Emma Potter

67: Suspicious Surprises

I  didn't have a very clear idea of how we had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All I knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that I hardly noticed what I was doing, because my head was still pounding with the conversation we had just heard. 

Why had nobody ever told us? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge . . . why hadn't anyone ever mentioned the fact that our parents had died because their best friend had betrayed them?

Draco knew of course.

I stormed up to the astronomy tower for our latest talk. "Draco" I growled "here's a fun fact. My parents best friend betrayed them! Oh wait--you knew that! You knew that and didn't tell me!"

His face went even paler, he looked translucent in the moonlight. "How--How did you find out?" he whispered.

"It doesn't matter how!" I said, wiping my tears furiously away. Never show them your weak, ever "what matters is that you knew and never told me."

"I knew what you would do if you knew!"

"Oh?And what exactly was that?"

"Track him down! Kill him!" I froze. 

"But--" he ran a hand through his hair "--You'll be the one dying, Emma."

There was uncomfortable silence. "Do--" Draco hesitated "Do you have any photos of them?"

I did. I had it with me; the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given me two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of my mother and father. Harry had an identical one.

We sat down the ,moonlight acting as a lamp, and I started turning the pages,searching, until . . .I stopped on a picture of my parents' wedding day. There was my father waving up at me, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions, except his eyes; they were the exact shape and size as mine. There was my mother,alight with happiness, arm in arm with my dad. 

And there . . . that must be him. Their best man . . . I had never given him a thought before.If I hadn't known it was the same person, I would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph. His face wasn't sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him? Did he realize he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would make him unrecognizable?

 But the dementors don't affect him,I thought, staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn't have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close — I slammed the album shut, closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down. 

 "Emma?" said Draco's voice uncertainly.

"Let's go." I said softly "it's getting late."

A hatred such as I had never known before was coursing through me like poison. I could see Black laughing at me through the darkness, as though somebody had pasted the picture from the album over my eyes. I watched, as though somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville Longbottom) into a thousand pieces.He could hear (though having no idea what Black's voice mightsound like) a low, excited mutter. "It has happened, My Lord . . . the Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper. . . ." And then came another voice, laughing shrilly, the same laugh that I heard inside my head whenever the dementors drew near. . . . 

"Emma, you — you look terrible." 

I hadn't gotten to sleep until daybreak.I had awoken to find the dormitory deserted, Except for a notewhich said