Aide Memoire
SUMMARY: For years Harry has been torn apart and has been left to pick up the pieces - but not anymore. Will he fight for his true hidden heritage or will he fight for the Order?
RATING: PG
GENRE: Suspense/ Fantasy/ Angst
SET: Summer of 1996, Harry's sixth year.
ANY WARNINGS: This contains mention of Slash on Harry's account, and mentions of Death. Spoilers for the Order of the Phoenix!
DISCLAIMER - Do you want it in Latin, Spanish or French? Or how about plain English? I am not making any money or profit out of this piece; and J.K or any of the others owns anything you recognise thereafter.
Chapter One: Prologue of Harry's life so far.
It was a usually cold, summer morning at Privet Drive. Harry Potter at Number four, was trying to get some much needed sleep after his scar had started bleeding badly the night before, but had failed miserably.
"Up. Get up now. You're late!" His Aunt rasped at the door.
"Coming Aunt Petunia." He mumbled as he reached for his glasses, distracted only slightly by the slight crack that edging closer to the centre of one of the lenses. As he sat up, he noticed the blood on the sheets from his head bleeding. He groaned loudly and hit the pillow, but stopped when his head started spinning. This was the first time his scar had bled for several years, not that he would tell anyone. Ron would ask his Dad about it, Hermione would consult a book and Dumbledore would probably ask more questions, which involved answers that Harry did not want to give.
When he arrived in the kitchen, the Dursleys were sitting around the television and on it, was a rather smug looking news reporter. He grabbed a piece of toast, earned a deathly glance from his Uncle, and sat down at the table. His Uncle was still staring at him.
"... Black escaped two years ago, and was failed to be caught. We strongly advise that you do not try and approach him, under any circumstances. He is armed, and will not be afraid to destroy anyone who is unfortunate to be in his path. Keep you windows locked, and don't let any of your children go out after 6 p.m. The Police will be patrolling all areas and if they see anybody out after this time, they will be taken back to their home with warning. The bodies, which were found in the forest, were taken to the hospital.. "
Harry drifted into the depths of his own mind after that. He felt like grunting... or crying... or - something to take away the numbness that had apparently moved into his body and had settled residence since the day of Sirius' death. He hadn't really thought about that day - he had tried to keep his mind on other things, like the mountain high load of homework that had been presented to him by his Hogwarts teachers. He didn't have any real family left now... well, none that would run in front of a moving bus or the killing curse for Harry. No, it was better to think that he didn't have any family left whatsoever. A loud hoot of a car cut Harry short of his musings - and when he looked back at the television screen in front of him he noticed that a wrinkly-faced news reporter was looking glumly at the camera and speaking in a monotone voice about such and such and the great Olympics.
His Uncle was still staring at him, as if he was some sort of fantastic object at a museum, so Harry thought it was time to ask his uncle about something that had been eating away at him for the least few months. He cleared his throat - and thought of something that would lead to Harry's question.
"Uncle Vernon?" He asked timidly, watching as Dudley looked up from licking the chocolate from his porky fingers and stared at Harry like he was Dudley's next meal.
"What?" His uncle asked gruffly, his beady eyes moving from the television screen to Harry.
"What was that all about, you know, the escaped prisoner?" the younger boy asked positively, blocking his paranoid thoughts away. His Uncle shot him a glance, looked at his nephew's head, then replied in a rough fashion.
"Black apparently, was seen by several people, running through this town. They ran away from him, but he chased them into the forest, where he brutally killed four of them. One of the survivors is my work colleague, and he's petrified to stay at his place, so he will be staying here for a couple of days in the spare room. I'm going to pick him up in," he glanced at his watch and frowned. " About 10 minutes."
He finished this statement with another glance at Harry's forehead, muttered something under his breath and then walked into the kitchen. Harry heard the sound of a cupboard shutting, and some water running - which, in Harry's poor state of mind, was never a very good thing. Vernon came back a few moments later with a damp cloth. He gave it to Harry and told him to go and lie down. The Dursleys had amazed Harry when he had first walked through their home's door just over two weeks ago - they had suddenly started to act as if Harry existed, and as if he was their actual nephew than just a piece of filth on the bottoms of their shoes. Mind you, if Harry had any say in it he would bet that Petunia had had a very interesting letter from someone or another and that had helped her change her... opinions of her poor nephew. Vernon, on the other hand, had tried to help Harry in any way he could - but Harry, who thought that the whole debacle was wearing off and becoming rather sickening, declined whenever possible. He heard the door slam when he had lay down, but then it shut a bit quieter after he heard some bickering from the kitchen. Dudley came in after that, most unusually, with a note and a dark purple vial clutched in one hand. He handed it to Harry, told him that if he had better not destroy the house while the Dursleys were away for a couple of hours and then left - slamming the living room door and the front door on the way out.
It was a few moments until Harry heard his aunt and uncle's car start up and go, the noise of the engine fading into a nothingness until all Harry could here was the forever silence in the house - the horrible waiting that left his mind free to wander off anywhere.
Harry took in the room and his surroundings. He suspected that Dumbledore had had a very long chat to the Dursleys, and by the very familiar writing on the instructions that were sitting underneath the vial on a piece of parchment Dudley had given him, it looked as if the Potions Master had talked to them as well.
He sighed, and walked from the living and into the kitchen - determined to get a glass to pour whatever his Potion Master had given him into. As he passed the cupboard under the stairs, he paused - and unfortunately his mind drifted into a dark and forgotten place as he stared at the marking just above the strangely shaped door.
It was a strange inscription - and to the untrained eye it would look like a squiggle, but to Harry it was the only reminder to him of his friends. His true friends, that never ran from him when he found out why some people despised him so much. so different to what it was now like.
His right hand instinctively traced the mark, his mouth silently copying that of what it meant - that Harry's true friends would return when the time was right and he truly needed them.
The markings were in a language that was not foreign to his eyes - he knew it as the writing of the Vampires, the writing that his friend Braen had taught to him over two years of embarrassing lectures and hilarious adventures.
Braen was Harry's true friend, but the fact that the older boy was a vampire had nothing to do with it whatsoever - Braen was the son of a Vampire lord, who happened to be a good friend of Harry's true father, so they had known each other since birth and probably before that.
From what Harry remembered of him, the older boy had had ear length dark black (almost a dark purple colour) hair, with sparkling dark eyes and a mischievous smile whenever Harry had complained about anything. He was also two weeks older than Harry, and knew more about everything than Harry suspected anyone did.
He smiled bitterly as he thought of the look on his companions' faces if he waltzed into the Great Hall bearing the same mark that his true father did.
Oh. but what was the point. They would scream and look at it and then say that, 'it didn't matter because Harry was the was the boy-who-lived and nothing would change that' - if only they could see Harry as his true self. the boy that sacrificed everything he had to try and live a normal and almost peaceful life, and for all the promises that Fudge made all those years ago that he broke.
It was amazing how much he had been affect by his sister's death and hadn't even realised it. Harry had never told anyone about his sister, not even Ron and Hermione - not only did he not trust them to keep quiet about it, but also they would be sure to ask too many questions that would demand far too complicated answers. No, it was better keeping his twin sister secret - and the rest of his true blood family for the same reason.
But sometimes he lost his temper, and it happened in a detention in Potions Class once as he remembered what Ron had been talking about at dinner, on about how he would love to be a lonely child - he had thrown a very expensive crystal vial just inches away from Snape's face that had earned him a month's worth of night detentions in helping the Potion's Master collect night herbs from the Forbidden Forest. One of the many detentions he had 'conveniently' forgot to mention to Ron and Hermione.
Harry sighed, and closed his tired eyes, forgetting for a moment that he was famous and momentarily forgetting his now stiff legs from standing in the same position for a while. His mind drifted again to a place - a place where he saw his friends, running to him, in fleece scarfs. Sometimes, if he searched hard enough in his mind, he saw his Uncle Lucius in his cabin on the Swiss Alps, where Harry sometimes had stayed with Braen in the winter, when he was younger.
That's where his sister was found, dead in the blood soaked snow surrounding her with a single tinge of light blue to her freezing lips. That's all the colour that was left to her. Braen found her first, grinning like a madman as he collected wood from around the area. He had apparently dropped all the wood and yelled for help until Harry had arrived with Gizmo, a beautiful white dog that belonged to Lucius - which had ran back to the cabin to get it's master, while Harry had collapsed beside his sister, in the deep snow. That was the second to last time he had ever seen Braen. The last time was at the funeral of Pisces - and when Harry had gone back to the Dursley's he had seen the markings on his cupboard's door, with a handwritten note on the foot of his mattress inside. And that was the last time he had ever gone to the Swiss Alps. That's why he hated Christmas so much, not that he showed it. He had never let feelings get in his way.
His Uncle had asked him to stay. His Uncle had tried to get custody of Harry, but it had failed. He hadn't seen him in person since that court case to determine what killed Pisces. Mind you, even if Lucius saw Harry walking down the street, he probably wouldn't recognize him. Harry's shoulder length hair and slanted eyes brows had disappeared a long time ago. At that moment the phone rang - causing Harry to jump and turn around to look at the closed door of the living room with a frown. It rang again. Three times. Four. The answering machine cut in.
'You have reached the Dursley household. Please leave your name, number and reason for calling after the tone, and we'll get back to you shortly.' Said the gruff voice of Vernon Dursley, and a long beep sounded at the end.
"Harry," said a low, commanding voice. " Pick the phone up, I know you're there. We need to talk. It's rather urgent that I talk to you."
Harry recognized that voice. It was the voice of the one person that he thought had truly forgot about him. It sounded as if his uncle Lucius needed to chat - but why now, after all these long regretful years that Harry had waited to hear his wonderful smooth voice fill his ears?
And it was there that Harry collapsed onto the smooth and carpeted floor, silent tears running down his face as his whole body shook with the force of nearly a lifetime's worth of blocking the truth up - and he still cried, cried for the loss of those closest to him, and those that he never knew but meant more to him than the whole of his life was worth.
He cried for the truth that he had to lie about - the lies and the memories that he had told himself that he had to forget about. He cried so hard, that he felt his eyes close and his mind fall into the darkness before he had finished.
S.W.L: Snake Walker League
Snake: a treacherous person or secret enemy; move or twist like a snake.
Walker: a person or animal that walks.
League: 1 a collection of people, countries, groups, etc., combining for a particular purpose, esp. mutual protection or cooperation. 2 An agreement to combine in this way. 3 a group of sports clubs which compete over a period for a championship. 4 a class of contestants etc. of comparable ability. v.intr. (Leagues, leagued, leaguing) (often foll. by together) join in a league. In league allied, conspiring.
Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it - and if you didn't, please explain why so I can write a better second chapter. Thanks again.
~_~Dark Heart~_~
SUMMARY: For years Harry has been torn apart and has been left to pick up the pieces - but not anymore. Will he fight for his true hidden heritage or will he fight for the Order?
RATING: PG
GENRE: Suspense/ Fantasy/ Angst
SET: Summer of 1996, Harry's sixth year.
ANY WARNINGS: This contains mention of Slash on Harry's account, and mentions of Death. Spoilers for the Order of the Phoenix!
DISCLAIMER - Do you want it in Latin, Spanish or French? Or how about plain English? I am not making any money or profit out of this piece; and J.K or any of the others owns anything you recognise thereafter.
Chapter One: Prologue of Harry's life so far.
It was a usually cold, summer morning at Privet Drive. Harry Potter at Number four, was trying to get some much needed sleep after his scar had started bleeding badly the night before, but had failed miserably.
"Up. Get up now. You're late!" His Aunt rasped at the door.
"Coming Aunt Petunia." He mumbled as he reached for his glasses, distracted only slightly by the slight crack that edging closer to the centre of one of the lenses. As he sat up, he noticed the blood on the sheets from his head bleeding. He groaned loudly and hit the pillow, but stopped when his head started spinning. This was the first time his scar had bled for several years, not that he would tell anyone. Ron would ask his Dad about it, Hermione would consult a book and Dumbledore would probably ask more questions, which involved answers that Harry did not want to give.
When he arrived in the kitchen, the Dursleys were sitting around the television and on it, was a rather smug looking news reporter. He grabbed a piece of toast, earned a deathly glance from his Uncle, and sat down at the table. His Uncle was still staring at him.
"... Black escaped two years ago, and was failed to be caught. We strongly advise that you do not try and approach him, under any circumstances. He is armed, and will not be afraid to destroy anyone who is unfortunate to be in his path. Keep you windows locked, and don't let any of your children go out after 6 p.m. The Police will be patrolling all areas and if they see anybody out after this time, they will be taken back to their home with warning. The bodies, which were found in the forest, were taken to the hospital.. "
Harry drifted into the depths of his own mind after that. He felt like grunting... or crying... or - something to take away the numbness that had apparently moved into his body and had settled residence since the day of Sirius' death. He hadn't really thought about that day - he had tried to keep his mind on other things, like the mountain high load of homework that had been presented to him by his Hogwarts teachers. He didn't have any real family left now... well, none that would run in front of a moving bus or the killing curse for Harry. No, it was better to think that he didn't have any family left whatsoever. A loud hoot of a car cut Harry short of his musings - and when he looked back at the television screen in front of him he noticed that a wrinkly-faced news reporter was looking glumly at the camera and speaking in a monotone voice about such and such and the great Olympics.
His Uncle was still staring at him, as if he was some sort of fantastic object at a museum, so Harry thought it was time to ask his uncle about something that had been eating away at him for the least few months. He cleared his throat - and thought of something that would lead to Harry's question.
"Uncle Vernon?" He asked timidly, watching as Dudley looked up from licking the chocolate from his porky fingers and stared at Harry like he was Dudley's next meal.
"What?" His uncle asked gruffly, his beady eyes moving from the television screen to Harry.
"What was that all about, you know, the escaped prisoner?" the younger boy asked positively, blocking his paranoid thoughts away. His Uncle shot him a glance, looked at his nephew's head, then replied in a rough fashion.
"Black apparently, was seen by several people, running through this town. They ran away from him, but he chased them into the forest, where he brutally killed four of them. One of the survivors is my work colleague, and he's petrified to stay at his place, so he will be staying here for a couple of days in the spare room. I'm going to pick him up in," he glanced at his watch and frowned. " About 10 minutes."
He finished this statement with another glance at Harry's forehead, muttered something under his breath and then walked into the kitchen. Harry heard the sound of a cupboard shutting, and some water running - which, in Harry's poor state of mind, was never a very good thing. Vernon came back a few moments later with a damp cloth. He gave it to Harry and told him to go and lie down. The Dursleys had amazed Harry when he had first walked through their home's door just over two weeks ago - they had suddenly started to act as if Harry existed, and as if he was their actual nephew than just a piece of filth on the bottoms of their shoes. Mind you, if Harry had any say in it he would bet that Petunia had had a very interesting letter from someone or another and that had helped her change her... opinions of her poor nephew. Vernon, on the other hand, had tried to help Harry in any way he could - but Harry, who thought that the whole debacle was wearing off and becoming rather sickening, declined whenever possible. He heard the door slam when he had lay down, but then it shut a bit quieter after he heard some bickering from the kitchen. Dudley came in after that, most unusually, with a note and a dark purple vial clutched in one hand. He handed it to Harry, told him that if he had better not destroy the house while the Dursleys were away for a couple of hours and then left - slamming the living room door and the front door on the way out.
It was a few moments until Harry heard his aunt and uncle's car start up and go, the noise of the engine fading into a nothingness until all Harry could here was the forever silence in the house - the horrible waiting that left his mind free to wander off anywhere.
Harry took in the room and his surroundings. He suspected that Dumbledore had had a very long chat to the Dursleys, and by the very familiar writing on the instructions that were sitting underneath the vial on a piece of parchment Dudley had given him, it looked as if the Potions Master had talked to them as well.
He sighed, and walked from the living and into the kitchen - determined to get a glass to pour whatever his Potion Master had given him into. As he passed the cupboard under the stairs, he paused - and unfortunately his mind drifted into a dark and forgotten place as he stared at the marking just above the strangely shaped door.
It was a strange inscription - and to the untrained eye it would look like a squiggle, but to Harry it was the only reminder to him of his friends. His true friends, that never ran from him when he found out why some people despised him so much. so different to what it was now like.
His right hand instinctively traced the mark, his mouth silently copying that of what it meant - that Harry's true friends would return when the time was right and he truly needed them.
The markings were in a language that was not foreign to his eyes - he knew it as the writing of the Vampires, the writing that his friend Braen had taught to him over two years of embarrassing lectures and hilarious adventures.
Braen was Harry's true friend, but the fact that the older boy was a vampire had nothing to do with it whatsoever - Braen was the son of a Vampire lord, who happened to be a good friend of Harry's true father, so they had known each other since birth and probably before that.
From what Harry remembered of him, the older boy had had ear length dark black (almost a dark purple colour) hair, with sparkling dark eyes and a mischievous smile whenever Harry had complained about anything. He was also two weeks older than Harry, and knew more about everything than Harry suspected anyone did.
He smiled bitterly as he thought of the look on his companions' faces if he waltzed into the Great Hall bearing the same mark that his true father did.
Oh. but what was the point. They would scream and look at it and then say that, 'it didn't matter because Harry was the was the boy-who-lived and nothing would change that' - if only they could see Harry as his true self. the boy that sacrificed everything he had to try and live a normal and almost peaceful life, and for all the promises that Fudge made all those years ago that he broke.
It was amazing how much he had been affect by his sister's death and hadn't even realised it. Harry had never told anyone about his sister, not even Ron and Hermione - not only did he not trust them to keep quiet about it, but also they would be sure to ask too many questions that would demand far too complicated answers. No, it was better keeping his twin sister secret - and the rest of his true blood family for the same reason.
But sometimes he lost his temper, and it happened in a detention in Potions Class once as he remembered what Ron had been talking about at dinner, on about how he would love to be a lonely child - he had thrown a very expensive crystal vial just inches away from Snape's face that had earned him a month's worth of night detentions in helping the Potion's Master collect night herbs from the Forbidden Forest. One of the many detentions he had 'conveniently' forgot to mention to Ron and Hermione.
Harry sighed, and closed his tired eyes, forgetting for a moment that he was famous and momentarily forgetting his now stiff legs from standing in the same position for a while. His mind drifted again to a place - a place where he saw his friends, running to him, in fleece scarfs. Sometimes, if he searched hard enough in his mind, he saw his Uncle Lucius in his cabin on the Swiss Alps, where Harry sometimes had stayed with Braen in the winter, when he was younger.
That's where his sister was found, dead in the blood soaked snow surrounding her with a single tinge of light blue to her freezing lips. That's all the colour that was left to her. Braen found her first, grinning like a madman as he collected wood from around the area. He had apparently dropped all the wood and yelled for help until Harry had arrived with Gizmo, a beautiful white dog that belonged to Lucius - which had ran back to the cabin to get it's master, while Harry had collapsed beside his sister, in the deep snow. That was the second to last time he had ever seen Braen. The last time was at the funeral of Pisces - and when Harry had gone back to the Dursley's he had seen the markings on his cupboard's door, with a handwritten note on the foot of his mattress inside. And that was the last time he had ever gone to the Swiss Alps. That's why he hated Christmas so much, not that he showed it. He had never let feelings get in his way.
His Uncle had asked him to stay. His Uncle had tried to get custody of Harry, but it had failed. He hadn't seen him in person since that court case to determine what killed Pisces. Mind you, even if Lucius saw Harry walking down the street, he probably wouldn't recognize him. Harry's shoulder length hair and slanted eyes brows had disappeared a long time ago. At that moment the phone rang - causing Harry to jump and turn around to look at the closed door of the living room with a frown. It rang again. Three times. Four. The answering machine cut in.
'You have reached the Dursley household. Please leave your name, number and reason for calling after the tone, and we'll get back to you shortly.' Said the gruff voice of Vernon Dursley, and a long beep sounded at the end.
"Harry," said a low, commanding voice. " Pick the phone up, I know you're there. We need to talk. It's rather urgent that I talk to you."
Harry recognized that voice. It was the voice of the one person that he thought had truly forgot about him. It sounded as if his uncle Lucius needed to chat - but why now, after all these long regretful years that Harry had waited to hear his wonderful smooth voice fill his ears?
And it was there that Harry collapsed onto the smooth and carpeted floor, silent tears running down his face as his whole body shook with the force of nearly a lifetime's worth of blocking the truth up - and he still cried, cried for the loss of those closest to him, and those that he never knew but meant more to him than the whole of his life was worth.
He cried for the truth that he had to lie about - the lies and the memories that he had told himself that he had to forget about. He cried so hard, that he felt his eyes close and his mind fall into the darkness before he had finished.
S.W.L: Snake Walker League
Snake: a treacherous person or secret enemy; move or twist like a snake.
Walker: a person or animal that walks.
League: 1 a collection of people, countries, groups, etc., combining for a particular purpose, esp. mutual protection or cooperation. 2 An agreement to combine in this way. 3 a group of sports clubs which compete over a period for a championship. 4 a class of contestants etc. of comparable ability. v.intr. (Leagues, leagued, leaguing) (often foll. by together) join in a league. In league allied, conspiring.
Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it - and if you didn't, please explain why so I can write a better second chapter. Thanks again.
~_~Dark Heart~_~