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Over the Horizon | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-Hogwarts, Post-DH/AB Characters:All Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Romance Warnings: Dark Fiction, Death, Disturbing Imagery, Extreme Language, Sexual Situations, Violence Rating: R Reviews: 88 Summary: Imagine a world where Voldemort had won. Now imagine a post Hogwarts' Battle Harry stumbling into it... One man: Harry Potter. One goal: to survive. One quest: to do the impossible. One word: Power. Hitcount: Story Total: 52657; Chapter Total: 3963 |
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The Forsaken Path of a Lonely Warrior The feeling of warmth is one of the most deceiving sensations a person can know. It can make you feel loved, safe, protected, cosy… but it can also lure you into a false security, butter you up enough until you let your guard down and then strike you with such a force that you won’t be able to rise again. It can create an environment where everything is almost perfect - dream-like, you might even say - until it becomes your undoing, when reality crashes down on you, breaking you from inside out. But feeling warm is what makes us human. However, for a nearly eighteen year-old boy who never knew what it was like until he was eleven, who amidst the warmth could feel nothing but despair and fear, who broke free out of the nightmare that almost engulfed all of his dreams and aspirations, everything was different. But it didn’t matter how he was raised; it didn’t matter if he had been brought up to believe he would be nothing in life, because no-one would ever care for him. None of it was important because none of it was true. He did learn what it was to be hugged by a mother, supported by a friend, worshipped as a hero and kissed by a lover. If only his nightmare would end, Harry Potter would be the happiest man alive. But on the morning at the end of July, Harry Potter didn’t give a damn about anything. He stirred slightly when he felt a ray of sunshine creeping its way towards his face. Stretching obnoxiously, he opened his eyes confusedly, wondering where the blazes he was. Blinking repeatedly as he grabbed his glasses and set them on the bridge of his nose, he glanced around. Oh, he was at Hogwarts, right. Sighing tiredly, he pulled the covers off him, standing up ready to get dressed, wondering how on Merlin’s name he managed to find himself in so much trouble. Yep, he was bloody doomed; there was no other way to describe it. It was completely insane, but, apparently, he was fated to be thrown into insane situations, he only hoped his mind would remain intact after it, although he wouldn’t bet all his money on it. Guess he would have just to cross his fingers and hope everything would turn alright. Harry walked to the nearest window, crossing his arms. Apparently, someone had moved him to his old dormitory and placed him to sleep in his old Hogwarts’ bed. Merlin he missed those days, when Ron and him stayed there and talked about lessons, Quidditch Snape and girls among other things. He couldn’t believe how much time had passed since he first stepped into the room, so many things had happened… A small smile crept upon his lips when he saw Hagrid through the window glass, trying to keep under control another of his monstrous creatures. Scratching his head, he turned around and started looking for some clothes; he didn’t think it’d be a good idea to walk around the castle in his underwear. Although he was positive Ginny wouldn’t mind one single bit, he feared what Professor McGonagall’s reaction might be if she saw him practically nude. A sudden blush came over his face as he wondered who had stripped him to his boxers the previous night. He didn’t know what was worse, Ginny or Hermione doing it or the disturbing picture of Ron undressing. Shaking his head to get rid of the bad mental images, he pulled some trousers on. Knock. Knock. ‘Come in’ he said, pulling up his zipper. Expecting Ron, he turned his back on the door and picked up a white shirt that was lying at the end of his bed. He was very much surprised when a pair of slender arms surrounded him around his bare middle and a head fell over just below his scapula. If it was his best friend, it was most definitely a very un-Ronnish and disturbing thing to do. Looking over his shoulders, he saw that, thankfully, it wasn’t Ron who was hugging him close but Ginny. A small tinge of red appeared on his cheeks at the thought of her closeness. Sure, it was perfectly innocent. But being held like that, the simple intimacy of the gesture was something completely new to Harry; awkward, yes, but comforting and just right in an odd way. ‘Morning handsome. So nice of you to wake up,’ said Ginny behind him, not letting him out of her firm grip. ‘How long have I been out for?’ he asked, putting his own arms around hers unwittingly. ‘Three weeks. How do you feel?’ ‘Weird. It just like when you have something on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember what it was. D’you know what I mean?’ he tried to explain. While he felt Ginny nodding against his bare shoulders, he pondered over his new state of mind. Admittedly, his previous notions of being possessed by that ring were ridiculous; he basically felt the same way: he was still only Harry, not some body harbouring the thoughts of countless wizards who had passed away a long time ago. And yet, there was something unnerving in his brain. It was as if he had some sort of trunk in the back of his head, waiting for him to open it and unravel its contents. The thing is, he didn’t have a key to unlock it. But then again, he had some time to get through it with Dumbledore. He thought that if he went step by step with the new information stored into his mind, he’d be able to learn many new things that he would need in his near future, although he would still need to acquire some books on the Dark Arts, something he was very much unwilling to do. He watched in fascination as Ginny’s hands roamed up and down his chest, wondering when they had taken the steps to get so intimate. Blushing, he was reminded of the night in which they had got drunk and, if his leaky memory served him right, they had definitely crossed that boundary. Of course, it may have just been a wild fantasy of his, but somehow he reckoned it had been very much real. He gulped and tried to wipe off his mind the image of her bare chest. ‘You’ll get through this,’ she said soothingly, kissing briefly his shoulder. Harry sighed in defeat. ‘I only want all this to stop… It’s too surreal, too frightening; and I don’t know if I have the strength to go through it again,’ he whispered sadly. ‘Sometimes I wish I had gone to Stonewall High Institute as my aunt and uncle wanted, lived off as a Muggle…’ Ginny held him tighter. ‘Do you really mean that? You wouldn’t have met Ron or Hermione… You wouldn’t have ever played Quidditch… I would’ve died in the Chamber,’ she said softly, her cheek contacting his back. Harry looked horrified. ‘No — I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that life would’ve been so much easier…’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Probably. But I don’t think you would’ve been very happy with the Dursleys.’ He shook his head. ‘No, you are right. Everything would’ve been so bloody normal, and steady and ordinary… Talk of the devil — where are they? Have they already been taken out from the safehouse?’ He didn’t need to see her face, but he knew a very mischievous glint was currently taking over her eyes and a pixie smile possessing her lips. He shivered at the thought of what could’ve happened to the Dursleys if Ginny was smiling in that way, as if she had just Bat-Bogeyed Malfoy. ‘They are still hiding in a magical safehouse,’ she said. He could swear he could hear her grinning madly at the thought of his only living relatives terrorised by flying teapots and mad-mouthed ghouls. ‘You mean they have no idea that they can get out of hiding?’ he asked, feeling giddy for some unknown reason. She laughed against his skin. ‘Nope. McGonagall convinced Kingsley Shacklebolt to leave them alone until you gave the order to release them. Of course, she didn’t say it exactly like that — something along the lines of “Harry’s their relative, it should be him the one who brings them back, Kingsley”. But we all know McGonagall loves you and that she never agreed with Dumbledore when he placed you on their doorstep,’ she explained. Harry grinned goofily. It wasn’t really some vindictive torture — they hadn’t been placed under the Cruciatus Curse, after all — but it still felt darkly pleasurable that he was getting some payback on the Dursleys, for all those years of starvation, neglect and on the rare occasion, physical abuse. Remembering those days at Privet Drive brought a frown on Harry’s face. Sure, he now knew the truth behind the actions, the jealousy that drove them to despise him just because he was something more wondrous than they could ever imagine being. But it was still wrong. Now, being seventeen and having lived through a war, he could not define himself as innocent; but could a mere four year-old toddler be accused and punished for sins that he was too young to understand? Ginny released him from her ferocious grip and planted herself in front of him, trying to search through his face any emotional gesture that might clue her into his thoughts. She sighed frustrated; there was nothing that could betray his feelings into letting her know what that noble ponce brain of his was up to. She could only shiver at the sight of Harry’s cold demeanour, his eyes not even taking in her presence, his far away expression, going through some mental torture that she was positive he hadn’t dared to share with any of his friends. Rubbing her left eyebrow against her finger in a rather harsh way, she went to pick up a shirt for him. As much as she enjoyed the view, no matter how thin Harry was, it would do them no good if he caught a cold. Unfortunately for her, the only shirt she could find was a simple plain white one on top of his bed. Clicking her tongue distastefully, she handed it to Harry rather forcefully, who just looked at her blankly for a few seconds and then pulled it on over his head, ruffling his bird-nest of a hair even more pronouncedly. She inhaled sharply at his apparent lack of communication. It was one of the things that she disliked most about him, his uneasiness at sharing thoughts with people around him. While he had most certainly stopped being the shy boy she had met at King’s Cross nearly seven years before, he still wasn’t as open as she wished he would be. She supposed there were some things that were just so deeply ingrained in his soul, such heavily marred scars, that no amount of time could ever heal. She sighed. It was going to be a long day. -oOoOoOoOo- C ome three o’clock in the afternoon and Harry was sitting again on a rigid chair at the Headmistress’ office. Wondering briefly whether he had beaten the record of most frequent visitor to the Head’s office, he rubbed his scar with the back of his hand tiredly, hoping to end the meeting and get back to bed as soon as possible. Morning hadn’t been an easy affair. McGonagall had summoned Kingsley, the Weasleys and the rest of the Order to explain the new situation in which Harry was in. Of course, at first there had been nothing but rounds and rounds of disbelief, but as time passed and McGonagall’s and Dumbledore’s voices explained everything, disbelief turned into sadness, and sadness turned into despair. Harry couldn’t blame them, but he certainly didn’t like the sympathetic looks he was receiving from some members of the Order of the Phoenix. True, it didn’t seem quite fair that, after all he had gone through, he would have to relieve it again, facing his immortal enemy once more, and risk losing even more than before. But Harry had already accepted it, no matter where he went, trouble would always follow him. Of course, when Ron said that they would accompany Harry wherever he went, Molly Weasley had been outraged. Wanting to soothe his headache, Harry draw circles with his fingers over his temples while trying valiantly to tune out Mrs. Weasley’s barking tones. It seemed that no matter how logical and well explained Mr. Weasley’s efforts to calm his wife down were, she just decided it was high time to go on a shouting spree and render the rest of the people in the office deaf. So damn nice and altruistic of her. Dumbledore said that the choice of each path resided in every person, and no-one had the right to decided for another human being. Seeing that his cool reasoning and well-constructed sentences did nothing to soothe Molly Weasley, he said that, although it was highly unlikely anyone would be able to go with Harry, it wouldn’t do them any wrong if they started taking serious in-depth studies and training on a daily basis. All too soon, a shouting match between the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix started while the four teenagers looked at each other helplessly, at a loss at what to do. After all, if a group of apparently mature adult wizards and witches started behaving like a bunch of spoiled brats throwing a tantrum, what could four young wizards do to stop hell from breaking loose? ‘I will NOT accept it -’ ‘They are only children -’ ‘This isn’t about you -’ ‘He has defeated You-Know-Who!’ Blood pulsed through his veins, worsening his headache, as the screams and yells became louder and louder. His heart began pumping fast, as anger cursed through him while he listened to the adults talk about them as if they were meaningless, spoiled and pampered children, as if they had done nothing to help to win the war against Voldemort… Suddenly, an unfamiliar force surged within his body, intoxicating his whole mind, burning through his veins, consuming him in will. He had to fight again, fight for everything he wanted, for everything he cared about, fin to win or to lose it all… And he’d be damned if he’d give up so easily! …Neither can live while the other survives… ‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ he hollered, standing up. The room went unanimously quiet, fear condensing through the air as the windows began to rattle, magical energy flooding from Harry’s body, his hands shaking in anger. ‘NONE OF YOU RESCUED THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE FROM VOLDEMORT WHEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN! NONE OF YOU KILLED A BASILIK WHEN YOU WERE TWELVE! NONE OF YOU GOT RID OF A HUNDRED DEMENTORS AT THIRTEEN! NONE OF YOU WERE TIED TO A GRAVESTONE AND STABBED TO MAKE VOLDEMORT RISE AGAIN! NONE OF YOU WENT DESTROYED VOLDEMORT’S IMMORTALITY! NONE OF YOU LET HIM HIT YOU WILLINGLY WITH THE KILLING CURSE! NONE OF YOU DESTROYED HIM! NONE OF YOU HAD THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD!’ Pacing up and down like an enraged lion, he clenched his fists tightly, his eyes bloodshot due to his outburst, oblivious to the small frail cracks on the windows, on the table, on the chairs… ‘I DON’T GIVE A BLOODY DAMN ABOUT WHAT YOU ALL SAY! THIS IS OUR FIGHT AS MUCH AS IT IS YOURS! HERMIONE WAS NEVER A HELPLESS CHILD! GINNY LOST HER INNOCENCE WHEN VOLDEMORT POSSESSED HER! RON GREW UP AFTER THE BATTLE AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES! AND I - I — HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST THAT I HAVE DONE NOTHING TO THE OUTCOME OF THIS BLOODY FUCKING WAR?’ Piercing with his eyes each and every of the adults in the room, he drew breath sharply, and, in a calmer and more tired voice, he tried to make them understand that they could no longer protect them, that their childhoods were now no more than memories, nothing else. It was somewhat funny, if not ironic, how grown-ups would always look at their descendants as simple children, no matter what they had gone through, no matter what they had achieved in their lives. To a certain extent, it was understandable: a person who had changed another’s nappies, who had taught them how to read, who had grounded them, had seen them at their lowest point of maturity. What couldn’t be acceptable, however, was that desire and reluctance to let the past go, to treat younger persons as inferiors in wisdom. Just as every single person was unique entity, each man and woman bore different scars of the past, were they faint lines or heavily marred and disfigured skin. Slumping down on an empty chair, his eyes unfocused, he tried to calm down his own anger and frustration. ‘You should see that this is going to happen whether you like it or not,’ he said softly, ‘and I can assure you, that risking my friends’ lives is not something that I wish to do.’ ‘You should understand,’ Hermione continued, her voice as calm and soft as Harry’s had been, ‘that if we find a way — and we will — to help Harry with this, we will be with him. While I can understand your feelings, it is not your place to decide what we do with our lives. You are our teachers, our mentors, our parents, our allies — but you are not Harry, Ginny, Ron or me. ‘What gives you the right to think you may control our will and our lives? What makes you believe that you know better, that you are more skilled than us? What power is that that you rely upon to control us? What makes you ultimately different at that than Voldemort?’ Silence followed that question and Harry had to applaud her slyness. In the most devious way, she had compared them to the one and sole person everyone in that room despised and abhorred. He was positive hat none-other besides her could possibly produce that statement in such a sad and victimised way. Admittedly, he thought that if the Slytherin House wasn’t so loud about heritage and blood pride, Hermione would have been, if she had wanted to, a formidable example of what cunning and a sharp mind was. She was truly one of a kind. It had been more Hermione’s astute wording than Harry’s outburst that had convince that adults to see into the matter instead of dismissing it outrageously. The atmosphere that followed her reasoning had been quite subdued, and by the time the meeting ended, Harry was positive that everyone was glad it was finally over so they could all go back to their respective homes and think about everything that had been said. As always, Harry did not get to relax with his friends before lunch. Instead, he was asked by McGonagall to remain in her office to talk to her. Turning to face his friends’ curious and inquisitive expressions, he told them that he would meet them later for lunch at the Great Hall. To his surprise, Kingsley Shacklebolt stayed in his seat with a grim determination on his face. Bemused, Harry sat down again on a chair, somewhat fearing the motives for retaining him in the office. ‘Harry,’ said McGonagall, ‘due to this sudden — phenomenon — we have decided to train you intensively. We cannot afford to rely on luck and good chance. Kingsley and I have agreed to take you under our wing and prepare you as best as we can.’ Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that. He knew that, to some extent, the ring that had knocked him unconscious for ten days had stored copious amounts of knowledge in his brain, but that until he comprehended and assimilated all the new data in his mind, it was as good as useless bits of information. He had thought he would be spending endless hours studying books, and quite possibly talking to Dumbledore’s portrait about the magic behind the aim, but he had never expected that neither McGonagall nor Kingsley would decide to spend their time helping him. True, although strict and law-abiding, McGonagall had always cared for him; and Kingsley might not really be devoted to him, but he appreciated Harry and would probably try his best to see Voldemort defeated — again. It suddenly hit him how fatigued they both looked, as is they’d gone to Hell and come back. The mystery pools that usually filled Shacklebolt’s eyes were nothing but a swirl of blurry and misty gloom. Strict and clever Professor McGonagall frame could be compared at the present moment to Mrs. Figg, his batty, cat-crazy-lover neighbour. It was as if their lives, their personalities and quirks had been drained off them, as if they had spent some time in the company of Dementors. ‘You will have to understand that, from now on, ignoring my heart’s displeasure at putting you through this inferno, you will have little rest, and you may be increasingly tempted to give up, to let go… ‘I won’t let you, Potter.’ Harry was struck by the force and harshness in her voice. It once again came to his befuddled mind the first impression he had received from his Transfiguration teacher: she was not a woman to cross. In his opinion, most of the students underestimated his Head of House professor, believing her to be nothing else apart from a shadowy sort of lapdog of the mythical and ever omniscient Albus Dumbledore. They couldn’t have been more wrong. There was no point in denying that Minerva McGonagall had always been tremendously close to the late Headmaster, and that sometimes she had not been the most vocal in the Order when she did not agree with its leader, believing his reason to be for the best. For that reason, however clever, severe and a rigid instructor she was, she was usually classified as one of Dumbledore’s “henchwomen”. But not for the first time, Harry was able o see that his Head of House was a very intelligent individual, strict to her own beliefs and a force to be reckoned with. And for that, Harry could not respect her more. He hadn’t noticed until her face softened and the harsh lines on her forehead disappeared, but the tone of her voice had made him tense up. It was oddly frightening that McGonagall could ever speak to him like that. He couldn’t be happier when she seemed to relax. ‘As one of the few members of the Order of the Phoenix,’ she continued talking, now in her usual no-nonsense tone, ‘Kingsley and I feel that we are the best prepared instructors to teach you what a real fight is, and how to survive it,’ she said honestly, her eyes piercing his, ‘Not to undermine your achievements and outstanding courage, I must admit that good luck has been mostly on our side, especially these last few months,’ she said briskly. ‘This cannot continue. This new turn of events prove that no liberal amount of good fortune is going to help you win. If you are to win, you must take control of your own life — and we are here to help you.’ A spurge of mixed emotions ran within Harry’s body: disbelief, gratitude, despair, eagerness, curiosity, determination, anxiety. It was funny to think he could feel all of that at once, given the fact that Ron the emotional teaspoon had clearly stated that if someone felt all of those emotions at once, he would definitely explode. What Harry had thought to be another long and tiring meeting, was actually cut rather short as Professor McGonagall explained to him in his usual brisk manner that, starting the following day, he would begin to study Advanced Transfiguration and Animagi Art with her, magical and muggle defence with Kingsley Shacklebolt and, if they succeeded, Advanced Charms and Duelling with Flitwick. When Harry asked about his friends, Professor McGonagall gave him a wry smile and told him that Miss Granger would against all odds find a way so they could be with him and that she was going to be taken under Slughorn’s wing, seeing as she was indeed a very gifted student. While she did think that it would be advisable for his friends to improve their fighting skills if they wanted to survive, she expressed that her basic concern was him, Harry, the one who would definitely have to fight. When she ended her speech and Kingsley nodded in approval, she told him that, while she was not the Secret-Keeper of the Dursleys, she knew perfectly well who it was, and since, theoretically, they were not in danger anymore, they should be freed from their hiding location at some point in the future, near if possible. Harry shivered at how Slytherin McGonagall’s face had become. After a subdued lunch with his friends, in which he gloomily expressed that he had to go to see the Dursleys and that no, he didn’t want any company, he went back to McGonagall’s office at around three o’clock. Knocking on the door and opening after he heard her soft welcome, he entered the office, prepared to see his childhood terrors. McGonagall nodded briefly at him from behind her desk, and then said in a loud, commanding voice, ‘Eckey!’ Perplexed, Harry saw a tiny house-elf appear before him, bowing slightly to the Headmistress. ‘Eckey is happy to being called by your Headship Minsky Professor, miss. What is your professor-ship wanting Eckey’s do?’ Perhaps it was again his own sheer dumb luck, but he was definitely not going to risk it telling Hermione that, apparently, her model in life, mentor, favourite teacher and nearly worshipped Transfiguration genius owned a house-elf, something which she had been extremely vocally against since she had learn the miserable way in which wizards treated them, believing them to be inferiors in both magic and intelligence. Remembering Dobby with a sad nostalgic smile on his face, Harry thought that wizards were stupid. A simple and lowly house-elf had saved the life out the great and wise Harry Potter — not because he had been ordered to, just because they had been friends. A sharp image of what Kreacher had been and the present Kreacher surfaced in his mind, and the difference could not be more impressive. Dumbledore had been right, house-elves did have feelings as acute as any human; treated with respect, friendships may emerge from basically every living being on earth. Breaking him out of his reverie, McGonagall stood up and placed her wand to the little elf’s heart. Shocked, Harry stepped forward, worried that McGonagall had gone insane and was actually going to curse the poor creature. ‘I am going to do nothing of the sort, Mr Potter,’ said Professor McGonagall, while her scary furious-dragon expression returned to her face, as if insulted that Harry had even thought she would do something of the sort to her own house-elf. Turning around and pointing her wand now at Eckey’s heart, she said ‘I, Minerva McGonagall, release you from your duty as Secret-Keeper to the Dursely Family. Do you, Eckey, House-Elf of the McGonagall House, accept it?’ ‘I accepts, your Headship,’ said Eckey in his best English as he bowed. A soft blue light surrounded him for a fleeting instant and then it vanished. ‘Do you Eckey, in the name of the Dursley Family, accept to release the Fidelius Charm?’ ‘They is accepting, your Trangsfigurationness,’ said the minuscule elf, this time bowing reverentially in front of the professor, as another beam of blue light engulfed them. Waves of shock spread through Harry as he scanned through his memory everything he had learnt about the Fidelius Charm. He knew it needed a subject — the ones that went into hiding, in this case the Dursleys; a caster, to perform it and to testify — McGonagall; and finally, a Secret-Keeper — a house-elf by the name of Eckey. Admittedly, he could not remember a single piece of information that restricted the use of the Fidelius Charm to humans only, probably due to the fact that it seemed unthinkable to trust an inferior being with such a task. Harry snorted mentally at men’s own stupidity. Indeed, it seemed much more reasonable to use a house-elf as a Secret-Keeper since they were bound magically to wizards and could not therefore reveal or do anything their masters forbade them to. He couldn’t help it, but a part of him would always imagine Wormtail’s eager face when an anxious Lily and James Potter asked him to be their Secret-Keeper, putting their trust in him to keep their son alive; when a dishevelled Sirius performed the charm, thinking that his best friend and godson were going to be safe and sound… He shook his head slightly, trying to erase those morbid thoughts. He concentrated on how the charm was lifted to keep his mind from wandering back to Wormtail’s betrayal… an agreement on the three parts to cancel it… a soft blue right — ‘Mr Potter, were you listening to me?’ ‘Er- what, sorry?’ he asked dazedly. Professor McGonagall’s nostrils flared and Harry flinched unwittingly. ‘As I was saying, would you go now to see your relatives or would you rather postpone it?’ she asked. ‘No,’ Harry said, bracing himself, ‘I’ll go with Eckey now.’ Gathering all of his Gryffindor courage, he held the elf’s hand and disappeared from the McGonagall’s office with a soft ‘pop’, wondering where the Dursley had been for a while year. A second later, he opened his eyes and looked around him. It seemed as if he was n the middle of nowhere, trees and bushes all around him. ‘Comes with Eckey Harry Potter sir,’ said the elf, not releasing Harry from his firm grip, pulling him forwards through the forest. It was damp and derelict, like that type of woods that people avoided, with trees so high that no light penetrated their leaves; with no animals living around. Everything was so cold, that Harry felt as an intruder, flinching every time he stepped on a branch. It was very creepy, although he could see no-one around, he felt as if there were dozens of eyes staring straight at the back of his head. Five minutes later, Harry saw a head what looked like a very old and unwelcoming cottage. It reminded him of the hut he’d been to when the Dursleys had been on the run all over the country because of those Hogwarts letters seven years ago. It was an unwelcoming cottage, with its walls mossy and worn, the threshold almost completely destroyed. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine who had decided to put the Dursleys here. He couldn’t deny the fact that between the Fidelius Charm and the remote and unlikely location, it seemed almost impossible that the Death Eaters would reach the Dursleys; but he felt that whoever had placed them there, he or she had done so with an extreme vindictive pleasure. Climbing up the steps to the entrance door, he felt a strong wave of uneasiness through his body. He didn’t know how would the Dursleys react to his presence, after a whole year of isolation, and, in all honesty, he didn’t really want to know. While it may be true that, in the end, Dudley had been somewhat decent towards Harry, a full year with only Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia as company would most probably make Dudley forget any of the former respect he had shown Harry. Quite frankly, Harry couldn’t blame him, living for such a long time with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could drive the sanest person completely mad. Gingerly, Harry knocked on the door, noticing the apprehensive expression on Eckey’s face. It seemed that Dursleys hadn’t been very nice to the poor elf. Snorting inwardly, Harry thought he shouldn’t be so surprised, since he had been always treated as a disgusting and smelly animal — and he was human. In slow motion the door opened to reveal a shocked Dudley Dursley. Harry sighed in relief when he realised that Dudley wasn’t going to put in practice all of his boxing lessons and beat him to a pulp. Nodding slightly without uttering a single word, Dudley stepped away and allowed him to enter the cottage. Harry’s first impression was that he was back at Privet Drive. While not as perfectly muggle as the house in Surrey was, the cottage was still freakishly neat and snobbish. He was positive that no matter how the Dursleys had detested being with Eckey, they must have put the poor creature to do every single cleaning and cooking task while being extremely impolite to the house-elf. A muggle Malfoy, what fun. Dudley had disappeared while Harry waited silently in the living room, but a pair of loud and hurried steps told him he wasn’t going to remain blissfully alone for long. ‘YOU!’ Uncle Vernon bellowed from the nearest door, Aunt Petunia and Dudley behind his massive form. And without a previous warning or notice — WHAM. Uncl e Vernon boxed Harry square on the nose. ‘Ouch! What the heck was that for?’ Harry shouted, covering his bleeding face with his hand. ‘YOU HAVE MADE ME LOSE MY JOB! YOU HAVE MADE DUDLEY LOSE A YEAR AT SCHOOL! YOU HAVE MADE PETUNIA UNHAPPY!’ he bellowed at a stunned Harry, bits of flying spit wetting the floor. ‘YOU HAVE FORCED US TO LIVE LIKE FREAKS — LIKE YOU!’ Remembering that he was allowed to do magic, Harry pulled out his wand, oblivious to the horrified gasps his relatives emitted and pointed it straight at his nose. ‘Episkey!’ A beam surged from his wand and he felt a tingling warm sensation on his face. Touching his nose apprehensively, he sighed in relief when it felt normal to him. He pocketed his wand and, with a flick of his hand, the rests of blood splattered all over his face and robes vanished. Looking back at the terrified Dursleys, he smiled broadly. ‘Nice to see you, too. Say, would like to sit down for a few minutes so I can explain?’ Not waiting for an answer, he just walked up to the nearest armchair and flopped down on it. ‘The man who killed my parents is dead, you can go back to Privet Drive,’ said Harry nonchalantly. Petunia slumped down on the couch unceremoniously while Vernon spluttered incongruently. Harry couldn’t help it, but it was actually amusing to see his relatives looking at him in fear instead of in disgust. ‘You killed him?’ asked Dudley quietly. Harry turned his head at his cousin and bore his eyes onto his, trying to foretell what would his reaction be towards the truth. Would he be afraid? Wary? Awed? Shocked? Would he want Harry to join his gang of bad boys or would he shun him away as a murderous freak? Either way, Harry shouldn’t care, since he’d never been anything else but a burden towards the Dursleys… but there would always be a part of him that would seek their approval, their affection, and Harry despised that part of himself. ‘I did.’ ‘Oh,’ said Dudley intelligently. ‘So what happens to you now?’ Ignoring Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, he decided to speak only to Dudley, the sole person who wasn’t looking at him as if he were some sort of abomination. ‘You can go back to your lives in Surrey and you’ll never see me again,’ said Harry tiredly, a slight tone of anger and sadness in his voice. ‘And what will happen to you?’ Harry squirmed in is seat. He wasn’t really sure what to tell Dudley, and anyway they would believe it. ‘I’m going on a new mission -’ Uncle Vernon snorted. ‘You? Who would trust you with anything important?’ Harry’s eyes hardened. He had had enough, their empty threats wouldn’t affect him; not after everything he’d seen, everything he had done… He stood up and walked away without uttering a single word, anger pulsing through his veins, his heart thundering against his chest. He slammed the door of the living room close and proceeded to exit the house. ‘Hey, Harry — wait!’ Harry spun on his heels, Dudley had followed him outside. Although it couldn’t have been more than a ten foot walk, his cousin was already panting heavily. ‘Yes, Dudley?’ he asked briskly. Dudley flinched under Harry’s piercing gaze, trying to but failing to tear his eyes away from his cousin’s cold stare. ‘Look, well — I know we haven’t been friends or anything — but you saved my life — and, well, the thing is -’ ‘I’ll send you a letter sometime,’ said Harry, guessing what his cousin was trying to tell him. Dudley smiled almost timidly and gave Harry his hand to shake. ‘Well, good luck with whatever you are doing now.’ Harry nodded briefly. ‘Good-bye, Dudley. If you don’t hear again from me, then I’ve been killed.’ And with that, Harry Disapparated from that spot, leaving his cousin in a turmoil of feelings between wonder and horror. Merlin only knew if those two boys would ever see each other again. ‘I DON’T BLOODY CARE, YOU NITWIT!’ Ginny bellowed, pulling her hair. ‘Stop being so bloody noble! It’s ridiculous! How many times will we have to tell you that we are in this together!’ Harry stared at her without uttering a single word, half-angry, half-awed. Angry, because they couldn’t see that he was probably not coming alive out of this new adventure, that fighting Voldemort was no easy and fun task, that it was his burden alone. Was it really so difficult to understand that he wanted them to live happily for a long time? Was it so complicated to see that he had no other option than to die fighting? If they could just comprehend it, he would part in peace, knowing that they wouldn’t be outrageously murdered. True, he couldn’t completely concentrate on her angered words when he was so distracted by how alive her hair was, so much like the fire cackling in the chimney, softly burning the evanescing logs… She fell on her knees in front of a gobsmacked Harry and grabbed his hands harshly. ‘Why can’t you see it? Do you know how selfish of you -’ ‘Selfish?’ Harry snorted, freeing his hands from her grip. ‘Selfish, you say? Oh well, excuse me if I want you to live!’ he shouted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Yes, it’s completely selfish of you to be thinking like that. Do you know how much sleep Ron has lost over this, thinking that you may not be lucky this time, in the past few weeks?’ she whispered with a strained voice, no anger present in it. ‘Did you know that Hermione has barely eaten, because she has secluded herself in the library, looking for ways to come with you? Can you even imagine how my family — my mother — is coping with Fred’s death, and now thinking they’ll lose you too? Can you even begin to imagine how I felt when I thought you dead, lying on the ground in front of Voldemort, at his mercy?’ she finished, her voice breaking. Harry could only stare at her, at a loss at what to say. She looked so broken, so tired, so vulnerable… the last time she had looked that defeated to him was down in the Chamber of Secrets. She sat on the floor next to him and rested her back on the couch behind her, pushing her head backwards in silence, a lonely tear creeping down her cheek. He felt his insides churn at his guilt. Yes, he wanted them alive, true, but then again they were suffering because of him. Sometimes he thought it would’ve been much better if he had been sorted into Slytherin and become completely friendless; that way none of his friends would have ever gone through so much pain — but he wouldn’t even have lived to do his third year at Hogwarts without them. He grabbed one of her hands and they both remained quiet for a few minutes. ‘I am sorry. I just — I don’t want to lose you,’ Harry whispered. Snapping his head in his direction, Ginny muttered quietly. ‘And why do you think we might want to lose you? You are worth all of it, Harry. We do love you.’ The following weeks were one of the most exhausting times Harry had ever lived. He barely had time for sleeping, let alone enjoy the summer. As July came nearer to its end, the increasing pile of work and his physical training had already started taking a severe toll on him. Apart from the heavy workload, it seemed as if he had suffered a heavy emotional blow. Things weren’t going that great with his friends nor with the Weasley family, the air between them smelled of tension and fear, the conversations were strained and short, the smiles were fake and the laugh was mirthless and hollow. Truthfully, Harry could understand that it was not an easy situation, to have to relieve the horrors of the past while healing the recent wounds, so he couldn’t blame them. But there was a part of him that craved normality and simplicity, he only wanted to be able to laugh and smile like he had always done while he was at Hogwarts. His training wasn’t going that well. It was not due to any lack of interest or effort on his part, it was just that he wasn’t accustomed to spending so many hours working his body, his defence skills and his reflexes. Kingsley was literally killing him slowly, making him wish for nothing else but to be knocked out unconscious and rest. The running, the stretching, the duels, the dodging… everything made Harry’s muscles scream in protest, panting heavily, sweating profusely, his vision blurry. Professor McGonagall wasn’t going easy on him, either. He soon realised that Transfiguration was much more than changing needles into matches and vice versa. It was subtle, it was complicated, it was knowing about the properties, the shape of every substance or object one wanted to change. It was a bit like studying Muggle Chemistry, in order to foretell how two compounds will react towards each other when mixed, one must know previously exactly what they are. Admittedly, he had never put too much effort into the subject because he didn’t find it that useful, it wasn’t until he saw Dumbledore’s duel against Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries that he realised how wrong he had been about it. Also, seeing his godfather’s and Wormtail’s disguise as Animagi came also quite handy. To his own surprise, Harry discovered that Transfiguration had many things in common with Occlumency and fighting off the Imperius Curse. It was his own will that could push some unwanted presence out of his mind, it was his own will and power that could make one thing morph itself into another. Of course, it was easier said than done. It had taken many hours of Harry’s own frustration and McGonagall’s patience to teach him what Transfiguration truly was, to help him uncover the truth behind the seemingly useless change between a tortoise and a teapot. McGonagall had decided to teach him how to become an Animagus, how to hone his skills. Seeing that Harry had quite an aptitude for wandless magic, between the Transfiguration mistress, Professor Flitwick and Dumbledore’s portrait, they had drilled the basics into his mind. At first, Harry didn’t have too much success on it, but with constant effort and work on his part, he began to improve, and step by step, he felt at ease only using his hand and his mind. It was an amazing sensation, to call his magic forth, to feel it tingling through his veins and muscles; he actually felt handicapped with his wand. All in all, Harry felt as if he were a hundred years old. He felt tired, exhausted and alone. None of his friends were following the same training regime as Harry, they were doing their DA on their own. Harry barely saw them save for a few minutes at breakfast, lunch and before going to bed. And even then, they didn’t have much to say to each other, either due to fatigue or frustration. Things weren’t going that great for Harry Potter. With a mounting headache, Harry undressed and slipped into his bed covers one night at the end of July. He thought he was going to burst, he couldn’t take it anymore. He rolled over and punched his pillow, his eyes blazing. Why couldn’t things work out for him? Why couldn’t Hermione be more understanding? Wham. Why couldn’t Ron stop being so thick-headed? Wham. Why couldn’t Ginny control her sarcastic and hurtful tongue? Wham. Wham. Stupid, useless arguments over the same topics, and they couldn’t — wouldn’t — even bother to think for just one moment that it wasn’t his fault — that he just didn’t know if they would be able to go with him… So what if he didn’t spend his days researching? He barely slept, for Merlin’s sake! Did that make him a horrible friend? It just wasn’t fair — and then Kingsley and McGonagall — Ginny — urgh. Dammit! Calming his breath, trying to focus on his Occlumency exercises to relax, Harry felt his heart slow in his chest, he concentrated on its soothing sound, so alive, so constant… Pum Pu-pum. Pum Pu-pum. He would get through his nightmare. Pum Pu-pum. Pum Pu-pum. He would succeed. He would train harder, he would have more endurance. Pum Pu-pum. Pum Pu-pum. Things would turn alright between him and his friends. Pum Pu-pum. Pum Pu-pum. Now, if he could only get that book and access those blasted files maybe he would stand a chance. Pum. < br> DISCLAIMER: ‘How dare you suggest that someone owns me, Wormtail? Crucio!’ Wormtail is writhing in pain all over the floor, panting heavily, his screams filling the otherwise silent chamber. ‘I am s-sorry, M-My Lord,’ he says after a few minutes after the curse is lifted, ‘I overheard Black and Potter talking in hushed v-voices about a certain JKR, saying that we were all figments of her imagination.’ Voldemort’s snake-like nostrils flare in anger. ‘And what is that about a certain Miss Vermouth?’ he asked spitefully. ‘They said she likes very much this world, and she writes about us too, creating another world. But that she doesn’t own us,’ he stammers. ‘She seems to hate me and all rats, worships Black and finds Parseltongue very — er — “sexy”, M-My Lord.’ Voldemort stares at Wormtail in distaste. The news of this JKR owning him angered him to no extent, but if it was true then there was nothing to do about it. ‘Mm,’ he said thoughtfully, petting Nagini, ‘I shall let this Vermouth woman live, seeing that she clearly says that I am not hers. And I do find Parseltongue very attractive, too. In the mean time, Crucio!’ -oOoOoOoOo- < b>A/N: no, I am not insane. I just feel like adding some fun disclaimers, instead of the usual “I do not own Harry Potter, it’s all JKR’s”. About my dear old McG, she’s always been one of my favourite characters, so I hope I didn’t make her too much OC. She’s powerful, she’s clever, she’s very loyal; but she’s always been nothing but a sort of Dumbledore’s extended arm to many of the students. Well, I respect her too much to make her look submissive now that Dumblydorr’s gone. I suppose she’s had her own hell to live through after his death and that is has somehow hardened her, the loss of her mentor and friend by the hands of a colleague, even if it was arranged between them, is no laughing matter. In a way, under the protective tree of Dumbledore, she was like a child that looked up at her father. I’m not saying that she’s childish, heavens no, but after his death she must have had many things to think over, and, although she is not a main character in the DH, there must have been some change in her personality. McG rules! Okay, so yeah; nothing much happens in this chapter, but, although it’s kinda void of useful stuff, it’s dead necessary. So I didn’t really liked it, but I can’t always write my favourites scenes, can I? Please review! And thank you so much for your support! Cheers Ve rmouth Member of the Siriusan Order |
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