#ficextracts

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 15

Harry wakes with music in his ears and a smile upon his face. At once, such a sudden feeling of elation overtakes him that for an instant he is convinced that it was all a dream, all of it. He must still be in his bed at home, perhaps feverish or caught in some delusion, and has imagined all these wonderful events. The visit to Hampstead, the acquiring of the beautiful coat that he can now wear whenever he desires, the unexpected ball, and the dancing. Most of all, he must have imagined the dancing. It cannot truly have happened. But it did! And Harry knows it to be true because, even before he is fully awake, he realises that his feet are sore under the blankets. His feet are sore! From dancing!

He laughs joyfully, the sound half muffled into the pillow. And when he opens his eyes, he is delighted to realise that he is not at home, of course. Bright sunlight peaks through the drapes, bathing Uncle Gideon’s old bedroom in a golden glow. All around him, the house is entirely silent. Sounds and voices do not carry here the way they do at The Burrow, the walls of Prewett House much thicker and sturdier, but perhaps everyone is still asleep yet. They all went to bed so late, after all. And most of them have had quite a lot more to drink than they should have had. Harry himself has discovered that dancing is even more enjoyable after a fair bit of port. But even the resulting numbing pain around his temples cannot ruin such a perfect morning.

If he closes his eyes, he can still see Cedric’s handsome face. He can still feel Cedric’s hand in his as he was led amongst the dancers. Harry was so nervous at first, his heart beating so loudly that he was certain that everyone could hear it over the music. He did not want them to know that he had never danced before, not like this, that he had only ever stomped stupidly around the parlour with Charlie. That every ball he had attended before he had spent sitting by himself and wishing, wishing to be noticed, and so was terrified to forget the steps that he had barely learned and never used. But Cedric’s gentle smile and familiar presence managed to put him at ease, and Harry grew confident and fearless by his side. And Grandfather had chosen his guests well. There was not a single frowning glare on Harry, neither from the dancers nor from the bystanders.

And he danced with others as well! It seems so perfectly ridiculous to think about, but Harry danced with so many young men that he cannot remember all their names. He would dance with one, who then would introduce a friend, who then would ask for the next dance, and then introduce another friend, and so on and so on. And now Harry’s feet are sore! They are sore! He laughs again into his pillow.

Can life truly be so sweet? So perfect? Harry never wants to leave Hampstead again, and he wonders if Mamma and Papa would let him stay with Grandfather if he were to ask them. At least for a few months. Or for winter! How perfect that would be! And perhaps Charlie would stay as well! He seems to have made peace with Grandfather last night. Harry remembers Grandfather introducing him to a great number of people, and then seeing the two of them laughing together. Yes, perhaps Charlie would like to stay here with Harry for a while. It pains him, the thought of his parents all alone in the empty house in Hogsmeade, but perhaps they would allow it. Hampstead is not London, after all, and he would be safe with Grandfather and Charlie to watch over him. Oh, how wonderful it would be to remain here! He could attend the balls and dance at each one! He would not have to suffer the gossip and glaring of the townsfolk! He would not have to fear stumbling on Cormac in town! And he could see Cedric again!

May I call on you soon? Cedric had asked at the end of the night. And Harry, his head swimming with the joy and the dancing and all the port he had drunk, said yes before Cedric was even finished speaking.

As much as Harry has always loved the Prewett estate and his grandfather, he used to be homesick whenever they came to stay, and he would always look forward to returning home. But suddenly, on this particular morning, this house seems like the most beautiful place in the world to be.

He is wondering what time it could possibly be, and if breakfast has yet to be served or if he has simply missed it, when suddenly there is a great scuffle in the hallway outside and then the bedroom door bursts open. His mother barges in with a maid in tow, the poor girl desperately trying to finish fastening the ribbons on Mrs Weasley’s dress.

“Suitors!” his mother shrieks, all the while attempting to pin up the rest of her hair, but the strands keep falling again. “Suitors in the parlour! Get dressed! Quickly!”

Harry sits up in bed, startled. “What? Do you mean… for me?” he stutters.

“Yes, for you, silly boy!” she cries out desperately. “Get up now! You must meet them at once! Goodness, some have been waiting so long! We cannot let them leave!” She turns abruptly to the young maid. “Go and offer them refreshments! Go now! Quick!”

“Yes, Madam!” the girl squeals before curtsying awkwardly and hurrying out of the room.

“I do hope you packed some decent clothes!” Mrs Weasley continues at once, grasping the blankets and roughly pulling them off Harry’s bed, forcing him out of his warm cocoon of comfort and bliss.

“Poppy packed them for me,” Harry says, but his intervention is thoroughly ignored.

“Why has none of this been put away properly?” she exclaims shrilly, flushed with anger at the sight of his trunk, on the floor, still filled with clothes. “You lazy boy! Is this how I have raised you? You could have asked a maid if you could not be bothered to do it yourself!” she scolds, grabbing the trunk and hoisting it, with surprising strength, onto the end of the bed. “At least they seem properly folded,” she mumbles, rummaging through. “We cannot have you meeting these young men in wrinkled clothes, and there is no time for ironing! Goodness, hurry up, will you?” she snaps when noticing that he has not moved from the bed.

Harry jumps to his feet at once, and he has stripped off his nightclothes before she can threaten him. His hands shake as he takes the shirt that she hands him, all the while mumbling under her breath about which trousers, which waistcoat, which neckcloth is the most suitable for the receiving of suitors. She is clearly as unsettled at this turn of events, and as unprepared for it, as Harry himself is, and he finds some comfort in this.

“The blue one? Or the green one?” she asks him, bewildered, holding up two waistcoats.

“I… I do not know,” Harry stutters.

They pause and look at each other for a moment, both wide eyed and perplexed.

“The green one brings out your eyes,” his mother remarks.

“But the blue one is not as stiff,” Harry replies.

“Oh, suit yourself! The blue one it is!” she declares nervously, throwing the garment at him before resuming her rummaging in search of a good neckcloth, all the while complaining under her breath about the poor selection. “Why did you not pack more?” she hisses.

“Poppy packed them for me,” Harry repeats. “And these are all I have.”

“Goodness, we shall need to get you more. None of these are suitable. None. Absolutely none,” his mother rambles on, her hands shaking as she completely turns around the contents of his trunk.

Harry rushes over, troubled at seeing her in such a distressed state. “It is only a neckcloth, Mamma. Any one will do,” he says soothingly. “This one,” he adds, grabbing a perfectly ordinary one, “this one here will be perfect. I shall wear this one.”

He holds her shaking hand in his for a moment, gently, and then she lets out a small sob and sits down heavily on the bed. “Oh, my little boy,” she gasps, eyes filling with tears. “Suitors for my little boy, at last! Oh, Harry, sweetheart, how long I dreamt of this day…”

Harry can only stand there uncertainly as she continues, sniffling and babbling emotionally.

“Oh, I knew the day would come, of course. How could it not? You are so lovely and handsome. And you danced so beautifully last night…”

“Mamma…” Harry mumbles uncomfortably.

At this moment, Charlie appears in the doorway. He pauses for an instant, then raises an eyebrow at the scene.

“Are you not dressed yet?” he asks Harry in surprise. “There are gentlemen waiting–”

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 14

While Harry’s second heat does not last quite as long as the first one did, a few more days must pass before he feels strong enough to leave his bed. Charlie remains by his side throughout, drawing while Harry reads or sleeps. From the way he dutifully attends to Harry’s every need, constantly asking if he is hungry or thirsty or tired, it is evident that he still feels guilty at having left his little brother to such torment, regardless of how many times Harry has told him that it was probably for the best.

When Harry thinks back to those dreadful few days, he is filled with a combination of fury and shame. Perhaps worse than the memory of his suffering is the knowledge that, although he does not remember it, he seemingly called out for Mr Snape. Fanny said that the heat is meant to coerce him into mating, and he tries to console himself with these words. He suspects that this irrepressible, forceful longing does not discriminate between one Alpha and the other, and for this reason, he is nearly grateful that Charlie was absent. As he is so often reminded, he is not truly related to Charlie after all. If his reason can be so addled, if this strange instinct inside his chest, this part of him that does nothing but crave and crave, can resort to yearning for a despicable Alpha such as Mr Snape, Harry dares not imagine what could have happened if his brother’s scent had been nearby when he was in the throes of the heat. The oestrus has a mind of its own. If it can turn abhorrence into attraction, who knows what it can make of brotherly love.

Most of what occurs during the heats does not stay with him for long. He cannot recall much apart from the pain and some vague, feverish recollections of waking up and then sleeping again. He knows that he dreams, sometimes vividly, sometimes rather hazily, in wisps of thoughts and images, but all remembrance of what those dreams contain leave him swiftly as the fever fades. He is unsure whether these lapses in memory are caused by the fever itself or simply by the laudanum. Perhaps it is a combination of the two. But it is just as well that he cannot remember. Harry has no desire to know what feverish delusions might have resulted in him saying Mr Snape’s name.

At least he did not ask for Mr Malfoy. He does not think that he could live with such ghastly knowledge.

When Harry finally leaves his room for good, he finds that a thick blanket of snow has covered the world, thus putting an end to horseback ventures with his brother until spring. He is somewhat disappointed at having missed the last days of autumn, but as soon as he is well enough to leave the house, he heads outside with Charlie and the two of them engage in a great snow battle, to which even their father participates. Later in the afternoon, as the sun sets, they construct a great snowman in front of the house and dress him in a scruffy hat and scarf before retreating inside for some mulled wine.

Harry usually finds winter most inconvenient. As beautiful as snow can be at the beginning, it never takes long for him to miss the smell of the warm summer air, the loud humming of the cicadas, the wide, green expanse of his field. Unable to retreat to his habitual refuge under the shadow of the beechwood tree or to go on long walks by the river, Harry must spend most of winter confined to the house, forced to read every book he can find, often ones that he has already read countless times before. When he is truly unable to find entertainment, he sometimes sits at his desk and writes short little stories for his own amusement, or he plays with Hedwig, sprawled on the floor and throwing a ball of twine around for her to catch.

This year, of course, with Charlie present, there is no such lack of distraction.

On the first week of December, after a particularly heavy snowfall, Charlie spends at least an hour rummaging through the shed behind the barn until he finally unearths the old sleigh that Hagrid made for them years ago. It needs a little fixing, having been buried under some tools and refuse for nearly a decade, but as soon as it is good to use, it is attached to one of the draft horses’ harness. Once they are dressed thickly and warmly enough, Harry and Charlie settle on the sleigh, which is barely big enough to hold them both now that they are grown, and spend the afternoon being dragged around speedily through the snow, laughing and yelling and causing quite a raucous through the village, for which they are promptly scolded at supper. Their mother is not shy in expressing her disappointment at finding out that she has not, as she believed she had, raised respectable young men, but rather careless little ruffians.

As much as he loves the warmer weather, Harry is rather looking forward to the colder days, hoping that the river might freeze, because Charlie has also found their old ice skates hanging in the back of the shed. At present, however, the water still flows merrily, with no sign of stopping.

“It is so unfortunate that you were not here last winter. It was frozen for months,” Harry says regretfully one morning as they stare at the river, having taken advantage of the sunny day and the melting snow to walk alongside it.

“It is not cold enough yet. Perhaps in January.”

Harry shrugs. “It may not even harden enough for skating.”

“Do you remember that big pond in Hampstead, behind the marketplace?” Charlie muses, nudging Harry with his elbow to try and shake him out of his sombre mood. “It was always fit for skating. Do you remember? Grandfather would take us there when we visited in the winter.”

“I remember,” Harry says distractedly.

His mother never wanted him to go. She would insist that his brothers and cousins were too rough and that he would get hurt and that it would be better if he remained at the house with the girls. But Grandfather would not hear it. He had never once left Harry behind, even if it meant arguing ceaselessly with his daughter. It is true that the boys were terribly rough, however. Harry remembers how they darted around dangerously on their skates, crashing into one another at terrible speeds, and Grandfather was aware of the danger their carelessness posed for Harry, who was much smaller than they were. He would pretend that he was afraid to fall and hurt his old bones, and he would ask Harry to remain nearby and please not let go of his arm while they skated around the edges of the pond safely. Harry should perhaps have been upset at being subjected to this protective treatment while his brothers were free to play however they wanted, but he took a sort of pride at being kept close as the favourite. He still remembers how Grandfather’s steady hand would hold him up whenever he lost his balance or whenever the blade of his skate would catch into the ice and threaten to trip him. All of his brothers and cousins would get regularly hurt whenever they went out skating, but even if Harry had never been a good skater, he had never fallen once with Grandfather by his side.

“It must be nearly ten years since I last saw him,” Charlie adds disbelievingly. “Eight years, I believe.  Yes, since I joined the military. It will be good to see him again.”

Harry turns to his brother in confusion. “Again? Are you going to Hampstead?”

“Yes. All of us shall be visiting for Christmas,” Charlie reveals with a grin.

Harry grips his arm suddenly, a bit roughly perhaps, but Charlie only laughs. “What? When was this decided?”

“I told Father that I would need to leave for a few days next week,” Charlie says in a more serious tone. “I was going to perhaps find a room in Hatfield, but he suggested I go to Hampstead. I have done so in the past, after I came of age, if you recall.”

Harry nods, looking away in embarrassment. When they were younger, Bill and Charlie both would visit their grandfather whenever the time for their rut was near. Harry has always felt a certain guilt over this, especially now that he knows how much easier it is to be at home during such a trying time. But they would both rather leave The Burrow than have Harry being sent away, even for a few days. Besides, Grandfather Prewett is himself an Alpha, and he was always in the best position to provide a comfortable environment for them.

“And so, I wrote to Grandfather, and he was the one who suggested everyone should follow suit after me. I shall be leaving on Monday, and Mother, Father and you should join us the week after. Everyone will come for Christmas as well. Uncle Fabian and Aunt Mable, with Catherine and Caroline. And Ron and Ginny. And Percy, Fred and George will certainly come as well. I believe even Robert will come with his wife and the children. Are you happy?” Charlie asks, quite unnecessarily, because surely it is obvious from Harry’s wide eyes and grin that he is ecstatic. “We shall have a big family Christmas, just like when we were little.”

“I am happy,” Harry can only mumble, holding Charlie’s arm tightly still and pressing his cheek against his brother’s shoulder. “It will be just like before. As if nothing had changed.”

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 10.

He had not exactly forgotten about Mr Malfoy’s promise to write but with everything else happening at home, it had slipped to the back of his mind. Although the possibility of receiving a letter from the man is entirely the reason why Harry’s visits to Mr Ollivander’s shop have been so consistent – because it is much too early still to get a reply from Charlie – part of him had been dubious. Perhaps he had been expecting, though he had not exactly allowed himself to form the thought, that the Alpha would forget about him as soon as he arrived in London. Perhaps he had been fearing that what was happening to his sister could possibly happen to him as well, although he would never pretend that what he feels for Mr Malfoy is anything close to Ginny’s affections for Mr Longbottom, nor that Mr Malfoy could have the same sort of attachment to him. Thus, Harry finds himself incredibly flattered and relieved that the man has kept to his word. There is still hope in the world, it seems. There are still people who are true and kind, loyal to their promises and intentions.

He slips the letter addressed to his mother into his pocket, tucks the parcel safely under his arm, and walks swiftly down the road leading home. Instead of heading for The Burrow, however, he takes the path leading to the old mill and then cuts through the moors and the fields until he reaches his beloved tree. He could have gone home and opened the package in his bedroom, but there is the possibility that he would have been assaulted with questions upon entering the house, as everyone is constantly awaiting news from the post, and he wants to open this in private, somewhere quiet and away from prying eyes. He unfolds the letter first, hands shaking in anticipation.

London

11 September 1814

 Dear Mr Weasley,

I have been in London all of two days, and already I find myself longing to return to Hertfordshire and its quaint and peaceful surroundings. I attended last evening a tedious dinner party with other officers and found myself so profoundly disinterested that I could only think back fondly on the evening spent in your home. I have half a mind to travel back to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon if only to spend an hour in your lovely company. I would gladly discuss Shakespeare with you rather than be forced to listen to these pompous officers rambling on about military matters. Each day that passes only ascertains my conviction that the soldier life is no life for me. Alas, as you know, I find myself with no other alternative. A wise man must always make the best of his circumstances, as my father used to say, and I should not complain, but I often find myself dreaming of better days and the different life I could be leading if bad fortune had not befallen me. Forgive me for sharing these dark thoughts, but you have a kind heart, and I believe you can understand my sorrow. It eases my anguish to be able to write to you with honesty and no fear of judgement.  

I am comfortably settled in a lodging house on Russell Square, on the recommendation of a fellow lieutenant who is well acquainted with the keeper. My room has a pleasant view of the gardens and the promenade, where I am fond of taking long walks to pass the time. I wandered into the British Museum this morning, and thought of you when visiting the reading room, where it is possible to peruse any book or manuscript in the collection. On the upper floors are works of art of all sorts, as well as fossils and stuffed animals from distant lands. I am, however, particularly fond of the gallery, where one can contemplate all the antiquities and statues of Greek and Roman and Egyptian origin. I had a most pleasant morning, but I do hope you will not think it impudent of me to admit that it would have been much pleasanter spent in your company.

I have, however, had quite the misadventure on Saturday. Upon visiting the shops surrounding St. James’ Square, I came upon the unfortunate scene of the most vicious Alpha treating a young Omega in quite an unkind manner. Many passers-by were present to witness the scene, and yet none of them felt the need to intervene. As you know, it is not in my nature to leave the vulnerable and defenceless to their own means, and thus I approached and ordered the despicable Alpha to cease at once. I am afraid the man did not take to being reprimanded as well as that horrible McLaggen boy once did. I regret to inform you that we had quite the scuffle and that, as a result, I obtained a badly swollen eye as well as a broken nose. But I do not regret my intervention in the least, and the young Omega was very grateful. I have seen him home safely and been thanked profusely by his poor mother. It never ceases to anger me how some gentlemen take pleasure at preying on Omegas, for they are helpless and cannot properly defend themselves. I believe they are precious and rare and should be cherished and protected, but unfortunately very few men seem to share this opinion.

It was the memory of your own encounter with a rude Alpha, and of our first meeting, that urged me to purchase this present I have sent you. I hope you will not think me presumptuous for it, and if ever your parents are outraged and find me impertinent, please be so kind as to send them my humblest apologies. I mean nothing insolent by sending such a present, and my intentions are entirely inoffensive. I have often contemplated these in London shop windows and marvelled at their beauty, but never found a use for them myself, having no one to write to. I do hope you will appreciate them and use them copiously.

I await your reply already, for it would brighten any day.

Yours respectfully,

Lucius Malfoy

Harry carefully unwraps the parcel, revealing a beautiful case of smooth leather which he unclasps eagerly. Inside are three stunning quills, already cut and perfectly curved, and of such quality that Harry would never dare purchase for himself. The small card included informs him that the first is a pheasant feather, the second a raven one, and the third, which he could not identify – mostly black, but turning grey, and then white at the bottom – an eagle one. There is also a beautiful silver quill knife that shines in the sunlight and that makes Harry blush in embarrassment as he thinks of his old one at home, with its worn and chipped wooden handle and its ink-stained blade.

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 9: 

He sits by the window, staring out at the sunlit countryside, and he frowns. If only the sky were grim and cloudy today, he thinks, to better reflect his current mood.

His disappointment at not seeing Mr Malfoy yesterday is still raw, as if he had swallowed askew and something was stuck in his throat. He was so looking forward to finally dancing, to showing everyone that he could be desirable, that he was worthy of attention. And the thought of dancing with a man such as Mr Malfoy was nearly overwhelming. Harry should have known it was too good to be true. This sort of thing happens in books, not in reality, and certainly not to him. Reality is disappointing and has no regard for our wishes or hopes. It does what it wants. And yet, Harry’s wish was not so capricious, was it? Two dances with Mr Malfoy, that was not such a ridiculous demand. And he could have done with just one. Yes, one dance would have been enough. And yet, fate had decided to take Mr Malfoy away, and instead had presented him with Mr Snape.

Harry had been so angry and irritated that he had not given Mr Snape’s proposal much thought. He had been too upset at the sight of Hermione dancing with Cormac, and even more so at her insisting that there was absolutely nothing wrong with this. He had been too disappointed by Mr Malfoy’s absence – for which he blamed Mr Snape, as anyone would – to fully realise what was happening. And now that he is alone in his bedroom, far away from the crowded reception hall of Longbottom Manor, from the chatter and the laughter and all the officers who were not Mr Malfoy, Harry thinks back on it. Hours later, with a clearer mind and his anger diminished, he allows himself to recall the encounter with Mr Snape, and he feels shame.

But why should he be ashamed of having refused Mr Snape’s offer and then later, his apology? Why, after all Mr Snape has done – speaking so cruelly that first night, regarding him so rudely every time they met afterwards, causing his first heat – should Harry be the one to feel guilty? Any other Omega in his right mind would have refused the man, in Harry’s opinion. Though perhaps not… How could he know how another Omega would have reacted in such a situation? Perhaps another would have smiled softly and forgiven everything and allowed Mr Snape to take his dainty hand. The thought that Mr Snape had perhaps expected him to react in such a way is maddening. But then Harry remembers how the onlookers snorted and laughed quietly when he rebuked the Alpha, and he feels satisfaction. And then he remembers the softness of the man’s voice afterwards, the modesty in it when he admitted, to Harry’s greatest surprise, that he had deserved such a treatment. And then he feels the shame. It is truly incomprehensible.

The offer to dance was, the man had said, an apology for all previous offences I may have caused.

Harry has been repeating these words over and over in his head. He had long hoped to hear their like from Mr Snape. He had considered before that if the man would only apologise, if the Alpha admitted that he had acted wrongly and expressed his regret openly, as any gentleman should, that he could begin to forgive him. Yes, he had thought so, until he met Mr Malfoy and his suspicions concerning Mr Snape’s true nature were confirmed. Then Mr Malfoy had unveiled the extent of his old friend’s wickedness with such revelations as Harry could not have imagined possible. So why does he still feel shame and guilt at having treated the man so, at having refused him? Why should he question his treatment of Mr Snape when the man has treated his friends so vilely?