Harry Potter and the Oracles of Myrddin
A/N: Hi.
Whoo, that was tough. Anyway, welcome to my sixth year fic. Some of you may remember me as the delusional author of HP and the Flesh of the Jade Guardian, which I assure you, I am much embarrassed by. I've mentioned at the end of that fic that I would not write a sequel for it, but that I may attempt a fresh go completely secular to Jade Guardian based off the cannon 5th book. I would have started earlier, but I was pretty uninspired until a few months ago. Have had this sitting around the hard drive since then and have finally worked up the courage to post. This story was originally suppose to be done as a full-blown webcomic, but there's no way I could manage telling a story competently that way at the moment. May link the few pages I've attempted next chapter anyway. Because I am heartless and love inflicting pain. So. Go. Read. I hope you give it a chance, and even more, I hope that you might even enjoy it-at least just a teensy weensy bit. Do review as I live for them. 'Jess' is to 'Review' as 'Justin Timberlake' is to 'Costume Malfunction'.
Summary: In the dawn of the second coming of great evil, Harry returns to Hogwarts for his 6th year bearing the weight of the Prophecy. With the Wizarding World confused and frightened, the Ministry still apprehensive about Dumbledore's advice, and the Order's inadequate numbers to defend against the Dark Arts, it has become even more imperative for Harry to find his unknown power and take it up in arms against any attack from Voldemort. However, Dumbledore has added a new addition to his long-perceived plan-one of the ancient four stone oracles used by Merlin, which may change completely the means of defeating the Dark Lord once and for all-but not without incredible risks to those who survive by burying their secrets, Dumbledore himself, and the Boy Who Lived.
CH. 1: Some Holiday
"Potter!"
Harry gazed toward the kitchen window where he could see the glowering face of his uncle. His green eyes, slightly duller than they should have been and marked by telling, dark circles locked onto those of Vernon Dursley knowingly.
Dursley didn't say a word. He simply cleared his throat angrily, briefly holding up the telephone receiver so that Harry could catch a glimpse of it before dropping it unceremoniously onto the counter. Hastily, he walked away.
Harry sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the cool grass beneath the large oak of number four's backyard, making his way towards the kitchen door. He deeply regretted leaving that quiet corner of the garden.
The phone was still rocking slightly on Aunt Petunia's religiously cleaned counter. Harry knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. She had, after all, rung every week since school had let out nearly a month before.
"Hi, Hermione," Harry he forced pleasantly, something he had managed now quiet easily though he was feeling anything but.
"Hi, Harry," Hermione Granger replied cheerfully. "How're you?"
"Good."
The conversation was choppy and rather curt, and somehow Harry instantly got the feeling that despite her bright tone, she saw through his disguise. There was also the fact that he was nearly as familiar with decent telephone etiquette as Ron was. Harry also found it quite hard to grow accustomed to the fact that Uncle Vernon allowed his use of something that would let him fraternize with the Wizarding World (rather ironic, he thought, as he was using a muggle device to do so). Obviously, Uncle Vernon had taken the words imparted on him by Moody, Lupin, and Mr. Weasley at King's Cross quite literally.
However, novelty aside, the use of the telephone was not the only thing keeping Harry from the easy flow of conversation he once had with his friends. Even the few times that Ron had given the phone a go and rang up, of which Harry was greatly appreciative, resulted in revealing Harry's continue withdrawal from what he had always found comfort in-them. Things were different now-so fantastically different-and he had, as the summer wore on, begun to feel a quiet separation from Ron and Hermione. He thought he could limit the pain by realizing that barrier, but it seemed despite it all, he both needed them close; yet far away-an oxymoron of a resolve that could never be actualized in this universe, therefore he was left fractured and confused.
"We really ought to work on elaborated responses," came Hermione's voice from the earpiece. "You know. An inclusion of nouns, adjectives.aim for a complete sentence."
"Okay," Harry replied flatly. "I'm really good."
"That's not funny."
"Hermione, I was joking."
She sighed audibly, and somewhere deep in Harry's stomach, a small pang of guilt made itself known.
"Listen," she broke in quickly, "I suppose you know the news-"
"About Siri-" Harry stopped short.
He hadn't mentioned his godfather's name since that fateful dawn in Dumbledore's office. He swallowed the knot in his throat with difficulty.
"Um.Dumbledore told me. I know." Hermione was quiet, and Harry took the opportunity to pull out the crumpled front page from the newspaper Albus Dumbledore had included with his last letter. "Sirius Black-" the heading read, "Wrongly Sentenced by the World He Died For". He gazed at the two images of Sirius-one in his handsome youth, grinning, probably laughing his laugh that sounded so much like a bark. Another was the wasted face of the prisoner of Azkaban.
"Right," Hermione finally replied a bit breathlessly. "The investigation took awhile, didn't it? The Ministry's feeling pretty ashamed- there's going to be a public ceremony for-" she paused uncertainly "-him. It was announced this morning on WWN. At least, that's what Ron's told me. A feeble way for Fudge to save face, I suppose. Dumbledore and many of the Order will have to attend." She paused again, giving Harry the chance to reflect on the topic. He had not been invited and for that, he was grateful. His relationship with Sirius would, at least for now, remain sacred. To further his fame by connecting it to the first martyr of the second coming of Voldemort was unbearable.
Besides, it seemed completely useless to him that Sirius was cleared of all charges now.now that he was.
It hardly mattered that Azkaban, once the cruel executioner of his godfather's sentence, now held its prisoners with little more than flimsy bars. Now, when Harry still felt the guilt of Sirius's death on his shoulders no matter how hard he tried to fight it off.
Harry didn't need this declaration of Sirius's innocence now, as he had known it since he was thirteen. He had only known him for two years. But in those years, he had gained the guidance of a parent, the fraternity of a brother, things he could hold as his touchstone-his constant amidst the chaos that directly connected with the damned scar on his forehead. Now that Sirius was gone, nothing made sense, and there seemed little to fight for. How could he, Harry, possibly stand a chance in the outcome destined by the Prophecy? Especially now, without the one person he felt truly understood?
"And you got the letter also?" Hermione spoke up.
"Yeah," Harry replied, knowing she was referring to the invitation to a very small, semi-memorial for Sirius put together by Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore was trying to help, but it was the last thing Harry wanted to do. Sirius had faded from this life with no more signs of his death then the gentle flap of that rotting curtain. There were days Harry could force himself to live a fallacy. He would sit and believe that Sirius was reading one of his letters in hiding far away, trying to find an opportunity to reply. A day of remembrance seemed so final. It closed the book. The gathering would also be held at Godric's Hollow, the cursed place where it all began. Dumbledore had wanted Harry to see it. A place his parents once dwelled happily-A place Sirius had found solace in his youth. And as desecrated as it was by Voldemort, it still held the visage of its charm, and this, this was where Sirius was to be remembered. "So we'll see you Saturday then," Hermione said her voice now betraying forced cheerfulness.
"Yeah," Harry replied stiffly. "Yeah. I can't wait to see everyone." He hoped he sounded sincere. "Well."
"I guess I'll say 'goodbye', then," she finished for him.
"Yeah, see you soon."
"And Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Give me a ring if you need to talk."
Harry hung up. Hermione made the same offer after every phone call. If only talking made it all go away.
He made for the stairs, passing the old cupboard he had once called home and the living room, where Uncle Dursley and Aunt Petunia where amidst the evening news.
"And now a story for dog and croquet lovers alike-" the anchor chirpily announced. However, they seemed hardly interested in the tele as they were intently watching him-Vernon with his mustache twitching and Petunia with her lips pressed thin, both full of scorn.
"Ungrateful scoundrel," Dursley muttered fiercely. "I suspect you'll be demanding your own phone line and other luxuries of the like, won't you, boy?" Harry stopped long enough to cast an uncaring stare.
"I'm just going up to write everyone," he said simply. The change in Vernon's look was drastic-fear crept into his features in a way that nearly made Harry laugh. Petunia let out a little gasp, and he made a point to meet her eye, the simple act sending shivers up his spine. This woman both saved and hated him.
"Not that I really need to, as I'll be seeing Moody and the others this Saturday. Just for precaution's sake, though. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea."
Vernon, still pale, snapped back into life at the mention of an actual visit.
"Saturday?" he snapped. "What do you mean you'll be 'seeing them' Saturday?"
"I have arrangements to meet up with everyone."
Then, ignoring the onslaught of questions, Harry turned and walked up the stairs, entering the little room he stayed in during the summers, shutting the door behind him. Scattered about was evidence of his Wizarding heritage. Hedwig's cage was sitting empty on top of the dresser. She had yet to return from her latest delivery. On the small writing table, a pile of letters, copies of the Daily Prophet, and loose bits of parchment littered the surface, while a few wayward books, clothing articles and Harry's Firebolt broomstick occupied the floor space.
Harry sat at the desk, the light of dusk nearly disappearing completely, leaving him in darkness. He was torn, sitting alone, missing Hogwarts and the life he led there, yet dreading the inescapable realities of what had happen at his home-Hogwarts-last school year. A year ago, he would have written to Sirius-who better to understand loneliness and frustration? But now, there seemed no one to understand. Not even Ron and Hermione, his two greatest friends. He would not let them be privy to what he knew. It had been his promise. But that, in it self, seemed to widen the distance he had begun to construct between them and himself. He tried to convince himself it was for their safety, but sometimes he wondered if it was more to save his heart from further pain.
And Saturday. Why Godric's Hollow?
Of all places, Dumbledore, Harry thought bitterly. The rage that burned through him that fateful night in Dumbledore's office had long faded, but he couldn't help but feel slightly put out by anything Dumbledore had to say. In a way, this was slightly relieving as Harry remembered the venomous thoughts that coursed through him courtesy of Voldemort just a few short weeks before. The pain and hate and ugly evil that had filled his very body seemed to scar him far worse the lightening- shaped cut on his forehead. After a few weeks to fully mull over the thought of what he shared with Voldemort, Harry grew quite distressed by the idea. Dumbledore had assured him many times, however that he believed Voldemort would not risk weakening himself by invading Harry's mind anytime soon. For now, only Harry's thoughts occupied Harry's brain-at least for now.
And in that, he felt helplessly guilty. There was a tiny part of him that was reasonable, and sometimes at night, it would win the battle with the part that was angry and vengeful and remind him that the Headmaster meant well, how things couldn't be changed, how life was going on and he must face the music. And as night would unfold, he'd spend the sleepless hours trying to force those very thoughts from his mind. And every night, with the nightmares as proof, he failed.
Sighing quietly, he kept himself busy by rearranging the clutter-not really cleaning or putting order to anything. He just needed to distract himself. He kicked open his trunk, a major Dursley contraband which he had smuggled to his room without problems-he could care less now if the Dursley's realized what he had done. Pushing aside some papers, he snatched up a few books he reckoned he was finished with for the summer and dropped them carelessly into the trunk. A muffled tinkling sound drew his gaze. The trunk stared back at him blankly. Harry approached it until he was staring down into its depths. For a moment, he was absolutely still, unable to bring himself to reach into it. Finally, letting out a quiet growl, he plunged his hands into the various school supplies knowing exactly what he was going to unearth.
"Ouch!"
He pulled his left hand back sharply and watched as a thin line of blood appeared unobtrusively on his index finger. Slowly, he withdrew his other hand from the trunk. It was the two-way mirror Sirius had given him, the one he had tossed bitterly to its undoing before the holidays. Carefully, he turned it over and read the familiar handwriting on the back. "If only you had your mirror, Sirius," Harry whispered and having realized he had just addressed his godfather out loud, his breath caught in his throat. Harry furrowed his brow, forcing away the shadow of emotion and flipped the mirror over to read the inscription, in a familiar hand. Quickly, he turned it back around, holding it in both hands, leaving a small smear of blood on the edge. He could make out his dark reflection in the glass that was left somewhat intact in the frame, fractured by the spider web cracks that stretched across the surface. Again, the deadening weight of disappointment took over and he felt like casting the thing out the window. Instead, he carefully fished out the bits of glass from his trunk and settled to restoring the mirror's surface.
Harry managed to find and fit all the pieces together well into the night. He put it down on his desk to consider his handiwork. Only tiny chips of the looking glass were missing, and besides being marred by the evidence of being shattered, the two-way mirror was in one piece. "If only you had your mirror, I'd be able to tell you everything," Harry muttered. After several more minutes, he turned off the light and moved to his bed, stretching out, fully clothed, feeling tired, old. The normal ritual sparked a momentary flash of panic in him-the kind that can overtake one's senses in the moments right before sleep when one's demons broke free of their restraints. As heavy as his eyelids where, Harry feared the comfort of sleep, as there was no comfort awaiting him.no amount of Occulemency practice seem capable of stopping the images of Cedric dying and Voldemort laughing and Beatrix Lestrange casting Sirius through the veil over and over again.
Harry slipped off his glasses and laid quietly in the dark, listening to the sound of frogs in the neighbor's koi pond and the buzz of a lone fly that had slipped in from the open window. From the bedroom down the hall he could hear the deafening snores of his Uncle. The past few weeks hadn't been that bad back with the Dursleys. For the most part, they ignored Harry. He ate meals at different intervals, so they were never forced to be in each other's company for too long. Dudley made every arrangement to never be in the same room as Harry. Big, muscular, a bully with the IQ of a folding chair, he cowered in Harry's presence, the memories of the Dementors obviously fresh in his mind. His solid flesh and boxing titles would not save him from that.
Harry now had privileges, like access to the television, which he hardly watched; save for the few minutes he spent half-hearted listening to the news, and use of the telephone. He had even gained the upper hand when it came to manipulating things to go his way, which he found surprisingly easy to do when it involved Uncle Vernon, but surprisingly hard when it came to Aunt Petunia. The woman hated him, he knew, but that hate had always been manifested plainly, simply, just asking for an equally heated retaliation. But now, Harry caught her eyeing him with a stare so cold he actually shivered. She never spoke to him, not even to reprimand his existence as she did before; she simply let him be in the most vicious way possible. Harry felt the impact of her resolve a hundred times more unnerving than Uncle Vernon's apoplectic rage, and found he just couldn't take advantage of Petunia's indifference. Especially now that he knew the details of his room and board.
Harry's eyes grew heavier and for hours, he fought the yearnings of his body, fearing what would await him in sleep. It was times like these that he wished he had mastered Occulemency. If only he could have controlled himself, if he only resisted the urge to peer into the Pensieve.if only Snape hadn't been the frigid twit that he was.
When at last he slipped into uneasy sleep, the nightmares came.always about Voldemort laughing or hissing his anger, or Cedric flying back, spread eagle, or.most recently, and always the most painfully-Sirius falling through the veil. Except in Harry's dreams, Sirius didn't always simply fall. Harry would see Sirius in a dark gloom. In front of his godfather, the arch would materialize, the rotted curtain furling gently in some ethereal breeze. He would try to run towards Sirius, never able to run fast enough, and he would watch as Sirius muttered one word over and over. Harry could never make it out and instead he watched Sirius walk into the arms of the curtain, his word dying with him every night. And from the depths of Harry's subconscious, sounds of Voldemort's high-pitched laughter filled his head.
A/N: Hi.
Whoo, that was tough. Anyway, welcome to my sixth year fic. Some of you may remember me as the delusional author of HP and the Flesh of the Jade Guardian, which I assure you, I am much embarrassed by. I've mentioned at the end of that fic that I would not write a sequel for it, but that I may attempt a fresh go completely secular to Jade Guardian based off the cannon 5th book. I would have started earlier, but I was pretty uninspired until a few months ago. Have had this sitting around the hard drive since then and have finally worked up the courage to post. This story was originally suppose to be done as a full-blown webcomic, but there's no way I could manage telling a story competently that way at the moment. May link the few pages I've attempted next chapter anyway. Because I am heartless and love inflicting pain. So. Go. Read. I hope you give it a chance, and even more, I hope that you might even enjoy it-at least just a teensy weensy bit. Do review as I live for them. 'Jess' is to 'Review' as 'Justin Timberlake' is to 'Costume Malfunction'.
Summary: In the dawn of the second coming of great evil, Harry returns to Hogwarts for his 6th year bearing the weight of the Prophecy. With the Wizarding World confused and frightened, the Ministry still apprehensive about Dumbledore's advice, and the Order's inadequate numbers to defend against the Dark Arts, it has become even more imperative for Harry to find his unknown power and take it up in arms against any attack from Voldemort. However, Dumbledore has added a new addition to his long-perceived plan-one of the ancient four stone oracles used by Merlin, which may change completely the means of defeating the Dark Lord once and for all-but not without incredible risks to those who survive by burying their secrets, Dumbledore himself, and the Boy Who Lived.
CH. 1: Some Holiday
"Potter!"
Harry gazed toward the kitchen window where he could see the glowering face of his uncle. His green eyes, slightly duller than they should have been and marked by telling, dark circles locked onto those of Vernon Dursley knowingly.
Dursley didn't say a word. He simply cleared his throat angrily, briefly holding up the telephone receiver so that Harry could catch a glimpse of it before dropping it unceremoniously onto the counter. Hastily, he walked away.
Harry sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the cool grass beneath the large oak of number four's backyard, making his way towards the kitchen door. He deeply regretted leaving that quiet corner of the garden.
The phone was still rocking slightly on Aunt Petunia's religiously cleaned counter. Harry knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. She had, after all, rung every week since school had let out nearly a month before.
"Hi, Hermione," Harry he forced pleasantly, something he had managed now quiet easily though he was feeling anything but.
"Hi, Harry," Hermione Granger replied cheerfully. "How're you?"
"Good."
The conversation was choppy and rather curt, and somehow Harry instantly got the feeling that despite her bright tone, she saw through his disguise. There was also the fact that he was nearly as familiar with decent telephone etiquette as Ron was. Harry also found it quite hard to grow accustomed to the fact that Uncle Vernon allowed his use of something that would let him fraternize with the Wizarding World (rather ironic, he thought, as he was using a muggle device to do so). Obviously, Uncle Vernon had taken the words imparted on him by Moody, Lupin, and Mr. Weasley at King's Cross quite literally.
However, novelty aside, the use of the telephone was not the only thing keeping Harry from the easy flow of conversation he once had with his friends. Even the few times that Ron had given the phone a go and rang up, of which Harry was greatly appreciative, resulted in revealing Harry's continue withdrawal from what he had always found comfort in-them. Things were different now-so fantastically different-and he had, as the summer wore on, begun to feel a quiet separation from Ron and Hermione. He thought he could limit the pain by realizing that barrier, but it seemed despite it all, he both needed them close; yet far away-an oxymoron of a resolve that could never be actualized in this universe, therefore he was left fractured and confused.
"We really ought to work on elaborated responses," came Hermione's voice from the earpiece. "You know. An inclusion of nouns, adjectives.aim for a complete sentence."
"Okay," Harry replied flatly. "I'm really good."
"That's not funny."
"Hermione, I was joking."
She sighed audibly, and somewhere deep in Harry's stomach, a small pang of guilt made itself known.
"Listen," she broke in quickly, "I suppose you know the news-"
"About Siri-" Harry stopped short.
He hadn't mentioned his godfather's name since that fateful dawn in Dumbledore's office. He swallowed the knot in his throat with difficulty.
"Um.Dumbledore told me. I know." Hermione was quiet, and Harry took the opportunity to pull out the crumpled front page from the newspaper Albus Dumbledore had included with his last letter. "Sirius Black-" the heading read, "Wrongly Sentenced by the World He Died For". He gazed at the two images of Sirius-one in his handsome youth, grinning, probably laughing his laugh that sounded so much like a bark. Another was the wasted face of the prisoner of Azkaban.
"Right," Hermione finally replied a bit breathlessly. "The investigation took awhile, didn't it? The Ministry's feeling pretty ashamed- there's going to be a public ceremony for-" she paused uncertainly "-him. It was announced this morning on WWN. At least, that's what Ron's told me. A feeble way for Fudge to save face, I suppose. Dumbledore and many of the Order will have to attend." She paused again, giving Harry the chance to reflect on the topic. He had not been invited and for that, he was grateful. His relationship with Sirius would, at least for now, remain sacred. To further his fame by connecting it to the first martyr of the second coming of Voldemort was unbearable.
Besides, it seemed completely useless to him that Sirius was cleared of all charges now.now that he was.
It hardly mattered that Azkaban, once the cruel executioner of his godfather's sentence, now held its prisoners with little more than flimsy bars. Now, when Harry still felt the guilt of Sirius's death on his shoulders no matter how hard he tried to fight it off.
Harry didn't need this declaration of Sirius's innocence now, as he had known it since he was thirteen. He had only known him for two years. But in those years, he had gained the guidance of a parent, the fraternity of a brother, things he could hold as his touchstone-his constant amidst the chaos that directly connected with the damned scar on his forehead. Now that Sirius was gone, nothing made sense, and there seemed little to fight for. How could he, Harry, possibly stand a chance in the outcome destined by the Prophecy? Especially now, without the one person he felt truly understood?
"And you got the letter also?" Hermione spoke up.
"Yeah," Harry replied, knowing she was referring to the invitation to a very small, semi-memorial for Sirius put together by Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore was trying to help, but it was the last thing Harry wanted to do. Sirius had faded from this life with no more signs of his death then the gentle flap of that rotting curtain. There were days Harry could force himself to live a fallacy. He would sit and believe that Sirius was reading one of his letters in hiding far away, trying to find an opportunity to reply. A day of remembrance seemed so final. It closed the book. The gathering would also be held at Godric's Hollow, the cursed place where it all began. Dumbledore had wanted Harry to see it. A place his parents once dwelled happily-A place Sirius had found solace in his youth. And as desecrated as it was by Voldemort, it still held the visage of its charm, and this, this was where Sirius was to be remembered. "So we'll see you Saturday then," Hermione said her voice now betraying forced cheerfulness.
"Yeah," Harry replied stiffly. "Yeah. I can't wait to see everyone." He hoped he sounded sincere. "Well."
"I guess I'll say 'goodbye', then," she finished for him.
"Yeah, see you soon."
"And Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Give me a ring if you need to talk."
Harry hung up. Hermione made the same offer after every phone call. If only talking made it all go away.
He made for the stairs, passing the old cupboard he had once called home and the living room, where Uncle Dursley and Aunt Petunia where amidst the evening news.
"And now a story for dog and croquet lovers alike-" the anchor chirpily announced. However, they seemed hardly interested in the tele as they were intently watching him-Vernon with his mustache twitching and Petunia with her lips pressed thin, both full of scorn.
"Ungrateful scoundrel," Dursley muttered fiercely. "I suspect you'll be demanding your own phone line and other luxuries of the like, won't you, boy?" Harry stopped long enough to cast an uncaring stare.
"I'm just going up to write everyone," he said simply. The change in Vernon's look was drastic-fear crept into his features in a way that nearly made Harry laugh. Petunia let out a little gasp, and he made a point to meet her eye, the simple act sending shivers up his spine. This woman both saved and hated him.
"Not that I really need to, as I'll be seeing Moody and the others this Saturday. Just for precaution's sake, though. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea."
Vernon, still pale, snapped back into life at the mention of an actual visit.
"Saturday?" he snapped. "What do you mean you'll be 'seeing them' Saturday?"
"I have arrangements to meet up with everyone."
Then, ignoring the onslaught of questions, Harry turned and walked up the stairs, entering the little room he stayed in during the summers, shutting the door behind him. Scattered about was evidence of his Wizarding heritage. Hedwig's cage was sitting empty on top of the dresser. She had yet to return from her latest delivery. On the small writing table, a pile of letters, copies of the Daily Prophet, and loose bits of parchment littered the surface, while a few wayward books, clothing articles and Harry's Firebolt broomstick occupied the floor space.
Harry sat at the desk, the light of dusk nearly disappearing completely, leaving him in darkness. He was torn, sitting alone, missing Hogwarts and the life he led there, yet dreading the inescapable realities of what had happen at his home-Hogwarts-last school year. A year ago, he would have written to Sirius-who better to understand loneliness and frustration? But now, there seemed no one to understand. Not even Ron and Hermione, his two greatest friends. He would not let them be privy to what he knew. It had been his promise. But that, in it self, seemed to widen the distance he had begun to construct between them and himself. He tried to convince himself it was for their safety, but sometimes he wondered if it was more to save his heart from further pain.
And Saturday. Why Godric's Hollow?
Of all places, Dumbledore, Harry thought bitterly. The rage that burned through him that fateful night in Dumbledore's office had long faded, but he couldn't help but feel slightly put out by anything Dumbledore had to say. In a way, this was slightly relieving as Harry remembered the venomous thoughts that coursed through him courtesy of Voldemort just a few short weeks before. The pain and hate and ugly evil that had filled his very body seemed to scar him far worse the lightening- shaped cut on his forehead. After a few weeks to fully mull over the thought of what he shared with Voldemort, Harry grew quite distressed by the idea. Dumbledore had assured him many times, however that he believed Voldemort would not risk weakening himself by invading Harry's mind anytime soon. For now, only Harry's thoughts occupied Harry's brain-at least for now.
And in that, he felt helplessly guilty. There was a tiny part of him that was reasonable, and sometimes at night, it would win the battle with the part that was angry and vengeful and remind him that the Headmaster meant well, how things couldn't be changed, how life was going on and he must face the music. And as night would unfold, he'd spend the sleepless hours trying to force those very thoughts from his mind. And every night, with the nightmares as proof, he failed.
Sighing quietly, he kept himself busy by rearranging the clutter-not really cleaning or putting order to anything. He just needed to distract himself. He kicked open his trunk, a major Dursley contraband which he had smuggled to his room without problems-he could care less now if the Dursley's realized what he had done. Pushing aside some papers, he snatched up a few books he reckoned he was finished with for the summer and dropped them carelessly into the trunk. A muffled tinkling sound drew his gaze. The trunk stared back at him blankly. Harry approached it until he was staring down into its depths. For a moment, he was absolutely still, unable to bring himself to reach into it. Finally, letting out a quiet growl, he plunged his hands into the various school supplies knowing exactly what he was going to unearth.
"Ouch!"
He pulled his left hand back sharply and watched as a thin line of blood appeared unobtrusively on his index finger. Slowly, he withdrew his other hand from the trunk. It was the two-way mirror Sirius had given him, the one he had tossed bitterly to its undoing before the holidays. Carefully, he turned it over and read the familiar handwriting on the back. "If only you had your mirror, Sirius," Harry whispered and having realized he had just addressed his godfather out loud, his breath caught in his throat. Harry furrowed his brow, forcing away the shadow of emotion and flipped the mirror over to read the inscription, in a familiar hand. Quickly, he turned it back around, holding it in both hands, leaving a small smear of blood on the edge. He could make out his dark reflection in the glass that was left somewhat intact in the frame, fractured by the spider web cracks that stretched across the surface. Again, the deadening weight of disappointment took over and he felt like casting the thing out the window. Instead, he carefully fished out the bits of glass from his trunk and settled to restoring the mirror's surface.
Harry managed to find and fit all the pieces together well into the night. He put it down on his desk to consider his handiwork. Only tiny chips of the looking glass were missing, and besides being marred by the evidence of being shattered, the two-way mirror was in one piece. "If only you had your mirror, I'd be able to tell you everything," Harry muttered. After several more minutes, he turned off the light and moved to his bed, stretching out, fully clothed, feeling tired, old. The normal ritual sparked a momentary flash of panic in him-the kind that can overtake one's senses in the moments right before sleep when one's demons broke free of their restraints. As heavy as his eyelids where, Harry feared the comfort of sleep, as there was no comfort awaiting him.no amount of Occulemency practice seem capable of stopping the images of Cedric dying and Voldemort laughing and Beatrix Lestrange casting Sirius through the veil over and over again.
Harry slipped off his glasses and laid quietly in the dark, listening to the sound of frogs in the neighbor's koi pond and the buzz of a lone fly that had slipped in from the open window. From the bedroom down the hall he could hear the deafening snores of his Uncle. The past few weeks hadn't been that bad back with the Dursleys. For the most part, they ignored Harry. He ate meals at different intervals, so they were never forced to be in each other's company for too long. Dudley made every arrangement to never be in the same room as Harry. Big, muscular, a bully with the IQ of a folding chair, he cowered in Harry's presence, the memories of the Dementors obviously fresh in his mind. His solid flesh and boxing titles would not save him from that.
Harry now had privileges, like access to the television, which he hardly watched; save for the few minutes he spent half-hearted listening to the news, and use of the telephone. He had even gained the upper hand when it came to manipulating things to go his way, which he found surprisingly easy to do when it involved Uncle Vernon, but surprisingly hard when it came to Aunt Petunia. The woman hated him, he knew, but that hate had always been manifested plainly, simply, just asking for an equally heated retaliation. But now, Harry caught her eyeing him with a stare so cold he actually shivered. She never spoke to him, not even to reprimand his existence as she did before; she simply let him be in the most vicious way possible. Harry felt the impact of her resolve a hundred times more unnerving than Uncle Vernon's apoplectic rage, and found he just couldn't take advantage of Petunia's indifference. Especially now that he knew the details of his room and board.
Harry's eyes grew heavier and for hours, he fought the yearnings of his body, fearing what would await him in sleep. It was times like these that he wished he had mastered Occulemency. If only he could have controlled himself, if he only resisted the urge to peer into the Pensieve.if only Snape hadn't been the frigid twit that he was.
When at last he slipped into uneasy sleep, the nightmares came.always about Voldemort laughing or hissing his anger, or Cedric flying back, spread eagle, or.most recently, and always the most painfully-Sirius falling through the veil. Except in Harry's dreams, Sirius didn't always simply fall. Harry would see Sirius in a dark gloom. In front of his godfather, the arch would materialize, the rotted curtain furling gently in some ethereal breeze. He would try to run towards Sirius, never able to run fast enough, and he would watch as Sirius muttered one word over and over. Harry could never make it out and instead he watched Sirius walk into the arms of the curtain, his word dying with him every night. And from the depths of Harry's subconscious, sounds of Voldemort's high-pitched laughter filled his head.