected it to his strong grip. The formalities attended to, the two visitors took their seats in front of him. Harry pushed his meal to one side as they did so. Once seated, Nott turned to the young woman next to him and introduced her. “This is Miss Zabini, Blaise Zabini.” The young woman nodded her head in a rough approximation of a bow. Although he was aware of the Zabinis, he was not intimate with them and he took a few moments to observe the very attractive young woman in front of him. It was obviously that she was not accustomed to acting in a subservient role, and Harry surmised that, despite Nott carrying out the introductions, it was she who was the dominant person in the relationship, whatever relationship they turned out to have. As he waited for the conversation to begin, he tried to recall what he knew of the two of them. There was surprisingly little that was useful to him: neither family had publicly aligned themselves to Voldemort, but then, they had not sided with Dumbledore, either. Zabini’s mother was as beautiful as her daughter, perhaps more so, and was the object of the suit of many an unattached wizard. Surprisingly, none of the courtships lasted more than a few months with most dissolving amid rumours of alleged discretions involving the younger of the two witches. The frequency with which the same situation occurred would lead the less informed to assume that the elder was an extremely poor judge of character. Harry knew otherwise. He concluded that they were opportunists for whom their first instinct was survival and principles came second. If that were the case, why were they here? As a new arrival, he was far from the rising star in Slytherin, let alone in the school as a whole. “You are probably wondering why we are here,” Zabini stated somewhat redundantly. So he was right, it was Zabini who held the upper hand in this partnership. “We are here with an offer...” Here she paused to let her words sink in before continuing. “...an offer that we feel would be beneficial to all parties, both now and in the future.” Harry listened as she outlined their proposal. It was fairly standard stuff and essentially offered an alliance designed to ease his way through Hogwarts. He did not really need their help, but it would send a signal to the rest of the house, hopefully dissuading those of an aggressive disposition from acting in a manner that resulted in their ending up in hospital, courtesy of Harry’s wand. To his surprise, neither of them were the Slytherin seventh-year prefects; they were, however, the acknowledged first male and female and thus had an authority which superseded that of those appointed by Snape. They were not, they were anxious to make clear, a couple. Indeed, Miss Zabini was at pains to stress that she was available to Harry if he wished to further an alliance with her family, or even if he wanted a chance to discuss the matter with her in private. “If it meets with your approval, Mr Potter, we shall conclude the alliance this evening behind closed doors.” ~*~ Ginny’s day had been far less eventful than she had imagined at breakfast. Having a different timetable to Harry’s afforded her the opportunity to plan her movements so that a chance meeting was all but impossible. And she made sure that she was seated at the Gryffindor table at both lunch and at the evening meal, thus avoiding what had occurred at breakfast. In his presence, she felt at home and that there was no better place she could be, and yet… And yet part of her, the part which was rational and which had guided her through her life so far, had laughed scornfully at her. When she was on her own, she agreed with it and despised herself for her insipid behaviour. Away from his presence, she was the calm, rational girl she preferred to be. Gone were the overwhelming emotions and physical demands of her body; instead, there was the clear thinking and the academic achievement she so vehemently pursued, and yet… And yet her body thrilled to be with him, to touch him and to be touched by him. More than that, she wanted to give herself to him, to feel him inside her, fulfilling his promise to her… As she finished her meal, she allowed her control to slip and glanced around, wondering what Harry was up to and whether she should wander over to him. It was with a combination of disappointment and relief that she caught sight of him, deep in conversation with two of his housemates. She rose slowly and, with a few more longing glances in his direction, walked slowly towards the door of the Great Hall on her way to Gryffindor Tower. For the rest of the evening she would lose herself in homework and Head Girl duties before finally escaping to the privacy of her own room. That night, her dreams were filled with conflicting and often warring emotions, and she was pleased when dawn signalled an end to her night of torment.
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