The Three Descendents
The strange thing, Harry thought, was that he was actually relieved to be going back to work at Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. It was odd considering how terrified he'd been of starting at the beginning of the year. The truth was he was tired of the full-on stress of translating Sacrum Obitus. He was tired of being persecuted and hounded in the streets for his new post of Head of Slytherin, or avoiding reporters who wanted to know if he'd joined Crouch and his followers.
And he actually missed teaching, much to his surprise. He missed the challenge of keeping reluctant students engaged in his lessons. He missed the evenings he spent with little Alex and Daniel as they hid out in his rooms. And he missed Hogwarts itself, which had been what he really thought of as home since he'd been eleven years old.
The Christmas holidays hadn't exactly been sherry-soaked in festive spirit either. Christmas day had passed by with only an obligatory nod towards gift-giving and decorating which involved a spindly tree on which hung few gothic-looking baubles Kreacher had dug out from the depths of the attic, along some lurid green and silver tinsel which turned out to be infested with doxies. The chocolate snitches from Alex and Daniel had looked very out of place.
It had only been Draco and Harry in Grimmauld Place on Christmas morning, and Draco had been gobsmacked that Harry had given him a present (though it has only been a cheap thriller novel he'd spotted Draco eyeing up in a Daily Prophet advert and a box of shortbread). Draco, as a result, spent the rest of Christmas day in a sulk because Harry had not warned him he would be giving a gift, and as a result forced him to break the rules of pureblood Christmas etiquette or some other such nonsense – though Harry did notice that he took his new book with him when he stalked up to his room.
Right now, on the train back to Hogwarts, Harry felt his stomach buzzing with the same nervous anticipation he used to get after coming back from a summer spent with the Dursleys.
"Kindly stop bouncing," Dracos voice said, from underneath the Invisibility Cloak on the seat beside him. "You're making me even more travelsick."
Harry just laughed. The revelation that Draco got travelsick had been worth the resulting whining. "Sit next to Hermione if it bothers you."
"No. Because then I'll be going backwards, which is even worse, and I'll be in range of her pointy elbows."
"You have no right to accuse anyone of having pointy limbs of any kind."
"Shut up a moment, you two," Hermione said, and they did because the tone of her voice was rather alarming. She had been sitting quietly for most of the journey with Sacrum Obitus resting on her knees and their translation notebook balanced precariously on the arm of her seat.
She was now scribbling furiously, the page filling with her quick, cramped handwriting. After several long minutes in which Harry and Draco waited with bated breath, she sat back and put a trembling hand over her mouth.
"What is it?" Harry asked in alarm.
"Oh Harry. I'm sorry."
"What? What?"
"I've just found something awful about the ceremony."
Harry's heart dropped like a stone to lodge deep in his stomach. "Awful? Oh God, I don't have to kill anyone do I?"
"No. I meant awful for you."
"For Salazar's sake, Granger, spit it out!" Draco's voice was strangled, and Harry wondered how much of that was travel sickness and how much was the feeling of impending doom that had lodged in his own belly as well.
