Chapter Text
–Chapter One–
A Bird of Ill Omen
There was perhaps no boy in all of Britain who hated the summer holidays more than Harry Potter. He was a skinny, dark-haired and bespectacled boy who found that the arrival of July meant being banished back to Little Whinging, and Number Four, Privet Drive. It was normally a sentence he could endure, the unfortunate part of his year that took him away from his real home at Hogwarts and the friends there, but one that would pass in time. Not this summer. This summer was only a week and a half old, and Harry already felt like he was suffocating – that he was losing his mind.
A great heat had followed his return to Privet Drive, encroaching on the square houses and well-kept lawns of the many streets in Little Whinging. Fancy cars now sat idle in driveways, neatly cut grass was beginning to stain and many expensive and colourful flowers were now drooping lazily, as, much to Uncle Vernon’s furious ranting, a hosepipe ban had been announced the day before.
Even with the hour growing late, and sky darkening, the window to Harry’s bedroom was flung wide in hopes of tempting in a non-existent breeze, because whilst the Dursley’s now owned many electrical fans thanks to the sudden heatwave, Uncle Vernon, much to Dudley’s enjoyment had told Harry rather pointedly, that he did not need one. Yet, somehow, the Dursley’s living room need at least three fans to ensure it remained to be at, what Uncle Vernon believed, was the correct temperature. Harry had rolled his eyes, nodded, said nothing and accepted the heat would just have been another thing he would contend with this summer.
Truthfully, compared to everything else that was going, the heat hardly seemed like a real problem. The thing that was truly bothering him, was the eerie quiet.
Ever since his battle with newly restored Voldemort in that graveyard in Little Hangleton following the third task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament there had been nothing but silence. Crushing all-consuming silence. There was no news to be heard, whether magical or otherwise, about what the most feared dark wizard in Britain might be up to, now that he had returned. The Daily Prophet carried on reporting on anything and everything but Voldemort – it reached the point where Harry checked the front page every morning, only to cast it aside when he saw no mention of the man who had murdered his parents.
So desperate was Harry for news, he found himself even trying to sit in and listen to the Muggle news. Uncle Vernon did not like this. He ranted about how boys Harry’s age did no watch the news. He’d cited Dudley as an example, Harry had rolled his eyes, but said nothing – he did not need to make things harder for himself, as much as part of him longed to argue with bloated uncle. It was getting rather hard for Harry to think of creative ways to ease drop on what was going on without restarting the one-sided argument.
Deciding to try another tactic, Harry had started going for long walks in the evening, savaging newspapers from bins in hopes they might give him some sort of clue as to what exactly was going on. He was less likely to be seen at dusk, as the residents of Little Whinging retreated indoors and could no longer watch him with reproachful eyes.
He had not long returned form that evenings walk, thankfully before Dudley also returned, and retreated to his bedroom without comment. He did not need Uncle Vernon threatening him with the tool shed again. Now, stooped in the late-night heat, Harry sat with his half-finished History of Magic homework in front of him, although he had lost track of how long it had been since he actually put quill to parchment – his thoughts more focused on his friends Ron and Hermione, rather than Goblin Rebellions.
Whilst his two best friends, along with his godfather, Sirius Black, had been in contact with him this summer, their letters had been so vague and unhelpful, and at times condescending, that a part of Harry honestly would have preferred not to hear from them at all.At ;east then he wouldn’t feel so bad for feelings so angry with them.
As Harry glowered at his homework there was, to his great surprise, a sudden gust of wind. It was followed by the sound of beating wings, and before Harry could register what was happening a great, black feathered creature had landed on his desk. It was a great horned owl. Or, at least, it was part great horned owl; then was most something certainly something else mixed in. That would explain why it was so large; it was easily the largest owl Harry had even seen – twice as big as Hedwig. It brought its massive, white-tipped wings into itself, its otherwise black feathers only marked by the occasionally streak of white or grey that made the fearsome bird look as if it had been carved from black marble. It was stared at him with deep, golden eyes, as it fixed Harry with a domineering look, as though it found being in his bedroom decidedly beneath.
In its beak, it held a letter encased in a dark envelope, which was sealed with a wax crest that featured a shield supported by winged serpentine creatures and snakes wrapped around sharp spears.
Harry did not move; he did not recognise the owl or the seal on the letter it carried. The owl glared at him, impatiently, its talons dangerously close to his homework.
Slowly, deliberately, Harry reached out to take the letter, which the owl thankfully released without a fight. Turning it over, Harry was still somewhat surprised to see that it was addressed to him. Turning it back over, he stared at the wax seal on the back for a long moment. Whilst he did not recognise it, he was pretty sure he could guess who it belonged to. But that would make no sense, if his guess was correct.
“Uh, thanks,” Harry muttered, shooting the bird a quick glance. The owl did not reply. It did not move. It only deepened its disapproving glare.
Sighing, Harry realised it must be waiting for him to read the letter. So, with trepidation, he opened the letter, and immediately upon seeing how the letter began, he knew his suspicions about who it was from were correct.
Potter,
I suppose I should start this letter by asking you how you are, and whether the Muggles are treating you right; but not only is the answer to both questions obvious, they are redundant, and frankly, I find that I don’t care.
Yet, let us, just this once, pretend we live in a world where the answer is not obvious and I do, in fact, care because I do find myself curious, give how term ended, if nothing else.
Still raving mad? Or have you decided to rejoin the rest of us in reality? Truth be told I’ve always thought you were mad, given the company you choose to keep. And the things you do. It was only a matter of time until the rest of the world caught up.
Still, it must have been rather odd for you, the great Harry Potter, everyone’s favourite Gryffindor going from golden boy to the Prophet’s latest target for ridicule. Well, you and the old fop, too. What I wouldn’t have given to see your face when you found out you were no longer the Boy Who Lived, but rather the Boy Who Lied.
I imagine it was very amusing.
I suppose Granger and Weasley must be working overtime to keep that precious ego of yours soothed now you aren’t the media darling you’re used to being. I might almost feel sorry for them having to put up with you now, if the thought of their suffering didn’t make me laugh so hard.
Signed
Dracaena Esmeralda Marybeth Malfoy
Harry reread the name at the end of the letter again, and again, and a fourth time for good measure. By the sixth time he’d reread it, he found that the name of the sender had not miraculously changed. How did Malfoy even know where the Dursley’s lived? He’d have thought she would consider knowing such a thing as beneath her.
Dracaena Malfoy was perhaps Harry’s least favourite person at Hogwarts – excluding the staff, of course, because asking anyone else to compete against Professor Snape, the school’s Potion Master and head of Slytherin House, for the title was asking the impossible.
He’d first met the Malfoy heiress, the unofficial queen of Slytherin House, five summers ago, shortly before his first year at Hogwarts. It had been in Madame Malkin’s robe shop, when Harry still knew very little of who and what he really was, or much of anything about the world he truly belonged to. They’d met again on the train to school, Malfoy flanked then by Crabb and Goyle, where the blonde had offered him her hand, warning him against mixing with the ‘wrong sort’ as she had put it after putting down Ron in quick fashion. Harry had refused to take the offered hand; offending Malfoy greatly.
Since then, they had been enemies. She had, for all intents and purposes, become his nemesis – the girl who would hurl insults at Ron and his family, and slurs at Hermione whilst doing everything in her power to get him into trouble. In their entire time at school together they had only had one night of peace, as just this Christmas past, after a bet he’d made with Ron, and his twin brothers Fred and George, had horrifically backfired, Harry had taken Malfoy to the Yule Ball. A night, which, whilst he would never admit to it, had actually been incredibly fun. He thought he’d started to see a different side to Malfoy that night, only for their next encounter to prove it was merely a fantastical illusion. A trick of his mind. An empty hope.
So why, seven months later, was Malfoy sending him a letter?
A letter, that like all others he had received this summer, that whilst sparse of details as to what was going on in the Wizarding World, actually felt like an attempt to strike up a line of communication. Somehow, Malfoy of all people, had written him a letter longer than the last letters he had received from Ron, Hermione and Sirius combined.
This, Harry thought, frustrated, had to be some kind of joke. That, or perhaps this was Malfoy digging for information on orders from her father. Perhaps the patriarch of the Malfoy family thought that Harry might know something of the goings on, something that he would let slip to his daughter if she reached out. Harry rolled his eyes at the thought, of course Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t be above such a thing, the man probably thought just because Harry had taken his daughter to the Yule Ball, which had been all over the front page of the Daily Prophet the next day, he had some sort of inroad into figuring out what Dumbledore might be planning through Harry.
Harry gave a derisive snort. Well, the joke was on them, because he knew nothing.
He crumpled the letter, ready to lob it into the waste paper-basket and return to his homework, when a deep, angry hoot stopped him.
The large, black owl glowered at him with piercing golden eyes, its sharp talons edging closer towards Harry’s homework.
“Wait!” Harry pleaded, unfurling the letter, which seemed to satisfy the owl for a moment.
Upon another inspection, Harry found there was a small post script which he had overlooked earlier, too caught up in his shock over who the letter was from.
P.S.
I have given Nevermore strict instructions to make sure you send a reply back with him. Don’t dawdle and waste his time. You will regret it.
She actually wanted a reply? Had she gone insane, and thought he too had taken leave of his senses? Well, she’d admitted in the letter she thought he was mad. Well, she could forget it. He would not waste his time playing whatever game Malfoy was trying to start. Then again, his History of Magic homework was now held hostage, and had no desire to start the easy all over again.
Hissing in defeat, knowing the blonde would’ve laughed at his resignation. Harry wrote a reply. Well, he wrote something.
Malfoy,
Is this some kind of joke?
He hadn’t bothered to sign it before attaching it to the leg of the enormous owl he now knew to be called Nevermore. With only a single flap of his mighty wings, the owl had lifted of and vanished into the growing darkness of the night, instantly vanishing into the encroaching dark, whilst also sending everything atop Harry’s desk hurtling to the floor.
Great, Harry thought as he returned to his original idea, and crumpled Malfoy’s letter before casting it into his waste-paper basket, another mess to clean up. With a sigh of resignation, he stood from his chair and began to put his desk back together again. All the while, silently cursing both Malfoy, and her snotty owl.
Following Nevermore’s departure, Harry had promptly forgot all about the letter, instead choosing to abandon his History of Magic homework for the night and flopping into bed still fully dressed. Instead, he continued the routine his summer holidays were becoming. Long nightmare laden nights, followed by scorching hot days filled with waiting, bubbling tension, and dodging Mrs Figgs invitations to tea. He continued his desperate attempts to ease drop on his aunt and uncle watching the news, casting aside the Daily Prophet when the front page held no news of Voldemort, digging through bins in search of Muggle newspapers, hoping against hope he would find something that gave him some kind clue as to what was going on.
Then, three nights later, Harry was shocked to find his bedroom once again invaded by Nevermore, another letter held in his beak. Well, Harry supposed as he retrieved the letter, it ended up being more of a note this time, Better get this over with.
No Potter, this is not a joke. Also, do not think I did not notice that you failed to answer any of my questions. I expect a proper reply this time. Do not make Nevermore or I wait.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he sat there, slacked jawed, rereading those three sentences over and over again. Long enough, it turned out, as Nevermore gave a loud, disgruntled hoot, ruffling his feathers and fixing Harry with a look that made it rather obvious that the owl did not like him. The feeling was mutual.
Sighing, Harry ruffled his hair. “This could take a while,” he admitted, eyes slowly moving to Hedwig’s cage, where his own owl currently sat, glaring at dark-feathered invader. “Would you like to rest and eat something?”
Nevermore clicked his beak in disgruntlement but otherwise did not object. Harry had thought about seeing if he could move the black owl into Hedwig’s cage, but quickly thought better of it. Even without Hedwig already occupy the space, Harry wasn’t sure Nevermore would fit. Instead, he grabbed a spare bowl for water and some of Hedwig’s treats, placing them before Nevermore at the corner of his desk so he could write a reply to Malfoy in peace.
The great horned owl drank the water without complaint, but he only managed a single one of Hedwig’s treats before he pushed the bowl away with one foot, turning his beak up at them. Hedwig clicked her beak angrily. Harry had to agree, this was undeniably Malfoy’s owl, obnoxious attitude and all.
It took him forever to think of what to write back in his reply. Just what was he supposed to say to Malfoy in a letter? He could have been blunt, or rude, or some other third thing he could not think of in the moment. This could have been an excellent way to vent some of his growing frustrations. A sharp reply, drawn out with what he really thought of Malfoy and her pathetic attempts to dig for information on what he was up to over the summer.
But as he thought about it, and idea struck him.
What if he was right? What if this was Malfoy digging for information on her father’s orders (or, rather, Voldemort’s orders relayed through Lucius Malfoy), what was to stop him using this as a chance to do some digging of his own?
Deciding to play along with this whole pantomime, in hopes of seeing if it led him to any worthwhile news, Harry pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, and began to write.
Malfoy,
I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?
The Muggles are, well, I supposed you would say they are disagreeable or something like that. They don’t want me around; they avoid me when they can. It’s better that way. For everyone.
As for Ron and Hermione, I haven’t heard much from them this summer, I guess they must both be busy with their own summers. If nothing else, I thankful that Hermione seems otherwise distracted, because she hasn’t had time to send me a summer homework timetable.
Also, if I’m mad, I think that makes you insane because what’s this rubbish about the Daily Prophet and the Boy Who Lied? If you’re going to try and insult me, at least do it properly.
Harry
It wasn’t a great response, but Malfoy didn’t deserve his best. He stuffed the letter into an envelope, and watched Nevermore vanished as soon as he had the letter clutched in his beak. It seemed the owl was even more desperate than Harry to escape Privet Drive.
It only took two nights this time for the reply to arrive. Nevermore, who was looking increasingly annoyed at once again finding himself inside of Number Four, Privet Drive, snapped his beak at Harry after he took the letter. Harry could also tell he was going to be annoyed by the fact he was going to have to clean his desk off the floor again, as Nevermore eyed its contents, a plot clearly lurking behind those golden eyes.
Trying not to think about it, Harry opened Malfoy’s letter.
Potter,
Even on parchment you are a terrible lair. Typical Gryffindor. If you are fine after everything that happen to you last year, then the Weasleys are richer than the Malfoys.
They are decidedly not, seeing as I need to remind you of that fact.
It does not surprise me that the Muggles are being boorish. It is to be expected of their kind. Jealousy, perhaps? All I know is that for as unpleasant as you have made them out to be, I know other Muggles would be no different. The weak always cower before their betters.
As for Weasley and the Granger girl I believe I once warned you about needing to know how to pick your friends carefully, you should have heeded my offer then. It is your great loss. Although, I suppose not all mistakes are beyond repair.
That aside, have you not been reading the Prophet? I had always assumed you were one to keep up to date with the paper’s coming and goings, especially given your starring role in so many of the front pages last year. That, and you have a bad habit of sticking your nose where it does not belong. Has anyone ever told you that before, Potter?
Either way, pull your head from whatever patch of dirt you’ve buried it in and read the Prophet properly this time. I expect the reply you send with Nevermore to contain your thoughts on the latest development in your fame, Boy Who Lied.
Do not keep me waiting.
Signed
Dracaena Esmeralda Marybeth Malfoy
Reading parts of Malfoy’s letter had made Harry’s blood boil. Even the part about Muggles and ‘cowering before their betters’ – he had never liked the Dursley’s, that was undeniable, but he had never thought of himself as their better. He could also make out from the way Granger was written, that Malfoy had probably intended to write something else, but had obviously thought better of it.
Yet he did not throw this letter away, as he had the first two. Instead, he placed it with all the others he gotten that summer, and went digging for that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet.
There had been no mention of Voldemort or himself on the front page, instead there was an article about the Ministry of Magic looking into revising some of the decrees that governed magical education in Britain. He found the story continue inside the paper, on page four, and that about half way through, it turned into an unforgiving indictment of Albus Dumbledore who was being led astray by him, now the Boy Who Lied, in an attempt disrupt the lives of the good citizens of Magical Britain with his attention seeking fearmongering.
Harry threw the paper across the room as hard as he could, before rummaging through the mess of papers for another to pull at random.
He found another article, this time a few pages into the paper, written by someone else claiming that he, Harry, had been Confunded by Dumbledore, who was actually scheming to replace Fudge as the Minister for Magic.
He soon found just about every copy of the Daily Prophet he had still yet to throw out had such an article in it somewhere. All disjointed and baseless, but all maligning either himself or Dumbledore – often times both at the same time.
Harry wanted to scream.
Malfoy had been right, if she could see him now, shoulders hunched and shaking, fists tightened and brow tight with rage she would no doubt be laughing hysterically at his expense. But as the shock and anger faded and the urge to hit something subsided, Harry could only think of one question.
Why? Why would the Daily Prophet print those things?
It was at this moment, whilst his thoughts churned like raging rapids, that Nevermore made himself known with an impatient hoot.
Harry looked to the bird, knowing in that moment that he should cast the owl out, back to its owner, and instead start writing letters to Ron, Hermione and Sirius; maybe even Dumbledore, and demanded some answers as to what was going on. He should abandon this silly game that Malfoy had tried to start in hopes of figuring out if he knew anything of what was happening.
Yet, he didn’t.
He still returned to his desk, pulling out parchment and ink, but he wrote not to his friends, but once again to Malfoy – because, if nothing else, amusing her enough with a rant about the Daily Prophet might get her to drop some information about what else might be happening in the Wizarding World that he was not aware of.
Over the course of the next few weeks, several more letters were exchanged in what had to be the strangest summer correspondence Harry could have ever thought of outside of perhaps exchanging letters with Professor Snape. Nothing of much substance or value was said in any of the letters; one letter ended up seeing Malfoy ramble for three pages about how her father had cancelled their holiday in the south of France on account of ‘urgent business’ as Malfoy had pointed out many, many times. It had only taken Harry one guess to figure out why the holiday had really been cancelled. In his reply, which was not at all meant to make her feel better, Harry had told Malfoy that if she was that desperate for a holiday, she was welcome to come and visit him at the Dursley’s. Picturing the expression, she would make upon reading such a thing had made Harry laugh. The tirade she had sent in response had been every bit as hilarious as he imagined it would be.
Following the rants about the ruined holidays, their letters quickly devolved into their usual, petty squabbling as Malfoy hurled insults at him through the ink, and Harry rebuked her with equal force. Harry’s last response, sent just before his birthday, had moved the topic of their bizarre written sparing match to quidditch, and how he was very much looking forward to embarrassing her on the pitch in this year’s match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, maintaining his unbeaten record against Malfoy’s house.
It was odd, Harry would admit to himself as he lay awake in bed at night, dreading the oncoming nightmare, to feel like something in his life was still as it should be. His squabbling with Malfoy via owl post felt like a strange reprieve of normalcy in what otherwise might be the worst summer of his life. That frustrated him all the more: he should not be relying on Malfoy of all people to help him feel like things were somewhat normal.
Not that he would admit it at the time, but he'd actually come to look forward to her replies, because if nothing else, at least her letters were not vague warnings to be careful, or overly long rambles which featured many words, but said nothing about what was going on in the Wizarding World like Sirius’ and Hermione’s had become.
Her response to his latest taunt, arrived the day following the incident with the Dementors.
Nevermore had arrived with his usual show of beating wings and air of self-importance just before Harry had planned on turning in for the night, appearing at Harry’s window like a shadow brought to life as he seemingly appeared from thin air.
As he had learnt in the owl’s comings and goings, Harry offered water and treats before attempting to take his letter. As always, Nevermore accepted the water without fanfare, whilst eyeing the treats like they had personally offered him. Eventually the great horned owl would relent, and eat, all the while making a show of how much he disliked the bird treats.
Harry had rolled his eyes, and opened Malfoy’s letter as he sat at his desk.
Potter,
Father says you went and got yourself expelled, only to have Dumbledore save you at the last moment. Again. He says you’re going to be involved in some sort of hearing on the twelfth of August. Father would probably find it most agreeable if you were expelled. Yet, to my great surprise, I disagree with him. Whilst I think it would be undeniable hilarious to watch the Ministry snap your wand in half, Hogwarts would be much less enjoyable if you were no longer there to torment. Weasley and Granger hardly make for good sport most days – they make things too easy. You better behave yourself and not get expelled. Or at least, if you must get yourself expelled, wait until after the Slytherin verse Gryffindor quidditch match so I can have the satisfaction of watching you lose up close.
Speaking of, if you’re so confident in your ability to defeat me on the quidditch pitch, how about a little wager? You are, after all, as the Yule Ball proved, a gambling man.
I expect your reply with haste.
Signed
Dracaena Esmeralda Marybeth Malfoy
Harry, to his great surprise, laughed. The idea that, on some level, Malfoy would be sad to see him go was honestly, rather funny. He didn’t know if she was being truthful, but in that moment, he found he did not care.
His reply, was simple and short.
Malfoy,
You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. What kind of bet did you have in mind?
But as he folded up the small note, ready to hand it to Nevermore, a thought had occurred to him. He turned to Hedwig’s now empty cage. He had intended, whenever Malfoy’s latest letter arrived, to send the reply with Hedwig, hoping Nevermore would show her the way to Malfoy Manor: for as much as he didn’t like the snobbish bird, he felt it was unfair to place the entire burden of communication between Malfoy and himself on a single owl. What’s more, a part of him wondered how Malfoy would react to Hedwig’s arrival, would she take it as a sign of trust? Something else, perhaps?
He didn’t know.
Yet in his shorted sight anger the previous evening, he had sent Hedwig off in search of Ron, Hermione and Sirius, to demanded some well-deserved answers. Well, there would be next time, Harry supposed as he handed the envelope to Nevermore, who took it with great reluctance before setting off again, after once again knocking everything off the top of Harry’s desk.
Ruddy owl, Harry thought, borrowing the phrase from Uncle Vernon. Harry decided her could fix his desk in a moment, and instead watched as the owl faded from view into the encroaching darkness.
When Nevermore vanished from sight, Harry turned away from the window, and started getting ready for bed, deciding that this time he would finally keep his desk clear in anticipation of Nevermore’s return. He just hoped he would be able to find something to busy himself in the coming days as he anxiously awaited Malfoy’s reply, alongside the answers he expected from his friends and godfather.
It would not be for several years yet, but Harry would, eventually, realise as he stood upon sandy shores near a little cottage belonging to Ron’s brother, following another close encounter with the forces of Lord Voldemort, and burying another dear friend with the blonde girl who now occupied his thoughts standing opposite him, her wand pointed at his heart, that he would realise that his decision to begin this odd game of cat and mouse with her was the second of three choices he would make in regards to Dracaena Malfoy that would change his life forever.