Chapter Text
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Harry gripped the handrail in front of his seat when Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly-elected Minister of Magic, rose to give the verdict.
"This is the will of the Wizengamot: Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to a life of exile on the Silent Isle. You will surrender your wands. You will be solely responsible for all aspects of daily life, be it growing and preparing food, clothing, cleaning or necessary repairs. You will be provided instruction; it is your choice to avail yourself of it, or not. You will have no outside contact."
The Minister drew himself up to his full height, his expression stern.
"You have the right to refuse this sentence. Should you do so, you will be immediately sent to Azkaban to live out your lives within its walls. Make your choice now."
Mrs Malfoy had blanched but met Kingsley's eyes without flinching. "I accept," she said quietly, her cultured voice betraying nothing.
The Minister turned towards Malfoy, who stood ramrod-straight, his face frozen in a semblance of haughty disdain. Still sitting in the witness box from where he'd given evidence, Harry recognised the façade for what it was ‒ having watched Malfoy for years, he knew the minuscule twitching of facial muscles and the bobbing Adam's Apple as he swallowed several times indicated distress.
"And you, Mr Malfoy?"
Draco nodded. "I— I accept," he whispered, clenching his hands in his lap before he managed to look up, once again outwardly composed. "I accept," he repeated more strongly over the swell of murmured comments coming from the rows of spectators filling the courtroom. Harry was sure only he noticed that Malfoy was even paler than usual, that the apparent indifference was little more than a mask.
"Very well." Kingsley splayed his hands on a large, ancient tome in front of him. "All hear: Sentence has been passed according to the laws of Wizarding Britain. The accused have accepted the verdict before witnesses." He picked up his wand and forcefully tapped it on the ornate desk reserved for the Minister, producing a loud bang. "Case closed. Aurors, take them away."
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Harry almost smiled when Mrs Malfoy just looked at the Auror grabbing her arm until the man squirmed, blushed and let go. She strode slowly out of the courtroom with her head held high as he scurried to keep up. Draco, however, stumbled in the grip of a second, burly Auror as he was being led away. Harry winced in sympathy.
Having caught glimpses of Draco's fear and reluctance through his mental link with Voldemort when Draco had been forced to torture people on Voldemort's orders had been bad enough. Seeing the grey eyes filled with disdain and fury even greater than during their time at school as Draco passed him was worse.
Harry didn't like it. At all.
It wasn't just that he honestly believed the sentence was too harsh – after all, Mrs Malfoy had lied to Voldemort on his behalf, and nothing could shake his conviction that Draco had deliberately given up his wand that day at Malfoy Manor. No, it was also that he wanted to run to Draco, take him somewhere safe and tell him … he didn't actually know what.
What he did know was that it would have to wait. Right now, he had to try one last time to talk to Kingsley. Determinedly, he strode towards the massive double doors guarding the courtroom exit, making his way to Level One.
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"Harry," Shacklebolt rumbled as he shrugged back into his regular colourful robes. "What can I do for you?"
Harry barely waited until the door closed behind him. "What the hell, Kingsley," he blurted. "What were you thinking?"
The Minister sat down behind the massive desk, covered with files and parchments of all sizes that dominated the office, inviting Harry to do the same with a wave of his hand. Harry simply shook his head. Kingsley sighed.
"I assume you're referring to the verdict handed out to the Malfoys."
"Damn straight I am!" Harry started to pace. "Really, Kings – that sentence is way too harsh if you ask me. Confiscating their wands, okay. Having to do all the physical work, maybe. But putting them into what amounts to solitary confinement for life? Don't you think that's overkill?"
"It's the law." Kingsley looked at him steadily. "You were there when I swore to honour and uphold it for everybody just a few weeks ago. You even told me that you were glad to know someone would be in charge who wasn't going to turn a blind eye or look for loopholes. Or have you already forgotten?"
Frustrated, Harry stopped at the artificial window, leaned against it and ran a hand through his hair. "No, I haven't," he sighed. "But dammit, Kings ‒ Draco was almost certainly forced to take the Mark; he gave up his wand to me at Malfoy Manor. And Narcissa lied to Voldemort for me!"
"We have only your word for that."
"So use Veritaserum and ask them!"
"There are ways around the serum; as we must suspect the Malfoys, or any of the Death Eaters, are familiar with them, it's been declared inadmissible in court."
Harry wanted to scream. "I told you, without them, without their help, I'd probably be dead. We might have lost the War. Have you forgotten that?"
"Of course not," Shacklebolt replied calmly. "It's the reason why they're being sent to the Silent Isle instead of Azkaban. Even assuming that they were under duress, a moment or two of regret – or maybe just fear, who knows – is not enough to spare them the consequences of their actions."
"Well, yeah, but ‒ they were trying to protect their family!"
"So did many others who did not join Voldemort and suffered for it," the Minister stated. "After willfully turning a blind eye more than once, accepting spurious excuses and showing inappropriate leniency in far too many cases the last time, the Wizengamot decided to strictly follow the letter of the law." He paused, then added, "We owe it to the victims to make an example of the guilty."
"Surely one exception—"
"No." Kingsley fixed Harry with a hard stare. "No exceptions. None. Not even for you, Harry," he said with finality. "I'm sorry."
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A tiny smile curved Shacklebolt's lips as Harry's expression turned stony and he left without another word. "Ever the hothead, aren't you, Harry?" he murmured to the retreating back. "It's about time you learned to trust your elected Minister."
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This isn't over yet, Harry vowed silently as he went home to Grimmauld Place. I'm not going to forget. He'd go back, making further appeals ‒ not today or tomorrow, but soon. As often and as long as it took to make people see sense.
Meanwhile, he would simply do whatever he could to watch out for both Malfoys. The Silent Isle lay in the Black Lake, within viewing distance of Hogwarts. Where Harry would be as soon as the school reopened in the autumn, to finally have his seventh year and sit his N.E.W.T.s … and on a fast broom, it was only a short flight from the school to the old castle ruin on the Isle.
In his mind, he heard an echo of Dumbledore's voice: "There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right."
Harry knew that even if he had to handle everything without his friends this time, for him this choice was both.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Pansy and Blaise waited at the gate with us, both silent and solemn as if they were attending a funeral. I couldn't deny that I felt the same. And going by the longing looks Mother stole at the manor and her gardens when she thought I wasn't paying attention, she would miss this place ‒ this life ‒ even more than I. The Aurors who would Side-Along us to the Silent Isle must appear any moment; it was time to say goodbye.
"Here," I said and pressed the bunch of original keys into Blaise's hand. He didn't close his fingers around it, only crooked them when it threatened to slip from his palm into the mud at our feet. Spring rains had soaked the grounds; yellow winter aconites, blue grape hyacinths and a few cheeky pink tulips already rose from the lush lawns.
"And one for you, too." I held out a duplicate key ring to Pansy, who took it without looking at it. They were the official bailiffs and also executors-to-be ‒ once Mother and I died in exile ‒ of Malfoy Manor. Both had sworn to use what was left of the treasures in our vaults after paying reparations to keep it in good shape. And us in good memory, as we would never return.
The Wizengamot had granted us enough months of house-arrest to get things organised. In hindsight, the time had flown by in a haze of grief as Father had been taken to Azkaban immediately after the trials. When we weren't mourning, we went to meetings with the Goblins at Gringotts, our family lawyer, Pansy and Blaise, and ‒ hear, hear ‒ even one with Potter. He'd lamented an awful lot about how he'd done his best to save us from being sentenced to a lifelong stay in Azkaban and also from being exiled to the Silent Isle for the rest of our lives.
I lost track of his arguments after a while because honestly, he looks gorgeous when he's all worked up ‒ all flashing green eyes, clenched fists, and magic crackling around him. Salazar, even his hair looks aggressive then, somehow more spiky, as if his curls, full of Potterish righteousness, were rising up against injustice just like he does.
Four Aurors appeared out of thin air, mud splashing where their heavy boots hit the ground.
"Expelliarmus," they shouted in unison, and our wands flew out of their sheaths and into the Aurors' hands.
"Good morning to you, too, sirs," I said and put a hand on Mother's arm, sensing her steely composure falter at the harsh treatment. Icy comments, her default weapon against rudeness, might make matters worse. A sly show of goodwill instead ‒ well, it wouldn't bring us freedom but at least we would leave the wizarding world with dignity. With dignity and nothing else. We weren't allowed to take anything with us except a change of clothes or two and the memories we carried in our minds.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Pansy cried out, "Draco!" and flew into my arms like a bride into her presumed-dead husband's who had just returned from war. Gone was her quiet show of acceptance; she wetted my cloak with her tears and clung to me as if she planned to keep me there by the sheer strength of her arms.
Blaise didn't act quite as dramatic, but his dark eyes smouldered with unspoken rage and sadness. I covered the hand he had put on my shoulder with mine for a heartbeat, then loosened Pansy's grip around my waist and pushed her gently away from me.
"I know," I said. "I know." I couldn't deal with emotional outbursts then, worn as I was from grief, rage and the stress of arranging matters as if I had been arranging my own funeral.
Her eyes, dark as Blaise's and yet so very different, were still swimming with tears, which I took for a great compliment. Pansy wasn't one prone to crying. She squared her shoulders and stepped back to where Blaise had already retreated. Unmoving they stood while the Aurors came for us, two keeping their wands trained on Blaise and Pansy despite having taken their wands from them. The other two each grabbed Mother and me by an arm for Side-Alonging. I glanced back at our home one last time, drinking in the beauty of the blossoming magnolia trees before the grey walls until the sickening tug of Apparition gripped me behind my navel.
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"Welcome to the Silent Isle." Minister Shacklebolt's deep voice was unmistakable. In my opinion, the mossy expanse of rock and soil we'd just set foot on was neither an island ‒ too small ‒ nor silent. The singing of the wind reminded me of flying Quidditch manoeuvres; diving head-first into a Wronski Feint used to cause a similar sound in my ears.
"Minister." I nodded a greeting. Mother said nothing but stood straight and stiff beside me.
"As you can see," the Minister gestured as if he were ushering us into a palace, "this island is much more hospitable than Azkaban." He turned slowly until he faced the ruin of a small castle built on the highest point of the island.
Mother shuddered at my side, either from the chill the air still carried this far north or from the prospect of living in this sorry excuse of a dwelling. Defiant and sturdy, the structure overlooked the deep waters of the Black Lake. The weathered stones were covered with lichens and ivy. How different it was from our elegant home ‒ or even Hogwarts! My old school, showing some bright spots where new stones replaced old ones in the walls destroyed in the war, rose at the far Lakeside. The windows and dark-tiled roofs of the castle's many towers twinkled in the sun.
"Admittedly, it may not be in the best shape, but at least the tower is habitable. Given that you will grow your own victuals and take care of the livestock," Shacklebolt pointed at what looked like a chicken coop and a goat tethered next to it, "you won't be spending too much time inside anyway."
The tower he was speaking of was part of the south-western wall from which the island sloped gently towards the water, while the northern shore was just a steep slide of rock.
The wind blew his words over the rippling waters of the Lake as he continued. "There are worse places to spend the rest of your lives. Though I doubt you'll ever get the chance to thank him, never forget it was Mr Potter who convinced the Wizengamot and myself to soften the sentence and exile you to here instead of Azkaban. I don't know what moved him to speak so vehemently on your behalf, but if every defendant had a proponent like him, Azkaban would hardly be needed anymore in a short time."
Shacklebolt turned to face us at last, his violet cloak swirling around his legs. "In case you're counting on any old acquaintances to stay in touch or even help you escape, forget that notion immediately before you get too used to it."
The jewels on his cap glittered sapphire blue like Mother's eyes when he continued: "This island has been put under a shield charm that blocks you from any kind of outside contact, except anything weather-related."
A shadow crossed his face and he stared over at Hogwarts as if he had to read his next words from the faraway walls. But when his eyes focused on us again, the pondering expression was gone. "I shall leave you to Aurors Morrister and Carduroy now. They will show you everything you need to know and make sure you're familiar with the emergency protocol before they return."
He held out his hand. "Mrs Malfoy, Mr Potter may have exaggerated your role in his survival, but I'm still grateful for whatever small deed you performed that helped keep him alive."
Mother looked as if she were forced to touch a rotten fish. Her glare was icy enough to freeze flames. "I'm convinced he appreciates your trust in his words very much." She dropped his big hand, hers twitching with what I interpreted as the suppressed need to wipe it clean on her cloak.
"Goodbye, Minister," I said, also exchanging a brief handshake with him. Under my breath, because there was no need to part at odds, I added, "and why don't you check Potter's memories. A short dive into a Pensieve can clarify things faster than any discussion."
"Enjoy your stay," he replied, not giving away whether he'd heard my comment or not. His white teeth flashed as an unexpected smile crossed his face before he left.
"Funny," I murmured. I love the countryside, I grew up in Wiltshire, for Salazar's sake. I can name every rose in our gardens. Every orchid in the greenhouses. And of course, I know how to grow vegetables, seven years in Professor Sprout's classes have left their mark. But taking care of chickens? And worse, a goat? I pulled my cloak tighter around me, sighed, and followed the two Aurors and Mother up the hill to the castle.
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Mother stared at the spinning wheel, the small weaving loom, then down at her elegant, long white fingers, and from there to the heap of raw, greasy wool that lay in the corner like a giant dust bunny.
"And now the highlight." Auror Morrister led us out of what I thought might become our living room and into a smaller room. The kitchen, if I took the enormous open-hearth fireplace for a hint. But much more interesting was the stone basin in the darkest corner of the room.
"A Pensieve?" I blurted, throwing composure overboard at the sight of many phials filled with silver memories lined up on a high shelf beside the Pensieve.
"Indeed," Morrister said drily. "Well spotted, Mr Malfoy."
Oh, how I wished I had my wand on me. "What's in there?" I did my best to not let sarcasm seep into my voice.
"Memories," Carduroy said and looked at me with raised eyebrows.
I didn't act upon the provocation, even though I almost choked when I swallowed a snide reply. "Obviously. But what kind of memories?"
"Silver ones."
He was enjoying himself, the bastard. I didn't say anything, just looked at him and waited.
"It's all right, Auror," Mother chimed in. "It doesn't matter if you don't know. We have all the time in the world to find out by ourselves."
With a sigh and an eye-roll, Morrister deigned to explain the presence of the Pensieve to us. "They're Muggle memories. How to preserve fruit and pickle vegetables, for example. Or how to clean fish. Recipes and step-by-step instructions of how to cook basic dishes, stews and the like. Whatever you might need to learn to survive here, you'll find it in one of the phials. They are spelled to empty into the Pensieve when opened and suck the memory back in as soon as you're through with it."
He pointed at a wooden bucket I hadn't noticed before. "This is for the well in the inner courtyard which I'll show you and then we'll have a nice little stroll around the kitchen garden outside before my colleague will familiarise you with the emergency protocol."
We had already left the room and were standing in the overgrown courtyard when Morrister added, "Oh, before I forget. An elf will pop in once a month and restock basic supplies. Flour, firewood, tea and the like."
For once, the Wizengamot and I were of the same opinion ‒ tea was vital.
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The second the Aurors had Disapparated, Mother sank down on a crude chair at the table in the tower room.
"Draco, dear, I'm not sure whether Mr Potter has really done us a favour by saving us from Azkaban." She caught a stray lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.
"Me neither," I said and sat down on the only other chair. Every muscle in my body hurt. Carduroy had made me raise the emergency flag on the tower roof at least ten times to make sure I really understood how it was done. Then he'd taken me to a small boat and forced me to row around the island along the invisible line of the Shield charm. He had explained magnanimously where best to fish and how, but I was too overwhelmed to remember even half of what he'd said. Hopefully, fishing was covered by one of the memory phials.
But the worst, I swear, was the goat. Such weird eyes! And horns! And, of course, Carduroy wanted me to milk her. Balancing on a ridiculously small so-called milking-stool I had to press my head and neck to the beast's belly and massage and pull the teats in a certain rhythm until milk gushed into the bucket.
"You're a natural," Carduroy had said, clapping his hands in mock applause. Har har.
At least the goat's belly had been warm. I rubbed my dirty hands and looked outside. Clouds had crawled over the mountains and were sliding down the slopes like foggy avalanches. I had lived at Hogwarts long enough to know what that meant: a cold evening and a freezing night. And we didn't have a-
"Fire!" I jumped up, reaching for a wand that wasn't there. "Fu—" I swallowed the rest at the sight of Mother's raised eyebrows. "They didn't even light a fire for us." The phials clattered against each other as I rummaged through them.
"Not labelled," I said through gritted teeth.
Mother sighed. "Of course not. But as I said, we have all the time in the world to figure out how it's done by ourselves."
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By the margin, willow veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Harry squinted into the early morning light and limbered up his sleep-laden muscles. Today was the first time he'd be attempting to see how Malfoy was doing.
He'd wanted to go from the day they'd returned to Hogwarts, but getting out of the castle unseen had proved to be quite the challenge: a group of first-year witches had formed a fan club, the members of which seemed to lie in wait for him all over the castle any time of the day.
Thank Merlin for his Invisibility Cloak! As long as Harry didn't trip over one of the girls, he was home free. He reached the broom shed and mounted his Firebolt Mark II without being seen. It should still be possible to fly to the Silent Isle and back before breakfast under its cover.
Just in case someone was watching, though, he performed a few Seeker's drills during which he let his thoughts roam back to a recent conversation he'd had with the Headmistress and his closest friends.
"Fine, except for those firsties who are stalking me," he'd complained when she asked how they all were adjusting to being back at school.
"Ah, yes, the Squee Squad," Ginny smirked. "Reminds me of being that age. Thank Morgana, I grew out of it."
"Took you long enough," Ron muttered around a mouthful of ginger newts. He still wasn't quite over the fact that she and Harry had broken up.
"You're quite good at dodging them, though," Luna said dreamily. "Not even the Umgubular Slashkilters can follow you."
Neville snorted. "It's even worse in the common room. The Gryffindor ones are staring at Harry like a bunch of Nifflers would at a Gringotts vault."
"We're trying to make them stop, but with very little success so far," Hermione added, sounding quite put out.
"Surely it's not as bad as all that," the Headmistress started.
In full rant mode, Harry interrupted her rather rudely as he paced around the office. "Like bloody hell it isn't!"
"Language, Mr Potter," McGonagall chided him. She sighed when he just shrugged. "You have a point, but … unfortunately it's the price of fame."
"Fame that I never sought or wanted," he shot back. "And I still don't." He ran his hands through his hair and flumped into a chair at last. "Look, I could deal if staring and asking me for autographs was all they did, but I draw the line at eleven-year-olds wanting to know what type and colour underwear I'm wearing … or not. It's totally ridiculous! Not to mention kind of creepy."
"Yes. And highly inappropriate," McGonagall said, her voice dry as dust. "If any more enquiries of such a prurient nature come your way, feel free to report the persons in question directly to me."
It wasn't the most satisfying reply, but Harry had a feeling it was the most sympathy he would get. At least it was more helpful than just being told to 'Suck it up, Harry', so he'd merely murmured his thanks.
"Meanwhile, do try and be a little gracious towards them. I'm certain things will settle down soon."
"Can't be soon enough for me," Harry muttered under his breath. He shook off the memory and pointed his broom towards the Lake at last. More than halfway across, yet still a goodly distance from the far shore, lay the Silent Isle.
Where Malfoy was exiled.
Harry simply had to see how he was faring. Which was why he had come down at the crack of dawn, covered himself and his broom as best he could with his Cloak and set out for the island. Below his feet, the Lake's glassy surface gleamed in the morning sun; not even a ripple marred its vast expanse.
But Harry had no eye for the natural beauty. Instead, he registered that the island's distance to Hogwarts was too great to swim across; there were hidden rocks and treacherous currents under the water and its temperature was too cold even in summer. Moreover, anyone desperate enough to try regardless was likely to be attacked by the Grindylows living in the Lake.
Harry was cautious in his approach. He knew that the Silent Isle was enveloped by a Shield Spell; if he squinted just right, he could detect the faint shimmer in the air marking its boundaries. Guiding his broom slowly forward, he eventually came up against the invisible barrier, an area of almost palpable stillness where no man-made sound could pass either in or out ‒ hence the island's name.
He'd come close enough to make out a few details, though. Sitting on the highest point, the ‘castle' was nothing but a squat tower with a somewhat dilapidated structure nestled against one side. The centre ground looked as if it held the bare bones of a kitchen garden, and on the far side was a chicken coop with a few birds and a goat poked her head out of a shed. Other than that, there was no sign of life.
While he was still debating whether to circumnavigate the island or to stay and watch where he was, a door opened and Malfoy stepped outside, a bucket of feed in his hand. With bated breath, Harry drank in the sight of him, noting how the morning sun glinted in his white-blond hair, longer and more casual than he'd ever seen it.
It looked good on Malfoy.
Unbidden, Harry found himself thinking how much he'd love to card his fingers through those longish strands. He shook himself. Yeah, right. As if he'd ever allow me to touch his hair ‒ or any other part of his body! On the heels of that thought, Harry's imagination provided a picture of exactly which body part of Malfoy's he'd love to touch, making him blush hotly.
Not going there. Nuh-uh. Bad Harry!
Harry immediately felt glad that he was alone out here. If Hermione had seen his reaction, the lecture about propriety and whatnot would've been epic. Instead, he nudged his broom a few feet to the side, watching as Malfoy let the chickens out to pick and scratch at the grains he scattered onto the ground before collecting a handful of eggs from the coop into a crude basket. He also fetched the black-coated goat with white face markings from the shed, tied her to a post before snagging a low stool and started to milk the beast while she munched through a pile of hay. As soon as he was done, Malfoy then took his eggs and the small bucket back inside the tower. He never once looked in Harry's direction.
Feeling strangely let down, Harry sighed and banked his broom, flying back to Hogwarts at a much slower pace than on the way out.
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Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
"HAAAARREEEEE!!!"
Fuck, not the Squee Squad again!
Groaning, Harry ducked behind the nearest statue of a gargoyle and fumbled in his pocket for his Invisibility Cloak. Not only had he had the devil of a time to ditch Ron, now he had to hide from rabid fangirls, too!
Managing just in time to sling the Cloak over himself, he waited in an uncomfortable crouch until the gaggle of squealing firsties had thundered past. Only when the last echo had faded did he leave his hiding spot, feeling much safer wearing his Cloak as he left the castle, and made a beeline for the broom shed.
He was on his way to yet another foray to the Silent Isle.
Unfortunately, the opportunities to go ‘Malfoy-watching' ‒ without anyone being the wiser, no less ‒ were getting increasingly harder to come by the further the term progressed. There were only so many times when he could claim he had to finish homework assignments ‒ not with Hermione around, wanting to ‘help' him get good grades on his NEWTs. At other times, Ron stuck to him like a leech, trying to coax him into a pickup game of Quidditch, play chess or simply goof off.
He also had to juggle classes, Quidditch and his other friends he didn't want to neglect. At least it was easier to deal with Ginny; now that they were back to being just friends, she no longer watched his every move like a hungry hawk. All things considered, having to dodge his simpering fan club of pre-teen girls was merely annoying, as he could never be sure where or when they were lurking in the hallways, trying to catch him alone.
Okay, so it was driving him spare. What he wouldn't give for a Time-Turner some days!
Safely on his broom at last, he made sure that he was completely covered by the Invisibility Cloak and soared across the Black Lake. By now, Harry was well aware of the Shield Spell's boundaries; he'd catalogued a few markers along the shore and so could stop at a safe distance. If he recalled the exiles' routine correctly, it was about the right time for Mrs Malfoy to take her daily constitutional around the kitchen garden. Maybe, if Malfoy wasn't busy elsewhere, he'd even get to see both of them take a rare break from their chores.
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Hovering high enough above the water that the Giant Squid wasn't tempted to bat a tentacle at him, Harry surveyed the pathetically small mass of land. The island wasn't big to begin with, only an acre or so in total; disregarding the building and tower, the addition of vegetable beds, the chicken coop and a patch of grass for their goat to graze on didn't leave much room for … well, for anything, really.
It made him feel sick and strengthened his resolve to make yet another appeal to the Wizengamot on behalf of Drac-- erm, both Malfoys. In the meantime, he would do what he could, even if it meant just looking out for them from a distance.
Harry was distracted from his gloomy thoughts when Malfoy and his mother appeared from behind the crumbling stone wall on the far side of the house. Apparently he'd missed the beginning of their walk. Malfoy guided his mother to the door and bent to kiss her cheek; she received it with a smile that was almost painful to see.
It's just like the one Mum's spirit gave me in the Forbidden Forest.
The memory was bitter-sweet and Harry tucked it back into his soul where it belonged. Concentrating on Malfoy again, Harry was glad he didn't follow her inside right away. Instead, he slowly walked to the rocks forming the island's shore, uncaring about the waves splashing water against his trouser legs.
Harry's wand, strapped in a holster against his thigh, buzzed, reminding him it was time to return to Hogwarts. He grimaced; a double period of being not very subtly fawned over by Professor Slughorn in Potions class was very much not among Harry's favourite things to do on a sunny autumn afternoon.
He'd much rather stay and watch Malfoy feed his chickens. Which Harry absolutely refused to think of as ogling, much less stalking. Those were things the Squee Squad did. Not him.
The Holly wand buzzed again, a bit more insistently. Swearing under his breath, knowing he couldn't stay, Harry took one last, lingering look at Malfoy's too-thin frame, clad in ill-fitting, already patched and mended clothes, and reluctantly turned his broom around.
Hopefully, he'd be able to escape Ron's well-meaning but irritating clutches a bit earlier tomorrow. And if he got lucky, maybe he could persuade someone to feed a handful of the newest Wheezes to those pesky fangirls.
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Shortly before Halloween, Harry was flying Keeper drills with Ron and sneaking glances towards the Lake. Hermione had promised to come down and meet them right after her Arithmancy class, which would not only distract both his friends but leave him just enough daylight to visit the Isle and hopefully catch Malfoy working the garden again.
Ron was diving after the Quaffle when a movement beyond the broom shed caught Harry's eye. He braked in mid-air to take a closer look.
A group of flyers, most likely the fourth-year Gryffindors who had been fooling around on the Pitch earlier, were now cavorting over the Lake. Harry frowned, wishing for a moment he had his Omnioculars to see exactly what they were doing. There was a chance that the kids were just having a lark, doing aerial acrobatics on their brooms, but … why did they have to do it right at the Silent Isle? At a time when Malfoy usually was outside?
They were getting close enough to the island to see Malfoy's face and read his expression; Harry should know, it was one of his own favourite spots to watch the man, after all. He also knew that Malfoy would be able to see whoever was out there, too … and suddenly, his gut started to churn. Without thinking, he nudged his Mark II forward.
"Hey! Where are you off to?" Ron called after him, but Harry ignored him, speeding towards the group of younger students. Curious, Ron followed him at a more leisurely pace.
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Malfoy was indeed in the garden, picking vegetables. His back was turned towards the Gryffindors who were hurling insults at him while darting back and forth.
"Hey, Death Eater scum!" yelled the first. Harry recognized him as Euan Abercrombie, an annoying little twit who had bought into the smear campaign started by the Daily Prophet in Harry's fifth year hook, line and sinker. "Why don't you go kiss a Dementor?"
"Enjoy having no magic?" jeered another. "Get used to it, you'll never get a wand back!"
The lone girl among them ‒ something-or-other Olney; her older sister used to be a whiz at Exploding Snap and Wizard Skittles, if Harry remembered correctly ‒ reached into her pocket and pelted something towards Malfoy. There was a loud ‘splat!' as the reddish lump hit the barrier and exploded into a pulpy mess. "I hope your onions are rotten and make you cry!" she shrieked, throwing another.
"You're nothing but a creep!" the third boy shouted, almost falling off his broom as he shook his fist at the barrier.
Due to the Shield spell's soundproofing, Malfoy couldn't hear any of the insults. He didn't betray by so much as a flinch that he was even aware of their presence, which only seemed to spur them on into raucous laughter, making obscene gestures and loudly hurl more insults.
"Bigot!"
"Evil thug!"
"Criminal!"
"Murderer!"
"Drop dead!"
That last shout from Abercrombie was too much. Harry swooped into their midst like an avenging angel, his wand already clutched in his hand and his eyes burning with emerald fire as he shot scarlet sparks at the lot of them.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he roared, beyond furious. It took every bit of restraint he was capable of not to hex the obnoxious little idiots right into the Whomping Willow. "Stop this right now!"
The four miscreants stopped and turned, staring at him. "Why?" Euan asked petulantly. "He's just a Death Eater."
"What do you care?" Olney whinged. "Malfoy was mean to everyone while you were away."
"Yeah, he was always kissing Snape's arse, calling people Mudblood and stuff," the bad flyer sulked. "He never helped against the Carrows, either."
Harry wasn't in the mood to listen. "Shut. Up," he barked. "All of you. Now!"
"But, Harry—" the fourth student started.
"You want me to cast Silencio? Because make no mistake, I will." Harry raised his wand. The youngsters quailed under his furious gaze.
"Mate, you can't just hex the sprogs," Ron said quietly from where he'd stopped a few yards back. "Calm down, yeah?"
"Stay out of this, Ron," Harry snapped.
"Okay, okay," Ron replied, raising his hands placatingly. "Hold your Thestrals."
Seemingly oblivious to what was going on in the air, Malfoy continued to pick vegetables.
Harry gave no sign he'd even heard Ron as he was still seething inside. "Get lost," he told the troublemakers curtly. "I'll deal with you later."
The quartet dithered a few seconds before they obeyed. As he flew past, one of the boys glared at Harry and muttered sullenly, "Sheesh. What bug crawled up your arse, anyway?"
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Once everybody's brooms were locked in the shed again, Harry caught up with the foursome in the Gryffindor common room. His temper hadn't cooled at all, so he lit into them in a way that left almost everyone who witnessed the scene speechless.
" … attacking and belittling someone who has no way of fighting back, who is already paying for his wrongs and who has done nothing to you? Give me one, just one reason that would make this okay!"
"Oh come on, Harry!" Abercrombie replied just as vehemently. "Malfoy and his lot did it to us first! It was just a little payback, so why not?"
Harry froze, then slowly turned his head to look directly at the younger boy. "Did you even hear yourself just now?" he asked in a voice that had suddenly gone cold. All the upper years present winced. Harry in a strop, shouting and smashing things was bad enough, but when he went all quiet and calm like this, people could ‒ and sometimes did ‒ get hurt.
Abercrombie shrugged, his expression mutinous. "We weren't hurting anyone," he mumbled. "We did nothing wrong." His cronies nodded and murmured agreement.
Harry barely kept a rein on his temper. "That's what Death Eaters used to say about Muggle-baiting," he said, letting ice drip from his voice. "Which is wrong on so many levels, I can't even think of a number. If you truly believe that there's nothing wrong with petty vengeance, with harassing someone just because you can ... if that's what our House stands for now—" He broke off and drew a deep breath. "Congratulations. You just managed what not even Snape at his worst could ever do. You make me ashamed of being a Gryffindor."
Several people gasped, then a heavy silence settled over the common room. No-one would meet Harry's eyes as he waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he snorted and left, nearly banging the Fat Lady's portrait shut behind him.
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An hour later Harry was sitting on a wide window ledge in an alcove off one of the upper floors. From here, he had a perfect view of the Silent Isle, half-hidden by the approaching mists of a late afternoon at the tail end of autumn. He didn't even stir when his friends finally caught up with him. Ron folded his long legs to sit tailor-fashion beside him, squeezed his shoulder and asked, "You alright, mate?"
He slanted a look at his best friend that made Ron grimace and the tips of his ears turn red. "That bad, huh? Forget I asked."
Hermione budged up against Harry's other side, sighed and leaned her head against his arm. "People are so hypocritical," she murmured. "You were right to call them on their behaviour. It's atrocious."
Harry just shrugged and let the silence linger a little longer before he spoke. "I'm just so sick and tired of this shite."
"We all are," Ginny said. "But … didn't you ever want to get back at the people who hurt you? Pay them back tit for tat?"
"Sure. Who hasn't?" Harry said wearily. "I'm only human. But I'd like to think I know better than to come down on someone who can't fight back." He sighed. "Don't these idiots realise that if they ever manage to provoke Malfoy into a reaction ‒ not that I'd blame him; thank Merlin he couldn't hear the vile tripe ‒ he'll be violating the terms of his sentence? ‘No outside contact' means exactly that; if he gives them any kind of response, he'll be sent to Azkaban faster than you can say ‘Quidditch World Cup'."
"I don't disagree," Neville said at last. "It's just … don't you think you could've handled the situation a bit better?"
Harry scoffed. "Oh yeah? How?"
"Maybe a little less publicly?" Hermione suggested, biting her lip. "Not that you shouldn't have taken them to task, but doing it in front of everyone isn't exactly going to do you any favours in the public's eyes."
"I don't give a flying fuck about the public!"
"If you ever want to accomplish any of the things you talked about after the War, you probably should," Ginny snapped, losing patience with him. "You can't have forgotten already how quickly opinions can change, depending what kind of spin is put on what you say or do. Remember Umbridge? Or all those ‘Undesirable Number One' posters?"
"No, but—"
"Ginny's right, mate," Ron interrupted. "You can't just butt your head against whichever wall you're up against in the hope that it'll crumble if you only keep at it long enough. Or that your head is even hard enough," he added after a moment's pause. "Come on, Harry, for once think strategy, not blunt force!"
Harry huffed and glowered at the siblings.
"Much as I hate to agree with Ron about anything, you're going to need a strategy to deal with the rumours," Ginny muttered.
"Rumours? What rumours?" Hermione sat up, narrowing her eyes.
"Oh, nothing earth-shattering." A hint of mirth sparkled in Ginny's brown eyes as she made an airy little gesture. "Just the ones where people think Harry's only defending Malfoy because he's in love with the berk."
Harry nearly choked on his own tongue. "WHAT?!?"
Neville groaned. "I told you not to tell him!"
"That ‒ that's such a load of tosh," Harry sputtered. "Just because I think Malfoy shouldn't be molested or punished even worse than he already is doesn't mean I'm in love with him!" He almost missed that Hermione's eyebrows rose at the word ‘molested' because he was too busy fighting an unexpected and very much unwelcome blush from staining his cheeks. And silencing the little voice inside his head calling him a liar.
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Later that night, once Euan and friends had grudgingly agreed to stop harassing Malfoy, Harry lay safely ensconced in his bed behind closed curtains, pondering Ginny's earlier pronouncement and how none of his friends had seemed surprised. He scoffed mentally. Nonsense. I only want to see justice done, that's all. The fortitude and dignity with which Malfoy faced his drastically-altered life were admirable, no two ways about it. He suspected it must be sheer agony to the proud Slytherin. Once again, he vowed to do what he could, to send yet another petition on Malfoy's behalf to Kingsley and the Wizengamot at the next opportunity. As he curled up under his blankets, willing himself to sleep at last, he murmured to himself.
"I'm not in love with Malfoy. I'm not!"
He only noticed he'd forgotten to put up a Silencing charm when he heard Ron mumble sleepily, "You keep telling yourself that, mate."
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