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Christmas at Home

"I don't want to leave," Roderick moaned. "The end of term is rubbish. School should go straight from September to June."

"That is rubbish, sorry," Delf said. It was the last night before Christmas holiday, and they were alone in the common room. Roderick was in his usual chair, and Harry and Delf were on the sofa across from the fire. Delf's arms were snugly around his waist, and he absently carded his fingers through her hair. The common room was empty since no one was up late doing homework.

"It's different for you," Harry told her. "You practically always go home for Christmas. I haven't been home for it in five years."

"At least you've started to get on with your family," Roderick mumbled. "I mean, I love Mum, and Draco's alright most of the time, but Dad…" He shook his head. "I'm really starting to hate him."

"Why don't you stay with Delf? Or Sirius?"

"Please do stay with me, actually. Aunt Cecilia and Marie and David are coming for the holiday."

"I wish," Roderick said unhappily. "Mum wrote that I have to come home. Draco and I both do since we weren't together last year. Pardon, but they went out of the country."

"If you told them I invited you, could you come?" Delf asked hopefully.

"Probably not."

Delf considered. "Then could I come stay with you?" Roderick and Harry laughed.

-o-

Since Harry had never taken the train home for Christmas before, he mainly just followed Delf and Roderick the next morning as they trooped down to the Hogsmeade train station with a large portion of the school. He and Delf both had their trunks, but Roderick only bore his school bag, stuffed with his books and a few spare clothes. "I have more at home," he explained when he noticed their confused looks. "I may be too tall for them, but I'm Merlin if I'm bringing my whole trunk home."

The train ride seemed quiet to Harry, who was used to experiencing the train in its state of chaos and youthful turmoil at the beginning and end of each year. But with professors patrolling and the threat of another Dementor search, it was downright subdued. Several people did drop by and make comments about how unusual it was to see Harry on the Christmas train, but no one stayed, so they drew in to Platform 9 ¾ as they had left Hogsmeade: as three.

Harry told them reluctant but swift goodbyes as he went off in search of his parents. Tom had found them first (long practice paying off), and they left promptly upon Harry's arrival.

The first thing he noticed upon recovering from side-along Apparation with James was that the house smelled differently than it did during summer. It was a combination of it simply being colder, he expected, the presence of the large, bare Christmas tree in the middle of the dining room, and the very seasonal cooking smells wafting from the kitchen. But whatever the reason, it was something he'd forgotten since he was ten at his last Christmas at home, and he wondered what else there was to rediscover.

"You're HOME!" a shrill voice squealed, and a small shape pelted out of the kitchen.

"Oof!" All the air in Harry's lungs left in a whoosh as Tipsy hurtled right into his midriff.

"Master Harry is home for Christmas!" she cried, squeezing him tightly around the waist. "Master Harry is home for two whole weeks! Tipsy is so happy!"

He grinned down at the top of her head. "Happy Christmas, Tipsy."

She peered up at him, a huge smile plastered across her face. "Is Master Harry excited to begin decorating?"

"I'm more excited to sleep, honestly," he said wryly.

"Decorations first," Lily cut in brightly, startling Harry a little bit. "We started doing it this way once Tom started Hogwarts: the first night is when we do the tree and put everything up."

"Oh." There was the second thing to learn. "And do you let the fairies in then too?"

James scoffed nearby while Lily looked pleased. "Usually yes, but since it was so cold this year, we let them in early."

"Lily, fairies lived outside perfectly happily for thousands of years before you decided to adopt them," James said exasperatedly.

"There isn't much shelter in the trees, and it's not like they're in the way in their fairy boxes." She indicated the series of little wooden boxes affixed to the ceiling beams. The ceilings of the whole first storey were very high, so it was easy not to notice them unless you were looking for them specifically. They fairies usually lived in the small grove of apple trees at the north end of the grounds, but Lily had started the tradition of having them in for the Christmas season shortly after their family came out of hiding. That, at least, was the same.

"Put your things upstairs, boys," James sighed. "Then we'll have at the tinsel and holly."

Harry and Tom obediently hauled their trunks upstairs, then went to different ends of the hall for their rooms. There Harry learned he'd accidentally left a window open before leaving for school, and let Hedwig out before closing it and mopping up the puddle that had formed from the rain and snow coming in. When he got back downstairs, his parents and Tom were already working, putting holly boughs over the mantle, and taking ornaments out of boxes and tissue paper. The fairies had emerged and were busily tossing Floating Tinsel in the air and speaking in their unintelligible buzzing language, which made him smile. He left Tom and James to the prickly job of the holly and went to help his mother with the tree, ignoring the fairies that tugged at his hair. He didn't consider them pests like his father and brother did: he'd gotten too used to ignoring them as he meditated to really think about it anymore.

He was surprised by how many ornaments he remembered. Along with the usual glass orbs and stars and glittery bits and so forth, he and Tom both had a pair of china baby shoes with their birth dates and full names painted on the soles; some crumbly paper painted ones they had done the year before Harry turned six; some tiny picture frames with baby portraits and some photos of Lily and James' wedding, and others of the boys as they got older. There were more of Tom, but that was nothing short of what was expected, and it didn't affect his quite-good mood.

"I've always liked this one," Lily said quietly, dragging Harry out of his brown study and into real life. She held one of the small frame ornaments, and was gazing tenderly at the photo enclosed within.

Harry leaned over her shoulder (and noticed, with some shock, that he was nearly taller than her) to look at the picture. It was James and Lily, holding a little dark-haired baby. Lily held the baby's hand and made him wave to the camera. She and James were both smiling and proud and happy. Smiling at Harry, proud of Harry, happy about Harry.

"When was that taken?" Harry asked thickly.

"The second Christmas of our marriage," she said quietly. "I wasn't even pregnant with Tom then. You were such a beautiful baby… always the spitting image of your father, of course." She turned to face him, smiling the same gentle smile as in the photo. She reached up to touch his chin, nudging his profile more towards the light. "You really are identical."

"But I got your eyes," he said, smiling a little uncertainly. "People always notice them."

Her smile deepened. "You did, didn't you?"

The evening ended with hot cocoa and James and Tom grumbling about their pricked fingers while the fairies buzzed happily overhead. The tree was decorated, holly was appropriately decked, and mistletoe hung from the top of the doorframe that led from the dining room to the kitchen.

But, as it usually tended to do, the quietude did end. It lasted several days, which was a commendable accomplishment, and when it shattered, Harry was the only one to feel it.

He had begged an early night after they'd all spent a long day cleaning the house top to bottom, and the others had retired to Lily's sitting room with some tea and the evening news paper. But after nearly an hour of lying in bed, he decided that sleep was busy elsewhere and thought it would be nice to go down and join his family. He had already missed too many irreplaceable moments without adding to the list by becoming a recluse.

So he got up and padded down the hallway and the stairs and was nearly to the door when Tom's voice pulled him up short: "Would you still love me if I wasn't the Boy Who Lived?"

Harry positively froze. No. No, he can't.

The silence that came after indicated their parents were as confused by the question as Harry was alarmed.

Please, Tom, please please please be smart for once, he silently implored.

"Why do you ask, darling?" Lily said uncertainly.

Merlin, please, they can't know, it would ruin everything, just as it's started to work…

"I dunno," Tom muttered. Harry had to focus hard to hear. "I was just thinking, I guess."

"Tom, we know that you have had to face some nasty truths recently, as much as we have. We neglected Harry in favor of you because we let your fame and status go to our heads." His father's voice was strained as he said these words, and Harry's throat ached. This was all he had ever longed to hear from them. Some acknowledgement of what they'd done, some awareness…. "We'd like to say that we love both of you the same, but we haven't demonstrated that in years, so the painful truth is that… that if Harry had survived that curse rather than you, our treatment of each of you would likely have been reversed. It doesn't make us proud to know this, but we're trying to be more honest from now on, with both of you. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes," Tom replied, and Harry held his breath until enough time had passed to be sure Tom wouldn't follow the thought any further.

He decided against joining them after that. He wouldn't be able to keep a composed expression. He needed time to calm down from the near-miss.

One thing was for sure, at least: Tom knew he wasn't the Boy Who Lived. He obviously wasn't comfortable enough with the idea to bring it up face-first, but he was circling in around it. And his damned Gryffindor honour would make the keeping of this all-important secret as repulsive to him as Fluffy's breath. He had to figure out a way to make Tom keep the lid on without letting him know that he knew too.

He was back to his room by then, and pulled the duvet up to his chin, still thinking furiously. He'd often thought how exaggerated Tom's personality seemed, but really, considering that the entire wizarding world had hailed him as its savior and hero since he was a year and a half old, it wasn't too strange. At least he was basically a good person, if somewhat stuck up and full of himself and horrible at keeping his mouth shut. He had had every opportunity to turn into an actual monster, and hadn't. But what if he had been raised as the Boy Who Lived? How would he have turned out? Just the same as Tom? Or worse?

It was with these thoughts swirling through his mind that he finally dozed off, and he was not met with happy dreams.

All was right in the world: he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, school Prefect, and celebrated Gryffindor Seeker. He commanded the respect of every student at Hogwarts, and was worshiped by the rest of the wizarding world for defeating the Dark Lord. He swaggered through the school's halls, not turning to look at the students, older and younger alike, who scrambled to get out of his way. They knew he was not to be crossed, especially after what he and Oliver did to Malfoy…. Not that he hadn't deserved it, of course. The bastard had made a fool of him in Transfiguration and lost him fifteen points, so he'd had it coming. If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't have gone to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey would have asked questions.

As though summoned by his thoughts, a flash of tell-tale blond hair caught his eye. "Oi! Malfoy!" he shouted. It didn't really matter which one it was: they were both evil Death Eater gits. But in this case it was the elder one, whom he and Oliver had taught their lesson to. The other boy slowed as the throng of students drew away from him. Harry's word had the power to do that, after all.

"Potter," he said shortly, grey eyes flat and dull, Hufflepuff badge glaring humiliating yellow off his chest. Hearsay said Mr Malfoy had been furious about his elder son's Sorting. The thought made him smirk.

"Alright?" Harry asked mockingly. "I remember our last encounter didn't end too well for you."

Malfoy moved his shoulder unconsciously and winced. Harry's smirk deepened. "Remember that lesson next time you think it's funny to tell McGonagall who unlocked all the animal cages in class. That," he nodded at the shoulder, "is far from the worst I can do." He turned on his heel and strutted off.

He had agreed to meet Kelly before supper and was on his way to the appointed place. She's promised a gobby for their three-month anniversary. She'd be perfect if she would only stop being taller than him: she was old blood, devoted to him, and the most beautiful girl in school, possibly excepting Daphne Greengrass, but she was a frigid bitch from everything he'd heard, and Slytherin besides.

"Harry?" A voice rose out of the hubbub, and he turned to see his little brother coming towards him.

"Tommy!" he called jovially, clapping his arm around the younger boy's shoulders. "What brotherly advice can I dispense for you now? Girls, is it? I've got more than enough advice on that subject, believe you me." He winked lecherously.

"Um… actually I don't need anything right now. In fact I wanted—"

"If that's the case, I need to be going," Harry said seriously. "Got a bit of an important date waiting for me." He grinned broadly while Tom flushed in embarrassment. Harry had been only too happy to tell his brother the details of the relations that went on between witches and wizards, but he had not been appreciative.

"It's just—I reckoned maybe you could go a bit easy on Malfoy, is all."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, in your Transfiguration class… I heard the monkey bit Tracey Davis, so maybe Malfoy was right to say you did it…" Noticing Harry's thunderous scowl, he hastened to add, "Not that I like the Malfoys or anything. I know they're rotten. But I just—it's not right to beat people up, Harry."

Harry sighed. Tom was still so immature about some things… Merlin only knew how he'd made it in to Gryffindor; he was such a ponce about everything. "Brother, let me tell you something. We're Potters, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"Of course we are. And the most important part of being a proper Potter is what you keep in here." He tapped his brother's chest, roughly above his heart. "Honour. Pride. Integrity. We can't ever let those things go, especially when scum like the Malfoys attack it. Understand?"

Tom looked troubled even as he nodded. "I guess."

"There's the man! Now, you toddle off to Ron and Neville or whoever while I go find a certain lady friend, eh?"

He whistled as he walked off down the corridor. Oh yes, everything was right in the world.

Harry lurched awake. That's not me, he thought desperately. Even if I was the Boy Who Lived, that would never be me. I'm Harry Potter. My best friends are Roderick Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass. I'm in Ravenclaw. I'm Harry Potter. My friends are Roderick and Delf and Tracey and Cedric and Fred and George and Lawrence and Andrew and Will and Lee Jordan and Chet and Chaz and Roger and Abigail and Cho and Katie and Amanda and Helen…

But if he had been raised as the Boy Who Lived, would he be friends with them? He had become friends with Delf at a Crescent Gala specifically because he hadn't gone on the stage with his family. If his parents had paid more attention to him as a child, he surely would have inherited the prejudice against the Malfoys. He would have studied with Dumbledore, not Master Jerome. He would be in Gryffindor, not Ravenclaw. He'd have different friends, a different life…

His head was spinning unsteady, so he reached out and clicked the bedside lamp on. His room materialized around him, familiar and warm. His Quidditch posters, Hedwig's cage, the silver frames, four successive pictures of him and Delf and Roderick laughing and waving down at him. He sighed with relief. But the dream was too fresh in his memory to let him relax all the way. He would have preferred a Delf dream to that.

To fully expunge the abhorrent images, he got up and went to his bookshelf. Delf's scrapbooks lived on the highest shelf, and he pulled them down one by one. First year. Second year. Third, then fourth. Fifth year was still in the making, of course. He brought all four of them back to bed with him and spread them on the blanket so he could see them all from where he sat below his pillow. He rarely looked at his scrapbooks. He left them at home during the school year, unlike Roderick, and during the summer he was too busy actually spending time with his friends to have to look through old photos of them.

But looking through them now had exactly the intended affect. Four years of friendship and memories were more than enough to remind him of who he was and who he valued. Delf was a wonderful artist, and included sketches of events she hadn't been able to photograph.

In a few hours he was calm again and as dawn peeked in through the west-facing windows, he got up and went to run and meditate. The grass crackled with frozen dew, and the apple trees seemed strangely silent without their diminutive occupants. Godric Merlin Dumbledore was returning from his nocturnal hunt and settling under the eaves of the broom shed. He'd forgotten that Potter Manor was beautiful during winter, even without the dramatics of blizzards and snow like at Hogwarts.

He didn't have to meditate as long as he thought he did, so he ran another couple laps and went inside. James and Tom sat at the breakfast table, the first sipping strong black tea with the morning Prophet, the second looking drowsy over a plate of eggs and ham.

"Harry," James said, sounding startled. "What are you doing out there?"

"Running," he replied, confused. "Like I do every morning."

"But… Lily went to bring you to breakfast twenty minutes ago. We thought you two were just talking."

"I've been outside for three quarters of an hour. I haven't even seen Mum."

"Well, go fetch her down. What in the world is she doing up there?" The last seemed to be rhetorical, so Harry left the kitchen and headed upstairs.

His door was ajar, he saw, and since he was always careful to close it, he knew she must be there.

He peered around the doorjamb. "Mum?" She was sitting on the edge of his bed, a large book open on her lap.

She looked up and he saw her eyes were wet. "Oh… sweetheart… I'm sorry; I just saw these on your bed and wondered what they were…" He came into his room and stood next to her. She was looking at the second year scrapbook, open to the page of his infamous goalpost crash.

"The good old days when I only visited the Hospital Wing once a year," he joked, trying to lighten her mood.

Instead her chin wobbled and her eyes went even tearier. "Oh, Harry, these are beautiful! Did you make them?"

"Um… No, my friend Daphne did." Her proper name felt odd in his mouth, but he could not say 'Delf'. She was not 'Delf' to Lily.

"They're lovely…" She ran her fingers over the page as photo-Harry did his spectacular crash again. "Harry, I… we don't know anything about you, do I? About your life, or your friends, or anything."

"Well, no," he said reluctantly, sitting on the bed next to her. "You don't really." He hated to be so blunt about it when she was obviously having an attack of guilt, but this very thing was what he had so often thought of as their main problem, so he wanted to take the opportunity to fix it as best as possible. He reached behind himself. "This is the one from first year. I still had my glasses then, see?"

"Yes. They make you look even more like James… how did you stop wearing them?"

"Tracey's mum gave me contact lenses before second year."

"She's an optician? A Muggle?"

"Yeah, she has an office in London."

"Is this your first Quidditch game?" She had turned the page.

"Oh, yeah… the guys lifting me up are Lewis Montgomery and Finn Madden, two of the Chasers."

"Who's the disgruntled-looking one?"

Harry sniggered at the memory. "Arthur Valentine, the Captain. He wasn't keen on letting me on since I was only a first year, so he looked a bit stupid, even though we'd won."

"Oh. That seems—is your hand bleeding there?"

"Only a bit. Since first years aren't allowed their own brooms, I had to borrow a school one, and I'd missed a splinter. It cut my hand a little."

"But that was the year Sirius taught. Couldn't you have borrowed his?"

"He tried to make me, actually. But I wanted to do everything by the book so that they couldn't kick me off on a technicality or something. But he gave me one that summer anyway."

"Did Sirius also get you your Nimbus two thousand?"

"Yeah, when I turned thirteen…" The thought of his destroyed Nimbus still depressed him a bit. He knew it was only a broom and he would get a new one, but it had been his first really nice proper broom, and losing it was sad.

They flipped through the rest of first year, where Harry glossed over the details of the Forest incident and focused mainly on his resultant friendship with the twins. Then they did second year, where Tracey and Cedric appeared in some pictures, and he explained about the fifteen-second Quidditch game ("It seemed like the Snitch just flew at me by accident or something. I wasn't going to let anyone know so everyone else could play, but it turns out the other balls stop once the Snitch is caught."). Then she insisted on third year, and chuckled at the photo of him and Roderick making faces of exaggerated disgust and sorrow, with the caption 'Our brothers are here!'. She was slightly less amused by the copy of Harry's dragon tattoo Delf had sketched out, and the photo she had taken of the real thing several weeks into term. Of course, third year was the Quirrell year, and there were many details about that which had never been accurately communicated. And then nothing would do but for the fourth year book to come out. As with third year, there were very few candid photos since they had spent so much time in the Library, but there were the usual Quidditch ones, and several Christmas-themed pages since both of his friends had stayed at school with him over the holiday that year. He remembered with barely-stifled amusement how Tom had accused Draco of being the Heir of Slytherin, and how affronted he'd been when Roderick laughed at him. There was a single small picture of him and Katie together near the end of the book with the terse caption 'Harry dated'. Then on the very last page was a single big photograph of him and Delf on the train, laughing and waving to the camera. He couldn't remember the photo being taken, or imagine how Delf had gotten it later, but he was glad to have it.

By then it was nearly noon, and hunger was making him shaky. So Lily mopped her face (she'd cried on-and-off through the whole presentation) and together they went downstairs. James was in his study and Tom was sleeping on the sofa in front of the fireplace, so they ate cold sandwiches with Tipsy, and Harry was carefully, cautiously, very, very happy.

Things fell into a pattern after that. Harry got up and ran and meditated, then ate breakfast with his parents and Tom. He'd spend the morning with Tipsy or the portraits, then eat lunch with his family. Then he'd study or read or write letters in his room in the afternoon, and they'd all eat an early supper together before spending the evening in the sitting room. Sometimes they'd talk, sometimes not, and either way was fine. The only thorn in the bush was that Lily adopted the annoying habit of asking Harry if he would let her cut his hair, which he refused over and over and over again.

It was one such afternoon a little over a week into the holiday that James knocked on the door and told him it was time for supper. Harry put the letter he'd been writing to Delf aside (it consisted mainly of sympathy for her sufferings at the presence of David and Marie, and concern that neither of them had heard from Roderick yet) and began organizing all the random bits that always wound up on his desk without his permission.

"Can I come in?" asked James' muffled voice.

"Ahh, sure, yeah," Harry replied absently, trying to remember where he'd gotten three old empty ink bottles and how last year's Potions book came to be resting on them at the corner of his desk. The door clicked open behind him, and James' feet took him a few steps into the room.

Giving up on the inkwells, he stuffed them in a drawer and got up to go to supper, only to find his father looking strangely thoughtful.

"Alright?" he said uncertainly.

"This was my room when I was a boy," James said vaguely. "And my father's before that. My parents were quite old when they had me, you know. I'm afraid I grew up a bit spoiled. I went through a phase of Permanent Sticking Charms when I was thirteen. You know about the chair in the sitting room, of course. Have you ever tried to shift your bed?"

Harry had to admit that was not something he'd done.

"You wouldn't be able to," his father said, showing a shadow of a smirk. "That bed has seen a lot over the years. As a matter of fact, that's the very place where your mother and I made—" He came to himself all at once and saved them both the pain of finishing the sentence. "Er," he said. "That is, supper's ready, let's go downstairs."

"Yes, let's."

Fortunately, Lily immediately started going on about his hair when they appeared in the kitchen, so Harry could pretend to forget the whole conversation even happened.

"…be so much more manageable if it was shorter like Tom's though, don't you think sweetheart?" Lily said, passing bowls of steaming soup around the table.

"For one, it's actually more manageable like this, and for two, Tom has a pudding bowl cut, and I'd prefer to avoid that."

"I do not!" Tom protested.

"You do too," Harry rejoined.

"But if it were all the same length as your fringe, it would look much more uniform," she implored, reaching across to brush the hair that lay across his forehead. "And you have such lovely thick hair, it's a shame—Harry, what's on your forehead?"

"What?" he said, reaching up.

"Just there!" She pushed his hair more firmly out of the way. "Is that a cut?"

"Oh, that? It's just my old crooked scar. It's been there for years, Mum."

"Why does it look so raw? This looks like it just happened last week!" She abandoned the soup ladle and came around the table to look at his scar properly. "How long have you had this?"

"Well, since I was a kid. I got it when the house fell down, remember?" he said awkwardly. "When Voldemort attacked?" Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Tom go very stiff for a moment, as if he'd been hexed, but couldn't spare the attention to really notice.

"You've had this since you were three? Why isn't this better healed? Harry, have you been scratching at it?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed indignantly, pulling away from her probing fingers.

"If you've been scratching scars, I'm going to cut off your fingers, Harry, I swear it."

"Lily!" James interjected. "Come now, that's enough."

"I haven't been scratching, Mum. Merlin, I've got better sense than that. Why do you think I wear a fringe at all? To stop people from asking about it. I don't know why it is the way it is, but I would fix it if I could, I promise." Lily simmered down a short while later, and the meal progressed more quietly. Tom kept sending Harry furtive glances, but he really didn't have the energy to care. Even if it was about stupid things like his hair or his scar, arguing with his mum was tiring.

Another few days managed to pass without mishap. Since Harry had done his Christmas shopping over the last Hogsmeade visit, he had the house to himself for the whole morning on the 22nd. He spent it writing a lengthy letter to Delf, continuing an ongoing discussion about Roderick's extended and worrisome silence. They agreed that his father probably had something to do with it, but what they ought to do was the point of dissension. She suggested a 'storm the castle' approach, while he thought that Roderick had been dealing with his father for sixteen years and would be fine for the remaining week of the holiday. They could sort out an alternative arrangement when they saw him again at school, because he obviously didn't want to keep living there.

He heard someone Apparate downstairs just as he released Hedwig out of his bedroom window, and went down to greet them. James was going into his study as Harry came down the stairs and gave only a short greeting and the brief fact that Lily was still shopping before business called him to his study. He found Tom in the kitchen, stacking a large pile of packages wrapped in shiny red and green paper on the table. Tipsy stood on the counter, dusting the tops of the cupboards.

"Hey," he said to his brother, crossing to the fruit bowl and selecting an apple. "Productive trip?"

Tom shrugged. "I guess." His hands were busy arranging the parcels, but his eyes were distant and thoughtful behind his glasses. Then he seemed to come to a decision and set his jaw. "Harry, I have to tell you something."

Harry froze with the apple halfway to his mouth.

"Tipsy could you leave us alone, please?"

"Certainly, Master Thomas. Tipsy will just go sweep around the beautiful Christmas tree." She hopped off the counter and pattered out of the kitchen, taking up the small broom and dustpan from behind the door as she left.

"Sit down?"

Harry obeyed, mind racing frantically. Tom sat opposite him and folded his hands on the table.

"I have something to say that'll seem… far-fetched," he began, staring fixedly at his knotted fingers. "You may find it difficult to accept, or scared of the effects it may have on your life. I know I'm sort of… I mean, I'm not scared, exactly, but anxious might be right, or apprehensive, maybe. But anyway. My point is that this will be huge for both of us. Life-changing, in fact."

If Harry hadn't been thinking so hard about how to derail the conversation, he would have been amused and charmed by Tom's extreme somberness and the respect for the life he was supposedly about to disrupt. That is, Harry's.

"Every time I've gotten close to a Dementor, I've… heard things."

"You know what I've always really admired about you?" Harry interrupted urgently. There was always a last resort with Tom: flattery.

Tom looked at him in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Yeah," he said, inventing wildly. "There are a lot of pressures that come with your position, and you've always dealt with it really well. I don't think I could do half so well as you."

Tom's expression turned pinched and pained. "No, but—"

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

They looked up simultaneously to see a bedraggled owl perched on the sill outside. It held a rumpled letter in its beak. "I'll get it," Harry said quickly, and sprang up.

The owl had flown through a rain storm at some point during its journey, and it shook itself mightily before giving Harry the letter. He looked it over, absently fumbling for the little dish of Knuts they kept for the owls that brought the Prophet.

"Wait, this is Roderick's handwriting!" he exclaimed, and tore it open. Harry could always recognize the distinctive left-handed scrawl.

Hey Harry, he read. I'm living with Sirius for now. I'll explain more when I see you. From the position I'm in, I beg you to try and make it work with your parents. –Roderick

Before he had a chance to react properly, a shout echoed from the far end of the house: "Harry!" It was James.

"What?" Harry yelled back.

Their father appeared in the door to the kitchen a moment later, brandishing a page of parchment. "Your Malfoy friend is living with Sirius!"

"I know, he just wrote me!" He held out his own letter.

"Sirius did?"

"No, Roderick."

"He left the Malfoy house?"

"I guess. I mean, if he's living away with Sirius, I assume he did."

Tom had stood by through all of this, obviously torn over his curiosity about the current situation and his honour-driven urge to tell Harry the truth as soon as possible.

"So…" James had clearly not noticed the strange tension in the room, and that was fine with Harry. "'Roderick' is your Sirius?"

"I have been saying that for years, Dad."

"Well, it's not that you can really blame us for being a little skeptical."

"I can, actually," Harry shot back. "What did your parents think of Sirius when you first brought him home?"

"My parents weren't political."

"Weren't prejudiced, you mean."

"Alright, look. I'm sorry. I know I ought to know better than to judge your friends by their family. Why don't you…" James groped for something to say that would be at once reconciliatory and allow him to keep face. "Why don't you invite him over? Him and Sirius can both come for dinner some time."

"Can I invite De—Daphne too?" he asked quickly.

James hesitated. Then, "Certainly," he said, and Harry smiled. Playing his parents' guilt seemed to have unanticipated benefits.

"Then can I ask Ron and Hermione?" Tom asked stridently. Harry took that as a good indication that they'd left the previous topic behind.

"Well…." James wavered. "We should ask your mother before bringing too many people into the house…"

"But Dad, I thought you were the head of the family," Tom said, causing Harry some surprise. What an unusually Slytherin-y thing for him to have said!

"I am!" James objected, clearly caught off-guard. "That is—well!" He frowned back and forth between his sons. "Fine, go write them all. Why not? Why not!"

"Can we have them for New Years?" Harry asked eagerly. "You and Mum were going to go to the Ministry thing without us anyway." That was true. The Ministry hosted an adults-only New Years Eve party every year, and it used to be Tom's biggest complaint that he never got to go, since he was an 'unusually mature and responsible underage person' (he never liked being called a 'child').

"Fine," James grumbled, running his fingers through his hair exasperatedly.

Just then Lily Apparated into the foyer and James sighed and went out to greet her, leaving Harry and Tom alone together. Harry quickly started to leave to avoid Tom resurrecting their previous conversation, but Tom foiled the attempt by speaking up.

"Harry, wait."

With every ounce of reluctance he had ever felt, Harry turned to face him.

"You're happy the way you are, aren't you?" Tom asked, looking shrewd.

"Impeccably," Harry replied firmly.

Tom nodded as if he had had some kind of deep suspicion confirmed, and Harry nearly laughed at the realization that Tom's Gryffindor honour had worked out in his favour after all: Tom thought it would be the better, more noble thing to do to keep the 'burden' of being the Boy Who Lived to himself, thus sparing Harry a great deal of distress and pain. Not that he was complaining. It was, in fact, exactly what he had wanted to happen.

Lily came in all in a tizzy just as Harry was leaving properly, and seemed to think it was Harry, not Roderick, who had just suffered a massive upheaval in his personal life. She fully supported the idea of having their friends over for New Years Eve, for which James was no doubt grateful. She even suggested they extend the visit for the two days after that when term started again. Harry knew Delf would be happy to hear that: any excuse to get away from David and Marie was gold to her eyes. As for Roderick, well. He was coming whether he liked it or not, because Harry was certainly not going to wait for school to start back up before getting a full explanation. Best friends didn't secede from their families every day, and it was important to know Roderick was alright. So he and Tom went and wrote their letters.

They got four affirmative answers back that evening and the next morning, and Tipsy was jumping for joy at the thought of Potter Manor finally having young guests again, just like when Mister Sirius used to come and stay! Her casual remark made Harry remember that the littlest member of the family was actually the oldest, clocking in at nearly 80.

By the time Christmas arrived, Harry had nearly forgotten why it was supposed to be important because of everything else going on. Tom (thankfully) hadn't broached the topic of their somewhat confusing identity again, but he did seem preoccupied and they frequently had to ask a question two or three times before he paid any mind. Aside from that, Harry wrote incessant letters to Delf and Roderick, and was so entirely immersed in their dialogue that when James woke him up extra-early on the morning of the 25th, he literally could not think what was happening.

He cheered up once he got a grip on the date though. The fairies were having a party in the tree, Tipsy had brewed up some eggnog and ginger cookies, and there was a package that looked suspiciously like a broomstick with his name on it. He was allowed to choose the first gift, and the broom was his natural choice. And, as he had half-expected and fully hoped, it was a Firebolt, and it was beautiful.

Tom got to open one next. Not that Harry was really paying attention: he had seen Tom's Firebolt, sure, but this one was his, and he was perfectly within his right to ogle it a bit. Thus, he did not notice anything special about Tom's present until it started hooting. That made him look up.

Tom seemed fully present for the first time in a week as he tore the wrapping paper off the large rectangular cage. His eyes were bright and shiny as he beheld his very own owl. Harry was impressed in spite of himself. The owl was large, its feathers a couple shades lighter than Delf's hair. To his inexpert eye, it looked young, but he had no idea as to the breed.

"Wow…" Tom breathed.

"What will you name him, darling?" Lily asked.

"I get to name him?" said Tom.

"Of course," James laughed. "The shopkeeper had only just gotten him in. Wasn't there long enough to be named."

Tom looked at his owl thoughtfully. "What kind is he?"

"A great horned owl," James said proudly.

"Wicked," Tom murmured. "I'll name him… Archimedes." He lifted his chin, as if declaring the victorious return of a hero. Harry sniggered into his hand, and was gratified to see James was likewise amused, only he hid it better.

There were a few other things for the boys, and they had both gotten their parents something. But Harry was eager to try out his broomstick, and Tom wanted to get properly acquainted with Archimedes, but Lily wouldn't let him out near the fairies. So they went their separate ways: Tom upstairs, Harry outside, and Lily and James to various parts of the house.

As beautiful as the Firebolt was to look at, it was better to fly. The air was biting cold against his skin, but he didn't care that he was seriously underdressed for the weather. Flying on his Nimbus had felt like riding on the wind: with the Firebolt, he was the wind. And it was glorious. He hadn't actually flown at Potter Manor since his eleventh birthday party, and the experience was both exhilarating and slightly terrifying. He flew, weaving and diving and dodging around at incredible speeds, but after a short time his fingers started feeling icy, and he went in, deeply satisfied. Remus came over to Christmas tea that night, and they did crackers and carols and everything, and they all went to bed late.

The next few days were dedicated to cleaning, and random other preparations that came with having semi-long term guests over. They fixed up two of the spare bedrooms for Delf and Hermione, but decided that Roderick and Ron would just bunk with Harry and Tom, respectively. That meant moving spare mattresses into their rooms (and for Tom, it meant a long-overdue and very thorough cleaning of his floor). Tipsy was in her element, and even the portraits were more animated than usual. Harry had told them a great deal about Delf and Roderick over the years, and they were eager to meet them again.

And so it was, on the afternoon of the 30th, that Harry and Tom were on the sofa in front of the Floo fireplace, while Lily and James lurked inconspicuously nearly—Lily twiddling around in the kitchen and James in his study with the door open. Harry had a book, but Tom got progressively more antsy and bored as the minutes wore on with no friends forthcoming.

But as the minute-hand on Harry's watched ticked just to six, green flames flared up, and Delf stepped out of the fireplace. Tom flopped back dejectedly. Harry, however, jumped up. "Hello," he said happily, going to her to help get her trunk off the grate.

"Happy Christmas," she said warmly. He saw her eyes were a mix of green and gold, which was a relief. He'd spent too much time with an angry Delf recently. She smiled when he pointed them out, and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. Harry flushed to the roots of his hair, and, to avoid having to think about whether it would be polite to reciprocate, pretended it hadn't happened.

Just then Lily, with unusually perfect timing, came in from the kitchen. "Did I hear someone get here?" she asked cheerfully. Harry resisted rolling his eyes because yes, of course she had. She had been lurking in the kitchen specifically to listen for them.

"Mum, this is my friend Daphne Greengrass. Delf, my mum, Lily Potter," he said formally.

"It's wonderful to meet you, dear," Lily said, extending her hand.

"Likewise," Delf returned coolly as they shook. Since Lily didn't know her, she didn't notice the slight variation from Delf's usual tone, but Harry did and made a mental note to tell her to be nice once they were alone. He had never told his friends anything explicit about his relationship with his family, but they had inferred a great deal, and Delf had formed a grudge against his parents almost fiercer than Harry's own.

"We've prepared a room for you upstairs if you'd like to put your things away." Lily had obviously not noticed the slight unfriendliness.

"I'll show her, Mum," Harry said, and hoisted Delf's trunk for her. Mrs. Weasley Apparated out in front of the gate outside while they were upstairs, and when they came back down, Tom, Ron and Hermione were looking secretive in a corner while Lily ushered Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen for tea. Tom and the other two disappeared upstairs, but Delf and Harry went back to the fireplace to wait for Roderick.

"Last time I was in here, you were lying here with a broken arm telling us to go home," she said matter-of-factly. They were on the sofa. Delf rested her head on his shoulder, and he'd put his arm around her, just to be comfortable.

"Last time you were here was nearly five years ago," he reminded her gently. "A lot can change in five years."

"A lot can change in five seconds," she rejoined smartly, but there was something under her voice he'd never heard before. He looked down at her.

"Delf?"

She looked back at him, and her eyes were something strange, something between green and hazel and pitch, pitch black, and he had no idea what to make of them. "I—" she started, but then a sharp crack announced someone Apparating into the foyer. Then a voice that sounded suspiciously like Roderick's grumbled something about using the Floo Network next time, and someone who sounded suspiciously like Sirius laughed.

"Hallooooo Potters!" he shouted a moment later, and Harry and Delf leapt up and reached the door just in time to see James Potter and Roderick Malfoy meet properly for the first time. They shook hands uncertainly, neither one sure what to expect of the other. To James, Roderick was the heir to the Malfoy name (until quite recently), and the Malfoys were Death Eaters, supporters of the very man who had tried to rip his family apart and succeeded in killing his mother. All Roderick knew about James was that he hated the family he'd just left and had spent the majority of the past 15 years neglecting Harry. Not exactly excellent terms to meet on, but James knew Roderick had just left the Malfoy house, and Roderick knew James and Harry were starting to get on again, so it was something.

"An honour to meet you, young man," James said gravely, and Roderick's relief was palpable.

"Thank you, sir."

Then, of course, there had to be tea for everyone, and it was nearly eight o' clock by the time Mrs. Weasley and Sirius went home. In true adult fashion, James and Lily ordered bedtime, and seemed surprised when all six teenagers were eager to comply. Of course, 'bedtime' did not mean 'going to sleep'. It meant 'we have an excuse to go talk in private now, let's take it'.

So with no further ado, Harry bid his parents and brother goodnight and rushed his friends upstairs to his room.

"Ok," Harry said severely as soon as they were all settled around his room. Roderick was on the mattress on the floor that was to be his bed for the next several days, Delf was on Harry's bed, and Harry was in his desk chair. He had been on the bed as well, but Delf's proximity had brought back his and James' abandoned conversation and he had quickly moved. "Tell us what happened."

Roderick looked startled. "Is this what it's like for you every time you do something stupid and we ask about it?"

"But you're always there when I do stupid things," Harry said, confused.

"Let's not change the subject," Delf said pointedly.

Roderick sighed. "There's not much to tell. I mean, I imagine you've figured out most of it just from context. Dad was destroying my mail, keeping me in the house, we were fighting a lot, and then last week, irreparable things were said, and I left. You know my mouth gets ahead of my brain when I'm angry. So I'm not going back when term gets out next summer. Sirius is letting me stay with him." He shrugged. "That's it."

"But you and your father have been fighting for years," Delf said, voicing Harry's thought to a tee. "What happened that was so much worse?"

"He, uh… I told him I like Tracey."

"…That's it?"

"Yes, Delf, that's 'it'. You apparently underestimate my father's hatred of Muggle-borns."

"But Tracey's half. And she's in Slytherin."

"She never knew her dad, so she's essentially Muggle-born. Her mum didn't know how to contact the magical world after he died. And she could be in Gryffindor for all he cares about her house. It's her blood that matters. You remember how furious he got when I brought up the Muggle-born in our family a couple years ago, don't you?"

Harry and Delf nodded. "The one who died of dragon pox suspiciously soon after they got married," she said.

"So there you have it. The Malfoy heir obviously can't like Muggle-borns, and if he does, he can't be the Malfoy heir anymore. I know he was already thinking about disinheriting me before this, but now he definitely will. And that's fine."

"That's right," Harry interrupted. "You said something about that on the train."

Roderick paused. "That's right, I did. I started thinking about it after I went snooping in Dad's office and found that book about Horcruxes, remember?" The other two nodded. "While I was in there, I saw some books about inheritance law open on his desk. Apparently there was a case a lot like this a few centuries ago, where there was nothing wrong with the elder son, but the father wanted the younger one to come into everything."

"Why didn't he just look at the Blacks?" Harry asked.

"Well, in case you haven't realized, Sirius still got it all in the end, which Dad wants to avoid. And besides, he was only actually written out of the will, not kicked out of the family. He explained the whole thing to me. It's functionally the same, but not legally. Sirius was still a Black. As soon as Dad's done with everything, I literally won't have surname anymore. I will be Roderick Blank." He said this last with a touch of pride, though he was obviously very anxious about the whole thing.

"How did you decide to go to Sirius'?" Harry asked. "Our usual thing is to go to Delf's."

"Sure, during summer, with Master Jerome, not Christmas holiday with family visiting. Sirius got me from the Leaky Cauldron anyway: I had no idea where to go."

"And I'm sure you two are having far too much fun," Delf said, sounding a bit envious.

"I guess… he does have work, you know. But the day after he took me in, we went to the ancestral Black home and blasted my name off the family tree. That was fun."

They talked on for several hours, eventually drifting away from inheritance and family matters, and cycling through the old standbys of school, friends and gossip, and Quidditch (at which Delf rolled her eyes). But they all proved rather more tired than they had expected, and it was barely eleven when Harry and Roderick told Delf goodnight and she went across the hall to her room. Harry was asleep mere moments later.

The next day was New Years Eve, and Harry and his friends spent the morning in the library, chatting with the portraits. Roderick thought Melody and Gregory were hilarious, while Delf questioned each of them in turn about the history of the Potter family. She didn't have any portraits of her family at her house, so she grabbed the opportunity to get a close, personal view on recent magical history. Sirius arrived for tea time, and the kitchen was busier and noisier than Harry had ever heard it, not counting Tom's birthdays. Tipsy was having a ball, of course.

The adults were due at the Ministry by nine PM, which meant there was plenty of time for a quick game of pick-up Quidditch before they had to get ready. Harry, Roderick and Sirius played Tom, Ron and James, the former two playing Keeper while the others were Chasers. Harry let Roderick use his Firebolt and their team beat Tom's quite handily, and they were all freezing when they got back inside. Hermione, Delf, and Lily were sharing tea in the kitchen as they all tromped in, and Tipsy bustled about putting more water on and finding enough cups and saucers for everyone.

"So, Roderick," Lily said as soon as they were all settled. Harry looked at her warily. This was not the correct time or subject to be tactless. "You've been living with Sirius for about a week, right?"

"Um, yes, nine days," Roderick replied awkwardly.

"And you went there straight from the Malfoy house?" James asked casually.

"Dad," Harry hissed, but Roderick only shrugged.

"I hadn't planned to go to Sirius', actually. I went to the Leaky Cauldron first, and he found me there."

Sirius chuckled "When Tom—" Tom looked confused "—the barkeep—Floo-called me to pick up my drunk cousin, I was expecting to find Tonks."

"Drunk?" Delf repeated incredulously, setting her tea cup down with a clatter. "You didn't mention that!"

Roderick coloured a little and avoided the shocked and rather disapproving faces of Lily, Tom and Hermione. "I wasn't drunk," he muttered. "Stupid Tom—" Tom looked affronted "—the barkeep, gave me something a lot stronger than it tasted, but I wasn't actually drunk."

"Yeah you were, cuz," Sirius said cheerfully. "Good thing I thought to Apparate to the loo back at my place."

Roderick blanched at the memory. "That was just because you Apparated, not…"

"Okay, that's enough of that, I'd say," Delf interrupted.

"Oh look, we should get ready to go now," Lily said loudly, standing up and beginning to clear the tea things away. Harry stood with equal relief as everyone at the table began to disperse, and he, Delf, and Roderick scarpered back to Harry's room.

"You were drunk?" Delf repeated again once the door was safely closed.

"Well, not—I mean, I had… yeah, I guess I was," he replied sheepishly.

"How was it?" she asked eagerly.

"I wasn't quite in the right mindset to enjoy it, you know? But…I think I liked it," he said, grinning.

"Ugh. No fair! Now I'm the only one who hasn't been drunk before!"

"When were you drunk, Harry?"

"Egypt," he said wryly.

"Oh, that's right."

"Twice," Delf stressed jealously.

"Well, no time like the present, right?" Roderick said jauntily. "The adults will be gone in an hour. We can hole up in here Harry's room and ring in the New Year properly."

"Maybe my parents were right about you being a bad influence after all," Harry said, and Roderick laughed.

So at nine o' clock, when Lily, James, and Sirius Disapparated from the dining room, Harry, Delf and Roderick went to find Tipsy in the kitchen. Harry and Roderick asked after any biscuits she might have lying around looking for a home, while Delf wandered over to the liquor cabinet in the corner and casually fiddled with the lock on the front. Harry accidentally dropped a plate which just so happened to cover the sound of her murmuring "Alohamora" and reflected on how perfectly orchestrated coincidences have to be sometimes.

When they left, they were toting several large platters of sweets and biscuits, and Delf had a couple clinking bottles of something alcoholic tucked into her sweater. Harry felt a bit bad about tricking Tipsy, but he knew she wouldn't have approved of her Young Master Harry and his friends getting drunk in his room. In many ways, Tipsy was more of a mother to him than Lily. Not to say that Lily would have been alright with them getting sloshed either. But she wasn't there.

They locked themselves in Harry's room and examined their loot. They had three different kinds of cookies (chocolate chip, ginger snap, and butterscotch walnut), and Delf had grabbed two medium-sized bottles, one a quarter full of Firewhiskey and the other two-thirds full of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead.

"What first?" Delf asked, surveying the arrangement. They were in a rough triangle, cross-legged on the floor by Roderick's mattress with the biscuits and alcohol in the middle.

"I'd say Firewhiskey," Roderick replied, munching a ginger snap. "A shot of that to see if it's good, then the mead."

"What did you lot drink before?" Delf asked, reaching to open the Firewhiskey.

"I dunno," said Roderick, reaching for the chocolate chip cookies. "Tom didn't tell me what he gave me. Delicious, whatever it was."

"I haven't got a clue either," Harry said, taking the bottle from her. "It was all in Arabic. Well, happy new year! Bottoms up!" The whiskey tasted warm against his tongue, warm and friendly. He held it in his mouth thoughtfully as he handed it off to Roderick. He took a brave swig just as Harry swallowed, so they both started coughing at the same time. Delf looked between them doubtfully over the mouth of the bottle.

"Do it," Roderick choked, tears beginning to leak from his eyes.

Harry could only nod. 'Firewhiskey' was too tame a name for what he had just drunk. 'Inferno-whiskey' would be more appropriate, or 'volcano-whiskey' maybe. Searing heat was taking root in his gut and spreading outwards through his chest and limbs. He tried to cough away the embers in his throat, but that only stoked them to higher heat.

Through watering eyes, he saw Delf take a tentative sip, and had to grin as she started coughing too.

"I don't think we need any more of that," she gasped, setting the bottle aside. Harry and Roderick nodded fervent agreement.

It took a few minutes for the burning to subside, and by the time it did, they all found the situation incredibly funny. They opened the mead, which, fortunately, was much more enjoyable, and it wasn't long until Delf threw a ginger snap at Roderick. That started a contest of throwing cookies at each other's' faces to see who could catch them in their mouths, which somehow led to acting out impressions of their classmates – Harry laughed particularly hard at Roderick's impression of him and Delf's impression of Kelly, even though it involved her undoing too many buttons on her blouse – and that somehow led to making resolutions, and those only got more and more ridiculous as the night went on and the mead bottle got emptier and emptier.

"…and them I'm gonna go up to P'efessor Trelawny and say, 'oi! Oi, you! You told me I was gonna die. Well, I didn't die!' I'll say that to her," Harry said, earning cackles from Delf and Roderick.

They were all well and truly swimming in it by then, so much so that they forgot to look at a clock until it was three minutes past midnight. But that did not dampen their celebration: Roderick jumped up cheering, only to topple over immediately. Harry threw his arms in the air and tried to whistle even though his lips were a little numb, only to have Delf somehow appear on his lap and kiss him sloppily at the corner of his mouth. And because he was drunk, and because it was New Years, and because he half-thought he was dreaming already, he kissed her back. Her lips were warm and tasted sparkly. He didn't remember stopping, but they must have, because she was suddenly shouting "HAPPY NEW YEARS!"

The rest of the evening became increasingly blurrier in his memory until it sank into the clear darkness of sleep.

-o-

His head was a Bludger. Not only that, it was a Bludger after a particularly rowdy Quidditch game, in which every single player was a Beater and the only object was to hit him. Suffices to say, his head hurt. But not only did his head hurt, his mouth tasted like he's been chewing a pillow stuffed with old socks, and his right arm had disappeared.

Rocking his head sickly to the side, he saw that his arm actually was still there: he just couldn't feel it because Delf was using it for a pillow, and probably had been for most of the night. They were sprawled half-on and half-off of Roderick's mattress. Roderick himself curled into a tight little knot where the mattress met the corner of the wall. He was wrapped around his pillow like a big blond prawn. Memories of the night before were like bits of broken glass that he carefully put together. He groaned aloud when he remembered kissing Delf. What must she think of him? How could he have possibly done something so foolish and selfish? Would she still want to be his friend?

Now that he was more or less conscious, logic started creeping back around the edges of hysteria. What time was it? He lifted the arm he could still feel and gazed at his watch for a long moment.

"Ten-forty!?" he shouted once all the little numerals started making sense. His own voice made his head pound, however, and he had to spend the next few minutes lying still and silent. His friends, still dead to the world, had not so much as twitched at his exclamation. And so, since his arm was trapped under Delf, disabling him from getting up, he was blessed with spending the next half hour becoming intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of his horrible, horrible hangover.

His friends did not fare much better, which was even less of an amusing comfort than he had hoped for. Fortunately, none of the other residents of Potter Manor were up any earlier than they, so most of his raging headache had dissolved by the time he faced his parents at one that afternoon. Two liters of water seemed to do about half the job of one hangover potion, but they hadn't thought ahead to have those handy. Truth to tell, they hadn't thought ahead at all. But all in all, New Years at Potter Manor was a smashing success.

The next two days sped past with unfortunate speed. Despite the drama he'd been half expecting with his friends in the house, Harry found himself having a wonderful time. Being with Delf and Roderick over holiday, and with Tom, Ron and Hermione to harass to boot, was absolute bliss. He kept trying to find a time to talk to Delf about what they had done on New Years, but there was usually someone else around, or she got distracted by something and dragged him off to do something else. Tom and his two friends spent most of their time outside, despite the cold. Tom and Ron would blow around on broomsticks while Hermione read under the bare apple trees, and if three crows happened to come by and abuse them for a bit, was it so strange for Harry, Roderick and Delf to come around the corner of the house a moment later, laughing madly? They didn't think so. Harry was so busy having fun that he entirely forgot to be excited to go to back to school.

But back to school they went, bags packed, owls caged, students bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—mostly. Delf had snuck into Harry's room again and all three of them had chattered away late into the night. Harry had barely woken up in time to run, let alone meditate. But then they were off again, for the second half of fifth year.

Mini-chapter: Draco

He hadn't thought it possible. Literally had not thought it possible. Roderick and Father had never gotten along, obviously. Draco had always blamed the elder Potter for corrupting his brother, but in recent years—basically, since he'd started Hogwarts—he had begun to think that it was Roderick's true nature after all. He flouted their family values and customs, hung out with Potter and Mudbloods and Weasleys, and was utterly unapologetic about it. So sure, Father and Roderick fought a lot, especially in the last few years. But family was family. People didn't just leave their family, it just… it wasn't done. But Father had…

They had been at supper, in the large formal dining room. Father sat at the head of the table, as always. Roderick was at his right, Draco his left, with Mother on Draco's other side. They had not spoken, outside of Mother's request for the salt to be passed, which Draco had quietly obliged.

If he was very, very honest, Draco admired his brother. Roderick and Potter and Greengrass seemed to emanate a sort of freedom, especially at school, that he could only covet and envy. But Draco was never very, very honest, and they weren't at school; they were at home, where Roderick had the distinct disadvantage of being out of Father's favour.

Draco lay on his bed, listening to the silence of the rest of the house. Father had locked himself in his study, Mother was crying in her sitting room, and Draco was there, thinking. Roderick exuded an utterly devil-may-care attitude that caused Father as much fury as it did Draco envy. But at supper, that fury had… Father had…

"So boys," Father had said. "How are you classes going?"

"Very well, Father," Draco recited. It was an old, familiar dialogue, one they had every time they came home from school.

"Same," Roderick muttered. Draco glared across the table, leaning slightly to see around a large floral arrangement. He hated when his brother did this: left the conversational responsibilities to him.

"Draco, I trust you are making every effort to improve your marks this year."

He scowled. Stupid Ravenclaw Roderick never got lectured about his marks. About everything else, yes, but never his marks. "Yes, Father."

"Good. Have either of you made any new little friends?" Father asked, not looking up from the slice of roast he was cutting on his plate.

"No, Father," Draco replied. "Crabbe and Goyle send holiday greetings." Untrue, of course, but it was the proper thing to say.

Father seemed pleased. "You did well with those two." Father considered friends to be a great tool for social leverage, an opinion which Draco shared. Crabbe and Goyle might be unutterably stupid, but they were useful. "Their fathers are good men. Right-minded men." Father took a bite and chewed slowly. Swallowed. "Roderick? Did you make any new friends?"

Roderick went tense across the table. "No," he said quietly. "I don't need new friends. I like the ones I have."

Father put his flatware down. Draco took a nervous mouthful of water. At his side, Mother twisted her napkin in her lap.

But to tell the truth, as much as he secretly admired Roderick, he understood something his brother didn't. No matter what, family came first. Draco understood and accepted that unity was the core tenant of their family, while Roderick actively defied it by becoming friends with the Potter heir and hanging about with Davis all the time. He didn't understand that they had to stand against other families like the Potters and Weasleys, and Mudbloods like Granger. At this thought he flushed hot and went to light some pages on fire.

"Don't you think it's time you outgrew this silly rebellious phase?" Father asked coldly.

"Lucius," Mother pleaded. She hated when Father and Roderick fought.

"Not now, Narcissa," Father snapped. "Roderick, we've turned a blind eye for as long as possible, but really, it's time to grow up. You'll be of age in less than a year, and you need to think about the kind of man you want to be and the sort of life you want to live."

"I have been," Roderick shot back, chin high in defiance. "And I know I want to be nothing like you!"

Father's expression darkened. "You are speaking like a foolish child. You were born a Malfoy, and as the eldest, are my heir. Malfoys behave a certain way, and it's time you realized that."

Roderick shook his head, looking disgusted. "I need to be excused." He tossed his napkin on the table and stood up.

"Come back here!" Father shouted, surging from his chair as Roderick made for the door. "If you think mucking about with Potters and Blacks and Mudbloods is enough to nullify who you are—"

"Shut up!" Roderick shouted, whirling around and stalking back towards the table. "If you had half an idea of who I am, you still wouldn't know how wrong you are about me."

"I know exactly who you are," Father hissed. They were practically nose to nose now, the similarity of their features emphasized by their near-identical expressions of rage. "You're weak, a mistake, a smear to be wiped away."

"At least I'll never be you."

Draco heard it before he saw it. Father's hand went up and there was a sound that was like no other sound. Flesh on flesh, flat hatred meeting hatred in violence and heat. Father hit Roderick.

"Lucius!" Mother screamed.

"You can't change me," Roderick snarled, and Father did it again. Father hit Roderick again.

"Dad…" Draco whispered.

"Harry Potter is my best friend," Roderick growled, and Father did it again. Father hit Roderick again.

Mother was weeping.

"I'm in love with a Muggle-born!" Roderick shouted triumphantly.

Father did not hit Roderick. He raised a shaking arm and pointed to the door. "Get out."

Instead of going upstairs, as Draco had assumed Father meant, Roderick went to the large hearth and drew out a handful of dull Floo Powder from the ornate vase. He said two words that Draco did not hear, scattered the dust, and stepped into the hungry green flames. He was gone.