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Chapter 2: Harry's Summer
It had been a great morning. Harry couldn't really remember the last time he had felt as relaxed as he did at the moment. Ron and Hermione too enjoyed his cheerful side since its appearance had been limited only to their first meeting at the train station before school started again (he hadn't been allowed to leave Privet Drive until the beginning of the term and had been escorted by three Order Members to the Hogwarts train since everything else would have been too dangerous) and occasional laughter between classes. It was nice to see him so unaffected, almost childlike. Harry had to be a grown up far too many times, the little episode with Cara seemed to have had a rejuvenating effect on him. Ron was so grateful about it he nearly strode towards the most terrible place in Hogwarts - the dungeons - only to kiss Cara's cheek.
They arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady, said the password ("Kneazle") and entered. Halfway through the portrait hole, Hermione froze:
"Oh, no! I forgot my schoolbag in the library," she said. Ron who had helped her through the entrance to the Gryffindor tower (and had blushed terribly when he had offered), said, "Oh, it's okay. I am going to get it." He turned around and went away without noticing he had left his best friend halfway tangling from the hole. Harry couldn't help but laugh a little, seeing the two circling around each other but not quite taking hold of each others attraction just yet, was amusing. This awkward interaction was better than the occasional old-married-couple-quarrels that did have a tiring effect on Harry. He helped Hermione through the portrait hole.
"Ron will definitely have to learn something about the whole gallantry thing," Harry said with a smile on his face. The curly-haired brunette blushed deeply, the colour of her cheeks now resembling the typical Weasley hair-colour.
"He only meant to help," she mumbled. Harry looked down at her, he had grown quite bit during the summer and although still being shorter than Ron he was taller than Hermione and even than some of the guys his age.
Suddenly she looked at Harry with a horrified look: "What is he thinking? He cannot get my schoolbag! I must go after him. I'll see you in a moment."
Harry had no idea what was in her bag but feeling her embarrassment it had to be something about Ron. He looked into the empty common room – most of the Gryffindors were outside enjoying the sun. The rest was already on their way for lunch and a few were still at breakfast. He breathed out with a sigh, his smile slowly leaving his face.
He didn't particularly like being alone, it brought back memories of his summer. That one had been his worst; although it wasn't as if he had been cut off from his friends. They actually had had very frequent contact, but it had been very lonely two months.
He remembered the first week as if it had been yesterday:
He had mourned deeply and missed him so much Harry almost came accustomed to the terrible tightness in his chest that had even made it hard to breath. Guilt was literally eating him alive. Because of him his father's best friend had died, because of him Professor Lupin was the last of the Marauders (Pettigrew didn't count anymore), because of him… The first day back, he had locked himself into his bedroom. Aunt Petunia hadn't commented it, simply told him to remember preparing breakfast at seven and gave him a list of chores he had to complete the next day. After hours of brooding and mourning he realized, he didn't have the right to sit here doing nothing. He would make Sirius proud, he'd make amends and he knew the only way to achieve that was to never let a fiasco like at the Ministry of Magic ever happen again.
The next day he wrote several letters, one to "Flourish and Blotts" in order to receive as many books as he could for sixth year, then he wrote to Hermione asking for some books she recommended for additional reading as well as an extra-note to her for Advanced Defence books. He completed his chores rather quickly and spent the rest of the day reading his old notes and schoolbooks.
He studied and worked like this for one week additionally to the books he had received three days after having sent the letters. The manager of the bookshop had complied with enthusiasm and even added books that did not belong to the list (You may send them back without paying for them, Mr. Potter. However, it is my impression you will find them most intriguing.) The books partly contained additional reading to class but most them were Advanced Defence books. The man obviously took the Daily Prophet very seriously (Harry didn't like that fact, but he was grateful for the man's obvious display of loyalties; However he hoped the man was able to conceal his opinion better when in Diagon Ally since everything else would probably lead to the manager's death.). He paid for all the books and gave Hedwig a note that included his thanks but with an unmistakable warning about the dangers his support involved. He would never let anybody die for him again.
After a week, the dreams started.
He knew those kinds of dreams he had had them before, but never like this: Every night, day after day, time and time again he was in Lord Voldemort's body spreading terror over the world. Every time he woke up in the middle of the night unable to sleep because of a gruesome headache that brought him to the brink of tears although never crying. Every day after it had begun, he started studying at three or four in the morning, made breakfast at seven, completed his chores as soon as he could only to go studying again. Since he made his chores, his aunt and uncle couldn't complain, but they were furious with him for studying ("it is unnatural to study so much. Dudley never did so much for school."). The only reason they left him alone was because they were afraid of the other "freaks".
He didn't understand at first why Voldemort seemed oblivious to his presence, however since also grasping the monster's thoughts he realized after a couple of days that he seemed to be practising Occlumency against Harry who couldn't very well tell his mortal enemy of his failing. Why the snake-like man failed however, Harry couldn't understand. He at first had considered writing to Dumbledore then he figured that even if owl post were completely safe, he had no right to contact his headmaster whom he respected so much although not having shown him at the end of term. He deserved every single headache he received, every sleepless night he had as a punishment for his laziness concerning Occlumency lessons.
It took another week for him to realize he wouldn't survive the summer sane if he didn't do anything. Actually the first time he thought he lost his mind was a brief interaction with Dudley on Tuesday. The obese boy had lost some weight over the year, was a lot more subdued and less demanding than the last time he'd seen him. Actually, this was the first week in the summer holiday Harry hadn't been forced to hide a frightened child in the garden or played decoy for them. That Tuesday however had been weird: It had been about 4 o'clock in the afternoon when Harry had heard a hesitant knock at his bedroom door.
"Come in," he had said looking up curiously. When he saw who entered, he raised his eyebrows: "How can I help you, Dudley?"
The other boy seemed shy and insecure, almost causing to bring out Harry's protective streak since it was rare to see the other teenager like this.
On moments such as this the young wizard became aware of the fact that he was far more mature than Dudley, always had been actually, but right now he felt like an adult watching a young child shuffling his feet.
"I… I wanted to…" He fell silent again. Normally Harry would have said something about his astonishment for Dudley actually bringing together coherent words for normal human speech, but he was simply too worn out and the other boy looked too timid to actually mock him.
"Yes?" Emerald green eyes met his cousin's who relaxed, obviously relieved about the lack of hostility.
"I just wanted to know… How was your school year?" Harry didn't even try to hide his shock when he looked at the only slightly older boy. At the same time the innocent question nearly made him cry.
"Long… Very long," Harry said thinking about Umbridge, the disastrous Occlumency lessons, the Blood Quill, his loss of Quidditch, the happenings at the Minis… Before thinking about that he cleared his throat.
"And yours?" When had his voice started to sound so sore?
"Okay," was the answer of the plump boy, "I lost some weight!" There was a hint of pride in his voice. Harry smiled saying he had noticed that.
"Look, the reason I am here. If there is anything I can do for you. Please, say so." With those words Dudley had disappeared again leaving his cousin confused.
He doubted his own sanity for a moment until he could convince himself it must have been real.
As were the dreams.
When he woke at midnight three nights later unable to even close his eyes again in fear to be a murderer again in his dreams, he realized he would have to occlude himself, nonetheless he knew that ordering Occlumency Books at Flourish and Blots was impossible since although the man's loyalties were clear, he couldn't count on the fact his order would arrive safely.
It was difficult to approach people as well. He couldn't go to Professor Lupin since he felt so guilty about Sirius' death and it seemed so selfish to be interested in Occlumency after what happened. Dumbledore was out of the question as well mainly because Harry was so terrible ashamed of his behaviour towards the man he loved like the grandfather he never had, there was no way he could ask for something like this without standing in front of the man and apologize for his manners first. And Snape… When hell froze over, maybe. Besides, there was simply no way the Potions Professor would ever help him.
He looked through Hermione's books and found "Mind's Magic". A note in the book explained that is was about nonverbal magic ('very important next year,' she had written), well, this was better than nothing. He started reading.
The next day after a terribly unsuccessful night he approached Dudley. He asked him to go to the library to get him some books about relaxation techniques and some Muggle psychology; his cousin had complied with enthusiasm, to Harry's great surprise. The young wizard himself avoided leaving the Dursley's property for two reasons: First, he would never be as stupid as last summer ever again, second being outside made him relax, he no right to do that.
When Dudley came back with the books, he simply laid them on Harry's bed and disappeared again even before said bed's owner could thank him.
He gripped his head in frustration. Mind's Magic seemed to be a great book, but he simply couldn't understand what it said.
"Nonverbal spells belong to every wizard's education. However, not few of them are incapable of performing them without at least whispering the spells. The main problem seems to be the essence of nonverbal spells: The spell needs to be visualized. The caster must have a mental picture of what he wants to perform. This book will help you with this difficult task."
Well, he was on page 125 of 200 and still hadn't found one helpful sentence. Maybe, he was simply too stupid to learn this. He probably belonged to those "not few of them" that would never perform nonverbal spells. It frustrated him to no end seeing or rather being Voldemort every night who seemed to have perfected a nonverbal Crucio. Not that he wanted to learn this one, but the monster seemed to do anything magical with such ease Harry simply had no idea how he'd ever survive a direct fight with him. The prophecy… He tried to think as little as possible about it since right now it was clear who the stronger wizard of the two was.
After another terrible night, reading at two in the morning he finally found it, a chapter in the book that would change Harry's views of Occlumency.
"Empathy
Empathy is the ability to understand, even feel the emotion of other humans or beings in general. It requires a certain amount of compassion and understanding of the behaviour of others.
Empathy in itself cannot be used for nonverbal spells, but it is said that some witches and wizards found it easier to visualize the feeling a certain spell causes in order to avoid saying the incantation."
Empathy.
Within seconds he had the pieces together. It was all about emotion; Harry felt, literally felt Voldemort. His impression always had been strongest when the other man had displayed feelings whether happiness or anger.
That knowledge helped him more than all lessons with Snape together.
He thought back to that terrible night at the Ministry. Dumbledore had said that it had been his heart saving him and now he knew that the wise man had been right: Even when Voldemort was happy Harry sensed certain coldness, self-importance and triumph as if the other man was completely incapable of a positive feeling directed at others or for others. Lord Voldemort couldn't bare love; their first face to face encounter had proved that.
Snape had been wrong: It wasn't about letting go of all emotion. Harry had seen Voldemort dealing with Dementors completely unaffected; he even cherished their presence as if gaining power from being around them. Lack of emotion did not move him… Love did. Positive feelings did. Harry's shields would have to be like a Patronus charm not whatever Snape had tried to teach him. However, he was convinced that his Occlumency teacher hadn't tried to deceive him he hadn't made his mistake purposely. Controlling the mind, getting rid of all emotion seemed to work for him to occlude, but not for Harry.
All day, even while finishing his chores, he occluded or tried to, created his shields. While doing so he started to feel calmer, but he was also determined not to show Voldemort any pictures of the people that caused the feelings of safety, love and belonging.
Occasionally he remembered a certain smell or a soft sound that he included into his shields like a cloak, knowing Voldemort could never determine the source of it for the monster only trusted his eyes and intellect. He added the sound of Hermione turning a page and Ron's sounds while eating, not very appetizing but definitely diverting. Dumbledore's dangerous eyes while fazing Voldemort and soft, sparkling gaze were both part of his shields to put fear into his enemy's heart on one hand but to comfort himself on the other. All his friends were one way or another included and he knew his shields would only strengthen in time since other people would be added, the old ones never forgotten. He fingered his little talisman he had created a few days ago. Sirius he added, too, but as a hidden weapon ready to strike when needed, his guilt he buried, using it as backup, knowing that it might be able to throw Voldemort out but he didn't want it as shield since it hurt him.
And he included flying, the wonderful sentiment of being free, of feeling nothing but air rushing through his hair and with a sharp gaze trying to find the snitch, waiting like a hawk to strike.
The phoenix song was a part of it, soft, never loud, helping him to find his courage.
Hagrid's terrible cookies he added, too, the fresh smell of beacon that was on 's apron while he was at the Burrow, Neville's remembrall, Luna's view of the world full of wonders and things only she could see, Ginny's wit, detached and silent, impossible for an outsider to understand and of course… Hogwarts.
Creating a labyrinth of feelings and sounds he had heard and felt over the years all over the castle… The Gryffindor tower, his first and only home, the Gryffindor common room where he had had amusing, triumphing and terrible moments of fear and frustration, the Great Hall that still was a miracle to him, that (although he'd never tell the others) struck him everyday with awe, the dungeons and the terrible moment's he had had to spend there, Hagrid's hut, Dumbledore's office, deep down below the castle the room where the stone had been stored, the Astronomy tower, all the Class rooms, the Room of Requirement, the Chamber of Secrets, the Shrieking Shack, the Quidditch Pitch, the Lake, the Lands, the Forbidden Forest, everything was not analyzed but felt and heard. He could imagine it all without thinking of a single image.
Hogwarts became his fortress without walls, once again serving her purpose, protecting a student.
He knew, at one o'clock in the morning when he was finally satisfied with his shields that he'd never struggle with the Patronus Charm again: It was inside of him.
He knew his shields were strong but he was still afraid to sleep, he would've given anything if anybody could have tested the shields. For a second he wanted to apologize to Snape, but the man would never accept so there was no use.
Completely exhausted his head fell on the cushion, Harry being asleep before his body touched the mattress.
After that the dreams changed again.
He was no longer the murderer (and would no longer suffer from headaches when waking up) but a witness. He no longer saw things through Voldemort's eyes but was forced to watch them as Harry.
Waves of despair and fear from the victims and morbid pleasure of the tortures washed over him. It had been so intense that when he finally could rip himself from the place and woke up again, he had run to the bathroom retching.
It was the first night he cried, he hadn't cried in eight years (he had been at the brink of tears but they had never flowed so far). That night he cried, trying to be as silent as possible. He nearly choked, grieving for the four innocents who had lost their lives. He hadn't done anything, he wasn't sure if he could have.
He almost swore never to occlude like this ever again.
Avoiding sleep for nearly twenty-four hours, his exhaustion was too great and he forced himself to lay down.
He had to go there again, watching, emotions crushing him. That night, hours after he had woken up, he remembered what people sometimes said to those crying: "No more tears." They were right. He had no tears left to shed.
The next morning he tried to break down his shields, piece by piece but he was utterly unsuccessful, he would have had to obliviate himself in order to forget all the good things that happened to him if he wanted to get rid of his shields. He wasn't ready to do that to himself. To him, forgetting his friends was how he imagined the Dementor's Kiss.
A day later he could only imagine how terrible he must have looked like since Aunt Petunia's normally scathing, shrill tone demanding for breakfast had sounded more like an almost friendly suggestion.
His list of chores had seemed shorter that day.
It took him another nightmare-that-was-reality to realize that although he couldn't control the curses cast (he had tried to take a Cruciatus for that terrified muggle) not the intentions of the torturers (Tackling Bellatrix Lestrange in order to stop her from hurting that small girl had resulted in him simply falling through her) he had come to realize that he could ease the victim's pain.
At first, he hadn't really understood how he did it until one night - to be exact two days later, when his aunt and uncle had already stopped giving him chores since he was almost incapable of making breakfast without burning the beacon – he noticed that when he caught their eyes (at those moments their emotions seemed to literally attack him), their muscles seemed to relax slightly, their breathing seemed to ease. In return, he didn't feel quite as useless anymore. Giving comfort to other calmed his aching heart.
After that the nights became a little better, never relaxing, but he was able to function. Occasionally he could even live again, those moments happening when he wasn't thinking about the war, the dreams or Sirius. Although his chores had been doubled for being a lazy, useless boy the last couple days, he was enormously glad for the change.
He could even catch up on his schoolwork and the Daily Prophet that was about too many deaths, to much fear, too little real information and to many talks about the Chosen One. It nearly made him ill again. Hadn't he learnt his lessons last year, he wouldn't have continued reading the paper.
His dreams, as morbid as it sounded helped him coming to terms with his godfather's death:
He came to realize how very different people reacted to upcoming death. There were those who had come to accept, almost welcomed death after sessions of torture, some of them didn't even react to physical pain anymore. Harry never knew how to help those: Their heart seemed to have broken, their minds destroyed, the only thing that still seemed to work was the body itself, but it was only a shell, awaiting death.
Those who tried to bargain he always wanted to give some courage so they wouldn't have to spend their last moments crawling before the monster.
A small group of people truly puzzled him: There had been a man once, a fifty year old wizard who had been on his knees whispering: "This is not happening. He's not back. It's a dream. I'm not here." Even after being hit with the Cruciatus Curse he had still been whispering those words, Harry fruitlessly trying to catch his eyes to ease the pain, but the man hadn't looked up.
Finally there were the angry ones and those who did the same thing as his father: Standing upright refusing to back down and ready to make it as difficult as possible for Voldemort to kill them. However, even those always died.
That was the hardest thing. Nobody escaped, no one. Why him?
The worst were the displays of mothers dying to protect their children.
So many people had died for him and what was worse: Those kids always died, too. Why did he survive? There was nothing special about him, not one logical reason why he lived.
"Harry?" a voice came from a distance. He shook his head a little to come back to reality away from the memories.
"Harry?" This time he recognized Hermione's worried tone.
"Huh? Yes," he shook his head a little stronger, "I am sorry, Hermione. I was lost in thought. Is everything okay?"
"I am fine, but you seemed a little distracted." The worry in her voice hadn't disappeared yet. Harry rubbed his face.
"I am alright, too. Hermione. Just a little tired."
She didn't quite believe him, but decided not to probe.
"Let's go outside a little, before eating lunch. Ron waited outside the Portrait hole."
"Good idea. I'll be there in a moment, just let me get something from the bedroom." Hermione looked at him a little suspiciously, but decided to trust him. She nodded, turned around at left through the Portrait hole.
Harry sat down again to collect himself; his best friend wasn't suspicious without reason. He didn't need to go to the bedroom, but he'd have to calm down.
Over the summer he had learnt to protect his mind from intrusion, coming to terms with emotions flooding at him, even occasionally feel other people's sentiments, even the capability to "categorize" negative feelings and when allowed by the owner of said emotions even the ability to give them a positive streak. However well he could do that, dealing with his own feelings or those abilities in general were still a struggle. He'd have to study hard if he wanted to ever feel peace again or without ending up in a mental home.
He sat down and breathed, slowly detaching himself a little from the straining memories, thinking about the good sides of the summer like Dudley helping him or Aunt Petunia's almost gentle request. After a minute he was calm and collected, ready to enjoy his time with his friends.
Next Chapter: Respect, Dreams and Disdain