A/N - Hey everyone, this is the first time I've written in a long time but I hope you enjoy what I came up with. Any reviews, be it dissenting or applauding, are more than welcome. I read every single one of them and will respond. The rating may go up to Mature later, as this will be an intense and action-packed fic, but we'll see. Enjoy!
The Hawk and the Nightingale
Chapter One
Moments where wizards bypassed magic tended to be ones of a distinctly intimate tone. The conscious choice of leaving the wand aside, or perhaps a wave of the hand from the more talented – leaves an action that is instantly noted by all present and often carries significant meaning.
If someone were to unknowingly drop a quill, it would be exceedingly easy to flick one's wand - even from a decent distance - to help the person. Any wizard or witch could relate a number of times when an object, unknowingly dropped by them, was suddenly levitated in front of them with no clue as to who did it. However, in walking over, bending down to pick up the quill, and getting to the person to physically hand the quill back, extreme significance has occurred.
As a result, when Albus Dumbledore sat up from his desk to grab sugar for her tea, Minerva McGonagall - no matter how many times he did so - could not help but be touched deeply. Such an immensely magical person, walking over and performing such rudimentary acts such as grabbing a sugar cup... it was jarringly tender. It was this, amongst other reasons, why their monthly tea times - running 30 years strong - were undoubtedly one of her favorite activities.
Despite strong backbones of anti-muggle sentiments throughout the wizarding world's customs, it was a strangely ironic, McGonagall mused, that many of the most intimate and coveted moments between wizards were distinctly "muggle."
A man such as Albus showcased care in unconventional ways, but McGonagall noted them and was unwaveringly grateful. She herself, a notoriously closed person, rarely disclosed personal benevolence. As Albus made his way over to their sitting area, another aspect of the mutual intimacy of the moment occurred to her. Albus happened to be privy to her little, albeit deep-harbored secret of hers, that she drank tea with an embarrassing amount of sugar.
One time, upon accidently drinking a sip of her tea, Severus had gagged and said something to the extent of "supersaturated," and "It's actually crunchy..." Whatever he had meant by such exclamations, she wouldn't let such comments get to her.
The sudden arrival of Albus and the sugar cup (with the same amount of sugar as last time, she noted), jolted her out of her thoughts. Albus soon sat down, showing no signs that should have been present of old age.
She waited for the familiar atmosphere to settle down upon them - Albus sitting at his desk and Minerva sitting directly in front. She never could quite shake off the feeling of her the student and him the teacher even after 30 years. Sometimes it took a while for them to talk; sometimes conversation would start instantly - usually her being the instigator in either case. Today was one of those silent days... she always dreaded these days - not because it was awkward or anything - but as she took her first sip of her tea...
Crunch… crunch, crunch...
Minerva winced inside as the reverberations of her cherished crystals sped all across the room, echoing in the overwhelming silence as though someone had just apparated in the room. She had tried everything - her being a fairly brilliant logician, had tried chewing really fast, chewing really slow, even sloshing it around in her mouth for a while in order to dissolve the damn things but it never worked... she had resolved to simply chewing normally, but the experience was always a bit painful. How she managed (at least she thought) to keep her face straight when dealing with this experience, she'd never know. She could have sworn one of the instruments on Albus' desk measured vibrations...
"Did you know sugar is used to harden asphalt?" Albus intoned with a suspiciously un-twinkling eye.
Minerva merely continued crunching and duly noted that it was in fact him that had spoken first for once. One point for me... eighteen thousand for him...
She reclined slightly, easing her still sore body from the four stunners she had taken only days ago, reveling in the silence that had settled over them, of a distinctly more pensive tone then before.
Silence.
One of the greatest litmus tests of all time for relationships. Truth and realization comes with silence - swifter and clearer than any formation of words could ever hope to accomplish. How much can be understood without words? How uncomfortable? Strange how fanciful politics of etiquette dissipate completely while the issues at hand come to the forefront of persons' mind. Oftentimes, with the more in-tune of companions the topic that they both wished to talk about - known or unbeknownst to the parties involved beforehand - comes bursting out with the unspoken confirmation of what's it is.
As this particular humankind phenomena came to fruition, tiny dust shards of broken silver instruments pillowed ever so slightly across the ornately marbled floor. They heralded the start of a long, painful conversation about the young man dominating their minds.
The prophecy child. The Chosen One. Harry.
A lot had happened lately.
Harry Potter woke up to the eerie silence of the early morning - forbidding yet nonthreatening.
He had woken up instantly aware of his settings and privy to clear thoughts so Harry knew that getting further sleep would be a futile effort. Without any grogginess he sat up and deftly swung out of the covers. Some days one simply woke up with a purpose.
Ron wasn't snoring, although his mouth was open as though ready to start the process at any moment. Judging by how wide open his mouth was, Harry garnered that if he were to start snoring, it was probably going to be epic. A quick silencing charm for the benefit of his roommates just managed to precede his feet hitting the cold, granite floor. Everyone else was fast asleep – as they should be. A rush of gratitude and shame came to him as he saw Neville, still sleeping in a position that belied his Department of Mysteries injuries. Harry's eyes flickered to the red marks on Ron's face, now fading. Harry had been the only one to escape unscathed.
Yet why did he feel so scarred?
Harry got dressed in some every day robes and made his way to the common room. It was a mess. Evidence of the frenzy of final exams were everywhere – notecards, discarded quills, spilled inks, papers lying in between furniture – Harry even spied a fallen bishop from the common room chess set sitting on the floor, valiantly trying to find its way back up to the table. Harry walked over and scooped up the endeavoring maverick, "Thank you kind sir! If you could return me to B7…" which Harry promptly obeyed.
He stood quizzically at the board for a moment contemplating the paused game. It seemed to be fairly well along, although not many pieces had been taken. The white side had lost a little more pieces, most notably a knight, but the whole board was quite spread. The black royal pieces were clustered together whereas the white royal pieces were quite sparse. Harry deemed it would take a masterful player to read this board, there were a host of options and threats from any direction.
The flickering light upon the pieces suddenly caught his attention and he spun to its source – the fire – the only light source after two in the morning. Harry closed his eyes in painful remembrance. When he slowly opened them he had to consciously fight to not hope he would once again see Sirius' face flickering handsomely. Sure enough, the same faceless, flickering fire sat silently.
Strange how a mood change can alter the perception of an entire room. Previously unnoticed, the enormous Gryffindor red curtains swayed ominously, creating monsters out of shadows. How many times had Sirius walked, joked, and lived in this very room? Did he have the same bed as Harry? What of his father?
Heavy thoughts for early mornings.
Harry found himself biting his lip as his previously pensive demeanor began to be overwhelmed. He was by no means a stranger to sadness, disappointment, or loss. The past two years had made this obvious and his childhood was rife with it. Eleven years of having anything good he had done, good he had found, or good he was reaching for snatched violently away by the Dursleys had made him well acquainted, oh yes. When Ron had deserted him last year, it was maddening but ultimately he found it unsurprising. Same with the Firebolt. He'd simply been in that situation before – many times – and he had thought himself impervious to the surprise of it all.
But with Sirius, was it any different?
Yes… It definitely was.
He was… a link to his parents, a confident, a friend, a person to make him laugh and stand up for him…
Harry swallowed awkwardly and walked through the portrait door. The Fat Lady, watching the entire spectacle and knowing things that well connected portraits do, did not wait for the young man to ask passage but instead swung open to let him through. She'd seen him when he'd come to the dormitory a few days ago… such tragically sad eyes…
The brisk air of the corridors made Harry painstakingly aware of the wetness of his eyes. He continued walking.
Autopilot guided him to a remote, empty corridor on the sixth floor. The corridor was stunningly quiet. No portraits marred his thankful feeling of solitude and Filch's feline menace was nowhere to be seen.
He looked around. Not once in his five years had he bothered to truly look at the hallways of Hogwarts. Almost all main corridors, such as this one, followed a general circular pattern around the castle, and this one was no different. What he noticed was that the ceiling and the outside wall were not solid rock, but large, dark blocks. The large hewn blocks of dark granite were at least 8 feet long and 3 feet wide, interwoven with unnatural precision. The floor and inside wall, however, were solid rock. Had roughly half of Hogwarts been carved out of a mountain of stone? The majesty of the feat left him breathless.
Had young Tom Riddle too, when passing these halls as a teenager thought of the same thing? His breath hitched but he continued the thought. Surely, he had to have, a loner who had found the Chamber of Secrets with an intellect almost as legendary as Dumbledore's.
It took a couple more seconds for Harry to register his newfound feelings as fear.
Oh yes he felt fear. And an impressive amount of it, to boot. Harry had always been oppressed, never brought up in an environment to see a means to an end. He was an epitomized product of not acting in any sort of methodology but to survive. He was a survivor, this much was evident. Living in a cupboard underneath stairs under constant scrutinization – with physical consequences – had a way of making you see openings where others only saw enclosed spaces. The Hogwarts years had only honed these skills.
This enclosed space, this metaphorical cupboard, however was much different. Mortality suddenly became a keenly aware concept. He had seen the duel between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord – epic and extraordinarily beyond his imagining and certainly his talents. The hate Voldemort possessed for him was electric in its intensity, backed by his immense power. Harry was an object of endless fascination for him, an object to be humiliated and destroyed. What was he to do? There was no option in this matter, not only had this fascination matured into a deadly manhunt, but it was prophesized to be so.
Unfairness was never something Harry used in his vocabulary, having grown up with the concept intimately, so it was not what described this situation. The word that did come to mind was hopeless. He could basically hear and see the cackling emanate from the opaque face of Voldemort, red eyes gleaming with masochist glee. Such reckless, relentless hate rendered him nearly immobile. It was suffocating him, a million formless thoughts of guilt, insecurity, and fear flitted through his mind like a non-uniform kaleidoscope as his knees began to sink to the ground.
His wand however was gripped tightly in his hand.
Amidst the spinning conglomeration of thoughts he suddenly latched onto something solid, stationary, and bright – his parents. The great James Potter and the brilliant and beautiful Lily Potter – had been in this very position and had chosen to not bow, but fight. Voldemort himself had commented on the resiliency and proudness of James' last stand and Lily's last stand's testament was himself. Sirius too had gone down fighting, one of the last left even when Mad Eye Moody himself had been taken out long before. Another feeling began to drive out the fear in his heart - pride. It was no longer a fight of survival, but of vengeance. He no longer wanted to simply get by, or rely on his so-called infamous luck, but he wanted to excel… at everything. He now had the end, and the means.
So at this moment, Harry lifted his emotion-laden eyes, piercing the shroud of fear around him and saw the open Hogwarts corridor in front of him.
Hope.
He stood up.
Magic had been the one thing that had given Harry - if for a brief respite his first year - the idea that there was something to strive for besides survival. As Harry walked with tangible purpose through the corridor, a clarity born of ambition came upon him. He began to detect the subtle administrations of his persona by the Dursley's "care," Voldemort's obsession, Dumbledore's intentional or unintentional manipulations, and even the unintended shaping from Ron's ambivalent attitude towards school and Hermione's constant source of information instead of himself...
None of this made him mad, it wasn't their fault.
It had just made him weak.
Harry latched onto the first feeling of magic he had when vanishing the glass at the zoo, the feeling of apparating as a child, and completing his first wingardium leviosa spell. That feeling, the exhilarating rush of unbridled possibility and power - magic - could and would take him to the place he needed to be.
His steps became faster.
The ability to say words and produce magic... the novelty of it once again ignited his body as he straightened his back and cast a powerful Lumos! that immediately created a blazing light that lit up the entire length of the corridor.
His mind fresh from introspection buzzed with newfound creativity and intuition. How could he make it more powerful? What made the light brighter at times and dimmer others? Could he cast it nonverbally? Without a wand? Where would the light come from if he did? Could he only light certain areas of a room? If he were casting a stunner without a wand, was the aiming done consciously in his mind or with the point of his wand? Both? Could one cast two spells at one time? Perhaps string or combine spells together?
Harry's heart began to beat faster in such a way that perhaps only Quidditch and Cho a couple times had done before. He had found his edge, enthusiasm coupled with a goal – not merely survival, but succeeding.
A variety of corridors circled the castle, a smaller sum traveled relatively perpendicular to these, and only a few went straight to the library… but right now at this particular spot he was at, only one led to the Headmaster's office.
Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair long after Minerva McGonagall had left. This tension in the air… he'd felt it before and he knew what it meant too. He'd felt this before the first war against Voldemort, before Grindenwald's declaration of war in 1939, and before in his younger days when a less talented Dark Lord that had a propensity for finding talent and exterminating it declared himself. There was no mistaking it; war was on the horizon and brewing fast. There was no other feeling quite like it – a certain static electricity tangible everywhere that made even non-sentient beings acutely aware of something happening.
Silence hung a little heavier these days.
He closed his eyes.
Centaur herds were migrating to the northeast hills of the Forbidden Forest – a centaur sanctuary of a sort. The Acromantulas were getting more and more restless and the Merpeople were rarely seen above water at all these days. Giants in the north were being spotted in increasing numbers and showed alarming signs of uncharacteristic organization. Dementors tugged dangerously on their restraints at Azkaban while in the middle of this silent crawling mess laid the docile, dawdling Ministry of Magic.
If one wishes to see danger before any other, turn to nature. If one is walking in a forest and all noises are suddenly gone – nature is telling you something. Centaurs never move to the northeast hills for no reason.
Mars has been bright lately.
Before, when he had first battled with a Dark Lord, it had been with Gellert Grindenwald at his side. The Dark Lord – Sajvan – had a respectable host of followers and was systematically finding talent and simply eradicating it so there'd be no others close to his power. Eventually, he came to Gellert's home – as they expected – where they both met and handily defeated him. The feeling before that fight and war had been different – he had faced the impending doom with the alacrity of youth and a steadfast, equally talented ally.
When this ally turned enemy and he once again faced possible disaster, it was with full knowledge – almost too much – of his enemy and he was at the height of his powers. He knew he was greater than Gellert and he knew in a battle of intellectual wits he had always been the greatest. Gellert's defeat was inevitable once he had gotten a hold of himself mentally, despite the enormous difficulty he knew it would entail. He did, Albus mused, allow himself to use darker spells those days.
Tom Riddle was a whole other story. He was not Gellert – whose evil intelligence was masterful and systematic – but had an equal intelligence that was conniving, clever, and unhinging in its reckless hate. Never is a man more dangerous than when he has bouts of insanity, and while Tom possessed the ability to use cold calculation, he was without a doubt insane. The amount of cruelty he could do knew no bounds.
And so the first war began. Tom was unyieldingly aggressive, yet despite his disappearance for years, he still could perceive Tom as relatively predictable. The Ministry was not nearly so inadequate and he had a host of great new talent coming from the youth in the form of James Potter, Lily Potter, Sirius Black, the Prewetts, the Longbottoms, and others. The outlook was still bleak, but the war's forces were relatively equal.
The same could not be said now. He had not been docile the past years and had uncovered a variety of hurdles that would be required to take down Tom. Even he hesitated to call him Tom, as the man now barely possessed enough human in him – about one sixth or seventh he mused – to be anything but "Voldemort." Second chances were his forte, but even he knew Tom was simply too far gone.
The impressive youth of the last war were all but decimated and their descendants – so few they were – were underdeveloped and lacked the luster of their parents. Of the surviving heroes of the war only Mad Eye, Remus, Hagrid, and a few others could vouch for respectable fighting form at the moment. Impressive figures of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madame Bones, Nymphadora Tonks, and a few precious others came to mind. The staff of Hogwarts had only strengthened over the years, but their availability was severely limited by their teaching duties. Children were always the main priority. Magical creatures could not be counted on to fight – the ministry and its archaic measures against "non-human" creatures had probably long alienated them these past 15 years. The past two days he'd been everywhere in the Ministry, starting the seedlings of change that would hopefully formulate into some sort of resistance, but he knew it was too late.
He opened his eyes.
Not for the first time he wished Gellert could have quenched his thirst for power and they could have wrought beautiful changes to the world. Such a lost opportunity, but Albus did not linger over such thoughts, as he'd long ago put this pang out of his major worries. Right now he was only painfully aware of that fact that he needed a lot of somebodies, or someone to help even the tide of this war. His age truly wore upon him as he contemplated the current state of things.
They were going to lose.
For all his brilliance, this was certain. Something drastic needed to happen or be done, but he was currently at a loss of what to do. He had plans – oh yes he had plans – plans upon plans that ranged from wild time turner ones to political exile but he needed some sort of heralding event to dictate his path of action.
An instrument on his desk gave a light puff of smoke and he immediately cast the spell to see who was at his door.
Hmm.
He gave a quick head nod to the Stone Gargoyles jutting out of an enormous chandelier above him whom immediately told their companions at the front door to let the young man in.
The pace and surety that Harry walked in with gave him immediate pause. Harry never came in with such calculated poise. Normally he walked in with that strange ability of being right in front of you but somehow garnering almost no attention. His eyes however, as fetchingly green as the always were, were what caught his attention the most. That look in them gave him a surge of warmth – hope – and he instantly recognized the look Harry wore for it was the same he himself had every time he set upon something… and succeeded.
Albus smiled.
"What can I do for you Harry?"
"I'm not sure."
Following a relatively dramatic, and if Albus was honest with himself, possibly life-changing entrance this was not the reply he had been expecting. Overall, a pleasant surprise from the young Potter.
"The wisest men know what they don't."
Harry nodded in affirmation, "Yes, Headmaster. That's been pretty clear lately… I was wondering, do you mean to send me back to the Dursleys again?"
There was no venom in his voice, no warning that the conversation could escalate to the destruction of his instruments once more. He was asking like an adult, as an adult. He could honor that.
"I'm afraid so Harry. I'm aware of their… disposition towards you and I've spoken to the Order to have a few words with them. I also intend to speak my mind to them as well some point this summer."
Harry merely stared at him. Clearly he was expecting an explanation.
Interesting.
Harry had indeed changed.
"The fact remains, Harry, that your Aunts blood provides you more protection than anywhere."
"What about Hogwarts, Professor?"
"Tom Riddle… spent much of his time wandering the halls of this school. It is my belief he considers it what can only be loosely defined as a 'home' for him. As such, he no doubt has intimate knowledge of this school and can probably find a way in."
"Myself and the other professors," he said to interrupt Harry's yet unsaid question, "will not be present in the school very often as we have a lot of work cut out for us given the recent state of matters and therefore cannot provide our normal protection."
Harry could not fully hide the feeling of desperation in his eyes and stood silently.
"So I will be at the Dursley's all summer?"
"Yes."
"Will I be guarded there too or will the blood protection be enough."
"Yes, you will be guarded. The blood protection should be sufficient but one can never be sure."
"Can I communicate freely?"
"Barely. There are more ways then one to tamper and read owl mail."
"Can I leave the house?"
"Within a mile."
"That leaves me the Dursley's house – which means my room – and a single park, Professor. For the whole summer."
"I'm sorry Harry… there is no other alternative."
Harry once again simply stared at him. Once again expecting an explanation.
Very interesting.
"The options would be the Grimmauld Place or The Burrow. The Grimmauld Place is an unknown factor until," here Dumbledore paused for a fractional second. Taking a leap of intuition he guessed treading softly in a situation like this would be insulting, so he continued "Sirius' will is made concrete."
He paused a second to let Harry process, or gain what control he needed.
"The Burrow is too well known and the fact that there are so many children raise the risk of ferreting out the general location – despite a Fidelus Charm – and the resources of protecting all the people who would be privy to the Fidelus secret would be... immense."
"So basically the blame should be put on Mrs. Weasley for having so many children?" Harry asked.
"Obviously" smiled Albus, appreciating this side of Harry.
Harry seemed unable to contain a sigh, despite his appreciative humor.
"Can I bring some books from the library?"
Albus pinned Harry's eyes with his own. Only a select few students had garnered the nerve to ask him this question and none had returned the following summer – whether it had been granted or not – unchanged. Albus considered for a second using Leglimency but knew he didn't need to. There was desire in Harry's eyes – definitely enough to be dangerous – but along with it was a pure unaltered need, unaffected by the smoldering craving for power that was always so evident in Tom's eyes.
"Yes Harry… I'll let Madam Pince know immediately and please do not mention this to others – including your friends."
Harry shot a significant look at him but nodded.
Dumbledore could only nod in affirmation, but inside was seeing the first steps of ascending to power – the inevitable concentration on oneself left drastic and significant decisions to be made on those around you, including your friends.
Or, he mused sadly, in the case of family.
"And sir, if it were possible to practice magic this summer I – "
"That would be a flat no Harry. As logical and needful as it may seem, the Ministry is absolutely unyielding in relinquishing that form of control, particularly around you. I have no say in it."
Harry nodded slowly still with no defiance, "I understand sir… I'll take my leave now."
"I appreciate you talking to me Harry, more than you know. Come anytime you want."
Harry nodded once more.
Albus felt inspired to say one more thing, "Harry."
He turned around.
"Whatever type of blame you are laying on yourself please remember that at a fair amount, if not the significant amount of blame lies with me."
Only the baby Fawkes could be heard cooing in its roost.
"I… don't know what to say sir. I know I am to blame and I'm trying to accept that."
"But thank you."
Both stayed in their places thinking heavy thoughts, the fact that it was 3 in the morning seemed to have escaped both of them.
"Professor?"
"Yes Harry?"
"If I were to… cast a Stunner wandlessly, where would the spell come from?"
Albus smiled at the inquisitiveness, inwardly thanking Harry for the intellectual distraction.
"It depends Harry, on where you wish it to come from."
"So… the wand is simply a focal point?"
Albus noted eagerly the jump of several correct assumptions in making this statement, but amended "As well as a scaling conduit Harry, but you may wish to pick up a book on Wand Physics for that."
"So in theory I could cast a Stunner from, say… my kneecap?"
Albus smiled, "In theory, yes. But remember the very basics of spellcasting. A successful spell is completely dependent on someone's intent, which is invariably helped with a focal point to cast it. The more natural the focal point – such as a wand or a finger – the easier it is to cast the spell successfully. The only anomaly to this magical law is the eyes."
"Why?"
"Magic itself does have physical properties which are understood very little. But what little we do know is that it is harmful to the eyes."
"Professor?"
"Yes, Harry?"
"Would you mind casting a spell from your elbow or something?"
Albus chuckled, still overwhelmed by Harry's calm and collected attitude at this meeting, "No Harry, I think some curiosities should be left to the youth. So I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to handle that one."
Harry smiled slightly.
"Why don't you try it over the summer?"
"But – "
"The Ministry can detect your wand's magic, Harry, not wandless. I took the liberty of convincing them to release that particular sensor on your house after the trial – no other student has this sensor."
Harry stood there somewhat gawking but replied "Yes sir, thank you. I'll be going now."
"Goodbye Harry, you're always welcome here."
"Goodbye Professor, thank you."
The sudden realization that Harry had not come here to ask him for help, but for means to help himself suddenly dawned upon him.
Perhaps the much needed equalizing factor he was looking for was coming.
Blue magical lanterns – containing only light and not fire – provided library lighting between bookshelves. Their iridescence cast long blue shadows that gave a very aquarium-like atmosphere. Nothing seemed to be still as the flickering made a mirage of soundless waves.
Harry quickly realized he'd have to use his wand to light his way.
A few minutes of theoretical consideration, fourteen tries, another couple minutes of theoretical deliberation, and five more tries yielded one successful nonverbal lumos. Another couple minutes were donated to the puzzling of why it had worked the one time he hadn't directly been thinking about it.
Clearly he had been over-thinking the issue.
Right?
The success and confusion led to his first book coming from the realm of spell casting theory. Perhaps this would straighten things out.
Ten books later found Harry at one of the heavy oak desks writing on a piece of parchment the appropriate information to check out the books, which he laid on Madam Pince's desk.
Shrinking the books except for a couple that were impervious to such spells he began walking back to his dormitory, set on reading the books until breakfast. The anticipation he felt about reading was relatively indescribable… finally he understood Hermione's enthusiasm for such things. The books he was carrying could be the keys to so many things…
The Fat Lady let him in once more and he found himself once more staring at the chess board in the Common Room. Somehow earlier he had not noticed a white pawn one square away from the black's side.
How had he not noticed…
"Excuse me, whose turn is it?"
The white pawn jumped up and began to wipe the tiredness away from its eyes slowly, "Um, I believe *yawn* that it's my side's turn sir."
"Would you mind moving forward one step?"
"Ah, an excellent move sir!"
Once the pawn walked over it looked up in question and Harry merely nodded to the unsaid answer. The pawn immediately morphed into the most powerful piece on the board amidst the white pieces, of whom having waking up from the commotion, throatily cheering for the piece's emergence.
Harry sat himself down and began to read.
The new white chess piece now stood precariously within the reach of many deadly black chess pieces, but stood proud and tall.
The entire face of the game had changed.