A/N:Well, here it is. Finally! I’ve never written anything like this, so maybe that’s why it took me this long … I was stuck on the first half of the chapter for a very long time. On the bright side, the chapter is A) quite long, and B) I used that time to already start on the next chapter, so that should be out much faster than this one. Progress updates will be in my Bio-page.
Then, the order for posting chapters: first at DLP, in the WbA for feedback, then here, then at FF.net. To get more readers onto the site, or at least that is the idea.
Also, because it was asked – I’ll have no uber-evil Dumbledore. Dumbledore did not manipulate everything since the dawn of time here. He simply is human, with flaws, making mistakes, but since he is in a position of power, his mistakes have greater consequences. That is all, and anyway, Scrimgeour will partly fill that role.
Finally, I big thanks to Perspicacity, who read the first half and convinced me it wasn’t complete crap … I was just about ready to scrap the whole things and start new from the scratch – once again. And to Andromalius, who looked over the second half.
About the chapter itself – it's the foundation I wanted to lay for this Harry. So once I've got that out of the way, the other chapters will be more ... hmm, I guess, normal. So if you don't like this one too much, there's a good chance you'd still like the others. They'll be more like the Prologue.
By That Last Candle’s Light – Chapter One: The Dark at the End of the Tunnel
It is common belief that the magic, or more specifically, the magical sensitivities of a witch or wizard, are tied to their emotions on a very basic level. Ebulliency results in magical fluctuations, in childhood more so then in adulthood, just like the emotional control waxes from childhood to adult life; the accidental magic attests to that.
Only few theoreticians, however, have truly reasoned out that approach: for the logical consequence would be, that in turn a certain influencing of the emotional state through the own magic should be inherently possible, though no case hereof is known. No substantial research has been done, and the only theoretic model, the Emotion/Magic-Feedback-Loop hypothesis by the Egyptian Zanin S. Rash …
Magic Today, 7/1996
More than three silhouettes moved behind the curtains of the brightly lit windows of 4, Privet Drive. Evidently, the inhabitants had a visitor, since their son was out, as usual for a Friday night.
On the first floor, all windows were dark, including the one to the smallest room; even though the short summer night had already begun to fall. The heat of day still lingered, and grasshoppers were chirping in the few places where the grass in the gardens was longer than the perfect one inch standard-ornamental-lawn-cut. The voice of a news presenter drifted over from a few houses down the road, otherwise all was silent.
Moths circled around the lamps, which had come on alongside the street, and from the nearest, a streak of light fell through the dark window still bearing traces of torn-out bars onto the desk below, inside the room.
On the desk, at least two weeks worth of newspapers were piled up, most of them unread. Some headlines and snippets of the lead stories were visible:
Monday, June 1st, 1996 – The Daily Prophet
ATTACK OF THE CRUMPLE-HORNED SNORKACKS?
… says Mrs. Prittle, 55, Somerset. "Never seen one in my life. It's just another ploy to create a mass panic, I tell you. Wasn’t that You-Know-Who-returning hogwash enough? Maybe that deluded Potter boy will believe Lovegood."
At the fringe of the meeting with German delegate von Schwarzenbeck, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said: “Obviously, …
Here, another, quite rumpled paper overlapped the first. What was visible amounted to:
… which is the highest overall-contentment in eighteen years. 4.3 percent believe in You-Know-Who’s return, 38.6 percent in the mythical Staff of Merlin … When asked for a comment on the report, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said: “It shows, that despite various attempts in undermining the society from certain parties, there is nothing … ;
ending where the upper right corner of a third paper peeked from under the next pile:
Joke of the Day: A Crumple-Horned Snorkack, You-Know-Who and Harry Potter go into a pub. Each …
The next pile appeared to be all unread and the papers were stacked more neatly, sometimes directly on top of each other, leaving only a few articles visible:
132 DIE AS HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED COLLAPES BRIDGE
In an …
HARRY POTTER: THE “CHOSEN ONE”?
– Reactions & Opinions –
–Mrs. Prittle, 56, Somerset: "Why, of course I've known that from the start. And all of you should be ashamed of yourselves! Calling our Harry Potter unstable and a liar and heaven knows what else. I say, that poor, poor boy! I have no doubt that he will defeat You-Know-Who. He is Harry Potter after all."
–Mr. …
SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE
Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office – here, the paper was folded – with Harry Potter,” he elaborated on further inquiry. “The Ministry as a whole as well as I myself are looking forward to working together with him, to ensure the continued safety of our upstanding wizards and witches.”
“It feels reassuring that the Ministry is doing something against this new, sudden threat,” says Mr. Abercrombie, 43, Ayrshire. “Together with Harry Potter, they can …
GIANTS DEVASTING SOMERSET
Only parts of this one were visible, the rest was hidden in shadows:
…“Where was Harry Potter when those things attacked my house?” asks Mrs. Prittle, 56, one of the victims of the rampage. “It’s his duty, isn’t it? I mean, he defeated the Dark Lord before … ;
before the last three papers came, perched on the corner of the table:
HARRY POTTER WILL SAVE US ALL
HEAD OF LAW ENFORCEMENT DEAD: IS ANYONE SAFE?
WHEN WILL HARRY POTTER ACT?
Despite statements issued by the new Scrimgeour-administration about working together with Harry Potter on a secret long-term plan to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for good (as unveiled in a Daily Prophet-exclusive: Harry Potter will save us all), we cannot help but hope that the end of the terror will come soon.
In the name of every witch and wizard across the country fearing for their life, we say: Mr. Potter, help us now! How much …
The final one ended on a huge and currently empty cage set atop on all the papers. This end of the desk was near the darkest corner of the room, where the small bed stood; the light from the outside not extending as far as there.
Noises drifted up from below, a series of heavy bangs. Suddenly a scream tore apart the still of the night. And the darkness flashed bright green.
Two weeks earlier…They said goodbye, all of them. They were all there, except the obvious person, to see me off. Did they think I was in the need of that? Was I in the need of that?
At any rate, they all told me they would come and get me.
“Soon,” said Ron.
“Really soon,” said Hermione.
Somehow, it sounded apologetic to me.
“We promise.”
But maybe it made them feel a little better about themselves.
Other than that, everything was as always, as I went with my dear relatives to Uncle Vernon’s car. He still had the habit of changing between white and red in his face (Moody’s work), my aunt still sniffed at everyone, and Dudley was still fat.
So when at the same time everything indeed felt different, I had to be the one who had changed. And that was fine with me.
~*~
Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground, stretching from here to the horizon, without a single bush or tree. Fumes here and there spiralling into the sky from within the earth. The sky a dark red above, illuming the plain. It looked like something that could have come straight out of the apocalypse.
I was there and I was two. I was One, a weak, pale-white incarnation, some way off, looking at me, Two, dark and substantial, and somehow more than One; stronger, greater.
Another pillar of fumes burst into the sky next to Two, igniting itself at once as it came into contact with air. Suddenly, I saw myself torturing Bellatrix, nothing special, just my Cruciatus, which worked marvellous, by the way. Ah, how I relished in her screams, it was so completely sickening. How could one human being happily inflict that kind of torture on another one?
I felt the heat from the pillar of fire on my skin, flickering mysteriously behind my Bellatrix, I turned away, weeping for my lost innocence, and felt that rush again. It felt, good, right and so completely wrong. I watched the wastelands behind me and watched as Bellatrix trashed around, in front of my feet, sounds nice, don’t you think? Bellatrix at my feet, the Great Warrior beaten, beaten to death by me. What had I done?
Well, I’d done it. I –
– woke up with a start. The room was shrouded in Saturday morning’s grey twilight, smoothing whatever edges there were, letting objects blend into shadows, until everything became one. Whatever I had dreamt was slipping away from me like sand between fingers. The more you tried to grab and hold it, the faster it evaporated. Snippets, odd flashes. Blood-red. Soon, the only thing that was left was a certain restlessness I felt.
My fingers fumbled along the outlines of the bedside table to my left, before they found the smooth wood of my wand and closed around it. My heartbeat calmed. Soon, my eyelids began to droop, and I fell asleep once more.
~*~
I woke up to my aunt’s shrill nagging. Judging by my stomach and the sun shining through my window, it had to be almost noon. Obviously, no one had bothered to wake me for breakfast.
“Boy! Get down here!”
Doubtful, therefore, that she was calling me for lunch now. She just wasn’t that considerate, it had to be something different. I didn’t bother to reply, rather pushed the blankets back and stood up; walking downstairs as I was, in boxers, humming on the way.
I found them in the kitchen.
“Will you put some clothes on!” bellowed Uncle Vernon as a welcome, while Aunt Petunia was frantically peering through the windows to see whether or not Mrs. Number Seven was doing the same and thus able to spot me in my not quite clothed state. Sadly, I wasn’t that lucky.
“I won’t stand for having you running around the house naked in the afternoon like some jobless slob!”
I pulled a chair out and seated myself.
“What was it you wanted?” I said as an answer.
This was a good way to see how important whatever it was, was. Since Uncle Vernon couldn’t process more than one thing at a time, he had to disregard one of them. The words had barely left my mouth, when he jumped onto them like Dudley on something to eat. More important, then.
“Yes.” His beefy hands grabbed two letters I hadn’t noticed until now, lying on the kitchen table, next to a plate. The sender of the first one, topmost, seemed to be Marge Dursley. I knew the handwriting. Regrettably.
“Petunia and I got mail, boy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, good for you. Although, I thought that was quite common.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “It’s a letter from one of – of your kind.”
“Now why would one of them bother writing you?” I wondered while thinking back to last summer with that legendary moment when the kitchen was flooded with one post owl and letter after another, coming out of the kitchen fireplace. In hindsight it was quite amusing. Uncle Vernon’s moustache had long since grown back, but still.
“It says your Godfather is dead, boy.”
I could almost hear the switch being toggled inside me, as everything went back into place, to how it should be. What had been up with me until now? I went downstairs humming? What the hell?
Uncle Vernon had lowered himself to my height. “Says he got himself killed while fighting one of your abnormal friends – just like your parents. Didn’t know what was good for him.”
Vernon seemingly didn’t notice the sudden shift in atmosphere.
“I say, good riddance. One less freak makes the world a better place. Don’t expect us to coddle you now, boy. That Double-door said something about space and support. Well, forget it.”
“And he even had the gall to address the letter with my given name,” sniffed Aunt Petunia. “As if we were friends! Just because my freak of a sister went to his school –”
It spread, the feeling – the warm wood in my hand, strange – had I taken my wand down with me? I couldn’t remember. And again restless, itching to do – something. I could do it. Right here. Right now. There was no need to listen to my relatives’ ranting. I could – shut them up. Yes, I could do that. Just a tiny bit. No one badmouthed Sirius, after all. I knew how it would feel – could nearly taste the magic I’d use – Do it.
“… boy! Boy!”
I shook my head to get the voices to leave me alone. I was getting a headache. Why wouldn’t they shut up? Some were urging me on, but suddenly something shied away. Magic should be used to do good. Do it! They don’t know any better. DO IT! Do – no – at once – never – I pressed my hands over my ears, but they didn’t become quieter. Why? Everything was so muddled now …
“BOY!”
“What?”
That beautiful clearness from days before was gone, I felt like I was being pulled into two different directions at the same time. Was that what I wanted? Yes – No What did I want? You – don’t …
I shook my head again, in vain. The headache got worse.
“Stop it!” Uncle Vernon roared, towering over me, while he tried to grab my wand. He was colouring again, fast. “Put that … thing away! I won’t have it! Not in my home! Not under my roof! How dare you –”
Now – never.
“Vernon!” hissed Aunt Petunia, tugging at his sleeve and pointing in turns at the kitchen window and my semi-naked form. “Vernon, Mrs. Polkiss!”
His hand came in contact with the wand, there was a small flash, and he let out a yelp. Only then I realised that the tip of my wand was still flickering red, and that there was a burn hole in Uncle Vernon’s shirt.
Yes.
Aunt Petunia screamed.
“Vernon! Oh, Vernon, what happened, are you hurt?”
“It’s my hand – that bloody boy’s you know what – if I get him – ”
More, more – not.
I stood and watched, as he jumped around the kitchen, knocking over a chair, which made him stumble against the table. His elbow pushed the lone plate off the board, sending it crashing to the floor tiles; the porcelain broke, while the voice of my aunt reached new heights, shaking me out of my stupor.
“AHHH – Bloody Hell!”
“Vernon –!”
“It’s all his fault –”
Uncle Vernon continued swearing loudly and was holding his hand, and throughout the whole commotion, the doorbell sounded. Aunt Petunia shot me a venomous look, before she went to answer the door. My uncle was now busy holding his hand under a stream of cold water in the kitchen sink while simultaneously trying to rub his shin, so I grabbed the letter and went upstairs, still a bit dazed, and still with a war raging in my head.
I lowered myself onto the unmade bed, and started pondering Dumbledore’s letter, to distract myself from clamour in my mind. It worked, after some time.
Dearest Petunia,
with deep sadness …
I was left free to idly wonder about the wise old man. Was he truly that blind?
… was murdered. He and your charge were quite close …
It seemed strange, somehow – the great Albus Dumbledore, brilliant by any standard, yet in this one instance unable to see things as they were.
… know you had your differences in the past, but in the light of the recent events, I’m hoping you can work past …
I doubted that he actually refused to see what was there – it was more that he was literally unable to. Like with the blind spot in the eye, he could watch, but not see. Not see that I truly and wholeheartedly hated my relatives, for everything they had done, every cruel word, every belittlement, every lonely night a five-year old spent crying himself to sleep in a dark cupboard, asking why he could not be loved. Not see that they despised me and whished I’d never been there, never born, never lived.
… needs your support to get through this horrible ordeal …
He always saw the potential in men, always expected the very best they could be: so very Dumbledore to trust my relatives that they would take care of me, because he had asked them for that favour, because I was family, because I was the last link my aunt had to her sister.
… give him space, if he wants it, but be there when he needs it …
Always ready to forgive and offer a new chance, always ready to believe that people wanted to change for the better. And maybe, maybe he even thought that I was alike.
I realised that all of a sudden, and with it all its implications. Dumbledore could not change what he was, just as I would not. He simply could never give up his innermost beliefs, and so would never stand for me going after Bellatrix instead of Voldemort, with the sole intention of making her hurt, getting my revenge.
And in turn, I would not give up the one thing that kept me going after Sirius’ death, and so could not follow him any longer. The split was unavoidable, our ways would part, maybe sooner, maybe later, but part they would.
Choices and consequences. It was a certain, foregone conclusion. Neither was changing, and thus the outcome was set, even if he didn’t know it yet.
Sad for him, maybe, but that was the way of the world.
~*~
Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground … and for the second time, I was standing on the apocalyptic plain under the bleeding sky, watching me torturing Bellatrix. No greater feeling there be, no deed more abhorrent committed. I faltered … what had I done?
Well, I’d done it. I smiled happily. Suddenly, the scene changed. Bellatrix was gone. I was looking up to myself, eyes wide, torturing myself for I had dared to speak out against me, to stand in my way. Pain. Unimagined pain. Burning through me, setting my insides on fire. A scream tore itself from my lips, I listened with rapt attention. Crucio! Crucio! No one would stand in my way! Not even I. Not. Even. I. –
– started up and heard a scream. I looked around wildly, only to realise that it was my own voice that rang in my ears. Still panting, I tried to calm myself, get my fast beating heart to slow down. The subsequent silence in the room was oppressive and deafening. I heard it humming in my ears, a choral of voices yelling on top of their lungs, while at the same time so low that I only could inkle it on the fringe of my consciousness; unable to make out any details.
My right hand gripped the wand tighter. I could’ve sworn that the wood was warmer than usual but either way, it soothed my frayed nerves, and slowly, I slipped back into sleep.
~*~
The days following the incident with the letter passed slowly, and after a while, one seemed to somehow slip into the next in one continuous passage of time. It was like walking through an endless tunnel, deserted and alone, every step the same as the one before and the one after, no difference, no beginning and no end.
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, as so very often these days. The dreams continued to wake me up, in odd intervals, meaning I sometimes slept during day and was awake a night; my sleep-wake rhythm completely destroyed, leaving me tired and moody.
Not exactly the best conditions to deal with my relatives, who were quite happy to have found something to put me down with yet again; and used the information courtesy of Dumbledore to their hearts content, and in a way he never imagined, whenever they spotted me. Just another mistake on Dumbledore’s part, who cared, really. But it was another reason to not leave my room, since I now avoided confrontations with anyone.
Things were not … right.
After my realisation that my path would lead me to an eventual confrontation with Dumbledore, I hadn’t had peaceful minute. The voices were back full force, and together with the lack of real sleep, it made my headache worse than ever. I wondered if I was slowly losing my mind, and then asked myself if any person would ask themselves that question in the first place, if they were still truly sane.
A myriad of voices, each trying to yell louder than the next, about what I ought to feel. Regret – satisfaction for what I had done, and what would happen if I continued on my way. Shame – indifference, for falling on a level supposedly as low as Voldemort. Sadness – hatred for what Bellatrix had done.
Maybe it was because I was cooped up at the Dursleys – when I was out, doing things, there simply was no time to think, no time to second guess everything. As it was, it began to wear me down, and slowly I started to crumble, hating my weakness, that made me ask questions. What I wanted to do. What the consequences were. My small clearing seemed so far away now …
“Leave me alone,” I told the wall.
Is that what you want? To become completely lost in your hate, with no way back? Another went that way before you …
So?
I jumped up from the bed, and walked in long strides towards the desk where the Daily Prophets were piled up, pictures and headlines staring at me reproachfully in the light of the desk lamp; suddenly feeling burning anger, and embracing it.
“What the hell should I want, then?” I snarled, slapping my hand on the papers. “To be working on a secret long term plan to destroy Voldemort, together with the Ministry? Sit here, waiting, for whatever other plan Dumbledore has? It’s always a plan! I don’t want it! It ends, right here!”
Dumbledore. The talk in his office.
Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now?
Everything a plan … brilliant plan … Dumbledore’s plan, the Ministry’s plan, the Fate’s plan, a whole life, pre-plant already before it even began. And I felt angry, so angry. Everyone’s plan involved me, but no one ever bothered to ask the object of all their planning. Screw them. Screw them all, them and their wonderful plans. I owed them nothing. I’d done my share, prevented Voldemort’s return twice, and no one had bothered then. I had my own plans now. What did I care?
Because you do. You always do what is right … if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy …
Ha. I laughed bitterly.
“And what, pray tell, is ‘right’? Who knows that? Dumbledore?”
An old man’s mistake …
Dumbledore was just as human as any other wizard. I’d come to know that better than anyone else. He made mistakes, like any other man. He failed, and had flaws. No, Dumbledore was not the person to decide what was right, least of all for me. I knew what I wanted, ever since that day at the Hogwarts’ infirmary, yet made that it right? Now, that it slowly became serious, I hesitated. And I didn’t know why.
I yearned for that simply clarity, back at the clearing. Everything was easy then. Just me and my magic. My fingers closed around the wand, somehow lying next to the stack of papers. I was itching to use it, even just for a short time. Maybe, if I just let go, everything would be easy again. I was breathing harder than usual. So much anger.
The door opened.
My aunt, of course. Strange. Usually, she avoided my room whenever possible. I turned, away from the desk. She took a look around, suspiciously.
“Who were you talking to? I heard you talking.”
I stared at her.
“No one’s here, Aunt Petunia,” I said in a monotone. Talking? I hadn’t been talking … or had I?
She flinched at my stare, and avoided my eyes.
“Yes, well … Marge is coming over, tomorrow …”
The spike of anger turned into furious rage, blinding out the rest of her words. Marge.
Four year old Harry, crying, after being whacked by Marge with her walking stick, so as to stop him from running faster than Dudley …
Nine year old Harry, cold and alone and scared in the dark, after being chased up a tree by Ripper, while the Dursleys had stood and laughed, then left …
Thirteen year old Harry, finally pushed beyond the limit, as Marge slandered everything he’d held dear … and how good it had felt to let go … just to let go …
“… so no funny business, do you hear, me, boy?”
I snapped out of – something, shaking, barely restraint. The voices were waging their war in my head, never leaving me alone, always there, always whispering, screaming in my mind. Why? Why couldn’t they leave me alone?
Just let it go …
“Out.”
A voice, cold and menacing. My own?
“You’ll be c-civil …”
My aunt trailed off as she seemed to look at me, my eyes, maybe – paling; I enjoyed the look of terror creeping on her face. I’d put it there.
And that’s just the beginning …
She turned and fled the room, the door shutting noisily behind her.
My aunts, the Ministry, the world, all the same, deserving nothing, nothing but the fair reward for everything they’d done. The scars on the back of my right hand had begun to itch again. Ah. Umbridge. Another debt unpaid. A nasty smile. At one point in the future, I’d get her as well.
This isn’t you. You’re better than that.
The smile became cynic.
“Am I? Who am I? If not that, then what?”
I rested my forehead against the window pane. It was cool, as it had begun to rain outside, sometime in the evening; finally, after weeks of drought, and the raindrops splashed against the window, running down in irregular trails, and just as sudden as the anger had come, it left, leaving me confused and empty.
My whisper echoed throughout the room, but no one answered.
“Then who am I?”
~*~
Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground … another night, another dream, I was back once again, and once again Twice. Nothing had changed, the red sky as foreboding as ever, and beneath it, Bellatrix was screaming until she could no more, poor Bella … what had I done?
Just what I’d do with myself. Once again, Bellatrix vanished and I was in her stead, screaming in pain. No one would stand in my way, no one! Not even I. Not. Even. I … felt it give, slowly crumbling – and suddenly, I was back in the black corridor, the empty, barren stone walls gleaming in the light of torches. I was running, in utter silence, the blood soughing in my ears, my breathing heavy.
I saw her, she was there – running just a few paces in front of me, tall, somehow shrouded in darkness, despite the torchlight. But I knew it was her, could feel it, I’d get her, just a little bit faster – now, every moment – but why didn’t the distance shrink –
And I realised that someone was holding me back, I was running and not moving one inch along. I looked behind me – Lupin had me in his grip, Sirius had just fallen through the veil, and Bellatrix was getting away, she let out a mad cackle, resounding from the stone walls, throughout the corridor … NO!
The torches flickered, I wouldn’t let her, she wouldn’t slip away, not again. I tore myself free – ‘Harry, no!’ cried Lupin, but I had already ripped my arm from Lupin’s slackened grip.
So much anger. All in me, around me … hate. The unseen wind that blew through the empty corridor. Ice cold, coiling around me. Cold hatred. Filling me up, giving me purpose –
‘SHE KILLED SIRIUS!’ I bellowed. ‘SHE KILLED HIM – I’LL KILL HER!’
I began catching up with her, she still laughed – oh, she wouldn’t, once I was through with her. Just one step now – one –
The scene shifted again.
I was now running through an empty street. Somehow, I knew it was Privet Drive, even though there were only nameless buildings on either side, grey and indistinct.
I was looking for Bellatrix.
I was running through a cordon of people, people on either side of me, faces stony and silent. They were watching, always watching, mute and reproachful.
Watching me looking for Bellatrix.
I knew them – they were residents here, the Dursleys, Order Members, friends from school, teachers.
And suddenly, I was them, watching myself. I saw myself passing by, from countless eyes at once.
Passing by Petunia, me – freak. Worthless. Another reminder of her, my trice damned sister. Better than her, me. Always, the hatred. The source of everything bad that had happened to her, me. Why couldn’t he, I have died as well?
Passing by Vernon, me – unnatural. Disturbing the natural order, threatening everything so carefully build. Disrupting his, my life. Should’ve dumped him, me at an orphanage. Nothing but a burden. Not worth the clothes on his, my back.
Passing by Mrs. Number Seven, me – criminal. Ruffian. No place for him, me here, in a good neighbourhood like this.
Passing by Dumbledore, me – baby. Green eyes staring up to him, me, from within the bundle of blankets. So innocent, but destined to be a warrior. So small, but the burden he’d, I’d be bearing, so great. Too great. If only he, I could ease the load. If only …
Passing by Mrs. Weasley, me – child. So small and lost, yet polite; as he, I asks about Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. And slowly slipping away, as she, I holds on desperately.
Passing by Snape, me – father. He, I, James Potter. Constant reminder of his, my own weakness. Finally able to return everything done, finally he, I having the upper hand …
Passing by Mrs. Prittle, me – saviour. He, I dying, to deliver her, me from evil. And lead us not into temptation …
And I was myself and I was them all, and saw me, Criminal-father-child. Unnatural-saviour. Freak-baby. That was me, all that, layers on top of layers, but no true core, and they were watching me, always watching, forcing it upon me, and I was them and forcing it upon myself, oppressing, more, stronger, tighter, robbing me of air, of my sight, constraining me, overwhelming me, burying me …
The darkness closing in, the stony faces, a silent scream and one last glimpse at Bellatrix, laughing at the one to conquer her, who couldn’t even conquer himself – no air – no sight – no –
“NO!”
I woke, screaming from the top of my lungs, shivering, breathing heavily, and sweating, in my usual day clothes; my head snapping up from the desk, where I must’ve dozed off at one point after my aunt had left, yesterday evening, staring out into the night. I felt worn-out, not rested at all. And like usual, the dream was slipping away, beyond the reach of my memory, with no chance to recall what is was all about.
The post owl, that delivered the Daily Prophet, was hooting angrily. I paid the owl with five Knuts from my pocket, almost dropping them with shaking hands, and it took off into the early morning at once. It took me nearly ten minutes to calm down. The dreams had progressively gotten worse, and this was the worst one yet. Luckily, the Dursleys were heavy sleepers.
I picked up the paper. There was no actual reason why I still bothered with the Prophet – just that I was too lazy to cancel the subscription, and had enough money anyway.
It was rubbish, of course; however, it was also an exact mirror of the state of the wizarding world. People, that not even a month ago had proclaimed me a liar and mentally unstable and who knows what else, said now the exact opposite, came slowly crawling back, as they knew or thought to know that they’d need me.
Suddenly, after being The Boy Who Lied, I was now, once again, The Boy Who Lived. People did a complete turnaround, and it didn’t even bother them. For that was what they always did, trimming their sails to the wind, in regards to me, to the Ministry, to Voldemort; not minding it at all.
I had no intention to fight for people like that. The last year had left me disillusioned in that regard. If it was only about them, I’d be content to simply sit back and relax, watching as they drove their world into the ground, running headlong into their own destruction; self-made, self-invoked, because they were content to looked away, preferred to bury their head into the sand, rather lied to themselves than facing the truth, until it was too late.
No, if it was only that, I’d just need to find a good place to observe, some popcorn, and could enjoy the fireworks.
The question was whether or not I wanted to fight for myself. I wanted to let it all go, wanted to follow my own plans, wanted to finally get on with the one thing that had driven me since Sirius’ death, even if it had taken me some time to realise it – but then the usual reaction came, making me pound my head against the wall.
Damned hesitation. Damned doubts. Damned questions.
~*~
After finally being driven out of the house by Aunt Petunia, who was busy cleaning and hoovering the house for Marge’s arrival, even the most unlikely places like behind cupboards or on top of them, I went outside. I seated myself on the grass, next to one of Aunt Petunia’s rhododendron in the far corner of the garden, where the sun had already dried the ground. A blackbird was sitting in the fir next to Uncle Vernon’s shed, singing happily.
I threw a stone into the fir, and after an indignant chirp, there was silence. Finally.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t enough sound in my head already, without some bird adding to it. Also, it was too damn cheerful. There was a rustle from the fence, and then something plopped down beside me.
A neon green shock of hair appeared in midair, then the rest of the body. Tonks folded the Invisibility Cloak, and put it in her lap, shaking her head.
“Whatever did that fine bird to incur Harry Potter’s ire?”
I growled. Couldn’t I get any time alone?
“The same thing this one is doing.”
“Why, thank you Harry. Although you’re a bit late, I already have a date for tonight. But if it doesn’t work out, I’ll save you the next, hmm?”
My irritation grew by the minute. “Shut it, Tonks. Just leave me alone.”
I really, really wasn’t in the mood. I was still tired, my headache as worse as ever, and Marge would be arriving soon. I was more than ready to find an outlet for all that, but not Tonks. I forced myself to be calm, and to my surprise, it worked.
“You might want to go,” I told her. “Vernon’s sister is coming by today, she’s due any moment now.”
Her eyes widened, and turned from their till-then intense blue colouring to a deep purple.
“That idiotic Muggle you blew up three years ago?”
My head whipped around and I stared at her incredulously.
“How the hell do you know?”
“I was just in my second year in Auror training, Harry. Trainees get often assigned on simple field missions then. Escorting Obliviators so that they can do their job and containing the Muggles that may have seen something is typical. I was here. She’s a nasty piece of work, that one. Was rude and loud and all. I’m just glad that Dung’s here today, then, not me.”
She yawned. “Can’t wait until he arrives.”
“Doesn’t explain how you know it was her.”
Tonks waved a hand airily.
“Oh, it was the topic in the Ministry for almost a week or so. Harry Potter’s aunt a floating balloon, as he used an impressive bit of Accidental Magic. You know, canteen-talk and what have you. And as she looked nothing like horsie back in the house – ”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
How very typical. I should’ve expected nothing less from the Ministry.
”Glad I could provide something to talk about, then. Obviously, everyone had to know, because it was Harry Potter, after all. Everyone has the right to know everything. There’s nothing they don’t know.”
It wasn’t really a question, so I was surprised that she spoke, after we’d been sitting there in silence for almost a quarter of an hour, she leant back against a fence post, and I trying to ignore her presence and hoping that Marge died in an messy train crash all the while.
“I’m sure there is.”
She was looking me up and down, then straight into my face. Her eyes were now a familiar shade of green, I noticed absentmindedly.
“There is always something more than what people see, isn’t it?”
I stared back.
“Is there more? I’m not so sure anymore, Tonks.”
She stood up, gathering her (or rather, I suspected, Moody’s) Invisibility Cloak.
“Then I’ll hope for you that you’ll find it, Harry. Whatever it is. Because anything is better than nothing. I know.”
And with that she climbed over the fence and vanished on the other side, just as Uncle Vernon came up; driven by his obsession with the lawn. It desperately needed to be mown. Apparently, he’d measured the grass with a ruler as usual, (he always got on all fours to do that looking complete ridiculous) and it was a quarter of an inch too long after the rain last night.
Well, how fucking terrible.
I shut out his ramblings, and while my uncle went back and forth with his lawnmower, I returned to the house. Just as I was passing the front gate, nearly stumbling over a pry bar Uncle Vernon had left there when he’d tried to repair the fence, a taxi pulled to a halt. Out stepped, as large as ever, Marge Dursley.
The taxi driver opened the door on the other side, and her large bulldog, Ripper, jumped out as well. He stared in disgust at the dog, which’d probably been slobbering all over the covers of the back seats. Not to mention the hairs.
As soon as Ripper was out of the car, he ran straight to the fence where I was standing, leaning easily against the gate. The dim-witted creature tried jumping at me, but with the fence in the eye, resorted to barking, drawing Aunt Marge’s attention to me.
She looked at me disdainfully.
“You.”
I, in turn, watched the driver. And the driver, finally, glared daggers at Ripper and Marge’s back. Amusing.
“You can carry my bags into the house. I don’t tolerate laziness.” She’d noted my stance at the post, it seemed. The driver had finished unloading the baggage from the boot. I hadn’t moved.
“Are you deaf?” snapped Aunt Marge.
“No,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you be smart with me, boy!”
I studied her. She hadn’t changed, really. She still resembled a female version of Uncle Vernon and still desperately needed to be introduced to the beautiful invention called a lady’s shaver.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she barked. “And quit staring at me! Do I have something in my face?”
“Well, since you’re asking …” I said. “Yes. A moustache.”
Aunt Marge stared at me open mouthed, before she began colouring, just like her brother. This was not Tonks. No need to hold back. No need … Ripper seemingly had noted the development of the situation, and now began throwing himself against the gate that separated us, snarling loudly.
“Why, you little –”
I leaned forward slightly –
“Marge! So good to see you!”
Aunt Petunia came hurrying quickly out of the house, and threw me a hasty glance. I didn’t exactly know what to make of it – she had been doing that since she’d left my room yesterday. She opened the gate, and went to stand in front of me, blocking my view of Aunt Marge. And just like that, I was forgotten. Even Ripper seemed to prefer running into the garden, and digging out Aunt Petunia’s roses.
“Petunia,” Aunt Marge shouted loud enough to be heard at the other end of the road. They hugged and kissed, and then Uncle Vernon came, and escorted her into the house. Aunt Petunia looked at me again, and then went to the taxi driver, who was waiting impatiently next to his car.
She said something to him, and I saw a pound note changing hands. After that, he began to carry Aunt Marge’s bags into the house.
“Come in,” my aunt said stiffly. She opened her mouth, looking like she wanted to add something, but then brushed past me. Frowning, I followed.
~*~
When I came inside, Aunt Marge was already back in the hall
“Dudders!” she roared through the house, once the door was closed. “Where is my favourite neffy-poo?”
When no one came, she rounded on me.
“Go fetch my Dudders! His aunt wants to welcome him.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Dudders!” I shouted up the stairs. “Marge wants you to welcome you her!”
That put him into motion. I heard his steps stomping on the ceiling above me, and then his feet became visible on the topmost steps. Somehow, he never liked it when I called him the various names Aunt Petunia and Aunt Marge came up with.
I turned back and found Marge staring at me through narrowed eyes. “What?” I said.
“Don’t you say ‘what’ to me, boy,” boomed Marge. “You know that it’s Aunt Marge to you. Vernon and Petunia told you often enough. If they’re still putting up with you, then show them some thankfulness for their kindness by following our rules!”
I stared at her, unblinkingly. “But you aren’t my Aunt.”
The look on her face turned ugly, and she opened her mouth to start on me, just as Dudley reached the end of the stairs. At once, she was over at him, pulling him into a tight hug, and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek. Dudley shot me furious look, presumably because in front of Marge, he couldn’t say anything about my usage of the hated pet names – if he wanted to get Marge’s money, that is.
I went past them, up into my room.
~*~
We met again for dinner. Dudley was excused, for the whole night (“he’s at his friends, the little darling, they’re having a game night”), but I, of course, had to be there. At least Aunt Marge had put her foot down and banished Ripper to the kitchen, where his slobbering mess could be cleaned without re-carpeting the floor.
Once again, we’d made it through the main course, up to dessert. I could spot the irony of fate coming from miles away. Up to now, Marge had entertained us with a detailed account on how one of Ripper’s pups had won in a dog show, for one thing or another. Like last time, she’d drunk liberal amounts of wine, getting pissed rapidly. And like last time, the table talk ran out, turning her attention back to her favourite subject; me.
“So, Vernon,” Marge declared, “I see you’re still keeping him. Has he shown any signs of betterment, then? I believe you told me something about that institution, St. Brutus’s, was it?”
Unlike last time, I had no intention of putting up with it.
“I never was in St. Brutus,” I declared in the same righteous tone, mimicking her. “That was just an elaborate lie on Uncle Vernon’s part.”
The following silence was interesting. The knife Aunt Petunia held dropped onto the platter with the remains of the beef Wellington, clattering loudly as she stared at me, wide-eyed. The refrigerator in the kitchen hummed. The grandfather clocked to my right ticked.
That was all.
Tick.
Uncle Vernon began colouring, fast. His hand clutched the fork like he wanted to skewer me.
Tock.
Aunt Marge eyes seemed to nearly pop out of her head. I felt like smiling. And then, off we went.
“You nasty little thing, you dare care call Vernon a liar when he was kind enough to take you in and put up with your behaviour ever since?”
She didn’t believe me. I could almost hear Aunt Petunia sighing in relief. Well, we could remedy that.
“Actually, that was done for your benefit, because I –”
“Vernon!” interrupted Aunt Petunia shrilly. “Would you be a dear and carry the platter and the dishes into the kitchen, and bring in the sorbet?”
Uncle Vernon looked nearly apoplectic. Most interesting. He stood up jerkily, loaded everything onto the tray, forgetting the cutlery, and walked out of the room. Marge, however, was not to be distracted, this time.
“It seems to me like you still haven’t learned your place, boy.” She had lifted her cane, which she’d propped against her chair. “In fact, I think I –”
My Quidditch-reflexes were as up to par as ever. I caught her hand in midair, clamping down on her meaty wrist. Her strength was no match for the average male youth; just like Vernon’s never was. Probably one reason why he’d never actually tried to beat the magic out of me, like he so often threatened to.
I held her arm, and stared at her. Our eyes locked. Her dark, evil eyes, looking at me, furious. A few heartbeats. Breath in, breath out. Two pictures layering over one another; past-five-year-old Harry, present-me; the same situations, radically different outcomes.
“Don’t.”
It came out as quiet hiss. The clock in the living room, cutting the silence in seconds. Tick. Furious whispers in my head. Do it! Show her what you are, what you can do. My grip on her wrist became stronger. Tock. The wand in my other hand, rising slowly … Yes! It tore at me, tried to break free, the border so frail, paper-thin now; almost there, almost … The clinging of glass.
“M-Marge? Some … more?”
I turned my head. Aunt Petunia was tinkering with the bottle of wine, holding it with shaking hands, and giving me that look again. But this time, something was different. Clearer, somehow. And I realised it for what it was.
Fear.
And promptly, the war was back. Fear? Is that what you want to inspire in others? To respect you, because they fear you? Yes – No … I shook my head and exhaled slowly, involuntary loosening my grip on Marge’s hand. She yanked her wrist free and put her arm back down, saying nothing for now, just shooting me a nasty look.
“Yes – please, Petunia.”
Aunt Petunia gave a strained smile and filled the glass once more, even though it was barely halfway empty. Marge drained it in one gulp. Vernon returned with the bowl with the sorbet, having missed the exchange entirely.
Aunt Petunia helped everyone to a serving, and we ate in tense silence – until Marge decided to speak.
“Vernon, how did he end up in St. Brutus anyway? I don’t believe you ever told me.”
Before I could interject, Uncle Vernon answered, giving me an evil look. Aunt Petunia looked at him, nervously.
“Oh, well, he was caught with his Godfather on a break-in – he was training him, you see. His Godfather was sent to prison, and he came into St. Brutus, because they told us he was much too young to go as well. Bah! Mollycoddling nonsense, if you ask me. People these days are simply too soft-hearted.”
“Yes, yes,” Marge nodded her agreement. “As I always said, you have to show them the bounds early on. The more severe the punishments, the easier they learn. This one here is a prime example. Why, back in my days …”
I was back in my tunnel, not realising much besides me, only the tunnel, which suddenly felt oppressive. I was breathing hard.
“… no, he couldn’t. Luckily, he died just a few weeks ago. Like I say, one less criminal makes the world a better place. You remember him, Marge – he escaped three years ago, that Black fellow from the news.”
It was growing inside me, my anger, snarling and snapping like a caged beast, waiting to be released. Let it all go … “He was not a cri-”
“YES HE WAS,” yelled Uncle Vernon, overriding my voice. “You killed him and that’s that. There’s nothing more, you hear me? Nothing!”
“I didn’t kill him,” I ground out. “Bellatrix did.”
“You,” Marge slurred, “are a nasty little liar. A ruffian, a criminal which should’ve been locked away a long time ago.”
Mrs. Number Seven, me – criminal. Ruffian. No place for him, me here, in a good neighbourhood like this …
… Criminal-father-child. Unnatural-saviour. Freak-baby.
The tunnel walls crumbling, closing in … and finally, I, it, broke free. The anger, the hate … coursing throughout me, filling me –
There is always something more than what people see, isn’t it?
“No,” I said, suddenly calm. “No, I’m not. I’m more. Much, much more. You’ll see.”
I rose to my feet. The wand in my hand, my fingers tracing lovingly over the polished wood.
“I’ll show you, yes?”
Uncle Vernon had become chalk-white; I barely realised it.
“Boy! I demand that you put that thing away! At once! I –”
I flicked my wand at him lazily.
“Silencio.”
Marge stared at me, open mouthed.
“And that is barely the beginning,” I whispered to her. Next to Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia whimpered. Marge was now standing as well, and slowly backing away.
“Ripper!” she called, and the bull-dog came running from the kitchens as once.
“Attack!” she commanded. “I’m going to call the police.”
Ripper came chasing, but a strong bludgeoning hex caused a laceration on his head and sent him flying across the room.
“Ripper!” screeched Marge. “What did you do to him?” She advanced on me, a murderous expression on her face. “You dare touch …
Something shifted for a moment in my vision, as if everything moved over a tiny bit, and I could look behind … dare speak his name? You dare speak his name with your unworthy … lips … And Marge’s ugly form vanished, and in its place was another, tall; a pale face, framed with long tresses of black hair, so black; as black as the night, as black as the heart and the name, shimmering silkily in the flickering light. Mysterious violet eyes, blinking from beneath heavy lashes … a vision of cruel beauty; and all mine.
This was it. My heat beating in-sync with the clock, I heard it pounding in my ears.
Thump.
I was over at her.
Thump.
The wand in my hand, smooth and warm; so natural, so right.
Thump.
An euphoric feeling, finally being able to use magic again, after two weeks of abstinence, glorious, wonderful. I felt the magic singing in me, and sang along, Crucio … and she on the carpet sang as well …
But then it shifted back, and I realised it was Marge … just Marge. What a disappointment. No match for me, she wasn’t even worth the effort. She was lying there screaming, even though I had stopped the curse.
Infinite sadness. You’ve shown her that she’s no match for you. You’ve shown that you are stronger than a Muggle. Was that what you wanted? Are you satisfied now? Proud?
Yes – no –
The anger subsided, and the war in my head seemed to reach a roaring crescendo over what I’d just done. I turned away from Marge, unable to watch her prone form in the carpet; and suddenly realised that the screams had come from my left, meaning, now from directly in front of me. I watched disbelievingly at what I saw.
Aunt Petunia was running towards me, the frying pan in her hand, swinging it wildly … frying pan … Harry ducking a heavy blow, aimed to his head, at the very last moment, while Dudley stands and laughs …
My vision flashed red, droning out everything else. As if by instinct, I swished and flicked my wand. The frying was ripped from of her grasp. I sent it hurtling towards her. It connected with the left side of her face, and there where a few ugly cracks. Probably a broken jaw, at least. Good.
For a second time, the anger filled the emptiness inside me. The force of my blow had sent her tumbling to the ground, where she kneeled, crying, holding her broken jaw. I banished my aunt across the room, her head smashing against the corner of the table, before she was hurled through the window in a shower of shards of broken glass. She was out of the way for now.
In contrast to not-my-Aunt Marge. Is stared at her hatefully. I wasn’t done with her, not by a long shot. Payback-time. Fifteen years were a long time.
She was trying to get back onto her feet, using the table as a crutch. I flicked my wand, and two of the knives from the table imbedded themselves in her hands, nailing them to the table she held onto. Marge wouldn’t be going anywhere. She screamed again. Blood seeped from under her hands, and she passed out.
“Wingardium Leviosa.”
I swished and flicked my wand once again, and levitated a chair under her.
“Incarcerous invisus,” thin, translucent ropes shot from the tip of my wand, and bound her to the chair safely. I tipped my wand against my chin thoughtfully. What to do, what to do. Well, first she needed to be conscious.
“Enervate!”
The spell jerked her back into awareness. She was as bothersome as ever and started struggling against the robes that coiled around her, but the movement probably didn’t agree with the knives protruding from her hand, as she stopped with a loud whimper.
“You won’t come free until I let you,” I told her absentmindedly. Instead of thanking me for that tip, she seemed to get even angrier. Evidently, one lesson in pain hadn’t been good enough.
“What are you?” she spat, still struggling against the invisible bonds that constrained her.
I smiled, caressing the wood of my wand with my thumb, thinking about how to answer that question.
“Do you believe in God?”
She didn’t respond, only looked around wildly. Ripper came running once again, and a kick sent him flying yowling. Damn, that felt good.
“There was this book with verses from the Bible; it was the only book the Dursleys ever gave me, you know. Back when I had nothing else, in the cupboard. Probably hoped that if I ever realised my abilities, I’d think of them as ‘against the natural order’ or something. But instead, I used to hope that what was written there would come true, that God would come … but now I know better.”
I laughed lightly. “How stupid of me. The answer was there, all along. ‘Behold, the Lord is coming to execute judgment upon all and to punish all that are against God among them, for all the evil they have done against him. And he will punish the sinners who are against God for all the evil they have said against him’ … do you see?”
My voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m your God, Marge.”
“You’re insane.”
I scowled. “I don’t think I like your tone, Marge. Actually, I don’t like you, period. You’ve treated me worse than your dogs ever since we met, and now you’ll be punished. Let’s see …”
Ripper, that stupid dog, ran and jumped towards me yet again. I was rapidly losing my patience. I aimed and shouted: “Reducto!”
The curse hit him squarely at his head, in mid-jump. He was blasted backwards. With a squelch, a grey substance sloshed against the living-room cupboard, followed by a fountain of beautiful sparkling red, like the wine on the table. Ripper was now lying on Aunt Petunia’s expensive carpet, twitching feebly, his strength waning, and produced more stains than ever, but then again, half of his head was missing. Stupid dog, as I said.
“NO! Ripper!” wailed Marge, fighting again against her bonds. “You killed my poor, dear Ripper!”
Indeed; I felt quite satisfied. Now, what to do about her … I spotted the cheese rasp on the table and had an interesting thought.
“Do you believe you can wash your hands clean, then, Marge? Those you used to beat me with that cane of yours?”
I summoned the cheese rasp, and studied her bonds. They held her in place, rendering her unable to move anything more than her head, I just needed to turn her hands around. I yanked both knives back out, and Marge screamed again. I pressed the back of her hands down onto the table, and plunged the knives back in, more in the front of her palm, in the webbing between the bones of her second and middle finger, so that they were mostly out of the way.
I started on her right hand, gripping the handle tightly and pressing down hard. The cheese rasp did its job wonderfully, the sharp steel tooth biting into her skin, then peeling strings of flesh away, leaving crimson trails in its wake. Marge had started crying now, and tried to move her hand away, but the knife wouldn’t budge.
Once I’d reached the other end of her hand, I threw the layers of curled, white skin off the rasp, down onto the table. Funny, that … it looked almost like real cheese. I positioned the rasp once again on her hand, and dragged it across slowly once more; stripping skin and flesh away; time and time again.
Some time later, I surveyed my work. On the palms of her hand, there was now only raw flesh and strings of muscles, coated in red; white bones blinking here and there from beneath. Maybe I’d been a bit too overzealous. Then again, it was just as I’d envisioned; her hands washed clean with her own blood,. It’d made the last few turns quite slippery – the stainless steel of the cheese rasp was now indeed quite stained.
Marge was silent now, although she still cried; she’d been quite vocal before and screamed herself hoarse. She’d also stopped trying to break free.
“No, I don’t think it works,” I said to her. “You know, washing your hands clean.”
I held my wand lightly to her wrists. “We’ll have to try something else. Diffindo!”
A thin, red line appeared, but that was all. I scowled angrily. The spell wasn’t strong enough. I desperately needed to know more spells, I realised. Meeting Bellatrix with this would be simply embarrassing. For now, though, the old-fashioned way would have to do.
“Accio butcher knife!”
There was a commotion outside the living room, and for a moment, I thought I head the front door open and close, but then, Aunt Petunia’s biggest knife came floating towards me. Maybe I could use at least a little bit of magic.
I levitated the knife above her right wrist, then banished it downwards. The edge cut neatly through the meat and the bones. And halfway though the wood of the table below her hand. Oops?
Marge was now screaming hoarsely from the top of her lungs, again; drowning out the thump, as her right hand hit the ground. The tears still leaking out of her eyes had long since left crusty traces on her cheeks.
“You won’t touch me with your hand ever again, Marge,” I said. “Now, as for the other one …”
But Marge let out an inhuman shriek, and with what seemed like a force born out of pure desperation, she ripped the still intact (well, mostly) left hand free from the knife that pinned it to the table; tearing completely trough the upper end of her palm.
With a whimper, she pressed the raw flesh of her hand onto the stump of her left arm, in an attempt to stop the heavy bleeding from the arteries; and started speaking, hoarsely.
“I don’t know what power this is, but evidently Vernon and Petunia were right all along. You are … unnatural, a good-for-nothing freak. Would’ve been better for everyone involved if you’d died with your worthless parents. You should’ve –”
“Shut up!” I screamed. I vanished her clothes, and banished everything that still was on the table at her. Plates, bowls, glasses hitting her hard, opening a few lacerations. The knives and forks drilled themselves deeply into her flesh.
“Shut up, shut up.”
The large knife Petunia had used to cut the beef ended up sticking more then five inches deep in her stomach. She coughed, but continued.
“ – should’ve been drowned while Vernon and Petunia had the chance, just like those weak pups. Natural order –”
I backhanded her, but she wasn’t to be deterred.
“ – killed everyone. Your parents, your Godfather, your relatives, and now me …”
Why wouldn’t that stupid bitch simply shut her worthless mouth? I pressed the tip of my wand against her check.
“Reducto!”
It tore off her entire lower jaw, sprinkling my hand with red. She was now coughing blood, growing weaker by the minute.
“This was the last time you slandered me or anyone. Now, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you to see me! Ever again.”
The tip of my wand at her eyelid … “Incendio!”
The smell of burned flesh, sickly sweet, she began to gurgle and struggle, futilely. A distasteful popping noise and a clear liquid trickled down from her burst and burnt eyeball. The struggling ceased, she finally passed out once more, from the pain and blood loss. I guessed it’d be the last time. Just as I moved on the second eye, there was another sound behind me.
I turned, and froze. Standing in front of me was Uncle Vernon, with a crudely sawn-off shot-gun. I never even realised that he’d left the room, but I recognised the gun. Hagrid had once completely bent the barrel of it, before my first year at Hogwarts. I never knew Uncle Vernon had kept it, but evidently, he had, and now simply cut off the bent part.
He levelled the gun at me. Once again, the time seemed to break down into seconds; advancing stepwise.
Tick.
Uncle Vernon, the shotgun and me.
Tock.
A choice to make: two paths diverging. Only one leading to Bellatrix.
Tick.
It wasn’t a choice, really. Uncle Vernon standing between me and her: no one would stand in my way. I lifted my wand.
Tock.
His finger bending around the trigger. The first syllables of the curse on my lips. It was self-defence, yes? Silly me. Of course it was. A glorious feeling … Avada Kedavra! The beautiful green …
… and the world returned, came crashing down on me, as the light fizzled out and died. Uncle Vernon roared (had my silencing charm worn off?) as the trigger met resistance, and he realised that he’d forgotten to take the safety catch off, rendering him unable to shoot. I was standing there, numbly; staring at my wand, unable to move. Panic began to set in.
“Avada Kedavra!” I cried, wildly, and yet again, it yielded results no better than my first attempt. The beam was narrow and flickered shortly, before it died; a pitiful attempt compared to what I’d seen Voldemort and the other Death Eaters use. I couldn’t think. What could I do? Why didn’t it work? Why …
“Aha!”
The triumphant bellow from my Uncle told me that he’d managed to move the latch away that blocked the trigger. I stared at him; wide-eyed, noticing the mad glint in his eyes. The barrel pointed straight at me.
“Should’ve done this years ago,” he said to no one in particular. “Yes, yes. Years ago.”
Once again, he pulled the trigger back.
“No!”
This couldn’t be real. I had yet to find Bellatrix … was my quest doomed to fail, before it even began? The bang of the gun expelling the contents of its barrels was deafening in the room.
“NO!”
I saw the triumphant look in the face of Uncle Vernon, and for a third time, the feeling spread, fuelled by everything this man had ever done to me; filling me up, but this time continued to flow, like never before, finally tearing the already frail border down completely. My head felt ready to explode. Someone screamed … me? The reality broke in shards. I was shivering, falling down …
The shot hit a translucent green wall a few inches in front of me.
And as in slow motion, I saw: The scattershot glowed, white hot, burst into flames and vanished.
And I felt: Incredible. Powerful, invincible …
The green dome had never stopped expanding. Everything it touched burst into flames. The table, the furniture, Uncle Vernon … soon, everything around me was burning. And then it hit the walls and the ceiling.
The walls seemed to bend under an onslaught of an unseen force … and then everything was back in normal time. A bang many times louder than the one from the gun reverberated through the house, and everything was blasted outwards. The ceiling caved in, like a card house robbed of its foundation, until it, too, was blasted away; away into the night.
I simply knelt there, wondering, somewhat confused, what just had happened. I’d done nothing, so it had to be accidental magic. All around me there was just rubble, nothing had survived the blast; no chunk was bigger than my trunk in size.
After some time, I looked further around. I was standing in the middle of all the debris, standing in the night; no ceiling, no roof above me, nothing separating me from the clear sky with its twinkling stars.
Number 4, Privet Drive looked like a torch, wonderful; orange flames in the night, the heat of the crackling fire on my skin, and I laughed, joyously. There it was again. I was one with me, I was free, free, everything was clear. The path in front of me, shining in brilliant clarity, like marble-white stepping stones, cold and beautiful, gleaming in the silver light under a full moon.
… I expected better of you.
Is a choice knowingly made in error, a wrong choice that leads to the right thing, better than choosing what is right, and leading to wrong?
Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground …
And then, the voices in my head fell silent, and somehow I knew that they’d stay silent. I’d made my decision, I’d left the tunnel, reaching the open night.
As I stood over the charred body of my uncle in the wreckage of 4, Privet Drive, his nearly molten gun next to him; my wand still comfortably in my hand, there only and finally was blissful silence.
I slumped to the ground, leaning against a remaining part of the wall. The colours blurred before my eyes. Simply beautiful. I opened my arms wide. I felt like I was flying into the starry night, slowly drifting away.
And dimly, far, far away, there were two pops.
Quotes taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Bloomsbury): pp 691, 713, 728, 739
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