Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns Harry Potter.
Warnings: Nonexistent as of yet. Beware though.
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Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
- William Butler Yeats -
Two years can change a lot.
In a single moment, a butterfly can decide to fly a little harder and higher up in the sky and as a result, a hurricane tears apart a city up North of America a few weeks after. One small thing can create a world of chaos.
Harry Potter's butterfly is of course … the fact that he is bored. Bored as hell. And the thing about Harry Potter is that when he is bored, danger always follows. Perhaps he inherited it from his late Quidditch-star father, Mr James Potter. Or perhaps from his cheeky, book-smart mother Mrs Lily Potter, nee Evans. But the most important fact is he is bored and he does not do well when bored. He does stupid, reckless, dangerous things.
Though he really, truly shouldn't. Harry should learn to stop meddling with what ought not to be meddled with. Things have been good for him these past two years. He has appeared all over the world in important meetings and dinners; just last week he was at the birthday party of the American Minister for Magic. Life has never been so calm. Of course, for an adrenaline junkie like Harry, calm isn't good. Calm is bad because it means he does not have meaning in his life anymore, excuse his ridiculous rationale.
Maybe life has been good to him, he's alive and healthy, isn't he(?) but that does not necessarily mean that life has been good for him. He isn't enjoying anything anymore. Everyone seems to be moving on; everyone but him. Hermione is engaged to Ron, Luna and Neville have hooked up and are moving in together, and Ginny … his beautiful girlfriend Ginny has been gone for two months on some stupid scholarship to play as a sub for the Holyhead Harpies.
They Apparate to see each other whenever they can which is nice because he loves her and he misses her when she's not nearby. But that does not necessarily mean he is happy in their relationship - it's reached a sort of standstill; they haven't made a huge step since she first let him sleep with her over a year and a half ago.
Harry Potter, it seems God likes him and wants to repay him for all he has done, has grown even more handsome. Handsome in the more conventional sense; he's taller, his voice is even a little deeper, his skin is smoother and his eyes are a brighter emerald than ever before. At first, he did not think much of it. But now he blesses his good genes and the sexual and physical objectification he faces. Due to the way he looks, he has more influence in the Ministry, not that he bothers with that codswallop of a government.
His thoughts are interrupted when his chunky phone rings. He picks it up and though he already knows it is Hermione calling him because she is the only other one with a phone, he still checks. 'Hermione?' he says in a low voice.
'Harry,' she pants. Why is she panting? Better yet, why does she almost always sound like she has just spent the past half an hour strenuously working out? 'Where are you?'
He looks around the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and then down at the cold cup of tea he's had in one hand for the last twenty minutes. 'I'm at home. Why?'
'Could you come to Hogwarts please. Something came into the possession of Professor McGonagall …' she pauses and then laughs nervously, 'alright, Minerva … but anyway, we're not completely sure what it is. We could do with a little help, so could you please-'
'I'm on my way.'
In the blink of an eye, Harry appears just outside the Great Hall of Hogwarts. He hears, upon his entrance, an uproar of screaming and cheering.
Imagine a fireworks display and standing in the midst of it all with hundreds of fireworks going off around you. You might be disorientated, confused, even a little scared. But for Harry, he's lived amongst fireworks his whole wizarding life, conscious wizarding life that is.
Gracious is his middle name, well, maybe if 'gracious' began with a 'J' and ended in '-ames'… But regardless, Harry has spent the last two years in particular in the spotlight; thrust into the open arms of the public, with people screaming at him and begging for his autograph. In addition to this, it has become a custom in the last two years for Harry to now rub a fan's forehead, almost exactly where his scar is.
As if that's a token of good luck.
He tries to avoid thinking of Lord Voldemort because to him, it is as though all the sadness will leave his life if the reason for the sadness in his life is ignored. But Voldemort didn't create sadness in his life. He created chaos and weirdly enough, a reason for resistance and living. Now that that reason in particular for resisting and living is gone, Harry isn't sure what to spend his life doing anymore.
He's not even sure where to begin.
'Hello,' Harry stutters, waving awkwardly at the audience of children when they clap and scream his name.
'Harry!'
'HARRY-!'
'It's The Chosen One!'
He feels his face redden. Remember how it's previously mentioned that Harry is 'gracious' and used to all this crap? Yeah, that's not entirely true. He likes to pretend it is but honestly, it really-really-really isn't. Brighter than a plum, he looks up from the ground (pretending to himself that there's something interesting on his shoe when there isn't) when finally, Hagrid comes to the rescue.
Amazing, brilliant, friendly Hagrid.
'Harry!' he shouts, moving through the crowd with a kind of power akin to that of a king or a fierce warrior. When the gigantic man approaches Harry, they shake hands firmly. ''Ow are yeh?' he asks in that loud, booming voice of his.
'I'm very good Hagrid. Let's get out of here, I have an appointment with McGonagall.'
'I'll take yeh there,' the large man says. He's wearing a bright purple suit and his hair is separated into two pigtails. ''Scuse meh, move outta the way,' he barks when they don't listen to his first request. They, the audience that is because when they're all mobbed together, Harry refuses to give them an identity and instead thinks of them as a collective, simultaneous entity when they act this way … but anyway, they part quickly and shuffle over so that Harry and the half-giant can pass.
'How're you Hagrid?' Harry asks, turning to look at the man and struggling all the same to keep up with the enormous man.
'I'm very good meself, Harry. Jus' bin busy teachin' and workin' I guess. The Mrs also ain't speaking to meh righ' now, so I'm in a little bit o' trouble.' He chortles and Harry laughs with him. Yes, last year Hagrid and Madame Maxime married.
More often than not, they are a match made in Giant Heaven, but they fight often and if Harry is honest, their confrontations make Harry, Hermione and Ron's days. They're very funny when they argue in Order meetings or when Hagrid is taken to Harry after he's kicked out of a bar for fighting with a man who had looked at Maxime the wrong way. But all in all, things have gone well for the couple. Maxime is no longer the Headmistress of Beauxbatons and instead lives in Scotland with Hagrid, starting her own fashion business for larger women.
The old pair of friends exchange more pleasantries in which Hagrid shares why exactly Maxime isn't talking to him and Harry encloses a little more information about why he's here at Hogwarts. When they finally arrive at the gargoyle, and Harry says the password - Albus Dumbledore.
'Thank you Hagrid,' he says when the stairs appear. 'I'll see you later, maybe I'll come down to your office for a cup of tea and some rock cakes.'
'Alrigh' Harry,' the bushy-haired man says. He nods at Harry, claps him a little too hard on the shoulder and then turns away to walk. The young wizard has always wondered what type of magic makes the stairs go 'round and 'round. Did the late Dumbledore create it? Or is it perhaps a feature that has been present and constant in Hogwarts since the times of the Great Founding Four?
Or maybe it's a simple Levitation Charm and there really is no more to it. Maybe it ends there. But in Harry's experience, things never just end there.
Shaking his head, Harry steps onto the stairs and lets the gargoyle raise him higher and higher until he's standing before the thick, dark brown oak door. He knocks.
There's no answer.
Harry knocks again and after another thirty seconds of waiting, is rewarded with silence. 'Hello? Hermione? Professor McGonagall?' he calls. There's no response.
The advantage of being the bane of Lord Voldemort's existence, at several moments in time being one of the most hated people in Britain, and also the most wanted is that Harry has learnt how important caution and thought are to survival. The most dangerous experiences he's had have been when he didn't think enough or wasn't cautious enough.
He opens the door without waiting and steps into the large, circular office. Not one portrait is hung up with a face, because all of its inhabitants, even Dumbledore in his portrait, have gone. Perhaps to find out some information for McGonagall and Hermione, Harry's not sure.
He also notices that even though it is cold outside (November does tend to be cold in England you see) the fireplace is bare of golden dancing flames and delightful warmth. Moreover, in the dim office all of the candles (aside from one) are not lit.
Harry however, instead of doing the logical thing because he really is just an idiot sometimes, does not leave the room and instead stares at the large, veiled object hidden behind a thick cloak.
'What...?' he murmurs.
He takes a step forward and despite the voice in his head shouting STOP, STOP RIGHT NOW, Harry carries on forward until he's so close to the object he can almost smell it. A shaky hand comes out and he pulls off the cloak thrown over the object. He doesn't expect to see what he sees.
His face.
Reflected back at him.
A mirror. Just a mirror.
A gorgeous mirror now he thinks about it. The frame is so obviously hand-crafted, with intricate patterns and beautiful designs weaving across … is it … wood? Or maybe marble? Harry bites his lip, spares one more glance at the blank portrait of Dumbledore and then shrugs and touches the frame.
When he looks back up, his eyes meet the painted piercing blue irises of the man he owes everything to ... but it's too late. Harry is sucked into the mirror and tossed to the furthest ends of the universe. He lands on his arse and grunts when he backside connects with the hard ground.
He hears a loud crack and the answering scream that exits his open, hollering mouth, sends chills down the spines of everyone listening. Because everyone is listening.
The air is white with cold and all you can hear is screaming.
