94Chapter 4: Abraxan & Dragon
Draco grimaced as he swallowed the potion. He was sincerely dismayed to learn that he'd lost an entire day to his injury. Matters were not aided by the next twenty-four hours he'd spent bound under a Rigor Habitus spell that the matron had assured him was for his own safety. The throbbing in his skull had finally subsided to a lingering ache and he no longer felt as if he was stuck inside the floo network, but Madam Pomfrey had informed him in no uncertain terms that he would remain in the infirmary for at least one more day—more, if she wasn't satisfied with his progress.
"And exactly why must I drink Skele-Gro?" he inquired, gratefully taking the glass of juice she offered. He held it with both hands to steady it as he drank.
"Because you have a fractured skull. Fortunately, the swelling has reduced significantly, but we must regrow that portion of the sutura interparietalis. You don't want a soft head forever now, do you?" Draco shrugged. The matron fluffed his pillow and conjured a set of blocks which she placed on his tray table. "Of course not."
"Nursery blocks?" he looked at her curiously.
"These aren't nursery blocks. We need to be sure that nothing inside that skull of yours is addled. See if you can arrange these. They form a tower with a different color on each side. As soon as I've updated your chart, I'll send down for some lunch."
Draco frowned at the pile of cubes. She patted his shoulder and took the now-empty goblet from him, drawing the curtain.
Professor McGonagall entered the ward just as Madam Pomfrey was exiting the dispensary where she'd returned the potions.
"Well?" Minerva asked. Poppy beckoned her into her office and closed the door.
"I don't think there will be any permanent damage. He's awake now and appears to be relatively lucid. The swelling has gone down considerably, and he hasn't vomited since late last night. I'm giving him a round of Skele-Gro to repair and strengthen the damaged section of sagittal suture. How much of his memory and cognitive skills are affected is still unclear. I've only gotten him out of bed for toileting so far. On the surface, he seems fine, but I've given him a simple block building exercise to test his cognitive ability and motor function. I want to wait until I'm certain that the swelling has completely resolved itself before I test his vision or his magic."
"I'm certain that he'll be happy to hear that," the headmistress said, in a sarcastic tone. "What with Quidditch trials in less than two weeks."
"That's the least of his problems, I should think. Minerva," Poppy pursed her lips before heaving a sigh. "When I did a wand scan, I discovered several healed fractures—wrist fractures, a broken collarbone, jaw, eye socket, several rib fractures—at least two of them very recent. He's even had at least one other skull fracture. That's not normal, even given the fact that we've just come out of a war. Harry Potter hasn't had as many broken bones as that boy! It's a wonder that he can even walk straight."
"Really?" The headmistress gave her a shocked look.
"Minerva, there's curse damage too!"
"Well, surely you are aware that You-Know-Who was—"
"No, Headmistress." The matron shook her head adamantly. "This boy was subjected to a Cruciatus Curse at a young age—possibly six or seven years old!"
"Lucius!"
Poppy gave her a look of reluctant agreement.
"But you said the rib fractures are recent. How did he manage to hurt himself this time? Lucius is in prison, and Narcissa would never strike her child!"
"I wish I knew. He hasn't spoken much since he woke, except to complain about the taste of the potions and beg me to lift the Rigor Habitus spell."
"Well, do you think he might be up to speaking with me?" Minerva asked.
"If you mean, is he capable of answering your questions, then yes. Whether he is willing is another story." Poppy opened a folder on her desk and began to make notes.
"Thank you, Poppy. Stop by my office later for a cuppa. I have a tin of those digestives you like so much."
"Oh, indeed I shall!" The matron's face brightened at the invitation, and the headmistress saw herself out, striding across the ward to the shrouded bed. She drew back the curtain to find Draco sitting up in bed glaring at a partially sorted and stacked pile of blocks.
"Headmistress. Disappointed to see that I am still this side of the rose garden?" He placed a block on the stack. Minerva couldn't help but notice that the cubes were stacked in colorful disarray. She schooled her features before speaking.
"Mr. Malfoy, I sincerely hope that you don't believe for a moment I would wish you ill."
"Forgive me, Professor. My natural propensity for sardonic wit seems to be unaffected by my head injury. Thank you for seeing to my well-being. Have you come to bring my class assignments?"
"I have not. Madam Pomfrey wishes you to have a bit more time free of stress." She summoned a chair to his bedside.
"Ah, well, best of luck to her and the Banchory Bangers." He knocked down the tower, a few blocks falling to the floor. Professor McGonagall summoned them back to the table.
"Mr. Malfoy, I appreciate that this has been a trying time for you over the past few months—"
"Try the past few years, Headmistress. I am beginning to rethink the idea that a pardon was in my best interest. It seems I'd have done just as well alongside Dear Father in the North Sea." He sighed and turned to look out of the window, realizing his poor judgement when the bright afternoon sun caused him to wince. Professor McGonagall drew the draperies with a flick of her wand, darkening the immediate area around his bed. Draco gave her a remorseful smile. "Thank you. I apologize for my impudence." He sighed and arranged a few blocks again, his brow still furrowed.
"Mr. Malfoy—Draco—how did you sustain your injuries?" she asked.
"I lost my grip upon my trunk," he replied.
"I see. Perhaps you could take me through the details of the incident."
"I'm sorry?"
"I understand that your memory might be a bit muddled. Perhaps I can help you sort it out. Were you lifting your trunk into the overhead rack at the time of the accident?"
"Oh. Ah, yes I think I was," Draco replied.
"Alright. Then, am I correct in assuming that you were doing this manually, and not employing your wand for levitation?"
"Erm, that would be correct." Draco eyed her suspiciously.
"Okay. Now then, was the train in motion at this time?"
"Frankly, I'm not certain, Headmistress."
"That's alright. Now then, I am curious. How exactly did your trunk strike you in the back of the head?"
"I don't believe I ever said that it had," he replied, schooling his expression. Draco knew that she didn't believe his story. He couldn't tell her what really happened, or the consequences would certainly be dire.
"No, I don't believe that you did." Minerva studied Draco closely. He was lying and she knew it. Unfortunately, she'd never been particularly good at legilimency, and at any rate Dumbledore had intimated to her that he knew Draco to have a skill for occlumency. She decided that any attempt, even a poor one, to see into the young wizard's thoughts would place undue stress upon his currently fragile disposition.
"Did you happen to share your compartment with anyone on the journey? Did anyone happen to witness the incident?"
Draco faltered for the briefest moment. McGonagall was no Gilderoy Lockhart. She was highly observant and intuitive, but he couldn't tell her. He wouldn't.
"I…don't know. Erm…" Draco closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a sigh. The dull ache in his head intensified just a bit.
"Very well then, Mr. Malfoy, I shall allow you to get some rest." She patted his hand and made as if to stand. "Oh, there is one other thing—"
Draco did not open his eyes.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Madam Pomfrey noted evidence of a stinging jinx on your chest."
"I assure you, Headmistress, I haven't the faintest idea how that happened. After all, I was notably incapacitated." He opened his eyes and gave her a weak smile.
"Of course." Professor McGonagall pursed her lips as she stood, giving him a searching look. "Draco, I do hope you make the best of the opportunity that you have been given. The choices of our past do not have to define us. One may change courses if one so wishes." She pushed back to curtain and strode away, a flick of her wand drawing them together again.
Draco sighed heavily. He absently waved his hand, and the colorful blocks stacked themselves into a neat tower with solid colors on each side.
"Knight to B-four. Check," said Ron. He bit his lip as he watched his chess piece gallop into place. Across from him, Professor Onwachimba quietly studied the board, stroking his goatee.
"King to A-one." The tiny black king strode haughtily into his designated square.
"King to C-one," said Ron.
It was Friday evening, and the two had been engaged in play since the end of the professor's last class, playing through the dinner hour. Hermione had brought them sandwiches and juice, arriving accompanied by Professors Flitwick, Sinistra and McGonagall, who'd heard about Ron's decision to enter the tournament. The small entourage, along with Harry, Neville and Dean, sat watching the game with rapt attention.
"King to A-two," said Onwachimba. A slow smile spread across Ron's face.
"Knight to C-3." Professors Flitwick and Sinistra gasped, and the headmistress' jaw dropped. "Checkmate."
His peers clapped politely. Professor Onwachimba slapped his forehead. He nodded in concession and held out his hand. Ron took it, giving him a firm handshake.
"Well played, Mr. Weasley. I look forward to watching you play your house tournament."
"It was an honor, sir."
Professor Onwachimba restored the slaughtered chess pieces to their original state and packed them away as Ron received accolades from the other professors, blushing with pride.
"That was brilliant, mate!" said Harry, patting him on the back.
"Thanks. Where's Ginny?" he asked, looking around the room.
"I dunno. She said something about going to the library with Luna during dinner." He shrugged.
"Say, mates. Fancy a pint?" asked Dean. "A bunch of us are headed to Hogsmeade."
"Sure thing," Ron replied.
"I'll meet you there," said Harry. I'm gonna go look for Ginny, and see if she wants me to bring her anything from Hogsmeade," he lied.
Ron shrugged and turned back to the others. Harry left the common room, but continued to the first floor and made his way to the tower that housed the Hospital Wing.
"May I help you, Mr. Potter?" asked the matron.
"I was just hoping to find out how Malfoy is doing," he replied.
"Mr. Malfoy is improving."
"Erm, is it alright if I—I mean—may I see him? Is he awake?" Madam Pomfrey gave him a suspicious look.
"He is awake. However, it is imperative that Mr. Malfoy remains calm and does not move about too much. If I allow you to see him, you must promise not to antagonize him. Any raised voices, and you will be excluded from the room. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded and Madam Pomfrey nodded in the direction of Draco's bed.
"Oh, fuck all!" Draco swore, slamming his pencil down. Did he really have to practice writing his name like some juvenile? He looked down at his handwriting. It hadn't looked this pathetic since he was seven years old. Draco had always prided himself on his elegant script. Theodore Nott had once teased that he wrote like a woman. His friend had barely dodged Draco's finger removing jinx, and their relationship suffered for quite a few weeks before they reconciled. He looked up when the curtain drew back, surprised to find Harry giving him a remorseful smile.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. He hastily flipped over the parchment he was writing on.
"I just wanted to see how you were faring," Harry replied. "Mind if I sit down?"
"I guess I can't stop you, since you always do whatever you like anyway." Harry ignored the snarky reply and summoned a chair.
"Listen, Malfoy, I know you'll probably say that it's none of my business, but—"
"You're right, Potter, it is none of your business."
"Draco, why won't you say what happened to you? Who did this? I hope you're not into something dodgy."
"What's it to you, Potter? Are you bored now that the world has been saved? You need a new project to feed your hero complex?"
"I do not have a—listen; do you realize that you might have died if we hadn't noticed you there in the common room?"
At this, Draco blanched, some of the fight seeping out of him. He looked at Harry, and was taken aback to see an expression of pure concern upon his face. He had a hazy recollection of his hand being held and a whispered reassurance. Harry reached up and scratched the back of his neck. For the first time, Draco noticed that the Gryffindor had filled out. Gone were the waifish features and undersized stature. He could see evidence of a defined chest and taut abdomen beneath the jumper vest and oxford shirt, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed sinewy forearm muscles on obvious display. Draco licked his lips.
Harry eyed Draco with curiosity and concern. He wondered just who had such a hold on him that would keep him from reporting the assault. He sighed.
"Look, Draco. I won't push the issue. Madam Pomfrey said I wasn't to cause you any stress. Just know that if you need anything, I'm here to help you," he said. Draco narrowed his eyes.
"I already owe you a life debt. What more do you want from me?"
"I—" Harry paused. What did he want from Draco? Why did he care? "I don't know. Why do I have to want anything from you?" He shrugged. The curtain was pulled back and Madam Pomfrey approached the bed, holding a tray with assorted potions and a glass of juice.
"I'm afraid you'll have to go now, Mr. Potter. It is time for Mr. Malfoy's next round of potions and therapy."
"Erm, yes ma'am." Harry looked from the matron back to Draco, who once again wore a melancholy expression. Unable to think of anything else to say, he stood, giving the Slytherin what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and left.
"Now then," said Madam Pomfrey, arranging the potions on the side table. "Let's see that handwriting exercise."
"Must we?"
"Mr. Malfoy." Her voice was stern as she held out her hand for the parchment. Draco scowled, passing it over. She frowned at the shaky scrawl on the paper. "Well, it appears to show some improvement as you progressed from line to line." She set it aside and poured his dose of Skele-Gro.
"It looks like a house-elf wrote it," he groused, grimacing as he took the potion, holding it with both hands, and drinking it down in one swallow.
"Do not despair, dear. A little loss of coordination is to be expected. Given the scope of your injury, I'd say you've come along quite well. I'd like to add a dose of Wit-Sharpening Potion to tonight's round of draughts. I think that will help quite a bit." She passed him a jigger filled with a dark orange liquid.
Draco accepted it, holding his breath and willing his hand not to shake, he quickly swallowed the slightly warm, honey-tasting liquid. He felt a warm and relaxing tingle rush through his face to his scalp, and almost immediately, the lingering fog in his brain seemed to dissipate.
"Well, it's certainly better tasting than Skele-Gro," he remarked. The healer only smiled in response. She handed him a pencil and fresh sheet of parchment.
"Now then, let's try that handwriting again," she said.
Reluctantly, Draco took the pencil. He took a deep breath and began to write. Nescio: num custos fratris mei sum ego? He looked at the paper, amazed to recognize his neat, fluid strokes and slanting script.
"Ah, that looks promising," said Madam Pomfrey. "We'll dispense with the Wideye Potion for the evening. You'll need plenty of rest for tomorrow."
"Why is that?" he asked worriedly.
"We're going to get you out of that bed and put you through your paces. You can't stay here in the infirmary forever. We're not a hotel, you know."
Draco resisted the urge to remark that he had lodged in some of the world's finest wizarding hotels, and the Hospital Wing hardly compared. For, although he was fortunate not to have spent as much time there as some others, Madam Pomfrey had always been attentive and efficient in her care of every student.
"Does this mean that I'll be getting my wand back? I'm feeling more than a bit naked without it."
"One step at a time, young man. If all goes well, you can return to your dormitory by Sunday, at the latest." She adjusted his pillows and blankets and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Try to get some rest, dear."
Draco nodded and picked up the parchment, reading what he'd written: I know not, am I my brother's keeper?
Harry shoved his hands into his jacket pocket as he walked down the path that led to the main gate and into Hogsmeade. Feeling a bit guilty for lying to his friends, he decided to seek out Ginny before leaving the castle. When he reached the library, neither she nor Luna was to be found. He inquired of a few students that he knew, but was told that neither Luna nor Ginny had been seen in the library that evening. He tried the Gryffindor common room, and no one there had seen her either. Harry wondered at the fact that she too had been duplicitous regarding her plans for the evening.
As he walked, his mind tumbled with a myriad of thoughts, from the odd dreams about Draco, to the sudden resurgence of pain in his scar. Even now, it tingled just the slightest bit. Draco's last question niggled in his mind.
"What do you want from me, Potter?"
Harry wondered if he somehow felt responsible for Draco. In light of what he and his mother had done to protect him in the end, he'd felt compelled to speak on their behalf and had frankly thought that would be the end of it. Now, he couldn't help remembering that terrifying experience at Malfoy Manor when he thought that all of their sacrifice and searching had been for naught, watching the helpless look on Ron's face as they listened to Hermione's tortured screams. Then they made their escape and he disarmed Draco. The look in his eyes was as clear in this moment as it had been back on that fateful spring morning—pleading—as if he longed to go with them.
He had known Draco was terrified. He'd seen that same, anguished look in his face the night they dueled in the first floor girls' lavatory. He hadn't known then that Draco was in way over his head with no obvious—or at least, safe—way out. Having seen that look upon Draco's face once more, Harry was disturbed. Was Draco in trouble, and who was the cause?
Harry's ruminations were interrupted by the sound of voices.
"Is it really him?"
"Merlin! It's him! It's Harry Potter!"
"Look!"
Harry realized that a small crowd was emerging from the shops and businesses as he passed, and gathering on the street. He suddenly wished he'd thought to bring his invisibility cloak as he picked up his pace. Harry still hated being in the spotlight, as the press seemed always to misrepresent his actions. Suddenly, he felt a hand tug at his arm. Harry turned to see a rather voluptuous witch, just a few years his senior, pressing herself against him. She tossed her raven-haired tresses and gave him a dazzling smile.
"You're looking awfully glum, Mr. Potter. That titian-haired little witch hasn't finally broken your heart has she?"
"Erm—no, no. I'm pretty certain that my heart is in good shape," he stammered, prying her hands from his arm.
"Aw! That's too bad. Well, just in case you change your mind," she pushed a slip of parchment into his front pocket, her hand exploring the entire area below his belt. "Here's my floo address." She whispered.
"Yeah—erm—okay. Erm—bye now." Harry pushed the witch away as firmly as possible without causing her injury, and hurried in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.
He was startled to find a new shingle hanging outside of the pub, and blinked several times, looking around to be certain that he hadn't gone in the wrong direction. He read the sign once more. Instead of Three Broomsticks, painted in gold on a black shingle, the new sign read Abraxan & Dragon, in black letters on a white background, and bore a carving of a winged horse rearing up as it faced a peculiarly familiar serpentine creature. A silver banner at the bottom of the sign held a phrase: Quod non te occidit, fortior me. That which does not kill you, makes you stronger.
A general shout rang out when he entered the pub, and several of the patrons lifted their glasses. Harry nodded self-consciously and hurried across the room to where his friends had commandeered a large table near the end of the bar.
"What took you so long? We were beginning to think maybe you and Ginny decided to hole up in the Room of Requirement," said Seamus. Ron shot him an annoyed look.
"Er, no actually, I couldn't find her. I, erm, stopped by the Hospital Wing on my way down."
"What for?" asked Dean. He pushed a bottle of butterbeer into Harry's hand.
"Well, to look in on Draco, of course."
"Is he alright?" asked Hermione.
"He's awake now and seems to be his usual irascible self," Harry replied.
"Who really cares? Whatever happened, he brought it on himself," said Terry Boot. "Rumour has it that he was completely aled up on the train. Why's he even allowed to return to school anyway? I suppose we have you to thank for that, Potter?"
"Perhaps," Harry replied coolly, taking a swig of beer.
"Harry, you are so naïve. Draco and his lot betrayed us all! He's the reason Dumbledore is dead! How can you defend the likes of him?" Terry insisted.
"You know, Terry, sometimes things—and people are not always what they appear to be on the surface."
"Yeah, sometimes they look like giant slugs!" he laughed, recalling the incident on the Express at the end of their fifth year when he'd defended Harry against an unprovoked attack by Draco, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. "Face it, Potter, wizards like Malfoy will never change. He should be in Azkaban like his Death Eater father."
"Terry, the war is over. We all have our burdens to bear and experiences to take away." Harry swept his arm to indicate all of them. "One should learn even from one's enemies. Who does not know the evils of war cannot appreciate its benefits."
"I'm just saying, what makes Malfoy so special? All the two of you ever did before was fight."
"You don't know the whole story, Terry."
"Don't I?" Terry set his mug down hard, its contents splashing over the side. "Well, maybe you'd like to enlighten us then, Potter! We all wondered where the hell you were, what the hell you were doing or if you even knew what you were doing—could you even save us at all, or had you simply run away like a coward!"
"Coward, hm? Coward?" Harry pursed his lips and shook his head, gripping his beer bottle tightly to calm himself. "I would happily have exchanged my life for yours, Terry. Any day! Because of course, I had it so easy, what with being The Boy Who Lies, and Undesirable No.1."
"Yeah well," Terry refused to back down. "While Draco and his Slytherin Death Eater buddies were safe and warm in their dormitories, protected by Snape and his goons, the rest of us were cold and stinking in the Room of Requirement, eating Aberforth's revolting swill, and waiting for you!
"Stand down, Terry!" Neville warned. Now it was Ron's turn to slam down his mug. He glared at Terry.
"You think camping out in the Room of Requirement was a ball-ache, Boot? Try dossing down in the middle of nowhere without a clue if our next move would land us in a shed load of shit with You-Know-Who, knowing that if we failed, it was over for everyone! We had no clue if our families were still alive! Hermione's parents no longer knew that they had a daughter! Sometimes we went days without food! I got splinched trying to get away from the fucking Ministry! Harry nearly drowned in an icy pond! We were nearly burned alive inside Gringotts! That psycho bint, Bellatrix Lestrange nearly killed Hermione!"
"Ron, calm down!" Hermione placed a hand on his arm.
"Well, there you are! You've said it yourself! What more reason do you need to see that they're all cut from the same cloth? Lestrange was his aunt after all!" Terry gave Ron an all-knowing look, as if he'd made his argument, and took up his ale once more. "There are simply some wizarding families that are just worse than others, Weasley. You can't help that sort."
"That's a very interesting remark, Terry. Do you know Malfoy said almost the very same thing to me the first time I ever laid eyes on him?" Harry gave him a measured look. Terry leapt to his feet, his chair tumbling over in the process.
"How dare you compare me to the likes of a Malfoy!" He glared at Harry, who returned his stare, his face expressionless.
Suddenly the entire table began to vibrate, bottles, glasses and steins trembling. The others grabbed their drinks to keep them from toppling over and spilling into their laps, looks of consternation on their faces as they glanced around the table. A sudden breeze blew open the door to the pub and whipped around the table, knocking Terry to the floor. Everyone looked from Terry to Harry, in disquiet.
"Oi! That's enough! It's chucking out time for you, mate!" The barman bellowed. Terry angrily scrabbled to his feet and threw a handful of coins on the table before he stormed out.
"It's late. We should all probably get back before Filch locks the gates," Neville suggested. They all paid for their drinks and stood.
"You coming, Harry?"
"I'll be along in a bit, he said.
"Harry, it'll be curfew soon!" Hermione warned.
"Hermione, I think you know I'm more than capable of getting into Hogwarts castle undetected."
Hermione opened her mouth to say more, but Ron placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Leave it, Hermione. He'll be fine." He took her hand, but turned to Harry before they left. "Don't be too long, mate. After hours is still after hours, and you know McGonagall; she doesn't play favorites—even for you." They left, both throwing nervous glances at him over their shoulders.
Harry lifted his chin in response and once they'd gone, he moved to a seat at the bar.
"Shot of Blishen's, please." He placed a few sickles on the counter as he watched the others make their way up the street.
"'S on the house," said the barman as he set the glass in front of Harry and pushed the coins back in his direction.
"You don't have to—" Harry stared at the man on the other side of the bartop.
"You alright, mate?" he asked.
"I saw you at the station when we arrived the other night," Harry said. "F-for a moment, I thought you were my godfather. The resemblance is uncanny!"
"Yeah, I doubt I'm your godfather, since we are nearly the same age." The young wizard leaned against the bar top and poured himself a measure of brandy.
"Yeah, I realized that. I don't think I recall ever seeing you in school. Did you not attend Hogwarts?" Harry asked. The wizard's face darkened. "I mean, if you don't mind me asking. I didn't mean to pry."
"It's alright. I've only just returned to the country. I was on my own for quite some time, and then I was adopted. My new parents fled the country ahead of the war and educated me on their own."
Harry nodded and swallowed his drink.
"I can understand that. I hope that you were taken in by a loving family."
"They've been good to me. They've purchased this place and allowed me to run it. Mum doesn't much care for the cool and damp. Even though the war is over now, they decided to stay in Africa." He poured Harry another shot.
The bar was nearly empty now, most of the patrons, having been students, had departed in order to make curfew. The barman waved his wand and the tables cleared themselves.
"Wow, that's quite a change. What made you decide to come back?"
"Curiosity, maybe," he shrugged. "I wondered if my original family survived."
"Have you checked the Ministry? They have a rather massive effort in place to help reunite families. Minister Shacklebolt commissioned a temporary office in Public Information Services—the Postbellum Reunification Program."
"I suppose you've got lots of connections at the Ministry, yes?" He sipped his brandy. Harry shrugged.
"People tend to go out of their way to accommodate me, but I try not to impose. I'm not terribly comfortable with this hero thing."
"So, I've noticed. Your mate seemed to be rather heated about you speaking up for that Malfoy bloke."
"All who do evil and dishonorable things do them against their will. Draco and many other Slytherins were urged into following their fathers. They fell in love with the romantic ideal of power and prestige, and before they knew it, they were in over their heads, with few options for escape. In the end, he and his mother both risked their own lives to help me survive and ultimately prevail over Riddle."
"Courage is a kind of salvation." The barman posited. Harry nodded.
"Therefore, is it not right to give each man his due?"
"Bene dictum." The barman raised his glass. Harry touched it with his own, and they drank. In the distance, the chime of the clock tower could be heard tolling the hour. "Looks like you've missed your curfew."
"I'll be fine. As I said, there are a few perks to being me." Harry pushed the coins back across the counter, adding a few more. "It was nice to get to know you, erm…"
"Percutio." He extended his hand, and Harry took it genially.
"Percutio. Thanks for the drink."
"Any time, Harry Potter."
Harry slid from his stool and stepped out into the night, where he apparated to the basement of Honeydukes Candy Shoppe, relieved to discover that the secret passage to the castle was still open.