I don?t understand… Harry sounded dazed. Why didn?t you tell me?
I talked to your mother. She wanted to know what you were like, what your life was like. And Sirius. They asked about Sirius. They think you went to live with him when they died. They don?t know about Azkaban or your aunt and uncle, or anything — they think you had a happy childhood, all riding on flying motorcycles and running in fields with a big black dog — its pathetic, really-
Something shattered in Harrys face, something very basic and very necessary, and that, Draco knew, meant that Harry believed him; he wouldn?t look like that if he didn?t believe him. And now came the hard part. And it was hard. Harder than he had thought it could be -
this was what he was good at, after all, and it really should have been easy. But it wasn?t. But he had to go on. They?ve been there all this time, you know.. All the time you were growing up and I bet your aunt and uncle told you your parents were in Heaven; well, it wasn?t true, they?ve been waiting all this time for someone to come and avenge them-
'Shut up,' said Harry out loud, his voice dangerously low. 'Just -
shut up, Malfoy. You don?t-'
But that?ll probably never happen because face it, for them to be avenged someone would have to kill the Dark Lord, and that I?m not sure thats possible now that —
'Get out of my head,' hissed Harry, and hurled himself off the wall, fists clenched as if he were going to hit Draco. Draco braced himself, but Harry didn?t swing at him. He just stood there, shaking. Draco could feel the anger coming off him in waves, but it was very different than the emotion he had felt coming off Harry when he had gotten him to break the case in Lupins office — anger was only a part of what Harry was feeling now: a toxic cocktail of guilt, confusion, frustration, horror, and terrible grief. He?ll never forgive me, Draco thought, and neither will Hermione, not for this, and he pressed down on the thought the way he might have tightened his hand around a shard of glass, driving it into his skin, letting the pain lance up his arm and clear his mind and he heard his fathers voice in his head: Pain will make you stronger.
'Whats wrong with you, Malfoy?' Harry demanded, his voice coming out on a gasp. 'Why the hell didn?t you tell me any of this before? You should have told me right away, you lied to me, you?re a liar-just like you?ve always been-'
What good would it have done you? If what Wormtail told Hermione was true, and the Dark Lord is dead already, then theres nothing you can do, theres no way to avenge them and they?ll be there forever and you?ll never see them again, not even if you die.
Harry stiffened, glaring at Draco, his eyes wild with fury and something else as well. 'I told you to get out of my head,' he hissed.
'Don?t you listen?'
And they?ll be there waiting for you to avenge them and wondering why you haven?t — and thinking maybe you?ve forgotten all about them -
'Shut up!' And now Harry did lunge at Draco, and caught him by the front of his shirt, slamming him hard back against the wall. For a moment, Draco thought the cracking sound he heard was his own head striking against the stone. Then he realized that it wasn?t — the adamantine door behind Harry was splitting and fissuring. Just a little more, he thought. Just a little —
Harrys eyes were inches from his, the pupils so dilated they looked black. 'What did you tell them?' he hissed. 'What did you say to my parents?'
'Let go of me, Potter.'
'Were you ever going to tell me? Were you?'
'Sirius told me not to tell you — '
'Don?t you blame this on Sirius!' Harry yelled at the top of his lungs, and with an almighty rending crash, the door behind him blew inward. The force of the explosion, like a shock wave, knocked them all flat; Draco felt the ground hit him hard, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled over, slicing his hands on shards of adamantine, and sat up.
The door hung halfway off its hinges, swaying drunkenly. The floor of the chamber was littered with glittering bits of adamantine, like broken polar ice. Fleur was struggling to her knees, her bright hair powdered with sparkling shards. And Harry — Harry was sitting with his back against the wall, his face buried in his hands. The door gaped open behind him.
Draco looked at Harry, and heard the voice from his dream in his head. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing.
Draco got to his feet. He nodded at Fleur, and she went over to Harry. Vaguely, Draco could hear her whispering something to him.
Harry got to his feet. He took his glasses off and began rubbing them against his shirt, looking down, but Draco could see even from where he was standing that Harry had been crying.
Draco looked down at his hands, then back up at Harry, who was still staring down at the floor as if it held all the secrets of the universe.
'We?d better go,' he said, and without a word Harry about-faced and walked through the door as if he didn ?t remotely care what was on the other side. Grabbing up both the swords, Draco went after him.
Hermione glanced up and down the corridor outside Bills bedroom.
Ginnys bedroom door was closed; so was Charlies and Ron slept upstairs, on the top floor. The hallway was empty. Cautiously, she reached into the pocket of the loose robes she had thrown on over her pajamas, and drew out the Lycanthe.
Immediately a sharp prickling shot up her arm and shoulder. She had felt the same prickling coming from the Lycanthe earlier that day whenever she had been near the Time-Turner. It was as if the Lycanthe was drawn to the Turner. At least, that was what it seemed like, what Hermione was banking on. It was instinct that was telling her what to do — which was unusual in and of itself, since usually Harry was the one who operated by instinct, while she navigated by the clear light of research and rationality. But with Harry gone, rational thought seemed to have departed. Instinct was left, and she was beginning to find out what a powerful force it was.
She raised her hand, the Lycanthe in it, and it quivered, almost with excitement. Hermione began following after its tugging, which became more and more pronounced as she neared the stairs. She raced down them at top speed, trying to be as quiet as possible -
fortunately her feet were bare — and clattered into the dark living room. It was like being dragged forward
