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Chapter 1: Chapter One: Boy to Man
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
In time of peace, prepare for war.
-Publius Flavius Vegitus Renatus
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter One: Boy to Man
" That wand's more trouble than it's worth," said Harry. "And quite honestly," he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the fourposter bead lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."
Night soon fell on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter lie in his fourposter bed, staring up at the ceiling listlessly. He pensively stroked the handle of his newly-fixed wand, the familiar thrum of power vibrating through his finger tips. He considered casting a silencing charm around his bed, as Seamus' snores were no better than they were since first year, and he could hear Dean softly sobbing, head buried in his pillow. Dean's good friend, Lavender, died during battle that day.
Harry remembered the girl's bushy blonde hair and wide eyes, and resisted a snicker as he thought of their 6th year, and her strange attachment to his best friend. Turning on his side- the recently transfigured set of silk pajamas rubbing against his raw skin- he sighed, eyes fluttering shut. Who else had died for this war? Harry wondered.
Colin Creevey, Harry remembered, with his shock of golden hair and his insipid camera, the light flashing wildly during Harry's second year. He recalled training with the child in the Room of Requirement, watching Colin flip back through the room, Stupified, only to pop up with a wide grin on his face.
Crabbe- or was it Goyle?- fell from the pile of furniture years later, in that very same room. Into the burning inferno of Fiendfyre, Crabbe had descended, and Malfoy's pointed face grew stricken as he watched his faithful minion fall to his painful death. Were they ever really friends? Harry thought. And with Crabbe's father in jail, who will mourn the beefy lad? Malfoy? Goyle?
Did Draco Malfoy even make it? Harry recalled the moment Draco approached Voldemort in the outdoor quad, dirt and tears streaking down his cheeks as he joined his mother and father, shoulders trembling. A hundred pairs of eyes glared into the boy's back, and Harry couldn't help but feel pity for the poor mama's boy.
Narcissa. Harry felt a surge of something close to gratitude when he remembered her bold lie; 'Dead', she had told her lord, when she could have so easily given Harry away. While he was glad mother and son finally reunited, Harry felt absolutely nothing for the young Slytherin. Draco had been as big of a rival to Harry as Snape was to James Potter, there was no love loss between the two. The flaxen-haired boy had been so annoyingly inconsistent in his loyalties, and although Malfoy had tried to help Harry, in his manor, Harry still doubted the 'sneaky snake', in Ron's words.
Draco had showed the same, quiet courage as his mother had that day- but then, in the Room of Requirement, Harry had come this close to hexing the boy into oblivion.
Despite his irritation for the blonde, Harry saved Malfoy's bloody life, the ungrateful bastard. Behind closed lids, Harry rolled his eyes, exasperated with himself. Whether or not Draco was a git or not didn't matter anymore, although Harry wondered if Draco had always been that way, or had gotten worse with age. If Harry had shaken Draco's hand, on that day six years ago, what would have happened? Would Harry have fallen to Darkness, or would Harry have been able to pull Draco into the Light?
'If we die for them, I'm going to kill you!' Ron had yelled to Harry only twelve hours before, as they glided through the Room of Requirement on worn broomsticks. Harry suddenly remembered his years of Quidditch, tossing a Quaffle back and forth with Oliver Wood and the Weasleys, Fred and George coming to mind. You never saw one without the other, it seemed, thick as thieves they were.
He recalled the two boys' playful smiles and their shop full of pranks; Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
They drove Umbridge insane with their swamps, their toys, and their fireworks last year. Harry remembered the times that they had Apparated madly in and around Grimmauld Place, startling their already high-strung mother half to death. Sharing countless dinners with the Weasleys as their father bombarded Harry with questions about electricity, rubber ducks, cars was a very fond memory for Harry.
In his first year, the twins had teased Percy the Prefect mercilessly, and called Ron 'ickle'...but they were good brothers, and treated Harry with more respect that he deserved. In their own, odd way, they had protected Harry from the stares and accusations during the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry remember a day, the year prior to that, when they gave him the Map. Their wands had pressed into the worn parchment, simply stating 'I solemnly swear I am up to no good'. The ink would eventually reveal the truth of Peter Pettigrew's death. Peter did die, Harry grimaced, at Peter's own hand. Literally.
With a pang, Harry remembered Remus- Moony- and Tonks, and their tired corpses lying hand in hand in the Great Hall. Harry thought of their newborn son, Teddy Lupin. Harry's godson.
Tonks' really shouldn't have left the baby, who was now an orphan just as Harry was.
Harry always knew that for a Hufflepuff, Tonks was immensely courageous and reckless, especially towards those she loved. Her son would be just the same, if not better, with Remus's genes. If Teddy was anything like his parents, he would absolutely be alright.
Tonks' hair had morphed into a dull brown in death, her Metamorphmagus abilities dying away with her. Harry remembered in flashes, her yellow duck-bill disguise and bright pink hair, her clumsy feet and the strange outfits.
Harry saw Remus's white, puckered scars nearly blending in with his pale corpse, but Harry couldn't help but think of his old Professor's cheeks flushed with color, a child-like energy in his eyes as he patiently led Harry through the Patronus Charm. The scent of dark chocolate that seemed to waft off the werewolf had always made Harry feel safe.
Then came the memory of a wolf, howling in the distance; the full, silver moon glowing in the darkness. There was the cool, spine-chilling depression that came with the Dementors- the bright image of what he thought was his father, James Potter, and the glowing white stag that had saved him countless times from his mother's screams and the spiraling darkness.
Harry thought of the Forest of Dean; Snape's silver doe, the frozen lake, and the ruby hilt of Gryffindor's sword glinting at the bottom. Snape's obsidian eyes in the boat house, glimmering with his final tears. The Pensieve, with it's swirling memories revealing the truth of Snape's love for Lily, and the vow of protection Snape had granted for the son of his enemy and his first- and only- love. ' Always', he had said.
Greasy black hair, a billowing cloak, the cool chill of the dungeons, a vile of Veritaserum glinting in the Potion Master's potion-stained hands... 'Legilimens!' flashed in Harry's mind. At that very thought, he mustered the strength and his weak Occlumency skills to push it all away.
Push away all the guilt, and the pain.
Countless deaths; wizards, witches, Muggles. Young and old- old being Dumbledore, Harry thought with a light grimace- rich and poor, Dark and Light. 'There is no good and evil. Only power, and those to weak to seek it'.
Harry was crying. Salty tears he hadn't shed since Sirius's death- and, before that, Cedric's- slid down his cheeks silently.
He had almost cried when Ron left him earlier that year, and when Harry danced with the distraught Hermione in the dull lantern light of their tent. He tried to cry at Dumbledore's death, but was in such a deep shock that he physically wasn't able too. It was horrible.
Sadness, grief, anger; all these large, overwhelming emotions came to mind, words that didn't truly give justice to what Harry was feeling. In the last six years of his life, Harry had felt fear, sadness, a painful happiness, and blinding courage. Anger had overcome him in the later years, up until he began Horcrux-hunting.
By that time, he had learned to control the emotion. He had used all those unwanted feelings to push him towards the end goal; finding the Horcruxes, ending the war, and killing Voldemort for the last time. Harry had wanted to break down for so long, to expel the emotions if only to feel free again- he had thought he'd cry for years, decades... but the tears tapered away after only an hour, although it felt like an eternity and only a second, all at once.
Holy shit. Harry had survived a war, he was still alive, after countless brushes with Death. He was free from Voldemort, free from the pressure of the prophecy- it was fulfilled, wasn't it? A slight relief blossomed in his stomach, although a feeling of uneasiness grew as well. A feeling of...uselessness.
'Enough trouble for a lifetime.' Or was it, really?
His bright emerald eyes popped open seconds later, shining something fierce.
The battle was won, but Harry wasn't done just yet.
Harry had to become an Auror, and get the last of Voldemort's followers. He had portraits to order of his family and his friends, all those who died for him. He had to plan for his life, and help to rebuild the Wizarding world- he had the sudden urge to do something. The guilt, anger and raw wild power from six years of hell bottled up inside him, and he didn't ever think it would leave. He needed to do somethingwith it, didn't he?
This drove him to his feet, mindlessly sliding on a pair of worn shoes and creeping out of the dormitory. His invisibility cloak was draped over his shoulders, the Marauder's Map in his pocket, and his Holly wand in hand.
He considered consulting his friends. Ron was with his family, though, preparing for Fred's funeral, and Hermione was making plans with Professor McGonagall for the next school year, last Harry checked. They were most likely still awake, but he felt that this was something he had to do himself.
He crept slowly. It was past midnight, but he knew that few would sleep soundly tonight.
War ruined you, Harry brooded. War broke your heart, and broadened your mind. War made you do things you couldn't imagine; commit murders, witness Death, and fight battles that you'd rather not fight. War ingrained a deep paranoia, it shrunk your stomach, and forced you to become a blooming insomniac, despite the way your eyes begged to droop and your body yearned for a few hours of peace.
Your brain never shut up, thoughts and emotions coming unbidden in the darkness of night. You imagined shapes in the shadows, voices in the wind, a hand brushing against your shoulder, even when no one was there. Your own reflection startles you- this Harry learned earlier that evening when he had taken the time to have his first real shower. You stared into the face of a corpse, red-rimmed eyes, shoulders slumped, blood stained on your brow.
Scars had wracked Harry's body, a lightning bolt on his temple, 'I must not tell lies', etched into his hand, and dozens of unhealed scrapes and gashes all across his torso and limbs. The memories of all those battles were forever burned behind his eyes.
Some chose to cut off all empathy when the going got tough. Those people let war control them. They let the Darkness overtake them, and they went with the crowd rather than fight for their own cause, for their own sake. Others kept their heart, and still held tight to the smallest bits of hope, as fruitless as they were. Harry was still a Gryffindor, brave to the core- but war had made him sneaky, a quiet secret keeper. War had made him wise and yearning; even the smallest bit of information from the outside world- whether factual or biased- had meant the world to a man on the run. He had to work hard, harder than he had in his entire life, working with both Light and Dark.
War made him more than just the 'Golden Boy', the Light side's poster-boy.
He had become a warrior. A renegade. A hero...and, finally, a victor.
War changed the Boy-Who-Lived.
It made Harry Potter, the Chosen One, into a man.
And, as of midnight on May 2nd, disguised and determined, sneaking through the tarnished, battle-worn corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...Harry Potter was a man on a mission.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two: Useless Life
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
A useless life is an early death.
-Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Two: Useless Life
Two Months Later:
June 22nd, 1998
Harry's determination quickly deteriorated from that first night, although not without conflict.
He was currently sitting stiffly in a cushioned chair, a pile of books at his side, and a warm mug of butterbeer cradled in his hands. It wasn't fire whiskey, by any means, but Harry wanted to be somewhat coherent in his research. He didn't enjoy the sensation of being out of control- he'd had enough of that for a lifetime, thanks.
The Room of Requirement seemed to welcome the boy with open arms. The room had been vacated earlier that week- with the war over, most refugees had hunkered down with their remaining loved ones in Hogsmeade, wanting to get away from the crumbling castle, or had left to find what was left of their homes.
School had not resumed, obviously.
With time the castle would be repaired, and by next September students would be ready to return. Hermione had left the castle five days earlier to find her parents in Australia, while Ron had returned with his family to the ruined Burrow to salvage what they could and begin rebuilding.
Both friends had promised to return by the end of the month, in the meantime leaving Harry alone at the castle. Somedays he seemed to be the only occupant, occasionally the halls were scattered with former teachers and Ministry workers who were repairing the damage from the war.
Harry had received dozens of offers for a place to stay- the Weasleys, for one, as well as Neville and his grandmother, the Finnigan and Thomas families, even the Patils and Bones. Harry had politely refused each offer; Hogwarts was his home, and Hogwarts was where he would stay until he was healed.
Madam Pomphrey had him on an extended stay in the spell-scorched infirmary, tending to the young man on the days he could barely rise to his feet without collapsing to the ground. Some days- the worst ones- Harry would become nearly catatonic when he awoke, staring at the ceiling, his insomnia keeping him pale and exhausted for the next few days.
This, Madam Pomphrey had determined, was the result of shock and magical-core depletion, and perhaps a bit of post-traumatic stress. While Harry's friends worried about him, no one had made a big fuss in the first few weeks of his purposeful isolation. It had been two months though, and Harry was being pressured to rejoin civilization. But as Harry hid away in the giant academy, he realized that he was scared- scared of seeing the damage outside of Hogwarts, attending all the funerals, seeing the Daily Prophet with it's obituaries and the list of missing persons.
He felt safer at the school, although he felt an uneasy restlessness in his core. On good days, Harry was allowed free reign of the school; wandering around like he used too, helping where he could, and staying out of the way as old Professors, philanthropists and Ministry personnel bustled around the building, faces somber and voices low out of respect for the healing academy.
He would wander in and out of the Forbidden Forest, moving without thinking. At midday, he would sit cross-legged in an open patch of land, picking at the emerald-green blades of grass peaking out of the soil. Harry would stare up at the cloudy sky, and his vision would blur white, the soft whistling of an express train in his ears. Harry constantly thought about his time with Death.
Did Harry regret his decision, choosing to live and fight on Earth, over the eternal peace so graciously offered by his old mentor? Of course not. Harry was thrilled- utterly relieved that the bloody prophesy had been fulfilled, Voldemort's final death bringing about the end of the war. But the sudden, sullen peace left Harry feeling...meaningless. Useless. Weak.
Harry had vehemently despised that prophecy with every fiber of his being; if not for Professor Trelawny's prophecy, Harry's parents would still be alive. His life wouldn't have been so hectic, Harry hoped, but he also knew that with the prophecy came the destruction of Voldemort. Without the prophecy, the world would have fallen to ruin. Did Harry want that, if it meant his life had been normal? That...was a loaded question.
After that thought, Harry soon realized that something was seriously wrong with him. The war was over, he had survived with his friends and he had his whole life ahead of him. But his life just felt...empty. Harry was born for the express purpose of fulfilling the prophecy. Harry was born to fight Voldemort- born to serve the Light side and save the world. Now that the war was over...what else was there for the Boy-Who-Lived? What else did he have to live for?
He had debated taking Auror training, but Madam Pomphrey had vehemently convinced him otherwise. He was too young, and had seen to much. Did he want a career of fighting and killing, the exact thing he had been doing since he was eleven? Fighting was his birthright, after all, but there were a hundred others that could do the job- Harry would be easily replaceable. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
Harry had tried to make a use for himself in his time at Hogwarts.
Harry spent the first month after the Final Battle ordering portraits of those who died for the cause.
Over fifty portraits were made and put into the hall-of-heroes -formerly the Trophy room. All the awards and gleaming medallions had been melted into sludge due to a strong 'Incindio' from the other side. While Harry missed the memory of his father's Quidditch days- the Chaser trophy and badge of honor, he felt as if the room would be better served as a memorium, and a shrine. Harry made a point of visiting each hung painting personally, thanking each occupants for their service.
Harry had trouble approaching the Lupins' portrait, and Fred's.
In his painting, Fred had been wearing an easy smile, and that silly Irish Quidditch hat teetering his burnt orange mop of hair. His face was painted with white and green stripes, the Ireland team's colors.
Harry teased the boy about the paint resembling Slytherin colors, and Fred joked that Harry would have made a better Slytherin then him. Harry grew quiet, reminded of his Sorting, which seemed so long ago. He had never told anyone of the Sorting hats' words.
'"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that."'
Harry had shamefully bid a farewell to Fred, the twin's light orange eyebrows furrowing together in confusion as he watched his young friend walk away, shoulders hunched."Was it something I said?" Fred had murmured, too low for Harry to hear.
Tonks and Remus had shared a beautiful portrait on the far wall, next to a picture of old Professor Kettleburn and his middle-aged daughter, both of which had been killed by Acromatulas.
Sketched into a gorgeous image of Tonks' birth home, the couple were rocking back and forth in a pair of dark wooden chairs, cheeks flushed with life and eyes bright with mirth. Tonks held a sleeping child in her arms, it's face shrouded by a soft-looking cotton blanket.
The full moon glowed in the background, the night clear and the stars bright. Remus was wearing a carefree smile, looking down on his little family with more joy in his eyes than Harry had seen in a long while. Remus' scars were faded in the portrait, leaving nothing but the tiniest of lines on his cheekbones. Despite the full moon depicted, Remus remained utterly human. Harry had wondered if this was purposeful- or perhaps an accident on the artist's part- but Harry was glad for it, as did Remus.
Harry couldn't find it in himself to speak more than a few words to the young couple, who had wondered after their infant son, Teddy. Harry showed them a still image of baby Teddy, his soft tufts of light green hair sticking up, and his amber eyes bright. Tonks had seemed thrilled with the child's hair choice, and made it known by laughing her strange laugh.
Mr. Tonks had owled Harry the picture a few days before, and Harry regretted having not yet met his young godson.
The boy awkwardly evaded all questionings on his own well-being, despite the couple's concerned looks. Familiar with the gazes, Harry felt that the portrait hadn't quite brought them to justice, a fact he was glad for. When the baby in Tonks' arms begin to stretch it's small, pale arms, Harry had slipped away shyly, not trusting himself to retain his composure much longer.
On this day, a dreary Friday in June, Harry was in the company of none but his lonesome self. A large tome lay on his lap, Charms for the Spy in You. It was a ridiculous work of non-fiction, surprisingly enough. It had been found on the large bookshelf when he had wandered into the Come-And-Go Room, and chosen for it's interesting cover; a crystal spyglass held in front of a glowing yellow eye, gleaming mischievously.
Harry had been thinking about Professor Snape when he had stalked across the Seventh Floor landing thrice, unconsciously summoning a replica of the Occlumency room they had used in fifth year. It was significantly brighter and less gloomy, although the room was still windowless and the lanterns flickered menacing, except for the fact they were a bright pink.
The bookshelves had been filled with tomes on potions- (including Hermione's favorite; 'Moste Potente Potions'), a few on basic Occlumency- (which would have come in handy a few years ago) and both fictional and non-fictional novels on espionage. Harry wondered if Snape had ever read any of the 'Granus White and the Espionage Brothers', a series ofchildren stories meant for young children. Thinking of a young Snape had sent Harry into a spiral of memories from Snape's Pensieve; he saw Snape as a young boy with Lily Evans under a looming willow tree, their hands grazing each other fondly. The vision was quickly replaced by the image of Snape being bullied mercilessly by James Potter. 'Levicorpus! Scorgify!', and a greasy-haired boy was lifted into the air, heel first, and his mouth had been filed with a bitter foam as a punishment for-regretfully- calling the lovely Lily a 'Mudblood'.
Harry had quickly replaced the children's book, stomach rolling, and randomly chosen the wide Charms tome, intrigued. He was currently reading a chapter on lie-detecting spells, most unheard of by Harry until that day. Many of the spells had reminded Harry of Gilderoy Lockhart's 'Peskipiksi Pesternomi'- as in they seemed hilariously unbelievable. A little wary, Harry attempted a charm called 'Bitterbells.'
Harry set down his butterbeer and grasped his wand, first practicing the wand movement indicated. It seemed like an awful lot of swooping arm movements and sporadic flicks, but, he digressed. "Tintinnabulis Resono" he incanted slowly, waiting for the charm to enact with perhaps a loud bang, or an incessant ringing as the charm title, 'Bitterbells' had brought to mind.
But there was nothing.
Sighing, he shut the tome softly and slid it off his lap, rubbing his eyes restlessly. It was nearly time for dinner, in the part-way fixed Great Hall. He usually didn't attend the communal meals, either going without, or spending his time in the kitchens, eating whatever scraps the remaining house elves scrounged up.
But Friday evenings were when Ron came to visit from the Burrow, sometimes along with his siblings or a parent, but most often not. Harry wanted to get in a shower before Ron came, to at least try and make himself presentable. While Ron worried far less than Hermione, the boy wasn't as ignorant as he used to be. Harry usually brushed off Ron's concerns, but that didn't stop his best-friend from sparing him concerned glances and talking behind Harry's back.
Rising to his feet, Harry frowned at the dull numbness in his legs. Madam Pomphrey said there would some mild side-effects from the bottles upon bottles of potions he took every morning; Pepper-Up potion, Stomach-soothers, Headache medicine, Concussion relievers, potions for aching bones. Too many contradicting ingredients, too many different relievers- Harry should have expected this.
Sluggishly making his way out of the Room of Requirement, he shut the door behind him and watched wistfully as it faded away to a blank wall, done for the evening. He dragged his feet away from the Seventh Floor Corridor, and down the small set of staircases leading to a portrait of Circe, who silently offered a mysterious potion in her famous golden goblet.
Circe seductively eyed Harry, and commented on his posture and ruffled hair, reminding Harry more of a nagging girlfriend than a powerful sorceress. "Aeaea," Harry intoned dully, as it was Circe's favorite password. The woman's eyes lit up as the painting swung open, and she blew Harry a parting kiss before closing firmly behind him, the canvas hitting his bum and jolting him forward down the passage. He rolled his eyes, unamused, and hugged his robes close; the corridor was quite drafty at this time of day. Harry's dark robes painfully reminded him of funeral wear, which was fitting, but he nothing else to wear even if he wanted. All he had left were the robes emblazed with the Gryffindor badge, but Harry hadn't been feeling very Gryffindor-ish lately. He wouldn't kid himself by acting like it.
Harry exited on the other side of the passage, suddenly appearing a floor below Gryffindor dorms. He approached the moving stairs slowly, legs feeling like lead weights beneath him. He'd need to see Madam Pomphrey about them, later.
Reaching the empty space where the Fat-Lady's portrait had once been, Harry blinked rapidly as he stepped through the hole in the wall. The minimal warding had tickled his spine and cooled his skin comfortingly as it recognized his magical presence. No password was needed, although the wards would shove anyone unwanted backwards and down the stair. Harry remembered an instance of this fondly, when a few weeks ago, a ministry official- one of Lucius Malfoy's old lackeys- had tried to enter Harry's haven unbidden and had his toupee knocked right off him. The man had fled the building quite swiftly, simply leaving a message with Headmistress McGonagall to have Harry owl the man when he was ready to talk about 'career opportunities'.
(If the man had had any respect for Harry, he would've known that Harry hadn't owled a single person since Hedwig died. This was not only the truth, but an excellent excuse Harry used to avoid replying to all the unwanted piles of fan-mail and thank-yous. With the wards down on Hogwarts, there had been owls upon owls diving down in the Great Hall every morning- just as they used too- most of their letters addressed to 'The Chosen One' or 'Our Hero')
Finding himself in the familiar dormitory bathroom, Harry stripped and ignored his reflection in the mirror, already knowing that he looked like the walking dead. Blindly, he slid under the hot water, and a dark red flush bloomed over his shoulders, his pale skin scalded. He pushed his black hair back, and it stuck to his neck, a collection of grime and dirt rolling off his body. His dark hair had gotten long, almost as long as it was in fourth year (shudder). It hadn't been cut for months, since Hermione had graciously shaved the back of his neck, her soft hands gently brushing against his neck. Ron had looked on darkly, Harry remembered, his best friend fingering the thrumming Horcrux locket atop his unlaundered shirt.
Harry pushed the thoughts away, remembering the basic Occlumency tomes he had skimmed earlier that morning. He pictured gliding along on a broomstick, chasing an evasive golden ball- and he flew far away from those unbidden thoughts, spiraling through the air, heavy rain blurring his vision and battering his shoulders. Harry was no natural at Occlumency, but it seemed that the independent study had done him some good, after all, compared to Snape's botched lessons. Harry managed to make it all through his forty-five minute shower and a good while after that without any unwanted emotions and fears rising in his chest, leaving him blissfully hollow.
He felt strangely peaceful and not so restless- he felt better than he had in months. Years, even.
He felt peaceful, that was, until his best friend made his appearance, and everything slowly went to bloody hell in a handbasket.
Chapter 3: Chapter Three: Bitterbells
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Three things can not be long hidden:
the sun, the moon, and the truth.
-Buddha
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Three : Bitterbells
Harry sat patiently in the Headmistress's office, trying to ignore the softly shuddering trinkets and toys lined perfectly on the bookshelf; a small shrine made by Headmistress McGonagall for Professor Dumbledore.
Seeing the golden perch shoved into a corner, Harry had to close his eyes in order to rid the image of Fawkes and her scarlet flames erupting behind his eyelids. Fawkes was long gone, she had flown away long ago, into that brave night. Most of Dumbledore's old toys had been stored away- rumored to have been placed in the Room of Requirement. Dumbledore's faithful bowl of lemon drops no longer sat on the sleek brown desk, either, but if Harry concentrated enough, he could remember the sharp tang of lemon in the air, and the musty but sweet scent of smoke from Fawkes' pile of ashes.
But this was McGonagall's office now. As much as the woman had loved Albus Dumbledore, she had no tolerance for his mad mess of equipment and the insipid clutter of noisy artifacts. She had kept a few, placing them on the newly organized shelves- but it didn't have the same affect as before. And McGonagall's pet parakeet, Arcadia, was certainly no replacement for the faithful Phoenix. The bird sat perched on her own silver rod, blinking innocently out the large window, watching Hagrid and Fang wander the grounds.
The large, rotund office was nearly devoid of decoration, save the faithful portraits of old Headmasters and a few of McGonagall's papers. Snape and Dumbledore were included in the paintings- but most mysteriously, Snape had been missing from his painting for a long while, having only appeared once in the two short months. Harry had long given up trying to coax the old Potions Master out from behind his emerald-green curtains, wanting to ask the man about his mother. Snape was infuriatingly stubborn for a Slytherin, but Harry didn't blame the man.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, was watching Harry pensively, the same old twinkle in his cool blue eyes. Well, less of a twinkle, and more of a glare, to be honest. Harry hadn't spoken to the man in a long while, since the first day in May.
Dumbledore knew that something had changed in his young student- Dumbledore couldn't recall the last time Harry had looked so obsolete; lifeless, withered, befallen. Dumbledore had first hand experience with Harry's fiery temper and the boy's stubborn silence, strong emotions he'd begun to expect from the boy- but this was something different all together. The boy's chapped lips were open if only to let out the tiniest puffs of breath as he Occluded, and his eyelids fluttered open and closed lightly, as if he was in a sort of trance.
The boy's eyes, when opened, were the most shocking difference. Once a bright green- the same exact color of Lily Potter's eyes- Harry's eyes were dark and haunted, his expression weary and his disposition hunched, as if the boy had a heavy weight on his shoulders.
War had an affect on everyone, Dumbledore knew...but if there was one thing a Gryffindor was known for, it was bouncing back from a conflict, eyes fierce and their shoulders set in determination. No, this was not the brave, selfless Harry Potter that Dumbledore had grown to love as a son. This wasn't Harry at all.
Why wasn't Harry with his friends, celebrating their survival? Where were the other two-thirds of the famous, inseparable Golden Trio? Harry was isolating himself, in a way oh-so familiar to Albus. He had seen it so many time before. Harry...well, excuse Dumbledore for thinking this, but Harry was looking an awful lot like Severus Snape. With mirroring childhoods, and the same spirit, Albus had noticed their similarities very early on in Harry's stay at Hogwarts. Albus had used all his meddling old man power to sooth the tension between the two men, but his efforts were moot.
Severus had dug a hole for himself after the First War, and and buried himself in a heap of self-loathing, depression and bitterness, and Albus could see the same thing occurring with young Harry. While Albus knew that both men had strong spirits, he felt the same dread in the pit of his stomach he had the day Severus came to him, the day after Lily's murder and made a vow to protect Harry Potter.
But what they seemed to forget was this; who would protect Harry from himself? On the path Harry was on, he was going to end up carving his gravestone. And Albus' painted heart broke at the very thought.
Shaking his head, Albus turned away from his young friend and disappeared into the small picture of himself in the Hog's Head. Albus couldn't stand watching Harry in such a way. He couldn't stand looking at what he had made of the once wonderfully light Golden Boy.
With a woosh of the burning fireplace, Ronald Weasley tumbled into the office, soot sprinkling his recently cut orange hair. Arcadia the parakeet squawked and flapped her multi-colored wings in alarm. Ron took a second to glare at the bird and muttered under his breath bitterly, before turning to his ebony-haired friend. He blinked at the sight of Harry, sitting straight-back on the couch, staring at the ginger quote passively. Ron frowned.
"Harry, mate!" Ron exclaimed, and Harry snapped out of his reverie, lips quirking up in a somewhat forced smile. "Hey, Ron. How've you been?" Harry asked, moving over to help his friend out of the fire place, wiping the ash from his dark burgundy robes- the fabric was thread bare and faded, as usual. "Fine, just fine, Mum and Dad are good, so's Ginny," he responded, mechanically predicting Harry's next questions. A soft pink flush spread over Harry's cheeks at mention of Ginny, and Ron smirked knowingly. "She misses you tons, mate. She wants to come and visit soon, she won't stop bugging me about it," Harry blinked suddenly, thinking he heard a strange noise tinning in his ears, "-but Mum has hardly Gin out of her sight. With Fred gone, Mum's been awfully…clingy." Ron trailed off, averting his eyes.
Harry pursed his lips, and patted Ron's back awkwardly as they headed down the spiral staircase and into the Gargoyle corridor. "Sorry, mate." Harry said gently, and politely changed the subject "Hey, did your Dad tell you about the hall of heroes?" Ron nodded quickly, eyes lighting. "Thank Merlin that trophy room was destroyed. I've hated that place since second year, remember when I got that detention, and Filch made me clean the whole place- without magic?"
Harry laughed. "You kept slugging up over the place, and cleaned Tom Riddle's 'service to the school' medal over a dozen times. You complained about it for a week after." Sliding smoothly into their old banter, the two men forced themselves to speak of everything and nothing, ignoring the strange awkwardness that had hung in the air between them.
Every so often one of the two (usually Harry) would fall into a sudden silence, and resorted to just listening. Ron told Harry about the new renovations to the Burrow. The Weasleys had knocked down the wall in Percy's room and made it into an office for Arthur, so he could work more at home. Mr. Weasley had been promoted with Kingsley as Minister, and was now in charge of the Muggle-Born Relations office. The pay was excellent, and he was still able to study Muggles to his heart's desire, and work with Muggle-born representatives to help destroy the lingering war-time oppression. Corpses of muggle borns had been popping up all over the world, uncaught supporters of Voldemort trying to reinforce the Dark Lord's morals. It had been released to the press that Voldemort - formerly Tom Riddle- had been the son of a blood-traitor and Tom Senior, a bewitched Muggle. Although Ron didn't go into many details, Harry could easily guess the chaos that had ensued with that revelation.
Ron was very worried about Hermione, with her being muggle born. They had only corresponded twice since she took off, using Ron's pygmy owl Pigwidgeon, and Hermione's new Barn owl. Harry had thoughtfully gifted his friend the large, beige speckled owl, just before she left for Australia. The bird- a sweet young thing named Clematis- was meant to fly with Hermione to Australia, and lead the young witch to her Obliviated parents. For safety purposes, Hermione was travelling the Muggle way via an international airway, while Clematis was to meant to meet it's mistress in Sydney.
Ron was exceptionally nervous about the 'air-o-plaine', wondering how easy it would be for a Death Eater to bombard it, or bypass it's controls and send the huling machine into the ocean. Harry rolled his eyes at this, and had assured his friend fervently that Hermione would be just fine, especially considering the fact that the well-acclaimed Auror, Hestia Jones, would be accompanying her half the way there.
As the two friends sat down for dinner- consisting of pumpkin juice, briskets and pie- Professor Flitwick had joined them cordially, having returned from his summer home in Bristol to work on renovating the school wards. With crumbs in his mustache, and a light blush on his cheeks, he told his students about a young half-Veela in the ministry, who had kindly agreed to work with him on the bewitchments.
"Ingrid Clovis is an expert on old wards, her research going back to the Founder's times. She even resembles Rowena Ravenclaw a bit, and is a genius with the Unplottable Charm-" Flitwick gushed. Ron and Harry had snickered over their old professor's obvious attraction to the half-Veela, before Flitwick had grown quite red in the face and their laughing and excused himself hurriedly, nearly knocking over his glass of scotch.
Ron watched without comment as Harry picked at his food, seeming to push it around more often than actually eat it. Despite Harry's best efforts to convince Ron he was healing just fine, Ron remained unconvinced. Anyone could see by looking at the green-eyed boy that he hadn't slept in days, and probably hadn't eaten a good meal for a while, either. Ron hadn't missed the way Harry's eyes would flash at the mention of something...touchy, before his face would close off and his gaze would darken. Ron felt as if he was staring at a statue, cold and unfeeling- which was so unlike his Harry, it was startling.
Harry walked sluggishly, as if he couldn't stand to stay on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time, and seemed to loose his breath easier just by horsing around. Ron felt timid around his best friend. And as much as he loathed to admit it, he couldn't look at Harry without feeling a strange rush of something dark and foreboding. The memories of the war were still fresh in Ron's mind, and Harry's depression was wildly contagious.
Swallowing his last bite, Ron finally spoke up, breaking the still silence as Harry's mind had roamed elsewhere, eyes glazed and fists clenched tightly underneath the table as if he was fighting off pain. Harry was remembering something, Ron knew, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what.
"Look, mate." Ron started softly, waiting for his friend's gaze to return. "I know you'll hate me for saying this...but you really need to get out of the castle. This withdrawal isn't good for you. You've got to get out of here sometime, right? Rejoin civilization?" Harry fought a grimace as Ron spoke.
He knew it would come back to the subject of his residence. It always did.
"I...I'm still healing, Ron, you know that. I want to leave, I do, I miss you guys so much; but now is just not-"
"The right time, I know." Ron snapped, slapping his hand to the table. "You said that last week, and the week before. You can't just keep putting this off. I promised myself I'd stop bugging you about it, but this has gotten out of hand. It's been months, Harry. The ministry keeps bothering us, wondering why you haven't returned; they want interviews, they want assurance that the Boy-Who-Lived survived. Your their hero, Harry, the defeater of You-Know-Who; you can't just leave them worrying like this. You can't keep me and Hermione worrying like this.
Oh, and did I forget to mention that Rita Skeeter's at it again, saying that you were hurt badly in the battle, or that you had a sort of breakdown, and are in an extended stay at Saint Mungos for 'mental therapy'. You would know this, of course, if you bothered to look at some damn mail for once. But...if you do need therapy, Harry, I really think that you should just ask for it rather than sulking about in here. You're always welcome to stay with us, you know, Mum would love to have you. You'd get home cooked meals everyday, play Quidditch with Ginny and I. It'll be just like old times. I'm getting a job with George, and I'm sure he could give you a job if you asked. Or- no, you don't even need to work! You have a fortune in Gringotts, you could just buy an apartment or something, or stay at Grimmauld Place. I don't understand why you are acting this way- so…so…cowardly. Voldemort is gone, Harry, what else is there to be afraid of?"
Ron was rambling, his voice growing desperate. Harry's shoulders were tense, and he stared down at his plate, something bubbling behind his chest. Was it fear? Was it anger? He tried to keep his temper down, but found it hard with Ron attacking him like this. For some reason, too, whenever Ron brought up his family missing Harry, he would hear the strange ringing in his ears, like a chime going off in his head. It was just too much.
Harry stood suddenly, seething, and slapped his hands over his ears. "Stop it! Just stop!" he shouted, an angry, desperate heat rolling off of him. Ron pulled away, slamming his mouth shut. His eyes were wide with unbidden fear at Harry's outburst.
"I know all this, Ron, you don't need to remind me of the money and the houses, you don't need to tell me that I'd be welcome to live with you. I know.
But I've chosen to leave it be for now, Ron, because I'm just not ready, don't you get that? I died, Ron, I fought a war. In the Muggle world, war veterans take years to heal and adapt- I've just been lying low for a couple months for my health, is that so bad?
And for the Ministry! They've bounced back and forth between me being the 'Chosen One' and devil spawn, what makes you think I'd want to cohort with them any time soon. Even with Kingsley in charge, there are still those who have tried their damnest to use my fame, and manipulate it. I've never like the celebrity status- you know that- and being thought of as 'their hero' practically makes me vomit. They just won't leave me alone! I get piles of fan mail every morning- not to mention the few cards with hexes on them, coming from all over the world, cursing me for killing their master. The war hasn't ended, Ron, not truly. Even with Voldemort gone, I'm still in danger where ever I go- so sue me if I want to stay in the one place I feel safe." Harry collapsed back into the seat, fingers pulling on his long bangs.
"I deserve the right to solitude, don't I?" he asked quietly. "I deserve peace! But I can never get it, not even now. I'm broken, Ron, something in me has died and I can never get it back, I need the time to work and heal. I...I appreciate you trying to help, but it feels like you are smothering me, and I just can't stand it anymore."
Harry trailed off, hands over his haunted-looking eyes. He didn't notice when Ron moved, until the tall ginger was suddenly sitting next to him and wrapping an arm awkwardly around Harry's shoulders. Ron spoke softly, apologizing to him, and promising to give Harry the time to heal. The ringing in Harry's ears lifted a tempo, almost like a warning. Harry was too drained to wonder for it, softly murmuring 'I'm sorry' into his clammy hands, feeling guilty for his outburst. The two boys sat like that for a while- each lost in their own thoughts- until the Great Hall grew dark as night fell. Ron led Harry back to the dorm room, his dark-haired friend struggling to stand, and staring lifelessly at his feet.
Too tired to floo back to the Burrow, Ron climbed into his old dorm bed, pulling the frayed covers over his lean body. Mind reeling, he waited until Harry's breath had slowed to a steady pulse before he slid out once more and grabbed the Deluminator from his robes pocket. He gripped the cold metal tight in his palm, and flicked the switch, breath bated. The small nightlight by Harry's bedside flickered away, as did the soft light coming from the common room. Ron slipped away, wand in hand, to the hall-of-heroes, unaware of the curious green eyes that followed his every movement.
Harry had been feigning sleep when the lights went out. The incessant ringing had ceased in his head, the sudden silence of the dorm unnerving. He could feel Ron's eyes on his turned back, and slowed his breathing, if only to give the ginger a small peace of mind. Harry kept replaying the night over and over in his head. How had something that started so well, ended so horribly?
Ron was just worried for him. The redhead had been very adamant that Harry get out of the castle, even offering his home- but somehow, Harry wondered if that was really what the boy wanted. Harry's eyes furrowed as he remembered the strange bouts of tinnitus, the ringing in his ears. Harry had been peculiarly paranoid toward any unbidden noise in his head, ever since the strange whispering in second year. Harry had watched his friend closely during their meal, to see if Ron could hear it too- but it was just Harry. It was a shaking noise, as if someone in Harry's head had been clanging a bell back and forth in his head.
And that's when it hit him. Bells. As in...the 'Bitterbells'? He flashed back to the book of charms, Charms for the Spy in You. The description of 'Bitterbells' had been vague at best, claiming the charm would detected lies and half-truths, and cause an incessant ringing, heard only by the caster. The bells had only went off when Ron spoke of his family, and when he had apologized to Harry earlier, Harry remembered.
Harry was wary, trusting the unknown charm over his best friend. But Ron had been acting strangely for the last few months, especially around Harry. Ron had never given Harry any reason to be suspicious, at least, not until the moment the young ginger cut the lights and crept out of the room, peaking Harry's interest. Where was he off too, now?
Harry waited a few beats before shakily rising out of the bed and blindly searching for his invisibility cloak and the Marauders Map under his mattress. Pressing his wand into the worn parchment, Harry voiced the incantation. "I solemnly swear that I up to no good."
Harry found Ron in the hall of heroes, shifting restlessly in front of Fred's portrait. Fred was wringing his Ireland hat between his hands, and was speaking to his young brother very intently. Harry slipped into the room silently, tucking the Map under his armpit. "...Told you, Ronnikens. Harry's changed, you know?" Fred was saying.
Harry inched closer to catch a glimpse of his friend, standing hunched in front of Fred's canvas, hands stuffed moodily in his robe pockets. "I know." Ron said softly. "I...I think something snapped in him, when he killed You-Know-Who. He so much as confirmed it tonight." Ron sighed, and ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "He wasn't all that sane to begin with," Ron confided, glancing off to side. "He was always so reckless, so heroic, diving head first into suicidal traps, fighting monsters, solving mysteries. I thought it would be one big adventure, having the Boy-Who-Lived as my best friend. But then, everything changed when Sirius died. I think that was when the changes really started, although the years before that weren't all fun and games either.
When Dumbledore died, Harry became obsessed with those bloody horcurxes and the hallows, both of which were a big pain in the arse. And, after all that, he supposedly 'lost' the Resurrection Stone, and snapped the Elder wand!" Ron exclaimed, gaining steam. Fred listened politely to his brother, and calmly let the boy rant, showing more patience than he did in real life. "Barmy fool, he is. I...I left Harry for a reason, in the Forest of Dean, you know" Ron said shyly, remembering how disappointed his family had been when Ron ditched Harry and Hermione. "Harry says I was being influenced by Slytherin's locket, but I'd been feeling pretty bitter for a while. I had hoped Hermione would join me, but she's always been very protective of our precious Golden Boy." He said this a little bitterly, Harry detected.
Fred nodded in slight agreement, rubbing at his chin. "I thought she might've fancied him for a while," Ron admitted, his frown darkening. "I even had nightmares about it. And, Merlin, I still can't believe that she Obliviated her family for him! I understand that she was protecting them...but-"
"-but you would never have been able to do that, could you, Ron?" Fred finished softly. "Family is everything, kiddo." At the nickname, Ron scoffed, but Fred continued. "And Harry is your family. Ourfamily. He has been since we first helped him through the barrier, back when he was just the scrawny kid with a mop of hair and the broken glasses."
"Back then, it was a lot easier to be led into those mysteries. But thinking back, it seems so idiotic." Ron interceded. "I envied him at some point, for being the fairytale hero the stories claimed he would be. I even hated the bloke, for a while, because of his fame- but I stuck by his side until the very end. I was loyal, and faithful. Maybe I felt obligated to do it, I don't know. But the war is over, now, and if Harry is going to be so sullen, I don't know if I should bother with him.
If it wasn't for him, Fred, you wouldn't have died. George would have both ears still, Dad wouldn't have been attacked by You-Know-Who's snake, and Ginny wouldn't have her life almost sucked out of her by a diary. Just being around him, we were in danger. And although Voldemort's gone, I still don't feel safe around him. I feel that if I pushed the wrong buttons, or if I say the wrong thing, he'll breakdown or something. He was so angry in sixth and seventh year- and when we were on the run, I wanted to wring his neck half the time. Now, he's just…well, kind of Slytherin. All cut off and unfeeling, like Snape was. He isn't our Harry anymore, Fred. The Harry who saved the world and was worth fighting for is long gone, and this Harry..." Ron trailed off. "This Harry is a coward; this Harry is damaged, broken. And despite everything we've been through, I don't think I should even bother trying to fix him. He won't appreciate it, and I just can't take his shit anymore." He finished angrily, slammed his hands into the wall beside Fred's portrait.
Harry took a staggering step back in shock, his mind reeling, head spinning. He bumped roughly into the portrait of Lavender Brown, who had been sleeping in peace until she was 'violently mauled' by the unseen figure. Her light brown eyes popped open in surprise, and she scowled darkly. "Whose there?!" she called out, startling both Ron and Fred. "Oh!" Lavender squealed, a wide smile lighting her face as she caught sight of her ex-boyfriend. "Won Won, is that you? You look so handsome, and tall! Have you come to visit me, after all? Grown bored of the know-it-all, Granger?"
Ron grimaced at her words. "Hullo, Lavender," he greeted dully. Fred snickered and slipped out of his portrait, silently murmuring a 'good luck, mate' to his red-eared brother. As Lavender chortled on, fingering a strand of her long, wavy hair, Ron suspiciously eyed the shadows, thinking he had heard something like the pattering of feet. His gaze fell on a fallen piece of parchment, just under Lavender's painting. Heart clanging in his chest, he plucked up the Marauder's Map warily and watched as Harry Potter fled down the corridor, moving faster than Ron had ever seen him, his footsteps wide and frantic.
Ron's fingers went numb, and his stomach rolled with unbidden guilt.
What had he done?
Chapter 4: Chapter Four: Time and Tide
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Death is not the greatest loss in life.
The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.
-Norman Cousins
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Four: Time and Tide
Unseen to the given eye, the bright lantern light illuminated Harry's drawn, flushed face as he set off down the corridor at a laborious run, his legs burning with pain and his eyes blurring with unshed tears.
'I need the place where everything is hidden, I need the place where everything is hidden, I need the place where everything is hidden.'
Harry found himself collapsed against the inner wall of the Room of Requirement, feeling drained and hollow. He slid to the floor, shoulders shuddering with rough sobs, his breath heavy.
The memories of his best friend's ignorant humor, dry smiles and bright blue eyes flashed before him; flashes of the two friends exchanging glances whenever Hermione flew off on a tangent, the two snickering over Draco Malfoy's shortcomings, and taking turns on the Firebolt across bright blue skies reeled in the front of Harry's mind. Harry's invisibility cloak slid off his shoulders noiselessly, and the menial sense of comfort it gave him all but disappeared.
All those moments of mirth, all those amazing days with his best friends- they were all lies, it seemed. Harry loathed to admit it, but he could no longer doubt his friend's betrayal. The 'Bitterbells' had revealed the truth in Ron's overheard confession.
The eerie silence of the Hidden Things room was sickening, the only sound being Harry's echoing sobs and the distant twitter of pixie wings. After what felt like an eternity, Harry wiped his wet face and stood, unable to shed anymore tears.
He began to glide lifelessly through the isles of lost items, eyeing the hidden artifacts, spare materials and discarded relics.
The room was a treasure in and of it's own. Harry regretted not taking the chance to venture in so deep before. The last time he had required for the Room of Hidden Things was on the day of the battle, while searching for Ravenclaw's Lost Diadem. It had been found next to Malfoy's Vanishing Cabinet, yet another magical artifact that Harry would've preferred never existed.
Harry had been under the impression that the room had been destroyed by Crabbe's Fiendfyre, but it was in the exact same condition it had always been in; a large, chaotic mess. It was mystifying and curious, strangely comforting to Harry, but dangerous all the same.
Harry remembered the first time he had found this particular version of the Come-and-Go Room. He had been with Ginny Weasley, hiding the Half-Blood Prince's potion book. He recalled Ginny's soft lips pressed against his, a chaste awakening to Harry's feelings for her. 'I can stay hidden up here too, if you'd like.'
Dear Merlin, Ginny. Did she feel the same as her brother? Harry wouldn't put the deception past her; the girl had always been deviously clever and alluring. At one point, Harry thought he might have loved the girl, because of that strange unlikeness to other girls her age. But Harry hadn't seen the girl in over a month, and their last meeting had been anything but cheerful. While Harry had immensely enjoyed their parting kiss before the Final Battle, the memory was bitter sweet. Thinking of that day brought along images of the war, something Harry would rather not dwell upon.
Ron's betrayal felt like shattered glass piercing Harry's heart, but he had to wonder- was Ron right? Harry knew something had changed in him greatly, but he hadn't realized how much until just then. It hurt, the truth. Ron's betrayal hurt, as did the unknowledge of Hermione's and the other Weasleys' true loyalty. Have they given up on him as well?
Harry wandered about the room, winding in and out of the discarded junk, picking up the less lethal looking artifices and rolling them about in his hands. He opened a cupboard, only to have a large winged Humbug fly out at him. He found the golden harp from his first year, a dozen bird perches, and a withered Hand of Glory, identical to Malfoy's. Harry stayed far away from that.
The room had dim lighting and a wide dome ceiling, the piles of furniture just reaching it.
Harry came across a large globe- depicting Mars' supposed underground colonies- next to a mahogany baby crib with a glass animal mobile. Harry fingered the glass owl figurine, astonished at it's strange likeliness to Hedwig, right down the the small scar on her pointed beak. He carefully snipped the figurine from the mobile- using a strange scissor hand glove found inside a knee-hole desk- and tucked the owl into his pocket.
Harry had calmed down significantly from earlier, but his adrenaline was slowly winding down, and his movements soon became sluggish. Harry swore magnificently in pain as he tripped over a fallen hat rack, collapsing onto an oak jewelry armoire. The armoire had been lying face up on it's side, and the golden knobs dug into his torso.
Ribs aching, he pulled himself to his knees and looked down at the armoire, noticing that the top drawer had popped open slightly on impact. Pulling out the drawer, a pile of jewelry slid to the floor, metal chains clinking.
He pulled the jewelry toward him and picked through the pile. Pearl necklaces, a dark topaz ring, and a few bits of costume jewelry. Harry moved to put it away, but was startled to find an old, bronze Time Turner- very nearly the size of his palm- forgotten on the ground. He picked it up with numb fingers. Tangled in the Time Turner's clinking chain was a spare emerald earring. Tossing the emerald over his shoulder, he pushed his glasses farther up his nose to inspect the Turner. It had a crystal hourglass in the middle, with a tiny pile of black sand. The metal was faded but smooth, and Harry read a small inscription etched in one of the rings.
The loose translation of the Latin made him swallow hard. 'Surrender first and the years will last; loose the future to change the past.'
This certainly didn't seem like the Time Turner Hermione had used in third year, but for some reason, the artifact seemed to draw him in. How easy would it be to just turn back the time, back to when Harry's life was worth living, back when life was easy. His fingers inched towards the small knob, the sparkling black sand reminding Harry of an eternal sleep-
"Harry?" a voice called out in the silence, making the boy flinch back violently in surprise. "Harry, I know you're in here. I have your Map, you dropped it in the hall of heroes." Ron said, voice echoing around the room. Harry grimaced, hands reaching for his empty left pocket- the Marauder's Map was gone. Harry was angry with himself; he'd never once lost the Marauder's Map, not since third year. Of all the days to drop it, and of all the people to pick it up-
"Harry, please. Let me explain," Ron called out, voice desperate. Harry pulled himself to his feet, hearing Ron's steady approach. Apparently Harry had circled back near the entrance in his wanderings, and was closer to Ron than he'd like. Grabbing onto a rocking chair to steady himself, Harry ran his thumb down the edge of the Time Turner in his hand distractedly, digging his finger into the sharp metal for affirmation that he was- in fact- still alive, and not in some demented version of Hell. He tucked the Turner away into his pocket for later.
Ron's head poked out from behind a bookshelf, his eyes widening at this sight of his disheveled friend. Harry's legs were shaking, and his face was tear-streaked and flushed. Despite this, a feral anger burned behind his killing-curse green eyes, gleaming brighter than they had been in months. He looked on the verge of a breakdown, his robes dusty and his features dead and cold. Harry let go of the chair and pulled out his wand defensively, gripping it tightly at his side.
Ron approached Harry warily, the latter's lips trembling as if he was fighting the urge to speak, to shout. "Harry-" Ron started softly, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "If you'd just-"
"-no!" Harry finally snapped, wand arm popping up, pointing straight at Ron's chest. "You have no right to speak. I heard everything, and I know that you've been lying to me. About being my friend, about your family. What, do they hate me, too? Do they think me a coward, too?"
Ron shook his head wildly at Harry's words. "No, Harry, they don't- I was just angry, just ranting-" The annoying bells sounded in Harry's ears again, and he twisted his neck angrily, eyes flashing. He stepped forward, his wand an inch away from Ron's jugular. "You're lying!" Harry snarled. "You've been lying to me this whole time, pretending to be my friend for- what- pity? Just for kicks? Because I don't need your pity- and if you really were my friend, you would understand what I've been through; you would stand by me no matter what-"
"I have stood by you, Harry!" Ron shouted, shoving Harry's wand away from him. "I've been to hell and back for you, for this war, and if you can't see that-"
"I've given you the chance every year since we met, to stand down, to save yourself- If you hated fighting by my side, you would've taken the opportunity to get away when you had it, instead of deluding me into thinking we were really friends..."
"We were friends, Harry! I stayed for you, and for Hermione. As much hell you put me through, I admired you, I was jealous of you. You were a hero -a reckless, suicidal hero- but you were you. This coward, this depressed little jackass you've become isn't you! You've changed, and I'm not going to stand by and watch you dig your own grave, just because you're afraid. You're afraid of what the war's done to you, and you should be, because the man you've become is nothing but a soulless monster." Ron spat. Harry's breath took at Ron's words. "Fred died, Harry, so did Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore- people die,wars happen. War affects everyone, but Hermione and I are getting along just fine, aren't we? We've all lost people from this war-"
"You have no right to talk to me about what it means to loose someone! I've lost more than you'll ever know!" Harry yelled, jolting forward to shove the taller boy away from him. Ron tore Harry's hands off of him. "And you have no right to be this selfish, so pathetic and weak. Acting like this is no way to honor their memories, Harry! They all died for you, and you repay them by-"
Harry choked on a sob and threw away his wand, pushing Ron into a pile of furniture. "Shut up!" he screamed. The two toppled over, slamming hard onto thick pieces of junk, panting and grunting. There was a loud snap as Ron's wand got caught underneath them, but the men hardly seemed to notice. Ron easily blocked the smaller boy's punches, and jammed his elbow into Harry's face, bloodying Harry's nose and snapping his glasses.
Soon, they had rolled onto the ground, Harry pinned roughly under Ron's body. Harry was feeling lightheaded from the scuffle, eyes fluttering in an attempt to remain conscious. Ron's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, face flushed red with anger. "You used to be a hero, Harry," Ron spat into Harry's face, shoving his shoulders down hard into the floor, with enough force to leave bruises. "What in thehell happened to you?"
Harry's hand, caked with crimson blood, brushed the inside of his robe pocket, feeling the cold metal of the Time Turner peaking out. Feeling desperate, he let out a hot breath, straining to hook the chain between his fingers. With one hard twitch of his thumb and fore-finger upon the knob, the Time Turner was activated, thrumming roughly in his palm.
"War happened." Harry murmured. "Life happened. And now, I'm going to change it." The Time Turner began working it's magic almost immediately, and only grew worse from there.
The necklace began to rattle, it's innards spinning and whistling. The small hourglass smacked into Harry's palm, black sand spilling and rising. The device began to burn with an intense heat, scalding Harry's hand. He just gripped it tighter.
Harry stared up at his old friend, saying nothing as Ron noticed the strange magical pulse in the air and pulled away, bewildered. The wind began to pick up around Harry's still body, and a golden-green aura surrounded the young man, sparking and hissing. It looked an awful lot like Priori Incantatum, webs of magic crisscrossing and bending, turning back the clock.
Ron's eyes went wide as Harry's body began convulsing and jolting, merging into something monstrous before his eyes. This was nothing like Harry and Hermione's trip to the past in third year. No, this was much, much worse.
The Room of Requirement began to shudder, the furniture piles creaking and collapsing, glass shattering and wayward animals screeching. Harry's hair whipped up out of his face revealing the lighting bolt scar, which glowed with inhumanly power. Harry's green eyes were squinted hard, his mouth skewed with pain. His knuckles were white from gripping the Time Turner, his fingers loosening as time seemed to stop with a sharp squeal, a terrifying noise coming from an artifact so innocent-looking.
And with a shuddering bang, a rush of scalding heat came over Ron and Harry- a large burst of wild magic. It caused the redhead to stumble to the floor in fear. Ron's eyes had been shut at the point of Harry's disappearance, his arm up to shield his face from the bright, burning light. It had ended in a rush, the golden aura lighting to that of a supernova, before swallowing Harry Potter whole. Harry fell into unconsciousness, feeling nothing but pain worse than he had ever experience; a blood-curdling, tear-jerking, bone-crushing pain, before everything faded to black.
All noise was sucked away with the light, and the Room of Requirement settled into a still quiet, the air dull and whispering with the soft hum of lingering power. Ron's breath was bated, and he was terrified to open his eyes. What if Harry was dead? Where had he been taken?
Ron finally lowered his arm, seeing no evidence of his friend, except for the small, body-shaped black scorch mark on the smooth floor and the Time Turner falling to the floor with a metallic clink, it's bronze loops glinting madly.
June 22nd, 1991
Harry Potter came spiraling out of the oblivion, slamming into a rough, tight space, his body contorted in an aching pain. His eyes slid open for all of a second, green eyes glazed with confusion, before rolling up back into his head. He hoped for nothing but an eternal sleep, not knowing that in a few hours, he would awaken to a sharp knock on the cupboard door, and his Aunt Petunia's shrieking voice, screaming at him to get 'Up! Get up! Now!'
The man, now trapped in his own eleven year old body, had been brought six years into the past at his own accord. Before the letters, before Hagrid, before Hogwarts- before everything.
Harry Potter had traveled back to where it all began.
Chapter 5: Chapter Five: Man to Boy
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Some mischievous people [are] always there.
[They] last several thousand years, always there.
In [the] future, also.
-Dalai Lama
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Five: Man to Boy
June 23rd, 1991
Dudley Dursley's eleventh birthday began nearly exactly as it had six years ago. It was loud, boisterous and beloved by most those involved- voiding one notable exception; Harry Potter.
Harry's eyes popped open on instinct as his Aunt Petunia's knuckles rapped sharply on the cupboard door. "Up!" She screeched, sliding open the locked bolt. Harry jolted up into a sitting position- his heart pounding- just narrowly missing the wooden staircase above his head. His Aunt clicked away, back into the kitchen, and Harry ran a hand through his sweaty, messy hair. Had it all been a dream? Harry wondered. Did I really go back in time?
Harry's vision was blurry, and he saw nothing but the white specks of dust floating in the darkness of his cupboard. He could smell the familiar must in the air, and his mattress was as lumpy and uncomfortable as it had always been. Harry slowly climbed out of the poor excuse for a bed, wearily sliding on his old pair of cracked glasses.
His aunt returned to the door, hissing through the metal grate. "Are you up yet?" she demanded. Harry blinked rapidly, feeling a strong sense of deja-vu.
"...Nearly." Harry choked out after a beat, the phrase sliding off his tongue by memory. Aunt Petunia sniffed. "Well, get a move on. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn-"
"-because you want everything perfect on Dudley's special day." Harry finished under his breath, voice akin to wonder. He remembered this scene playing out almost exactly, all the way up too-
"What did you say?" Petunia snapped through the door. Harry's lips pressed in an amused smile. "Oh, nothing, nothing..."
Petunia harrumphed and left dramatically, leaving Harry to dress. Mechanically pulling on a pair of hand-me-down trousers, his hips nearly a fifth the size of Dudley's waistband- ("Merlin, I'm so little!" Harry exclaimed softly)- he thought upon his peculiar predicament, brain still in a bit of shock.
Harry remembered twisting the ancient Time-Turner very clearly, and giving his final words to his best friend- old best friend, Harry remembered with a pang. Ron was... well, it didn't matter what Ron was, anymore, because this was 1991. Ron would be eleven, gangly, insecure and mostly innocent- but that didn't assure Harry's conflicted emotions over his friend's betrayal. Harry rubbed his nose tenderly, which was sore in a phantom-pain sort of way. He tried to sort through his feelings on the matter of his time-travel.
'Surrender first and the years will last; loose the future to change the past,' the Time Turner had stated. Had Harry lost all hope of redeeming his future by turning back the time? He felt an ache for his home, Hogwarts, and the strange peace that came from being done with the war. But his old restlessness was gone- Harry had gone back in time! He could change so much, save so many lives. His decision to send himself back had been desperate and grief-addled at most, not fully thought through. It was a spur-of-the-moment action, reckless and completely idiotic.
What had he ruined by going back in time? What of Ron, what of Hogwarts, and the Wizarding world? How would they explain his sudden disappearance? Harry felt his pockets for the old Time Turner, already knowing that it wouldn't be on him. Ron, hopefully, would've retrieved it in the Room of Requirement. Harry knew that despite Ron's bitterness, he wouldn't keep their encounter a total secret. He would tell someone, surely- maybe Headmaster McGonagall, or Dumbledore's portrait- and show them the Time Turner. Harry wondered if they could use it to bring him back, but he found himself hoping deep inside that they wouldn't.
If Harry had any choice in the matter, he certainly would not have sent himself back to age ten (almost eleven), and back to this hellhole. But Harry wasn't complaining too much. The lack of major body pain (outside of the usual undernourishment and the pang in his empty stomach, which he'd grown used to by the age of five) was certainly refreshing, as was his new-found youth and natural innocence. While Harry was definitely not looking forward to puberty again, the sudden clarity of mind and lack of bodily scars (other than the distinguishing lightning-bolt on his temple) had his lips turning up in a hopeful smile.
This body hadn't been to hell and back- this body hadn't been through a war. While Harry retained the memories of his past life (or was it future?), he didn't feel as affected by his traumas, and instead retained the childish youth and optimism that came with the host.
Harry felt as if he could do anything now- anything he so desired. He could track down the horcruxes without interference, he could destroy Tom Riddle Senior's bones before Voldemort could be resurrected, he could kill Peter Pettigrew for good and free Sirius from Azkaban- hell, he could even befriend Malfoy and Snape if he played his cards right, if only to keep them out of the Darkness. Harry had a whole new future to plan, and this time, he would do it right. Despite the horcrux in his head, the cramped cupboard and his nagging aunt... Harry thought his new future looked bright.
"Get the bacon, boy!" Aunt Petunia snarled through the door, and Harry scrambled out of the cupboard, nearly smacking into his aunt in turn. She grabbed his shoulders roughly, ignoring his murmured apology, and shoved him bodily into the kitchen. She pushed him towards the oven, lip curled as she wiped her hands daintily on her apron, disgusted from his touch.
Harry looked about the room, recalling the obscene amount of baby Dudley photographs, and the disgusting floral wall paper. Just as expected, the dining table was filled with piles upon piles of presents. Harry analyzed them quickly, remembering that in the big red box would be Dudley's second television- in a fit of anger, the first had been kicked in- and the oddly wrapped package, leaning against the wall was to be a new racing bike. Both would be demolished- Harry tipped his head as he approached the oven, studiously fixing the heat settings to a nice simmer, rather than the burning broil his aunt had set it at- in six mouths and counting. Harry nearly giggled aloud, thriving in the sensation of immense, unstoppable knowledge of the future. He could do so much.
If Petunia gave Harry a harsh, questioning look at his obvious glee, Harry pretended not to notice. He was finishing the eggs as Dudley came barreling into the kitchen, eyes bright at the sight of his gifts. Harry sang lightly under his breath. "Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo. You look like a monkey, and you act like one too!" Petunia pretended not to hear her nephew's teasing as Uncle Vernon toddled in, the daily newspaper in hand. "Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of morning greeting. "Morning, to you too, sunshine," Harry murmured, ducking as Aunt Petunia aimed to cuff the back of his head.
Harry set the table swiftly, maneuvering around the gifts, and gave his cousin a startlingly genuine smile. "Happy birthday, Big D!" Harry told him. Dudley and Petunia both stared at him as if he'd grown a second head, and he smirked in response. "Oh, and before you waste what little brain cells you still have, Dudley- there are exactly thirty-six presents on this table." Harry tapped the table in question, a mischievous light in his green eyes. As hoped, Dudley's head snapped around so fast that Harry wondered if the boy had gotten whiplash from his neck fat slapping together. Dudley stared angrily at his mother. "Thirty six?!" he asked. "Thirty six, that's two less from last year!"
Aunt Petunia gave her nephew a venomous look as Dudley's face grew red, Petunia quick to sooth her son's plight. Harry gave her a winning smile and poured his aunt a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, covertly sneaking in a small piece of orange peel for her to choke on.
Perhaps Harry was being a bit harsh with his relatives. After all, Dudley had grown into a tolerable young man by 1998 (although it took a bloody dementor attack to trigger it)- but for the time being, Dudley was a touchy little brat, and Harry was not going to tolerate it any longer.
Harry knew that Petunia feared her nephew for being different, and had harbored an immense jealousy for her sister, Lily Potter from their childhood- but that did not give Petunia any initiative to abuse her nephew in such ways. Petunia had been a right bitch to Harry ever since he had been dropped at her doorstep in 1981. Knowing Petunia, Harry wouldn't have expected the woman to be in any way happyabout the sudden saddlement, but she could have provided Harry with even the smallest bit of love and security, once in his short life. She could have redeemed herself to Lily by caring for her son, just as Lily would've done with Dudley (and done a right better job of it, too). Instead, Petunia had lied to Harry about his heritage, starved him, treated him only slightly better than a house-elf, and allowed her husband and son to beat and bully him all throughout his childhood.
The Dursley's were no real family of Harry's- forgiven in Harry's old timeline or not. If it hadn't been for the damn blood wards, Harry would've left Privet Drive the moment he realized he had traveled back. Harry didn't appreciate Dumbledore's manipulations in Harry's childhood, but he could at least understand the old wizard's reasonings.
Harry considered his options for residence; There was not a single place in Wizarding London Harry could go- without the use of glamour or a strong disguise- without raising alarm. If Harry wanted to remain auspicious in his manipulations of the future, he would need to endure the Dursley's insufferable company, just until he was sure enough in himself and his plan to proceed. He would need to find a place to stay,though, if it became to difficult. Grimmauld Place wasn't out of the question, but as he had yet to inherit the apartment from his incarcerated godfather, Harry was not positive he could access it. That would prove problematic when it came to finding Slytherin's locket- but he'd cross that bridge when it came to it.
The Leaky Cauldron would do well in a pinch, but he needed a place more permanent, and not so easily accessible by both foes and 'old friends'. He wasn't going to drag anyone unnecessary into his plans, if he could help it. He didn't need any more blood on his hands.
So, Harry concluded, he would stay at Privet Drive, as much as he loathed it. In a few months he would retrieve his first Hogwarts letter, and he would be in the clear to visit Diagon Alley and retrieve his beautiful wand. Oh, how he missed his Holly-and-Phoenix core wand. While Harry understood the basics of wandless magic, he wasn't taking any chances with activating the Trace, not at the Dursley's, at least. Accidental magic was still to be expected, after all.
Harry would procure an Untraceable bewitchment in Knockturn Alley, before attempting any real magic just yet. He hated the prospect of waiting so long, but it was the logical choice. Harry wasn't going to just wander into this timeline thoughtlessly.
He had already ruined any chances of returning back to the future by triggering the Time Turner in such haste. He had no way of knowing what it would do to his body, or when it would take him. Harry hadn't expected to be eleven again, but as it was, he supposed it would be useful. Harry had changed most definitely from his old reckless heroism, and he wasn't going to win the war by sheer luck and chance. No one had any set expectations for the boy yet (although everyone had their own opinion on what the Boy-Who-Lived should be like, he was determined to simply ignore it), and he had no strings attached to his old life.
Harry could act however he wanted to, so long as he kept up the cover of 'independent' and 'powerful'. He had seven years of wizarding knowledge, and future knowledge. He would soar through school easily, leaving him time for his little...side projects.
Harry would plot, and actually think through his actions before jumping into the unknown. Harry was still a Gryffindor by heart, but in this timeline, he would need to think more like a Slytherin. '"You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that."' Harry nearly winced at the thought. Harry had called a steady truce with those of Slytherin house in 1998, but he couldn't help but remember how cruel they had been to him- and he, to them. That doesn't matter anymore, Harry told himself fiercely. This needs to happen. You need to be great this time around, you need to save them all. You might not be able to turn back the clock if anything goes wrong.
Harry shook himself out of his thoughts as his aunt and uncle began debating where Harry would stay during the zoo trip. Harry eyed his relatives with a thinly veiled disapproval, arms crossed. He was a human boy, not an entire nuisance as they thought him to be.
But as the door bell rang, signalling Piers Polkiss' arrival, Dudley immediately stopped slobbering, and Harry's relative's decision was made for them. Harry hid a small smile as he was led to the car, making his uncle's mustache twitch. Harry was quickly grabbed by the scruff of his neck as he made to enter the car. "I'm warning you now, boy," Vernon hissed. "Any funny business- any at all- and you won't have any meals for a week." Harry fought back a flinch. Vernon wasn't joking. He never was.
"Yes, sir," Harry murmured, shrinking into himself. Harry hated to admit it, but, yes, Uncle Vernon intimidated him. Harry thought he had resolved this ingrown fear- but with his scrawny size and his bad-tempered Uncle's massiveness leaning over him, Harry couldn't help but quiver in his shoes.
The future Vernon had never redeemed himself to Harry, he recalled. The man never apologized, never turned himself around- Harry doubted if the man even had good qualities to redeem in the first place.
Harry sat a bit straighter during the cart ride though, as he warded off Dudley's and Piers' pokes and taunts by giving them his own venomous glare. Body size not-withstanding, Harry had long ago learned how to make himself formidable, menacing, even. Even with Dudley's notoriously low I.Q., he had least had the common sense to back down under Harry's sharp gaze.
The family promptly ignored Harry for the remainder of the trip, leaving him to scratch irritably at his stomach, where a worn tweed backpack was folded under his belt. His baggy grey shirt hid the bulk, and Harry knew that the Dursley's surely weren't going to miss the stolen bag. It was an old thing from Vernon's Smelting days, found that morning in the attic. Harry had nabbed it quickly before leaving, when Aunt Petunia had made him go back to grab her sunhat.
You'll find that sneaking in a dirty backpack to a public zoo is a dozen times easier than sneaking out a fifteen-foot boa constrictor. Harry had been patient, politely sneaking in an order of malt when a pleasant woman named Ruby, at the ice cream van, had asked. Vernon had forked over the money reluctantly, as the vanilla Harry had ordered wasn't horribly priced and Ruby had already gave them half-off for Dudley's birthday. Harry ignored his uncles' threatening glares, and had smugly licked off every last bite from the plastic spoon.
And while his Uncle finished the Knickerbocker Glory from the restaurant instead of Harry, the morning went well as predicted. Until the reptile house, that is.
The room was as cool and dark as Harry remembered. It reminded him a bit of the dungeons at Hogwarts, in fact, although that made sense- it being the Slytherin's 'snake-pit' and all. Quickly following Dudley to the boa-constrictor's tank, Harry smiled fondly at the lightly sleeping serpent. Dudley pressed his nose to the glass, fog rising from his hot breath against it. "Make it move," Dudley whined to his father. Vernon tapped on the glass with his knuckles, and Harry flinched. "Do it again!" Dudley ordered. The snake remained on the mossy flooring, staying firmly coiled despite the annoyance. Harry admired it's tenacity, and moved closer as Dudley pulled away, distracted by the cobras. He waited until his family (and Piers) were out of earshot, before hissing softly to the boa.
"Sorry about him," Harry said with a grim expression, watching as the snake's head rose in astonishment. "They've never been very amiable, even on their good days. Although I suppose you're used to it?" Harry asked. The serpent blinked twice, something akin to a smirk rising on his features. "Yes. I get that all the time." The snake agreed.
"I have heard of those few human-folk who could speak the language of serpents, but I have never had the opportunity to meet one." the snake seemed to bow it's head. "My name is Tiago, Speaker, and I have resided in this captivity since my hatching. I am quite used to the intrusion of such pathetic humans."
Harry smiled. "My name is Harry Potter, and I have a certain proposition for you." Harry pulled out the tweed backpack, and pressed a hand to the glass, leaving a small smear. "I can get you out of this zoo, if only you will cooperate with for remainder of my-" Harry grimaced. "-family's visit. The tank is no issue, but you must remain unseen." Tiago gave Harry an appraising look, before curling down in front of his face. "I am amenable. But how, Speaker, would you accomplish this?"
Harry looked around, making sure no one was watching- he gave Piers a sharp look when the boy glanced over questionably, before Piers turned away, shoulders tense. Harry gave a roguish grin. "With magic, of course."
Chapter 6: Chapter Six: The First Letter
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
You're mad, bonkers, completely off your head.
But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are.
-Lewis Carroll
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Six: The First Letter
Somehow, the reptile heist had gone off without a hitch. Harry needed only to 'vanish the glass' for a moment, enough time for Tiago to slither into the open backpack and coil up to his smallest size. The creature did not appreciate the itchy tweed on his dry scales, but Harry managed to coax the serpent into a silence, as he slung the bag over his shoulder carefully and waited for the Dursleys to make their leave. He followed a few steps behind them, making sure the family was ignorant of the lumpy pack- although Piers did give Harry a few strange looks.
Dudley soon grew tired of the animals and convinced his parents to let them leave early; a thankful reprieve for Harry and Tiago. The boa constrictor was heavy on Harry's weak shoulders, and Tiago hissed irritably at every bump- but they managed to make it out with all Harry's limbs intact.
When Uncle Vernon stopped the use the restroom on the way out, and Petunia loitered by the front gate, Harry quickly slipped past and ducked behind a large rock. He opened the backpack and Tiago slipped out, hissing a swear at the "infernal human baggage."
Harry quickly gave the boa accurate directions to the nearest port, in hope that the serpent would slither his way into a cargo boat to South America and survive the two week odyssey undetected. Tiago assured Harry that he would manage just fine, and Harry duly hoped so. "Brazil, here I come! Thanksss, amigo," Tiago hissed gratefully, before slipping away into the tall grass, inching along the edge of the road towards the coast. The snake's scales made a fine camouflage, Harry noticed. Unless you were looking very closely for a brown-scaled boa, you wouldn't see Tiago until he was right upon you. Harry grimaced- he hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Seeing the Dursleys waddle out of the zoo, he tucked away the wet-smelling backpack and followed suit. Nobody was any the wiser.
The zoo keepers had a hell of a time resolving the mystery of the 'stolen serpent'- as it was so dubbed on the news that evening- but Harry wasn't worried. No one would expect a ten-year old to pull of such a heist, even with magic on his side.
Harry did get punished, though, such as in the first timeline. Once they had arrived home, Harry was shoved into his cupboard without dinner, and left locked in for the next day and a half. Punishment, Harry was told, for his running sarcastic commentary throughout Dudley's birthday, and making Uncle Vernon buy him that malt.
It was well worth it, Harry decided.
The next months went by predictably. Day after day, it was chores (gardening, dusting, waxing the floors- whatever Petunia had assigned him for the day), cooking the meals (and having to resist setting fire to the house), a quick bathroom break, and back to his cupboard by six o'clock. If sleep managed to ensnare his restless mind, Harry would wake hours later in a cold sweat from the nightmares.
It was a miracle Harry had been managing so well, but he should have expected his trauma to return in some shape or form. Harry soon accepted he would never really heal from the war- in this timeline, or the next.
The usual flashes of green light assaulted him, with the cold, high laughter of Lord Voldemort. Then were the moments of battle; spells flying in an array of screams and glowing beams, a constricting darkness and the ice cold aura of the Dementors, and the crimson shine of blood spilling on the once hallowed halls of Harry's home. He saw his friends missing death by an inch, attacking Nagini with Basilisk fangs and panicked 'Stupefy!'s. There was the burning inferno of Crabbe's Fiendfyre, Harry swooping down to grip Draco Malfoy's sweaty hand. The constant fear of being found, the shimmer of Hermione's wards as his only protection between himself and the Snatchers. The terrible realization that he needed to die, 'for neither can live while the other survives'.
Harry would never forget his past. He could turn over a new leaf, but he would never loose those memories- not without a complete Obliviaton, at least. He flirted with the idea for a while, after the war, but Harry would need those memories to succeed this time around. The suffering was not pleasant, but it was necessary.
The days ticked by, and Harry slowly gained a dull sense of cabin-fever. He was fearful, at night, in the darkness of his cupboard. The walls seemed to close in on him, his breath grew heavy, and tears flooded his cheeks. But he would stay silent. He knew there was no rational reason for this fear, and would not let it overcome him, not this time around.
Harry tried to distract himself with plans for the future, but began to miss the simple comforts of his past. Rich, fresh food whenever he wished, a soft bed with silk sheets and a warm fire to read by. He missed the Room of Requirement, and it's unlimited potential- his cupboard was a poor, poor substitute. He wished for instant remedy for when his cousin tripped him and shoved him against the walls. Cheering charms for the days he began slipping back into his old depression. His first days as a ten year old looked so bright, but old habits died hard. The impression of wellness was deluding, but Harry thrived in it all the same. His mental state was, at least, a step up.
Harry grew back his old confidence, but did not flaunt it hastily. He showed the Dursleys a cool rebellion that made their eyes twitch and their faces to grow purple. He entertained himself by rigging the household. Little beetles from the garden would appear in Dudley's afternoon snacks, which he would eat out on the porch- per Petunia's orders. The Dursleys had no proof that it was Harry planting them there, but Dudley would soon insist that his mother make all his meals, instead.
The garden snakes became Harry's good friends. There were three small garters that hide behind the shed, away from Dudley's stomping boots- Nala, Hendrick and Sylvio. The three snakes were quiet but mischievous, and were always willing to sneak up on Petunia and Dudley as they played in the yard- but the roughhousing promptly stopped the day Nala had her head crushed, Uncle Vernon coming to Petunia's rescue with a shovel. The callous murder of his new friend sent Harry into a five-day revenge, putting yellow-orange hair dye into Vernon's shampoo bottle (left over from Dudley's costume for Halloween that year), mixing Vernon's nice white dress shirts with Petunia's red cocktail dress (making them a nice shade of taffy pink), putting salt in his tea, instead of sugar. His relatives had caught onto his mischief by Vernon's third cup of botched tea. Harry was kept in his cupboard for half a week, let out only for the loo. Pest control came and went as Harry was locked away. He never saw Hendrick or Sylvio again
July 24th, 1991
On the night before Harry's first letter arrived, he was lying belly-down on his bed, watching a small black spider twitch in pain above his head. The spider had weaved it's silver web a bit too close to a slate of wood, and had gotten four of his eight legs caught between the slates. Harry couldn't stand to watch it anymore. Very slowly, careful not to startle the insect, he plucked it away and squished it between his thumb and fore-finger, putting it out of it's misery. At least it had died fast, Harry consoled himself as he wiped the grime off his fingers. There would be more unnecessary pain on Harry's watch- not to those who didn't deserve it.
Turning on his side with a sigh, Harry fell into a restless sleep, awakening at dawn break with a strangled scream caught in his throat. He nearly rolled off the bed, but caught himself before he could hurt himself.
Harry had dreamed of the Acromantulas, as they had been driven out of the Forbidden Forest by the Death Eaters. He hadn't known if the giant spiders were helping or hurting the Light side during the Final Battle. Hagrid claimed they had been helping, but they had caused causalities for both sides. The Acromantulas were predators, on the hunt for fresh meat, it did not matter where it came from.
Harry swallowed down bile, and crawled to the cupboard door, testing the lock. Sighing, Harry slipped a hand beneath his mattress and felt for a cold piece of metal. He grasped a twisted paper clip- on of his very few treasures, here- and picked the lock quickly, satisfied upon hearing the soft click. He pushed the door open, hinges whining slightly. Footsteps light, Harry tiptoed into the kitchen, his mouth dry with thirst. As he pulled down a glass for water, he skimmed the calendar pinned to the refrigerator. The glass slowly slid out of his hand as he froze in surprise, shattering on the ground. Harry waited a few moments with bated breath, listening for sounds of his relatives awakening. Once he was safe, he greedily pulled down the calendar and counted the days.
It was a Wednesday in late July, and by recalling the events of the past night- (Dudley showing off his new Smelting's uniform and attacking his cousin with the cane)- Harry let a small smile fall onto his face. That day, during breakfast, Harry would receive his first Hogwarts letter, meaning he was only a few weeks away from seeing his home again.
Harry knew that the Dursleys would find out his acceptance sooner or later, but Harry was in no mood for a cross-country trip to the hut-on-the-rock, in avoidance of the letters, ending with Hagrid breaking down the door. Harry would need to sneak off a response to the school before informing the Dursleys of his acceptance (when it would be too late for them to disagree). Harry had to pick and choose his battles, and the longer he postponed the Dursleys' anger, the better.
The morning went by quickly, and as the rank smell of Harry's Stonewall High 'uniform' soaking in the sink filled the kitchen, Harry had already eaten and was passing around a plate of scones. Right on time, the mail-slot slid open with a metallic click, and Harry had to physically restrain himself from running to the door. Face blank in masked excitement, Harry ducked Dudley's Smelting stick and slipped into the hall, his heart pounding in his chest.
Harry caught sight of the mail sitting innocently on the doormat, and flipped through the envelopes, quickly finding the familiar yellow parchment with his name addressed in emerald ink.
Mr. H Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4, Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
Surrey
He rubbed his name fondly, smiling softly as he covertly slid the letter under the cupboard door. With a casual stride, he entered the kitchen before Vernon could tell that horrid joke about 'letter bombs'. Once his relatives were finished with breakfast, Harry scrubbed the dishes with a new-found vigor and finally excused himself to his cupboard.
He let out a relieved breath as he crawled into the small space. Crisis diverted- no mail attacks (hilarious as that was), no hut-on-the-rock, and...no Hagrid, Harry remembered with a pang. As wonderful as seeing his old friend again would be, Harry had no need for the half-giant's assistance this time around. While it would be simpler to procure the Philosopher's Stone before the Cerberus, the traps and the Mirror of Erised, Harry needed to go into Diagon Alley (and Knockturn Alley, as well) alone.
He would just have to stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the week, and hopefully 'run into' Hagrid on his birthday. Harry had gotten quite well at pilfery in his time at Privet Drive, and knew it would be painfully easy for him to pocket the Stone and replace it with a red-colored rock. Hagrid wouldn't tell the difference- Dumbledore would be the only one able to identify the Stone, other than Nicholas Flamel- but by that time, Harry would have it taken care of, under a Fidelius Charm in his sock drawer until Quirrell was captured, with Harry himself as Secret Keeper. Easy.
Harry carefully pulled off the crimson seal, and skimmed over the letter, a familiar, warm feeling in his chest.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Smiling at the thought of his stern Head of House, Harry quickly pulled out an old sheet of lined paper and a pen- a few other precious treasures. He wrote out a neat, polite response, refusing to feign the ignorance expected of him. Harry was not going to manipulated into silencing his curiosities this time around.
To whom it may concern-
My name is Harry Potter. I have been raised in a non-wizarding home for the last ten years, with only the vaguest inkling of my heritage. While of course I would be delighted to attend your school, I do have to wonder about this 'Albus Dumbledore' character, the Headmaster. While his array of titles is impressive, I admit, I have been informed by my Aunt Petunia Dursley of his hand in their unorthodox fostering of me in 1981. What right did he have to hand me off to this family- without any warning- and then proceed to forget me for the next ten years, without so much as a letter or a visit? If this my birthright, as I've been told, why have I been kept in the dark? I have a right know the truth, and I do not like this cloak-and-dagger approach to introducing my heritage.
If you can provide any answers to my concerns, I would appreciate a written response, sent before the term begins. And thank you for the wonderful opportunity of learning my inheritance- it is a momentous relief that all my 'spurts of unnaturalness' is actually quite natural, for your- or, our- kind.
Expect my appearance on the first of September.
Harry Potter
When Harry was told to weed the garden that afternoon- under the cool breeze of autumn approaching- Harry snuck off a reply, using the small Pygmy owl hiding covertly in the neighbor's tree. He knew the moment it stuck out it's small leg, that it was for him, and he fed it a bit of cooked ham (leftovers from the night before) for it's troubles.
July 26th, 1991
It was time. Harry snuck off the next evening.
He left a short note with his relatives, explaining that he had received his Hogwarts letter, and would no longer need their assistance and 'care' until the next summer- thank Merlin for that. Harry was delighted to leave Privet Drive, packing away his few belongings into the old tweed backpack. He brought only a spare set of clothing- seeing as he planned to procure a whole new wardrobe as soon as possible, and then burn the hand-me-downs with a well placed Incindio- and a small satchel of coins and British pounds.
He pick-locked his cupboard door for the last time that summer, slipping the paperclip into his pocket for nostalgia purposes. He tiptoed out of the household, snickering softly at his Uncle Vernon's deep, rumbling snores that reverbrated down the stairs. Harry had shamelessly drugged his relatives, slipping a few capsules of Petunia's sleeping pills into their evening tea. They would sleep long and deep until morning- and by then, Harry would be long gone.
Harry carefully approached the empty curb, remembering the nighttime Wizarding transportation, first used in his third year; the Knight Bus. He wondered if he could summon it with wandless magic, and stuck his hand out into the street. He felt his fingers tingle with the soft pulse of magic, and waited a beat before-
BANG!
The dark purple, triple-decker bus appeared, throwing Harry back into the grass. He momentarily forgot that he was only about sixty-five pounds soaking wet, and was tossed back roughly, his head hitting the tough soil. Clutching his skull, Harry stood shakily and eyed the familiar bus- he came to realize that perhaps, there were safer modes of transportation for him to acquire...but he had already made it thus far.
A small Asian girl stepped off the doorway, her eyes glowing an unnatural yellow in the darkness. Harry had expected Stan Stunpike, for some reason, but then realized that the pimply boy was probably still in school. The girl smiled at Harry, her heart already stolen by his waif-like green eyes and his adorably fidgeting limbs. "Heya! My name's 'Vangeline Kim, and I'll be your conductor for this evening." She spoke with a smooth American accent, her long black hair pulled back into a hasty pony-tail.
Harry approached Evangeline gingerly, holding tight onto his bag. "My...my name's Evan. Evan James," Harry stuttered out. A very unoriginal alias, but he doubted that Evangeline Kim had any idea of his mother's surname or of his father, nor did she care. Evangeline got down on her haunches and gave 'Evan' a toothy grin. "Well, Evan, you seem a bit young to be travelling alone at night." Her tone was vaguely condescending, and Harry resisted scowling. "I get that a lot," he dismissed lightly, pulling out a roll of pounds, nicked from his Uncle's wallet. Her eyes lit up, predictably.
"I don't have any Wizarding money, ma'am, but I need the transportation fast. I'm...well, I'm a bit scared of the dark," he said softly, drawing into himself, "And I need to be in Diagon Alley by morning. I just got my Hogwarts letter! I can't wait to get a wand, and a cauldron, and the textbooks-" Harry went on excitedly, sensing that Evangeline was growing bored. "Right," she interrupted, taking the cash and handing him a few Knuts and Sickles in change. She showed him to his seat, and told him to hold on tightly as the bus departed with a-
BANG!
While Harry's stomach rolled, and his head still hurt from it's collision with the ground, Harry found himself squealing and laughing like a child. Uncomfortable and painful as the Knight Bus was- he let his childish side come over him, rejoicing in the small pleasures of life while he still had them.
He was already half-way to Diagon Alley, away from the Dursleys and all things Muggle. He was half-way home.
Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: Assets and Artifices
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Which of us is happy in this world?
Which of us has his desire?
Or, having it, is satisfied?
-William Makepeace Thackeray
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Seven: Assets and Artifices
At a quarter to midnight, Harry finally collapsed into bed, head aching from over a half-day's planning. Books on alchemy and various protection charms were scattered across the floor of Room 7, crumpled sheets of parchment and a spilled bottle of ink littering his desk.
Harry had found a small obsidian box in Knockturn Alley (made with an anti-thief lock and intruder alarms) with an inlay made of soft Acromantula silk. The Philosopher's Stone would be perfectly safe in Harry's possession... once he retrieved it, of course.
Harry would keep the stone in his new multi-level trunk, safe under several anti-intruder spells. When he moved to a more permanent residence in Hogwarts, he would cast the Fidelius Charm, with God as his witness. But first, he actually had to steal the damn rock.
Harry ran a hand through his untidy hair, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. In fifteen minutes and counting down, Harry would be eleven.
In Harry's old timeline, he had been lying on the dirty floor of the hut-on-the-rock, drawing a birthday cake into the dirt and dust at this time. Waves had crashed against the shore, and Hagrid thumped up to the hut, shoving down the door with a CRASH! and scaring Harry half out of his mind.
Instead of recalling his past, Harry's mind was overcome by the thought of something exceptionally more important; in six hours, Harry would be pulling off his second major heist- stealing a magical stone from an old friend, a large, intimidating half-giant.
While it hurt to think the man wouldn't recognize Harry when they met, Harry new it was best. It would do no good for a boy with James Potter's hair and Lily Evan's eyes to get caught with his hand in Hagrid's pocket. Without his invisibility cloak or a flask of Polyjuice Potion, Harry had to resort to good, old-fashioned trickery.
Harry had mastered glamour charms that week, practicing by changing his hair color and masking the lightning-bolt scar. He had been going under the alias of 'Evan James', a first year orphan with a penchant for wandering about the alley. His hair was charmed to the dull shade of corn flour, and his eyes a light blue. With the lightning-bolt scar hidden under the illusion of flat, blemish-free skin, Harry didn't look a thing like himself. Only Tom, the innkeeper, knew what Harry truly looked like, although the hunchback had wisely stayed silent.
If Harry was caught pick-pocketing, though, he had learned how to cast a highly proficient Confundus Charm in his free time, strong enough to briefly distract Hagrid, long enough to buy Harry a few seconds. The boy had taken a few dozen precautions for his heist- he very quickly realized that stealing a snake under a couple Muggle's noses was significantly easier than stealing the Philosopher's Stone in an alley full of armed wizards- but Harry figured he was as ready as he'd ever be.
The small wooden clock on his bedside table chimed softly, signalling the new day. It was July 31st.
In his old life, he'd be eighteen. The age difference between his mind and body was disconcerting, but Harry had gotten used to it. He let a small smile slide on his face before nodding off into a restless sleep, softly singing into the candlelit bedroom.
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me...
5 Days Earlier
It had begun to rain.
Harry gave Evangeline Kim a parting wave as he stumbled off the Knight Bus, slipping on a puddle. The bus took off with a sharp squeal, water picking up under it's wheels and spraying Harry's back. He grimaced.
The Leaky Cauldron was empty when he entered with a heavy shiver. The evening chill blew through large open windows, soft candlelight glowing in one of the back rooms. The tables had been wiped, and a bewitched mop scrubbed the floor lazily by his feet. "Hello?" Harry called out tentatively, carefully stepping around the soaked flooring. There was a sudden scuffle behind the counter, and the bald, hunchbacked innkeeper popped up, startling the young boy.
"Ah, and who do we 'ave this late? You lost, lad? Need a room? " Tom asked with a toothy grin. He came around the side to closer inspect the late-night customer with his kind grey eyes, and Harry took an unintentional step back, feeling uncomfortable by the obvious scrutiny. Would Tom recognized him as the Boy-Who-Lived? Harry swept his bangs forward, hiding his puckered scar.
"Yes, sir," Harry forced out. "A room for the week will do. And...well, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I spent all my pocket money on the trip here." Tom let out a barking laugh, interrupting Harry. "No money? 'ow you planning on buyin' those rooms, then, lad?"
Harry's eye twitched in irritation. "I was thinking we set up a tab," he said shortly, his exhaustion catching up to him. "It's midnight, Tom. Please, just get me a room. I'll go to Gringotts in the morning, I swear."
At Harry's rising temper, Tom shut his mouth, wondering how this strange boy had known his name. He considered Harry with bulbous grey eyes, before shrugging his malformed shoulders. "Suit yourself," he murmured.
Tom pulled out a jangling set of keys from his robe pocket and led Harry through the back room and up a set of wooden stairs. Dim lantern lit a long hallway, moving portraits of old owners sleeping in their frames. They reached a small room at the end of a long hallway, a silver number 7 hanging on the door. "What's your name, lad?" Tom asked, uncomfortably.
"Evan James," Harry lied smoothly.
Tom didn't question the lad as he unlocked the door and gestured to the small space. "Room seven, second wing, Mr. James. We've got you with one of the smaller rooms, 'til your payment is made. The closet changes into a small bath when you say the word 'bubbles', an' your dirty laundry goes down tha' chute, see here?" Tom pointed.
Harry placed his backpack next to the desk, moving to look out the dusty window. It was a view of Muggle London, the city lights overcoming the stars. A train rumbled in the distance, and Harry relaxed at the familiar sight.
"Maid service is available every evenin'. Breakfast will be served at six- it's firs' come, firs' serve, by the way," Tom added, conjuring a toothbrush and bath towel, setting them to the side. "You'll receive full accommodations tomorrow, with payment. Toiletries, toothpaste, anythin' you want. But for now-" It came to deaf ears. Harry was already shedding his damp jumper, climbing into the nice, soft bed. "Wonderful. Thank you, Tom. You're dismissed." Harry mumbled into his pillow.
Sighing, Tom lit a small candle with his wand, the yellow flame flickering in the darkness, and slipped out noiselessly.
"Goodnight, Diagon Alley," Harry said to the empty room. He quickly fell into a deep slumber, dreaming -for once- of happier times.
The next morning started with a flurry of witches and wizard, weaving between and around each other through the crowded bar. Harry kept his head down as he made his first stop in Diagon Alley. Harry calmly strolled into the large doomed hall of Gringotts, pulling himself onto his toes to greet Marbrock- an older, surly looking goblin wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a dark scowl. "Good morning," Harry greeted politely. "I would like to visit my vault, please. Oh, and...well, my key has been unfortunately...withheld by my family's guardian of affairs. So..." Harry trailed off awkwardly.
Marbrock seemed to sigh in contempt, before pulling out a long piece of parchment. The edges were adorned with peculiar runes, Harry noticed, glowing in the dim light. Marbrock gingerly pulled out a thin black quill, holding it loosely in his wrinkled palms. "Sign your name with this," the goblin said, passing it over. "This is a Blood Quill, although we use it here as more of a utensil for identification, rather than for it's other, more...nefarious purposes," he explained. Harry nearly dropped the feather, feeling it's ugly magic thrumming through his fingertips. "It's purpose is to verify your identity and reveal any disclosed properties, wealth, or titles under your name. It is not made to harm you, although you may feel a small prick in your non-dominate hand."
Harry hesitated before signing, staring nervously at the quill. He flexed his left hand, remembering a previous pain.
'I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies.'
"Go on." Marbrock urged. Under the goblin's steely gaze, Harry signed his name, feeling quite queasy at the sight of his crimson blood bleeding into the parchment. Thin red lines began to branch out, tickling the runes and revealing a number of names and titles. A family tree, Harry realized, going as far back to Ignotus Peverell on his father's side. His family tree connected with the Blacks, he saw, via Dorea Potter. Harry was even related to the Malfoys and the Prewetts, he learned, through an arranged marriage with two Potter sons, a Prewett heiress and a Malfoy harlot back in the 15th Century. There was also quite a bit of inbreeding in the Medieval Ages, Harry noted with a light grimace.
Harry's mother's side was significantly less impressive, with only a few distant relatives containing wizarding blood, the line ending promptly with his mother.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," the goblin stated, and Harry detected a new found respect in his tone. "It appears that you are solely in possession of two separate, but equally large vaults- the Potter's, the Peverell's. A small fortune had been set aside for educational purchases, while you will receive claim to the larger vaults on your seventeenth birthday." As Marbrock explained Harry's assets- after leading Harry into his office for a more in depth conference- Harry slowly grew more and more irate with a certain 'guardian of affairs'.
It seemed that Dumbledore was in temporary possession of Harry's seat on the Wizengamot, as well as maintaining Harry's four separate estates and summer homes, and the two closed vaults in Gringotts. As the last of the Potters- and being Head of the family- Harry should have had full access to his assets on the day he was orphaned (which was a bit strange, considering he was an infant), but Dumbledore had quickly put an end to that.
Harry had lived close to poverty- with a cupboard as a bedroom, an elephant's hand-me-downs for clothing and no real possessions of his own- when this whole time he was an equivalent to a Lord, or an Earl, with a massive fortune and four houses all to his own.
Harry had already been aware of this, of course, coming to possession of his assets when the war ended- but that didn't make him any less annoyed. The goblin had assured Harry that Dumbledore had taken only a few old relics from the Peverell vault- "'artifacts, donated to the school for research purposes'", they were told- and a certain cloak from the Potter's. Harry's invisibility cloak, he realized- it had beenstolen.
'Your father left this in my possession', Harry's arse.
While Harry had some faith in his old mentor's honor, he could not help but feel that the old man was overstepping his boundaries. It was all done for your own good, a small voice in his head reminded him, but when he learned that monthly sums were also retrieved from Harry's vaults an transacted into muggle currency for the Dursley's child support, Harry's mood only grew darker.
Sighing in discontent as he retrieved a satchel of Galleons and Sickles from the smallest vault, Harry resigned to his fate. The goblins were adamant on withholding his vaults (under the impression that the young child would just waste the money away), but agreeably accepted his order for a goblin-made dagger. Marbrock's eyes lit up for the first time that morning, and promised to have it done by Christmas.
Harry had mused on how little a chance there was of him retrieving Godric Gryffindor's sword this time around, and decided that as far as horcrux-killing weapons went, basilisk venom soaked into a special-made blade would prove more efficient than Fiendfyre or a fossilized basilisk fang. The venom would be easy to procure, with Harry's advanced knowledge on Slytherin's beast and the location of the Chamber of Secrets. Hopefully the Basilisk would be lenient.
An hour later, Harry left for Madame Malkin's robe shop and stood dutifully on a high stool for the next half hour. He was being fitted for an entirely new wardrobe- and out of all Malkin's chatter, the only fashion advice he picked up was that green, grey and black were apparently his 'colors'. Harry had to resist rolling his eyes several times, but was grateful for Madame Malkin's help.
Harry enjoyed himself in Flourish and Blotts (buying his textbooks second hand, as they would only be needed for appearance purposes, after all), finding and purchasing whatever books caught his fancy. He bought several upper-level school books, regretting his missed year of classes and deciding to never, ever set foot in the Divination classroom again. Harry found a few tomes on basic Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, determined to learn everything he could. He soaked up the knowledge like a sponge nowadays, and wondered if that technically made him part Ravenclaw, as well as Slytherin and Gryffindor.
Luck was on his side in the potion's shop. There was a new shipment of rare ingredients, and the owner had a rare edition of Moste Potente Potions on auction for the highest bidder. Harry ordered a couple bottles of Veritaserum, Polyjuice Potion, Mandrake Juice, Draught of Living Death and a few other advanced potions that Harry had neither the means, time or the will to brew himself.
"Money is no object," was his catchphrase in Knockturn Alley. As he entered the grimy alley, Harry's old paranoia and new self-preservation instincts appeared as beady, suspicious eyes followed his every movement. He spent an awful lot of time in Borgin and Burkes, drawn in by a morbid curiosity of the Dark artifacts.
Borgin was found in the back, sharpening an iron long-sword with a whetstone. He was none to happy to be interrupted by an eleven year old, but was convinced (by a stack of galleons slid onto his counter) to show Harry some of his best artifacts on sale. Harry found he quite enjoyed the shop's variety, despite some of it's more nefarious and gory merchandises. He made several, well-spent purchases.
After a quick lunch of tea and sandwiches, Harry finally made his way to Ollivander's, the small shop dreary and dusty as ever. The shop did feel significantly less foreboding when intact, though, than pilfered and destroyed as it was in the Second War.
Harry knew what to expect when he entered the seemingly vacant shop, and turned the moment his neck prickled, catching Ollivander by surprise. Harry gave the pale-eyed man a small smile, remembering the last time he had seen him- pale and corpse-like as he described the Wand of Destiny in Shell Cottage, a strange tone in his voice, as if he was half in awe and half fearful of the Elder Wand's power.
"Good afternoon," Ollivander greeted after a beat, gradually inching closer and scrutinizing Harry with his distorted gaze. Harry remained still, wondering the merits of out-stranging the strangest wizard in Diagon Alley. "Ah, yes," Ollivander started, tilting his head curiously. "I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. Although...I do believe you are several days early," Ollivander mused. Harry arched an eyebrow, suspicion growing in his chest. "Early?" he asked lightly. "What gave you that impression?"
Ollivander did not respond, but simply flicked his hand to activate the magic tape-measure. "I remember every wand I ever sold," Ollivander continued, as if he hadn't heard the question. The tape measure zipped around Harry's ankles and began measuring his heel size. "Your mother's wand, for instance, was Willow; ten and a quarter inches, nice and swishy. Good for charm work." Ollivander gestured for Harry to remove his glasses, and the tape flipped upwards to measure his eyelashes. He tried not to flinch. "You have your mother's eyes. Harlequin, an excellent shade of green." Ollivander murmured unintelligibly.
"Your father, on the other hand, favored a nice Mahogany wand. Eleven inches, pliable. Excellent for transfiguration, and proved proficient with hexes and curses. Mischievous boy, that James Potter. Nearly set fire to my shop...twice!" Ollivander chuckled wheezily. Harry was amused at the wand maker's reminiscences, and swatted away the tape measure as Ollivander approached Harry with a wand. "Now, for you, my boy..." he handed over a thin beechwood wand, just shorter than Harry's forearm. Harry sighed, already feeling the discomfort in his magic. He flicked it lazily, and a sharp wind picked up, blowing open the door. Harry set it down quickly. "Definitely not," he informed Ollivander. He felt as if he was squeezing his magic into a small hole, strained and uncomfortable. He needed his wand.
Ollivander selected several other options, Harry gradually becoming antsy with each failure. Finally, after a sleek black hawthorn wand- Draco Malfoy's wand, he realized- that was only slightly more comfortable than the last half dozen, Harry's patience broke. "Alright, enough of that," he said firmly, moving past a startled Ollivander. He eyed a tall shelf, finding the correct brown box. He felt the familiar presence of his Holly wand, and he pulled out the wand with anticipation. He gripped his wand, feeling the lovely warmth and the soft buzz of controlled magic, greeting him like an old friend.
He flicked it slightly, a spectacular shower of colors erupting from the end. A firework show of green and gold flecks hovered in the air, before calmly settling to the floor, leaving a lingering hue. Harry smiled, ignoring Ollivander's mumbles of "curious, curious," and passed over the seven Sickles.
"Usually the wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter...but you are indeed a special wizard." He said before Harry could leave. The wand maker's eyes flicked up to the lightning bolt scar, and Harry stared him down unflinchingly. "We chose each other, Mr. Ollivander," Harry said evenly, giving the man a knowing smirk. "But I appreciate the compliment."
Ollivander eyed the young boy, lips turning down in disapproval. "Did you, now?" Ollivander asked, intrigued. "Well...I do believe that we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, the man who gave you that scar, did great things. Terrible-"
"Yes. Voldemort did terrible things." Harry interrupted, eyes flashing dangerously. "I know, sir. I know this better than anyone." Harry paused. "Good day, Mr. Ollivander."The wand maker was taken aback by Harry's crass, brows furrowing as the young wizard swept away, fondly gripping the wand, almost possessively. "Curious," Ollivander murmured. "A curious boy, indeed."
Chapter 8: Chapter Eight: A Giant Problem, Part I
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that
I have always had an idea that
I would have made a highly efficient criminal.
-Sherlock Holmes
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchis e.
Chapter Eight: A Giant Problem
Part I
July 31st, 1991
Harry found himself nursing a strong cup of tea that morning, as he sat down for breakfast. He gently blew away the steam before taking a tentative sip, nose wrinkling at the bitter taste.
Harry had nabbed a copy of the Daily Prophet, and was surprised to see a moving image of his parents and himself- as an infant- smiling on the fifth page. Harry read on, finding a light-hearted summary of his parent's deaths, followed by an absurd speculation piece on Harry's upcoming 'return to the Wizarding world'. Rita Skeeter, at this point in time, was only a junior author, detained to the editorial section. She had made an amusing occupation of spreading ridiculous rumors, dragging names through the mud and controlling the Wizarding world's gossip mill.
Somehow, Rita had procured an interview with the Ministry's child service department, attempting to wheedle out information on Harry's ten year disappearance. Her theories ranged from cold-hearted inanities to vaguely bemusing gibberish- Harry wondered how it had been published in the first place, but the Daily Prophet always did have a soft spot for Rita's work. Harry folded the paper lightly before setting it under his teacup. At least that gave it some use.
Harry glanced over at the large, mahogany grandfather clock, reassuring himself that Hagrid would be arriving soon. Harry was patient, and munched on a scone as he kept his eyes in the main entrance, and his ears open.
Harry was wearing a new set of grey robes fit with large pockets and an in-sewn holster for his wand. Harry had gleefully set fire to his old Muggle wear a few nights before, immensely enjoying the dirty, worn fabric going up in orange flames and grey smoke. If Tom had been concerned by the bonfire in his courtyard, he hadn't mentioned it- although, it might have been the vengeful look on Harry's face that scared Tom off as he cast the strong Incindio.
Tom was used to strange folks coming in and out of his inn, but 'Evan James' nearly took the prize. At first impression, the child had been polite, well-spoken- if not a trifle impatient as most young wizards were. But after the first few days, Tom began to suspect that 'Evan' was more than meet the eyes.
First came the sudden change of appearance; the day after Evan's first shopping trip, he had emerged from his room with untidy blonde hair and blue eyes- replacing the mop of black and striking green irises he had entered with. Tom knew that the two different-looking but similar-acting lads were one and the same, but he found it hard to believe that a wizard so young could pull off such a successful glamour charm. Tom, himself,hadn't been able to accomplish the charm until his third year, when his classmates began teasing him for his warts and pimples.
Tom was not an incompetent wizard- far from it, in fact. Tom was marginally intelligent, but was always quiet in school and refused to raise his hand. He already had enough unwanted attention in school from his hunchback, his awful lisp and his disturbing lack of body hair. He had been horribly bullied in school, but found he still enjoyed his time there, despite this. Tom was half-muggle and half-beast, but could wield a wand all the same. His specialty with charm work gained him a scholarship to Hogwarts and he had remained firmly at the top of his class.
After watching his step all throughout school, Tom had sharped his skill for detecting hidden charms and bewitchments on a person or object- this had been particularly useful his second year, when Walden Macnair jinxed Tom's spellbooks to start reading aloud the death scene of Quasimodo in Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame whenever he turned to a certain chapter.
Nonetheless, it was due to this talent that Tom could visibly see the thin layer of magic settled across Evan's skin, distorting his eye color and masking a small space just above his left brow. If Tom had been any more perceptive, he might've been able to put two and two together- but he was far more distracted by the strange magical hue radiating throughout Evan's small body. It was a verdant green color that melted from gold to blood red the higher you went. This obvious potential for power was astonishing, certainly suspicious for a supposedly uneducated young wizard. It was clear that 'Evan James' had something to hide, something very peculiar indeed.
Then, of course, were the incidents that had occurred in the inn that past week. There were several cases of stolen coin, a few light-hearted pranks pulled on Tom's grumpier customers and that startling bonfire in his courtyard a few nights before. Evan would hole himself up in his room, except for those rare opportunities that he emerged, with a weary look in his eyes and an even stronger magical aura. Tom could only speculate, but mixed with Evan's strange moods and sharp, intelligent eyes, it was clear something was going on right under his nose.
Evan seemed wealthy, and would buy bags upon bags of extra-curricular tomes and strange artifacts that Tom sensed were quite powerful. But then, there was the boy's old, ragged wardrobe and his second-hand school books. The haunted look in Evan's eyes and his obvious paranoia signified a life of hardship, something Tom was all to familiar with. Tom wanted to befriend the young wizard, and had made a point of greeting the lad every morning and forcing a (usually one-sided) conversation between the two. Evan was exceptionally closed off at the best of times, but would occasionally let slip a comment or two, that would make Tom wonder...
Yes, Evan James was a very strange lad, but it wasn't until the sudden arrival of Tom's good friend Rubeus Hagrid, that Evan began acting in a truly concerning manner.
Tom had been scrubbing a few porcelain plates and humming a warbling tune under his breath when the half-giant began squeezing his way into the bar, making a bit of a ruckus as he did. Tom winced as his friend knocked over the umbrella rack with a clang. Hagrid sheepishly mumbled apologies under his breath as he pushed through the small crowd.
The half-giant seemed ruffled, his busy black hair wind-blown with long white feathers caught in his tangled beard. Tom arched a non-existent eyebrow, and pulled down a large glass. "Take the motorcycle again, Hagrid?" Tom asked, glancing out the window to see the large bike leaning heavily against a bent pole. Tom snickered, imagining his friend driving right into it. "The usual, then?"
Hagrid lumbered up to the bar, pulling out a small golden pocket watch. He squinted to read the time. "Yeah, I've got time for a pick-me-up. And as for the bike, well, it's certainly bigger than a broomstick ain't it? An' I can't fit through the floo, so I don't have much'uva choice. It's not so bad, but those damn pigeons..." Hagrid shook his head, accepting a tall glass of brandy. He slurped half down in a single gulp, staining his lips yellow. He slammed the glass down with a burp, wiping a beefy arm across his face. "I can't stay long, Tom. I'm on 'ogwarts business." Hagrid's chest huffed out in pride. "But, uh...maybe, just top this one off for me? I'm goin' to Gringotts, an' you know how I feel 'bout those blasted carts."
Tom nodded sympathetically and quickly refilled the half-giant's glass. "Say, Tom," Hagrid said suddenly, in between a few sips. He leaned over the counter, his beard dragging into the brandy. "You haven't seen a lad 'round here, 'ave you?" he spoke, voice low. "Black hair, bright green eyes? Maybe lookin' a bit lost?" Hagrid seemed a little hopeful, at that.
Tom's eyes shot to Evan, who was sitting stiffly in his seat, head bent low. Tom searched the boy's guarded expression, catching a strange intensity in his fake cerulean blue eyes. The boy glanced up to the barkeep and gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his lips pouting in a plead. Tom swallowed, turning back to his friend. "No...no, I don' think so." Tom said lightly, the lie coming out rough. "It's been a busy couple'a days, Hagrid. Might I ask why?"
The half-giant leaned back, visibly disappointed. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Er...well, more Hogwarts business, Tom. You understand." Hagrid began pulling out a stack of Sickles, pushing them across the counter. "I suppose I shoul' be getting off, then." He slid off the stool heavily, the floor vibrating from the impact. "See you in a bit, Tom."
Tom stood still as he watched the half-giant enter the courtyard, glancing around suspiciously as he pulled out a worn umbrella and tapped the bewitched brick wall. Very slowly, Evan rose from his spot, purposefully ignoring Tom's questioning gaze. Evan slid out into the courtyard, his intention quite clear. Tom gnawed on his lip, stomach sinking worryingly.
It was a very good thing Hagrid was tall, otherwise Harry would have lost him in the crowd ages ago, The half-giant was visibly anxious, making a terrible job of discretion. He spoke too loud when the shop-owners greeted him, kept riffling through his pockets as if making they were still intact, and was stomping through the crowd like a stampeding buffalo- Harry could not have been more irritated with his old friend. Harry had loitered outside of Gringotts for nearly a quarter hour, lingering casually by the large silver gates.
'Enter, stranger, but take heed…' Harry tore his eyes away from the inscription, feeling an unfamiliar tug at his magic- a compulsion charm, modified by rare goblin magic to ward off any thieves. Ingenious.
Harry occupied his time by inspecting the small black ball in his palm- a Celtic 'Changer Cruth'. A shape changer. It was the size and shape of a muggle golf ball, inky black in color with a small golden spiral imprinted on the surface. Found in Knockturn Alley and sold for a hefty price, the Cruth could morph into a replica of any magical artifact, even mimicking some of it's power, temporarily. The Cruth would, of course, never be as powerful as the Philosopher's Stone, but it would do well for a decoy.
Hagrid finally emerged from the bank, his face expectedly green and his lips pressed together in an attempt to keep down bile. Harry noticed that Hagrid was keeping a large hand clamped across his outer pocket.
Recalling the very fuzzy memory of his short time with the real Philosopher's Stone (after apprehending Quirrell and burning his face off in the old timeline) - Harry pressed the tip of his wand to the Cruth's golden rune and watched as it changed before his eyes. Glowing scarlet and gold, the Cruth was the exact shape, size and color of Nicholas Flamel's creation; a perfect decoy. The Cruth even seemed to pulse with the same ethereal power, tingling through Harry's fingertips as he held it close.
He trailed Hagrid, a few paces behind the half-giant. They weaved through the large crowds of chattering witches and wizards, ducking as owls swooped down on their heads. Inching even closer, Harry saw his chance. Hagrid was approaching a tide of young children, pining for a glimpse of the new Nimbus 2000. Catching a peek at the sleek broomstick himself, Harry felt a wistful pang in his chest as he remembered a happier time. Forcing himself to pay attention, Harry spotted a thin blonde girl pushing through the crowd. She was right in front of the anxious half-giant, pulling herself to her toes to see over the crowd. Harry's wand slid out of his sleeve immediately, and he whispered a jinx, aiming for the blonde's pointed feet. "Candenta,"
The blonde fell head over heels, collapsing into Hagrid's torso with a loud "umph!" Hagrid's hand shot away from his pocket, grasping the young witches shoulder to pull her up. "Careful, there," he warned as Harry swiftly came up behind him, slipping a small hand into the large pocket. Harry felt for the lumpy package and gently slid it into his sleeve. Harry replaced the stone with the similarly wrapped Cruth and fell back, his mission accomplished, all in a matter of seconds. While Hagrid was oblivious, another set of eyes was carefully watching the exchange with a bemused smirk.
Pulling into an unpopulated corner, Harry watched his old friend depart, the half-giant unaware that he was leaving with nothing but a fake. As Harry made to head back to the inn, a pale hand shot out of the crowd, pulling on Harry's sleeve. The stone slipped to the ground, and as Harry scrambled to retrieve it, a familiar drawling voice spoke:
"Well, well. What do we have here?" Draco Malfoy intoned, holding the stolen package just out of Harry's reach. Harry stared wide-eyed at his ex-rival, wondering how in the hell he was going to get out of this one.
"So, what are you?" Draco snapped, tugging off the package wrapping. "A common street urchin? Or a petty thief?"
Chapter 9: Chapter Nine: A Giant Problem, Part II
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge
what a man will store up in his ghostly heart
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Nine: A Giant Problem
Part II
Draco Malfoy was by no means stupid- in fact, he rebuffed the very thought. His parents had spent good money on the best tutors, the best resources, and the best everything for their son. They expected him to be a proper member of society, instead of wasting away his talents like most unrespectable Wizarding families were known to do.
Draco was far ahead any of his peers in Potions, Charms, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Magical Mechanics, having taken primary lessons since he was old enough to speak and inscribe. Draco found a dull pleasure in reading upon an unknown subject, his personal library filled with books on every subject known to man. Draco even had procured a few Muggle textbooks one day, originally just for laughs. Draco was surprised to learn how entirely different the Muggle academics were compared to magic education (which had already begun to bore him in his summer of practice). Draco found himself sickeningly intrigued to the plebeian subjects, although he would never admit to that aloud.
Wizards were still superior in many ways to Muggles, but he had to respect the poor humans for being so...determined. Muggles needed to do everything by hand; slaving away for decades to solve the most complex things, like space travel or undersea exploring. Their lessons in science and math came easy to him- he enjoyed the feeling of comprehending something very few adult wizards could understand, crunching down something so complicated and impossible as Electricity or Trigonometry into terms that even a child could come to understand. In the Wizarding world, intelligence was based on how many spells you mastered, or how high on the hierarchy you resided; Muggles based intelligence by your tenacity. Understanding complex formulas and reading the context behind a old piece of literature was taught in most schoolings, but very few Muggles had the will to learn more. And those few- those intelligent few, were just ambitious enough to gain Draco's attention
These Muggle skills were not well appreciated in the Wizarding World- because, well, who needed to learn Physics or Chemistry when you could order a potion, or simply conjure the tools to solve your problem? Magic was not ruled by scientific laws and physics- you could defy gravity without lifting a finger, go faster than the speed of light, and even reverse time.
The Muggles were ignorant, Draco's father said. They were idiots, making limitations for what they could or could not do in this world. Draco's father blamed the Muggle's for their lack of evolution and made a point of flaunting his superiority on those rare visits to the Muggle world. Draco admitted that most Muggles were amazingly useless, and often joined in on the bigotry. He balefully took it to a whole other level, if only to appease his parents. Appeasing his parents was practically his career, even if it meant...fraternizing with the likes of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.
Draco could not tolerate idiots, but there he was, stuck in Flourish and Blotts with two very large ones. Crabbe and Goyle's breath was hot on Draco's neck as they craned over his shoulder to read the supply list. Crabbe and Goyle were tall and very muscular compared to Draco's short, lithe figure. Their bulk was almost imposing, and Draco quickly pulled away, tucking the list into his robes. "Pathetic, all of this.The Standard Book of Spells? A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration? It's just turning matchsticks into needles and bugs into buttons. We aren't going to learn anything important this year, it seems," he sneered. The boys approached the counter, the owner lifting his head from a book called Felines in Mythology, with a large painting of Bastet, the Egyptian goddess, on it's cover. "We'll take the lot," Draco told the man. "First year books- newest editions, mind you. I won't be taking any second-hand copies."
Crabbe and Goyle nodded their agreement, and the owner scrambled to retrieve the tomes. Draco sighed tiredly, and wandered off to the non-academic section, looking for a copy of the new vampire-slayer novel while Crabbe and Goyle spoke in low murmurs to each other. The two boys had been best friends since childhood, and were mere acquaintances with Draco at the time. Due to some financial dispute- solved by the Malfoy's several decades ago- the two families had sworn fealty to the far more wealthy House.
Throughout the years, the two families had served as bodyguards, protectors, employees and concubines under the Malfoy's beck and call. The Crabbes and Goyles were rich families on their own, but having fallen so low as to serve another pureblood family for eternity- this was of utmost disgrace. Draco was doing them a favor, really, remaining cordial with the two boys, rather than ordering them around like house-elves. Draco had a feeling that if someone wasn't there to lead them that day, they would've ended up wandering around like blind cyclopes.
The owner came back into the shop, a massive pile of books in his arms. He looked a bit pale, in truth- but that was his own fault for carrying the books around like a Muggle, rather than using a Levitation Charm or something of the sort. Draco was sure Muggles even had a way to carry large purchases without much strain- shopping carts, wasn't it? Shopping baskets?
Draco sighed as the owner tipped his books hastily into a poorly-made but expandable book bag, and accepted his purchases all the same. Draco tossed a pile of coins onto the counter and set off with his bag, not yet trusting his two underlings to touch his stuff. Who knew where their hands had been?
Coming into the busy streets of Diagon Alley, Draco led the way to their next stop-Quality Quidditch Supplies, where a large crowd was gathering around the Nimbus 2000 display. Draco elbowed his way to the front and stared at the broomstick longingly. He had an old Comet 260 at home, fast and faithful- but it wasn't the Nimbus. He could probably convince his father to buy it- Lucius had always said that the boy would make a good addition to the Slytherin team; as Seeker, likely, or Chaser. They just had to let him on the team.
"I need that broom," Draco decided, turning to find his beefy friends. A sharp elbow of a short brunette dug his side as he peered over the crowd, trying to catch a sight of the two boys. Guessing that they had waited outside the book shop, he squeezed his way through the tight-packed children. It was quite a large crowd, and most of the children were trying to get close to the broom, rather than away from it. This proved problematic for the young blonde as he pushed against the tide.
Draco just about yelped at the sight of a fricken giant moving right in front of him, heading away from the bank with a queasy expression etched across his disfigured features.
Draco was trapped between a few older kids, who kept trying to push him around to get to the broom. Draco ignored them, and eyed the large man with thinly veiled disgust. He was dirty, for one thing, with a tangled mess of black fur and cracked, dry skin. His clothes were enough to fit perhaps a small troll, darkened and worn from use and stained various colors.
A bit astonished at the sight of such a man so close, Draco didn't see the blonde girl in front of him trip, until a wayward body part smacked against his leg- hard. Draco snapped- meaning to yell at the girl for her clumsiness- when he noticed a small, average-looking boy tuck away his wand suspiciously and slide a hand into the giant's large pocket. Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
The boy slipped something out, a round object wrapped in dull brown packaging. Draco couldn't tell if this object was important or not, but by the time he made to say something about the pick-pocket, the giant had already helped the girl up and continued on his journey.
The thief fell back, and Draco fought his way through the crowd to see the boy disappearing into a dark corner. Finally able to breath, Draco flicked away a lock of flaxen-white hair and debated playing hero for once, or letting the urchin get away with such a pathetic act of burglary.
Honestly, what could that giant possibly own, that anyone would want so bad to actually steal it?
Draco suddenly remembered what his father had said about a half-giant manservant of Dumbledore's, by the name of Haggard or something. The giant was irrevocably trusted by the foolish headmaster, and lived year round at the school in an old-hut. The man was too dangerous to be let into civilization, Draco's father had told him...so what had he been doing in Diagon Alley? And coming from...Draco's eyes trailed down the street to the large bank, eyes narrowing.
The thief had almost managed to sneak away by the time Draco caught up to him. Draco tugged on the boy's robes, the package sliding out of his robe sleeve and descending to the ground. With the skill of a Seeker, Draco caught it quickly, holding it above the thief's head, just to see the boy's reaction.
To Draco's surprise, the boy didn't panic, nor did he seem particularly sheepish or angry. A strange look filled his blue eyes, and the boy seemed to be holding his tongue as Draco questioned him. "So, what is this?" Draco asked, pulling down the brown paper. After catching only a flash of golden-red and a strange pulse of power, the thief lashed out suddenly at the young blonde, his eyes flashing green- killing curse green.
Draco startled at the violence, and the object was suddenly out of his hands, the thief running far, far away. This all occurred in a matter of seconds, but in that short flash of action, Draco could've sworn he saw a blurred lightning-bolt appearing on the boy's forehead, before flickering away into blemish-less skin. Draco stared, dumbfounded, coming to the slow realization that he had just jumped into a situation much, much more complicated than even he knew.
The sudden arrival of Draco Malfoy- albeit, a smaller and more annoying one than Harry was used too- sent the Boy-Who-Lived's mind reeling.
He had been caught. He was cornered, by a future Death Eater- he couldn't think, he couldn't Occlume. He thought he'd be ready, seeing all his old friends and enemies. But if he couldn't even handle his ex-rival...
Harry couldn't remember exactly how it happened, but after Draco swiped up the Stone, he had just panicked. In a rogue burst of Gryffindor-ism, Harry lashed out. It wasn't done with the express purpose of harming Draco, but Harry had definitely startled Draco long enough for him to escape, the Stone suddenly back in his hands. It was a small miracle, that.
Harry made it back to The Leaky Cauldron unscathed, and had managed to compose himself long enough to sneak past Tom's suspicious gaze. He locked the bedroom door behind him as he stored away the Stone into it's obsidian lock box, activating the safety charms with a drop of his blood.
He swiftly packed his belongings, using his Untraceable wand for speed and efficiency. Harry made sure he left nothing of importance behind by burning his notes and the receipts for all his dubious purchases, scattering the ashes outside his window. After checking under his bed, in his desk drawers, and in the closet/bathroom...he finally lugged his full, expandable trunk down into the bar.
Having paid upfront for his stay, Harry easily evaded Tom (whose back had been turned) and left the room key on the bar counter. There was no way in Heaven or Hell that Harry would return to the Dursley's, or even to Muggle London, where he would be hidden, but possibly even more stand-outish than he was, now.
Left with no other choice, Harry vanished through the brick wall, turning into Knockturn Alley once he was sure Draco hadn't lingered around the alley. Harry was exhausted by the time he reached Xenos' Tavern. Although it was only mid-morning, Harry felt as if he had just taken on a whole battalion.
Harry was having issue maintaining his glamour- it was almost painful, keeping it up. He had felt it slipping when Draco affronted him, and hoped to all that was holy that the young future-Slytherin hadn't caught sight of his hair, or his scar, being two of his most distinguishable features. Glamour charms were difficult, and with Harry's small body and the limited magical core that came with it, Harry could only pull off so much.
When under a glamour, his features were still marginally the same, as was his voice, figure and wardrobe. If Draco recognized Harry at school- or even if Tom did, by putting two-and-two together, and notified Dumbledore- Harry would be royally screwed.
Despite these struggles, Harry knew it would not bode well to have the Boy-Who-Lived seen living in Knockturn Alley for the next month, so Harry was forced to create a new persona. With dark brown hair- an easy adjustment, as it was only a few shades lighter than his natural ebony mop- and obsidian black eyes, Harry Potter reluctantly became 'Vernon Dudley'- a quiet but unshakable boy of questionable origins and even more questionable motives.
Harry was hesitant at first to stay at the old, Dark feeling residency that was Xenos' Tavern, but after a few days it became clear that he was in no real danger. While at Xenos' the customers were usually quite imposing- ranging from ragged old werewolves (who stayed locked in the cellar during the Full Moon and left to fend for themselves) to off-duty Ministry workers with diluted senses of justice- it typically was that if Harry left them alone, they would leave him alone.
He didn't make himself an easy target for creepers, and never rose to the challenge when he saw the vulnerable ex-Death Eaters drunk out of their minds- he remained in his room, usually, venturing out only for meals and for shopping trips. In the eyes of everyone else, he was just like them- not the Boy-Who-Lived or a peculiar child with a trouble making streak. They were all in the same book, there, dreary, broke, hunted. They were trapped on the verge of Darkness, succumbing to alcohol, drugs, sex, and Dark Arts to drown out all the pain and hollowness.
No one ever questioned the child after seeing that look in his dark, blazing eyes (that occasionally flashed harlequin green when he got pissed). They stayed away, no one seeming to care an ounce about anyone but themselves. They literally did not give a single shit about that 'Vernon Dudley kid'...which was fortunate, for him.
After days and days of working until dusk to dawn- and then trying (and failing) to sleep off his physical and magical exhaustion- Harry was very lucky, indeed, that no one cared to listen in on him, because after a few weeks of working his arse off with having hardly anything to show for it...Harry became very creative in voicing in his frustrations.
Just one more month- Harry told himself wearily. Hold out for one more month, Potter.
And then you'll truly be home.
Chapter 10: Chapter Ten: The Scarlet Express
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
From a certain point onward, there is no longer any turning back.
That is the point that must be reached.
-Franz Kafka
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Ten: The Scarlet Express
September 1st, 1991
He awoke at the cusp of morning, darkness still veiling the streets outside his dusty, cracked window. Eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, he mechanically pulled himself out of bed and yanked on a pair of trousers and a simple, dark green button-up. Breakfast was always served early for the nocturnal beings (who had a different taste in meals), but most customers preferred to eat before the wild werewolf clan awoke and began their sloppy ravaging.
Harry- under the disguise of 'Vernon Dudley'- quickly locked the door behind him and set a password protection by whispering into the moldy wooden frame. "Novissimo die"- Latin for 'last day'. Merlin, just thinking about heading to Hogwarts made Harry's stomach churn in excitement...and maybe a bit of anxiety.
In the old timeline, he had met his best friends on this day.
He shared his first Wizarding candies and scared off a group of bullies- those were the ties that had first bound him to Ron. Harry didn't know if he could stand seeing the Weasleys again- his best friend, his sort-of girlfriend, the twins (both of them alive, and with both ears!), pre-Ministry Percy, and Harry's- for all intents and purposes- surrogate mother and father. With their flaming red hair, worn clothing, matching freckles, second hand books, horrendous pet rat (of whom Harry planned on capturing at first chance)...Harry missed the Weasleys now more than ever.
But he also knew what would become of the lively family- their home would be destroyed, they'd be attacked, brokenhearted and bitter.
Harry couldn't put them through that again. He couldn't put anyone through that.
He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and as long as Voldemort lived, danger would stir around every corner; Harry was the only one capable of thwarting it.
Harry had to save them, not because of the prophecy or an inborn obligation- Harry was saving them for himself. He would save this version of his friends in honor of those who had died in his last life. But to save them, he couldn't pull them into the abyss. Allies would be useful, but when it came to winning the war, Harry had to go it alone. He had to protect his friends- both old and new. He had to save his home.
Harry made it down to the communal tavern, unsurprised to see Edgar and Rhanion finishing a meal, their dark golden eyes glimmering and their cheeks swollen from a most satisfying meal. Harry was familiar with the droplets of scarlet blood staining the floor, and scooped himself a slab of cooked bacon dripping in grease. Even after a month after eating nothing but protein and potatoes- Xenos' specialty- Harry was still about the size of an eight year old. He'd have to get some nourishment potions at Hogwarts by swiping them, or having Madam Pomphrey administer them herself. Harry wondered if the nurse would talk to Dumbledore about the abuse. Dumbledore wouldn't do jack-shit about it, but Madam Pomphrey could become fiercely protective of he wards.
Harry avoided the open cooler of raw meat and palmed a day-old breakfast roll. He gave a cordial nod to the two vampires, fighting a grin at their quiet, but humanizing banter.
Edgar was dark skinned and handsome, but his skin color was drawn out with a deadly pallor. His skin had once been a rich dark chocolate, having been taken from Africa in the late 1800's to serve in America. He had committed suicide under a Blood Moon, triggering the Vampirism disease. Undead and bloodthirsty, Edgar captured and killed a crew of sailors in order to emigrate home, to Uganda. England had colonized Uganda by this time, and Edgar made a side trip to the United Kingdom with the express purpose of terrorizing the larger population.
Rhanion- Ion, as she preferred- was a young witch in West London, known for her incredible Elemental skills. She had wandered into a Darker part of the city one night, when she was violently mauled half an inch to death by an occupational rival. Notified by the smell of her blood, she was saved by Edgar, and Turned to save her life. Ion looked to be only nineteen, with long auburn hair, pearl pink lips and a slim body she kept constrained in a tight black corset. She wore long, Victorian-era gowns to hide the disgusting unhealed scars on her legs, caused by the attack.
Rhanion and Edgar had imprinted long ago; Edgar was fiercely protective of his mate, even when they were solely in the company of an eleven-year old. Harry couldn't help but find their relationship sickeningly sweet as he watched Ion lick the leftover blood off Edgar's fingers, whispering seductively. Harry averted his eyes, and finished his meal as the two bloodsuckers departed hand-in-hand for their coffins. The sun was rising, lighting the dim streets of Knockturn Alley. Harry heard feet pounding on the stairs and a inhuman screech echo through the tavern, alerting him to the awakening werewolves. On instinct, Harry bolted.
Eleven o'clock was soon upon him as he caught the Day Bus (a vivid orange triple-decker with a hyper conductor in his late teens, and an irritable middle-aged driver) to King's Cross Station. He was vaguely impressed by the vehicle's invisibility bewitchments and it's ability to part traffic like Moses to the Red Sea.
Harry scrambled off this bus, stomach queasy and head pounding from the ride. His feet barely hit the ground before the bus took off with a BANG! that sent his ears ringing. Harry lugged his trunk into the station- purposefully avoiding the rude passing guard- and approached Platform Nine and Ten.
His shoulders were stiff as he listened for "-packed with Muggles, of course-"...that. Hearing the large family approach, Harry slipped through the brick barrier, heart pounding in his ears. This is irrational,Harry reminded himself shrewdly. He was disguised as Vernon Dudley (just until he was safe on board), and no one was likely to recognize him.
A sudden thought came to him. Why was it that a fully-educated woman (and the wife of a Ministry worker, to boot) would loudly announce to a station packed with Muggles that there was, in essence, amagical barrier leading to a magical train, departing to a magical school for magical children- obviously breaking the Statute of Secrecy, if she was not... up to something.
Of course, Harry wanted to believe that Molly was deliberately trying to help any lost souls out of the good of her heart...but Hagrid did 'forget' to mention the secret to the platform, and Harry couldn't recall a single other child outside the platform. Had it all been a set up for the Boy-Who-Lived? Or just a coincidence? Harry stored away the thought for later as he greeted the familiar, scarlet-red express train with a new light in his eyes.
Dark smoke hovered over their heads, pets weaving around their feet. Harry caught sight of Neville and his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, bickering about his lost toad while the handsome droll of Cedric Diggory sounded somewhere to his left. Harry pushed on, feeling a strange mixture of grief and love for this wayward crowd of witches and wizards. Merlin, how he had missed all this.
His hands were trembling as he pulled out his wand and levitated the trunk into a compartment, disappearing before Fred and George could join him. He slipped into a seat inconspicuously hidden in the back train car with the intent of ignoring the Weasleys...but their voices seemed to travel. As the train began to whistle, he caught Molly's parting conversation with her youngest son. "Remember, Ronnie- black hair, glasses-"
"Don't forget the scar!" Ron piped up, his voice squeaky and young. "Yes, yes, that too." Molly agreed. "Oh! Mum, do you think he remembers...You-Know-Who?" There was a smacking sound. "I forbid you to ask him, Ronald- no, don't you dare. The boy is not something to goggle at in a zoo, Ron- as though he needs reminding of that on his first day of school." Ron began to back out of the conversation, sounding exasperated. "Alright, mum. I'll just talk to him- I won't ask, I swear."
Molly finally softened. "Oh, fine, then. Do be good, Ron. Listen to your professors, and Percy. Try to stay out of trouble, Ron-" The train began forward with a jolt. "Hurry up!" she said, and Ron bid his farewell. "Bye, Mom!" The other students waved out their windows to the dispersing families, one girl calling out her farewells in rapid French. The Hogwarts Express rounded the corner, an advanced potions book already in Harry's hands. His face was composed, his mind clear due to well-practiced Occlumency.
Harry now knew that Mrs. Weasley had been watching for him, and willing to sic her son him. Was Molly looking out for Harry's best interest, or was it Dumbledore pulling the strings? What was the objective of Dumbledore's plotting? Albus hadn't even met Harry, and he was already setting his 'Greater Good' plans in motion. What had been the point of his and the Weasleys 'chance' meeting?
Harry looked down at his book, fighting back a flare of anger at the meddling old man. In the Second War, Harry had been a willing player in Dumbledore's little game- fighting for the 'Greater Good'. Harry was the Knight to Voldemort's King, Dumbledore as the chess-master.
The old sorcerer had good intentions in mind- but in this timeline, his little Knight was calling mutiny. Screw good intentions, Harry wasn't allowing Dumbledore or Voldemort to control his new life. He wasn't killing anymore pawns, willing or not. He was going to win the war his way, even if he died trying.
Harry forced himself into the present, hastily wiping the tears that prickled in his eyes.
Harry grudgingly let down his glamour as he felt his magic straining for release. He watched through the window's blurry reflection as his hair darkened to the color of ink, his scar prickled forward and his eyes flashed green. On instinct, Harry brushed his dark bangs forward to cover the lightning-bolt, and fell into the fascinating world of potions. He found intrigue in a potion made of troll skin and scarab beetle entrails, which caused your skin to become temporarily impenetrable for- oh. Only about five minutes. Long enough, Harry supposed, for a duel or the likes- but the process of brewing it was near impossible, involving lunar charts and spectacularly specific timing. Only a single brewer in recent history had been known for brewing it correctly. Albeit, it was on her ninth year of research that she finally managed it, but-
Harry didn't notice when the trolley came by until the dimple-faced woman rapped sharply on his compartment door. "Anything on the trolley?" she asked with a somewhat forced smile. Harry reluctantly succumbed to his sweet tooth, purchasing a few packages Chocolate Frogs and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He felt a trifle lonesome, eating by himself- but after a summer of isolation, he was well familiar to the feeling. Harry was unsurprised to see Albus Dumbledore on his first card. After biting the head off his treat, he lit the card on fire with a twitch of his wand and balefully scattered it's ashes in the wind. (Harry was becoming a bit of a pyromaniac, it seemed. Incindio was one of his favorite spells nowadays.)
There was a knock on the compartment door as Harry was about to reopen his book, and Neville Longbottom stepped in, looking pitifully tearful. Harry's throat tightened.
Time seemed to slow down, at least...to Harry, it did. He remembered Neville in flashes.
The Rememberall falling through the air as Neville slipped off the broom, breaking his wrist. Standing up to Malfoy, and Neville's own housemates, earning the winning points for the House cup.
Fainting at the Mandrake's premature cry, and warning Harry of the diary thief in second year.
Leaving out the list of passwords for Sirius Black, and being forced to sleep outside the Fat Lady's portrait.
Helping Harry with the second task, using stolen Gillyweed.
Unquestioningly following Harry into the Department of Mysteries, fighting the woman who tortured his parents into insanity...
Leading the Hogwarts students into the Final Battle, and killing Nagini with a swipe of Gryffindor's Sword.
Harry blinked rapidly as Neville spoke, time seeming to catch up. "Sorry to interrupt," Neville blubbered. "But have you seen a toad, at all?"
Physically unable to respond intelligently, Harry shook his head numbly. "I've lost him!" Neville wailed. "He keeps getting away from me." Harry noticeably composed himself, hastily clearing his throat. "I...well, have...have you considered a summoning charm, yet?" Harry forced out. There was a pause and Neville shook his head, brows furrowing. "No...not yet. That's really smart, actually. Gran always tried to teach me, said it'd be important because I keep loosing things-"
"I'll do it." Harry interrupted, flicking out his wand. "It's a fourth year charm, a bit difficult for most, but I've been practicing," Harry explained slowly. "By summoning pillows and books from across the room and the like. It seemed useful." Saved me from a bloody Horntail, Harry added in his head.
"You might want to open the door- and step out of the way, too." Neville dutifully obliged, squeezing into the spot across Harry. "His name is Trevor," Neville added quickly. Harry smirked. "AccioTrevor...the toad," Harry added. There was a slight pause, broken by a started squeal across the hall. The croaking amphibian came flying through the open door, smacking into Harry's open hands. "Trevor!" Neville exclaimed happily, and nabbed the frog, hugging him close.
"Oh! I nearly forgot...I'm Neville Longbottom," Neville introduced, sticking out a hand.
"Nice to meet you, Neville. I'm Harry." he smiled, taking the boy's hand lightly. "Harry Potter."
Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven: The Thinking Cap, Part I
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
If you know the enemy and know yourself
you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.
-Sun Tzu
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Eleven: The Thinking Cap
Part I
Neville's reaction was priceless; mouth gaping, blue eyes wide. At his spluttering, Harry quickly shot down any preconceived misconceptions of his infamous celebrity status. Yes- of, course- Neville could stay; he was in no way imposing. Yes, Harry could remember that night- bits and pieces of it, anyways. No, Harry was not Merlin reincarnated. And, no- Harry said with a bemused smile- he did not have a dragon tattoo on any part of his body. "Although," Harry acceded. "If I did have a tattoo, it would be a Leviathan, probably. But needles make me squeamish, so the point is moot." Neville stared at Harry, seeming a bit revolted at the thought. "Why in Gaia's good Earth would you want a...a man-eating, monstrous sea beast permanently etched into your skin? It's insanity!"
"It's wicked," Harry disagreed, crossing his arms. "Most legends claim that Leviathan was a version of Satan or a servant of a malevolent god, but his job was merely to protect the ocean. Humans intruded on his territory, and- like any guardian- he fought back. Of course, he did try to flood the Earth," Harry mused. "- but didn't the Christian's God do the same thing?"
Neville seemed a bit taken aback at Harry's disputation, but jumped in eagerly. "Well, I did read somewhere that a descendant of the Leviathan protects Atlantis and the mermaids residing there. Mermaids are creepy, but they grow the best underwater plants..."
Harry spent the ride carefully coaxing his friend out of his hero-worshiping tendencies, engaging in him in a playful banter. The two boys got along well, and it only took an hour before Neville carefully brought up Harry's repute, obviously comfortable enough to do so.
Harry had expected the boy to be curious, and was glad that he at least held the decorum to quench his interest for so long. They had leaned back into their seats, Harry reading quietly as Neville picked at a loose thread in boredom. "I've read all about you, you know," Neville said quietly, moving to run a finger over Trevor's slick skull. Harry's gaze flickered up from his book, his emotions thoroughly contained. When Neville didn't continue, Harry fought back a sigh. "What about it?"
Neville glanced away shyly. "Well...they all put you up on this...pedestal, you see. Rumors flew around for a long while, Gran told me, when you first killed You...You-Know-Who." he stumbled over the moniker. Harry rolled his eyes, but didn't speak. "No one really knew what happened to you and your parents, until Dumbledore made this huge announcement in the Daily Prophet. All we knew was that You-Know-Who was dead, the war was over...and that you, a babe, had somehow killed him. Even after the reveal, no one really knew what to think. You had disappeared- sent to the Muggles, I gather. Some folks thought you were being trained by the Ministry, or were kidnapped by You-Know-Who's followers (Dumbledore vehemently assured us this was not the case)
...you were our Savior, and you had vanished into thin air. No one knew what to think." He repeated. "Your parents deaths were a bit overshadowed by your survival, I'm afraid, but never forgotten. There are whole books on you- about your parents, your birth, that Hallowe'en night. The rest was fictional, of course, but we all sort of...believed it, I think. These stories about you being a great hero, saving the world- like those superheros in Muggle comic books or something. You'll get a lot of people looking up to you at Hogwarts, Harry. Everyone has their own expectations, and everyone will judge you on them. I don't know how you'll act once we get to school but...I kind of thought you'd look down on me. I thought 'there's no way Harry Potter would ever want to be friends with me'. But...here we are, sharing a compartment, talking like we're friends, and I'm thinking-"
"We are friends, Neville," Harry insisted, leaning forward.
Neville looked away, disbelieving. "If you say so... But, you really don't need to be my friend, you know. I know I'm not smart, or brave or anything. You'll meet a lot of new people at Hogwarts, whatever House you're in, and I'm worried that you'll...you'll forget about me, or something. I'm not really worth-"
"If you dare say you're 'not worthy' of my attention, I will hex you," Harry warned, eyes flashing. "We've only known each other for a few hours, but I can already tell that you are a good bloke. Anyone would be honored to have you as a friend, Neville. And I won't drop you, not my first friend!" The round-faced boy looked down, chagrined. "Thanks, Harry," he murmured, grateful. Harry sighed, sensing that Neville was still insecure.
"Hey," he said placatingly, reaching out a hand. "Listen. I'm no hero," Not yet, anyways. "I was raised thinking my name was literally 'Freak' until primary. I wasn't all that popular, I was quiet, submissive...I didn't know a thing about magic until I got my Hogwarts letter, and, even now, I'm still doubting myself. I'm not all-powerful, I'm not a genius- no matter how much I read. I don't deserve anyone's reverence or anything, not for something I did when I was one. Whatever expectations you have for me, Neville...don't be disappointed if I don't live up to them. I might make friends, yeah, but I'm also not going to look down on anyone, even if they deserve it- not for blood, not for House, not for ability, not for appearance. Everyone is worthy of being great, and you are definitely not the exception." At his words, Neville looked up, eyes watery. "Really?"
Harry nodded firmly. "Really." Neville gave a small, feeble smile. "Thanks."
A the compartment door slide open, and the two boys flinched away. A surge of panic went through Harry as he realized who was at the door; Draco Malfoy and his two crones. "Bugger," Harry hissed, earning a curious glance from his friend.
Draco Malfoy had not been having a good trip. The boy had never enjoyed any form of vehicular transportation, never forgetting the time he gained horrible carsickness and sicked up over his father. It was a scarring experience, that.
Draco had doused himself in stomach relievers as soon as he boarded, finding a compartment on the far end. He was soon joined by many a group of purebloods, reluctantly sitting knee-to-knee with Parkinson as Crabbe and Goyle crowded the small space. Blaise Zabini (son of the dark-skinned, gorgeous Serena Zabini, a notorious Black Widow) and his betrothed, Ophelia Strauss, had passed by the compartment without a second glance while Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis stepped in to gossip with Pansy.
The stringy, dark-haired girl had dismissed their offer of company, giving a side glance to the not-so attentive Draco, who was sharing a Quidditch magazine between his two goons. "I do feel bad for Millicent, though," Pansy murmured to her friends. "Stuck in a compartment with her cousins- Hufflepuffs, aren't they? Merlin, what would her father say if she got stuck there?" Tracey shook her pitifully, while the sharp-tongued Daphne sneered. "A bit of a fat-ass, isn't she? Her chest is already the size of both Crabbe and Goyle's heads- I hear the last time she wore a dress, the corset broke before they could wrap it around her."
Pansy let out a high, trickling laugh, but Tracey looked away, embarrassed. She kept her mouth wisely shut, having no business contradicting the two, wealthier girls. Tracey was a half-blood, her mother a wayward Shafiq (one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight), with a perverse attraction to underage Muggle boys. If not for Tracey's Muggle father, she would have made a fine pureblood; With tan skin, shimmering copper eyes and a perpetual blush, Tracey was pretty- Draco thought- but so were most witches and wizards. Tracey was a bit too prudish for his taste, and Draco's parents would never have stood for a relationship between the two, anyways. Draco was only eleven, but even Zabini had a steady girlfriend- hell, even Crabbe had a marriage contract with a pureblood harlot in Germany (the two corresponded weekly, each letter addressed to 'My Darling Vincent' and marked with a lipstick stain).
Draco wasn't all that interested in any girls, though. His relationship with Pansy was clearly platonic. but the girl was perpetually clingy, puckering her lips and fluttering her eyelashes at every turn. It was...disturbing.
Draco pushed away the thought as he vehemently debated with the dull, single-minded Goyle about the Ballycastle Bats' last game, insisting that the Hollyheads had cheated. Pansy rolled her eyes as her friends departed, already regretting her choice to stay with the three bickering boys (she'd really rather join Bulstrode and the Hufflepuffs than be surrounded by so much testosterone) but her choice had been made. She pulled out an article of Witch Weekly, and read about a new nail-polish that would automatically smooth over if it ever chipped.
This was going to be a long ride.
Draco was more than astonished when the green-eyed boy glanced up. His face was guarded, impressively, but his jaw twitched in a tell-tale sign of anxiety. Draco recognized the boy, from somewhere, although, he couldn't quite recall...
"Is it true?" Draco asked smoothly, crossing his arms. "They're saying down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"
Harry seemed to stiffen, as his friend- Longbottom, was it?- shrunk into his seat shyly. "Do you usually just barge into compartments without knocking?" Harry quipped, as he fell back into his seat. "Not very, polite, is it?"
There was a pregnant pause, Crabbe and Goyle shifting restlessly behind him. Draco let a smirk slide onto his features. Potter was quick to the punch, Draco had to give him that. "Not very accommodating, are you, Potter? I'll let it slide, this once. But only because I like you."
Harry seemed to let out an irritated sigh, before glancing over at the two large boys behind him. "Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," the blonde said carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Harry's eyebrows arched up, behind his bangs. "Oh? Well, you know my name- and this is Neville Longbottom," Harry gestured, in a bored tone. Draco narrowed his eyes.
Neville nodded slightly, blue eyes flickering fearfully at the two thicksets, Crabbe and Goyle, who were cracking their knuckles. Draco smirked, already telling that the Longbottom boy would be an easy target. Harry caught his look, and averted Draco's attention from the already insecure boy by offering a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy."
Draco smiled at Harry's smooth greeting and took the boy's soft hand graciously. Draco noticed a small scar on the boy's thumb- (a nick from the gardening sheers, Harry would tell him later)- and let go suddenly, remembering. The scar. That's where...
"Show me your forehead," Draco demanded suddenly, voice hard. Harry's green eyes flashed dangerously. as he leaned back. "Excuse me? That's a bit imposing, don't you think-"
Draco waved away the boy's comment. "Yes, very rude of me, I know. Just show me the scar, Potter." Harry was taken aback. He hadn't expected the pureblood to break composure so quickly, and from Crabbe and Goyle's faces, they were thinking the same thing. Pursing his lips, Harry slid up his bangs, revealing the lightning-bolt scar. "Happy now, Malfoy?" he said coolly, watching the blonde's mercury-grey eyes narrow in thought.
A conflicted frown etched Draco's pointed face. "Not quite, Potter. I believe we have some unfinished business. Crabbe, Goyle...Longbottom- out." Harry's brow furrowed. He recognizes me, Harry thought. The two boys lumbered away without conflict, but Longbottom lingered, thoroughly confused. "Harry?" he murmured worriedly. Harry- who had been watching Draco with a fierce gaze- gave Neville a quick nod. "Nothing to worry for, Nev. Why...why don't you get your robes on? I feel we'll be arriving soon."
Neville shakily abandoned his new friend, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He didn't like the look in Draco's eyes, nor Harry's. Did they know each other? They had been acting so...cordially, but then both just had a total turn around. Were they rivals? Or would Draco take away his new friend?
The compartment door slid shut, a tense atmosphere lingering around the two small boys. Draco gracefully slid into Neville's spot, satisfied to see Harry's eyes flash with anger. "What were you doing, Potter,on the thirty-first of July?" He questioned.
Harry ground his teeth. "My...my birthday? I was celebrating, Malfoy, what else would I be doing?"
Draco lifted his head. "Oh, I don't know...stealing, pick-pocketing...committing a petty theft?" Harry stayed firmly silent, basically an admittance to Draco. "I know it was you, Potter," Draco spat. "Your glamour was strong, impressive, even. I wouldn't have recognized you, if not for those flashing eyes and your scar. So, why'd you do it? It was targeted, I could tell. You were stealing from the half-giant for a reason, don't deny it!"
Harry was irritatingly still, his gaze venomous, but calculated. How am I going to play this? Harry mused thoughtfully. Despite Harry's proclamation to Neville, he wasn't above using his status to manipulate little brats like Draco. Malfoy wouldn't respond to hugs and kind words; Malfoy was a Slytherin, and while he wouldn't appreciate blackmail, threats or manipulations...he would respect it.
Harry lifted his hands in mock defeat. "Oh, dear, you've caught me," he said shrewdly. "Nice sleuthing there, Malfoy, really. Now, I can't exactly tell you why I was stealing, now can I? I won't deny it, but, I warn you, it's all very...complicated. Bothering me about it isn't going to help anyone. And, anyways, we've known each other for all of...what, five minutes? I think I'll let you fester in that curiosity for a while, just until you prove your worth. Until then...hold your tongue, will you? It won't do to advertise my special skills to anyone outside of this compartment."
Harry spoke firmly. Draco blanched, and didn't hesitate before arguing. "Prove my worth? Don't you know who you are speaking too?" He all but screeched. Harry let out a snort, crossing his arms. "Of course I do! Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, Heir Apparent to the Malfoy House. Don't you know who I am, though?" Harry asked cryptically. "Consider my status, before you continue."
There were a few tense beats, in which Harry and Draco stared each other down, grey against green- cool versus calculated. "What's in it for me?" Draco asked finally, in pure Slytherin fashion. A small, amused grin stretched across the dark-haired boy's features, and he offered a slender hand. "Why, you'll gain a strong ally in the Boy-Who-Lived, of course. What more could you ask for?"
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid bellowed, towering high above the sea of students, a bright, flickering lantern in hand. Neville caught up to Harry, nervously tugging on this collar. "Who's he?" Neville whispered as they stumbled down a narrow path, nearing the Black Lake. "Rubeus Hagrid; Keeper of Keys. Groundsman," Harry whispered back. "He's a good bloke, but a bit...boisterous." He said, just as Hagrid nearly slipped on a wet patch of grass, grasping the shoulder of a pale-faced first year. "Sorry, lad," Hagrid chuckled as the boy's knees buckled under the extra weight. Draco- who had stayed a few steps behind Harry- snickered at the large man loudly, earning a few sharp glances.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called out, pointing to the rickety old paddle-boats, bobbing along the shore. Harry never liked these boats, but resigned to his fate and climbed aboard. He was unsurprised to have Neville, Draco and Crabbe follow closely behind.
Anyone could tell that Crabbe made Neville nervous, based by the smaller boy's fearful glances. Harry helped his friend into the boat while Draco- who had warned his goons that Harry (and, by extension, Neville) were off limits- gave Crabbe a sharp look when the bully made to shove Longbottom overboard. Neville was visibly shaking at Crabbe's venomous scowl, and Harry murmured to his friend soothingly. The boat crawled across the lake, dark water lapping against the sides. As Hogwarts came into sight, the children broke into awed chatter at the handsome castle. Harry stayed silent, but gazed up fondly at the school. Even Draco seemed impressed (if you judged by the delicate arch of his brow).
"Got Trevor, Nev?" Harry asked as the boats reached the cliff. Neville- who had been distracted by his first view of the school- quickly patted down his robes, face paling. "Oh, no! I've lost him again!" Neville cried. Harry heaved a heavy sigh and pulled forth his wand. "It's fine, Nev," he said quietly. "I've got it. Accio, Trevor the toad." he incanted. Only Neville and Draco seemed to have heard, the two boys watching as the squirming creature flew out of Crabbe's pocket and into Harry's hands. Harry scowled darkly at the bully, while Draco's lips twitched up in amusement. Neither boy said a word, though, as the approached the school. The first-years crowded in front of the large oak door as Hagrid slammed his fist into the wood. "Ready?" Harry asked his friend, who was wringing his robe sleeves anxiously. Neville gave a feeble nod, just as the doors swung open.
Professor McGonagall- with her stern face, upturned nose and cat-eye glasses- appeared in front of them. "The firs' years, professor." Hagrid introduced. McGonagall stared balefully at the group, seeming to appraise them. "Thank you, Hagrid," she said finally. "I will take them from here."
As Hagrid lumbered away, the first years glided into the entrance hall, stopping at McGonagall's lifted palm. "Welcome to Hogwarts," she said smoothly.
Harry tuned out as she explained the houses, silently peering around the room until she left the chamber. "How...how exactly are we Sorted?" Neville asked quietly. Harry looked at his trembling friend and reached out to pull down Neville's shoddily fastened cloak from below his ear. "You'll be fine," Harry told him. "It's a simple process- it won't be painful, or terribly embarrassing."
Draco came up behind him, moving to pluck off a stray thread from Harry's shoulder. "It won't be painful?" Malfoy asked. "How would you know that?" Harry shrugged lightly, and moved away from the blonde's outstretched hand. "Intuition," he said simply, just as a scream came from the hall. Neville and Draco jolted, turning to see a dozen ghosts appear through the wall. Harry barely even blinked.
"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost — I say, what are you all doing here?" Nearly Headless Nick called out to the group. When no one answered, Harry cracked a smile. "We're new students, obviously." Nick gave Harry a strange look as the Fat Friar beamed.
McGonagall reappeared, her emerald robes trailing across the polished floor gracefully. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start," she said sharply. As the ghosts dispersed, Harry turned to the deathly pale Neville. "Who was that...that man?" Neville asked, turning to the dark-skinned and skinny Dean Thomas. Dean shrugged, looking thoroughly spooked. "Dunno. How do you supposed he died?"
They wandered towards the Great Hall, and Harry responded lightly. "His name is Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, or, rather, Nearly Headless Nick." Neville stifled a gasp. "I heard about him!" he said, as Dean scoffed-"How can he be nearly headless?"
Harry frowned. "He was beheaded by Muggles in the late 1400's for hexing a lady-in-waiting for King Henry the Seventh. The blade was dull and didn't...exactly...go through all the way. Hence, 'Nearly Headless Nick'."
Neville seemed faintly ill at the explanation.
The students entered the Great Hall with wide eyes. The Hall was as lively as ever, Harry noticed- thousands of flickering candles hovered above them, and the four long tables were packed with dark-robed students. The Head Table held several recognizable faces, and Harry discreetly glanced up at each one; Snape was darkly impassive, per usual- Quirrell was twitchy and wearing a thin smile (Harry glared at the disgusting purple turban in distaste, vowing to severely maim the second-face behind it)- Dumbledore held a cheerful smile, his blue eyes twinkling at his students and Flitwick's enthusiasm was contagious as he teetered on the edge of his small throne. Harry's eyes flicked upwards as a sparkly shimmer of light shot across the ceiling.
"It's not real, you know," Hermione told Neville. "It's bewitched to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History." Harry nearly flinched at Hermione's bossy voice, and resisted spinning around to squeeze her in a bone-crushing hug. Harry wondered if Hermione ever found her parents in the old timeline- if she and Ron were still together. Harry felt a pang for his old, wonderful friend, but refused to let his grief show.
Harry knew to stay away from the other two-thirds of his Golden Trio. He knew not to let anyone that close again- but here he was, with Draco standing imposingly off to his side and Neville hanging on his robes. Harry sighed, and set his shoulders. He led Neville away from his old friend as McGonagall introduced the Sorting Hat. Setting the hat atop it's usual four-legged stool, the student body stared at it in anticipation. With a twitch of it's lips, the hat began it's song.
Harry closed his eyes as the hat reminisced on the four houses in his low, smooth baritone.
"So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
Y ou're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap! It finished.
Everyone burst into applause, although most were out of polite habit than genuine enthusiasm. Draco sidled up to Harry, crossing his arms indigently. "I am not putting that old thing on my head. When is the last time it's been washed?" He sneered. Harry made a noncommittal sound as McGonagall pulled out a long scroll. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she cleared her throat. "Abbott, Hannah!"
And so it went.
Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve: The Thinking Cap, Part II
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit
Everything changes, nothing perishes.
-Publius Ovidius Naso
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twelve: The Thinking Cap
Part II
Harry zoned out a bit during the Sorting. He had Neville relay any important Sortings, but ended up with a running commentary.
Susan Bones preceded Hannah Abbot into Hufflepuff, followed closely by Terry Boot for Ravenclaw. Lavender Brown went- predictably- into Gryffindor, while Millicent Bulstrode entered as the first Slytherin. Millicent wasn't pretty-looking, Harry noticed, but she had a fierceness to her that he respected.
There were also a few new students that Harry didn't recognize- "Decadent, Matilda!" went into Hufflepuff, while "DeLancey, Theia!" sauntered over to the Ravenclaw table. Soon,"Granger, Hermione!" was called up.
Harry stood stiffly as he watched his old friend speed over to the stool and jam the Sorting Hat upon her mop of bushy brown hair. Draco snickered at her enthusiasm, and Harry elbowed him sharply. Hermione seemed to be bickering with the hat, before it finally yelled out "GRYFFINDOR!" Harry relaxed. While he knew Gryffindor was a bit rough on the bushy-haired girl at first, she grew to thrive there.
Harry eyed her as she shook hands enthusiastically with Percy Weasley, smiling at the two scholars getting along. As "Lionel, Patricia!" approached the Sorting Hat, Harry gripped Neville's arm firmly. "Don't worry, Nev," he whispered. "Wherever you end up, your family will be proud of you. And I'll never forget you- we'll have classes and meals, yeah? We'll make time to see each other." Neville- who was nibbling on his thumb nail anxiously- nodded lightly. "Okay..." he said weakly. Just as Patricia was placed into Gryffindor, Harry remembered something. "Oh, and Neville- remember to take off the hat when it's done, okay?" Neville shot Harry a strange look. "What?"
Harry pushed his friend forward as Neville's name was called, smiling encouragingly. "Nothing- just go. Good luck."
Thankfully, Neville didn't trip on his way up, despite his shaking knees. He was trembling nervously as he sat, and McGonagall gave him a vaguely concerned look before the hat was placed over his eyes.
"Mmm...Mr. Longbottom." Said a small voice in his ear. Neville startled. "Relax, lad. I'm not going to hurt you. I do recall sorting your parents in about...oh, the early 1970's?" The Sorting Hat mused. "Alice and Frank, wasn't it? Yes. A very good-hearted couple, and not bad-minded, either.
But where to put you?"
After a minute or two of the unheard conversation, Harry began getting nervous. Neville's hands were gripped tightly around the stool seat, knuckles white. Finally, Neville seemed to give in, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "HUFFLEPUFF!" The hat shouted.
Harry couldn't tell if Neville was content or not with the hat's choice. The round-faced boy slid off the stool, and took a step forward before suddenly remembering Harry's warning. His eyes were lowered as he greeted the 'Puffs, graciously shaking hands with Cedric Diggory and Janus Halfrinn- the Head Boy. Neville didn't look at Harry once.
Pursing his lips, Harry turned away as Draco's name was called. The boy swaggered forward- confidence in his every step. He sat straight-backed on the stool, and in less than a second, the hat made it's decision. "SLYTHERIN!" Draco was smirking as he slid off, giving Harry a coy wink before he joined the snake's table.
As "Moon, Lily!" moved into Ravenclaw, Harry felt a light tap on his arm. "Hello," Someone greeted quietly. Harry turned, his stomach sinking.
His old friend was tall and gangly- his face sprinkled with freckles, dirt smudged on his nose and his old robes frayed. From how the boy's eyes flickered up to Harry's forehead, he obviously recognized him. "Harry Potter, right?" Ron said hopefully. Harry gave a sharp nod, leaning away from the redhead's touch. "That I am," Harry said coolly. "Who are you?"
Ron stuck out a grimy hand, and Harry took it gingerly. "Ron Weasley...I, well, I couldn't help but overhear you talking with Malfoy earlier." I bet you could. "And I think it good to warn you- there's not a single witch or wizard in Slytherin who hasn't gone bad," Ron said firmly. "And Malfoy- well, he's one of the worst,"
Harry pulled away quickly, wiping his hands over his front. "Is he really?" Harry asked questioningly. Ron nodded vehemently, sparing a glare at the Slytherin table. "Trust me. And, well, Longbottom's okay," Ron amended. "But you wouldn't want to be making friends with the wrong sort, would you?"
Harry's green eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to decide my friends for me, Weasley?" Harry said slowly, his tone dangerous. Ron shook his head wildly, messy red hair flopping. "No! No, I'm sure you're capable of...well. Anyways, I've got a few older brothers here- see those three over in Gryffindor? We can help you around, if you want. You don't want to be seen...associating with wizards like Malfoy. People will think you're...you know, Dark." Ron whispered, as if it was a blasphemy.
Harry eyed Ron, wondering if the young redhead was always so...bigoted. Harry knew Ron was a bit prejudiced, but this was just rude.
"Thank you for the generous...offer," Harry said finally. "But I think I can sort out the wrong sort for myself, thanks."
The green-eyed boy swept up to front, seconds before McGonagall even announced his name. He tried not to snicker at Ron's stricken expression, and gave a cordial nod to Sally-Anne Perks as she flounced over to Ravenclaw. "Potter, Harry!" McGonagall called finally, and whispers broke out around the hall.
Harry glanced up to see Dumbledore lean forward on his elbows, while Snape looked simply...well, murderous probably wasn't the correct term. Harry stared down the Great Hall, green eyes sharp. He finally caught Neville's eyes in Hufflepuff, and his friend gave him a small nod.
Everything went quiet as the Sorting Hat was placed over his eyes. Harry realized after a few moments of utter silence that he had to take down his Occlumency shields for the hat to 'get through', as it was. Harry took them down, just as the Sorting Hat burst into sharp profanities. Shouts exploded in his ears.
Harry winced. Calm down! he admonished at once. The Sorting Hat swallowed it's next words, seeming really quite ruffled. "Not a natural Occlumens, are you? Those were some impressive shields." The hat said bitterly. "There's nothing natural here at all. A Time Turner, Mr. Potter? A war? What is this?" Harry could feel the bewitched hat delving deeper into his memories, bringing up images of his last years. It was just like Snape's Occlumency lessons- uninvited and painful. Harry mentally shoved the hat out, stifling a cry of pain.
Stop that! Harry hissed, clenching the seat roughly. Unknown to Harry, the Great Hall burst into murmurs at Harry's obvious discomfort. McGonagall glanced sharply up at Dumbledore, a question in her eyes. Albus gave her the smallest of head-shakes, and the waiting resumed.
The images of Harry's past dispersed slowly as the hat pulled away. "As...as you wish, Mr. Potter." The hat said softly, a strange solemness to his tone. "Forgive me; but while you are not the first time-traveler to grace these halls, I must admit that your past timeline is the most disturbing to view. Did you...did you really-" he stammered, unable to put his thoughts into words. Harry just sighed in exasperation. It's all there, in my head, sir. Harry said simply. You saw it as clearly as I.
Now, I think we've lingered long enough, don't you think?
The hat seemed to compose himself. "Yes, yes. I suppose so," he agreed, brushing past Harry's basic subconscious. "Let us see, Mr. Potter. Many things have changed since your last Sorting- a crook, now, are we? (Interesting pastime, but I won't judge). Quite studious, intelligent- (although, having eighteen years of advanced knowledge tends to cause that illusion.) Ah, a Gryffindor lives on you, yet, my boy! But I think I'll abide by my previous statement; Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness- and you'll certainly need all the help you can get," The hat added silently. "Before you go, lad...do me a favor?Don't let that damn phoenix man-handle me this time around? That trip into the Chamber of Secrets...seems unpleasant.
"Let's say...SLYTHERIN!"
Harry was greeted by silence as the hat was pulled off his head. McGonagall's face was impassive, but she was the only one who at least acted unaffected by the Boy-Who-Lived's unpredicted Sorting. Harry was disappointed to see that his peers hadn't the decency to at least contain their emotions. Malfoy looked smug, Neville wore a conflicted frown, and Ron seemed a trifle pissed. Not a single student clapped for him.
Finally, the Slytherins seemed to snap out of their shock, and the six prefects encouraged a small smattering of applause. Harry didn't let the other house's silence irk him as he moved to sit in between Tracey Davis and Draco, the latter giving Harry an approving grin. "I knew you had the makings of a Slytherin in you, Potter." Draco said quietly, giving a light applause as "Zabini, Blaise!" was made the last Slytherin. Ron had made it into Gryffindor-obviously- but seemed to be in a bit of a mood, sitting huffily next to Hermione as she chatted his ears off.
Harry frowned as he felt a dull probe against his outer Occlumency shields. His gaze fell onto the three wizards staring at him from the Head Table; Snape looked darkly pensive, Quirrell was nonplussed, while Dumbledore's cerulean eyes practically burned in thinly-veiled calculation. A stab of pain resonated from Harry's scar, and he resisted slapping a hand over his forehead. He fixed his gaze darkly on Quirrell's turban, but looked away quickly as the Defense teacher met his eyes.
"Welcome," Dumbledore called out. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you," He finished.
Every single Slytherin seemed to roll their eyes or snort in disdain as food suddenly appeared. "He's insane," Blaise said shortly as he reached for a leg of lamb. "Utterly mad!" Draco agreed, digging into his own steak.
The Slytherins were a quiet bunch, compared to the Gryffindors. The dozen first years sat in the middle of the table, surrounded protectively by the older grades. As Harry ate, he realized that his peers had already formed their own groups between each other.
Ophelia Strauss and Blaise Zabini were nearly inseparable, holding each other's hands as they sat across from Draco and Pansy. Blaise was dark-skinned and stony faced, while Ophelia- 'Lia', as she preferred- had pearly white skin, scattered freckles and a shock of bronze curls. ("If your hair was any lighter, you almost could be a Weasley!"- An annoying Gryffindor would tell her the next day. Lia would need to be physically restrained from hexing off the "FILTHY MULE!"'s eyebrows, getting ten points docked for dueling in the corridors.)
Blaise and Draco seemed to get along well, having both suffered through dozens of inter-family galas and yule celebrations since they were children. Draco was the far more talkative of the two, but Blaise was an astonishingly good listener.
Three of the five first-year girls gossiped together- seemingly good friends, although Harry thought he heard Pansy call Daphne a 'pampered bitch' several times through the meal. Ophelia just laughed heartily at intervals, that being her major contribution for the evening. Tracey Davis was a little sweetheart, but seemed to be afraid of the older students. She was very demure- and despite how often Pansy tried to drag the young girl into their conversations, Tracey remained silent.
Theodore Nott had sat purposefully across from Harry, eating his meal silently as Crabbe and Goyle attempted to goad the smaller boy by pinching his arm and poking his sides. Theo was a stringy boy, with shoulder-length black hair and a clever demeanor- while he spoke rarely, he managed to make Harry smile at least twice through the meal. Millicent Bulstrode sat quietly between the two bullies, wiping her face on her sleeve and belching regularly- she seemed well at home with the two goons, and Harry thought he saw some familial resemblance.
Harry carefully ignored the older Slytherins, who balefully stared at the Boy-Who-Lived with a strange mixture of burning hatred, fear and intrigue in their beady eyes. Harry couldn't help but think they looked like an unpleasant lot.
Harry was taking a small sip of milk when someone finally spoke up. "Half-blood, aren't you, Potter?" Said a nasally tenor. It was Miles Bletchley, a third year with a square face, dark brown eyes and sandy blonde hair. Pureblood bigotry, and before his first bite of dessert? How...expected. "A bit nosy, aren't you, Bletchley?" Harry shot back. Miles leaned away, an unpleasant frown on his face. He sniffed indigently. "Just a question, Potter. Although, I suppose I should have expected your mouth to be as filthy as your blood."
The first years around Harry stiffened, Pansy looking ready to slap the third year. While the children hadn't known each other for long, Slytherins stuck by their nest-mates. Before a word could be spoken, the third years dragged Miles back into their conversation.
A second year, Higgs, was watching Harry's reaction carefully.
When the tension diffused, Higgs leaned in. "Bletchley's blood isn't so clean, either," Higgs confided softly. "His maternal grandparents are muggleborns, so he can't really tease. He's just being a bit of a jackass is all." He stuck out a hand to Harry. "Terence Higgs. And everyone knows your name."
Harry shook Terence's hand lightly, noting that the boy wore a peculiar opal-studded ring on his pinky. "Are you related to Kameron Higgs, reserve Chaser for Puddlemore United?" Draco said suddenly from beside Harry. Terence gave a small, sheepish laugh. "Yes. She's my cousin- but I haven't seen her since she was drafted. So, sorry, but no tickets, mate." Draco frowned, but gave the boy a small thanks.
"Are you on the Quidditch this year?" Harry asked Terence. He shook his head delicately as he took a bite of peas. "My father was a Slytherin Seeker in his day, and with Kameron in Puddlemore- well, they want me to at least try out. I follow the game, but I'm not really the athletic sort." He admitted. "Are you a fan?"
Harry just smiled. "My father was Gryffindor Chaser, and a good one too, I gather. I...don't know much about the sport, honestly." he lied. "But it seems interesting. Think I'd make a decent player?" Terence eyed Harry up and down, a humorous glimmer in his eyes. "You're tiny, mate. But that's not necessarily terrible for Quidditch- the smaller you are, the faster. But you'll also be targeted. See Bole- Lucian Bole, that third year, over there?" Harry looked. Lucian was nothing impressive- a chubby-faced boy with cropped black hair and a fiendish smile. Terence had a nicer smile and hair almost the color of straw. "Anyways, Lucian was Seeker last year- you'll learn all about the game positions in your first flying lesson, don't worry- and he nearly died out on the field.
"Not only is the training brutal for Seekers- so they had him doing some pretty dumb-ass stunts- but the Gryffs aimed a Bludger at the back of his skull in their first game, knocking him out for a few days. And, again, in the rematch, he was Blatched so hard that his leg was nearly shattered on impact with the ground. He stayed at St. Mungo's for a week, and Madam Hooch moved him to reserve." Terence acted as this was a condemning to Hell, and shook his head sadly.
Harry crinkled his nose in irritation. He knew first-hand that the Lion versus Snake matches could be violent- the Slytherins didn't exactly believe in fair play, and the Gryffindors were no pushovers, either. "That's...a fair warning. Thanks, Higgs." Harry said finally. Higgs waved a dismissive hand. "Call me Terence."
"Only if you'll call me Harry."
Half-way through the meal, the Bloody Baron appeared, floating through the table. He scared the wits out of Malfoy, and nearly made Crabbe scream. It was lovely.
The Baron didn't chat much, and Harry caught the ghost glance over to the Ravenclaw table several times, presumably looking for the Grey Lady. Harry knew not to offer his condolences, but tried to remain cordial with the spirit. Asking him about the school, however, proved fruitless. The Baron had silver, eerie eyes that seemed to stare right through you and his blood dripping robes weren't exactly accommodating, either. When the Baron and Harry shared a look, Harry knew that something was wrong. That was the second time a spirit had looked at him oddly that evening, and while Harry didn't know much about spirits, he wondered if Nearly Headless Nick and the Baron suspected something... off about him.
Harry was introduced to Tracey Davis later on, when she accidentally tipped over a glass of sparkling water. Blushing, Tracey murmured an apology to Bletchley, who got the brunt of the mess. Harry already knew the third-year would be a problem, but he didn't know it was possible for him to hate the boy as much as he did now. "You bumbling Oriental chit!" Bletchley hissed. The first years immediately went up in arms- everyone was exhausted, and the meal was close to an end- but the boy had already insult two of their own in the last hour. The Slytherins were no Gryffindors, but they were oddly loyal, no matter the circumstances.
"How brutish, Bletchley. Insulting a lady- what would your dirty-blooded mother say?" Draco said coolly. Miles stiffened, two of his friends turning towards them with scowls. The desserts suddenly disappeared, and Dumbledore stood up at the Head Table. Awfully convenient, Harry thought as the students quieted. The third years shot glares at the younger students, but stay wisely silent.
"Ahem-" Dumbledore started. "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note..." Dumbledore went on. Harry rolled his eyes at the third-floor corridor warning, and resisted smacking Draco upside the head when he said; "What do you suppose is in the corridor?" Harry sighed in exhaustion. "Nothing of interest to you, Malfoy" he warned. Draco's head snapped around to the Boy-Who-Lived, grey eyes narrowed. "You will tell me about your whole...thing eventually, Potter. You can't possibly expect me to keep your secret forever," he hissed.
As Dumbledore led the students in the school song, Harry patted Draco's shoulder lightly. "Not forever, Malfoy. But you're on a need-to-know basis for now, until I can trust you. Don't ask questions, don't bully Neville, and...please, don't go into that corridor."
Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen: House Rules
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
The storms come and go, the waves crash
overhead, the big fish eat the little fish,
and I keep on paddling
-George R.R. Martin
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Thirteen: House Rules
"Anguis regem," Gemma Farley intoned. "You'd do well to remember that," she added, speaking to the twelve shivering first-years crowded behind her.
The dungeons were as dank and dreary as ever. The first years' tired faces were illuminated by flickering green lantern light as they stood in front of a large stone wall. They watched as their Head Girl pressed her palm into the frigid stone with curious gazes.
There was nothing special looking about this particular wall, but Gemma could feel the soft pulse of wards beneath her fingertips, the familiar sensation warming her core. Recognizing her password, the wall shimmered transparent for a beat, before admitting the thirteen students. The children were led into the chambers, relieved by the sudden burst of warmth. The Slytherin common room smelt of potion ingredients, running water and ash. A grand fireplace burned at the head, flickering with blue and orange flames. A large pot of green Floo Powder sat on the mantel.
Tall glass windows reflected light from the Black Lake, casting an eerie green glow across the room. The ceiling was domed by large stone archways, giving the room a wide, hollow feeling. The arches were entangled with designs of coiled snakes and thorny vines; the bewitched snakes slithered silently above their heads. Harry wondered if they would respond to parseltongue.
Gemma's voice echoed through the chamber as she pointed up the small staircase. "Girl's dorms are to the up and to the left, past the tapestry of Madame Angitia. The male's dorm is on the right...you certainly cannot miss the scent of musk," she sniffed. "You will find individual spaces for each grade; the first year rooms are labeled with your surnames. Requests for individual rooming will be disregarded until your second year- I highly recommend it."
The students were brought to a halt in front of a few black leather couches. Gemma gestured for them to sit, and they did so gratefully as she moved to stand in front. From the other side of the room, two prefects emerged from behind a wall, presumably coming from the Prefect dorms. The girl and boy stood behind Gemma, their silver badges glinting on their chests, hands folded gracefully at their fronts.
Gemma was pretty, with dark hair that draped over her shoulders and intense grey-blue eyes. She was not tall, by any means, or particularly imposing- but of the three upperclassmen presented, she was definitely the girl in charge.
She watched calmly as the first years made themselves comfortable, looking around the common room approvingly. Only when Crabbe and Goyle squeezed into the small armchairs, did their Head Girl finally speak. The prefects stayed obediently silent.
"Welcome to Slytherin," Gemma said.
"Considering that you are standing- or, rather, sitting- before me this evening, I have to assume the Sorting Hat placed you into our hallowed House for a reason. Whether it be a family legacy you mean to uphold, an ambitious personality, a strong will to survive, or the very spirit of a true Slytherin that led you here-" her eyes softened a fraction. "Salve, amici novi. Welcome, new friends.
"First things first; I'm sure you have heard all the reputare surrounding our House- the Blood Purity, our affection for the Dark Arts. It's no secret that two out of three Slytherins will harbor some sort of dislike for muggle borns or Muggles in general; these ideals were ingrained into us from birth, and while some are more vocal than others...just remember, that no matter our differing biases, we are all Slytherin.
"We are a united front, and no matter what internal qualms we hold between our nest-mates, it ends the moment you cross that barrier. We leave here everyday as a fraternity, and any obvious inter-house bullying or assault will be considered worse than mutiny. Miles Bletchley, for example, will be receiving a detention for his actions at dinner." Gemma glanced over at Harry and Tracey. "Mr. Bletchley seemed to have forgotten our number one rule. He broke formation, and verbally assaulted two of our own- this was unacceptable."
Harry was listening to the Head Girl with rapt attention, while Tracey stared down at her expensive shoes. "He will receive his due," Gemma told them firmly.
"His punishment should come as a warning to you all. Some of us may not particularly like our nest-mates, but outside these dungeons, we will appear as a family unit. The upperclassman are expected to uphold their responsibilities, and set an example for you firsties. This is rule number two.
"Now, it is no secret that our Head of House favors us- but I can tell you from personal experience that Professor Snape will not tolerate rule-breaking of any sort. Get caught dueling in the halls, disrespecting your elders, smuggling in illegal substances, breaking curfew, stealing, breaking-and-entering, or harboring any Dark Artifacts on your person... and you will reap what you sow. You've been warned.
"Most punishments will be organized, dealt and overseen by Professor Snape, Marcus Flint- the Head Boy, me, or one of our prefects. We do not enjoy baby-sitting trouble-making infants, and you will certainly not like your detentions with us, I can assure you that.
"The earning of house points will make your stay here pleasant and easy- but any significant docking of points will earn you half a week of chores and duties. The house-elves are always looking for assistance," she said, with a sickening smile. The first years burst into protests. "I refuse to do servant's work!" Draco hissed, crossing his arms stubbornly.
"Hush your grumbling, brats!" One of the prefects snapped, stepping forward with his wand. "These punishments are dealt for a reason. We have won that damn House Cup every year for a decade by playing nice and studying hard. If you break our record, we will break you," he warned, pointing the weapon at each and every one of them. Gemma didn't protest this statement- but from her steely gaze, they didn't expect her too.
A scream suddenly burst from the girls' dorm, startling the younger students. Gemma sighed in exasperation, flipping back her hair. "Duty calls," she said dully. "Take it from here, Westling?" she asked the boy.
'Westling' was a lean boy with tan skin and perfectly-maintained brown hair. He looked like a Colombian Tom Riddle, and was just as cruel.
Westling stepped forward, tapping his prefect badge obnoxiously as Gemma made her departure. "We prefects took a pledge to take care of you brats," he started, voice bitter. "To guide you, to oversee your progress in Slytherin House, and whatnot. But remember; there are six of us, twelve of you, and fifty other Slytherins for us to maintain. You cannot expect us to fight your battles or coddle you- I don't care if you're used to pampering, being waited on hand-and-foot, or if you expect us to worship the very ground you walk on-" he shot Harry a nasty glance. "But with our exams, our lives, and our other duties, we simply do not have the time to tuck you in at night, kiss your boo-boos or sooth your wounded egos. If you need assistance with school work or otherwise, first approach your peers, check out the library andthen- once you've exhausted all your other resources- come to us.
"Any inter-house rivalry can be resolved through meditation...or a duel for conquest." He didn't elaborate. "Do not bother me at every harsh word or little prank pulled on you this year. Outside of this house, you will be targeted- especially from the Gryffindors- for your lack of magical knowledge and physical size. I repeat; we will not fight your battles. Other House prefects- if you dare approach them- may be more hospitable, but I personally believe that Slytherins are cunning and independent by nature- you are capable of figuring things out between yourselves. I'm sure you have enough brain cells to share between the twelve of you- use them well.
"We do not tolerate stupidity or weakness- but you are still one of our own. We will be hard on you," he warned. "But, really, it's for your own good. Salazar Slytherin was strong; unbreakable, subtle, assertive, driven, ambitious- and he only chose the best for his house. We are all Slytherin. You will do well to act like one." He straightened, fixing them with a steady gaze.
"For reference, my name is Kristopher Westling. You have permission to call me Kris or Kristopher in private, but my surname will do just fine in public." Kristopher paused, eyes flashing. "If you everdisrespect me, taunt me or disobey my orders in public- I will hex off your tongue and feed it to my cat. Any questions?"
The other prefect- a small girl with curly blonde hair- rolled her eyes, breaking composure. Coming up behind Kris, she slapped his arm lightly. "Don't threaten the firsties, Kris," she admonished. "We're supposed to be 'setting an example'. Rule number two, right?"
She turned and gave the slumped and tired children a forced smile. "For Merlin's sake, wake up." She flicked her wand at Theodore, who had fallen asleep on the couch. A stinging hex hit his cheek and he woke with a jolt, making the other first years giggle.
Theodore blinked owlishly at the prefect, before scowling irritably and rubbing his cheek.
"Much better. My name is Carlie DuPrince," she introduced. "Fifth year, Charms whiz...and- despite what Kris told you- you are welcome to see me anytime for homework help or girl talk," she winked at Pansy, and the young boys shuddered. "Kris is just moody when he's tired. He'll be a sweetheart in the morning." Kristopher seemed to sneer at the thought. "-And, speaking of, you all must be exhausted! Let's get you off to bed." She led the girls towards the stairs, smiling at them sweetly. "Say goodnight to Kris and the boys, girls!" Her voice was mockingly saccharine, and Harry couldn't help that think that Carlie was a bit...Bellatrix Lestrange-like.
Kris scowled darkly as Carlie sauntered away into the witch's dorm, before twitching his head toward the steps. "Come with me," he commanded. The boys, exchanging a glance, had no choice but to follow.
The dorm was large, dark and cozy- that was all Harry registered before he climbed into the dark green silk sheets of his preassigned bed (positioned conveniently between the bathroom door and Draco's identical four-poster bed). His trunk sat at the foot of his bed, and Harry barely remembered to check the trunk's protection spells, casting a few silent intruder alarms and bewitchments (as he didn't quite trust his new dorm-mates, even with his and Draco's reluctant truce).
He put a quick silencing charm around his bed, hoping that his dorm-mates were too exhausted to try anything tonight. He murmured a response to Draco's mocking "Sleep tight, Potter," before falling into an instant, death-like sleep, dreaming of flickering green light, stone serpents, and a bratty, faceless boy whispering;
"You wouldn't want to be making friends with the wrong sort, would you, Potter? Potter...Potter..."
September 6th, 1991
"Potter!" Something soft collided with Harry's face.
He had been in the midst of a nightmare- his third one that week. He couldn't remember the exact details of it...something about glowing crimson eyes and a dark, foreboding forest? It wasn't a pleasant dream, certainly. Harry shivered, before realizing his alarms were going off.
Harry jolted up, scrambling for his wand, green eyes open and wild. Panic filled his chest, paranoia driving his mind to strange and scary places. Cold, pale hands grasped his wrists, sharp nails digging into his skin. Another set of hands- dark skinned, this time- slid Harry's glasses upon his nose. Blurry vision corrected, Harry fixed his gaze on the two boys standing above him. Draco's hair was impeccable- face calm, but his grey eyes icy. Blaise looked vaguely concerned, dark eyebrows furrowed...but Harry knew better.
Harry pushed their hands away, heart thudding in his chest. "What time is it?" he finally croaked out, running a hand through tousled hair. Draco scowled at the question, walloping the back of Harry's head with a throw pillow. "Time to go, idiot." Draco snapped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Harry pulled himself painfully out of bed, peeling off sweaty pajamas. "Be a bit more specific," he stalled, tapping his wand against the bed frame, turning off the alarms. He reached down to grasp a discarded pair of socks and black polished shoes from the floor. Draco's eyes narrowed in irritation and Blaise quickly interrupted. "We've been trying to wake you forever, Potter," he said, grabbing his book bag. "But you had silencing charms up- you couldn't hear us, we couldn't hear you. Whenever we tried to move your curtains, we'd get shocked- a fine bit of spell work, there, actually. Good thing Draco knewFinite Incantatem, otherwise we'd all be late," he said lightly.
Good thing you hadn't tried again, otherwise you'd be in a coma, Harry thought bitterly. His spell work was a tricky thing- unable to tell friend from foe- and quite powerful, too. Woe betide the next intruder who tried to invade his space.
He pulled on his robes, flattening down the wrinkles as Draco brought over Harry's newly-pressed green and silver tie.
The Slytherin boys had fallen into a morning routine, one that Harry was still unused to. As none of them were morning people, they would bicker as they worked, collecting their school things, retrieving their laundry from next door and sharing the large bathroom with the three other first-year boys across the hall.
The six boys had been split up, Blaise, Draco and Harry in the 'Ouroboros Suite' (the rooms named after legendary serpents), with Crabbe, Goyle and poor Theo in 'Tannin'. Their shared bathroom was equipped with black-tile showers, a few private toilet stalls, deep marble sinks and six small enchanted mirrors. Of course, the mirrors didn't work as well as they should've; having been hexed so often by students for their snide comments and failed fashion advice, they were well beyond the point of idle apathy. Draco seemed to hate the mirrors for their lack of compliments and assistance; the sleek-haired blonde certainly swore at them often enough. Blaise always seemed amused at Draco's narcissistic qualities, and was slowly weening him off the Sleakeazy by watering it down every morning and hiding it in various places for Draco to find. It was a work in progress.
Harry was usually an early riser- having stayed up until midnight every night since after the Sorting; studying for classes, researching protection spells and snooping around the dungeons. Harry had set silence charms, intruder wards and alarms over every inch of his property- and the Slytherins had remained oblivious to his advanced skills until that morning.
Harry slept horrible that night, and it was clearly obvious. "Where did you learn those spells, Potter?" Draco demanded, moving to wrap the tie around Harry's neck. Harry shooed him away with a glare. "None of your business, Malfoy," he snapped tiredly. Blaise rolled his eyes, handing over their timetables. "It doesn't matter, anyways. You're up now- let's go."
Harry slid on the tie with a few swift movements, not even bothering to check his appearance in the mirror. Blaise led the two bickering boys into the Common Room, resisting the urge to hex both of them- and Blaise knew some good ones, too.
"Your hair is atrocious. Have you ever brushed it in your life?" Draco asked crassly, shouldering his bag. They crossed through the nearly empty Common Room with quick steps, ignoring the fourth year study group who were hogging the couches. "I-" Harry's retort was cut off as they crossed the barrier, physically unable of insulting the other Slytherin. There was an actual spell on the wall that forced the Slytherins to uphold Rule One- Harry absolutely despised it. He'd find a way around it, soon enough- the upperclassman seemed to have managed, if Miles Bletchley and his annoying third year friends were anything to go by.
Draco snickered at Harry's sudden speechlessness, and earned a soft shove in response- a loophole to Rule One that the first years had learned around their second day of school, when the third years nearly shoved them down a flight of stairs.
But, despite all this, Friday had finally arrived. And, ten minutes later, there Harry was, chatting in low tones over a small breakfast when a beautiful barn owl came swooping down on him. Harry was used to the mail owls assaulting the Slytherin table- bearing gifts, love letters, and the occasional Howler or two.
Draco had received a box of sweets and a message from his mother almost everyday that week. Blaise and the others had coaxed Draco into sharing, and since then, the packages have gotten steadily larger.
Harry missed Hedwig quite a bit when he saw Draco feeding his eagle owl, Titus, small bits of bacon and petting his soft brown and black feathers. During Harry's stay at Diagon Alley, he had contemplated rebuying his first pet- but as he watched a young redhead child 'ooh' and 'aww' over the snowy owl, Harry realized that his faithful pet would be in far safer hands. If Hedwig was happy, Harry would be content enough without her.
Harry hadn't been impressed when the barn owl dropped a note straight into his porridge, spilling milk across his lap. Draco guffawed at this, and Harry- in retribution- flicked the milk off his fingers into the blonde's face. Terence Higgs- holding back a snicker- had been kind enough to Scorgify the mess as Harry carefully opened the soggy letter (after wandlessly inspecting it for jinxes). Harry was unpleasantly surprised to see Dumbledore's elegant loopy writing.
Mr. Potter,
It has come to my attention that you harbor some concerns brought up in your acceptance letter. I apologize for my lack of earlier response, but I had hoped to have you settle in a bit before we meet.
I am available to answer any of your pertaining questions around three-thirty this afternoon- I am aware that first years have Friday afternoons off. My office is located on the second floor, guarded by a large gargoyle by the name of Rufus.
For specific directions, I suspect that your Head of House, Professor Snape, would be happy to assist.
Have a pleasant day of class,
Professor Dumbledore
-P.S. I do enjoy Sugar Quills (preferably raspberry flavoured)
"Bollocks," Harry swore softly.
Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen: Exact Art
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Patience is bitter, but it's fruit sweet.
-Aristotle
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Fourteen: Exact Art
Never; not once in eight years of schooling, had Dumbledore ever offered to just sit and talk with Harry- answering the boy's questions, soothing his concerns. Even as Dumbledore's Golden Boy, Harry had never been invited to Dumbledore's office when it hadn't been in a life-or-death situation or for 'hero training'.
Other than being sorted into Slytherin, Harry had kept his head low. It had only been a week- what had he done to receive such attention, so early in the timeline? Harry knew for a fact that the invitation was all a cover-up. Harry had specifically asked in his acceptance letter for a written explanation, not a visit with the Headmaster, the cause of all his troubles!
Harry suddenly remembered his 'little heist', before quickly squashing the thought. Dumbledore had no idea Harry had the Philosopher's Stone, he had made sure of that. He had finally completed the Fidelius Charm, just a few days before, placing the ward around his school trunk's most secret compartment. The Philosopher's Stone was safe inside, remaining in it's anti-intruder obsidian capsule to boot.
Harry also considered his other, Darker artifacts, but they were thoroughly protected under similar enchantments as the Stone. He was the only one with access to his property- no one, except Draco, knew of Harry's avocation. And Draco was on a need-to-know basis, as it was.
Harry didn't trust the blonde any farther than he could throw him, but Draco knew when to keep his silence. Draco respected Harry's power, and perhaps even feared it. The boy had once walked in on Harry reading through a highly Restricted book in their dorm one evening, and- while he was quite curious- a single glare from the green-eyed boy had Draco holding his tongue.
Draco had yet to prove himself, and while Harry didn't prefer having anyone know of his pastimes, he agreed that Draco deserved to know some things...eventually. Harry was not against Obliviating the boy of his scandalizing memories, but it was very easy for a shilled Legilimens to spot an Obliviated mind. If Harry's supposedly Untraceable magical signature (thank you, Knockturn Alley) was ever revealed...the repercussions would not be pretty.
With his grand-scheme plans were setting in motion, Harry had to be very careful in Hogwarts. He had been watching his step and erasing any evidence of his presence- magical or otherwise, and having a helluva time of it, too.
Ever since his first Defense class with the pitiful Professor Quirrell, Harry had begun devising ways to rid of Voldemort, albeit temporarily. There was, of course, the prospect of killing the host and freeing the wraith- but Harry's mission was to save lives this time around, and not become a murderer at eleven. Harry was thinking of hiring an exorcist- (perhaps that 'friend' of Edgar and Ion in Knockturn Alley). Harry wasn't certain if it would do any good, but, on the topic of exorcising- perhaps the spirit virtuoso could rid of Professor Binns and Peeves while they were at it.
As for the horcruxes- well, the diadem was easy to procure. It was exactly where Tom Riddle had left it, fifty years ago, in the wonderful Room of Requirement. Harry was wary of having such a Dark artifact around the (already moody) Slytherins, so he kept it fifty feet under, in the Chamber of Secrets. No one but Harry or the Heir of Slytherin would have access to it, there.
Harry hadn't yet called forth the Basilisk, concerned about the whole 'killing someone with a single glare' predicament. Harry had ordered several vials of Mandrake Potion in preparation- but he still needed an alternative. He was waiting for Christmas- when he received the goblin-made dagger- to begin the horcrux-killing. It felt to be a long time away, but Harry learned to be patient.
At least the meeting with Dumbledore could prove informative-with a bit of manipulation on Harry's part, he could regain his family heirlooms, chew out the headmaster for his ten-year abandonment...but Harry needed to prepare for the master Legilimens, ready for any unforeseen developments. The old coot was up to something, and Harry didn't like it one bit.
Albus Dumbledore had always been an unpredictable and unprecedented sorcerer. Despite Harry's advanced knowledge, he had waded into uncharted waters-and it was certainly no easier this time around than it was in the last.
Harry hadn't realized he was seething until Dumbledore's letter was forcibly ripped from his shaking, white-knuckled grip, and smoothed out by the increasingly nosy Draco. The blonde scanned it quickly, nose crinkling in disgustion. "Special treatment, already, Potter?" Draco sneered, passing the note to a curious Blaise. Harry blinked owlishly, reeling back his temper. He let out a long, tired breath, staring down at his uneaten food.
"I suppose so," he said simply, pushing away his plate. "You're welcome to burn that, Blaise," he added, moving to his feet. A mischievous grin slid across his dorm-mate's face, and he pulled out his (Beech and Veela hair core) wand.
"With pleasure, Potter," the boy crooned. "Incindio."
As Double Potions approached, Harry wasn't sure if his pounding heart was from nerves or excitement. He had studied his arse off for the class- he wasn't allowing Snape to humiliate him, not again. In fact, Harry was planning on impressing the stoic Potion's Master this time around...if Snape was capable of such emotions.
Harry's classes, so far, were going astonishingly well. Expecting no help from the Prefects, Harry had no qualms leading his dorm-mates through the school, claiming that he had memorized a map of the castle that summer. They found him useful, at least.
Relearning the theories and practicing the same spells over and over became increasingly dull. Harry's knowledge had impressed his other teachers, though, especially McGonagall. In Transfiguration, Harry was first to point out that the bespeckled-eye cat was, in fact, McGonagall's animagus form, earning Slytherin three points for his 'sharp eyes'. Harry had also been first to master the match-to-needle transfiguration, doing so with very little effort.
Draco, of course, earned a wounded pride because of this.
Harry begrudgingly assisted Draco with his needle, explaining the incantation phonetically and physically assiting Draco with his wand movements. "Visualize the needle, Draco," he had couched softly. "See the glinting silver point, and the miniscule pinhole. Imagine the wood morphing into smooth, cold silver- the tip becoming sharp enough to pierce skin. It's all about intent, Draco, and you want this match to become a needle, don't you?"
Draco wasn't a patient student, by any means- but he certainly was powerful. He was the second wizard to transfigure his match, and McGonagall granted the two students only a few inches of homework. It was a satisfying class.
While he continued to excel in Defense, Charms, and Transfiguration, he understood that his prodigy probably earned him more attention than he needed (and deserved). But it was very difficult to suppress his plethora of knowledge. He found it hard not to flaunt it.
Harry had a new respect for Hermione Granger, having already been called a 'know-it-all' thrice by his dorm-mates (they bit their tongue, later, when he so generously offered to help them with their homework) and once by a particularly annoying Gryffindor. Harry made a home in the library on evenings, watching behind an open book as Hermione threw herself in her school work, her eyes often red and filled with tears.
As Harry was meeting Neville weekly- in the exotic-plants section- to 'catch up', he managed to get the bushy-haired girl and the pudgy-faced boy to talk about a Herbology assignment. This had proved wise.
After that first meeting, Hermione had agreed to tutor Neville in a few classes, in exchange for Herbology help and the Hufflepuff's company. She was very lonely, Harry learned. He desperately wished to befriend her again, but forced himself to stay away. Hopefully, her comradery with Neville would be enough to keep her out of the lions's bullying claws.
Neville was thriving in Hufflepuff, already making friends with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. The boy had needlessly worried about his grandmother's approval, and had been surprised when she sent him a simple congratulations, and a fascinating book by Newt Scamandor- the author a Hufflepuff himself.
Harry had been startled when he learned that Neville had stumbled upon the third floor corridor on his second day of school. The door had been locked, and the Hufflepuffs not desperate enough to spell it open- but Neville had sworn he heard a soft growling behind the door, and wondered aloud what was hiding inside.
Harry reminded Neville of Dumbledore's warning. "Whatever it is, Neville, it's very dangerous." He said fiercely. "Why it's in a school of children, I don't know...but just promise me you won't go looking for trouble." Neville had agreed vehemently, having been shaken out of his curiosities at the word 'dangerous'.
Harry had seen Quirrell sneaking around the school several times, but knew that Snape was handling the Defense teacher well enough, for the time being.
The dungeons were no warmer as they had been in 1998, but Harry at least had the sense to use a Warming Charm. Rubbing his numb fingers, he approached the classroom, Draco and Blaise chatting behind him. He slid easily into the front table, Draco settling in next to Harry and Blaise finding a spot by Ophelia.
"Professor Snape's my godfather," Draco said proudly. Harry resisted an eye roll as he pulled out his notes and cauldron, leaving his wand tucked away in his bag. Snape wouldn't appreciate it.
The first-year Gryffindors were late coming in, entering seconds before class began. Ron had made friends with Seamus and Dean, it seemed. The three were scowling darkly at the pickled animals, floating in jars around them- Dean even looked a trifle green. They sat down in the back, just as Snape came billowing in through the door. The Slytherins refused to flinch, but the Gryffindor's faces were oddly satisfying. The roll call went predictably. As Snape came to Harry's name, he sneered unpleasantly. "Ah, yes. Harry Potter- our new...celebrity." Harry immediately straightened his back in response.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, voice impressively daunting.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." Feeling significantly less ruffled this time around, Harry could appreciate the professor's dark, dry humor. He and Draco exchanged a glace, excitement clear in the blonde's glimmering grey eyes. "Potter!" Snape snapped, dark eyes penetrating. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry breathed in, a slow smile rising on his lips. "Wonderful question, sir," he responded, voice annoyingly chipper. He heard Draco snort beside him. "Voiding the fact that it is sixth year curriculum, it is indeed lucky that I read ahead; Asphodel and wormwood are concocted in a sleeping potion so powerful that it is known as the 'Draught of Living Death'- an oxymoron if I've ever heard...one..." he trailed off, noticing Snape's strange stare.
There was an awkward beat, in which Harry felt the surprisingly gentle probe of Legilimency. He pushed Snape away, looking down at his table in apparent modesty.
"That is correct, Mr. Potter." Snape said finally, his voice a bit strained. "Two points to Slytherin."
He turned away, cloak whipping to the side. "Let us see if Mr. Potter is the only one can read; Brown! Tell me, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?...You don't know?" Harry let out a breath, visibly relieved at Snape's discreet approval. He felt a nudge in the side by Draco, who gave him a haughty grin. "He favors us, I told you."
Harry rolled his eyes, lips twitching up in a small smile. He pulled out a parchment and quill at Snape's command, and readied the ink bottle. "We'll see," he said shortly.
At a quarter to three, Harry was wearing a hole in the thick Persian rug. He paced back and forth across the dorm, driving Blaise into premature insanity. Blaise sat up from the long divan situated against the wall. He considered practicing the Leg-Locker curse on his unwilling dorm-mate, but opted for a rare attempt at consultation.
"This is futile, Harry," Blaise sighed, shutting his textbook. "You are worrying for nothing. I mean, I hate Dumbledore as much as the next person-" he paused, waiting to see if the school would in any way retaliate- "But you are the Boy-Who-Lived; he owes his life to you, just like everyone else in this country. He probably won't try anything. Probably."
Harry gave Blaise a look, but grudgingly collapsed onto his bed, green silk cool on his skin. "'Probably' isn't good enough," he said bitterly. Blaise stepped out of the room in exasperation, giving Harry his space.
Of course, there was nothing at all to worry about- except for possibly being manipulated and played like a damn fiddle by the most powerful sorcerer of the age. Dumbledore- Harry admitted- was most definitely more dangerous than Voldemort- not only in power, but in mind. The Dark Lord was a sociopathic megalomaniac, but at least his objective was straight forward. Dumbledore-even for his age- was startlingly sane, and the prospect was absolutely terrifying.
Harry could try his damndest to keep his secrets from the Headmaster, but how would he know when Albus was keeping things from him? Harry's bright eyes popped open, alight with a semi-crazy prospect. What had revealed the lies in Ron's words, from what seemed like so long ago?
The Bitterbells.
He pulled out his wand, pointing it to his forehead. "Tintinnabulis Resono."
As Harry approached Rufus the gargoyle- ten minutes early, he tried to keep himself from dashing in the other direction. The stone creature eyeballed Harry, almost appraisingly, before Harry sighed. "Raspberry...Sugar Quills?" he said, almost as a question. After a silent beat, the gargoyle began twisting away, rising into the ceiling. It revealed a long spiral staircase, leading upwards.
Harry climbed, legs stiff as he heard the soft sounds of radio music. Harry frowned. Dumbledore was a fan of Celestina Warbeck? Deplorable.
He knocked softly on the door -secretly hoping that Dumbledore wouldn't hear him- and it swung open, silently admitting the young first year. The office was empty, save for Harry. He tried not to be surprised at the state of things- messy, colorful, well-lived in. A far stretch from McGonagall's office in 1998. Harry smiled, unbidden, at the sight of a teenage Fawkes. The bird stood pensively on his golden perch, ruffling his gold and red wings at the student.
Knowing he was a bit early, Harry made home on the worn couch by the fireplace. He began to Occlude, just as he had in 1998 when Ron came to visit him.
"Harry?" Came a soft voice. Harry peeked open an eye to see Dumbledore wade in, dressed in an eyesore of a robe- fabric the exact color of a ripe persimmon. Harry grudgingly rose to his feet. "Good evening, Headmaster," he said respectfully. "I know I'm a bit early, but-"
Dumbledore waved a dismissive hand, and Harry noticed the man wore a peculiar ring on his left hand. Harry frowned, and pushed away the thought for later. "No bother, my boy," the wizard said cheerfully. He moved to his desk, motioning to the adjacent chair. "Sit, Harry. Would you care for a lemon drop? Or a spot of tea, perhaps?"
Harry sat gingerly, refusing on both accounts. He knew for a fact that Dumbledore's lemon drops were laced with a light sedative, and the tea distilled with Calming Draught. (Harry had stolen a few lemon drops in his sixth year, only to have Hermione point out the giveaway scent of elixir.)
After Harry had settled, Dumbledore made a valiant attempt at exchanging pleasantries- but Harry's patience was already wearing thin. "Now, my boy- before we get into business, how are your classes? Are you enjoying the castle?"
Harry heaved a rather loud sigh, before plastering on a genial smile. "Oh, yes, sir. The castle is quite impressive. There are certainly many ways to get lost, but my dorm-mates and I have reached a working consensus. The classes are simply incredible, but I do miss Muggle curriculum like maths and literature." Harry said with a frown. His ears were ringing at ever word- an incessant noise, but at least Harry knew the lie-detecting charm was behaving.
Albus leaned forward, blue eyes inquisitive. "Is that so? We have been attempting to expand our range of classes, but our efforts have been placed on a standstill, unfortunately, by the Board of Directors. While several parents of students are on the board- like young Draco Malfoy's father, for instance- they do not appreciate the importance of those mundane skills. It is unfortunate, yes..." Dumbledore mused, overtly staring at Harry behind gold-rimmed glasses.
Harry arched an eyebrow, lips twitching downward. "Malfoy's father?" he said tentatively, taking the bait- if only to see where it led. Dumbledore nodded gravely "Yes. Draco is your dorm-mate, is he not? My teachers report you have become increasingly...close with the boy." Harry almost scoffed. His teachers? Didn't he mean his spies? "This is marginally correct." Harry said slowly, green eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dumbledore's eyes had gained it's twinkle as he leaned forward, voice consoling.
"I'm sure you've noticed, Harry, that some of your fellow peers have been raised to uphold some...less than fair views. Many wizarding families are considered traditionalists, with their pureblood supremacy and crude opinions on muggle-borns and non-magic folk in general. If I recall, even during the Start-of-Term feast, you had a brush with this...dare I say it? Bigotry."
"The transgressor was rightly punished, but he is not the only student so outspoken with these ideals. Let me ask you, Harry...are you comfortable in Slytherin House? As a half-blood, raised in a Muggle community- do you feel safe, surrounded by such bias?" Dumbledore asked, grandfatherly concern etched across his wrinkled features.
Harry was thinking very, very quickly, although his face revealed nothing. "Are you asking, sir," he started. "If I feel threatened by my comrades, simply because of my lack of magical background? A predicament, I might add, that you are solely responsible for? Why...why do you even care?"
Dumbledore blinked at the non sequitur, his face coloring pink. "Harry," he said gently. "I know of several students in Slytherin that have been placed in danger because of their blood status," he said. "I care very much about your safety, Harry, just as any other student. I'm sure that if you feel threatened, I could have you re-Sorted by tonight, if you so wish-"
"Why the sudden concern with my well-being?" Harry asked suddenly. "I thought we were here to talk about that particular transgression, not if I was content with my Sorting. You are my wizarding guardian and proxy, and you left me with an unloving family for ten years, without a single word outside my Hogwarts letter. Why should I trust you with my safety- or any other assets of mine- ever again?"
Dumbledore was holding his composure well, Harry had to admit. He could see the cogs turning in the old man's mind, and almost wished to hex the old man when he spoke. "Harry...you must understand that you are a very important figure in wizarding history. Your safety has always been of utmost importance to me- I placed you with your relatives for your safety, separate from the Wizarding world for your health and protection. Famous before you can walk and talk! Dark wizards pining to...to, well, severely hurt you, at least. It was done for your own good, my boy, can't you see this?" Alarms were signalling in Harry's head, his temper rising.
Harry stood, lips pressed together to keep from spouting profanities at the meddling old wizard. "You had no right to decide such things for me. I've been to Gringotts, I've seen my parent's wills- you were left as their last resort in caring for me, the Dursleys never even mentioned.
"Sirius Black was labeled my godfather, Alice Longbottom my godmother, followed by Remus Lupin. I have several lines of living relations, wizards and witches fully capable and willing to care for a young celebrity. Instead, I was placed into an abusive home, with Muggles who spared no ill word towards me. Tell me, professor, what ever possessed you to place me there? What haven did they grant me? What possible protections did Petunia and Vernon Dursley offer, that no capable wizarding family could?"
"Sit down, Mr. Potter!" The portraits were scolding, up in arms to protect the old coot. "This is no way to respect your headmaster!"
Harry heart was pounding in his chest, green eyes burning. Dumbledore's gaze was fixed on Harry's, the old wizard having a difficult time reading the boy's mind. Harry seemed close to tears, but contained the unbidden emotions well.
Dumbledore finally spoke. "I...I apologize, Harry. I am very sorry, but I cannot tell you these things. You are simply...not ready. But on the topic of your possible guardians- you may as well know that both Mr. Black and Mrs. Longbottom are unable to care for you. One is on an extended stay in Saint Mungo's- the wizarding hospital- while the other is incarcerated. Mr. Lupin is incapable to care for a child; but I'm sure, if you wish, I could arrange a brief meeting for you to meet him-"
Harry let out a long breath. "Right," he said shortly. "You do that. And on the topic of Sirius Black- did he ever receive a proper trial? I've done a bit of research, you see, and I find it difficult to understand why a friend of my parent's, the Heir of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and one of your favored students, as well- would receive so little proxy. Was he even offered Veritaserum? You were on the Wizengamot, why didn't you insist upon it?"
Dumbledore seemed pained. "Oh, Harry. We all felt hurt by your parent's death, and the evidence was all very convincing. I suppose I could have-"
Harry turned away, shaking his head. "Could have, should have, would have...but you didn't. Is an innocent man in Azkaban, professor? Has your negligance stretched so far?"
The old man bowed his head, the silence deafening. It stayed as such for a minute, before Harry spoke, voice tired.
"I can tell this meeting is coming to a close, professor. But before I depart- the goblins at Gringotts have also informed me that you are in possession of some of my family's property. I can see Ignotus Peverell's ring on your forefinger, and I'm sure that if I looked around your office, I could spot the other stolen artifacts in ten minutes flat. It is deplorable, your treatment of my rightful property; keeping them in plain sight of anyone who so looked is a poor display of care, I must add." Harry paused as the Headmaster's blue eyes hardened. The man didn't move.
"You can hand my things over the easy way," Harry warned, "Or I can contact the goblins at Gringotts and-" Dumbledore lifted a hand, face grave. "Of course, Harry," he sighed. "I apologize. I simply borrowed...your family heirlooms them for educational purposes, you see. The Peverell family goes back for many centuries, very fascinating bit of history-" Dumbledore slid off the ring, placing it on his desk. "The heirlooms were all quite safe in my possession, Harry, but I suppose you do deserve a piece of family history..." he waved the Elder Wand, silently summoning a small pile of books, Harry's invisibility cloak and a strange fur jacket from a closed armoire.
"Here you are, my boy," Dumbledore passed over the heirlooms. "Dinner is almost upon us. I assume you'll want to be getting ready with your housemates, unless-"
"I will remain in Slytherin, professor," Harry said firmly. "Thank you for the offer- but I assure you, I am in no danger from them. Good evening, sir." And Harry high-tailed his arse out of the office, ignoring Dumbledore's weak farewell.
Harry collapsed into his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Harry found himself lacking the will to move.
He twisted the Peverell ring on his finger, feeling hollow. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, quite resembling the Resurrection Stone. The Deathly Hallows symbol was etched into the dark blue stone, and it burned with family magic. But it wasn't the hallow, despite what Dumbledore might have presumed. It was just a heirloom.
Harry didn't know how long he lie there, lifeless, but soon the sounds of life came from the hallways, and the door swung open. Draco and Blaise stepped in, chatting in low tones. "-the break in...yes. I was in Diagon Alley that day," Draco was saying. Harry glanced up, noting the Daily Prophet clutched in the pale boy's hand. Blaise and Draco caught sight of their lack luster dorm-mate, and frowned almost simultaneously. "You skipped dinner," Blaise said darkly, moving to take off his shoes. "That I did." Harry said dully, rubbing his eyes roughly. "I wasn't hungry."
"You need to eat, Potter," Blaise sighed, grudgingly concerned. "I can see your rib cage through your pajamas, and you are short enough as it is."
"You are roughly the size of a seven-year old girl, Potter. This is not a good thing," Draco agreed, his voice lacking it's usual crass. Irritated, Harry pulled out his wand, pointing at both his room-mates. "Silencio," It was a weak effort, they all knew. The charm wore off a minute later.
Draco came to hover above him, lying the newspaper on Harry's stomach. "There was a break-in at Gringotts on...your birthday," Draco murmured, voice suspicious. "I know," Harry said simply, crumpling the article without even glancing at it. Draco glared.
"Nothing was taken," the blonde continued, voice sharp. "But, I have to wonder..."
Harry interrupted by sitting up, green eyes flashing. "It wasn't me, idiot. I was doing...other things. You know this. Now, sod off." He flicked his wrist, and Draco was forcibly shoved off the bed, the wards activating as he slid shut the curtains. Before the silencing charms went up, he heard a startled growl. "What the hell is wrong with him?" There was the sound of something being kicked.
Harry sighed. "It's been a long day." He said softly, before sliding into a restless sleep.
Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen: Onwards and Upwards
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious,
with more offences at my beck than I have
thoughts to put them in, imagination
to give them shape, or time to act them in.
-William Shakespeare
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Fifteen: Onwards and Upwards
September 12th, 1991
On the morning of Slytherin's first flying lessons, Harry pulled aside both Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott as they entered the library. Susan was a soft-looking redhead, her long hair usually down in curly ringlets. Hannah had sharp features, dirty blonde hair and no lack of fierceness in her gaze. Her immediate response to seeing the small Slytherin was to scowl. The first-year Hufflepuffs and Harry had a mutual relationship at best, but Hannah seemed to hold the firm belief that Harry was cheating in most of his lessons. Just a symptom of being a 'sneaky snake', he supposed.
As the two girls went to find a table, Harry quickly stepped forward to grab their arms. "Come here," he murmured, pulling them behind a bookshelf.
"What's this all about?" Hannah demanded as she straightened her robes, appalled at the man-handling.
"You're having your first flying lessons today, right?" He asked them quickly, fingering his robe sleeves anxiously. Susan nodded, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "We are, next class. I am so very excited- Cedric has been telling us about the Quidditch team, and if I'm any good-" Susan spoke very fast, with a distinct Irish accent."That's great," Harry said, biting his tongue as Susan reeled back from the abrupt interruption. "I'm glad you have such confidence," Harry continued "...but I'm a bit worried about Neville, actually. Last time we met, he sounded quite nervous about the prospect of flying."
Susan nodded animatedly in agreement, as Hannah frowned. "We know; he's been whinging about it ever since the post went up. His grandmother would never let him on a broom, apparently- which was wise, I think. He's clumsy enough on ground, as it is-" Susan admitted.
Hannah elbowed her friend roughly, face stricken. "He is not clumsy, Susan- that's rude." Hannah insisted, her voice a bit loud. They heard an exasperated sigh from the library, and Hannah lowered her voice, face flushed red. "He isn't. Neville is just very anxious, is all." She turned back to Harry, gaze dark. "Why do you ask?"
Harry handed over a torn book page, the words Cushioning Charm printed in emerald ink along the bottom.
Susan's brow furrowed as she read the first passage. "I recognize this; Cedric says they use it in Quidditch a lot. They use the charm when the players fall off their brooms, and to make the broomsticks comfortable. This a third-year spell, Harry...Are you really so concerned that Neville will get hurt?" She asked, passing the page to the irate blonde.
Hannah glanced at it sharply, scoffing. "Do you really have so little faith in him? It's only a single lesson, anyways. Madam Hooch would never let anyone fall." She crossed her arms, oddly defensive towards the clumsy boy. Harry fought a smile. He had chosen the right girls for the job.
"It's just a hunch," he said. "I trust Neville wholeheartedly...just not on a broom. And Madam Hooch has two dozen other children to watch- you've known the boy for a month, Hannah, you know as well as I do that if something bad is going to happen, it'll most definitely happen to Neville. So are you going to help him, or not?"
Hannah's face hardened at his words, and she glanced down at the parchment. "Of course, I will. He's my friend. And whether or not he falls...I learn a new spell anyways, I guess." Harry let out a small laugh, glancing at Susan.
The redhead rolled her eyes, sighing. "'Course I'll help," she said. "How does the spell go again? Aresto Momentum?"
Harry gave a nice smile in response. "Jolly good."
The Double Flying class was as eventful as it always was, especially when you placed the two rivaling Houses within the same vicinity. While the lions and snakes battled, taunting and bickering, Harry was just thrilled to be on a broom again.
He had created an image in his head of flying when he Occluded- the wind in his hair, the feeling of controlled weightlessness and exhilaration. It worked it's magic, but the real thing was far better. Harry made it through the entire lesson without conflict, and was able to show off his broom skills when Madam Hooch conjured an obstacle course. Harry maneuvered expertly through the rings of (painless) fire, caught the tossed golf balls one by one and passed the Quaffle back and forth between his house-mates. The Gryffindors made a mess of themselves, rowdy and joyous while the Slytherins were deftly entertained.
When Madam Hooch blew her whistle, Harry and Draco settled to the ground, their hair wind-blown and cheeks red. "Good show," Hooch praised approvingly, taking the Quaffle from Seamus' hands. "Many of you have the aptitude to become decent fliers. And for the rest...in the next month or so, I'll be sure to arrange a remedial class. We'll get you on a broom again, don't you worry." Several students looked ill at the thought, including that of Hermione and the green-faced Tracey Davis.
"Now; Weasley, Lionel, Malfoy and Potter- stay after class," she ordered. Draco and Harry exchanged an apprehensive glance. "The rest of you lot are dismissed. Have a pleasant day."
The other students made their way to the castle, talking excitedly about the class. Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle lingered, and waited underneath the large medieval turrets (that Hermione nearly flew into) for their friends. Draco wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow as he and Harry approached the instructor, Ron and the Gryffindor girl closely following.
As Madam Hooch took up the brooms and inspected the worn twigs with a frown, she spoke bluntly. "You four are easily the best flier in the class- perhaps even in your grade. Now, Gryffindor needs a new Seeker immediately, and I'd like you two to try out," she said to Ron and- Patricia, was it? The girl was nothing spectacular, with limp brown hair and long features. She was a bit on the gangly side, but had the makings of a strong athlete.
The two Gryffindors burst into excitement, Ron's face understandably jovial. Draco scowled, letting out a strangled huff. "This is outrageously unfair. I thought first years couldn't-"
Madam Hooch held up a hand, her gaze firm. "You do not decide what first years can or can't do. Special circumstances, Malfoy, and if you insist on such petty sportsmanship, you will not receive yourcelebratory penance."
Draco's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
Hooch rolled her eyes. "I'd like to see you and Potter training with your House Quidditch captain," she said slowly, as if she was speaking to an infant "...Flint, isn't it? I want you learning the game, honing in your skills. If you show improvement by next year, I'd say you'd have a decent chance to make the team. Your form leaves a little to be desired," she sneered, and Harry was suddenly remembered of her affiliation with Slytherin House.
"But you fly well, and you fly fierce. This is good." Draco seemed temporarily appeased, if you judged by his smug smirk. Hooch turned to Harry with a small smile. "And you, Mr. Potter, seemed to have gained your father's skills. You're a natural. I'd get you on the team now, but your Captain is notoriously picky. I'll let you know of any openings, though. Yes, yes, you too, Malfoy."
Draco seemed content with the turn of events as the two Slytherins turned to meet their friends. "I cannot believe they want another blood traitor on their team," Blaise sneered, upon hearing the news. "They have enough muggle-lovers as it is; it's no wonder they keep loosing the Cup." Crabbe and Goyle nodded in agreement. "I just hope the chit gets chosen over Weasley. Better than nothing, at least," He said hotly. Harry frowned disapprovingly. He felt a strange mixture of petty jealousy but an unbidden happiness for his old friend's fortune, knowing that Ron was a decent player. He had always been in his brothers' shadows- his one desire was to live up to be the best, and now, he was one step closer.
"Father always told me I'd make a decent player," Draco said haughtily as they crossed the courtyard. Harry rolled his eyes, but hadn't the energy to tease the boy. "Was your father on the team?" Harry asked, curious. Draco snorted a laugh, and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not. He's never been one to get his hands dirty, but he enjoys the game well enough. My mother was reserve Keeper in her day- she'll be very proud once she hears the news," Draco gave a rare smile. "Father will probably send my broom to practice with- a Comet 260, one of the best, besides the Nimbus 2000..."
Harry let his dorm-mate blather on as they entered the castle, gliding down the stairs to their dorm. "I can probably let you borrow my broom to practice, Potter," Draco offered. Harry gave him a strange look "...for a price," he finished with an impish smile. "They are trying to kill us with those old school brooms, I swear."
Thinking of Neville's earlier incident in class- in which he did indeed topple off his broom, only to be saved by Susan and Hannah's combined cushioning charms (they earned Hufflepuff fifteen points for their 'quick thinking')- Harry had to agree.
September 20th, 1991
Harry really wasn't a fan of Miles Bletchley. This predicament was realized at half past midnight when Harry stepped into the dark, shadow-filled library. He was invisible, donned in his faithful invisibility cloak, his footfalls charmed silent.
He was thoroughly surprised to see the the broad-shouldered third year sitting in the darkness, a dim lantern at his feet and a thick black tome in his hand. A restricted book, Harry noticed as he crept closer, seeing the open gate.
The usually out-spoken boy was silent as he read, wavy blonde hair falling into his eyes. Harry's wand crept out, a sly smile on his lips. With a twitch of his wrist, the book went flying out of Bletchley's hands, slamming nosily into the adjacent wall. Miles started, jumping to his feet. He pulled his wand from his pocket, casting a light to search for the silent caster.
From the hall, Harry heard Mrs. Norris mewing, followed by the sporadic pounding of Filch's feet. The caretaker had appeared out of nowhere, a toothy smile on his chapped lips. Miles visibly paled. "What have you heard, my sweet?" Filch crooned, approaching the library entrance.
Miles was in a panic- he was clearly visible, cornered and nearly caught. Moving quick, he put out his lantern light, hid it behind a bookshelf, and uttered a weak Disillusionment Charm. Harry was mildly impressed as the boy faded away into a menial transparency; if you weren't looking for an intruder, you'd never see the lad. But a strange reflection remained; a soft shimmer in the air, a visible outline of the boy as he pressed against the wall. A valiant effort, certainly.
Although Harry's lips itched to voice 'Finite Incantatum' as Filch limped in, Mrs. Norris was the one to sniff out the third year swiftly. She halted in Harry's direction, but seemed to remember the Boy-Who-Lived feeding her bits of kibble earlier that week. She let Harry be.
Filch cackled as he snatched Mile's ear, dragging him into the light. "Three brats in one night, Mrs. Norris! Merlin must be smiling down on us, tonight." Miles was swearing savagely as he was pulled away, while Harry discreetly crouched down to grab the third-year's discarded book. He was surprised to note that he owned a book just like it- 'Potio Bellum'. Potions of War.
He flipped through the pages boredly, coming to stop at a brew made of mainly troll skin and scarab beetle entrails. A slow grin spread across his face.
Harry could use this.
He returned to Slytherin in early morning to find the dorm room suspiciously empty. Harry glanced over at the two vacant beds, remembering Filch's claim- 'Three brats in one night'. Harry sat on his bed- deftly in thought, when Draco and Blaise stumbled most ungracefully into the room. "It's one in the morning," Harry pointed out, arching an eyebrow at their disheveled appearances. "What happened?"
Blaise shut the door firmly behind him, his composure shockingly thrown. "Weaselbee challenged us to a duel," Draco sneered, collapsing onto his bed in exhaustion. "The bastard had been flaunting his new broom at dinner- another meal, in which you missed by the way. He got a Nimbus 2000 from McGonagall, can you believe it? Anyways, he was taunting me about his position, and we got into a bit of a...confrontation."
Harry sat up, green eyes sharp.
"I declared Blaise as my second- and I won't apologize for not choosing you, you wouldn't have gone along with it anyways," Draco continued. "Oh, and that Irish boy was Weasley's. We were supposed to meet in the trophy room at midnight-"
"'Supposed to' being the key words," Blaise sniggered, face buried into his mattress. Harry quite remembered the alleged duel, and Malfoy's crass nonappearance.
"You didn't actually go, did you?" Harry asked, bemused. Draco barked a laugh, shaking his head lightly. "Like hell- I tipped Filch off, instead. I expect the two boys to be suspended by morning," he said haughtily. "But Blaise and I-"
Blaise sat up, growling. "There is no 'Blaise and I'. I didn't fancy going, but this idiot, here, was just pining to see them get caught... It was satisfying, though, seeing their faces," he admitted, after a second. "We were quiet, we hid in the shadows. We were about to come back, when Mrs. Norris showed up and chased us into-"
"The third floor corridor." Draco finished, voice low.
Harry retained his composure well, although he slumped a bit into his bed. "Don't tell me..." he sighed.
"A Cerberus, in the castle!" the boys exclaimed, ignoring their exasperated dorm-mate's scowl. "He almost mauled us, the ugly creature," Draco sneered. "When my father hears about this-" Blaise interrupted Draco's monologue quickly, sitting forward.
"There was a trapdoor under it's feet, Harry. I bet you my mother's fortune that it's guarding something."
Harry bit back a long sigh, as the two Slytherins accounted their night with no less enthusiasm as a Gryffindor would. He buried his face into his bed. He had desperately hoped to avert all this...drama, this time around. But, surrounded by mostly asinine eleven-year old boys, there really was no avoiding it.
October 31st, 1991
Hallowe'en found Harry inexplicably partnered in Double Charms (a very strange occurrence, as Flitwick rarely doubled up on classes) with the accidental pyromaniac, Seamus Finnigan. The boy spared no ill will towards Slytherin House, but at least found the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defy-Expectations' company moderately tolerable.
"I don't think your brows can take any more singeing, Finnigan," Harry said truthfully, leaning over to correct the boy's wand grip. Seamus scowled, but it lacked it's usual contempt. "I know, I know. But I can't help it. I memorized the spell, an' I can feel the magic stemming through the wand, but it just...won't..." He sighed angrily. Seamus was becoming frustrated, jabbing his wand at the long, white feather.
Harry grabbed the wand just before an accident could occur, and returned the Gryffindor's glare. "Getting angry is not going to help anyone, least of all you," Harry said firmly. "I can see you putting the power into your spells, you certainly have the backbone...but your magic just seems to clog up, until you force it out with a bang!" Harry mused. "Are you having trouble with your wand?"
Seamus snorted lightly. "Maybe. But it's not my wand, technically. It was me grandad's; he was a powerful Elementalist, apparently, and me ma' thinks the ability is hereditary." He tapped his wand on the table gently, and Harry noticed a small etching of flames on the handle. He pursed his lips- having casually known an Elementalist-Turned-vampire, Harry understand the importance of such power.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Finnigan," he said finally. "Not the other way around. You seem to have a penchant for fire, I'd say, but that wand hasn't claimed you as it's master. How do you expect to become a powerful wielder if you can't even cast a basic, first-year charm?"
Seamus gave Harry a long, seedy look. "Well, if you're so confident, why don't you try?"
Without blinking an eye, Harry twitched his wand, the feather rising to tickle Seamus' chin. Flitwick clapped his hands enthusiastically at Harry's immediate success, and Seamus seemed grudgingly impressed. "Look at that, everyone! Mr. Potter's done it!"
Ever the determined academic, Hermione's feather quickly followed suit, rising above their heads. Hermione glanced to her partner, the apoplectic Ron, with a smug smile. The two lions had been at each other's throats, ever since Ron snuck out to the trophy room that last month. While the boy wasn't suspended, he did receive a few week's detention, a loss of twenty points and a Howler from his mother. "I have never been so disappointed-!" Harry remembered.
"It's a wonder no one can stand her," Ron hissed out later to his dorm-mates. "She's a nightmare, honest-" Harry cut him off with a quick Silencio before the boy could continue; but the damage was done. Arms filled with class books, Hermione pushed past the redhead, her face burning red.
Feeling steadily irked, Harry shoved by Ron, making a point of hexing the boy's book bag to float precariously up to the ceiling. As Ron made a startled noise to went to grab it, Harry slipped past, unnoticed. He wasn't a fan of Ron's attitude as of late; now that he was on the opposite side of the Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry, Harry had very little qualms about knocking his old mate down a peg or two.
An hour before the Hallowe'en feast, Harry donned his invisibility cloak, and snuck out of his dorms to find the elusive Professor Quirrell.
Harry had a troll to catch.
Watching Quirrell expertly coax in the troll, using raw salmon as bait was about as entertaining a Thursday evening could get. It was astonishing, just how easy a wild beast could find it's way onto the castle or the grounds; Harry thought of the troll, Fluffy, Aragog, the Grim, the Basilisk, Grawp...the school wards seemed to have a demented sense of humor, or at least a few homicidal tendencies. Or maybe that was just Dumbledore.
Harry cast the Tempus charm as Quirrell abandoned the growling creature in the dungeons, and estimated he had less than ten minutes to sedate the beast. The troll quickly tore through it's snack, before belching, spittle flying onto the walls. It was an ugly creature, with greenish-yellow skin and beady features. The smell was absolutely rank, and Harry constantly had to resist gasping out breaths. Droll and yellow buggers rolled down the troll's face, making it's warty, mottled skin glisten in the dim lantern light.
The troll dragged it's long club through the corridors, his shoulders hunched as he sniffed for fresh meat. The hallways were moderately dark, making it easy for Harry to sneak up behind him. The heavy footfalls made the floor rumble, and Harry kept his balance by sticking to the wall, waiting for the troll to pause in it's tracking.
While hidden under his cloak, Harry apparently had a distinct odor about him. The troll stopped slowly, and turned it's ugly head in Harry direction. The creature's dark eyes glowed in the darkness, a guttural growl rising in it's throat. Green eyes flashing in exhilaration, Harry pulled out his wand, aiming it at the large, knotted club. "Oi! Pea brain!" Harry snapped, setting off a vibrant beam of light. Temporarily blinded, the troll stumbled back in shock, hitting the wall roughly. The ceiling shuddered, and the lantern lights broke off.
Harry flicked his wand fiercely, and the club slid out of the dazed beast's grip, banging against the floor before rising. In that fraction of a second, in which the troll stared down it's own weapon, he knew -even in his limited capacity for intelligible thought- that he was dead meat.
The club collided with the creature's skull, making a sickening crack! Harry winced. The troll's eyes bulged before rolling back, and he collapsed to the floor, knocking Harry into a puddle of blood. Crinkling his nose at the crimson seeping from the troll's temple- a visible dent in it's thick skull, Harry moved forward to kneel by the creature's ear.
"I do hope I didn't kill you," Harry whispered. "But your incapacitation is merely a means to an end I cannot gain any other way. I am sorry, for this."
Wielding his wand like a knife, he muttered the cutting charm and carved out a patch of the troll's thick skin. It took a bit of power, but soon he had a nice spongy chunk of ear, about the size of Harry's forearm. He grimaced as he slipped the meat into his robes, the blood already seeping through to his skin.
After checking for his magical signature in the vicinity, he fled the scene without a parting glance.
The pounding of feet signaled the staff's arrival. McGonagall gracefully descended down the stairs, blanching at the smell. She lifted a hand to her mouth as she saw the carnage. "My Gods-" she swore.
Harry crept through a secret passage, determined to intercept Quirrell at the third-floor corridor. He just stepped into the nearly vacant hall when he was startled to a stop at the sight of a bushy-haired head.What is she doing?!
Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen: Verity
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
If you become involved with me,
you will be throwing yourself into the abyss.
-Franz Kafka
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Sixteen: Verity
Harry had hardly registered the fact that Hermione Granger- the straight laced, politically correct, 'Outstanding' student that she was- was breaking into the forbidden third corridor, when a noise came for the adjourning hallway. Harry slinked into the veil of darkness as Hermione's wand arm fell to her side mechanically, and she sidled into a shadowed corner.
Snape came striding into the corridor, wand a lit as he made to unlock the door. Harry held his breath as the dour professor opened the door with a sinister whine. Hermione didn't hesitate before ducking in after the man, silent as a mouse. Harry let out a long breath as the door shut behind them. What is she thinking? How in the hell does she intend to stay hidden from an ex-spy?
Harry could sense the dark, virulent magic in the air, and kept his feet planted firmly on the floor, heart pounding in his chest. He eyed the shadows around him, feeling an unnatural presence.
Not a minute later came the tell-tale growl and an enraged yell. Harry drew in his shoulders at the sounds of spell-casting and guttural barks filled the empty corridor. There was a slamming, rattling sound, and a few lengthy swears before Snape limped into the hall. His pale face was flushed with heat, his robes disheveled. Blood cascaded down his leg, a long tear in his black pants.
Snape took a minute to breathe, leaning heavily against the wall. He glanced down at his injury with a grimace, and conjured a stark white bandage. Just the effort of bending over to expertly wrap the wound seemed to exert him. His eyes fluttered shut minutely to rest, and Harry saw the bushy-haired Gryffindor emerge from the corridor before disappearing into the darkness. Just as Harry made to follow her, Snape's eyes snapped open.
Harry stared with bated breath as a glowing, eldritch tabby came prowling into the room- a corporeal Patronus. The cat came up to Snape and blinked it's silver eyes.
"The troll has been found in the dungeons and contained," the Patronus voiced, the Scottish lull of McGonagall clearly relieved. "Heads of Houses, please alert the students to remain in their dorms. Any students found in the halls should be brought to my office for questioning. All staff, report to the Headmaster's office after curfew. Godspeed." The cat dispelled away without a sound, leaving an eerie blue glow on the floor.
Snape heaved an exhausted sigh, before clambering to his feet. He limped out of the hall, his robes lacking their usual billow.
Hermione was standing behind a pillar, body stiff and muscles taunt, as if ready to pounce. Her features remained suspiciously devoid of emotion, and Harry fought a gasp as he saw her glazed, lifeless brown eyes. She'd been Imperiused...and one guess as by whom.
Harry suddenly found it very hard to breath. He stood there for a few beats, watching his old friend instinctually blink, her chest rising and falling as she stared somewhere over his left shoulder. She remained statuesque-like, thoughtless, heartless- Harry was utterly heartbroken.
He flinched unintentionally as Quirrell suddenly appeared, the man's Disillusionment Charm fading away. Quirrell stood tall, head held high- a far cry from the simpering fool of a Defense teacher that he previously behaved as. The purple turban caused his head to look bulged, and Harry fought the urge to hex the man's head off his shoulders. Only a monster would use an Unforgivable on a child.
Quirrell stalked towards Hermione, and held his wand up to her throat. "Did he see you?" he hissed. "Tell me what happened, child!"
Hermione's face hardened at the command. "Professor Snape entered the corridor- I stayed close to the shadows. I am small. He could not see me," she intoned dully, obediently. "A three-headed dog was standing guard- it was half-starved and trained to attack. The Cerberus charged the professor instantly. Snape cursed it, knocking it into the wall. He fled. Professor Snape was injured, a gash on his right leg. The Cerberus survived."
Quirrell hissed darkly, and Harry caught the increments of Parseltongue. "A hell-hound, my Lord. The half giant's work, most certainly. What else did you see in the corridor?" he demanded. Hermione blinked. "It was dark," she stated. "The walls were made of dark stone, and a single lantern was lit. There were no windows, no other doors- except for a large trapdoor, under the dog's feet. The Cerberus was guarding it," she said matter-of-factly.
There was another hiss, and Harry fixed his gaze on the back of Quirrell's turban, nosstrils flaring in anger. "That insipid fool thinks he can protect the Stone with a pup and a series of traps?" A high, unnaturally cold voice mocked. "Flamel is naive to trust the old coot with his precious entity. They have both gone insane with age."
Quirrell nodded vehemently in agreement. "Flamel's ultimate death will come as a relief. The less Light-supporters, the better. Is that all you know of this predicament?" he asked Hermione in English. She gave him a firm nod. "Yes," she affirmed.
Quirrell gave a sickening smile. "Excellent," he lifted his wand, pointing it between her glassy eyes. "You will not remember seeing me, or any of this place. If anyone asks, you snuck out of your dorm to find the troll. You've read about them, and thought you could beat it," he said slowly. "But, instead, you tripped down the stairs and hit your head. You can be so very clumsy," he crooned, gliding his wand under her chin. "Yes," Hermione agreed, voice lull. "I can be so very clumsy," she repeated.
"Very good!" Quirrell praised. "Thank you for your assistance, Miss. Granger. Sleep well...Stupefy!"
Harry's cheeks were wet as he crouched low to press a finger to Hermione's throat. A steady pulse thumped, and he let out a breath.
The bastard just left her there, crumpled on the floor and Stunned into a stupor. Whether Quirrell or Voldemort deserved to die more, Harry couldn't decide.
Harry brushed his fingers across Hermione's cheek, and moved to cradle an arm under her head. He slid her body into his arms and stood, exiting the corridor, his invisibility cloak draped over both of them. Harry wasn't strong by any means at this age and size; but Hermione was impossibly light, her face youthful and serene in sleep.
He slowly climbed the stairs leading to the Gryffindor commons, his feet taking him there on instinct. He settled her outside the Fat Lady's portrait, and slid the cloak away from her body. The Fat Lady let out a startled noise as Hermione's body was revealed. "Miss Granger?" She gasped. "I...are you-whose there?!" she stammered out. Harry stayed silent and waited patiently for the Fat Lady to slide out of her portrait, off to retrieve help.
Alone in the threshold, Harry lifted the cloak above his head and pressed a chaste kiss to Hermione's warm, smooth forehead. Harry bent to whisper in her ear, brushing back a lock of bushy hair. "I've missed you, 'Mione," he murmured. "I never meant for you- or anyone- to get hurt; I'm trying to save you all...and I've already failed you. I'm so, so sorry."
Harry had vanished by the time Percy Weasley stepped out of the portrait, face grim as he collected the first-year in his arms. The prefect glanced around the empty hall suspiciously, before disappearing into the commons.
Harry returned to the dungeons in record time. He stepped through the stone barrier, invisible as always. He was unsurprised to see Snape- looking significantly more composed- consulting Gemma Farley and Marcus Flint in low tones as the other Slytherins lingered by the fireplace, snacking from a sandwich tray.
Harry slid into the Ouroboros/Tannin restroom, shedding his cloak. He stared at himself in the mirror, appalled at the sight. His eyes were lightless and blood shot, troll blood creased upon his brow. He pulled out the chunk of troll skin and set it carefully onto the sink, ignoring the disgusting, fleshy smell.
After a quiet beat, Harry began to strip his soaked robes, shivering at the sudden chill. He swallowed the bile in his throat. The troll blood was making him queasy.
Draco lifted his hand to tentatively knock on the bathroom door. Seeing as Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle and Theo were all present in their respective dorms, he could accurately guess who was locked inside. And he wasn't looking forward to the confrontation.
"Potter?" he asked finally, trying the door knob. There was a sharp sizzling sound, and Draco pulled away, yelping. His fingers were burnt red and raw, hand shaking from the pain. "You hexed the doorknob?!" He swore, as the pain slowly faded. "A simple 'go away' would have sufficed."
"Go away!" came a muffled hiss, Harry's voice startlingly rough. Draco scowled darkly, cradling his hand. He sent a kick at the door. "I will not. First of all- this is my bathroom too. You cannot just board yourself in there the whole night!" Draco heard the sound of running water, and sighed, placing his forehead on the wood.
"And secondly...I told Blaise that I'd talk to you. You missed yet another meal, and with the troll about...we were all worried, Potter," he scowled. "We didn't know where you were, but judging by the rank smell emanating from in there-"
The door suddenly swung open, a shirtless, pale-faced Harry sneering in the doorway. "Never thought you'd admit you cared, Malfoy," he spat.
Draco stared at the disheveled boy for a second in bewilderment, before Harry rolled his eyes, pulling the Slytherin in by his robes. He slammed the door shut behind them, and Draco immediately stiffened at the close quarters. He took in the steamy temperature, the strange glimmering cloak on the floor, before his gaze drifted to the sink. He blanched at the reddish tint to the filled basin, and the wet robes soaking inside. He made a choked sound upon seeing the fleshy slab of meat on the counter. "You...you know, there are spells to clean blood, Harry," he forced out.
Harry leaned against the wall, dark hair falling into his eyes. "I know," he said blandly. "Don't you think I know that? It still wouldn't come out."
Draco blinked, glancing up and down at Harry's gaunt figure, pale skin and bony extremities for any sign of injury. "It's not your blood, is it? You...you aren't hurt-" he asked, swallowing. Harry shook his head, sniffing lightly.
"Not physically hurt, at least," he murmured. "It's troll blood. And troll skin, too," he nodded to the slab of flesh. They stood there for a second, Draco physically unable to speak.
Harry took a deep breath, before answering Draco's unasked question. "I was trying to not involve anyone in my whole...thing, but after tonight, it seems it just can't be helped," he drew in on himself and Draco unconsciously inched closer, in a rare attempt at comfort. "I think it's about time I told you some things," Harry finished softly, glancing up at his almost-friend with shining green eyes.
"...No shite," Draco agreed.
The two Slytherins stayed up until curfew, finding a more comfortable home on Harry's bed. When the green-eyed boy motioned for the blonde to sit, Draco gave him a seedy look, wary of entering the boy's property. "It's warded," he pointed out.
Harry rolled his eyes, climbing onto the mattress. "Not against you," he said simply, flipping away his bangs. Draco sat tentatively.
Harry felt a bit guilty for excluding Blaise, but the boy was understanding enough to stay out of their way; like any good Slytherin, he had his own secrets, and knew the importance of attentive ears and locked lips.
Draco sat cross-legged across from Harry, his back pressing into one of the posters. After Harry's third consecutive spine-chilling glare, Draco learned to stay quiet and let the boy speak. Harry remained elusive on most subjects, but made to explain how he had pilfered the Philosopher's Stone from Hagrid and was keeping it protected (and, no, Harry would not show Draco the Stone), while Quirrell unknowingly sought after it in the third floor corridor.
"Quirrell let in the troll (the one I knocked out) as a distraction, so he could force Hermione Granger into inspecting the corridor for subterfuge. Quirrell cursed her," he spat, carding a hand roughly through his dark hair. Harry seemed pained at the mention of his mudblood acquaintance, Draco noticed. He let his unspoken disgust onto bis face in a distasteful sneer, but Harry pretended not to notice as he picked at his pajamas angrily.
The boy had these moments, such as this, where the usually confident child would draw in on himself, lower his gaze or mumble his words. Draco came to the conclusion that Harry wasn't faking any of this- but that left the question; what could have possibly happened to make the eleven-year old so wily and untrusting?
When Harry told Draco of Snape's involvement, the blonde was understandably irate. "He knew?" Draco exclaimed, breaking his obedient silence. "Snape knew that there is an active supporter of You-Know-Who and a bloody three-headed hell-hound roaming about the castle, and he didn't find it prudent to mention? If my father ever catches word of this-"
Harry was quick to nip that thought in the bud, lifting a hand to silence Draco. "Your father will not hear about this, Draco, because- one, I am telling you all this in confidence, and if you break that trust, you will have hell to pay-" Harry warned, voice dark. "And second; if your father in anyway thinks that Dumbledore is unfit to run the school, he will have him removed. I vehemently dislike the old coot, but Dumbledore is possibly the only wizard, besides myself, who can stand a chance against Voldemort."
The blonde flinched at the moniker, and Harry glared. "If you want to help me defeat the Dark Lord," he continued harshly. "You'll need to break your crying-for-daddy tendencies and buck up. Your father will not always be there for you to crawl back to, and if you want to survive this, you need to grow some bloody balls and fight for yourself. Understood?"
Draco was gobsmacked, his cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment. While Harry had given Draco his fair share of sharp tongued comments, the blonde was unaccustomed to anyone- outside his parents or Snape- speaking to him in such a way.
Draco was usually a stubborn boy, but he became oddly submissive when it came to the small, dark-haired boy's show of force.
Draco would never admit he feared Harry Potter (all eighty pounds of him), and would even consider Harry a friend, in those infrequent times he acted his physical age...but the Boy-Who-Lived was clearly no ordinary boy. Harry was a peculiar lad; powerful, imposing even...and Draco quickly learned to respect him for it.
At Draco's pinched mien, Harry rolled his eyes, fairly amused. "And here I thought you didn't have a 'mute button'," he teased lightly
Draco made a strangled noise. "A...mute button? That...that's a muggle expression, right?" he forced out. Harry looked vaguely impressed. "Correct. You're a smart boy, Draco," he praised, voice mocking.
Draco scowled, crossing his arms. "I'm older than you, Harry. I'm not a child, so don't treat me like one."
Harry shrugged a shoulder, dismissive. "If you say so," Harry said flippantly.
"That's it; I'm done," Draco declared, and made to leave. After a second, Draco paused at the curtain, looking back at the Boy-Who-Lived. He sighed.
"Now, I won't pretend to understand all of this, and I'm a bit appalled to how you are even aware-" He spoke slowly, as if the words pained him. "But I, suppose I...appreciate you confiding in me. Trusting an ex-Death Eater's son has to be either the stupidest or bravest thing you could possibly do; most Slytherins wouldn't dare to trust anyone, even their friends-"
"Yes, but I'm not like most Slytherins, am I?" Harry said softly, green eyes sharp. Draco stared at his new...friend? for a second, before his lips twitched up in a small smile. "No, you're not," he agreed lightly, slipping through the curtains. "You're better."
Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen: Fields and Chambers
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Some conjurers say that number
three is the magic number, and some say number
seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one.
-Charles Dickens
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Seventeen: Fields and Chambers
November 7th, 1991
Quidditch training was utterly impossible; particularly because of one, alarmingly belligerent captain.
Marcus Flint was perhaps one of the crabbiest, most bipolar Slytherin alive- that is, Draco amended, excluding Snape and Harry.
The seventh year was failing almost all his classes, having devoted his time entirely into prowling the halls (as apart of his Head Boy duties), shagging the seventh year girls, training his Quidditch team, or bullying the first years. His most recent victim was, in fact, Draco Malfoy.
Marcus made a horrid Head Boy, known for screaming at and/or hexing the kids who stepped out of line. He docked points from other houses like mad and rewarded points to his friends and minions for seemingly no cause. Draco could tell Gemma despised her comrade, but she did little in dissuading him from his tyranny. "He builds character," was her excuse. Pathetic.
Training with Flint was as infuriating as it sounded- the young blonde was pushed to his limits every Thursday morning, rain or shine, and was then expected to play and win a one-on-one game with his incredibly skilled dorm-mate.
Harry had somehow done the impossible, this frosty Thursday in November- he had managed to swindle Flint into giving him the morning off, something Draco would have absolutely killed for. What the blonde didn't know was that, in desperation, Harry had to resort to a strong Compulsion Charm to convince the burly seventh-year of his deserving the morning off. Flint was oddly adamant against it, even under the charm. He finally agreed, but insisted that Harry work twice as hard the next week to catch up on the work he missed. It was a temporary win.
"Get your ass off the pitch, Malfoy!" Marcus spat through gritted teeth, after Draco (playing Keeper) missed the play...again. His fingers were incredibly numb, his extremities burning at every movement. Draco's parents had yet to mail him the warm, durable dragon-leather gloves they had promised, and so he had been making do with a pair of golden-sheep wool mittens. They were soft and attractive, but did little for warmth.
Blowing into his palms, Draco touched ground lightly, a scowl on his face. "It's winter, Flint. It's no wonder why I'm missing the score. My hands are frozen, my broom is crystallizing and I'm literally not moving from that single hoop. I want to be a Chaser, Flint, not a damn Keep-"
Marcus jabbed a finger in Draco's face, his cheeks red in anger. "Shut. Up. You will practice whatever position I damn well tell you too, Malfoy, because I'm the bloody captain of Slytherin's team, and if you want any chance at getting on it next year, you will stop this revolting whinging of yours." Marcus began circling around the first-year, voice demanding, intolerant.
"I am doing you a favor, taking your ass out here to practice every Thursday, Malfoy. I have a life of my own, exams to flunk, and a real team to whip into shape for the game on Saturday. The only reason I'm doing this at all is because Hooch told me you had potential. But, frankly, all I'm seeing is a sniveling infant that's upset because he isn't getting his way. You aren't a child are you, Malfoy? No? Then you better shut your damn mouth and suffer, or never step foot on my pitch again, because I do not tolerate whiny children. Is that clear?"
Draco's nostrils were flared in anger, grip tight on his broomstick. The two Slytherins glared each other down for a beat, before Draco shoved the broomstick between his legs. "Crystal, captain," he spat, lifting off. Marcus soon followed, a dark smile on his lips. "Good. Now, back to the hoops, prat."
"Open," Harry hissed, ignoring the soft sniffling of Moaning Myrtle by his shoulder. The sinks in the abandoned girl's bathroom folded away, revealing the long, cylindrical pipe.
The magic wasn't as spectacular as it was the first time around- and this being his dozenth trip into the chamber this past year, the trek was becoming quite tiresome. Harry looked down boredly, before sighing. "Stairs, perhaps?" He called down into the pipe, voice hopeful.
No one responded, naturally, and Myrtle chuckled. She couldn't understand the language, of course, but could see the annoyed expression on his tired face. "I do wish you'd tell me what you're doing down there, Harry," she pouted, coming to float in front of him. She reached out a ghostly hand, poking his stomach. He felt an instant chill, pulling away. "It isn't polite to just walk out on a lady, like you did," she reminded.
He crinkled his nose at her pitiful expression, and tucked his wand into his left pocket. "Sorry, Myrtle," he sighed, scratching an eyebrow. "I was upset, Halloween night. I had to set up a few things in the Chamber, and...well, I thought you'd want to be alone on Samhain."
"It was past midnight," she pointed out. "The day was technically over. You could have at least said 'hello, Myrtle!' or 'happy belated holiday!'. No ever visits me on holidays, Harry! Not even on the Day of the Dead. No one ever wants to talk to poor, simpering Myrtle..." The ghost began to snivel dramatically, before floating backwards through her stall door and leaving Harry to his lonesome.
Harry rolled his eyes at her theatrics, before taking a casual step forward into the pipe.
He had previously cast cushioning charms on the dirty, metal pipe, but it remained an uncomfortable ride. Something about the free-fall, and knowing that in a minute or two he'd land on a pile of bones seemed to irk him. He bumped roughly against the sides, skidding hard on his arse.
As predicted, he collapsed at the bottom with little grace, winching at the crunch of vertebrae beneath his feet. After checking his pockets to make sure nothing had broken, he strode through the long, grey-stoned and messy corridor, remembering his previous attempts at cleaning. One could only cast Scourgify and vanish bones so many times, before realizing it wasn't worth the effort. And, once released, the Basilisk would only make more mess, anyways.
After striding through the Corridor of Secrets, Harry ran his fingers across the serpent engraving, muttering the password. The snakes twisted away, revealing the chamber.
Harry had the whole morning to set up and clean the tarnished potions lab, situated inside Slytherin's personal rooms. Harry hadn't noticed it the first time he ventured beneath the school to save Ginny- but there was, in fact, a hidden chambers embedded into the wall by the Basilisk's hidey-hole.
The Chamber itself was as imposing as usual, the face of Slytherin glaring down on him with hollow eyes, and the wet floor glistening like crystal. Harry made a wide berth around the Basilisk's cavern and came to the side of Salazar's monstrous face. He pressed his palm to the stone wall. Under his fingertips was a strange written language, a series of scribbles, it seemed. It was a password. "Nidus," he whispered. A Latin word in Parseltongue- how redundant.
The floor began to rumble. Harry stepped backwards as the pools of water were siphoned away, revealing a nefarious-looking oubliette. Harry crouched down to unlatch the door. It opened to reveal a long rope ladder, leading into a seemingly endless darkness. Harry knew that once he climbed down, a Legilimency block would be placed on his mind- a spell, in which, complicated as it sounded, was actually quite simple. If any Legilimens dared enter his mind, they would be met with a veil of darkness; a cover, hiding the location of Slytherin's personal haven, and any information on what Harry might have found or done within.
Slytherin's paranoia was commendable, but largely unnecessary. Harry's Occlumency skills had increased in the last few months, and no valid Legilimens could possibly make it through his walls without earning a terrible migraine or having an aneurysm. He had been strengthening his mental barriers all summer, and had time in classes to practice. (One advantage of his Occlumency skills was the fact that being seven years ahead of his peers in mind, maturity and memory was very strenuous, and Occlumency was a natural sedate.)
Harry disappeared into the darkness, feeling a sudden, cold sensation blossom through his subconscious.
He hadn't realized his eyes were closed until his feet hit the floor. Harry glanced around at the office, feeling dwarfed by it's size. Slytherin was apparently known for his exquisite taste, and his work space was certainly no exception. The room was dark and regal. Purple and green stones lied under foot, a lightning-glass chandelier tinkling above his head. The walls rounded in an oblong shape, a large desk placed in the middle.
Tall, curved bookshelves lined the walls, the top shelves serving as storage for Salazar's knicknacks, trinkets and artifacts. He had a dozen figurines of snakes and beasts, ranging from an animated Apep model to a feathered Manticore effigy. Hand-whittled wooden and glass statuettes made images of chess pieces, more decorative than for play. Various artifacts lay here and there; strange metal, wood, ceramic, crystal and stone contraptions that could kill you with a single touch.
The books and scrolls were large and bound with real gold twine, the covers made of deep brown leather. Harry had flipped through them on his first trip here, happy to see that Salazar hadn't only dabbled in Darkness; there were books on Blood magic, Wild magic (beastly voodoo, like goblin or elf), Divine magic (a mythological theory at best, although a fascinating study in itself), Grey, Light...Harry found journals on Parsel-magic, Hogwarts' original warding, beast breeding, demon rituals, necromancy, Elementalism. Harry enjoyed the range of studies, morbid as some were. Not everything was so black and white in Slytherin's day...nowadays, the man was considered a Dark wizard, but he was more of a scholar than anything else; a jack-of-all-trades, a revolutioner. Slytherin's original studies could be worth millions of galleons, for historical value alone. And while some of his research was outdated, the theories were still fascinating.
Harry promised himself he would investigate later, and made his way over to Slytherin's desk, checking if the wards were still intact. Made in the same dark wood as the bookshelves (coming from, Harry theorized, an extinct breed of tree), the desk was large and impeccably regal. The desktop was wide and flat, bewitched to repel ink spills and encourage it's user to use proper grammar in their notes. The throne behind it was made of obsidian stone and green silk cushions, the tall back etched with battle regimes and- unsurprisingly enough- tiny shifting serpents.
The desk drawers were locked with Parsel-magic, enchanted to protect it's contents from tarnish or fading. Harry had placed the diadem within the drawer for safety, lying on an Acromantula-silk cushion. As he opened the drawer, the tiara's dark stone glimmered mischievously at him, the silver raven head gleaming. He could feel Dark magic at work, compelling him to slid the tiara upon his brow...to possess Rowena Ravenclaw's wit and knowledge...to possess the power-
-and slammed the drawer shut, letting out a long breath.
He spun away from the desk, pushing through the deep green curtains behind him, that hung where a door frame usually would.
He crossed through Slytherin's small tea-room and lounge, the room sparsely decorated in comparence to the office. There was a black settee couch and chair, situated around a glass tea-table. In the far corner was a direct Apparation point, Harry learned, for a house elf to pop too and fro, from the kitchens and back. Harry wondered how the elves would react if he ordered a sandwich, from a lost, mythological chamber.
There was also a large wine cabinet against the wall, the alcohol- under a strong stasis charm- and far too strong for Harry's taste and body size. On Hallowe'en night, Harry had left the dorms once Draco fell asleep with the express purpose of getting drunk on the vulgar-tasting grape vine and cognac. His body seemed to revolt the taste, though, and he didn't get very far before his sense kicked in.
A tapestry of Salazar and his pet snake hung on the opposite wall, the bearded man brooding darkly as he spotted Harry. The man wore dark robes with a long, sparkling collar, his golden locket lying on his chest. He was bald, but wore an intricate emerald crown on his brow, reminding Harry that the man was a King in his own rights. Salazar had been sleeping for fifty years before Harry visited, having been previously awoken by Tom Riddle. Harry let the man ride under the assumption Harry was his distant descendant- the grandson of Riddle, apparently. Harry shivered at the thought.
"Come to visit again, child? I had thought mortification from your previous decorum would keep you away." Salazar hissed, rubbing the head of his sneering snake. The basilisk was named Letalis- a female serpent, apparently. The painted version was no prettier than the real Letalis, but at least she couldn't kill him with a single stare. Harry leaned over in a bow, bangs falling into his eyes. "I promised I would return, didn't I? I do apologize for my last visit. Hallowe'en was...difficult," Harry admitted, glancing back at the wine cabinet. Salazar sniffed, looking down appraisingly at the boy.
"Apology accepted. While I do not approve of a child resorting to such means of sedation, I can forgive you for your mistake. I assume you wish for access into my brewing laboratory once more?"Salazar asked coolly. Harry nodded, giving the man a tired smile as Slytherin's tapestry rolled to the ceiling, revealing a wide hole. "Thank you, my Lord," Harry called out as he entered the lab. "Do make sure to clean it, child," Slytherin responded, voice muffled by fabric."That Riddle child made a disgusting mess of my workshop. I did not appreciate it."
Harry resisted snorting in Salazar's presence, and took a look around the wide lab. The room had been entirely scorched by a fifty-year old explosion. Dust had settled over the ash, and the brewing station was all but rubble. There was no ready equipment for Harry to use, except for a mottled slab of pewter, a ruined cauldron from Tom Riddle's day. Harry had been incredibly lucky to find a singer drawer embedded into the wall, filled with unused, stasis-protected ingredients. At least one thing had survived.
The lab was entirely isolated from Harry's peers, so there was no chance of anyone (except for Slytherin, maybe) bothering Harry about the legality and ethics surrounding his brewing process. If anything went wrong, though, Harry would be entirely helpless. No one could access the chambers except for Harry and Voldemort. Perhaps if there was another explosion, Slytherin would contact Quirrell and have the possessed DADA teacher collect his body. The man would probably throw a party.
It was a dark room, emanating a strong sense of foreboding, similar to that of Snape's classroom. Harry conjured a quick ball of green light and tossed it into the corner. He got to work.
He began to vanish the rubble and ash, creating a small maelstrom of grime that twisted up and away into non-existence. His eyes stung from the dust as he carefully swept his wand around, making sure to get every corner. The dirt and filth was all a bit flammable, and before Harry could begin brewing, he needed a spotless work space.
Preceding this, with Slytherin's permission, he took the tea-table from the lounge and placed it in the lab, setting up his array of (mostly stolen) ingredients. He'd gone through Slytherin House's personal ingredients cabinet in Snape's room, looking for any usable and easily overlooked materials. While he was basing his potion off Potio Bellum's 'Adamantine Body' brew (made of troll skin and beetle entrails), he was under the impression it was nearly impossible to make. He had borrowed (stolen) the Half-Blood Prince's Advanced Potion Making as a guide to create his own elixir. He used the notes to create an alternate recipe for 'Adamantine Body'.
Harry wondered if he should involve the Potion Master in his little creation, but knew that Snape would not approve of Harry's use for it. 'Adamantine Body' was initially a potion for duelers, making their skin impenetrable to physical injury and most spells.
Harry had modified the brew to reflect and resist the Basilisk's death-stare off Harry's retinas, lasting for about an hour at a time. It had to be administered through an eye-dropper, and if the potion was brewed incorrectly...it may very well melt Harry's eyeballs into mush. If not, well, Harry would have an hour to negotiate with Letalis, the Basilisk, and convince her to give him a sample of her venom. Salazar was very much against Harry killing his beast, so negotiation was his only hope.
It was all a work in progress, relying on Harry's ability to watch and correct the potion from November sixth to December sixth. His Astronomy charts told him that a New Moon would be visible on both days, making it the best time for him to brew. The troll skin would be sparingly added on a waxing crescent moon, stirred and simmered alongside powdered Tumeric, weta legs, and cinnamon sticks (surprisingly enough).
On the waning crescent, a teaspoon of scarab beetle entrails would dropped in every third hour for a day, followed by garlic dust, crushed nettles and lungfish scales. It was incredibly difficult for Harry to procure these; they were all rare ingredients, pilfered from Snape, older students, or found in the Room of Requirement. He had about three weeks after finding the recipe to pull them together- and, surprisingly enough, the troll skin was one of the easiest the retrieve.
The New Moon would rise in three days, the Sunday after Slytherin and Gryffindor's first Quidditch match. Harry had averted his training the morning with Flint by the skin of his teeth- he felt guilty for abandoning Draco, but needed to prepare Slytherin's laboratory.
Harry felt a strange pit of dread in his stomach at the though of the upcoming match; he didn't particularly want to go, even to support his team (or to secretly cheer for Gryffindor's new Seeker). Whether the dread was in fact an intuitive warning, or an effect of nostalgia, he couldn't decipher.
Ever since the Hallowe'en night, Harry had come to realize he wasn't a god. He couldn't keep everyone from getting hurt, he couldn't change every bad thing. Snape still continued to (fruitlessly) degrade James Potter's son, Quirrell was still plotting against the world and Quidditch remained the high topic of the season. Harry didn't need to be a star Quidditch player for the game to go on, and Harry could only do so much to coax Snape onto his side. Harry might have knowledge of a future, but he didn't have knowledge of this future. He was in the dark, seeing only spots of light here and there for him to find his way.
Harry hadn't expected his lack of friendship with Hermione to send her into Quirrell's path of destruction, and he hadn't realized that saving Trevor that day on the train would send Neville into Hufflepuff. Everything he did seemed to have a momentous affect; stealing the Philiosopher's Stone, and triggering Draco's transition to the good side- being upfront with Dumbledore, and causing the old man to become an even larger meddler than before- antagonizing Miles Bletchley into having a week's detention, and, in return (although the boy was oblivious to Harry's misdeeds) earning an even bigger rival than even Draco was-
Harry was changing the future, and he couldn't see if it was bright or not. He had never believed in Divination, never believed that everything was set in stone- Harry was practically proof that the future could change even at the slightest manipulation or misstep. Harry wondered if having Ron as Gryffindor Seeker (and the youngest player in a century) would change the game's outcome. He wondered if Hermione being friendless would drive her into a modern version of Moaning Myrtle. He wondered if Neville would stay courageless, if Draco would end up a hero.
Harry wondered, and thought, and hoped- but he knew that no matter the 'what ifs', he couldn't stop now. Harry's new purpose was to fight for a change. He was doing all this for them, to save them from thatfuture.
He'd fight a million trolls, a dozen Basilisks, a few Dark Lords and even fight Fate, to save those he once loved- and by God, Harry was going to win.
Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen: Aerium
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk
the earth with your eyes turned skyward, f or there
you have been, and there you will always long to return.
― Leonardo da Vinci
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Eighteen: Aerium
November 9th, 1991
"Now, I want a nice, fair game, all of you," Madam Hooch called out firmly. Draco snorted next to Harry, bouncing on his seat in a rare show of boyish enjoyment. "Like that's going to happen," the blonde murmured.
The weather was chilled, a frisk breeze brushing back Harry's dark hair. He kept a firm grip on his Slytherin flag, his green and grey scarf pulled snuggly around his neck for warmth. As he pulled on his hat, the dozen players rose up, high into the air at Hooch's whistle. They meandered above the stands and Harry craned his neck to catch sight of the visibly shaking and faintly green-looking Gryffindor Seeker.
It was Ron's first game, and it seemed his jitters had yet to perish. Draco and his two goons (well, Harry's too, by association) had been bullying the ginger all week, and the boy's anxiety had only gotten worse.
Ron lifted off on his new Nimbus, red and gold robes whipping back in the wind. The Quaffle was tossed up into the pitch, the Bludgers and Snitch were released...and they were off. "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too-"
"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall admonished. Draco and the other first years called out protests towards Lee Jordan's blatant favoritism, while Harry merely smiled in bemusement.
Off and across the pitch, red and green blurs trekked, tossing back and forth a large brown blob, while the two Bludgers whipped past their heads. The Slytherin Beaters were good; Icarus and Ichabod Bishop, if Harry remembered correctly- brothers like Fred and George Weasley. They knocked the Bludger towards any Gryffindor player in their way, having no regard for fair play. Angelina Johnson was smacked in her side and right elbow twice in the first few minutes, while Katie Bell was nearly startled off her broom.
Miles Bletchley was Keeper, and - while he usually wore a sour expression, anyways- when he missed the next dive, he looked completely murderous. "GRYFFINDOR SCORES!" Jordan cheered, earning moans and frustrated shouts from the Slytherin side.
As Theodore Nott whipped around his scarf like a lasso and Crabbe and Goyle guffawed at every missed play- Gryffindor or not- Harry let his eyes wander over to the Gryffindor stands. His gaze immediately fell on Hermione, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the rowdy crowd. It was clear Hermione was not there to support Ron Weasley, nor she was she a true fan of Quidditch- but she still managed to make an appearance. And although Harry could see a vague outline of a book in her robes pocket, she at least attempted to pay attention.
The brunet had been keeping her head up this past month, putting on the appearance of normality as she tried and failed to immerse herself in wizarding culture. The girl loved magic and the new knowledge, truly, but she found the attitudes of most wizarding folk a bit displeasing. The Slytherins scorned her, the Ravenclaws despised the competition, the Gryffindors were unaccomodating and- on the Hogwarts food chain- the Hufflepuffs were just as much of a mockery.
Harry had been keeping an eye on the girl since that Hallowe'en night, wondering if Quirrell's Imperius memory block had worked. The morning after, Harry (a little bit hungover) had been unsurprised to see the girl at breakfast, with her food uneaten, head ducked low and a thin layer of confusion darkening her brown eyes.
The story went that Percy had brought the girl straight to Madam Pomphrey to revive her, confirming the head injury she gained from 'falling down the stairs' (she just hit her head from the Stunning, is all). "I can be so very clumsy, sometimes," Hermione had said to the nurse, her voice partially strained. "I...well, I was a bit distraught after class, and I got this crazy idea that I could go after the troll. I've read all about them, you see- but I didn't get very far, obviously." McGonagall was incredibly disappointed with her student, and docked ten points for her 'reckless self-endangerment'.
So, Harry concluded, Quirrell's little spell work did it's duty. Not that Harry had expected any differently.
"Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a moment — was that the Snitch?"
Harry snapped to attention as a flit of gold streaked past the stands. Terence Higgs- who did end up on the team, having been pressured by his family- caught sight of the Snitch first, Ron following close behind. The Gryffindor's hair clashed horribly with the uniform, making him naught but a flash of orange hair and red fabric as he sped forward on his Nimbus.
Ron's form was incredibly sloppy- he weaved haphazardly through the stands, and was leaning too far back on his broom as if he was afraid of taking the plunge- but the broom's speed made up for his shortcomings, and soon he and Terence were neck-and-neck. Draco was screaming encouragements to the second-year Slytherin, and Harry was on the very edge of his seat.
Just as Ron's broom pulled ahead, there was an enormous WHAM! Harry gasped, falling back on his seat. Marcus Flint- the arsehole- blocked Ron's course, sending the redhead spiraling painfully towards the grass. A roar of fury erupted from the Gryffindor stands, and while the Slytherins knew that Flint's move was under the belt, they returned the fury seven-fold, aimed towards Ron. "Cheat!" Draco called down, face red. "Weaselbee ran into Flint. He shouldn't have gone so close to the goals-" Harry zoned the boy out.
"So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating -" Lee was concluding.
"Jordan!" McGonagall growled from the commentary stand. "I mean, after that open and revolting foul…" he tried.
"Jordan, I'm warning you-" she hissed.
"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."
As Jordan and McGonagall bickered, Ron had managed to pull himself back into the air, although he seemed understandably jarred. The Gryffindors seemed to be proving a point; they were even more boisterous than before, outright screaming as Slytherin came into the lead. Harry watched Ron's broom carefully, looking out for Quirrell in the teacher's stands. The man was nowhere to be found.
Harry hadn't believed that Quirrell would jinx the broom this time around, considering Harry wasn't the one upon it- but one could never be too careful. Where was Quirrell, then, if not at the game?
Harry searched through the stands once more, waving a small hand at Neville, Susan and Hannah as they cheered with the lions. Traitor, Harry mouthed with a grin. Neville didn't respond, simply rolling his eyes as the game commenced.
When Terence finally caught the Snitch, ten minutes later (just slipping past Ron as the ginger ducked for a Bludger), Harry found himself cheering and celebrating with the rest of his house, ecstatic from the 160-70 point win. Draco's grey eyes were wild, cheeks flushed with color as he jumped to his feet, clapping. Blaise smacked a wet kiss onto the blushing Ophelia's cheek, while Crabbe and Goyle gave the uncomfortable Theo a bone-crushing hug. Harry didn't notice, but the Slytherin girls hadn't appeared at the game at all, opting to gossip in the empty dorms.
The Slytherins soon crowded the common room, a wizarding radio humming in the background as the lantern lights strobed above their heads. Pumpkin juice and treats were served (butterbeer for the older students) and a large tray of tarts was passed around graciously. The Slytherin team found a home on the couch, animatedly retelling stories of Quidditch past while the younger students listened with rapt attention. The Slytherin party was far more contained than that of the carouses Gryffindor used to hold, but the boy decided he preferred the low-key celebration over anything else.
Terence was currently being revered by a group of older girls, and was more than a little uncomfortable, Harry noticed. Harry quickly pullled the relieved older boy away, much to the catcalls and half-hearted protests of the other (wildly misinformed) party-goers.
Harry led the Seeker into the Ouroboros dorm, shutting the door behind them to muffle the noise.
"Thank Merlin that's over," Terence sighed, letting out a long breath as he collapsed onto the couch with little finesse. Harry awkwardly set down the blonde's butterbeer and sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling a small glass of juice. "What, you don't like the fame and glory?" Harry teased, taking a light sip.
Terence slid off his outer jacket and grabbed a packet of Self-Shuffling Exploding Snap from Blaise's things. "No. Absolutely not," Terence said crassly. "I mean, it's great I caught the Snitch, but these guys are obsessed. It's like being surrounded by a hundred clones of my father."
Terence slipped onto the floor, leaning his back against the couch as he sorted the cards into rows and columns. "Well, it was a good catch," Harry said lightly, bringing out his wand to tap the first card. Terence sighed, scratching his forhead. "I suppose so," he said. "My family will be proud, at least."
Harry glanced up at his friend with slanted green eyes. "I'm sure they will be."
The two boys had become marginally close in the past months, finding a bit in common in reference to their families. Terence was a half-blood with a muggle-born mother and a pureblood father, born from one of the minor Noble Houses. Hyland Higgs was not a particularly rich man, and wasn't necessarily classified as 'Dark', despite his job as an Unspeakable. The man had been a Slytherin in school, and was scorned by his classmates for loving a mudblood- Mr Higgs had appalled at their treatment and had kept his son away from his old classmate's brood. Terence had grown up around other half-bloods, most of them coming from Hufflepuff families his mother knew. Mr and Mrs Higgs seemed kind enough in description, but they had awfully high hopes for their son.
From an outsider, Terence was completely average in most ways. He had an easily over-looked face and a similar disposition to that of a wallflower, but was really quite charismatic, in his own way. The boy was more of a scholar than an athletic- and while he preferred books over brooms, he enjoyed Quidditch well enough. He would most certainly try his hardest to play well and fair in every game, despite his team-mate's penchant for foul play.
Terence was a silent card player, Harry noticed. The boy hardly flinched at the (frequent) explosions, and gave only an quirk of his eyebrows or a twitch of his lips to indicate his next play. The blonde was fascinated with hand-on games, finding Harry's knowledge on Muggle games even more enthralling than even Quidditch.
Terence was also very good at Transfiguration, far more advanced than Harry was at his age. Harry had seen the boy conjure a pack of Muggle cards out of thin air and teach Crabbe to play poker- a miracle in itself. Although it certainly helped that he used candy instead of chips.
Harry also knew that Terence secretly had a ball of twine in his book bag to practice Cat's Cradle and other string games in his spare time. It was hilarious, watching the blonde try to explain his little hobbies to a chauvinist pureblood like Pansy Parkinson or Kris Westling.
The boy certainly made good company, and seemed to enjoy the thought of taking Harry under his proverbial wing. Harry had to resist snorting at that.
As their most recent explosion sent soot onto the two boy's faces, they agreed to call the match. They came to laugh hysterically at Blaise's face a few minutes later when the first year came in to see his cards naught but a pile of ash on the floor.
That was Harry's last night of peace before the New Moon.
November 10th, 1991
Harry had a difficult time pulling away from his dorm-mate's claws the next day. Blaise had, idiotically, tried a bit of Firewhiskey the night before, and required Harry's assistance to the bathroom every ten minutes. He refused to visit Madam Pomphrey- claiming to have a long-stated fear of hospitals- and so Harry and Draco were forced to play nurse.
Harry had to pay Ophelia to watch after her boyfriend, as apparently the two had got in a bit of a spat the night before. Harry just rolled his eyes and forked over the Sickles, already knowing that the two kids would kiss- well, maybe not kiss much in Blaise's state- and make up by the time he returned.
Draco was adamant that Harry either stay in the dorms or bring Draco along; but after Harry threatened to knock the blonde out and stuff him into his school trunk, Draco reluctantly let him be. Clingy brat.
The Boy-Who-Lived was in a sour bit of mood as he approached the girl's bathroom, having come across the Weasley twins in the dungeons, attempting to trip up any wandering Slytherin. Harry quickly tipped Marcus off towards them, the seventh year much more amenable now that his first game had been won. Harry also wasn't excited to be chopping weta legs and pounding ginger herbs for the brew, but the potion needed the time to simmer before the troll skin was added in. He had a long day of brewing ahead of him.
Moaning Myrtle was whimpering in the U-bend as Harry entered, and water was streaked across the floor, pooling from the sinks. "What the hell happened in here?" Harry asked, lifting a soggy foot. Myrtle crept out of her stall, blinking away tears.
"I flooded the bathroom," she said quietly, stating a bit of the obvious.
Harry resisted snapping at the ghost, and instead approached sinks to shut the faucets."That much is clear," he said darkly, watching the water drain away slowly. "Why did you, though?"
Myrtle let out a pitiful sob. "Someone was here, yesterday. Harry...someone was looking at your sink." Myrtle moaned as Harry ran his finger across the metal snake. She floated above him, face screwed in concern. "I promised you I'd watch it...but they banished me before I could do anything!"
Harry stared at her with wild eyes as he muttered the password, the sinks groaning away, revealing the pipe. "Who was it, Myrtle?" he said sharply, panic rising in his chest.
"One...one of the professors. He wore a purple turban," Myrtle forced out. "He was speaking in that strange hissing way that you do, and when I came out to yell at him-"
Harry had heard enough. Giving Myrtle a quick 'thanks', he jumped down the pipe, breathing fast. Myrtle sobbed above him as he fell fifty feet, blood rushing to his head. He collapsed at the bottom, and dashed into the Chamber, warning bells going off in his head. He was acting like a damn Gryffindor, rushing into an unknown conflict- but he really couldn't sedate his concerns long enough to think it through. His yanked out his wand, hoping to Merlin that Quirrell didn't do anything bad, like destroy Harry's ingredients or let out the damn snake-
The entrance door swung open quickly, and Harry silently padded across the flooded floor, breath bated. He stared around the Chambers, wondering if Quirrell had entered the Chambers in the first timeline, or if this was a whole new problem for Harry to resolve.
He started towards Slytherin's office, but stilled at the sound of water lapping and something rough rubbing against the stone floor.A long tail whipped in front of him, splashing the pool of water and curling beneath Salazar's statue. He immediately slammed his eyes shut, heart pounding in his chest. Voldemort had awoken the beast.
"Who are you?" Harry called out, his voice shaking. He didn't know if the snake would just eat him or stop and listen- but he hoped it would respond to his Parseltongue.
There was a pause, and guttural noise of anger erupted from the Basilisk's throat. "I am Letalis, Speaker, and you have trespassed in my territory," she boomed. Harry made a small moaning sound, feeling more than a bit helpless. He'd have to revise all his plans; ward the Dark Lord from re-entering, negotiate with the serpent to not eat him..."I'm Harry Potter," he responded finally, slipping away his wand and turning blindly toward the beast in a show of peace. "I am not here to hurt you-"
Letalis interrupted him with a strange sound like a laugh.
"Of course not, Speaker. As if you are even capable of such feats. If anything...I'm here to hurt you."
Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen: Venomous
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
For man, as for flower, and beast and bird
the supreme triumph is to be most vividly,
most perfectly alive.
-D.H. Lawrence
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Nineteen: Venomous
"No! No, please." Harry pleaded, lifting his hands placatingly. "Please, just listen. I am of Slytherin House," he revealed softly, straining to keep an ear on her movements. "A student of Hogwarts school. I speak your language, Great Serpent, and I have sought the approval of your Master... albeit, he was in tapestry form-" he was interrupted by a guttural sound. While Harry was blind, he could sense the Basilisk's intimidating circling come to a pause.
"My Master?" She hissed, voice sharp. "My Master has been dead for thousands of years. He cast me into an endless sleep, said to wait for the next Speaker to arrive. His words are the only reason I pause in killing you now," she spat.
Harry faltered, his eyes almost fluttering open. He swore at himself, placing a hand over his eyes for precaution, before speaking. "And your last master? Lord Voldemort...Tom Marvolo Riddle?" He asked hesitantly.
Letalis growled, and began her close slithering around Harry's body. He had apparently touched a nerve. "Tom Riddle has awakened me twice in his life, whispering my name through the rock. I awoke twenty-four hours ago to see him desperately controlling a two-faced, simpering fool of a host. Tom Riddle has no body of his own, he holds no flesh, no blood. No proof that he is from Slytherin brood.
"I expelled the impostor from my haven because of this. Tom Riddle was once my Master, but he has returned a spirit of the Darkest magic. He is a disgrace, an abomination to Slytherin. He is not my Master," she snarled. Her tail smacked against the ground, causing Harry to fall to his knees.
"This topic grows tiresome, Speaker," she warned, creeping closer. "Prove your worth now, or I will enjoy your carcass as my mid-morning snack."
Harry swallowed, thinking fast. He did not like the idea of going down the snake's giant gullet, alive or otherwise. Harry pulled out his wand and, sensing the snake's gaze on his every movement, quickly slashed the air above his palm.
A sharp pain erupted, his thin skin gashed. Blood dripped across his palm, and he stuck out his hand for Letalis to sniff. He stiffened at her large, wet nose brushing against his fingertips, but allowed her to appraise him. It was a bit jarring, having her head so close, but he forced himself to remain calm.
He took a deep breath and slid away his wand. "As you see, I have flesh, I have blood. My language is of serpents, and my allegiance is to Slytherin," the snake made a strange noise, pulling her head away.
"But you are not of Slytherin," she hissed, tensing, as if in doubt. Harry clenched his fist, nodding.
"Yes... that's right. But while it is clear I am not of Slytherin brood, my blood is of two strong magical families. I am a scholar, a warrior, a hero, and a survivor. I have found the mythical Chamber of Secrets, and I have gained access to Slytherin's office and laboratory. I have tasted his wine, sat upon his throne. I have read his notes, scoured his bookshelves and even spoken to Salazar's tapestry. The memory and magic of Salazar Slytherin, your first Master, seems to accept me; welcomes me, even. This alone proves that I am worthy of your mercy, does it not? Heed me, Letalis, servant of the Greatest of the Hogwarts Four. Grant me mercy."
After the Basilisk reluctantly decided not to eat him, Harry came to the conclusion that Letalis' temper would only be mollified by panem et circenses- food or entertainment. She had been sleeping for the last fifty years, and was understandably starving.
Harry was allowed back into Slytherin's office with the express purpose of elf-ordering a dead cow. It was served ten minutes later by a fearful looking, green-skinned kitchen elf named Taurus. Held at wand point, the elf swore not to reveal the news of the chamber's reopening, nor it's location, nor Harry's presence inside. The elf was tripping over himself to assure Harry of his trust, and vanished again with a large CRACK.
Harry levitated up the cow to Letalis (more than a little disgusted at the smell, but a bit curious to how the elf had procured it), and offered the meat as an oblation. The serpent appreciated his formality, before devouring the calve in a single, large swallow. Curling comfortably by Slytherin's statue, the snake and Harry began to converse, the latter's back to Letalis' face so that he could open his eyes. He just avoided staring at the reflective pools, and made himself relatively comfortable on the bumpy stone floor.
If not for Harry's intervention and without a master to give her purpose, Letalis would have most likely gone into hibernation once more. There was very much every chance that Quirrell had opened the Chamber in the first timeline, if he was immediately rebuffed before demanding anything of her.
Harry couldn't sense the serpent becoming his familiar, but he came to trust her enough (seeing as she could reveal his secrets to one other man on Earth) to tell her part of his story.
Letalis, upon hearing Harry's tale, bluntly told the boy he would need to resume his 'Adamantine Body' brew; she had no physical way of administrating her venom, void fang penetration or her death. She could not 'turn off' her death-stare, and Harry would need to actually see her to find her venom sac. Harry had figured this much on his own, and wondered if Letalis would be content within the Chambers for the next month while Harry brewed.
The Basilisk was a very patient being, Harry learned. Despite her original eat first, ask questions later stance, she had a natural distrust of humans and used her abruptness as a fear tactic- but once she had bonded with a Speaker, she became quite companionable.
She revealed that while she enjoyed mudblood-killing in the past, she could resist her hunting so long as Harry kept her regularly fed. If needed, she could also meander herself easily through the bowels of the school to reach the Forbidden Forest and search for prey. Harry was content with this, so long as she hunted at night and kept away from any 'lost' students, unicorns, Thestrals or centaurs. But, if she happened to cross paths with the wraith-Voldemort...well, Harry definitely could not keep her from her meal.
During their next month in each other's company, Harry learned to carry around Mandrake Potion, a small vial of phoenix tears and a mirror, in case the surprisingly mischievous snake either snuck up on him or suddenly decided to kill Harry, just for the hell of it. The latter prospect was less likely, seeing as Letalis had taken to calling him 'Little Viper', and blatantly refused to maim a hatchling of her own. Strange as that sounded, Slytherin's beast could be surprisingly adorable,
December 10th, 1991
'Adamantine Body' had not been an easy potion to brew. He had expected to be working in relative silence the last month, more the better for his concentration and attentiveness- but neither Letalis or the tapestry Slytherin seemed willing to just let him be.
Harry was surprised to have gotten as far as he had without creating an explosion or making a mistake; and so, as for his final day of brewing, things were going well. Harry had never been an adequate potion-maker, not with Snape breathing on his shoulder and barking out his mistakes, but something about this being a life-or-death situation made him exceptionally careful and perceptive when it came to cauldron temperature, stirring methods and even smoke colors.
He was proud of himself, needless to say.
His hair had frizzed due to the high humidity, and a thin sheen of sweat bubbled on his brow as he tapped his wand on the cauldron, causing it to immediately cool. He let out a long breath as the liquid turned from a verdant green to the color of mottled skin and emitted soft puffs of black smoke. It was a thin potion- about as heavy as milk- and smelt like burnt foliage. He liked this better than burnt flesh, as it reeked as such when he added in the troll skin.
He took out a metal ladle and spooned a phial of brew, waving his wand distractedly over the cauldron. He placed a firm stasis charm upon it to prolong the potion's best-by date, and set the cauldron into the corner.
He set away his remaining ingredients (wrinkling his nose at the garlic) and pushed a small cork into his vial, grinning madly. He pushed through the tapestry of Slytherin- upset to find the man fast asleep- before crossing into the office. He quickly found the special-venom jars that Slytherin had created, collecting dust on the shelves.
Apparently Salazar had found use in his pet's natural poison, and had made special glasses for removing the serpent's venom sac. They weren't in currently in use by anyone, least of all Slytherin, so Harry found no qualms in borrowing the containers and the small dagger with it. He hated the idea of attempting surgery on the snake, but had yet to find an alternative method. Snake venom canals have been known to grow back, so while Letalis may be in pain for a bit...it would have no lasting damage.
"I've done it!" Harry exclaimed happily as he rose through the oubliette. Hearing Letalis approach from a pipe, he shut his eyes and carefully wandered to were she was curled.
"Congratulations, Little Viper," she said blandly. "But I do not approve of your lack of testing. After a month of labor and time on your part, it would be unfortunate if the potion killed you." Harry sighed, pulling out an eye-dropper from his robe pocket and removing his glasses. "I don't believe in animal testing, Letalis. I was not going to practice on Hagrid's roosters, no matter your dislike for them."
Letalis made a displeased nose, but bowed her head in acceptance. Harry turned from her in precaution, his shoulders tense as he uncorked the bottle. "Right. Now, as this will be my first- and hopefullyonly- attempt, if my eyes do melt, or if I die...please do not eat my carcass."
The snake hissed a laugh, head bobbing. "I make no promises, Speaker. Just do not die." How optimistic, his friend was.
Harry pinched the dropper as he dipped it into the vial, suctioning up a tablespoon or so of the beige liquid. He didn't speak as he pulled open his eye, unintentionally wincing as the dropper hovered close. He pinched it once, blinking sporadically as the liquid rolled out the corners of his eye. Muscles tense, he waited for pain, or a visual sign that the potion worked. Shrugging, he did the other eye, waiting another beat for anything to occur.
"Well, can't knock it until I try it, I suppose," he muttered in English, turning on his heel to face his serpentine companion. He resisted glancing away on instinct, and instead raised his gaze to Letalis's beady black eyes. Even Letalis seemed hesitant at looking him dead-on, but the worry was futile. He felt a strange tensity on his retinas, more of a pressure than pain, and realized that it had worked. He threw his hands up, triumphant. "I'm not dead!"
Letalis gave the snake version of a smile, and began circling around the boy happily. "So you are. This has never occurred before; even Master shied away from my gaze. I am glad you live. Your eyes are very striking, Little Viper."
Harry laughed, petting his hand across Letalis' scaly body. "Yours are too, Letalis. Now, we have about an hour until the affects wear off," he pulled out the venomoid knife and the jars, placing them on the floor. "So...how exactly do I go about removing your venom? I suppose you'll want a pain relieving enchantment..." he waved his wand over her head, pursing his lips at her wide fangs. "I've done a bit of research and know that I need to, apparently, 'sever the duct between the gland and the fang'. I just don't know where exactly to look."
The serpent made an exasperated sound as he faltered with the dagger, and opened her mouth wide. Her tongue flickered upwards, pointing out a thin, filmy pocket of skin on the roof of her mouth. "Just look, Speaker, and you shall see. Now, do be careful. I do not give my venom away to anyone I do not trust. You are very lucky that I like you, Little Viper."
Very lucky indeed, Harry thought.
Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty: Yule Tidings
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
The world seems full of good men,
even if there are monsters in it.
-Bram Stoker
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty: Yule Tidings
There was a total of four Slytherins staying for the holidays, and Harry almost wasn't one of them.
On the week before vacation, Harry received yet another invite from Dumbledore in regards to the Dursleys. That morning at breakfast, he made a point of burning the invite and promptly signing his name in permanent ink under Theodore Nott, Ember Rancor and Nimue Shields on the sign-up list. Dumbledore's broken expression almost made Harry pause, but the boy just shoved away from the table and stalked back into the dungeons.
Snape had seemed surprised when he went to collect the list, sparing the Boy-Who-Lived a strange glance. The man and Harry had very few chances to 'get to know each other' outside of class, as Harry had once hoped. But after a few months, Harry decided he didn't particularly care if Snape was his friend or not. Snape's grudge against James Potter was his own problem, and Harry assumed it would take close to a miracle for the dour professor to admit Harry was not his father. But, the thing was...Harry hadn't done anything to prove that he was James Potter's brood.
From the majority of the staff, Harry Potter was a perfectly fine boy. In looks, it was true that Harry resembled his father, but in personality he was all his own. He was clearly intelligent, always the first to complete an assignment, and his essays were done to a T. He was marginally independent among his peers, although he had made a few allies in each house. He could be cheeky in class on occasion, but only done to get his point across or convey an expression. He hadn't done much in trouble-making, earning more points than he lost- but Snape did have his suspicions. Not much went on in Slytherin dorms that Snape didn't know about, and although he kept his nose out of most things, Harry's frequent disappearances had not gone unnoticed.
The strange thing was, whenever anyone went to investigate the boy's whereabouts, their efforts were nearly always proved fruitless.
If the boy was breaking curfew, no would actually be able to tell if Harry was out of bed or not. His curtains were always drawn, his bed heavily warded by spells even Snape questioned, and the boy would always reappear in the dorms by morning. No one reported seeing the boy wandering the halls, and Harry never left a single trace of his magical presence anywhere.
Snape wouldn't even suspect the lad if he didn't keep a record of when and by whom the entrance barrier opened to, and Harry had- apparently- been leaving bed almost every night since arriving. Wasn't the boy getting any sleep? Most Slytherins could sneak out unnoticed, but the boy hadn't tripped up a single time in Snape's knowledge. Snape tried not to worry about Potter as if he was any other Slytherin- Potter was a very different case, in his mind.
The very idea of Harry Potter-the pampered prodigy, the light side's Golden Boy, the revered 'Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him'- in Slytherin was utterly infuriating to Snape, and the man couldn't help but wonder if the boy's holiday stay under his care would reveal any truth. He'd even slip Veritaserum into Harry's hot chocolate, if the man had to.
As the holidays began, Harry went down dressed in his laziest clothing, a simple pair of blue pants and a white shirt. Theodore Nott followed soon after, his long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and his green day robes donned. "Morning, Potter," he greeted quietly, sidling up next to Harry as they ascended out of the dungeons. "Hullo, Nott," Harry greeted. "Did you sleep well last night without Crabbe and Goyle's cacophony of snores?" he joked.
Theo snickered, nodding his head politely. "Very much so. Say, once term starts again, you wouldn't mind switching rooms, would you?"
Harry responded to that with a small eye roll. "What do you think?"
They entered the Great Hall in a comfortable silence, falling into step as they approached the single long table, surprised to see all the houses intermingling. Sort of. The few older Hufflepuffs were talking animatedly with the Ravenclaw youngsters in the middle, while the Gryffindors stayed mostly to themselves on the far side, and the two other Slytherin girls were eating in silence in the front. The Head Table was mainly empty, with only a few teachers staying behind to work or watch the remaining students. Theo and Harry sat next to the older girls, who introduced themselves as soon as the boys sat.
Ember Rancor was a sixth year prefect with cropped red hair, wide Roman features and a long nose. Ember and her cousin, Gennifer Bolton (a half-blood who had returned home to Dublin) were tough-as-nails and spoke with thick Irish accents. Nimue Sheilds was a bit more reserved, a thin, dark-skinned fourth year that Harry knew Crabbe had a crush on.
"Watch out for the pastries," Nimue warned as Harry reached for the food. She had a gentle voice, reminding Harry a bit of Luna, although Nimue was decidedly more sane. "The Gryffindors paid off some of the elves to poison the treats. We heard them chortling about it earlier."
Theo looked a bit alarmed, as he had almost taken a bite of a tart. "Poison?" he asked, concerned. Nimue laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Not like that. The Weasley twins like to experiment with potions and such, and found a way to prank us without even touching their wands. Just a bit of fun, is all."
Ember snorted in response, taking a bite of sausage. "Just a bi' of fun? I think your boyfriend would beg to differ. They gave him bright red hair for 'alf a week after Jason cursed off their older brother.
Nimue at least had the decency to look sheepish. "Well, Jason deserved it. He can be a bit...harsh. And Percy isn't so bad- he's the lion's prefect, isn't he?"
Harry let his gaze fall over to the three sets of redheads on the other side of the table. Molly and Arthur were still off to Romania, leaving Ron as the only Gryffindor first-year, with his two rowdy brothers as company. Ron had his head ducked over a chess board, while Fred and George were bickering over Fred's next play. The twins keep sparing glances over at the Slytherin table, waiting to see if any of them took the bait. The next time they looked over, Harry lifted a tart in greeting, arching a high eyebrow. The boys looked stricken as Harry crushed the pastry in his palm, sprinkling the crumbs onto his plate.Nice try, he mouthed.
As the Slytherins departed- Theo and Harry heading to the library and the girls back to the dorms- Harry stiffened when he noticed Scabbers resting on Ron's lap, nibbling on a piece of toast.
He stood staring at the animagus for a few beats, frustrated with himself. How could he have forgotten his godfather? Harry should have snatched the rat as soon as school started and not let Sirius brood as an innocent man in Azkaban when Harry so easily could have freed him. Theo touched Harry's elbow with a concerned expression, and Harry allowed himself to be led to the library.
He had some research to do.
Sneaking into the Gryffindor commons was all too easy. When the Weasleys went out to demolish the Hufflepuffs in a snowball fight, Harry quickly slipped past the Fat Lady, donned in his invisibility cloak. The portrait stiffened at his unwelcome presence, but he quickly muffled her protests with a strong Confundus.
Following his memory of the dorms, he entered the first-year boy's bedroom with little flair. He looked around, immediately distinguishing between the three beds- Dean's had soccer posters, Seamus' had an Ireland clover pinned to his head board and Ron's bed was a horrid mess. Finding Scabbers sleeping on Ron's bed, he snuck out his wand, casting a quick stunning spell and knocking the vermin back into the wall.
Picking up the rat by it's tail, Harry confirmed it's identity by the missing toe on Peter's left paw.
"Hello, there, Peter. I hope you enjoyed your last day as a free man," Harry crooned, dangling the animal a few feet above ground. The animagus was knocked out cold, and Harry flirted with the idea of feeding Peter to Letalis- but that just wouldn't do.
For extra measure, Harry cast the Full-Body Binding curse and stuffed the rat into his sweatshirt pocket, fleeing the room without a trace. Harry debated leaving a note or at least a decoy-Scabbers for Ron to find...but the redhead already had it coming to him, bringing the rat to a school filled with cats and birds. Scabber's 'death' wouldn't go unnoticed, but anyone could have expected it.
Harry paused on his way out of the dorm, considering the Marauder's Map. He knew the Fred and George were in current possession of it, having stolen the Map from Filch. Without thinking to hard about it, his decision was made.
Turning on his heel to the third-year dorms, he was thankful to remember checking the room for booby-traps before entering. He was impressed at the series of painful looking pranks Fred and George set up, but disabled them easily with a simple 'Finite Incantatem'. Fred and George's attempts were commendable, but Harry had at least four more years of experience with such wards. He barely blinked an eye.
Preceding this, he did a quick Point Me, which sent him towards George's trunk.
Breaking through the next series of hexes, he found the Map underneath a nasty pair of briefs. He choked on the smell and levitated the map out of it's compartment, setting it on the ground as he conjured a piece of parchment and quill.
I'm sure you've noticed a few things missing. I know it was a bit undercut for me to break into your dorm, but it was all for a reason.
I do have one question, though- how haven't you noticed your baby brother sleeping in the same bed as Peter Pettigrew for the last four months, and not done a thing about it? Are you truly stupid or just cleverly ignorant?
And, next time, void the Ear-Removing hex from your trunk. If I didn't remove it, i t would've backfired on you the next time you opened the compartment. Oh, but think of all the horrid jokes you could've told.
Cheers,
The Next Generation of Marauders
Harry sent Peter off in the next hour.
After checking the Marauder's Map to see that the Owlery was empty, he sent the rat off in an uncomfortable metal box with only three small air holes. The container was equipped with two pieces of cheese and a little basin of water, in case the rat woke up before being delivered. Harry plastered a letter to the roof of the box with the words OPEN FIRST written in bright red ink, capitalized and underlined for clarity.
The package was for Madam Amelia Bones- Susan's aunt and the Head of the Auror Department. The letter simply explained that Harry (although going unnamed) had some suspicions regarding the incarceration of Sirius Black, in apropos to the supposed murder of Peter Pettigrew and the betrayal of James and Lily Potter.
He made the process of removing Peter achingly difficult for them (in case they tried to cover up their mistake, as the Ministry was known to do) by warding the cage from anyone who may have ulterior motives, excluding Kingsley, Arthur Weasley and Amelia Bones (being the only Ministry workers he could put his faith in). Madam Bones had always been fair, and Harry trusted her to do what was right.
He also included a small vial of Veritaserum in the letter (although he doubted they'd use it), and reiterated the animagus-revealing charm several times, just for the sake of annoying them.
Waving off the two owls tasked with delivering Peter, he bounced out of the owlery, content in the hope that he'd be spending next Christmas with his godfather and Remus, cheering over their good fortune.
December 25th, 1991
Christmas morning, Harry woke with Theodore banging on the bedroom door. He blearily pulled himself out of bed and opened the door to see his fellow Slytherin looking uncharacteristically hyper. "Merry Christmas, sleeping beauty," Theo greeted, voice chipper. "It's about time you got up. We've got presents!"
"How much candy have you eaten?" Harry asked bluntly, letting the first-year pull him into the common room.
"A lot, thank you for asking," Theo said happily, ignoring the sarcasm. Ember and Nimue were collapsed on the couch, watching the fairy lights zip about the sparsely decorated Christmas tree. Nimue was as prim as ever, although Ember looked a bit worse for wear. Both were nursing strong cups of tea.
"Morning," Nimue greeted, motioning to the small pile of presents by the armchair. "Ember sorted all the gifts by person and by size while you were asleep. She's kind of obsessive like that," she said fondly. Harry arched an eyebrow at the redhead, who just grunted tiredly. "Right, then." Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, accepting a mug of tea from a small house-elf that appeared out of nowhere.
Theo went first, pulling out a gift from his older brother, Edmund, who went to school in Durmstrang. Harry learned through observations that the two boys weren't exactly welcomed at home. For one, Theo never spoke of his family and hardly ever received mail- for another, Crabbe and Goyle (as they were Theo's roommates) once mentioned in passing that the boy had a few long scars on his back, the skin healed over but still prominent on his pale skin.
Harry knew he had it bad at the Dursleys, but the fact Theo's own father would stoop so low as to abuse him was horrible. In one of Harry's few confrontations with Snape, he subtly brought up his worries for Theo's home safety, and the unsmiling professor swiftly agreed to search into it.
Ember and Nimue picked through their piles next, removing the wrappings carefully and writing down each gift-giver for their thank-you notes. They didn't seem particularly enthused over the small presents, like candy and regular-girly-things, but they looked satisfied with most.
Harry went last, and was surprised to see gifts from all the Slytherin first-years. It was mostly just boxes of candy or books, but the sentiment was appreciated. Draco gave him a long, dark green cloak with silver fastenings- said to 'bring out his eyes, despite those disgusting glasses'. Neville gave Harry a jar of miniaturized water-lilies, floating in crystal clear water. Blaise gave him a Self-Updating Spell journal (which was exactly what Harry gave Draco), and Terence gave him a book on Quidditch.
Harry's gifts to his friends were thoughtful but inexpensive, as Harry knew the young boys wouldn't value such things until they were older. Harry was surprised to see a primly wrapped box under the tree, stamped with the Gringotts insignia.
It was a long, thin box, labeled with a small letter from Marbrock, the goblin that assisted Harry on his last visit.
Harry skimmed the note quickly, pleased to learn that it was his goblin-made dagger, completed right on time and never touched by human hands. "What's that?" Theodore asked, noticing the Gringotts letter. Harry pulled the box away, shaking his head. "Trust me- you really don't want to know."
Severus Snape was never one for holidays. Not when he was a child, alone at the school, terrified for his mother's safety (his father was always worse on the holidays), and not now, when he was expected toparticipate. He had just weaseled his way out of a staff celebration with the express plan of downing a bottle of scotch by the fire, when his alarms alerted a child out of bed.
His eyes narrowed, and he slammed down his glass.
Potter.
Harry held the goblin-made dagger in a tight grip as he fled the commons later than night. He had to be very quiet as he exited the common room, as Nimue was still awake and on fire-call with her boyfriend- Jason, wasn't it? Slipping past her, Harry fingered the dark hilt of his new weapon. The short blade was perpetually sharp, and gleaming with an eerie light. The hilt was decorated with rubies and emeralds- per Harry's request- but was otherwise ordinary looking. Harry knew it would do it's job, though.
He climbed the stairs, invisible, although a narrowed pair of dark eyes followed the sound of his footsteps.
He avoided the ghost of Slytherin house on his way to the abandoned girl's bathroom, and quickly whispered the password for his entry. He kept his blade at his side while he fell down the pipe, unaware of the swearing man fifty feet above him, kicking at the closed sink. This all happened in the time span of ten minutes, although Harry felt as if it went by much faster. His thoughts were jumbled, exhaustion in his every movement, although he kept himself alert.
He shut his eyes as he crossed the Chambers, alerting the resting Letalis of his presence, before climbing down the oubliette.
Harry came to the desk, hands shaking as he dipped the dagger into an open jar of Basilisk venom (kind of yellow in color, and very, very sticky). His heart was pounding in the silence as the dagger soaked, the silver blade turning a dull shade of cream. He pulled out Ravenclaw's diadem from the desk drawer.
After nearly four months of labor and pretending everything was fine when it really wasn't, he was destroying his first horcrux.
The diadem seemed to glow in the darkness, a virulent aura pulling him close.
He pulled out the dagger, venom dripping down onto the desk and sizzling sharply. His grip was tight, and he spoke his last words before driving the dagger into the gleaming tiara.
"This is for my parents."
Meanwhile, Quirinus Quirrell was just returning to his rooms, dressed in silk pajamas and speaking in low tones to the voice in his head, when a horrific, searing hot pain erupted in his head.
He dropped the cup of tea in his hand, porcelain shattering on the carpet as he fell to his knees. In between Quirrell's sharp screams and whimpers was a strong hissing. Voldemort was in a panic, mind reeling at the sensation of pain in his intangible soul.
He hadn't felt pain quite like than in years. Not in Albania, when he possessed various snakes and creatures- and certainly not with Quirrell as his host. Voldemort's gaze was shielded by the turban, but he could see and feel that the Defense teacher was clearly taking the brunt of the hurt, writhing on the floor like a worm.
Voldemort was incensed, his disfigured face scrunching in pain. He felt...damaged. As if something that he could not see was missing.
He didn't know how, or where, but he knew something was wrong. Was it his horcruxes? He tried to remember who knew of them- Dumbledore, Slughorn, that Black boy, one of his old followers? Who else knew of his precious entities? Quirrell had seen Dumbledore only an hour ago, and Slughorn was too embarrassed to act on his knowledge. Regulus was dead, and Lucius...did not know the truth of Voldemort's diary.
Letalis rebuffed him, the search for the Stone was fruitless- Quirrell was all but useless. His plans were crumbling in the sand, and he had never been so angry in his life. He needed the Philosopher's Stone now, more than ever. Unicorn blood could only do so much...
Voldemort needed his vengeance , his rebirth. And, sadly enough, he need Quirrell to do it. "Oh, get up, you pathetic fool," the Dark Lord hissed, sending a jolting pain through their connection. It seemed to snap the man out of his stupor.
Quirrell lifted his head, slowly removing his turban with shaking hands. "My...my Lord? What-" he stammered, dropping the purple fabric to the floor.
"Silence!" Voldemort barked, eyes flashing crimson. "Get onto your feet, and take us to our chambers. We have work to do."
Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty One: Dungeons and Dragons
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Even as we speak, time speeds swiftly away.
-Quintus Horatius Flaccus
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty One: Dungeons and Dragons
Snape was especially suspicious of Harry in those next few weeks. At every turn, the man was there- glaring, threatening, attempting to intimidate the young boy. It was a lucky thing Harry wasn't so easily cowed.
Myrtle informed him that the professor had begun snooping about the entrance to the Chambers ever since that Christmas night. While the ghost usually kept the man away with her excessive whinging, Harry put in his two cents by bewitching the sink to ward against any unbidden intruders. Not only had he placed an obscene amount of Notice-Me-Nots on the sink itself, if Harry entered the pipe, the sink would automatically close behind him.
(To get up the pipe again [from the inside] was a fairly simple process; there was a built in levitation pad right beneath for anyone to use, so long as you used the keyword "Ascend," in Parseltongue and made sure not to look down.)
Harry had taken to checking the Marauder's Map whenever he ventured outside the dorms, to abstain from crossing paths with the ex-spy. The incessant paranoia was terrible; worse than it was in the old timeline when Harry thought Snape was after the Stone.
It also seemed that Snape's steely gaze was getting progressively darker, his Legilimency attacks almost constant. Harry regularly had a roaring headache, and it didn't help that the pain in his scar was getting severe. Quirrell was up to something, Harry could tell. The man would give him these unpleasant looks, and his scar would burst into pain. Harry had begun downing several bottles of pain relievers and concentration elixirs as the term began so he could keep up with the hustle and bustle of school again.
With January's arrival, life soon fell into a simple normalcy. On the first evening of the student's return, Harry was greeted by Blaise immediately cashing in the 'Free Homework Help' slips Harry had gifted him for Christmas. Blaise was a notorious procrastinator and had yet to finish any of the work they had been assigned. Harry reluctantly agreed to help, but he outright refused to let Blaise merely copy the work.
The afternoon before classes began was spent lazily working in front of the fire, chatting with the other students about their holidays and passing around a tin of home-made cookies from Dame Strauss- Ophelia's mother. Draco spent almost a whole hour talking about his holiday- the grand gala his family hosted, the traditions and, of course, his presents.
Harry was pleasantly surprised to see Draco wearing the set of clear, crystal-cut rings Harry had purchased for his friend. The rings were meant to fill up every so often with smoke the 'color' of his mood (only to be worn in the safety of the dungeons, obviously, as recorded emotions were easily exploited).
Draco was quite chagrined when Pansy pointed out that the ring was consistently filled with smoke colored a light shade of pink. The pink shade was commonly misconstrued as being 'in love', when it merely signified that the wearer was feeling content; But seeing Draco's face turn the exact hue of his ring was entertaining enough that Harry didn't bother correcting them.
Terence came up to Harry a bit later, wearing a new set of dark blue robes and a huge grin on his face. He profusely thanked Harry for the box of Muggle games he received, and made the boy promise to teach him Mancala or Monopoly on their next free day.
When asked how Harry's holiday was, Harry eluded the topic. He considered how they would respond to the news of him stealing a rat and destroying a piece of Voldemort's soul, and instead replied with a simple: "It was productive, to say the least."
The lions' win in the match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor was to be expected. Cedric Diggory had gotten the stomach flu and the reserve Seeker (Harry had no idea of her name) was simply pitiful on a broom, to put in nicely.
Ron caught the Snitch in twenty minutes, winning the game by a fair margin. Draco was predictably upset, as the win placed Gryffindor in second place for the House Cup. Harry made sure to calm his qualms; The Slytherins were still far ahead of them (almost single-handedly thanks to Harry)...and Harry a sneaking suspicion the Gryffindors would be loosing quite a bit of points soon.
It hadn't been long after the match that Draco came flying into the dungeons, clutching a stitch in his side and smiling a fairly deranged grin. "You'll never believe what I saw!" he breathed, grabbing Harry by the arm (making the boy drop the scrolls he had been translating on Jörmungandr, the God-killing serpent. Fascinating creature, that was) and dragging him into their dorm. Blaise had been resting on his bed with the curtains drawn, only for Draco to yank them open and pull the boy up.
"What the hell, Malfoy?" Blaise and Harry swore, in varying degrees of similarity. Draco was almost giddy, bouncing in place as he dug through his trunk.
"Sorry," he said."But you'll never believe it. Weasley has a dragon." He pulled out a large book on- wouldn't you know it- dragons, and Harry nearly groaned in exasperation. Blaise went to his knees as Draco found the page, and read over the boy's shoulder.
"A Norwegian Ridgeback?" he scowled. "What are you talking about? How did Weasley even get a dragon, never mind a bloody rare one."
Draco shook his head, passing the book over for Harry to read. "Well, technically, I think the dragon belongs to Haggard...the giant, remember? And I haven't the foggiest how he managed to smuggle one into the school. The one I saw was a baby, just hatched. But you'd think Dumbledore would suspect, being with the wards and such."
"It's Hagrid," Harry correctly absently, flipping idly through the book. "And do you honestly think Dumbledore gives a damn? A dragon is nothing compared to that bloody troll, and Fluffy."
"Fluffy?" Blaise questioned, pulling himself onto Draco's bed, his feet dangling over the side. Harry waved a dismissive hand, tossing the book back to Draco. "The Cerberus. Yet another one of Hagrid's little...pets."
"Little?" Draco sneered. "That bloody dog was massive, it could have chewed my head off... And, you know, the dragon will grow if we let it stay here. In a month, it'll be bigger than the savage's hut. Not to mention the fact that Norwegian Ridgebacks are carnivores, have venomous fangs and are able to snort fire at the tender age of three weeks. It's a monster. We simply cannot let it stay here."
Harry had to agree, but knew that merely talking to the half-giant (a stranger to Harry, in all rights) wouldn't do any good. If they really were getting involved in this (something Draco didn't entirely do in the last timeline, as he was more intent on getting Harry into trouble than anything) they obviously couldn't take the direct approach.
Harry was hesitant on himself getting dragged into this again, but he genuinely liked Hagrid, and would rather no one get hurt. And- knowing the Gryffindors- they would have baked up some half-witted, dauntless solution that would end up in the mud.
"What about the other boys?" Blaise asked finally. "Ron, you said. Who else knows?"
Draco glanced up with a half-hearted shrug. "Finnigan and the Mudblood. I doubt they have told anyone else, if they have the sense to not get the giant in trouble."
Blaise nodded, tapping his chin. "Well, we could always tell Snape. We do want the Gryffindorks to get in trouble, don't we?...or is that a stupid question?"
Draco and Harry exchanged an amused glance. "Stupid question," Draco snickered. "But we ought to bide our time a bit. Just them knowing about the illegal creature isn't enough. As for now, they're merely accessories to the crime. They'll slip up eventually, and we'll be there to push them when they're down. Well, we are Slytherins, aren't we?" Draco added defensively at Harry's wary expression.
Harry did seem to enjoy plotting plights against the obnoxious lions, but they were still...well, they were once his friends. He'd been on the opposite side of Draco's meddling several times in his old life, and it wasn't pleasant. The repercussions wouldn't be pretty for anyone, but Draco would stick in his nose as far as he could. The least Harry could do was make sure no one got hurt.
"Yes, fine," he agreed, rising to his feet. "But after you get your whole thing sorted, let me deal with ridding the dragon. Getting Weasley and his friends in trouble is all fine and dandy- but, frankly, I think the rest is a bit out of your league. Don't take offense, Draco," Harry admonished, seeing Draco's jaw clench in anger. "You know it's true. Just let me take care of the Ridgeback."
May 7th, 1992
The day Ron ended up in the Hospital Wing with an infected bite on his hand, was the day Harry finally went to Snape. Draco had just returned from the Hospital Wing with Ron's textbook, equipped with the letter from Charlie Weasley. That Saturday, Dean and Seamus would be smuggling out the dragon.
Harry lifted a hand to knock on the door, his heart beating a bit loudly in his chest. Snape had never ceased his questioning looks and glares, but since Harry placed the Notice-Me-Nots on the girl's bathroom, the professor had been far less active in his stalking.
Harry ventured into the Chambers at least once a week to speak with Slytherin or feed Letalis, even taking a few of the safer tomes on the Old Magics back up to the surface for further study. Harry even found a novel on potion making that had helped lift his (already high) Potions grade by a few points, which seemed to nullify Snape's conflicted hatred for Harry a little bit.
Giving the door a few sharp raps, Harry waited a beat before Snape called him in. "Enter," the man intoned dully. As soon as Harry entered the room, Snape leveled him with a dark gaze, before he continued on with his essay markings. His stark black crow quill was dripping with crimson red ink- and as Harry glanced down at the papers with a grimace, he saw that most were marked with dozens of red crosses and checks.
"Professor." Harry greeted in a low voice, coming to stand in front of his desk. The man finished the sheet by marking an abrupt 'D' and circling it, before placing it on the large pile of finished work. "Mr. Potter," he drawled. "To what do I owe this impromptu intrusion?" Snape asked, voice chilly.
Harry straightened his back, already feeling the dull probe of Legilmency. My, someone is impatient, he tsked to himself. "Sir, I'm sorry for the interruption, but I feel the need to report-"
Snape interrupted Harry with a sneer, his lips curling upward. "Tattle tailing, Potter? How infantile- pray tell, who has scorned the famous Harry Potter today? Surely you have some impudent little friends to whine to, rather than feeling the need to bother me at every whim." The man didn't even glance up at him, but if he did, he would've seen Harry's bright eyes- Lily's eyes- flashing with something dark.
"I assure you, professor, that I am perfectly capable of solving any minor qualm of mine without consulting you or any other...friends. It just so happens that this concern is a bit...larger than you assume. About seven feet larger, to be exact. Is it a mere bother for me to come to you- my Head of House- with an issue genuinely concerning the safety of a dozen other students? Or would you rather I let it sit, and have you face the repercussions for ignoring me when, say, three Gryffindors first-years end up killed by the dragon they're smuggling to the Astronomy tower in two days time?"
Snape's attention was caught. The man slowly set down his quill, giving Harry a long look. "Elaborate, Potter. You have five minutes of my time."
Harry smiled.
Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty Two: Quarrels
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Never was anything great achieved without danger.
-Niccolo Machiavelli
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty Two: Quarrels
Harry didn't have to say much to convince Snape to take over from there. While the man wasn't particularly fond of Harry Potter and was wildly suspicious of the boy's every action, Snape seemed somewhat pleased to be the one to confront Hagrid. Professor Kettleburn- the expert on magical creatures- had tagged along as well, appalled at Hagrid's choice of 'pet'.
Norberta had been quickly sedated and withdrawn from the hut by Kettleburn, who then proceeded to legally and officially pass off the Ridgeback to Charlie Weasley's friends by Saturday morning.
A sample of Norberta's fang venom and a written report from Madame Pomphrey confirmed that Ron Weasley had been consorting recently with the beast, and a guilty admittance from Dean Thomas proved that the three boys had been helping Hagrid with the dragon for the last month- all the while knowing that it was illegally in Hagrid's possession and a category XXXXX beast. A silent pass off of Charlie Weasley's letter from Draco to Snape revealed that the three Gryffindors had planned on smuggling the creature off grounds- and after curfew, too.
While Ron, Seamus and Dean were all technically minors and Hagrid was the main offender, legal action was still threatened to take place. Instead of being expelled like the Slytherins (void Harry) not-so-secretly hoped, Dumbledore predictably pulled some strings and was allowed to give the three boys detention, thrice a week for the rest of the school year. One hundred and fifty points was also taken from each student (per Snape's insistence and McGonagall's stern agreement), resulting in a staggering loss of four hundred and fifty points, thus landing Gryffindor House in last place for the Cup.
Harry wondered if the whole situation would have been brushed under the rug without Snape's intervention- the man truly was the quintessential Slytherin. It also helped that Draco had immediately notified his father of the events, causing the stern Lord Malfoy to come stalking into the Great Hall- political forms in hand- the very next day, demanding an audience with the Headmaster. Lucius threatened to place Hagrid into Azkaban for endangering his son- and, of course, everyone else.
To be honest, if Dumbledore wasn't Dumbledore, the old coot would have been removed from the position, arrested and politically ruined sevenfold by now, just from Lucius' unavailing threats. Harry supposed it was lucky legal action had been taken at all.
Having organized Gryffindor's downfall, Harry, Blaise and Draco were held in high esteem among their fellow Slytherins after the 'Dragon Fiasco'. Their involvement was meant to remain a secret...but for Draco, that just would not do.
Naturally, once word spread that it was three Slytherin first years that ruined Gryffindor's chance at the Cup...well, the dozen first-years soon became the lions' next prey. After the first month of dodging hexes in the halls, ignoring declarations of war and checking their food for poison every meal, time only seemed to make the Gryffindor's thirst for vengeance stronger.
Harry supposed he should have expected Ron to confront him- it was in a Gryffindor's nature to be upfront and blunt with their feelings. But so soon after Ron's last pitfall...it seemed the ginger had lost all sense of rationality.
Just as in the first timeline, the Gryffindor first years were scorned and restlessly bullied by their own House (a disgusting display of House unity, Harry must say). Ron and his friends had spent the last couple months sulking and brooding as they assisted Filch every few days with scrubbing the endless castle halls, writing lines with McGonagall, or helping Snape pickle his ingredients. It was only natural the boy would snap.
Harry was frankly tired of being manhandled all the time. First Draco, and then Ron- they were lucky Harry had as much self-control as he did, otherwise they'd loose a finger every time they so much astouched him.
After being dragged out of the halls and into an empty classroom, Harry was understandably seething. The redhead hadn't given him so much as a warning before digging his nails into Harry's arm (leaving dull purple bruises, Harry would learn later) and yanking him away.
Harry had been on his way out of the library- unfortunately unaccompanied by any of his friends- and carrying a pile of books that Ron promptly shoved out of his arms. Blinking at the sudden darkness of the room and the red-faced ginger in front of him, Harry pressed his wrist holster into his palm, readying for action.
"What. The. Fuck, Potter!" Ron hissed, shoving the boy into a desk. "I know it was you that tipped off Snape. You got Hagrid and me in trouble!"
Harry pressed his wand into his hand, eyes flashing. "Hagrid and I, Ronald," he corrected. "I didn't know you were illiterate as well as thick. That rumor hit the mill weeks ago- a bit slow on the uptake, aren't you?" he taunted, moving around the boy with a steady glare. Ron blanched, scrabbling for his wand.
"Well, I've been a bit busy, you see, with all my detentions-" Ron reminded, earning a scoff from his opponent.
"You can't possibly be blaming that on me too?" Harry asked, astonished. "It's your own damn fault for mixing with the half-giant and helping him raise the beast, in the first place. I just...helped the process along."
Ron growled, pointing his wand at Harry's chest. "I was helping friend, Potter. Yes, a friend...a concept you wouldn't know jack shit about, would you? Consorting with Malfoy and a bunch of Death Eaters.And to think, I wanted to help you!"
Harry blinked, a small smirk rising on his lips. "Still upset over my rebuff, in September, Ronald? Didn't think you'd be so touchy. We could never be friends, Weaselbee; you are a convoluted bastard, and I know better than to mix with someone so petty. Maybe once, you could have had potential...but now, all I see is a simpering little brat, intent on making trouble with someone who can crush you like a bug.Not very intelligent, are you?"
"As if I'd ever want to be friends with a slimy snake like you, Potter. Eat slugs!" Ron barked, a flash of light bursting from his wand. Harry blocked it easily, sending the spell flying into the wall where it burst with a strange squelch. Ron stared dumbly for a second before Harry silently hit him with a Leg-Locker Curse, causing the redhead to tumble onto the floor. Casting a Silencio, Harry approached him with a grim expression.
Ron was flopping on the floor like a fish, mouth open and face red with unvoiced shouts. Harry crouched down and snatched up the boy's wand, earning a silent screech of protest. Unimpressed, Harry stood and pushed his shoe into Ron's chest, rolling him over onto his face with little effort. "Next time, pick on someone a bit more on your skill level," Harry sneered, slipping the boy's wand into his robe pocket. "Maybe you'll even stand a chance."
May 25th, 1992
Harry almost wished he had Obliviated the redhead, for if there was one thing first-years were known for, it was sticking up for their own. The Gryffindor first years were none to pleased to hear their ring-leader had been taken down by the Boy-Who-Lived, and seemed to feel the need to create a conflict- and in front of the whole, school, no less.
Outside the Great Hall, on their way to lunch, Harry was accosted by Dean and Seamus, resulting in a savage fist-fight between the two lions and three snakes. When Seamus tackled Draco for calling him an 'Irish faggot', Harry knew it was all over.
Harry amazingly came out unscathed, as he was quick to action when Seamus moved to attack. He quickly sent the two Gryffindors into a Full-Body Bind, but not before the damage had been done. Draco earned a brilliant shiner and a broken collarbone, while Dean had begun bleeding from every orifice due to a well-placed hex from Blaise. Blaise recieved a strange gash across his leg from a cutting curse, sent from another angsty Gryffindor who tried to join in on the fight.
Shouts had erupted through the hall, and Snape and McGonagall were quick to intercede. Draco had to be held back by his godfather from hexing Seamus, while Blaise simply fell to the floor in exhaustion. Harry was twirling his wand between his fingers, leveling anyone who dared look at him with a burning green glare.
"What happened here?!" McGonagall gasped, crouching down to release the Gryffindors from their curse. The lions burst into excuses, blaming Harry and his friends for starting the fight.
For some odd reason, Hermione Granger was the one to correct them. She stepped forward, glaring daggers at her classmates as she tapped McGonagall on the arm. "The Slytherins didn't start it, professor. Everyone here saw those two come up to Harry and start accusing him-"
"He hexed Ron, professor! He attacked us!" Seamus insisted, coming to his feet shakily. Harry turned his gaze onto the Irish boy, silently telling him to shut his damn mouth.
While McGonagall shooed away the other bystanders, Snape assisted Dean's bleeding with a softly spoken Vulnera Sanentur, making the seeping blood disappear. Dean looked close to crying, but soon as he was healed, he looked up to McGonagall with a guilty expression. "We started the fight, Professor McGonagall," he admitted lightly, ducking his head. "We were just sticking up for Ron. He was attacked earlier this week, and we thought-" Seamus shot his friend a betrayed look, only to be smacked upside the head by Snape.
"You weren't thinking at all, you idiot boys!" Snape snarled. "Have you never learned your lesson? Threatened expulsion, detentions, docking of points- does it mean nothing to you?" His voice rung across the empty hall, and the Gryffindors looked down with clenched jaws.
McGonagall and the Potions Master shared a look, before McGonagall sighed, taking Dean by the arm. "Thank you, Miss Granger and Mr. Thomas for your candor. But I'm afraid we will have to take this into my office. Potter, Zabini, Malfoy- while you didn't inaugurate the fight, I'm afraid you still participated, and using a forbidden hex, to boot-" she glared at Blaise through her spectacles, earning an uncaring stare in return.
"I will take care of their punishment, Professor McGonagall," Snape stepped up, grasping his godson's arm tightly. "I am, after all, their Head of House,"
The next morning brought forth the arrival of the Daily Prophet and a note from Professor Snape. The latter was written in much the same form as it had been in the old timeline, signed with Snape's signature instead.
Your detention will take place at eleven o'clock tonight.
You will meet Argus Filch in the entrance hall. Do not be late.
-Professor S. Snape
Harry, Draco and Blaise all received the same detention time, much to their relief. They didn't speak much about the punishment, as Snape had been surprisingly more gracious in their discipline than presumed. Harry was dreading the trip into the Forbidden Forest, knowing that the unicorn would be dead and Voldemort would be hunting...some events were just meant to happen, it seemed.
Harry quickly noticed the front page of the Daily Prophet in Blaise's hands, and nearly choked on his bacon. "Hand that over," he insisted, swiping the newspaper from his friend's hands. The headlines blared in bold ink, followed by an image of Sirius, looking bewildered as he was lead into the Ministry building.
Sirius Black Proved Innocent!
Peter Pettigrew, Unregistered Animagus Found Alive: M inistry Faulted For False Incarceration
by Ederick Limus
Early Christmas morning, a large package was recorded to to have been dropped into the office of Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE). A scan of it's contents revealed a heavy measure of warding and protecting spells, aimed against any personnel voiding Bones from opening it. Madam Bones was astonished upon reading the attached letter that inside the box was a rodent...but not just any common garden rat.
The rat in question was revealed to be Peter Pattrick Pettigrew, Order of Merlin, First Class, and a close friend of James and Lily Potter (for more information, see page 4). The previously assumed dead wizard was in fact an unregistered Animagus, who had been found residing among a large Wizarding family, posing as their pet since the untimely death of the eleven unnamed Muggles and the jailing of Sirius Black. The revelation of Pettigrew's survival immediately brought up the question of Black- alleged mass murderer (see page 5)-'s incarceration in 1981.
Harry had read enough. With a gleeful smile on his face, he pushed away from the table, sparing a glance at Dumbledore at the Head Table. The man didn't seem aware of Sirius' release...but it would come to pass soon, and Harry simply ached to see the man's face once he realized-
"Sirius Black is innocent?" Draco spluttered, catching sight of the news. His eyebrows arched high as he read the article, a mouth open in astonishment. "He's my second cousin- did you know that? And he didn't even get a trial! Mother will be beside herself," he exclaimed.
Harry snorted in agreement, patting Draco on his back. "Deplorable, isn't it? Now, if you'll excuse me...I have some business to attend to."
At eleven o'clock that evening, Draco, Blaise and Harry approached the Great Hall, none to pleased to see the other two Gryffindor boys. Ron had a detention with Snape, per the Dragon Fiasco, while Seamus and Dean were being punished for the brawl the previous day.
"Follow me," Filch said, lighting a small lantern. He pushed open the front door, letting in a soft spring breeze. Harry hugged his cloak close, flipping back his bangs as the five boys followed him down the hill. "I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh?" Filch leered. He went on to his petty threats, and Draco shivered at the mention of being hung by his wrists. Harry patted the boy's arm, familiar with Filch's terrorizing.
Seamus and Dean murmured between each other, but Harry remained silent as they came to Hagrid's hut. The Slytherins immediately stiffened at the sight of the half-giant, a protest already on Draco's lips. "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf?" Filch asked the two Gryffindors. "Well, think again- it's into the forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."
"Hagrid isn't an oaf!" Seamus defended, crossing his arms. Harry rolled his eyes and jabbed Draco in the side as he went to complain. "The forest?" Draco choked. "We can't go in there at night...there's all sorts of things in there- werewolves, I heard."
Blaise nodded in agreement, while Harry just huffed out a breath. "We'll be fine," he whispered, tugging his friends away from Filch as Hagrid began speaking. "It will all be fine,"
But it most certainly wasn't.
They split off into three groups, Harry and Draco venturing East, Blaise and Dean wandering North, Seamus and Hagrid sticking to the main path. Harry kept Draco from having an anxiety attack by telling jokes and thinking up ways to hex the Gryffindors as they fled deeper into the forest. Thick trees blew about them, the bright moon just visible through the branches. Sticks and leaves crunched under their shoes as the followed the bright silver blood, which seemed to glow more brightly the farther they went. Harry had already resigned to the fact that Voldemort was somewhere creeping along in this very forest, when Draco finally cracked. Harry was a bit touched that Draco trusted Harry enough to show weakness- but it was a bit astonishing, too, seeing Draco Malfoy break his cool.
"Harry...Harry, I don't think I can go any farther..." Draco breathed as something howled in the distance. Harry glanced over at his friend, the boy's pale face deathly white. A bead of nervous sweat was visible on his brow- and Harry let out a long sigh, before coming up next to him and grabbing the Slytherin's hand gently.
"Calm down, Draco," he said softly, pulling them forward. "You can't let the forest get the best of you. It's scary, yes, supposedly forbidden- but think rationally. They didn't send us in here to get hurt. They just want to scare us a bit so we won't 'make trouble' again. And, anyways, think of the uproar your father would cause if something did happen. No one wants to risk that, would they?" Harry teased.
Draco gave a light scowl, before straightening his back. "'Course not," he said, using his other hand to brush back his flaxen hair. "Father would absolutely kill Dumbledore. Besides, you wouldn't let me get hurt in here, either, right?" He asked, voice a bit desperate. Harry resisted rolling his eyes, but agreed.
They were still holding hands (something they'd never tell anyone else, obviously) when they saw the unicorn. Draco made a choked sound, hand rising to his mouth. The two boys inched forward, their breath taken. It was so beautiful, a blinding white color, with unseeing silver-blue eyes. It's lithe legs were bent strangely, silver blood clotting on it's long mane. "Who would kill-" Draco whispered, just as a dark cloaked creature came crawling out of the shadows.
Draco stumbled back, mouth open in fear as the wraith bent over to drink the horse's blood.
Something rose in Harry, a fury he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Pushing Draco behind him, he lifted his wand, a bright golden light exploding out of the end. "Confringo!" The wraith dodged away as the ground beneath him exploded, the leaves catching fire around the dead unicorn.
Draco screamed. A number of forest creatures cawing at the disturbance, the wind blowing roughly as Harry's eyes seemed to glow with an eerie green light. The wraith rose suddenly, silver dripping down his mouth, crimson eyes glinting in anger. The burning pain erupted in Harry's skull, like a dozen daggers tearing through his consciousness. He fell to his knees with a strangled cry, hitting his head on a hardened tree root.
There was the sound of hooves pounding against the forest floor, and another startled yell from Draco. Something dark swooped over Harry, and he felt a cool, vitriolic whisper against his skin. The wraith.
"I will kill you," Harry murmured through the veil of pain, his words gone unheard by those around him. If Voldemort ever heard him, Harry didn't know.
It took a minute before Draco's quivering face came into view above him, tears streaked on his cheeks as he shook Harry out of his stupor. "Harry...oh, Merlin, Harry," he whispered. As Harry blinked away the lingering pain, Draco pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, his warmth the only comfort in the damn forest. They both let go very suddenly after realizing they had company. Draco blushed fiercely, while Harry was just a trifle confused.
He lifted a hand to the back of his skull, disgusted to feel a streak of blood dripping down his neck. "Are you alright?" Firenze asked, the palomino centaur that had saved him. The centaur pulled Harry and Draco to their feet, blue eyes glinting kindly.
Harry nodded lightly, accepting the help. "What was that?" Draco whimpered, eyes flashing to the still, bleeding unicorn. Firenze didn't answer as he stared blatantly at the vivid, red-puckered scar on Harry's forehead. Harry leveled the centaur with a long gaze, brushing his sweaty bangs forward.
"That, Draco," Harry responded, voice bitter. "That was Voldemort, here to try and kill me. Again."
Chapter 23: Chapter Twenty Three: Woe Betide, Part I
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Nothing of importance happened today.
-King George III
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty Three: Woe Betide
Part I
Another night was spent guarded by the folds of his bed curtains, in which Harry and Draco had another talk. Draco was understandably shaken that Voldemort was actually at the school, possessing their Defense teacher. He dug his fingers into his hair, not giving a damn that he was messing up his Sleakeazy. "This is...this is absolutely absurd," Draco decided. "Utterly insane. Merlin, what am I going to tell my father? He will flip."
Harry snorted, leaning back into his green silk pillow. "When all of this is said and done, I'm sure he will," he said lightly. He shut his eyes, a rant already rising in his throat
"But at least you have parents that care. The Dark Lord comes after me when I'm one, because of some proph...because of whatever. He murders my parents, and then turns his wand on me- an infant. And then, all of a sudden, I'm the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. In a matter of minutes, I'm orphaned and left in the custody of a crazy old coot that sends me to live with the worse Muggles around-" Draco waved a dismissive hand, interrupting him.
"Yes, yes. Woe is you. But at least with the Muggles, you got a bit of peace."
Harry rubbed his eyes irritably. "No. Absolutely not." Harry said firmly. "Not all Muggles are bad, but the Dursleys...Merlin," he sighed.
"I've been their human house-elf as long as I've been able to carry a dustpan. I cooked for them since I was five, I've scoured their house up and down, I single-handedly planted Aunt Petunia's garden- and I've never got a lick of gratitude for it, not in ten years. They said it was the least I could do for their 'gracious care'.
"Gracious care, my arse. They kept me in a bloody broom cupboard for ten years. I've been half-starved, beaten, horribly bullied by my cousin- you tease me because I'm so bloody small, but I'm really just malnourished. When I got my Hogwarts letter, I had to sneak around them all week, preparing to run away. I had to pick the damn lock, steal a set of my cousin's hand-me-downs (several sizes too big for me, mind you), smuggle a bit of food," his voice was dark and bitter, green eyes shut in tired vexation.
"In comparence to them, Hogwarts is a bloody paradise. I'd prefer Voldemort any day over the Dursleys. At least I can try to protect myself from Voldemort- the Dursleys, I can't get away from until I'm seventeen, because of these damn Blood Wards that are supposedly keeping me safe from outside threats. But what is there to keep me safe from them?" His voice rang in the fairly silent dorm room, his eyes a bit wet, if you looked close.
Draco let out a strangled, outraged sound, collapsing next to Harry on the bed. "Really? Bloody hell," he remarked softly, looking over at his friend. "This...treatment simply cannot go on anymore. You are the Boy-Who-Lived, the Muggles cannot treat you...They cannot let you go back- I will not allow it."
Harry sighed, raising his eyes to Draco's. "There is no they, Draco," he reminded softly. "Just Dumbledore. And I've already spoken to him- he knows, but he still insists that I stay. Do you really think you- or,anyone, really- can possibly stand a chance against him? He's the bloody Light Lord, defeater of Grindlewald, the only person-other than myself- who dares stand a chance against Voldemort. I can try my damnedest to fight him on this, but I'll have to deceive the deceiver- a war in and of itself."
"Harry, don't sound so hopeless," Draco pleaded. "If you can stand against V...Vol...Voldemort," he stuttered over the moniker. "You can sure as hell stand against Dumbledore. Sirius is your godfather, isn't he? He could gain custody of you, take you away to live with him. And if he's gone insane from Azkaban, well, there is always us. I'm sure Father and Mother would allow you to come to the Manor this Summer- if not to stay, you can always come visit. Whatever gets you away from those damn Muggles," Draco said fiercely before pausing, a mischievous look growing in his eyes.
"Or...or, you could take the Dursleys' abuse public. My father has some contacts with the Daily Prophet- he's good friends with the editor. Anyone would simply die for an interview with the 'Boy-Who-Lived'. If word got out that you've been abused, you'd gain tidal wave of supporters. Dumbledore would be hard pressed to ignore the will of the public."
Harry pursed his lips in a pensive silence, before moving slightly to face his friend.
He never thought that Draco could be so sensitive, so...selfless; first, in the Forbidden Forest, the boy had willingly shed all his dignity and revealed his fear, but he still stuck around when Voldemort appeared. He stuck around for Harry- because they were mates, and not enemies this time around. It was utterly surreal; but Harry was grateful for it.
After loosing Ron and Hermione, he didn't think he could ever find someone he could trust so much. He never thought he could be close to anyone again, in fear of hurting them. He didn't know whether to pull away and take Draco's loyalty for granted...or let himself open up.
Ron was right, that day in 1998- closing yourself up does nothing but destroy who you are, and Harry didn't want that. He didn't want to loose anyone to Voldemort, but he didn't want to loose himself, either.
He pressed his forehead into Draco's chest, silently giving his thanks. Draco blanched at the sudden closeness, but didn't pull away, didn't say anything. His hand crawled up tentatively to pat Harry's back in reassurance.
Eventually- after Harry's eyes began to droop- Draco slipped away to his own bed, feeling a trifle regretful. He would have stayed with his friend the entire night, if he could- but Draco couldn't stand what Blaise would think the next morning if they both reappeared from the same bed.
Draco wasn't that selfless.
May 30th, 1992
Exam week was simply brutal on the Slytherins.
While half the grade was at the top of their classes, the other half was hopelessly behind- and as late May approached, both groups began spending hours upon hours studying and revising. The atmosphere in the commons was tense and frantic- utterly frustrating for Harry, who knew all the material frontwards and back.
As a general rule, most Slytherins genuinely valued knowledge and were very competitive in academics, reveling even that of the Ravenclaws. Old Pureblood families held very high expectations for their children; if a child failed their OWLs, they could be deemed lawfully unfit as heir, the position falling to the next son, daughter, niece, nephew, cousin, or whomever in line. While the OWLs were still a bit away for most, no one in their right mind would dare jeopardize their chances.
Harry (feeling no need to work his brain into fact-crammed, stress-addled stupor) promptly abandoned his classmates within a few days of cramming, opting to spend his free time with the much more easy-going Hufflepuffs.
Most 'Puffs were astonishingly intelligent and well known for their work ethic- but their methods for exam week survival were far more relaxed than Harry could have hoped. Following Neville to the badger's den after Herbology was one of the best decisions he could have made that week.
Harry had never been to the Hufflepuff commons, not even in his first life. He knew that it was located somewhere by the kitchens, and was amused to see Neville approached a stack of barrels, wand out.
"It's fairly simple to get in," Neville said, crouching down to the barrel two from the bottom, rapping out a strange beat with his wand. The rhythm was, in fact, 'Hel-ga Huff-le-puff'. No password, no riddle like the Ravenclaws used- the security was a bit lack, Harry noted, but he supposed that was to be expected.
The lid popped open, revealing a short passage down into a wide atrium. He was immediately blasted with a sense of warmth, a far contrast from that of the dungeons. Harry stumbled down the narrow passage, and Neville let out a barking laugh. Harry stared about the room in thinly concealed amazement, keeping his expression nonchalant.
The Hufflepuff commons were domed by a low pyramidic ceiling, the space wide and long. Green foliage climbed the sandstone walls, natural light shining in through high-positioned windows. There were two sets of stairs leading even lower into the basement, presumably to the student's dorms. Soft music played throughout the room; Muggle jazz, Harry was surprised to notice.
The presence of muggle-borns was quite prominent; a large bookshelf that stood against the wall held many notable classics- The Secret Garden, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, To Kill a Mockingbird. A plethora of Muggle puzzle and game pieces were scattered across a table by the fireplace, and Harry quickly spotted a large container of Lincoln Logs and LEGOS knocked over on the floor. He resisted rolling his eyes- Hufflepuffs.
Neville led Harry over to a set of over-stuffed couches, sitting in front of a reasonably sized fireplace, a sleeping portrait of Helga Hufflepuff guarding the expanse.
Harry was surprised to see a number of non-Hufflpuffs (most notably Gryffindors, but a few Ravenclaws, as well) lounging about the room, working quietly with their mates or playing a game. Because of the company, Harry hadn't received too many strange looks.
Not a moment after Harry finally found it in himself to relax, did Susan and (a more reluctant) Hannah come bounding up to them. The two girls had been decidedly more cordial with him since his little 'advice' for their first flying lessons.
Susan was clutching a book on Transfiguration, a stuffed book bag under her arm. Her cheeks were flushed with exasperation (making her freckles pop out brilliantly) as she plopped down next to the Slytherin. "Finally!" she exclaimed, making room next to the stiff-backed Harry. "Someone who can actually help-"
Susan shot a half-hearted glare at Hannah, who rolled her eyes.
"I would have helped you, if you hadn't dawdled until the last minute to cram," the blonde murmured, sitting down comfortably by Neville. "But you absolutely refuse to think sensibly."
Susan waved a dismissive hand at her friend. "Oh, do shut up, dear," Susan said flippantly. "Anyways- Harry! I hear you're a whiz at Transfiguration. Do you think you can help me? Please?"
Harry sighed in exasperation.
He'd already had enough of this from his own dorm mates, who spent the week flipping between a sour, frantic mood- (scowling darkly and threatening to hex him if he so much as breathed loudly)- only to turn around with a saccharine smile, asking Harry ever so politely for his assistance. Despite this, he didn't want to rebuff the Hufflepuff, not when she looked at him with such puppy-dog eyes. Thankfully, Neville came to his rescue.
The boy, sitting across from the two first-years, pulled out a set of Wizarding chess. He made to set up the board with polite commands, his white pieces gliding gracefully into place. "Absolutely not, Susie," Neville admonished. "Harry came here to relax. He just got away from those high-strung Slytherins, he doesn't need you begging for his help. Pawn, e2 to e4."
Waving away Neville's remark, Harry leaned forward to scrutinize the board. "No, no. It's fine, Susan," he amended, seeing Susan's pout. "At least you're actually asking for my help, instead of trying to blackmail me into it, like Blaise," he said this with a fond smile, ordering his black pawn forward. "Run by me what's troubling you. I'll see what I can do."
Susan considerably brightened, pulling out a thick pile of notes from her bag and placing them heavily on the table. Harry rolled his eyes at her eagerness, closely reminded of Hermione's manner, once upon a time. He exchanged an exasperated glance with Hannah and Neville as Susan's questioning began to pick up steam, the redhead speaking very fast.
Well, it was still better than with the Slytherins- needy, bipolar bastards, the lot of them.
June 2nd, 1992
Having just been released from their Charms practicals, the first-year Slytherins gratefully sat down at the Dinner table, still reeling over their tests. Harry set his book bag on the floor, immediately scooping up a variety of diced fruits and making himself a boat of potatoes and gravy.
"I hear a few fifth years in Gryffindor tried to get around the Anti-Cheating quills," Blaise said conversationally, reaching for a slab of steak. "Hmm," Draco hummed, sipping from glass of juice. "Did they get expelled?" he asked hopefully. Blaise shook his head in amusement, and the two jumped into playful banter.
The mood around the school had been awfully tense that past week, and every exam out of the way was like a breath of fresh air.
Harry was speaking softly with Theodore, debating a charm-related topic that cropped up the last hour. The two had become friends in the past few months, upon finding that they shared the same intense fondness for Defense Against the Dark Arts...or maybe it was just the Dark Arts, they enjoyed.
They were arguing about Raczidian's (a pathetic Dark Wizard, whose demise was ultimately caused by him falling in love) Patroni Theory, basically stating that only the pure of heart could cast a corporeal patronus. This was a bit worrying for Harry, who was quite fond of his stag patronus. He had certainly done enough in the past few months to 'darken his soul', or some rabble like that.
He opened his mouth to toss back a remark, when a startling pain erupted in his scar.
Letting out a small gasp, he kneaded his palm roughly into his forehead, earning a few strange glances from his nest-mates. "I'm fine," he forced out, grasping for his cup. He took a long sip of cool- water, was it?- and stole a glance up at Quirrell. The man was fidgeting in his seat, pointedly looking anywhere but Harry. Bloody menace.
Sitting through the rest of the meal in a relative silence, Harry tried thinking back to this time of year in the last timeline. Horrid stress, a nagging suspicion regarding the Philosopher's Stone, the residing pain in his scar- yes, things were much the same.
But the year was nearly over, and in a few days, Quirrell would be making his move on the third-floor corridor. Paranoia convinced Harry to double-check his wards on the Stone, but his concern was needless. Harry was many steps ahead of his foes and 'friends', making him fairly confident that he would survive the year.
Now all he needed to do was find that damned exorcist he met that summer in Knockturn Alley. But as the days moved on, his need for a spirit virtuoso was becoming a bit desperate. Despite Quirrell's shortcomings- cowardice, naiveté and his infuriating control of Hermione earlier that year- Harry didn't want to kill the man, if he could avoid it. Torture, maybe, severely maim- but never kill.
As the Slytherins departed the Great Hall, Draco sidled up next to Harry, the two boys falling into step. "Your scar is all red," Draco informed him in a low voice. "How bad is it?"
Harry let out a short sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I've been taking potions every day for the pain, but it hasn't gotten any better since the Forbidden Forest." They glided slowly down the stairs, bidding ado to the Hufflepuffs as they turned off from the dungeons to their own wing of the school.
Draco gave Harry a long look. "I know for a fact you aren't going to Madam Pomphrey or Snape," he stated, his question going unasked. So where are you getting the potions? Harry didn't respond, giving only a small smirk, as if saying wouldn't you like to know?
As they approached the dungeons, Harry frowned...something was feeling...off. Entering the barrier, he wondered if he had eaten something bad, as an undeniable pressure had hit his stomach, the sensation of something writhing.
Dismissing the thought, he stepped into the dungeons, immediately hit with a wave of unsteadiness. He blinked away a few stars, murmuring a half-hearted apology to Theo, who he bumped. "You all right, Harry?" Theodore asked, placing a hand on Harry's elbow as the raven-haired boy stumbled again.
His face had gone uncharacteristically pale, his mouth dry as he struggled to breath deeply. His bright green eyes were shaded, a glazed look to them.
Harry gave a short nod, making a movement towards the couches. "Yes...yeah, I just need to...sit."
Instead of collapsing into the cushions, his knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the floor in a pile of robes. A few startled exclaims came from those around him. His breaths were coming sharp, his body suddenly wracked with convulsions. He made a choking noise, bile coming up from his throat.
Draco and Theo were immediately startled out of their bewildered bystanding as Harry's eyes rolled back into his head. He shuddered in pain, feeling as if his stomach was trying to force it's way through his esophagus. Lungs tight, vomit filling his throat and mouth, he was literally asphyxiating to death.
Draco let out a strangled yelp, the common room going into a panicked uproar as he and an older boy fell to Harry's side, removing any tight-fitting clothing from his chest and turning him onto his side. Harry's slender shoulders were quivering wildly, his skin feverish. Yellow, foaming bile slipped out of his mouth, eyes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot, dilated irises.
"Get Snape! Someone get Snape!" the students were yelling, pushing each other to get to the Boy-Who-Lived. Marcus Flint was the first one to break formation, using his athletic prowess and authority as Head Boy to push past the crowd. He dashed into the dungeons, Terence Higgs and Ember Rancor following close behind, shouting for help.
The three upperclassmen slammed into the Potions classroom, faces flushed, stitches in their sides. Finding the classroom empty, they started yelling at the portrait of Gregory the Smarmy, who was guarding Snape's office. "We need to see Professor Snape, it's a 'mergency!" Ember was demanding, Irish accent thick in desperation.
The man in question stalked into the classroom from the store room, irritation clear on his face. "What is it, Flint, Higgs, Ran-" Snape drawled, only to be interrupted by the three frantic students.
"He fell onto the floor-"
"-we didn't know what-"
"-Convulsions, vomiting. Professor, I think he's been poisoned-"
Snape's eyes widened significantly and he silenced the three students with a sharp look as he went to retrieve his wand. "Flint, fetch Madam Pomphrey. Higgs, in the left hand cupboard you will see a box of bezoars- grab one, and show me where the student is."
Terence immediately flew to the cupboard, yanking open the doors and tearing through the boxes. Usually Snape would have admonished him for the mess, but this was clearly not a time for such idle formality. Marcus vanished down the hall, Ember already at the door, nervously bouncing on her heels.
"Who is it, Higgs?" Snape asked, snatching the bezoar from the boy's hands. Terence floundered to answer, still catching his breath.
"Are you mute as well as deaf? Tell me, who has been poisoned?" Snape snarled, stalking out of the classroom. Terence and Ember struggled to catch up withthe professor's long strides. "It's Harry," Terence breathed, and Snape's stomach sunk deeply. It couldn't be-
"Harry Potter."
Chapter 24: Chapter Twenty Four: Woe Betide, Part II
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
When did a dragon ever die from the poison of a snake?
-Friedrich Nietzsche
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty Four: Woe Betide
Part II
Harry came to slowly, sensations and thoughts arriving gradually through his pain-addled stupor. His lips were dry as he pulled them open, gasping for air. The taste and smell of potions immediately assaulted him, and he peeked open his eyes to see a blinding white. He blinked sporadically, wondering if he was in heaven again. But surely that wasn't the case. The last thing he remembered was-
"You have impeccable luck, Mr. Potter."
Harry jolted up, warm cotton sheets falling to expose his bare chest. He glanced wildly about the room, gaze coming to rest on a dark, blurry figure in front of him. He took a deep breath, lifting a shaking hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Harry grappled for his glasses on the side table, knocking over a small container of candy. He stared at the filled table in bewilderment. Candy, cards, flowers-
"Ah, yes. Gifts, I presume, from your adoring fans," Snape drawled, lazily flicking his wand to clean the mess. The man was sitting primly on a chair by Harry's bed, face unreadable. His black hair was slicked back, a set of silver reading glasses perched on his nose. He seemed to have shed his regular day robes, leaving him in a simple long-sleeved button up and slacks- both colored black, naturally.
A few papers were on the professor's lap, an inkwell and quill poised on the side table. He'd obviously been there for a while, if based upon the empty glass of what smelt like whiskey teetering on his armrest. Harry glanced around the space swiftly, looking for something to drink.
"...water-" Harry croaked, voice raspy. Snape lifted a dark eyebrow, and Harry sighed in exasperation. "Please."
With a twist of his wrist, Snape conjured a cup, handing it over to his student. If Harry was impressed to see the man conjure out of thin air, he didn't show it. Sipping gratefully at the water, Harry leaned back into his pillow, back stiff under Snape's penetrating gaze. "What time is it?" Harry asked, peering around the drawn curtains to see the Hospital Wing both empty and dark.
"It's near midnight," Snape supplied blandly. "You've been unconscious for- oh, about four hours. Not long. Not long at all." Snape looked a bit troubled, but he didn't elaborate. There was a silent beat, and Harry's memory caught up to him.
The dizziness, the stomach pain, the convulsions- he only remembered so much, assuming that he blacked out soon after falling to the floor. He vaguely recalled Draco holding him down, calling his name, the other Slytherins shouting for Snape. "...I was poisoned," Harry breathed. It wasn't a question.
Snape inclined his head, producing a small vial of crystal clear liquid from his pocket. Snape stirred it about gently, allowing it to catch the flickering lantern light above Harry's head. If Harry squinted, he could see a light tint of pink upon it's surface. A bloody color.
"Of course you were poisoned, Potter," Snape said callously, leaning forward. "You cannot go a day without causing trouble, can you?" Harry wanted to protest, but he kept wisely silent as Snape jumped into his little speech.
"This is my very last vial of Bloodroot Poison, a highly toxic and blatantly deadly mixture. It's ridiculously difficult to create, and I brew it only with the most specialized potioneers, less there be an- oh,accident on our hands. Just last week, I was in possession of two vials of Bloodroot, each dose enough to kill a man in under a half hour. Even sooner, the younger and smaller it's victim." Snape looked Harry up and down quickly, crinkling his nose at the boy's miniscule figure. Self-conscious, Harry pulled up his covers, leveling the professor with a green glare.
"The other vial, I learned just today, had disappeared from my storage." Snape continued, dark eyes murderous. "Vanished. Presumably stolen. I should suspect the culprit- whomever that may be-" he sounded as if he knew exactly who the culprit was.
"-was the very same person to deceive the kitchen-elves into tampering with your food. Dumbledore, of course, personally interrogated the elves. He discovered at least two of them under an untraceable mind-control charm.
"Needless to say, your intended assassination was foiled, due to quick thinking on your house-mate's part- thus earning Slytherin House a great leap in house points, I must add," his lips curled up in a quick smirk. "I arrived on the scene mere moments before your untimely death, and managed to coax a bezoar down your throat before your stomach could upheave itself and you drowned in your own bile." He sounded a bit too thrilled at the thought, and Harry resisted rolling his eyes. How macabre, Harry thought dryly. Not exactly Voldemort's style.
"As I said, Mr. Potter...you have impeccable luck." Snape finished, turning his nose down on Harry. The professor gave him that haughty, uncaring stare- as if he expected the boy to be grateful. After a beat, Harry finally spoke, green eyes sharp.
"There was no luck involved, professor, I assure you. Just good old-fashioned tricks of Fate," he murmured. "But nonetheless, I suppose I appreciate you not letting me die, professor- and if what you say is true, I suppose I have to thank my house-mates, too. The effort is much obliged."
Snape looked a bit vexed, lips curling in anger as he searched Harry's words for an ounce of insincerity. "I suppose near-death experiences hardly make you flinch, do they, Potter?" he spat, standing up stiffly. This was Lily's child, brushing off an attempted assassination as if it was just a minor setback.
Harry's eyes flashed, the exact color of the Killing Curse. Snape took an unintended step back. "Of course, my record with Death precedes me. But I assure you, professor- a little poison is nothing." Harry spoke, voice dangerously low. "I survived, didn't I?"
Snape let out a long breath, stomach clenching in repressed anger. "Either or, Mr. Potter," he said finally. "I do hope you do not make a habit of such things. Merlin knows you cause enough trouble as it is."
Harry stared at his professor, not mistaking the little quirk of the man's lips. Was Snape...teasing him? After a beat, Harry let out a snort, visibly relaxing back into his sheets. "I wasn't aware that you cared,professor. As such- I make no promises."
Snape left then, fetching Madam Pomphrey from her office. The nurse returned minutes later with a tray of potions, most recognizable. Madam Pomphrey was impossibly awake at this time, and Harry suffered through a long conversation about taking better care of himself.
Harry let her ramble, nodding his head politely and yawning dramatically as a clear signal of his exhaustion. She left him with few instructions- easy enough to follow- although he ended up putting it off for another half hour, simply lying in bed with a blank expression.
Poison...now that was a new one. Near-death experience weren't abnormal occurrences, as Harry often had less dramatic brushes with death- but it was still a bit mind-reeling. Ron had been poisoned, Dumbledore had been poisoned- hell, Snape threatened to poison Harry several instances in his old life. But experiencing it himself was not pleasant.
His throat was raw, and tasted of something sour. His stomach felt a bit tight, and Harry knew that one of his potions was a stomach reliever, just by the color. He drained his glass of water quickly, and was disappointed to see that his wand was not in the vicinity- likely in the Slytherin commons with his bag. He sighed, before waving an absent hand over the cup and banishing it to the kitchens. Wandless magic was not easy, but it was quite useful- untraceable, mostly, it's effects immediate. He wondered why he didn't use it more often, but brushed off the thought.
Quirrell...that bastard. Poison was sloppy- a quick, messy death that left far too many strings attached. And using the Imperius on the kitchen-elves...was Qurrell so desperate for Harry's death? Obviously.
Harry remembered the wraith's crimson eyes, glinting in the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, and Harry's silent swear for vengeance. He grimaced in the darkness. Ah, how he wished for the sweet bliss of Voldemort's death. The Dark Lord was no longer human- he was a beast, a entity of Darkness. Harry had thought destroying the diadem would grant him a modem of peace, but true peace wouldn't come until the very end. He let his guard down, and he'd nearly died...again.
"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...shame on me," Harry whispered into the darkness, downing the last of his potions. "My own fault, for being so naive, I suppose. But don't you worry, Voldemort- I will eviscerate you, all in due time. Just you wait."
Dreamless Sleep, unfortunately, was not one of the many potions Harry was order to take.
Poppy Pomphrey was utterly befuddled- the sun had just began to rise, and Harry had already awoken thrice in the same night. Alarms were set every time he moved from his bed. He'd even gotten up and paced the room, quickly intercepted by the stern nurse. He insisted that he was restless, but she insisted that he needed the bed-rest to heal. It was impossible how awake he seemed. He didn't claim to be in any pain, he never did much more than yawn to show his body's reaction to the potions in his system.
Harry never said a word, never let out a cry of pain or called for assistance. The first time he awoke, Madam Pomphrey had offered him Dreamless Sleep. He had politely refused, murmuring something under his breath about 'getting hooked' before attempting to fall asleep on his own.
In his sleep, he would call out and sweat as if he was being burned to death- but when he awoke, he hadn't complained once. He seemed to ignore that something was wrong with him at all, and this certainly piked her interest, but she didn't say a word. The boy was really something.
The poison had worked it's way gruesomely through his body, nearly tearing out his stomach and flooding his lungs. A quick displacement spell cleared his airway, but his stomach had to be completely re-grown. This had happened during his unconsciousness, a complex spell that Poppy never wished to use again. She had all but demanded Mr. Potter be taken to St. Mungo's, but Dumbledore had suggested against it. She understood that Harry's celebrity status was concerning, but he was still her patient. Shouldn't she do what was best for him?
Poppy did a full body scan of him on several occasions, and was surprised to see the number of bone fractures, muscle contusions and tissue damage the Harry had retained in his short life. Taking in his clear undernourishment (his spine and ribs were spectacularly prominent on his pale, waxen skin) and general isolation among his peers (both clear signs of abuse)...Poppy wondered if, perhaps, those muggles he lived with were not so kind after all. She swore to herself that she'd mention it to Harry's Head of House, if not going straight to Dumbledore.
Slytherin House was well-known for attracting abuse victims, and Poppy was always disturbed to see a small cluster of students being forced (discreetly, of course) into her office by none other than Snape, insisting on a full check-up. It was shocking how often old, pure-blood families could turn against their own kin- if not the parents, then it was jealous siblings or stern grandparents that initiated the abuse.
But Harry Potter, with his notorious predicament and his reaction (or lack thereof) to nearly dying was something she had yet to see.
This was not a good thing.
June 3rd, 1992
"You're a bloody arsehole, you know that?" Draco's voice rang through the Hospital Wing as he approached Harry's bed with long, apprehensive steps.
His flaxen hair was lacking it's usual shine, his robes haphazardly donned. The blonde hardly hesitated before dropping Harry's bag on the floor and enveloping the small boy in a tight hug. Harry was startled out of his ceiling tile counting when Draco leaned over the thin bed, his shoulder muffling Harry's mouth. "I hate you, do you know that? I really do," Draco said darkly, his eyes shut tight. It would have been a bit more convincing if Draco wasn't currently crushing Harry into his chest.
"Sorry?" Harry murmured, patting the blonde's back in comfort. Draco scoffed, suddenly pulling away to sit on the chair by Harry's bed. "You make me think you were dead, and all you can say is sorry?"Draco hissed, his eyes unmistakably watery. Harry arched an eyebrow, lifting his hands in mock surrender.
"I don't know what you want me to say. We both knew Vol-" Draco glanced around the sparsely occupied Hospital Wing, eyes wide. "-demort was out to get me. Poison is merciful, compared to what that beast can accomplish. It is a very lucky thing Quirrell is utterly incompetent, otherwise-"
Draco lifted a hand, face pained. "Please don't tell me the 'otherwise'. Bloodroot Poison is not a merciful death, Harry. Thankfully, you were unconscious through half of your episode- but believe me, it was not a pleasant sight to see. And before you ask, no, I will not tell you the details. You sadistic little bastard."
Harry barked out a laugh at that, earning a long look from Draco. "I never claimed otherwise," Harry remarked, and Draco rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile on his lips as he passed over Harry's missed homework assignments.
"Cheeky brat," Draco murmured, eyes a lit with something more radiant than tears.
To anyone who looked, Quirrell's office was nothing spectacular.
Tall bookshelves lined the walls, a worn carpet under their feet and a variety of exotic artifacts and tomes piled on his desk. If one dared, they could peek around the black curtain covering what looked to be a window pane- but it was, in fact, a doorway. A doorway to Quirrells' 'practice room'...or Voldemort's torture chambers.
Currently, the wards were in place- blocking entrance, warding away whoever might approach, silencing charms layered by the dozens to block the Defense teacher's bloodcurdling screams.
The boy was alive, Snape was suspicious, Dumbledore was even more determined to intercept his actions- yes, Voldemort had many things to be angry about. He took it out on his only hope, his only host,who truthfully deserved the punishment.
Quirrell would be dead by now, if Voldemort didn't have further use for him.
Dumbledore would be called away any day now, and Voldemort (and Quirrell, by extent) would make his move. Then the Dark Lord could finally leave his disgusting host, and return to his own body- and what a glorious occasion that would be.
Voldemort yearned for his old power, his prowess, his authority. The connection between he and Quirrell was the only control he had in this form, and he despised it. The lack of control enraged him. Control had always been something Voldemort desired, even before his transformation.
With control came power, and those with weaker wills would always flock to the one in power. It was natural order that the more powerful being was in control. Power and control always went hand-in-hand. That was the first thing he ever learned, and it had never left him.
In a single burst of power, Quirrell collapsed onto the floor in a mess of blood, tears and whimpered apologies.
"Pathetic," Voldemort spat. "A disappointment. You are lucky to still be in one piece, Quirinus."
Quirrell nodded frantically, utterly cowed. Pain wracked his every muscle, and he writhed on the floor in an attempt to climb to his feet. "You...you are a merciful Lord. I will not...f...fail you, not again. The Stone will soon be ours, I sw...swear it!"
Voldemort let out a barking laugh, guttural and malicious, causing his little minion to flinch violently. "Yes, I am merciful. Our connection has made me soft, it seems. But know this, Quirrell; if you fail me- Death will be a sweet release after what I will do to you. That, I swear."
Chapter 25: Chapter Twenty Five: Waters Run Deep
Praeparet Bellum (Prepare for War): Years I-III
Come and sip from the cup of destruction
-Genghis Khan
All rights and privileges, (except for original content and characters) belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter Twenty Five: Waters Run Deep
June 3rd, 1992
Despite Madam Pomphrey's protests, Harry was up and prepared for class that afternoon. Physically, he could be better- but he had grown restless, knowing that Voldemort would soon be making his move.
He entered Snape's classroom- late, of course- and was made to sit next to an empty cauldron while his peers were already a quarter through their Forgetfulness Potion. He took the exam in stride, pointedly ignoring Snape's scowling presence over his shoulder.
It was strange, but Harry knew that potion inside and out. He had used it shamelessly through November and December, urging his room-mates to merely 'forget' something in library or in the common rooms; this gave him several opportunities to sneak off into the Chambers for his daily brewing. Even Draco- the Potions prodigy he was- couldn't detect the Forgetfulness elixir in his afternoon tea. Yes, poisoning his friends was wrong, Harry knew, but it had already been established that he had a bit of a skewed moral compass.
Two hours later and despite his late start, Harry was one of the first students to finish. Snape didn't say a word as he accepted Harry's vial, turning his nose down at the boy before marking something illegible in his notes. (Harry couldn't help but notice Snape's proud smirk when Draco finished the potion second. No favoritism at all, no.)
His day clear, Harry headed back up to the Hospital Wing for his bi-hourly potions before retiring down into the Chamber of Secrets. Letalis- the protective nest-mother she was- was appropriately horrified at the thought of her Little Viper being nearly killed.
"No one gets to kill you except me!" she hissed, slamming her lengthy tail against the wall. Resisting a flinch at her anger, Harry chuckled weakly, tucking the eye dropper away into his pocket. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes, the 'Adamantine Body' working it's way through his retinas with very little pressure.
"I never liked the two-faced man." Letalis said solemnly, moving to curl possessively around her Little Viper. Harry hummed fondly, running his hand across her shifting green-grey scales.
"My sentiments exactly," he told her, kneading his palm into her long spine. "I'd sic you on him, but I'm afraid Voldemort is fully capable of defeating you. I don't want you to get hurt."
Letalis made a growling sound deep in her throat, pulling away swiftly. "You do not think I could beat him? Tom Riddle's host is pathetically weak...I could kill him with a single look." Determination was bright in her beady orbs, but Harry simply shook his head, eyes downcast.
"I know you could, dear friend. But this is my battle and I do not wish to kill Quirrell. Despite his misdeeds, he still may be redeemable. Voldemort, on the other hand, needs a delicate touch. I have plans for him, Letalis," he said mischievously.
"Don't you worry. But, on a separate topic, I have ordered a young elk for your afternoon meal. Taurus- the kitchen elf you so adore- has promised to bring it down soon. But if you wish for me to fetch it, you'll have to stop constricting me, love..."
Meanwhile- high above Harry's head- Severus Snape was stalking up into the Hospital Wing, dark eyes blaring. The one child sleeping in a cot- a second-year with a nasty batch of boils- jolted awake, eyes wide as he watched the dour professor slam into Madam Pomphrey's office.
"What is the meaning of this, Poppy?" He demanded, slapping a sheet of parchment onto her desk. The woman- dressed in her usual white gown, a strange yellow stain on her apron- was startled out of her paperwork. Madam Pomphrey looked up to see the Potions Master's face red with anger, and her eyebrows rose at his undue vexation.
"Why, it's Potter's medical report, of course," she replied coolly, pushing away the paper with the tip of her quill. "I thought that it was quite clear when I labeled it 'Results of Harry James Potter's Medical Examination'."
Snape huffed, black eyes narrowing. "Do not act so flippant with me, woman. Obviously," he spat through gritted teeth. "I am asking about the information regarding Potter's examination. What is this aboutundernourishment and physical abuse? I'd expect this from another one of my Slytherins, but certainly not Potter. I can see the speculations all throughout your analysis; you cannot be serious, Poppy!"
Poppy shook her head solemnly, setting down her papers to level Snape with a sad look. "But it's true, Severus. I applied the spell several times, and he's shown all the signs of physical and emotional abuse, much like a young Slytherin I once knew-"
Snape prowled across the room distractedly, dark eyes blaring. "I am nothing like Potter!" Snape snapped. "And Dumbledore would never place his precious Golden Boy anywhere less than a paradise. Your assumptions are utterly impossible. He must be pampered on hand-and-foot, and is just too clumsy and pompous like his dear old dad-"
Poppy stood suddenly, practically growling as she towered over the sitting professor. "Severus Snape, I am ashamed of you! You know nothing of Potter's life outside of Hogwarts. You know nothing of his childhood, nor his personality; You are merely making assumptions, yourself, based on your own ignorance and abhorrence for a dead man. Son of James Potter or not, the facts are right in front of you." She stabbed her quill at the examination papers, pushing them under Snape's nose.
"I detected muscle contusions, a history of deep bruising and burns, unhealed scars and bone fractures dating back since he was five. He is so very small compared to his classmates, and I don't remember either of his parents being so petite. His growth has clearly been stunted, having been starved and deprived since youth. I'm sure you've noticed his eating habits- or lack thereof!- and the bags under his eyes- I spoke to Draco Malfoy when he came through, and the boy relayed a bit of information on the subject-"
"-Draco now, too?" Severus snarled. "Is everyone so aware of Potter's mistreatment save me? This is absolutely absurd!"
Madam Pomphrey let out a long sigh, her anger dissipating into desperateness. "Absurdity aside," she forced out. "Tell me, Severus- does Harry seem isolated and secretive among even his friends? Does he show an unhealthy distrust of others, especially adults?"
"Simple arrogance," Snape dismissed. "He's a trouble-maker, always off sneaking where he shouldn't be-"
Poppy interrupted. "I understand that you have a vendetta of sorts against the Potter family, but Harry is Lily's son too. You must do what is right by him, as his Head of House...and his sworn protector." At her words, Snape's mouth slid closed. He ran a hand over his long, dark hair, the expression of an old man shattering his stiff facade.
"I..." he stammered, loosing his usual contained eloquence. "I don't believe it. Or perhaps I do- I don't know. It's just the thought of the Boy-Who-Lived being abused...and...Lily's son-" he broke off, face pained.
"Hard to imagine, isn't it?" Poppy murmured, sliding back into her seat. She looked at her colleague, wondering if perhaps she should offer him medical assistance. He looked a bit ill. "I always knew Petunia despised her sister-" Snape continued, voice low. "But to take it out on a young child, and Harry Potter of all people-"
Poppy gave Snape a long look at that, raising her eyes to catch his. "The same could be said for you and James, Severus," she told him softly. "Don't be blind to this child's need for love, just because of an old grudge; A grudge that, frankly, should have ended the moment James gave his life to stand against your old Master."
"James Potter was an arrogant fool, and his son is no different." Snape attempted weakly, but they both knew his words were a lie.
"This goes far deeper than a regular abuse case, Severus," Poppy said solemnly. "Harry may be James and Lily's son, but he is also the boy who saved us from a lifetime of terror. He is important, Severus, and not just because of his famous title. He is a child- just like you once were- and he has been through more than enough pain for a lifetime. You know what to do, Severus."
Severus looked up at the nurse after a few moments of silence, hesitantly taking Potter's medical report from her outstretched hand. "I do," he said solemnly. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it," he added under his breath. As the older Slytherin dragged himself out of the office, Poppy watched him leave with a no lack of grief in her watery hazel eyes.
"I'm sure you will do what is right, Severus. You always do."
June 4th, 1992
Arturo Serafin was not a kind man. He was crass, rueful and too damn powerful for his own good. The odd fifty-year old was an esteemed Specterist, a wizard who profusely studied the going-ons of the 'living dead'.
Specterism was a ancient subject, closely tied into Necromancy, voiding one major difference- Arturo specialized in ridding the spirits of the dead, not bringing them back to life. A very large difference.
Harry hadn't enjoyed corresponding with the man via the school owls, astonished at how many swear words one man could fit into a single letter- but Harry had to admit; jaded as Arturo was, he was damn good at his job. Harry handed off his most recent letter to a scruffy brown owl, it's dark beak shining in the sunlight. As it vaulted out of the Owlery, Harry made his way down to breakfast.
As Harry sat at the Slytherin table, Blaise passed over a prim white envelope, sloppily addressed to Harry Potter. "This came with the post," Blaise said simply, taking a sip of orange juice. Harry cast a number of detection spells on the parchment until a soft green hue emitted from his wand tip and, flipping over the envelope, he blanched at the Saint Mungo's insignia on the back- a bone and wand crossed in fuschia wax.
"Who do you know from Saint Mungo's?" Draco asked, reaching over Harry to gingerly grab a slice of bacon. The Slytherins had been startlingly subdued for the last few days, their gazes discreetly on Harry as he went through his daily motions. Draco admitted earlier that the common room had been in a state of shock after Harry's trip to the Hospital Wing, subtly concerned for his well-being.
The worry and relief had diminished after his first day back, but nearly every student at Slytherin table now had a wand out, thoroughly examining their food for tampering; this was more for their benefit than Harry's, but he found it slightly touching that his friends wouldn't allow him to eat until they were sure his porridge was clear.
"Hmm. No one I can think of," Harry lied, pulling out a thin piece of parchment, unfolding it slowly. He could think of several, although they were currently living in 1999 without him.
Harry had begun thinking a lot about his divergence from the old timeline. He wondered if it still existed somewhere in another dimension, or if it was destroyed for good. The changes he made in this world was far too great, and he worried for the well-being of his old life. He also wondered how Ron and his other old friends were reacting to his disappearance, although he very may well never know. He remembered the ancient Time Turner and it's inscription- 'Surrender first and the years will last; loose the future to change the past'. To quench his lingering curiosity, he swore to visit to the Room of Hidden Things and see if he could find the Turner once more, if only to study it.
Shaking away the train of thought, he refocused his attention on the letter in front of him, a swell of emotion rising in his chest. It was from Sirius.
Dear Harry,
As soon as I heard you were at Hogwarts, I knew that I had to contact you- but I'm afraid I've been a bit preoccupied until now. M y name is Sirius Black, and, i f you've read any of the newspapers lately, I'm sure you already know a bit of who I am.
I have recently been released from Azkaban Prison- a horrid place, I'll tell you- for reasons far too complicated for me to describe on paper. To make it simple, I was unlawfully jailed for the betrayal of your parents, and for the murder of many, many other people. These accusations were untrue, obviously, but I was nonetheless sent to live in the worst place imaginable for the last ten years.
Since my release, I've been through a whirlwind of court rooms, hospital beds and Ministry offices, struggling to learn what had happened in the last ten years. Among other news, w hen I heard that you were placed with Lily's beast of a sister, I knew I had disappointed you in my duties as your Godfather.
Perhaps a bit of background information is due:
When I was in school, I was a great friend of your parents; James Potter was one of my best friends- my partner-in-crime, a fellow trouble maker- while Lily Evans was one of the smartest witches of our age. I was with your parents all through their whirlwind of a relationship, and in Autumn of 1978, I was made to be your father's Best Man in their wedding.
To add fuel to the fire, on the day of your birth I was entrusted by Lily and James to be your Godfather. I held you as a newborn, I changed your explosive diapers, I gave you your first broomstick and I was there on your first birthday to see you smother your chubby baby face with chocolate cake. You were like a son to me, and I deeply regret not being there for you when Lily and James died.
I was angry, I was grieving, I was foolish- I chased after their true betrayer (a supposed friend of ours named Peter, who sold their location out to You-Know-Who). I chased after a rat rather than stay with my best friend's orphaned son, a horrific realization I came to learn the moment I stepped out of that damned prison. You needed me, and I left you for my revenge. I don't know if I can ever redeem myself to you, but I can sure as hell try.
I wish to meet you, Harry. I want to see the boy you've grown to become, to tell you stories of your parents, and be the family you never had. I will soon be declared sane enough to be 'released into society', and as the school year is dwindling, I wish to see you this Summer. If the meeting goes well, I want to offer you a sanctuary, a home far different from what Petunia Dursley and her pig of a husband were supposed to offer you. (Yes, I have met the unfortunate Dursley's- and I'm sure, as sure I am of my name, that they have not grown any more pleasant through the years).
If you are willing- and I truthfully hope to Merlin that you are- I can meet you at Kings Cross Station on June 20th, and take you to a little Ice-Cream shop in Diagon Alley for a treat. (I do hope thatFortescue's Ice Cream Parlor is still in business- great man, Florean. He once got your dad and I out of a little skirmish in front of his shop one day, involving a pair of high-heel shoes and Peruvian Powder- but that's a story for another day.)
Owl me back as soon as you can, preferably to Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London (this is where I will be staying once I am released), and my House Elf will transfer the mail to Saint Mungo's if I don't get out by then. The owls at the hospital come out a bit loopy, if you can imagine, and I don't wish for our letters to end up in the wrong hands.
Hope to meet you soon,
Sirius Black