Disclaimer: Chances are if you missed the disclaimer in the first chapter, you’re skimming this fic and probably missing more of the story than you think.
Chapter Fourteen
Toccata and Fugue
The dream’s soundtrack is a 1930s big band number. A waltzy number, in fact. Something like Lawrence Welk or Vaughn Monroe. Something bright and cheery; a chipper, foot-tapping piece and it don’t exactly mesh with what he actually sees.
Know what I mean, jellybean?
Because this isn’t the usual nightmare, the dreams where he’s pounding on the proverbial glass and all he can do is watch. No, this is a living, breathing anti-fantasy, a Hell-vision in real-time. This is his brain committing murder-suicide starring his sanity as the victim and his psyche as the perpetrator.
This isn’t a room he’s seen before. It’s a big, round room – huge, actually. It’s dark, too, and the only light in the room is coming from a large spotlight projected at the floor. The light paints the air with a faint, pearly luminescence, sort of like an early morning fog on a rainy day.
Which is weird, now that he looks at it. The whole floor is one big mirror, neither concave or convex. And that’s just stupid, because who puts mirror on their goddamned floor? The room is tinged the same sort of surreal quality as M.C. Escher’s works of never-ending staircases, dead ends without doors, and eyes that stare out from nowhere at all.
And all this jawing about his surroundings is only putting off the inevitable. Because the real star of this nightmare…
…is himself.
Harry peers at the ceiling and a glob of hot blood smacks down on his forehead, right between his eyes. It dribbles down his cheek, warm and slick, following the tear-trail and for a moment, he thinks the ceiling is bleeding. It wouldn’t be too far from the truth. He wipes the blood away and experiences a moment of vertigo – not the spine-tingling, stomach-lurching sort of dizziness, but the Oh-My-Fucking-God! I’m-Free-Falling-Without-A-Parachute! sort of vertigo.
That’s himself pinned to the ceiling. Actually, crucified would be a better word for it because that’s what they did. This anonymous “They” or “Them” or whoever had driven railroad spikes through his wrists and ankles in a spread-eagled pose of agony. Under the blood that’s spattered everywhere like four-dimensional Pollok painting, the doppelganger is barefoot, dressed in expensive black linen slacks and a black button-down made of Acromantula silk. It’s one of those berjillion Galleon options that the rich and insanely famous (or insanely delusional, Harry’s not judging) are partial to.
It’s a silly thing to notice, but it’s better than watching his dying double bleed out in a fascinating stunt of anti-gravity. Blood runs in thick, viscous channels along the cracks in the ceiling’s flagstones. He knows any moment now he’s going to look down and find the same red lines drawn into his skin, hot blood welling up and kissing the tattered cotton of his jeans and t-shirt. He can already feel the phantom sting of open wounds meeting the chill in the air.
“You sad, sorry bastard.” The voice is a strong, drawling tenor and it's as familiar as Harry’s own. It’s also a voice that makes him want to punch the owner, but he knows that won’t do much good considering the man in question.
Draco Malfoy looks good, for all that Harry is fairly sure he’s dead. The mottled purple and black ligature marks around his neck are partially hidden by the strange shadows cast by the mirror, but Harry knows they’re there. It’s something almost like instinct. The blond is tall and lean with shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and in the fever-bright shine of his eyes. He reminds Harry of a knife’s blade – too sharp and too thin, and full of edgy, dangerous potential.
He’s wearing white, bright and snowy. The suit is a fitted, well-tailored piece and Harry can pick out a faint pinstripe of silver running through the fabric. Against this, the snowfield expanse of the waistcoat seems to glow and the dove-grey of his shirt is a pleasing accent to the pinstripe. White, high-button spats adorn his feet over polished opalescent dragonhide shoes. The result is one of high-couture wizarding-wear pleasantly melded to Muggle formal clothing; it adds a sort of cross-culture nobility to the whole creation. Raffish and regal, it’s the epitome of Draco Malfoy and simultaneously, a world away from the subdued, understated preferences of pureblood culture.
The scar marring his upper lip twists as Draco smirks at Harry’s double on the ceiling. It’s a sneering sliver of a smile that looks decidedly unhinged. “Well look at you. Pinned like an unfortunate bug in some curious scientist’s collection. A little elaborate for a simple dissection, don’t you think?” He laughs at his own joke. “I’d act a bit more sympathetic if I didn’t feel like doing that to you myself on occasion.”
Malfoy’s presence never fails to irritate the fuck out of Harry and for moment he wants to claw the asshole’s eyes out so badly he tastes iron in his mouth. “Draco!” Harry simpers in his best imitation of Pansy Parkinson. “Fabulous to see you! How have you been? Be honest.”
And the fucker continues on as if he hasn’t heard a word Harry’s said. “Of course, that’s usually after you’ve done something stupid like taking on two dozen Death Eaters when you’re fatigued and injured.”
“I take it you’re still pissed off that I got myself killed,” Harry replies and he knows he’s grinning like a loon. “That’s totally a reasonable thing to be angry about.”
There’s no trace of a smile on Draco’s face now. If anything he seems frustrated. “Unlike you, Harry,” he says, quiet and intense. “I don’t have the luxury of moving on and conveniently forgetting about everything else I left behind.”
Harry stares the blond down, eyes flat and narrow. True anger is beginning to stir in him now; it frightens him how close he’s been lately to losing control and he wonders if the anger isn’t a warning sign for something bigger. Voldemort? No, he dismisses that one immediately. There’s no way Riddle would be able to get into Harry’s mind without doing himself grievous harm. Madness? Maybe. It feels closer to the truth than he wants to admit. He clenches his jaw, willing the red tinge of fury to fade from his sight. “What do you mean by that?”
Draco sneers, wrath and contempt writ in the aggression of his stance. “Did you really think there was anything left for us after you died?"
Something in his voice cracks the veneer of Harry's anger and lands a direct hit on the raw places exposed underneath. 'You shouldn't have that kind of expectation of me in the first place,' he wants to spit back in reply. 'It's your mess - you can fucking well fix it yourself.' The words want out and Harry bites his tongue hard not to let that bitter, black venom out.
Because that's the heart of his issues, you see, 'cause it's not like he's ever fit into the wizarding world before. He's lived in it for seventeen years now and Harry still feels like an outsider.
So why should he have to fix their problems? Seems a little presumptuous to him.
Of course that doesn't stop Draco from carrying on like he's the most important person in the world. Harry sometimes wonders if Draco and Draco's overblown ego ever feel jealous of one another. "I mean," the blond says as he laughs mockingly. "Did you really delude yourself into thinking that there was what, hope?"
"That's low. Even for you." Trust Draco Malfoy to be the one person who knows Harry well enough to hurt him where it really counts.
"Is it?" Draco replies. "Harry, you... are someone I greatly respect and you know I don't say that lightly. It's just... you make these incredibly rash decisions and in the end, they fuck us all over. You have too much riding on your shoulders to be so cavalier about the way you do things."
Harry wants question where Draco gets off thinking that he's been careless with the lives entrusted to his care and where the hell did he get such a stupid notion like that anyway, but what emerges is:
"Why am I here?"
And Harry is nearly bowled over by the sense-memory of the whole thing. He's been here before. With Dumbledore and the ruins of Hogwarts, the crazy old man and his ramblings of perception and reality.
Draco opens his mouth to speak and Harry holds up a hand to stop him. "No, wait. Stop for a moment. I know why I'm here."
This place was supposedly a world of perceptions, a place not grounded in reality, a place not grounded in time either. His mind shies away from the implications. "What do I see?" he murmurs to himself. Harry glances at the strangulation marks on Draco's neck and up at his double pinned to the ceiling. "I see dead people," Harry says flatly, totally unamused by the obvious joke. "Ha fucking ha, old man."
"You really are slow, aren't you?" Draco says loftily.
"Go fuck a duck, Malfoy,"Harry growls.
Draco rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. "You're being totally unreasonable about this."
'Your pot is as black as my kettle, Asshole,' Harry thinks. But instead of saying anything, Harry turns and walks away from the blonde. He might not be able to wake up, but damned if he's going to stick around for this bullshit.
Harry glances back over his shoulder at Malfoy. He's gone, fog drifting lazily through the empty spotlight. The feeling of being alone is almost worst than hearing his faults laid out on a platter. This is the alone feeling of being watched and knowing nothing human is doing the looking.
Something flickers in the corner of his eye and skin on the back of his neck wants to crawl away. Anger rises in him again and this time, he welcomes it.
"This is my fucking mind!" Harry snarls at the thing. "What are you doing here?" His voice rides down the register until there's nothing left but gravel and menace.
It laughs, sweet and feminine. Lorraine steps out of the shadows, and this isn't the young version Harry had met on the train ride. No, this is her, Lorraine as Harry remembered her. All long legs, spun gold curls, and laughter. She is a tall woman, nearly as tall as Harry himself and he aches with familiarity.
But he doesn't recognize her eyes, chill, dark holes that belie the warmth of her grin. "Harry," she purrs. "You never were a very patient man."
Harry's throat closes up on him and he knows he's wrecked. "Lorraine." It comes out like it sounds in his head, like a holy mantra, like the sound a drowning man makes when he's saved, like love and benediction and irrational devotion. God, when she died... he'd been torn apart, useless, mindless shell of himself. When she died... a part of him went with her. Harry is sure that it was his soul.
She tilts her head and smiles, hollow doll's eyes wide, staring, and as cold as ice. "Baby," she replies. "How have you been?"
He swallows his grief.
"Don't mock me,"Harry rasps.
"Awww," she coos. "Pity. Poor. You. You think I had it as easy as you? That I what, died in a flash of green light?" She laughs again. "No, baby, I wasn't quite that lucky," Lorraine murmurs. She pulls the neck of her soft blue dress to the side and down her shoulder, delicate collarbones bare, vulnerable, and spattered with blood. A thick chunk of meat is missing from her shoulder, the wound wet, red-black and gaping. "It took four hours for me to bleed out. And they weren't too picky about the bottom half as long as it was still whole."
What do you say to that? What do you say to make something like that better? "What do you want?" Harry croaks out, voice broken and faded. "What do you want from me?"
Her normally animated features are cool and flat. "I want peace. Can you give me that?"
"No," he answers whisper-soft.
He is powerless to give her what she couldn't find even in death.
She flickers and then he's back in front of the spotlight with Draco Malfoy and the shitty big band music. The need to scream rises and sticks in his throat.
Draco is all earnest and wide-eyed and Harry wants to laugh. As if anybody could mistake that for puppy eyes. "Almost everything my father did, He did for me," Draco says beseechingly. "And for me to defy him like I did, it nearly destroyed him. His life's work was trying to make the world a better place for me and my children - he did these things for what thought were the right reasons."
Harry blinks in confusion. What the hell?
"Draco, your father was fucking insane," Harry replies derisively. "Did you or did you not forget that Lucius was the one who gave your mother to Bellatrix? That he was there while she screamed and begged her way through her last moments in life?" He had been there as well, but that wasn't something anyone else knew.
The blonde scoffs. "Oh fucking hell, Potter! I know that."
"Then why are you defending him!?" Harry rejoins forcefully.
Draco sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Because if you judge people... by the standards you have been..." he says in fits and starts. "...You yourself would, no, should be considered one of the bad guys."
The howl of rage is back, battering his ears like a siege engine. The words emerge low and mocking and he knows he isn't doing as good a job as he hoped at hiding his anger. "So, now you're taking up the position of St. Malfoy, Patron of the cruel and the damned?"
The blonde sneers, scar drawing up and twisting like a snake. Like how Draco would twist Harry's words if given half a chance. "It's not the dark magic, Harry. Don't be facetious. How about the Death Eater informant? Hmm? What about him? You cut his wife into pieces, in pieces Harry, in front of him. And if Longbottom hadn't broken down the door, you would have done the same to his daughters too."
Harry punches him. Again. And again. Blood stains the mirror beneath his feet and their reflections become unwholesome. He keeps hitting him until the blonde falls to the floor and then Harry drives his foot into Draco's side. Once. Twice. Three times and there's a wet crack of bone being broken and driven into vital organs. The blonde chokes, coughing up red bloody foam onto the pristine white of his suit.
He keeps kicking him until Draco isn't moving, isn't breathing and then the world lurches.
Malfoy is standing in front of him again, no blood, no bruises, suit isn't even rumpled. As if none of it had happened and Harry is the crazy person committing phantom murders, bruised knuckles and all.
"He was the reason why Lorraine was killed," Harry rasps out, useless anger and adrenaline making his hands shake. "So I went off the edge a little - big fucking deal!
He crowds right up into Draco's space and arrests those reserved grey eyes with an unflinching stare. "If you had loved her as much as I did," he murmurs. "You would have done the same thing."
'Try to deny that, you sanctimonious little prick.'
The blonde grimaces and leans back a fraction. "That's just my point. Where does the line lie? What defines that divine chasm between right and wrong?"
There's something large moving behind Malfoy, fog obscuring it from view. It sways back and forth in a slow steady rhythm, vaguely man-shaped, something dark and wet dripping onto the floor.
"What the fuck -" Harry cuts himself off abruptly as he recognizes the waxy form of Draco Malfoy dangling from his own belt, barefoot and dressed in worn clothing.
The original blonde glances over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Harry. "Where's the point where you have fully crossed over and become worse than the thing you're fighting against?" he says, continuing on blithely and Harry realizes that Draco can't see his own stinking shit-stained corpse.
Harry licks his lips, unnerved by sight of the twin images of Draco the dead and Draco the dead-er version of the blonde. "I'm not ignorant enough of my own lack of morality to delude myself into taking the high road. You're going to have to try harder if you want me to feel guilty about what I've done. Cut the bullshit already."
Draco's mouth quirks into a parody of a smile, snake-scar writhing on his lip. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that people don't exactly receive memo's the moment they crossover from White Knights into Black Hats."
He extends his hand out to Harry, offering him a blood-red handkerchief. Harry figures with Draco's taste in clothing that it will probably be silk.
It is. It flows through Harry's hands like water, ruby folds dropping away to revel a black, chitinous present. He drops it with a yell and a big black scorpion, stinger poised and dripping, scuttles off the fabric into the fog.
There is no knowledge of what he's given Harry in the blonde's eyes. "You seem to think I don't know you're a monster," Draco says.
Harry is taken back by that. He's never heard it said that bluntly. Oh yeah, there'd been whispers as he passed, a flurry of hushed mutterings of what he'd done. Did you know what he did to those Death Eater children, they had said. Did you know that he held them down and cut off their fingers? Their ears? Their noses? Did you know how loud they screamed? Did you know that when he was done, he cut out their hearts and made their father eat them? Did you know? Did you know?
Did you know?
Yeah, he did know. He knows it very well.
Harry laughs because there's really nothing else he can do in response to a comment like that. Monster? Maybe he is, but damned if he's going to go crawl in some dark hole of denial. He is what he is. When he'd found the man responsible for Lorraine's death, Harry had wanted him to hurt as bad as he did.
He'd succeeded.
Succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Thing is, Neville didn't get to him before he started in on the children. There is no way Harry will every forget the look of pure, unadulterated hate and devastation on Leeland Moore's face, smeared in the blood of his wife and his children, tears marking clean tracks in all of that red. No way in Hell will he ever forget that.
There are some nights where he, well, Harry knows he enjoyed that a little too much. Knows it's wrong. Knows it's twisted.
"I feel like I'm falling down the rabbit hole at Mach speed," Harry says finally. "And there's no end in sight. But Lorraine, man. I loved that woman."
Lorraine was... nice.
Nice, when he hadn't normally done nice. She wasn't simple - not by any stretch of the imagination, but she was uncomplicated. A straightforward and honest woman in a time when nothing was straightforward or honest. She'd loved bitching about him being seventy-three inches of coal furnace in July. Loved tugging on his ear to get his attention. Loved eating cold pizza for breakfast. Loved sleeping in late on weekends. She was his normal. Or, at least as close as he'd ever gotten to normal.
"And I would have married her," he continues. "If she hadn't been fucking murdered. It's not fair of you to use her against me." Harry belatedly realizes there's tears on his face. 'There's this howling tide of grief in me,' he wants to yell at the blonde, 'And it's all I can do to keep clawing my way to another day! It's all I can do to wake up in the morning! How dare you make me remember her! How dare you!'
Draco nods. "Then do me a favour. Be fair to me and don't judge me by my father." He looks at Harry and it feels like the first time Draco's actually seen him this whole time. "I know that at thirteen the man meant the world to me. But at the time, I didn't know I had other options."
Harry spreads his arms wide and gestures at himself."What makes you think I can do any better by you this time around? You haven't exactly given me any incentive to help you," he replies, exhausted and struggling for conciousness. The world around him is getting greyer. He hopes that's a good sign.
The younger Malfoy tips his head back and laughs, his corpse swaying like pendulum behind him. Tick tock. "Harry," he says, his expression amused. "If you didn't care as much as you do, you wouldn't be this angry."
The dream loosened its claws on him with an abrupt pop of his eardrums and Harry found himself staring at the dusty hangings above his bed.
"But I'm not angry," he said out loud to rooms snoring occupants, ears ringing with denial.
Harry rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He felt worse than when he had gone to bed, if that was at all possible. It felt like his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. Struggling out of the tangled sheets, he rolled to his feet and shuffled off in the direction of the loo.
He flicked the lights on and white light flooded the lavatory.
The sense-memory image of cracked and dirty white tiles superimposed itself over cheery red and gold flooring. For a moment, he found himself back in the bunker's showers, dank and rust-stained, the air stinking of sweat and mould. Ugly black veins of decay snaked across the face of the mirror, silver backing beginning to peel and become pockmarked with dirt. The sink under his hands shifted, metal faucets turning red-orange with rust, slithering down the drain in dark streaks like fermented blood.
No. He scrabbled desperately at the chilly tiles by the broken mirror, but the image remained the same.
No, no, no, no!
Harry's knees buckled and he nearly smacked his jaw against the cold porcelain of the sink on his way down. He hit the tiled floor with a cringe-worthy crack against his knees and Harry knew he’d have bruises come morning. Bile churned in his gut and tried to worm its way out of his mouth. Harry hadn't eaten last night so there wasn't anything in his stomach to throw up, but he could dry heave with the best of them. So he did. Again and again and again until it hurt, until his throat felt like raw and bloody, until he felt like his guts were a tangled ball of razor wire - and all he could get to come up was a thin burning thread of vomit.
"Harry?" Ron said, squinting sleepily in the bright light. "What's wrong?"
Harry gasped weakly against the floor, frame folded over, arms wrapped around himself. He tried to answer, but what slid out sounded horrifically like a cross between a sob and a semi-hysterical cackle.
Ron's eyes went wide enough that Harry could see the gold flecking amongst the dark blue. "Aww, Jeez, mate!" He hurriedly shut the door behind him and dropped down beside Harry, hands fluttering uselessly as he tried to figure out what was wrong with him.
The comical sight combined with his mouth opening and closing like a fish's struck him as funny. Helpless, Harry began choking in between his attempts to puke and laugh at the same time.
"Bloody hell!" Ron thumped his back roughly. "C'mon Harry, breathe!"
His hysterics petered out leaving him twitching faintly against the cool tiles, breath deep and heavy in his lungs. Momentary fatigue overcame him as his body recovered from its convulsions. A detached sense of relief registered too, when he saw the Gryffindor colours restored to the walls. They were as festive and rich as ever, as if the hallucination had never taken hold.
"Right, there we go," the other boy muttered. Ron's large hands seized the back of Harry's long-sleeve t-shirt and hauled him upright against the wall. Water trickled overhead and then a wet flannel flopped down on his forehead.
"Better now?" Ron asked, crouching down in front of him, too short pyjama bottoms rising up around his calves.
Harry reach a trembling hand up and grabbed the damp flannel. "Give me a moment," he rasped, wiping vomit off his chin. He balled the stained fabric up and tossed it into the sink.
Ron gazed at him steady and serious for all that he was just thirteen-years-old. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what's wrong, will you?"
Harry slumped against the wall, feeling as limp and over-abused as a rag-doll. "My subconscious hates me," he murmured darkly.
Ron nodded. "Hermione says dementors feed off of your worst memories. Even I was having some mad dreams there before I woke up."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Ron flushed. "Well nothing really serious, just some crazy thingys about Hagrid's pet spiders."
"Yeah? Did they, by any chance, make you put on your grandma's lingerie and tap dance to the Weird Sisters?"
"That's just gross, mate,"Ron replied, face the colour of curdled milk.
The corner of Harry's mouth curled into a smile. "There comes a time in a young man's life..."
"Freak," Ron muttered.
"Hey, you're the self-professed leg-man. Not my fault if two isn't enough for you."
"Eurgh. There are some lines you shouldn't cross."
Harry laughed low and dirty in reply.
"Hey, Harry?" Ron began tentatively, amusement draining from his expression. "What exactly... happened after you, uh, left the compartment?"
"Nothing worth repeating." The other boy didn't look convinced. Harry rolled his eyes, mouth on autopilot. "Oh Gawd, do we have to do the caring and sharing bit?"
Ron scowled. "Don't be such a bloody berk about it! You left and then the next time I see you..." He trailed off shaking his head. "You're not right, mate. And whatever it is that's bothering you has you so messed up that you wake up vomiting, laughing like its hysterically funny! Oh sure, Harry, you're just fine!"
"You make me all tingly inside when you get forceful like that, Ronald," Harry replied, taken back by Ron's vehemence. "Yeah, okay, I'm not all right. Shit happens. What else is new?"
Ron frowned. "It's never been this bad before, though. What really happened?" He tilted his head to the side. "You're hiding something." He said it like a dawning revelation. "Why? That's not like you."
'It's not like I'm in the habit of lying to my friends. With most of you dead and gone, I'm a little out of practice.'
Harry slowly let out his breath, prolonging his exhalation while he chose his next words. Ron was like a bulldog when he got interested in a subject and wouldn't let go until he got an answer that satisfied him.
"When the dementors are near me," Harry began, adding a silent 'Amongst other things if I let it,' in his head. "I get to watch my mother die. Over and over and over. And all the while, that bastard is laughing. I hear my father tell my mother to take me and run. I hear Voldemort kill him. I hear my mother tell him to take her instead of me. He tells her to stand aside. She doesn't. He kills her. Then it's lots of pretty green light for me and the whole thing starts over.
Ron was bone-white, but Harry kept on going. "You're right. I'm not okay. I am so far from okay that when three of those soul-sucking fuckers,"
Ron jerked backwards at the obscenity and Harry tried not to wince. 'Cut back on the language, bud. The kiddies aren't ready for it yet.'
"-tried to eat me," Harry continued more mildly. "I went a little crazy. Boo-hoo for them. Too bad, so sad."
"Ah, c'mon! I'm not saying you were wrong to, uh, off them," Ron protested. "Just that you're not handling it okay."
"No shit, Sherlock. Despite what you may think, I'm not actually in denial about that." Harry rubbed his eyes, feeling far too exhausted for this particular conversation. "Why did you go off on me like that?"
"It's not... I don't know, Harry, you were just... so flippant about it. It seemed like you didn't care at all," Ron said as he pushed his knuckles into his eyes and yawned.
Harry shook his head, rubbing at a rapidly forming bruise on his forearm. Violent dreams were never very kind to his body. "I do care, Ron. I'm the last person you know who,"
'...would be so cavalier...' Harry's subconscious whispered back to him.
"Would disregard something as serious as emotional distress, be it mine, yours or Severus friggin' Snape. And yes, I can say that without losing any man points,” Harry continued.
'That didn't come out the way it was supposed to. Emotional distress? Fucking Hell.'
Ron snickered. "Snape? Seriously?"
"Give me a break. It's late."
"Actually, it's early. Really, really early," said Ron.
Harry rolled his eyes again. Kids were exhausting. "Okay, Early-Bird, question of the day: are you sorry you asked? Because most of my dreams aren't exactly sanity-friendly topics."
"No," Ron replied unrepentantly. "But now I know. And now I know what to expect." He blinked. "The dementors tried to eat you?"
Harry nearly smiled. "Close enough."
The other boy stood and held out a hand. Harry grabbed it and pulled himself up onto shaking legs. He turned to the sink on and stuck his head under the faucet. The shock of the chill water was enough to dispel the last remnants of the dream. The face in the mirror showed dark circles over carefully Glamoured baby-fat. Paired with his large, wearied green eyes, Harry truly looked the part of the abandoned war-orphan.
He grimaced and snagged a towel off the rack to dry his hair. "I feel like shit."
"Look the part, too," Ron said bluntly. "You're really lucky the dorm showers have silencing charms on them otherwise you'd have everyone in here."
Harry dropped the towel in a heap at the base of the sink and glowered at Ron's reflection. "If you ever tell anyone what happened here, I will string your innards up around Gryffindor Tower like Christmas lights."
"That was creative." Ron grinned. "I take it you're feeling better?"
"I'll live," he replied simply, turning the light off as he followed Ron out the door.
Albus Dumbledore sat up late into the night in his office listening to the chiming of his clocks. Silver light danced over the ceiling. The image of Harry, shivering and gibbering nonsense, wide eyes white around the edges with fear and covered liberally in thick, black blood contrasted harshly with Arabella Figg's recovered memories of the disturbance at Privet Drive.
It didn't fit.
This summer may not have tried Albus' skills as a wizard, but it had certainly taxed the limits of his patience. Not since the last war had so many things fallen apart in such a short period of time.
He'd found very little regarding Hadrian Sharr. Other than Martin's well-scavenged information, it seemed as if Hadrian didn't even exist. The man was a veritable ghost in the system.
Artimis was an exceedingly clever man. Tom Riddle, on his good days, could only aspire to be half as canny as his predecessor. If Artimis had hidden his family, one could assume that they would be very difficult to find.
When his attempts at finding Hadrian failed, Albus had tried to track down Harry. Underage Magic hadn't turned up anything and Albus could only trace Harry's wand through Hogwarts' student registry, not the boy himself. And still...
Nothing.
Not even a blip.
Albus sighed and stirred the pensieve in front of him again, wondering if he had missed anything in his initial investigation.
"One day 'e was just different, Mr. Dumbledore," Arabella Figg said, nervously patting her hair. She had a funny habit of cutting off the H in her pronunciation of "he" or "him" when she was upset.
"What do you mean by different?" he inquired. "In personality or...?" He turned his hand upward in question.
"Ah, 'e was... bigger, stronger...darker." She licked her lips and leaned forward, eyes darting around her before continuing. "Moved differently, you know. Like 'e was made outta steel, real mean, you know. Like 'e was ah, uh..."
Albus nodded, the sinking feeling in his stomach proving true. "Like a predator," he finished.
"Yes," she said nodding enthusiastically. "Like rolling - stalking. Like Mr. Tibbles when 'e's hunting."
Albus' Legilimency caught a flash of a white cat, belly low to the ground, eyes intent and locked forward, flowing like liquid mercury through the grass. Another quick flash of memory and Albus caught the image of a tall youth dressed in snug, worn Muggle clothing, dark hair gleaming blue-black under the street-lights, body moving with the self-same fluid ease as the cat.
"I see," said Albus. "When did he disappear?"
Arabella raised her bony shoulders in a shrug. "Not more than about two weeks after 'e first got here. And after all that hullabaloo the night before."
"What did you see that night, Arabella?" he asked her gently.
"Nothing," she replied. "The car blew up and then there were lights in the alleyway. The whole thing couldn't have been more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes long. Just saw 'im the next morning after wandering through the wreckage. That Aunt of his yelled at him, pointed at him and then the Muggle authorities were running after 'im."
"Did they catch him?" Albus asked alarmed.
She shook her head. "Oh no, 'e was too fast. Just disappeared and that was it."
Albus frowned. "Dissapparated?"
"No." She shook her head again, wispy grey curls flying everywhere. "Just gone."
That much was true. There was no record of any Apparations or Disapparations into the area except by the DoM operative team.
Arabella started to open her mouth, but stopped, looking over her shoulder on a subconscious reflex. She was so scared of Harry she couldn't even say his name. Arabella Figg may have been a squib, but she knew well the power of invoking names.
Unease churned within Albus again. "Arabella, are you all right?" It seemed like he'd been asking that question often as of late.
She turned slightly in her seat so she could keep one eye on the door and one on Albus. "Before 'e ran, 'e grabbed her. Tightly. Dragged her to him."
"Petunia?" Albus asked, taken back by the description of Harry's aggressive behaviour. That didn't sound like him - not with what he remembered of his actions during his second year. "Was she hurt?"
"Not that I could tell. But 'e..." She stopped, hands twitching, then forced herself to say the pronoun clearly. "He scared her. He scared her real bad. Not worried-scared, but terrified. He whispered something to her and that's when the wards fell. Then he ran and that's it. All of it. He couldn't have been at Number 4 for more than a few days total. I haven't seen him since."
When the wards fell... The only way for the wards to fail was for Harry to knowingly declare Privet Drive to no longer be home. That action sealed it. Harry Potter was more than a little bit involved in the Privet Drive disturbance. And probably had helped orchestrate the event. He'd needed no nudging from his new-found relative.
With eight DoM agents dead and the knowledge that Harry had...
Had what exactly? Helped kill them? Maybe. Not likely, but... The chances were not in his favour.
'Oh Harry. Were you so affected by Tom's words of power in the Chamber?'
It didn't fit. Not with what Albus knew of Harry's nature and his sense of right and wrong.
But when Albus inspected the compartment where Harry had allegedly killed the dementors, he was nearly bowled over by the feeling of dark magic. He hadn't felt such dark power since Artimis had come unhinged. To make no mention of the sheer stench of it wafting off Harry himself.
Truly, he was Artimis' progeny.
Put together with all of that, it did make sense. Frightful, horrific sense. It provoked a disquieting comparison between Tom Riddle's disappearance and subsequent changes and Harry's disappearance and return.
Against his greatest wishes, Albus Dumbledore was beginning to regard Harry as a growing threat.
In all of his long years, he'd never felt more a failure than now.
There would be no rest for him tonight.
Dreams were a strange and fickle thing. For some, they were an assimilation of the day’s events, a key to understand troubling occurrences in their past or even just a night off for the subconscious to go wild. Harry was more inclined to believe that his dreams were a psychic garbage dump for his brain. Or, at least that helped explain the weird shit that kept popping up in his mind.
Something was jabbing him repeatedly in his side. Harry grumbled at the disturbance. It stopped. For a moment. Then it prodded his ribs and he rolled over, twitching the covers over his head.
Muffled snickers.
And then it started up again.
Harry blearily peeled his eyelids open and caught a flash of brilliant red hair and the eyes of all his dorm mates clustered around his bed. Some asshole had opened his hangings already.
He muttered something unfavourable about freckle-faced jerk-offs disturbing his rest and let sleep drag him back under.
Someone poked him in the side again.
“Ron," Harry growled irritably, voice half-muffled by his pillow. "I will give you five seconds to stop that before you have to explain to Madam Pomfrey how your hand got that far up your ass.”
A round of laughter went around the room.
"Yep, he's awake," Ron announced from somewhere near the level of Harry's face. "Might want to get moving before you miss breakfast."
Harry launched his spare pillow in Ron's direction.
The Great Hall went silent when Harry entered. Not a hushed silence punctuated with bouts of flurried whispering, but a hear-a-fucking-pin-drop silence.
Well, damn. Next time he needed everyone's attention he'd just kill something then.
Harry shuffled down the row of tables, acutely aware of every eye in the building and most especially the teachers, who watched him with a wary note in their expressions. Whether it was for them or himself he didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
"Hey Harry! Over here," came the welcome sound of Oliver's voice from the middle of Gryffindor table.
Harry nodded to him as he wedged his frame onto the bench without elbowing anyone. For some reason he remembered these benches to be much more... roomier. Of course, it could be because Harry hadn't originally gained most of his bulk until after he was eighteen. Things were moving faster this time and it wasn't just the events happening here. He settled into the middle of Wood's entourage and five different pairs of hands reached out to fill his plate.
Harry blinked.
"Er, wow," he said, somewhat bewildered by the overabundance of helpfulness. "I'd say thanks for the five-star service if I didn't know one of those pairs of hands belonged to Fred. Or George. I'm not picky who I blame it on."
Fred grinned. "You don't trust us, old chap? That hurts, Harry, really."
Harry eyed his plate dubiously and poked at his eggs with a fork. "No Canary Cremés?" he asked, glancing up at the twins.
"No Canary Cremés," George agreed, a brief smile flickering across his face.
It was unnerving to contemplate eating in front of all that staring. But Oliver was making a valiant effort to pretend everything was normal, so he had to give him credit where credit was due.
"Why not?" Harry muttered and took a bite. If the brown-haired girl on his left hiding a smirk hadn't given it away then the tingle of magic running up his scalp certainly would. Harry pretended it hadn't happened when he saw Lorraine's slight smile. He knew her too well not to know that she was struggling not to laugh.
The twins had broken the stranglehold of silence. Muted laughter fluttered through the air, sound gradually swelling back into the Great Hall. Conversation resumed itself around him and Harry was grateful for the redirection of their attention. Even if they were still talking about him, at least they weren't eyeballing him like he was about to go berserker on them.
"So where did everyone go?" Harry asked, noting that most of the third years were absent.
Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Your first class is due to start in 7 minutes. And since you're taking Divination, I suggest you get a move on it."
"It's clear across the other side of the castle," said Dom, another seventh year and close friend of Oliver's. Funny how many people he'd forgotten from school. "And in the North Tower, mind you."
Harry shook his head. "I'm not too worried. I know a couple of short-cuts that'll get me to the North Tower faster than they will."
"You sure about that -" began Oliver.
"Damn sure, Ollie," Harry replied, pointing his fork threateningly at him.
The girl beside him laughed. "Merlin, Harry!"
Harry made a face and hunched further in his seat. "What now?"
She smiled at him, pushing a short brown lock of hair out of her face. "Listen to the pipes on you."
He sucked on his lower lip before releasing it with a pop. "Okay," Harry said, turning to her. "First you make fun of my height, then you make fun of my voice -"
"I'm not making fun of you!" she exclaimed indignantly, smile still edging around the corners of her mouth. Which was a very nice mouth to look at.
'Jailbait, you asshole! What part of jailbait didn't you understand!?'
When this was over, Harry was putting his dick in time-out. "Yes, you are," he replied, unable to keep from smiling back.
"He's flirting with you," Lorraine said in a sing-song tone over the top of her goblet, the bright shine in her eyes betraying her amusement. It took all of his restraint not to reach out and touch her, follow the long line of her neck with his mouth, to see if her skin still tasted the same. Still laughed the same. God, he wanted her.
Harry's lips curled into a soft smile. "Am not," he murmured, turning back to his plate. Danielle, that was the girl's name. He felt bad that he couldn't remember it earlier.
Dom smirked at him. "Going after older women, are we?"
Harry opened his mouth then closed it with a click. "There's no way I'm going to be able to answer that without embarrassing myself, is there?" he said finally.
"Nope," George replied.
"Not likely," agreed his twin.
Harry nodded. "Right then."
"Harry."
He glanced up at Oliver. The Quidditch captain looked genuinely concerned and Harry wondered how he could have missed this last time around. Oliver truly cared about the younger years in a way that most of the older students didn't. McGonagall should have given him the Head Boy badge instead of Percy. And maybe she had offered.
"Are you all right?" asked Oliver. "You scared us a bit last night."
Harry was beginning to understand why Hermione rolled her eyes all the time. "I'm fine, Ollie. I spent two and a half hours last night in the Hospital Wing with Madam Pomfrey poking me in every orifice imaginable." He leaned over the table. "I swear, the next time someone asks me if I'm okay, I'm gonna shove a spoon up their -"
"All right!" Oliver said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Spare me the details, please."
Harry settled back in his seat. "Actually, I'd really like it if this whole thing would just die down already. I mean, I'm fine. Everyone else is fine. It's fine. No big deal."
Oliver laughed. "You're going to have a tough time convincing people of that. You did give them something pretty juicy to gossip about."
"More gushy than juicy," Harry replied blithely, mouth on autopilot.
Oliver stared uncomprehendingly at him. Come to think of it, he looked a little green too.
"Well, what was I supposed to do?" Harry said to Oliver, who still hadn't moved. "Lie back and think of England?"
There was a small moment of silence at the table in which Harry desperately regretted opening his mouth.
Finally Lorraine smiled and patted Harry on the arm. "Give us some time, Harry. We need to, ah... process things a bit first. You're doing well, though, yes?"
Harry nodded. "I'm okay. Maybe not in the most traditional sense, but..."
Her smile widened into a full-fledged grin. "Gotcha. I'll see if I can't get the others off your back."
It took a lot not to start blubbering tears and apologies to her. 'Oh fuck it all. I apparently have the emotional stability of a thirteen-year-old girl. How fitting.'
"Thank you, I appreciate it." He glanced over his shoulder at the presence behind him. "Hello, Professor McGonagall," Harry replied, giving her an angelic smile. For a woman her age, she was surprisingly skilled at sneaking up on a person.
"Mr. Potter, " she said adroitly. McGonagall handed him his course schedule. "I advise you to pay close attention to when your classes begin," she said raising an eyebrow at him, black hair drawn back in her customary bun.
He bobbed his head in agreement. She never failed to make him feel like a young schoolboy again. "Yes, Professor."
Her expression never flickered. "And Mr. Potter, If I might make a recommendation?"
"Professor?"
A glint of amusement in her sharp grey eyes. "Fuchsia is not one of your better colours."
His hand instinctively shot to his head.
Pink hair. Damn Weasleys. 'Slap on a pair of boobs and call me Tonks.'
"I'll keep that in mind, Professor, thank you, " he replied, borrowing some of her composure.
Her mouth twitched into what might have been a smile and she continued on down the aisle to a group of boisterous fifth years. They looked suspiciously like the same idiots who tripped him on the train.
"I think that was my cue to leave," said Harry as he heaved himself off the bench. "Hey Ollie, got a question for you."
Oliver pulled himself out of his stupor. "Yeah, what?"
"Why did you turn down being Head Boy?"
The Quidditch captain inhaled sharply and choked on his spit. "How...?
Harry frowned. "You shouldn't have. You would have been a lot better at it than that prick," he said, gesturing at Percy who was sitting with his girlfriend and a few other Ravenclaws.
Oliver's eyes were wide and startled. "Jesus, Harry! How did you know?"
"Because Percy isn't anyone's first choice," he replied sardonically as he walked off.
The dimensions of the landing to the Divination classroom were small enough that all of the Gryffindor third years couldn't fit on it at the same time.
It was entertaining to watch them try though. Ron and Seamus started a small scuffle that resulted in Ron on his ass three steps down from the landing.
"Harry!" he said brightly from where he was sprawled at Harry feet. "Why's your hair pink?"
Seamus' laughter quickly cut off as the rest of the students whirled around to stare at him. Ron had obviously shared the little story Harry had improvised for him. It was a question of which was worse: pity or fear?
"I felt like a change was in order," Harry replied, ignoring the other children. He grabbed Ron's arm and hauled him to his feet. "McGonagall has already voted nay, but the twins said it looked great. What do you think?"
"Uh..." Ron trailed off. He looked from Harry to the rest of the students and back again.
A thick cloud of silence hung over the landing.
'Did I accidentally wander into a remake of Children of the Corn?' Harry glanced around. "As flattering as the stares are, they are also really creepy," he announced.
Seamus flushed uncomfortably. "Sorry. You er... seem okay compared to last night; I didn't see you get back to Gryffindor Tower last night."
"Madam Pomfrey kept me back for a bit," said Harry. "She had me so drugged up on calming potions I'm surprised I wasn't drooling on myself."
Lavender scrunched up her face in an expression of disgust. "How did you get rid of all that blood?"
This was awkward. How the Hell did he get through six years with these people with out tossing them out the nearest window?
"Soap and water works wonders," he replied dryly.
He was saved from answering more ridiculous questions by the trapdoor opening and a ribbon festooned ladder falling from the hole.
Harry didn't remember his interactions with his peers to be this strained. But then again, they weren't his peers. Not any more. The thoughts of Harry the soldier crept all too easily into the thoughts of Harry the student. He'd thought he was a better actor than this, he mused as he followed Ron up the ladder.
And yet...
Children could sense things. Children could sense things where others fumbled blindly in the dark. Their hyperactive imaginations hadn't been trained to ignore the things that went bump in the night, their instincts benumbed by social grooming. There was something there that opened them up to extrasensory information; something in the hind-brain that told them when to run, when to hide. Whatever it was, they knew he wasn't right. Wasn't one of them.
He glanced over at where Hermione had manifested on the landing. Not her most subtle entrance with a timeturner that he'd seen, but she was new at it – she would learn.
Hermione wrinkled her nose in distaste when she took in the chintz armchairs, small round tables adorned with crystal balls, dusty shelves full of tarot cards, teacups, and funny antiques that chirped and whirred without any visible magical stimuli. Tiny flickering stumps of candles glimmered in small, fabric shrouded alcoves; the billowing scarves fluttered in a complete lack of moving air giving Harry the impression that the room itself was breathing and the students inside were trapped in it's hungry red gullet.
Almost nothing remained of the original classroom. Strings of artfully draped crystals dripped from the ceiling, looking like thousands of little beady eyes blinking in the firelight.
If Trelawney was going for weird, she'd gotten it. In spades. Harry had seen horror movies with less creepy sets than this.
"This... is a classroom?" said Hermione despairingly.
Harry sniffed the air and grinned as he joined Ron at one of the tables. Now he knew why Trelawney burned so much incense. "I smell pot," he announced thoughtfully. Opium, too, for that matter.
Medical supplies during the last three years of the war had been increasingly scarce. Often times when Poppy had to pick shrapnel out of Harry or one of the veterans, she'd given them a couple of hits from the hookah and settled down to work once they were appropriately dazed. Primitive anaesthetics it may have been, but it worked. He didn't blame Poppy for not wanting to operate on someone like him without being properly knocked out. PTSD was a bitch to work around.
Seamus laughed. "In that case, I think I'll enjoy this class. "
Dean Thomas rolled his eyes. "You said that about potions until you realized we weren't actually going to brew beer."
"Tomato, tomahto" the Irishman said dismissively.
Parvati twisted in her seat at the front of the class to give Harry a dubious look. "Why do you even know what pot smells like anyway?"
"Yes Harry," said Hermione, a mischievous note entering her voice. "How do you know what it smells like?"
Harry grinned at her. "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."
"How often does that line actually work for you?" Hermione asked dryly.
"More than it should," he replied truthfully. "Less than I want it to."
She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the shoulder with a rolled-up bit of parchment, an exasperated smile stretching across her face.
There was a rattle of many metal bracelets clanking together and their great, gauzy dragonfly of a professor emerged into the firelight.
"Greetings, my children," she said in a faint, airy voice. "And welcome to Divination." Trelawney spread her arms wide to encompass them, her glittering shawl looking like sparkly insect wings. Her smile was slack, drooping at one side like it was ready to slide right off her face and land on the floor next to her pile of crystal balls. Her eyes were glazed and vacant, pleasantly displaced like she'd taken one too many puffs at the toke.
Hermione must have shared his sentiments because she murmured darkly into her hastily propped-up Divination text, "This ought to be fun."
Ron leaned over to Harry. "Speaking of so stoned you're drooling on yourself."
Harry nodded. "We have an escapee from the loon commune." Good to know Trelawney hadn't changed.
Hermione let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Two tables in front of them, Parvati turned in her seat to glare at her.
Trelawney drifted over to the enormous winged armchair in front of the fireplace, gauzy robes floating around her thin frame. "I am Professor Trelawney," she said as she adjusted her glasses. She rambled on into a lengthy dialogue about the wonders of the Sight and Harry was greatly entertained by Hermione's souring expression.
"No books will help me if I don't have the Gift?" Hermione hissed vehemently. "No books? What a ridiculous teaching method. She could at least teach theory even if the student doesn't have talent."
He tried not to smile. "Calm down, Hermione. She's not worth getting excited over."
Hermione made a sound like steam escaping from a tea kettle.
"I think all this smoke is clouding my Inner Eye," Ron muttered.
"Feeling hungry, Ronald?" Hermione snipped under her breath.
Lavender turned and hissed at them. Harry got the impression that Hermione wasn't too fond of her dorm mates and that feeling was mutual. He didn't remember her having many female friends.
"- and we will be studying the basics of Divining this year. This term we will cover the reading of tea leaves and afterwards, palmistry. By the way, dear girl," Trelawney said to Lavender suddenly. "Have care when playing with fire."
Lavender's eyes widened and she nodded her head vigorously. She would grow into a very beautiful woman, but she would never have much in the way of brains. Pity, he always hated it when good looks were wasted on a vapid cow like that one.
"After palmistry," Trelawney carried on. "We will progress to the crystal ball and then, hopefully to tarot cards. We will not be studying augury until your fourth year. Our classes together will unfortunately be interrupted by a bout of food poisoning in March and -"
Harry tried valiantly not to fall asleep.
Ron peered thoughtfully into Harry's cup. "You know, I don't see how we're supposed to see anything other than soggy tea leaves."
"Just think of cloud watching on a sunny day," Hermione replied dully.
Harry looked up at Hermione and tilted her cup towards her. "I predict that this class will be a source of great disappointment and boredom to you."
She gave him a crooked smile. "I predict that this class will be the butt of many jokes," Hermione rejoined, setting Ron's cup down with a clank on the table.
"See, you're psychic already," Harry replied as he watched Ron turn his teacup round and round in his hand, a pensive frown marring his expression.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Found anything useful yet?" he asked. "Like maybe the answers to McGonagall's next test?"
Hermione gave a very unladylike snort. "Would that you could be so lucky."
"Hey, I'll take all the help I can get," he said with a grin. He waved a hand in front of his friend's face. "Ron? Did we lose you in there?"
The red-haired boy was silent. Harry shared a look with Hermione.
"Ron?" she asked.
"Ron wears women's underwear," Harry dead-panned. At the table next to them, Seamus spit out a mouthful of hot tea across his copy of Unfogging the Future to Dean Thomas' amusement and Parvati's disgust.
"It looks like dogs," Ron said finally. "No matter which way I turn it, it looks like dogs. Dogs jumping over one another like those never-ending knots."
"Celtic knots? Really? That's unusual." Hermione flipped open her copy of Unfogging the Future and ran a finger down the page. "Dogs symbolize loyalty. Deep, abiding, and steadfast devotion," she announced. "Especially in the face of peril and chaos." She looked up at Harry, meeting him eye to eye. "I'd believe that, Harry. You do inspire great loyalty in people," Hermione said candidly.
The sound of a train whistle screamed in his ears.
Against the wailing and tears of the crowd, eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger was a spot of calm acceptance in a sea of chaos. Curls damp from the rain, eyes deep and sad, she seemed quietly angelic, wise and humble.
None of the milling Aurors dare lay their hands on her, not as long as Harry stood there.
She hadn't run when he told her to, hadn't hidden where Harry showed her to go. She stood up for the Muggleborns, publicly disagreed with Scrimgeour's power-crazed policies, and calmly submitted to her subsequent arrest.
Harry held out his hand and helped her into the train car packed full of faceless Muggleborns like cattle to a slaughter, bony hands and arms poking out from the slats, grasping desperately at thin air.
“It will be okay,”she said.
I love you. I trust you. I know you will rescue me, Harry read in those words. He didn't know who she was trying to convince because he certainly didn't believe it.
The whistle blew again and the hulking metal beast began to move. They were taking her away and the only thing he could do was stand there. Guilt took flight in his chest like a razor-feathered bird.
He stood there like a lump on a fucking log, property of the Ministry of Magic stamped all over his ass like it was a justifiable reason for his inability to save her. His hands were chained to the shackles of bureaucracy, his soul bought and paid for, and here she was absolving his guilt from the very people prosecuting her, when the truth of the matter was that it was Harry who had arrested her, Harry who had brought her in for questioning, and Harry who had prosecuted her; she was guilty without ever seeing the hope of a trial. The irony was fucking hysterical.
They made him do it. They told him: which was more valuable? An outspoken Muggleborn of middling power or himself? And God, of all the selfish things to do, he'd picked himself. Told himself that he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. Told himself that she was strong. Told himself that she would be okay. Told himself that he'd come for her, save her, like there wasn't an ever-tightening noose around his neck of his own making.
Harry didn't know who was full of more shit: Scrimgeour for writing the bill or himself for believing he could fix things.
Ron stood beside him on the platform shouting and gesturing madly, struggling against the blockades they suddenly found themselves up against. The red robed forms of the Aurors that stood between them and the rails held up their hands apologetically, saying, “You must stay back. You are not authorized to pass through here. Aurors only after this line.”
The train began to accelerate. Hermione's calm, dark eyes met his own for the last time. And then the wind shifted and steam rolled over the crowd and Harry lost sight of her.
He felt like he was swimming underwater; the people around him were shouting, jostling him and he couldn't hear them, couldn't feel them. Ron's warm hand fell on his shoulder and a sudden roar of rage sang in Harry's blood.
He'd permanently crippled three Aurors that day and injured thirteen more. All without the use of magic. Their spells slid off of him like water. Somehow, Ron managed to knock him out and take him home before anyone could retaliate.
Hermione perished months before Harry found out where they were holding her. He hadn't been able to save her.
“Harry?” A small hand landed on his forearm.
He looked up from his contemplation of the tabletop into Hermione's worried face. “Too much,” he rasped. “Too much loyalty for what I am worth.”
“You're not making any sense,” she said with a frown, eyes searching his own, grasping firmly at the loose folds of his robes.
“I'm sorry,” he replied, knowing he was apologizing to her older self and knowing it was far too late.
Compassion melted her frown and for a moment, she looked so much like her older self that it left him reeling. “It's okay, Harry.” Hermione shook the hand holding his sleeve. “It's going to be okay.”
Here was another person who took a part of him with her when she died. If Lorraine took the second part, Hermione had taken the first.
“I hope you're right,” he murmured, laying a hand over hers on his arm.
'I hope like hell you're right. Because you're not going to like what's coming if you're not.'
No-one else noticed while Harry took a ride down the Sanity Slip 'n Slide. Their conversation must have been to quiet, too brief, because Ron was still enamoured with the dogs in Harry's cup. No-one paid them any undue attention.
Good. He wasn't a big fan of public breakdowns.
“Broaden your minds, children! Let the world fade away,” Trelawney cried into the heavy clouds of incense hanging over the classroom. She swooped down on Ron. “Dear boy, what have you found?” she said, snatching the cup from Ron's grasp.
“Dogs,” Ron replied somewhat bewilderedly. Trelawney wasn't a very stable person; one moment she would be all airy smiles and vague declarations of the future, the next, all overly dramatic doom and gloom. It was a little exhausting to be around.
“Lots and lots of dogs,” Ron continued. “Like big, dark wolfdogs, you know.”
The cup vibrated in her hands.
This one held darkness, practically throbbed with its own energy. The cup radiated a fey, brooding presence that dripped with hostility. It was hungry, and its cry beat like a rook's wings inside her skull, feathers as black as night.
Trelawney's hands trembled.
The cup looked normal, a crack running through the middle of the cheaply glazed porcelain, sticky tea leaves clinging to its sides. There was nothing in the lees of the cup to suggest...
Wait.
Light flickered over the rim of the cup. Something in the lees began to hint at the shape of a paw, the gleam of large teeth in a thin muzzle, the flex of muscle under a thick coat of fur. The boy was right. Dogs, lots of dogs. Dogs in the residue of the tea. Dogs running. Dogs leaping. Dogs pouncing. Dogs slinking low to the ground, their bellies concave, their ribs skeletal, thick ruffs of fur standing up like spikes along the bony ridge of their spines.
Grims, lean hungry creatures gathered together by the hundreds. It was enough to make her suck in a breath to shout out in terror, the sound escaping whisper-soft like a sigh.
There was another who slunk in and out of his leapfrogging companions. His shadow fluttered along the edges of her vision, the matte black of his fur and the yellow shine of his teeth flickering in and out of view amongst the rough-housing Grims. He was a large hound, obscenely muscled where his companions were lean. He was most likely a stray. He had the look of one. His coat was matted with mud and brambles and he was liberally battle-scared with long crusty lines bisecting the coarse fur.
The dog was slowly starting to face her, its shadow darting through the other's legs. They were moving faster now, frantically, no longer playing but running, pale eyes rolling white with fear in their bony skulls. As if they were suddenly discovering the interloper amongst them, the one who smelled sick and wrong, the true monster in the midst of wolves.
She could see the white speckles on its heavy muzzle, lips wrinkled and beginning to peel back. She could see the dark shine in its blood-coloured eye, the other white and blind, hungry and hateful.
Trelawney turned the cup. The Grims tumbled over one another, faster and faster, spit flying in the air from phantom howls, tails curled between their legs. Lightning quick, the stray struck, tearing one of its companions' throat out, a spray of arterial blood misting the air, the Grim nothing more than raw meat now, and the stray vanished again.
She could feel it watching her, crouching low, hungry and malevolent, eyes murderous, instincts sharp and vicious.
The dogs tumbled over themselves, forever running in circles along the circumference of the cup. They sprinted faster, baying pitifully, running away from the homicidal spark in the cur's eyes. It was snarling now, a low, ugly buzz-rumble that vibrated up her arms and rattled her teeth. Her hands clenched uselessly around the steaming edges of the cup.
A glob of hot saliva dripped from the cur's jaws, lips fully peeled back from a set of fangs that couldn't possibly fit in the brute's head. It had coiled as low to the ground as it could go now, thick muscles bunched tight and trembling with rage.
It knew her.
It knew her and it wanted her dead.
'It's coming.'
It faced her fully now, steam rising from its nostrils, malevolent spark glowing bright in its single red eye, the other a pale milky disk weeping thick, yellow pus. Its jaws were beginning to open, crooked sawblades spilling from the brute's yawning mouth.
It would pounce, spring at her belly, bury those ugly, urine yellow teeth into her abdomen and tear her open.
She whimpered.
The cur went crazy at the sound of her voice.
It jumped.
Trelawney screamed and flung the cup away from her. It hit the opposite wall hard enough to shatter in a fine spray of white china. She turned and ran for the trapdoor, stumbling over one of the fat beanbag chairs and landing on her hands and knees. Babbling with fear, she scuttled over to the trapdoors like some spindly, oversized spider and she nearly fell down the ladder in her haste to flee.
The trapdoor swung shut, trapping one of her gauzy shawls in its grasp. The class listened to her screams echo and fade in utter stillness.
'What the hell?'
Harry set Hermione's cup down on the table from where it had been frozen in his grasp. The resulting clack turned every eye in the classroom.
“Er... Outlook not so good, I guess,” he said to the stupefied gazes of his year mates. He was definitely dropping this class the next chance he got.
“What did you do to her?” breathed Lavender, blue eyes wide as saucers. “Why... what...”
Harry frowned as he studied the shards of his teacup. For a moment, a flat dark shadow hovered among the pieces then vanished. “I don't know,” Harry replied.
'But I'm going to make a vague assumption that what she saw wasn't very pretty.'
Albus was startled from his conversation with Augusta Longbottom by the door to his office bouncing off the wall.
“Hellhounds!” Trelawney wailed, eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.
“One moment please,” he murmured to the Longbottom Matron as he rose from his desk.
Augusta sniffed imperiously as she got up from her chair. “That's quite all right, Albus,” said Neville's dictorial grandmother. “It seems that dementors are the least of your problems.”
As if she could insinuate any further how unsafe Hogwarts was for her grandson. To be fair, the lady did have a point. For Neville's first year it was a broken arm for the boy and an agent of Voldemort infiltrating the school. His second year featured petrified students and a basilisk on the loose. Now it seemed that his third year was shaping up to be dementors and escaped convicts. The record was not looking good.
“If we could continue this conversation at a later date,” Albus began, wanting to start bringing together the Order in response to the threat of Hadrian Sharr. “I would very much like to hear the rest of your concerns.”
“Good day, Albus,” Augusta replied, drifting regally out of his office.
Trelawney had tried to stuff herself into the smallest corner of his office she could find, her eyes glazed with fright.
“Dear Sybill,” Dumbledore exclaimed softly as he led her to a chair. “What has disturbed you so?”
Lunch had come and gone along with Draco's first class of the year. The Slytherins had a free period that afternoon and Draco intended to spend it studying for Snape's next class. Thankfully most of his godfather's attention would be taken up by the Gryffindors; a good number of the brews listed in his textbook were completely unfamiliar to Draco.
The common room was unusually noisy, conversation revolving around Potter's first appearance in the Great Hall since the dementor attack. Draco shuddered. He hadn't managed to shake that feeling of cold dread, hadn't felt safe since watching the dementor's black robe drift past him in the train's corridor. He was quite aware of how closely oblivion had walked by him last night.
“Hey Malfoy!”
Draco looked up from his comfortable spot in the corner of the common room. No one claimed this armchair because of how far away from the fire it was, but there was ample light from the small table lamp and Draco was accustomed to less than ideal temperatures. The Manor was much chillier than the Slytherin common room.
It was Bletchley who had called his name. Draco tended to stay away from Miles and his group of friends mostly because of how strange they were. Not just slightly odd like Lovegood, but psychotic strange. He had come across them torturing the first years cats in loo his second year. After that, he gave them a wide berth.
Bletchley continued when he saw that he had Draco's attention. “You saw Potter after he killed the dementors.”
Draco nodded curtly. The eyes of everyone in the common room were focused on him. He was curiously uncomfortable with the attention – nothing like how he usually felt. He did not revel in it, he just wanted it diverted elsewhere considering the subject matter.
“What was he like?” asked Bletchley.
Normally Draco would take this time to lord his answer over the older boy, something he didn't often have the opportunity to do. But this time...
What had Potter been like?
He finally had the attention of the entire common room and the only thing he wanted to do was hide. Draco closed the textbook on one finger and rubbed at the pulsing pain by his left eye. He'd spent an entirely sleepless night tossing and turning in sweat-soaked sheets. He knew Madam Pomfrey kept headache remedies on hand, but it was a matter of pride for him.
“Calm,” he said slowly into the silence, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
'Keep it to yourself,' his father's voice chanted in his ear. He should. There was no need for anyone else to know what happened in the compartment after the dementor attack. But... Why? What if someone set Potter off? Shouldn't they know what he was capable of?
“Very calm,” Draco continued. “Not shocked or stunned. He was in control... with none of those silly theatrics he put on for you.” He chewed on his lip, a horrible habit his mother struggled to break him of. “He knew what he was doing,” said Draco, unconsciously nodding his head in agreement. It was true, Potter had seemed like an entirely different person. The duality of his personality was unsettling.
He looked down at the fading gilt-edged pages of Snape's old potions textbook. “He asked if I was hurt,” Draco said softly.
'Or at least I think he did.'
“And then he asked if anyone else was hurt and he told me to go look. So I did.”
Bletchley lip curled. “You obeyed him?”
Soft mocking laughter floated around the common room.
Draco's father had also told him that nothing was won without a gamble. He stared Bletchley down and Draco knew his eyes were burning with the memories of the attack. He wanted to laugh because the older Slytherin didn't see it, didn't see what was right under his nose, and Draco did.
'He's playing you, Potter's playing all of you for the fool,' Draco thought fiercely. 'And nobody else can see it.'
“He had dementor's blood smeared from head to toe,” Draco murmured. It wasn't his father's elegant drawl, but it captured the attention of those around him better than his emulations of his father ever had. In their eyes he had changed from the privileged snob into a poisonous snake. It felt right, like he hadn't noticed how ill-fitting the other persona was until he'd tried this one on for size.
“And a gleam in his eye that said he was more than a little comfortable with that.” Draco smiled. Not the thin, closed mouth smile of his father, but a snake's smile, a quick razor-sharp flash of white teeth. “Forgive me if I wasn't going to argue semantics with him.”
The soft laughter of the common room was on his side now. Bletchley's eyes flared with hate and Draco felt an answering thrill in his belly.
He knew he was playing with fire.
But maybe, just maybe his gamble would pay off.
'All right, Potter. I'm throwing in with you for now. Don't you dare let me down.'
There was a great snowy owl perched on the back of Shorner's chair, flaunting its wingspan as it waited. How the bird had gotten into his office was a mystery to him – the DoM was located six floors underground.
Shorner reached out to untie the letter. The owl eyed him balefully, but held still as he removed the letter from its leg before vanishing in mid-air.
It was from Harry. There was no name on the outside of the letter, no insignia on the wax seal, but it vibrated with the same resonance as the air around his wayward operative. Shorner broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Archie, it read.
By now I'm sure you've heard of the incident with the dementors on the Hogwarts Express. Call me paranoid, but I don't believe that they were sent by the Ministry – not in those numbers. Officially, I'm sure they're probably saying that five or six dementors boarded the train in pursuit of Sirius Black, but Archie, there had to be at least a hundred by my count. The Ministry, for its shortcomings, would never knowingly risk children like that.
I have reason to believe that the dementors were sent after me deliberately with no care for collateral damages.
My position here has been compromised. I'm going to have to play this one by ear. Too many people know of my identity as Hadrian Sharr. I can only hope that this doesn't end with me initiating a new bodycount.
Be careful. If they know about me, they know about you. They may come after you next.
Harry hadn't bothered to sign it. The letter shrivelled into dust in his hands and dispersed in the air.
It was enough to start turning the wheels of Shorner's mind. How had Harry's identity gotten out? It wasn't himself. He hadn't told a damn soul. Then who?
Who would...
Blackwood.
But why would Connor have said anything? What did he stand to gain from Harry's death?
Shorner shuddered and hurriedly finished packing up for the day. He slung the last of the files he needed into his leather knapsack, exchanging his robes for a simple corduroy jacket, and headed out of his office. Locking the door with a flick of his wrist, Shorner set off down the hallway.
Loud voices were raised ahead of him. One of the junior liaisons had broken a box of crystal inkwells used in writing secure notices. He was being severely berated by his supervisor, her hairpins flying everywhere in her rant.
Like everyone else on the floor, Connor had come out of his office to watch the spectacle. Shorner pretended to observe the sideshow along with all the other employees, but kept a watch on Blackwood from the corner of his eye. The man leaned against the wall, huge frame seemingly relaxed, but his gaze never left Shorner.
Blackwood's eyes followed him all the way to the lifts and Shorner breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed behind him.
If he had needed confirmation of his suspicions, that was it.
'Damn you Harry. How do you always manage to get me into these situations?'