Part the Eleventh—
“Fame is the thirst of youth.”
—Lord Byron
Slughorn was interesting. When Octavian was still at Malfoy Manor, Dumbledore had absconded with Harry and taken him to a rather destroyed looking house, where he had met the professor. He’d assumed he’d be taking the position of Defense of Dark Arts professor. That seemed not to be the case.
When on the train to Hogwarts, furthermore, both Harry and Octavian had been invited to the professor’s carriage for lunch. Harry had been rather bewildered. Octavian took it all in stride as if it were his due.
Harry was, therefore, surprised to learn that he was the new Potions Master and Snape was teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was even more surprised when the book he lost a fight with Ron over belonged to the Half-Blood Prince.
“Who is this?” Harry asked Octavian that evening, flipping through the pages. “He’s absolutely brilliant, I mean, I won the Felix felicis with these notes. But you’re a Prince, you should know.”
He passed over the book.
Octavian looked it over. “Oh, of course. Interesting that he called himself that. I’ve seen his handwriting several times. Apparently, between my brother Octavian Romulus’s death and my birth, he petitioned my father to be named the heir outright, when he was only the heir presumptive. Then, of course, there was me, which dashed all his hopes.”
“But who is he?” Harry pressed.
“Why, I thought you knew. My cousin, Severus Snape. I’ve seen his handwriting far more times than I can remember in letters to my father. The two aren’t remotely close though they do keep up a correspondence.”
Harry looked at the book in disgust. “I’m not sure I want it now.”
“No,” Octavian ordered, “take it. You’re a Prince; it’s your right. Learn from the knowledge of Aunt Eileen’s troublesome child.”
“Eileen? That seems an odd name for a Prince. I mean there’s Troy, Octavian, Octavian again, Lux or something—“
“Lucrece,” Octavian corrected.
“Lucrece, Dionysia, Severus.”
“Well, it seems like Grandfather Vespasian wanted to name her Helen after Helen of Troy—you see the theme—but his second wife had other ideas. They compromised on Eileen. It’s the Scottish form of Helen.”
“So your grandfather had two wives.”
“Three,” Octavian corrected. “Father and Aunt Eileen are forty years apart because of it. Grandfather never had children with his middle wife. Apparently it was a political marriage and she died under suspicious circumstances.”
“Let’s just hope I don’t die under suspicious circumstances,” Harry joked. “If I do, blame Malfoy.”
“Draco wouldn’t do anything to you,” Octavian countered. “He knows I willingly entered a courtship with you and even guessed that I was sneaking out to meet someone last year and that, once the courtship was announced, it was you. He wouldn’t mess with that.”
“We can only hope,” Harry muttered.
Octavian threw a pillow at him. Of course, this started a pillow fight. It ended with Octavian on top of Harry, wrenching a pillow from Harry’s hands, which were extended above his head. A lamp was on the floor and the potions book was discarded somewhere.
“Hey, you,” Harry murmured as he leaned forward to capture Octavian’s lips with his, sucking on the bottom lip.
Octavian mewed and, throwing the pillow aside, stretched out on top of Harry, placing his forearms on either side of Harry’s head.
“Take me to bed,” he murmured to Octavian.
“Your wish is my command,” Octavian whispered back.
It was windy in the tower and a warm fire had been lit. Harry, pleasantly sore, had led Octavian to the fireplace and they sat on the rug, curled up around each other with a blanket around them. Harry was playing with Octavian’s fingers, his head resting on Octavian’s shoulder.
“I don’t want you to get angry,” he murmured, kissing the shoulder.
Octavian turned to look at him. “Get angry over what?”
“I went to Diagon Alley with Ron and Hermione—“
“That’s natural. They are your best friends. I went with Jamie. Draco, of course, invited me but I thought Io should have her family with her for her first time buying supplies. I would only get in the way.”
“Well, Malfoy was there with his parents and a few other shady characters. We followed them to Knockturn Alley where they went into Borgin and Burkes.”
Octavian stilled. “Harry, leave it.”
“You know something,” he gently accused.
“If I do, I’m asking you to leave it alone.”
“How can I leave it alone? Malfoy might be a Death Eater!”
“If he is, no one has confided in me about it, and the Dark Lord told me things he didn’t tell anyone. It was disturbing sometimes. He would come and find me wherever I was in the Manor and insist I do a reading. Sometimes he had no question at all, he just wanted to see me at work.” He shuddered. “Anyway, as far as I know, he has no new Death Eaters, and that includes Draco Malfoy. I also think Draco would have told me.”
“This mentor/protégé bond must be really strong.”
Octavian looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. “Yes, it is. Ours is unusually strong. He’s my best friend, which I need you to respect.”
“I can respect that. It won’t stop me from thinking he’s up to no good.”
“Very well. Let’s talk of pleasanter things.”
The pleasanter things ended up being snogging right where they were sitting. Octavian turned in Harry’s arms until they were pressed together chest to chest, a mess of limbs.
Hermione was unhappy when Harry finally made an appearance in the Gryffindor common room. She had her advanced transfiguration book in her hand. “First you get pregnant,” she chided loudly, gaining people’s attention. “Then you get married and change your last name to Prince, and now you’re not even living in the tower anymore!” She slapped his shoulder with the book.
“Don’t you think you’re hurting the baby?” Harry asked her somewhat seriously.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not anywhere near your stomach, unless male wizards carry children in their right shoulders.” She laughed a little, but it sounded a bit like a choked sob.
“And I am in the tower, you just can’t access it from here. You have to go one hallway over, to the portrait of Anne Boleyn. She’s quite nice once you get to know her. She likes the idea of marrying above one’s station.”
“Of course she would. She married the King of England!” Hermione sighed. “Do you have a sitting room?”
“We have a couch by the fire, and two studies, so it encourages us to be studious,” he offered. “I’d love to show it to you and Ron.”
“What about Ginny?”
Ginny was lurking on the edge of the crowd with her Puffskein on her shoulder. Crookshanks was sitting at her feet, licking his chops, his eyes trailing her new pet.
Harry leaned into Hermione, whispering in her ear. “Wouldn’t that be a bit odd? She wanted me to break off my courtship with Octavian and pursue one with her!”
“Yeah, but she’s seeing Dean Thomas now. You can ask him yourself.” She pulled away. “Oi! Dean! Over here!”
The gangly student came over, his brown skin even lighter in the torchlight. “Harry, Hermione. What can I do you for?”
“You. Ginny. An item?” Hermione asked.
Dean put his hands in his pockets. He was wearing Muggle jeans. Harry, of course, was wearing all black. “Yeah, ever since the Hogwarts Express. We were owling before, of course, but nothing was official.”
“Right. Thanks, Dean,” Hermione said, and he wandered back to Seamus Finnegan.
“See, Harry? You can have no problem inviting Ginny.”
“I have every problem inviting Ginny. It still makes me uncomfortable. I don’t care if she’s now seeing Dean. It doesn’t change the fact that she approached me when I was clearly in a relationship with someone else.—She said things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“The usual. He’s a dirty pureblood, a no good Slytherin, he was only using me for my fame, he was male. The sort of thing you usually object to.”
“Well, you’re still inviting me,” Hermione reasoned.
“Yes, well, you didn’t pin me in a corner and try to kiss me, all right?” Harry said a little desperately. “I’m sorry, but she’s not coming.”
Hermione put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I may not approve of Prince or your relationship with him”—Harry tried not to snort—“but she shouldn’t have put you in that position. It was wrong.—So. When are we going?”
“Today, if you like. Or tomorrow. It is the weekend. Actually, better make it tomorrow. I should warn Octavian first so that he has his homework out of the way and he doesn’t have the Malfoys roaming the tower.”
“The Malfoys,” Hermione said darkly. “I don’t believe Malfoy’s a Death Eater, but I still think that Prince is far too close to them.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but it is what it is,” Harry replied, sighing. “Tomorrow. You and Ron. After lunch. We can all go up together.”
“I’ll find Ron and tell him. He’s off somewhere.” She looked around. “He might be practicing for tryouts. I know they’re not until next Saturday, but he does want to be keeper so badly.”
“It would be great to have him on the team,” Harry admitted. “But you know I can’t show favoritism.”
“No, of course not,” Hermione said. “Still, it would be wonderful.”
Octavian sat in his study, looking worriedly at the letter. On the surface it was just congratulatory. However, he didn’t want to receive anything from the Dark Lord. He remembered that horrible afternoon, the heat of it, how his skin was burning and only the Dark Lord could quench it, and tears came to his eyes.
No, he would not let that man have power over him.
Only he did. He mentioned that afternoon and what must have come of it. How their love must have created the child growing in his womb. How devastating it would be for the wizarding public to find out that their Chosen One’s child was actually the Dark Lord’s bastard.
Then he asked for a reading.
With shaking hands, Octavian took his cards from the corner of his desk. This wizard had all the blackmail material he needed to keep Octavian under his thumb—and Harry could never know.
He formed a Celtic Tree. The Wheel of Fortune. Destiny and Fate. Odd considering the prophecy had been broken. The Knight of Swords. The start of a new political campaign or the resignation of a political leader. Somehow, he thought it was the former. Finally, the dominating card: the Six of Swords. Charting a new course. The Dark Lord would undertake a new endeavor, except Octavian didn’t know what. He didn’t have enough details.
He wrote down his findings carefully and asked for more explicit information to better read the cards. Making a copy for his own files, he wrote it in Norse Runes so it would be a little more difficult to decipher. At first glance, it would appear to be homework or notes for that particular class, not that he took it. He had a tutor over the summer so he could take the O.W.L. but he took Arithmancy at Hogwarts.
It was then that Harry came in, the lullaby floating behind him, kissing the back of Octavian’s neck. “Homework?” he asked. Fortunately, the letter had been folded but not addressed. The cards were also put away.
“Yes,” he lied, turning around and kissing his husband softly. “Just catching up on some summer homework.” He sighed. “I suppose I better get started on this essay for McGonagall.”
“How dreadful,” Harry said. “Anyway, I wanted to ask, is it all right if Ron and Hermione came by after lunch tomorrow?” He looked at Octavian hopefully. “I don’t want them to disrupt you in any way.”
“No, that’s perfectly all right. This is your home, too, and the semester hasn’t geared up yet.” He kissed Harry again. “I just have a letter to send out.” He nodded toward the owl waiting at the window. “I’ll be right out.”
“Of course,” Harry said, squeezing Octavian’s shoulders before leaving the study.
Octavian looked at the owl balefully. He took out his quill and simply addressed the envelope to L.V. Surely that would be enough, considering that the owl had come from him in the first place.
Octavian didn’t know what he was doing at the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. He’d told Harry he would go in a fit of passion, and now here he was, on the stands, watching a rival team pick its players. He hated watching people fly. It reminded him of how much he couldn’t do it.
“It’s a shame McLaggan seems to be the better player,” he said to Hermione conversationally. “Ron looks like he’s about to hurl up his lunch.”
“Yes, he does rather,” Hermione agreed in a worried tone. “I wish he would have more confidence in himself.”
“Have you ever thought about dating him?” Octavian asked. “That would give him confidence.” He was half-teasing, but he had noticed the looks the two had given each other.
“I—well—I just—“ She cleared her throat. “Wouldn’t we court or something?”
“He’s a blood traitor; he doesn’t court. Look at his sister with that Muggle-born.” He huffed. “Anyway, I saw Harry on the sly before my father approved him. It’s done in the pureblood world.”
“I can’t imagine Draco Malfoy being so—plebian.”
“Draco,” Octavian whispered conspiratorially, “might begin courting this year. Nothing’s settled, but he has his eye on someone.”
“Poor girl.”
“Lucky girl, you mean. She could possibly be the next Lady Malfoy, one of the Four. Invitations to her soirees would be more sought after than any tea the Minister of Magic’s wife held. She would be a leader in fashion and would shape politics at the highest levels. It’s a position most witches would envy.”
“Well, I doubt Harry will be giving soirees.”
“I doubt that as well,” Octavian mused. “I rather see him as an Unspeakable. We just need to spend the summer working on his Arithmancy. Or a healer. He’d make an excellent healer.”
“You want Harry to become a healer?” Hermione looked flabbergasted.
“Why not? His potions talent is improving—“
“—All because of that stupid book—“
“—and he’s compassionate. He wants to help people. You can’t help people being an auror. You deal with death and destruction. You find justice for them but that’s about it.”
“Have you talked to Harry about this?”
“No, but I will,” Octavian commented lightly. “Don’t mention it until I do.” He looked out at the players. Ron was holding on by the skin of his teeth. The quaffle made its way toward McLaggen and Octavian heard a quiet “Confundus!” next to him. “Granger!” he said, shocked, as McLaggen moved to the wrong side, completely missing the quaffle. “I had no idea you didn’t always play by the rules.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said primly.
“Of course you don’t,” Octavian said conversationally. “But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me, as I trust mine are with you.” They shared a glance.
“Fine,” she gritted out. “This doesn’t make us friends, though.”
“Of course not,” he agreed happily. “Just partners in crime.”
In the end, Ron got the spot. Octavian didn’t mention a thing to Harry. After all, it wasn’t his secret to tell.
Ron was not invited to the Slug Club Dinner. Octavian rather fussed over Harry, placing him in his nicest black jacket and trying to smooth his hair.
“I’m the Boy Who Lived, I don’t think he’ll disinvite me,” Harry said, but Octavian only tried another spell on his hair.
“I don’t care. You are my husband and you are now representing the Prince family.”
Harry wrapped his arms around Octavian’s waist. “I’m afraid to disappoint, but my hair’s always been like this. I don’t think any amount of magic is going to change it.”
Octavian looked disgruntled. “One last spell,” he begged and Harry felt a tickle of something wet slick over his scalp.
“Oi! What was that?”
“We need a brush,” Octavian muttered, running into the bathroom and coming out. He brushed Harry’s hair down and then smoothed the bangs away so that they would show his scar.
“You know I don’t like that horrid thing,” Harry reminded him.
“It makes you powerful,” Octavian argued. “And Slughorn likes power. Just look at who he invited to his little gathering on the train.—Now, go look in the mirror.”
Begrudgingly, Harry did and was surprised to see that his hair was actually tamed. Coming out of the bathroom, he kissed his husband on the nose and hummed the lullaby at him. It had become their code for when they were happy. “How did you do that?”
“Magic,” was his only response, and Harry laughed.
Octavian greeted Draco with a hug as soon as they got there, the two a mass of black clothing and blond hair. Harry noticed that neither of Draco’s sisters were present and that Octavian was actually the youngest wizard there. Everyone was sixth year or above, apart from Octavian and Ginny Weasley.
Hermione was wearing a Muggle dress and talking animatedly to Ginny Weasley. Deciding to leave Octavian alone with his mentor, Harry approached them and immediately got a hug from Hermione. “Harry, there you are!” she said. “I’d almost given up on you. What on earth have you done to your hair?”
“I think it’s rather fetching,” Ginny put in. “It’s odd that you’re showing off your scar, though.”
“Blame Octavian,” Harry said with a smile. “He was determined to tame my hair and he styled it.”
“Yes, the husband,” Ginny said, her voice containing something that Harry didn’t like. “How are you getting on? Is it just awful?”
“Why would it be awful?” Harry asked in bewilderment. “I know it’s only been two weeks, but I’m quite happily married.”
Ginny looked decidedly uncomfortable. Hermione placed a hand on her arm and asked, “How’s Dean?”
“Dreadful. He keeps on opening doors for me as if I can’t do it for myself,” she bemoaned. “If I wanted to be treated like a pureblood princess, I would date a pureblood.”
“Prince,” a voice sounded from behind, and Harry turned, still not quite used to his new surname. Blaise Zabini was standing behind him. “When are we going to see you in the Slytherin common room? Prince said you have access and many of us are pleased to have the Chosen One as an honorary Slytherin. It boosts the image of our house.”
“Oh—I didn’t think I was welcome,” Harry replied honestly. “I’ve been there once with Octavian, but that’s it.”
“You must come and meet the others in our year. I know you know Draco and maybe Pansy Parkinson, but there are others. Come tomorrow after breakfast. Bring Prince with you.”
“Are you entirely sure I’m welcome?” Harry asked a little skeptically.
“Why don’t I walk you down there myself? No harm, no foul. This way perhaps both you and Prince can spend more time in the dungeons. Little Iolanthe Malfoy’s been going spare without her ‘favorite person in the whole world.’ I know Draco would never say it, but he misses his protégé, as well.”
“All—all right, then,” Harry found himself agreeing, despite himself.
“Excellent. Everyone will be thrilled.” He then walked away, as if nothing had happened.
“What was that?” Ginny asked in astonishment.
“I just got invited to Slytherin,” Harry answered. “I seriously hope they don’t mean to kill me. At least I’m a Prince. There will be hell to pay if they do.” It was only half of a joke.
“I guess that’s one good thing about marrying into the Four,” Hermione speculated. “You have instant protection.”
Harry and Octavian spent their meals apart, at their respective tables. Harry was griping about his detention with Snape the night before—the bastard had tried to jinx him even though they were now related by marriage—when Blaise Zabini came up behind him.
“Prince. Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He spotted Octavian and made a head motion to say that he was going to the Slytherin Dungeons. Octavian nodded back and then continued his conversation with Draco Malfoy at the almost completely deserted table.
They took the path that Harry remembered from his second year and Harry soon found himself immersed in the Slytherin dungeons. The sixth years had all seemed to clump around a group of chairs.
“Right,” Zabini said. “You remember Parkinson. This is Daphne Greengrass,” (Harry remembered her from that summer), “Tracey Davis,” she had black skin and even blacker hair, “Theodore Nott III,” he was a wizard that Harry vaguely recognized with chocolate curls and pale green eyes, “and then, of course, Crabbe and Goyle.”
Harry nodded to everyone in turn.
“This is Prince’s husband, the former Harry Potter,” Blaise introduced, and then ushered him into a chair.
“We’re rather fond of Octavian,” Daphne opened. “Well, most of us, anyway. Felicitations on your marriage, by the way.”
“Er—thank you,” Harry said. “I understand he’s quite popular here in Slytherin.”
“Very,” Theodore offered. “He is the son of a Lord, after all. He has political capital we can only dream of.”
And so the conversation went.
Harry stood up as soon as McGonagall entered her office. It was about two weeks into term and he promised Octavian he would at least look into this.
“Prince, sit,” McGonagall said, not unkindly. “Tea?”
“Er—yes, Professor,” he answered carefully.
She waved her wand and a kettle began to boil. In less than a minute, steaming hot water was pouring into a teapot. She poured him a cup not three minutes after that.
“Now, you wanted to see me,” she began. “I hope your accommodations are to your satisfaction? I admit we haven’t had a married couple here at Hogwarts for quite some time, in fact I think they were two Hufflepuffs if memory serves. Also, how is Quidditch? I hope you’ve put together a fine team.”
“I think so,” Harry said, thankful for a topic of conversation he could grasp. “We have some new blood. Demelza Robins, Ron Weasley, Ritchie Coote, and Jeremy Peakes. Ginny Weasley is back as Chaser and so is Katie—Bell. Katie Bell.”
“I’m sure they’ll do us credit,” McGonagall said. “But that’s not why you’ve come to see me.”
“No.” Harry hesitated. “I was talking to Octavian and he thinks I might suit as a healer. At St. Mungo’s. He says I have a Saving People Complex.”
McGonagall looked at him over her cup of tea. “That you do,” she admitted. She stood and went to a wall of pamphlets and pulled one out. “I’ve spoken to Professor Slughorn. He speaks very highly of your potion making skills. Transfiguration also will be useful as well as Charms, so you’ll need to work a bit harder to merit consideration. Charms, as you remember, you only received an Exceeds Expectations.”
She handed him the pamphlet. She hesitated.
“There is a program where sixth year students can shadow a healer for a few hours one Saturday in October. Would you like me to put your name down?”
“Yes, it would be nice to get a feel for this. See if what Octavian is getting at might be a good idea.”
“Quite. Is there any other profession your husband would like you to consider?” She looked at him pointedly.
“Er—yes. Unspeakable. He said he can get me a tutor for over the holidays for Arithmancy.”
“You’d have to be quite proficient in the subject for you to be able to catch up that quickly,” McGonagall observed. “Far be it from me to halt any student’s dream.” She plucked another pamphlet off the wall. “Now, let’s see. You need an Outstanding in everything, but considering your marriage and your position as the Chosen One, it might not matter.—Has it occurred to you that Mr. Prince is grooming you to be the proper pureblood husband? He’s keeping you away from danger while placing you in positions of high repute.”
“Trust Octavian,” Harry muttered. Then, more loudly, he said, “I’m here to make this marriage work, Professor. If I can help do that by a career choice, then I will. I know Octavian won’t force me into anything I really don’t want to do.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” McGonagall hedged. “Perhaps it might interest you to know of your parents’ field of work?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “No one’s ever told me.”
“Your father was a law wizard,” McGonagall said. “As I understand it, his parents weren’t best pleased. Long hours and he wasn’t a litigator. He preferred to help people. Lily had a low-ranking position working for the Minister of Magic. A secretary of a secretary or something like that. She wanted to eventually influence policy.”
“I never knew.”
“No, I suppose not.” McGonagall took a sip of her tea. “Do you know what Mr. Prince wishes to do?”
“Ideally he would like to be a Clairvoyant, but apparently that’s unacceptable. He’s also a Charms prodigy, but apparently spellcasting is too dangerous and he has no younger brother to serve as heir. He also says he doesn’t have a death wish.” He smiled. “So, he’s going into politics. I believe the Malfoys have helped him in this regard.”
“Yes, the Malfoys are quite influential,” McGonagall agreed. “Too influential by halves.”
Excentryke's Musings 