Harry Potter and the Witch Queen
by TimeLoopedPowerGamer
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Last updated 2014/09/19.
Chapter Two
Someone was singing softy to Harry. He felt warm all over and generally really, really quite good. Gentle arms held him as he slowly awoke. He couldn't see far without his glasses, but he could easily identify the cloud of shifting dark blond hair curtaining his head in the dim, early morning light of his bedroom. As he lay on his back, drowsy and unmoving, he tried to listen closer but couldn't make out the words to the song. He felt he'd heard it before, though.
The arms withdrew and now light fingers pressed against his chest, barely touching but constantly moving in a regular pattern. He tried to say something but his mouth felt like it was full of fluff. A lilting, strangely distant voice spoke to him from above."Hush, Harry darling, go back to sleep. The magic isn't finished yet. It is hardly begun."
Someone was shifting above him, slowly sliding down his body. Ah! Yes, that was definitely his wife Luna, waking him up in a most special way. At least part of him was awake already, it seemed. As she continued to move down and over and around him, he gasped and his head rolled back into his pillow, his entire body briefly shuddering at the sudden intimacy.
Starting to rock back and forth, she leaded forward and whispered in his ear, "Sleep Harry. You need to sleep now."
"Ahhh, love, how could I possibly do that?" he groaned numbly, not understanding her request. Groggily, he moved his hands to her sides and lightly stroked her flanks. Small, soft hands gently moved his away, pinning them to the bed beside his head. Pressing her upper body firmly to him, she dragged the tips of her breasts down his chest and back up, over and over again.
Independent thought rapidly escaping him, Harry tried weakly to struggle free, find her mouth with his, something to engage his unusually forceful wife and further their mutual pleasure. Immediately, whole unfairly, she stopped moving and chuckled quietly in his ear.
"Lay still or I'll get my wand and stun you, my once and future hero," she said huskily. "I must finish this myself for the magic to work. Don't. Move. An inch. I will take care of everything."
Everything sounded very good to him right now, even as strangely floaty as he was feeling, so he relaxed and let her continue her early morning exercises. He certainly didn't mind. Breathing a softly laughing "good boy" into his ear, she slowly sat up again, the sudden cold air between them making Harry frown in displeasure. He could now smell a sharp yet subtle scent wafting through the room, one he didn't recognize. Most likely another one of the rare incenses, herbs, or oils that she loved to collect. Maybe it was coming from the candles he could fuzzily see she'd placed at the four corners of the bed, their blurry flames flickering in the shadowy room. Didn't really matter, he concluded, his thoughts drifting away again.
Luna's hands found his chest once more, her fingertips running lightly over and over again in regular patterns. It felt like she was tracing a picture or running a maze on his skin with her fingers but it also felt amazing, whatever it was. Everything she was doing this morning felt amazing. Her hair brushing his face, her fingers on his skin, her soft voice whispering in his ear, her quiet and lilting singing, her breasts eagerly rubbing against him, her thighs gently holding him, her...well, that part would feel good, wouldn't it. Nothing unusual there. Best enjoy the moment and ask questions later.
She was singing again, a verse structure now apparent in the unknown words, her body rocking in time to the beautiful music she was making. His entire body seemed to hum along with it now. As she moved above him, her breasts gently swaying, she stared into his eyes, devouring him with her pale gaze and her body. At first he was worried about not being able to help control the pace but he now felt like it could last forever, like he could last forever. All tension had long ago left him and he was one with the moment, with her. He wished he knew the words to the song, or at least remembered where he'd heard it. It sounded magical, he could almost taste the music in the air.
Minutes seemed to flow together like their bodies did, relentlessly but also effortlessly. She was breathing heavier now, but even her gasping breaths seemed to be part of the tune. It was a gently hopeful song, no sadness even in the graceful tension of the quickly resolved pattern of notes. Her hands still hadn't stopped moving, tracing the same shapes over and over again on his chest.
When she quickened her pace the song still held together, but more as a counterpoint to her movements. The few parts actually sung were chosen perfectly, added to accent her beautiful movement above him as she ground out the final moments of their pleasure. Her hands stopped their motions on his chest as she started to make gasping cries.
"Dearest, hold me now!" she moaned, pulling up on his shoulders. Not even thinking about it, he immediately sat forward, wrapping his arms around her body, pressing himself to her as closely as he could. She continued to move strongly, almost violently, finally bringing the both of them to a moaning, shouting, delicious, nearly simultaneous finish.
Falling backward on the bed once more, Luna wrapped in his arms still, he tried to gather his thoughts, clear his head, but everything was still so fuzzy. His wife whimpered softly and wrapped her hands around his encircling arms, pulling to gently and reluctantly free herself from his embrace.
"You are amazing, love," she said, still flushed and shaky from their love making, "but I have one more thing I must do now. Hold very still, please."
Remaining closely connected to him, she carefully reached over to the bedside table and pulled back a bowl full of some kind of oil. Placing it on the bed beside them, she dipped her fingers into it three times. He lay still, his mind in a haze of pleasure but also confused. He watched as she repeated the same pattern as before on his chest, now with the oil. It was strangely warm and tingled like it was full of electricity. Trusting his wife completely, he simply watched as she finished the design, her face scrunched up in extreme concentration, her hands almost shaking with effort. Every additional line, every new stroke seemed to take more and more effort. He wanted to say something, to help somehow, but some instinct told him not to, to stay still, that it was vitally important that he not interrupt.
Finished at last, her entire body shaking, she moved the bowl off the bed and then placed both of her still oil-soaked hands on the sides of his head, against his temples. She was leaning over him now, still entirely naked and smiling like sunshine itself, and all the cares of the world fled before the sight of her. Leaning forward, still holding his head, she kissed him long and deep before placing her lips to his ear once more.
She whispered quietly to him, "Hear these words from my soul again, beloved, that they may protect you in what is to come." She took a deep breath, then started to speak sounds of terrible beauty and power. He couldn't remember what they were from one word to the next, the knowledge seemingly spilling out of his brain immediately, but they were familiar, like he'd heard them before. But when?
The power passed through him and also filled him, and then she went silent and he felt suddenly numb. Unable to move, he could still hear and feel as Luna moved off of him carefully and away, off the bed, briefly searching for something in the room.
"I am so sorry, Harry," Luna said softly from next to their bed, sounding immensely sad now, her wand in her hand. "Please forgive me once more." She took another deep breath and then said one last word before darkness took him.
"Obliviate."
Harry woke up shivering, body aching but head clear. An odd, still half-remembered dream was just fleeing his mind, disappearing entirely as he tried to catch it, leaving only a sense of something precious lost forever. He was forgetting something.
Well, it wasn't Voldemort in his dreams so it can't have mattered that much. He hurt all over, his neck had a crick in it from the book he'd had his head on, and his stomach was a huge knot, but the scar wasn't on fire. Therefore, old snakeface wasn't peeping on his brain. Good enough.
It was tough getting used to that. It had been years since Voldemort had allowed him a moment's peace through their ever-strengthening connection. His cursed wound was on fire almost all the time for years while he fought a losing battle against the Death Eaters and their leader with his few remaining friends. It was only after Hermione finally taught him a minor amount of Occlumency that Harry had a good night's sleep, but it would still burn most of the time when he was awake.
He was on his bed, having fallen asleep slumped over his books after skimming most of the history and all of his other first year textbooks – they seemed so simple and straightforward now, looking back after all those years. He still needed to make sure the fiddly little details were memorized before tests and such but, overall, he thought he'd give eleven-year-old Hermione a run for her money. If that was a good idea, that is. He'd have to think about that – hiding his current abilities and knowledge.
After fumbling for his glasses for a short while he finally found them tucked under the rumpled covers and put them on again. He needed to make plans, lists, all that Hermione-stuff she always did when they got in trouble in their old school days. If he failed, people would die. Just like their old school days. So, brainstorming lists, checklists, planning lists, and maybe a saving-people schedule with little colored boxes according to how much he cared if the person died. With his foreknowledge, it should have been simple.
But things had already changed – Dumbledore had apparently directly and magically intervened with his Aunt and Uncle, possibly preventing the next six years of abuse he'd suffered during his first...lifetime. He needed terms for this, it was getting confusing. His "family" certainly had given him plenty of space yesterday, when he'd still been nearly immobile from weakness most of the afternoon. And then his Aunt had...made soup for him.
That had certainly never happened before and, despite her lemon-sucking facial expression, it had been perfectly nice soup (if predictably from a can). And his horrible Uncle acted like he was invisible, simply looking over his head at something else and stopping until Harry got out of his way in the halls last night, instead of knocking him aside like he would have before. And no one even tried to touch his door, his Aunt having simply called out to him when she'd brought up the soup. Dumbledore must have done something to it, too. Maybe Muggle-repelling charms of some kind.
Getting up to take a quick shower before the household awoke (like he always had in the past...future...now, whatever), he found his thoughts wandering while he sung softly in the echoing bathroom, just barely louder than the falling water. Trying not very hard to avoid waking anyone with the noise, he reveled in the music he was making, not remembering a shower he'd ever enjoyed this much. Plans eventually sorted themselves out in his head as the hot water drove the last remnants of sleep from him.
There had to be a root cause. Was this all because of his collapse while shopping and the resulting brief visit to the Hogwarts hospital wing? Was it some other change to the history of this timeline, before he'd "arrived"? How much more would the world change when he started actively trying to prevent bad things from happening? Even the smallest new decisions would require him to think long and hard if he wanted to remain in control, and Harry knew from his previous time through these years that he'd seldom be given a second to think. Things just seemed to explode and fly at him at Firebolt speeds constantly. Even if he started with some successes things would change and he'd lose his primary edge. Especially when he started seeking out major events to change, like saving his Dogfather early. Which he had to do.
The Dursleys hadn't disturbed him the other night when, feeling a lot better, he'd come down for a cold sandwich. He'd taken a chance and just blown off all his usual cooking and cleaning chores. No backlash. So far, it looked like "cleaning up his room" and "taking out the trash" were the only chores Dumbledore had left his relatives mentally capable of assigning to him, and he didn't have to start in on those until next week according to his Aunt's stammered, eye-contact-less conversation. Hell, Dudley hadn't even tried to verbally bully him last night. Yeah, that stunk of magic. Harry couldn't remember a twenty-four hour period where the prick had ever been able to keep his fat mouth closed in the previous sixteen years Harry had known him. Then the Death Eaters killed and skinned them all – he'd had mixed feelings about that one.
A wonderful smell filled the kitchen as his breakfast finished cooking: a full, Classic English Spread Plus (plus tons more bacon, that was), but still loosely, sort of (not really) conforming to doctor's orders. After, he retreated to his room to do more planning and list making. Whistling softly while feeding Hedwig some of the bacon he'd saved from earlier, he proceeded to get his ideas in better order. Harry frowned in thought, quill poised above his paper. He'd start with the big items.
Quirrell couldn't be saved; he'd already been taken over by Voldemort at this point and tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone once. At least Harry hadn't screwed up Hagrid rescuing it from the bank vault earlier. Protecting the Stone itself didn't seem to be an issue. His first time through, the old snake hadn't been able to figure out the mirror, which was the real defensive measure Dumbledore had planned.
Defending his friends while Voldemort was in the castle had to be his goal. Hagrid's egg might not even get delivered but, if it was, he could arrange to owl Ron's brother Charlie immediately about the dragon as soon as the egg showed up. Speaking of dangerous beasts – what was he going to do about Draco? And good gods, what about Hermione?
Gripping the edge of the table with his tiny hands, he tried to control his breathing, shoulders shaking. He tapped his fingers on his desk to the rhythm of the song he was humming, attempting to calm down. Okay, threats, in order of most dangerous to least: Hermione, Voldemort, the Troll, Draco, baby dragon, Dumbledore.
"First things first," he said to Hedwig, where she sat on his desk, "I'll meet the girl who will become the most powerful witch of her generation, possibly of all time, on the train. No option there."
If Ron and him hadn't become her friend, how much worse would things have been for her? She might have died. Or become Darker, even earlier. Maybe...maybe if he'd been a better friend to the frizzy-haired young witch, she wouldn't have taken such a Dark path after their friends died.
He had to draw any fire from Quirrell away from his friends. Voldemort might try to involve someone in his plans this time, the same way he did in the second year. While he was thinking about it, ensuring Ginny never ended up in Tom's diary's clutches was also a "must" – he'd never had a clear idea of how much damage those months under his sway had done, but she'd never been truly mentally well after. Bargaining away her soul and voluntarily becoming the violent, amoral right-hand to the Witch Queen was only the final symptom of the problem.
The troll was easy, if it even happened: he knew a half-dozen spells that even a First Year had enough power to cast that would, in combination, delay, disable, or kill it. Keeping little girls from wandering around the night of the feast would be the best defense. He'd keep his friends close that night. In fact, allowing anyone to die the entire time he was at Hogwarts would be bad, so he'd have to do his best to prevent that, too. He wouldn't even try and lead Draco into a deathtrap, no matter how much fun it was to think about. Deaths in Hogwarts would reflect poorly on Dumbledore and they'd need him in place for years to come, battling the pro-Death Eater forces in the government who'd try to take over the school. Even if Harry's last few conversations with the old man hadn't been exactly...friendly. He'd regretted those unkind words, after Dumbledore was found dead that night.
"Maybe I could tone-down the Draco hating," he mentioned to the snowy owl, who had just started to drift off to sleep. "Doesn't mean we have to be friends, but running battles in the corridors should be avoidable." She looked frostily at him, not commenting.
Making Slytherin house less actively hostile could also pay dividends later in the war. And maybe he could reach out to the other houses, especially when his dearest showed up next year, eleven years old and terribly vulnerable. That was assuming he couldn't get her sorted into Gryffindor somehow, where he could protect her better. Letting the bullying Ravenclaw had put her through happen again, especially those first two years, was not an option. Getting contacts in the other houses could also help bring more wands to their side in the coming conflict.
He had a month to prep before the Hogwarts train ride and would have to figure out if he could get anything from the Muggle or magical world that would help. Once he was at the school, he wouldn't be able to get away. It was unlikely that Dumbledore would suddenly let him go home for Christmas holidays, so that meant he'd have to pack war supplies to last until next summer.
He had all the basic school supplies and his long-lost friend Hedwig back, but additional equipment might help with specific problems. Equipment, stuff he needed...his Invisibility Cloak! Harry almost smeared the page with ink in realization. He couldn't change too much too early or Dumbledore might not even give it to him!
"No getting caught trying to acquire Dark items of power or practicing torturing people, Mr. Potter," Harry thought with a chuckle, Hermione's sing-song voice echoing in his head. At least Mad-Eye wasn't watching the Dursley house yet, so he could still get away with some stuff at home. Best hide anything too bad, maybe in a better trunk, before the Order reformed and the paranoid old dog showed up.
As for the other stuff, he could get to Diagon Alley with the Knight Bus – Knockturn Alley too – most likely without anyone's notice. Well, anyone but Dumbledore and his blasted little monitoring charms. He might not have been able to tell Harry was starving, but he sure as hell would know if he wandered into London on his own for hours.
"Maybe if I establish a pattern of travel," he concluded, looking at Hedwig, who was still trying to take a nap, "I would be ignored long enough to make a quick trip."
She ignored him completely this time.
The Trace on underage magic would sense if he practiced any spells, with his assigned wand or others (the Trace was on his house and himself, so black market wands were only useful to rogue hit wizards working out of hidden warehouses and the like), but he could work on potions if he could get the ingredients, so "no" to a spare wand and yes to lots of potion supplies. At least until he figured out how to break the Trace.
The Hermione in his head was screaming at him now, trying to get his attention – books. Of course. "Hogwarts, A History", all years class books for all classes (not those awful ones by Lockhart, but the standard ones), anything he could find on advanced magical theory (might as well continue his education there). Maybe he could find some old Auror training manuals – the publicly available ones at least. Sort of the wizarding world equivalent of having copies of Soldier of Fortune magazine lying around. Might make a good cover if he needed to break out advanced skills early.
"Maybe I'll spend some more time on my wandless magic once I got to Hogwarts," he said to Hedwig, "It's something I've never been really comfortable with."
The owl simply stared back at him, shifting back and forth on her feet.
Not that he could practice that outside of school or even inside where anyone could see him, but maybe in the Room of Requirements. There might also be a way to get an exemption to the underage magic laws if he could buddy-up to Fudge, but that might not be worth it. Maybe hire private tutors? His trust vault could easily pay for it. Dumbledore might be convinced to help out with that if Harry could avoid looking like too much of a Dark Lord in training or an immature prat this time. He'd have to look into it, but the pure-blood elites like Draco obviously had them, so it might just be a matter of bribing the right politicians and bureaucrats.
Speaking of rotten politics, what about Sirius? Harry would have to figure out a way to get him out safely earlier or make damn sure everything happened the same way again. He'd not lose his Dogfather a second time, not to some random chance event and not to his own ill-conceived actions, like last time. He'd blast holes through mountains, light the Ministry of Magic on fire with just his mind, turn all the gold in Gringotts purple, whatever it took to prevent that. Maybe he could figure out a way to politically sell reopening his godfather's case quietly, limiting Fudge's own political embarrassment. Sirius' lack of trial was something that fell on a previous administration's shoulders (Bagnold had a lot to answer for) so, if played right, it might be something they could work out. Cornelius Fudge, Defender of Truth and Justice and friend of Harry Potter and his godfather; could be enough to swing Fudge his way, but it would have to be very quiet and might not be possible this year. Time to get some publicity, and not the crappy kind like his last life.
The thought of Sirius being stuck in that horrible place even one day more hurt, but he'd have to play this right. Get it wrong, Fudge might just arrange for an "accident" for Sirius while still in Azkaban, something no one would question. People died in there all the time. Playing politics would have to come after people were warmed up to the idea of Harry Potter.
Which brought Harry to Dumbledore again. For some reason, the Headmaster had stomped on his Aunt and Uncle instantly after seeing him in the hospital wing. Dumbledore seemed more quietly angry than Harry had ever seen yesterday, but had spoken personally to him calmly and sadly, even subtly asking Harry to owl him if something was worrying him. Like his guardians beating him again.
Maybe that scan Madam Pomfrey had done at Hogwarts had shown something, like all his injuries from years of abuse. But why had she taken notice this time? Being a Quidditch player or just being at Hogwarts might have excused some of it. Perhaps a later treatment or potion, prescribed for something obviously wrong with him, had healed the long-term damage before she'd done a more detailed scan. In any case, Dumbledore was aware of his true situation now and seemed to be a lot more hands-on in taking care of him. Maybe getting Sirius out of jail early would cause him to place Harry with his godfather instead of his horrible relatives, wards or not. If Sirius' place was good enough for him to hide at and also work as headquarters for the Order, surely it would be good enough to protect Harry. If nothing else, he could spend a few weeks with his "family" and then leave for the rest of the summer. He was absolutely sure they wouldn't mind him leaving early.
An hour later, head in his hand and random scribbles on the pages instead of useful lists, Harry stopped to gather his thoughts. He spent a few minutes trying to calm himself, whistling a little tune while Hedwig looked on, one fluffy eyebrow seemingly raised. Harry looked back at her with a twinkle in his eye. Reaching over to play with her a little, he pondered Dumbledore's previous fears for Harry, things that he'd tried to do to control him in the name of protecting a young child. Things he'd done to "allow him a normal childhood" (Harry scoffed out loud at the idea) and to eventually prepare him to fulfill the prophecy. He'd trained with Dumbledore for less than half a year, and it had mostly been discussions about Horcruxes, not powerful spells or how to battle a Dark Lord and stand toe-to-toe with his power. But the prophecy said he'd fight Tom. Dumbledore had apparently read it as him having something better than a 50/50 chance.
What a load of crap that had been – Dumbledore had died before even finding the identity and location of all of Tom's Horcruxes, Harry hadn't had the power or skill required to fight even a holding action against Voldemort, and the search for the remaining shards of Tom's soul was a failure before it even started. And then Harry got to watch as nearly everyone in his life died to Voldemort's forces. No prophecy had saved them. Maybe this strange second chance was the power his foe "knew not" or perhaps it had actually been fulfilled when he'd killed the evil bastard the first time as a baby. Who knew? Harry decided he'd not let Dumbledore sacrifice his freedom for vague promises. The time to train was now; his childhood had never existed, this life or the last.
But there were other issues, most important that Dumbledore had shut him out for almost an entire year before just because he'd feared Harry was a security risk, what with the Dark Lord sending him horrible visions. That it might have been a two-way street, Voldemort looking back into his mind, was something they hadn't proven, but it hadn't helped how the scar had been making him half crazy and how he'd lost his temper so many times. There were also some political issues, but Harry had never really understood those. 1996 had been a horribly dark year but nothing excused him being ignored like that, not even his lashing out. Maybe he could get a better handle on it this time. Or maybe the best he'd end up doing is not punching those fat, stupid politicians in the face every time he saw them.
Yeah, his moodiness and his temper that year hadn't endeared him to his friends either. That was also too much of an echo of Tom's hidden violence and later aggressive madness for Dumbledore to risk fully cluing Harry into the inner-circle. Harry thought it might actually have been a fear of Voldemort taking over his mind, like Ginny and the diary, once the old wizard had realized the full horror of the Horcruxes after Voldemort's graveyard resurrection.
While it might be a link to Tom's soul, it certainly wasn't a Horcrux. The Hermione of his time had assured him of that. Maybe it functioned similarly, but it wasn't trying to take over his mind. The only time Voldemort had tried anything like that, snakeface had gotten his mental ass kicked and had never tried again. In his opinion, Dumbledore had vastly overreacted to the risk. Harry's scar had some sort of connection to Tom, that was for sure, but he wasn't getting any special Dark powers, other than possibly Parseltongue.
But if Harry tried anything that looked too "Dark" or violent this time, it might be a possibility Dumbledore would again entertain. With proof backing that theory up, it might been taken more seriously – there was no way Dumbledore would risk a second Tom Riddle. When he was at Hogwarts the first go-around, he hadn't been anything like a skilled student, except for maybe the later years in DADA. Anyway, most of that was fairly Light magic, thus not drawing attention to him as a credible new Dark Lord. But now he'd need an excuse for every skill he showed, every powerful spell he used in this fight, not showing anything even slightly Dark unless it was life or death for him and his friends.
"Getting the DA started early will be key," he mentioned to his owl, who was now sitting on a shelf in his closet.
She wasn't even looking at him.
Maybe get Tonks and Cedric involved. Older students. Oliver Wood? Hard to get him away from the Quidditch pitch. Wait, was Tonks still in school? Whatever. Get Flitwick to supervise the new DA or a dueling club, if at all possible. Exposure to experienced students would excuse a lot of fast power gain. And hanging out with Hermione would do the most, as everyone would soon believe her capable of learning just about any spell. Harry was going to have to depend on her and, while he admitted he was sort of scared of her, he'd have to remember this was an innocent little girl now, not the terror of Europe and ruler in exile of the British Isles.
Face contorted in pain, Harry started shuffling through the notes he'd made, something that only reminded him more of his bushy-haired old friend. She'd be eleven years old now, almost twelve, poring over her own books, safe with her mother and father (still alive and healthy) in her quiet, beautiful house (not yet burned down), unaware of what horrible things could happen or what terrible prices she'd pay one day for power. Hermione didn't even know he existed yet. Well, technically she most likely did: Harry Potter was famous and in books.
But that wasn't why she'd became his friend the first time and he wouldn't depend on a rampaging troll to convince her people cared about her this time. Hell, if it were possible, Harry would wrap the girl in powerful wards, lock her in a Fidelius-charmed room, and just toss in food and the occasional books until Voldemort was finally defeated. But the smartest person he'd ever met was vital to defeating Voldemort, and was obviously their greatest potential warrior in the fight against evil.
It was strange, Harry thought looking at his books again and trying not to cry, but most people had thought he was the one who was the powerhouse in their team. With a sad smile, he remembered he wasn't even in the top three.
Watching beautiful, brave Luna fight was like seeing an action movie. She always seemed to know what was coming before the spell was even cast. Everything turned out looking choreographed, Luna dodging things she couldn't have seen coming, distracting foes just in time to save friends from being blasted in the back, firing blind and trick shots that were simply not believable to any experienced dueler. And she was insanely powerful, able to fight for hours without tiring, face unchanging, a soft smile on her lips. And she never, ever gave up.
Luna was one of the few survivors of the attack on Hogwarts that had killed virtually everyone at the school, including every last teacher, leaving few students still alive. Many of those Luna had dragged out of the smoldering ruins of the ancient castle by hand, her magic having been virtually exhausted in the fight. She had barely been able to Apparate out with the other survivors in the end, after the wards had fallen. Luna had never said how many Death Eaters she'd killed that day, but other survivors put the number of solo kills in the high teens at least, and that had been when she was only sixteen (almost seventeen). She'd only grown stronger later, especially after finally discovering her Seer abilities. She had still died, in the end.
"But everything is fine now," he told Hedwig, who was still in the closet. He sat there for a few minutes calmly, just breathing deeply and tapping his fingers rhythmically on his desk, a strange, strong incense tickling his nose. "She loved me deeply and she is alive again and I'll never let that happen a second time," he concluded, stating the obvious and daring Hedwig to argue.
She didn't.
Good. That was his final word on the matter and he didn't need to think about it anymore. So he didn't.
Then there was Neville Longbottom, the one who'd run the student's side of the defense of Hogwarts. With a good wand, Neville was a magical wrecking-ball, the best argument for the power of blood purity ever; strangely, this was something the Death Eaters never considered as they constantly underestimated the lad. Neville had trouble lowering the power of his spells most of the time, resulting sometimes in spectacular disasters even in classes like potions, where his accidental magic blew things up on a regular basis. It wasn't until getting a matched wand that things started calming down and he was able to correctly channel his stupidly-large powers into working spells.
He was possibly the strongest (though Flitwick was certainly more experienced) wizard at Hogwarts when he'd dueled Bellatrix during the Death Eater attack. He'd won in the end, blowing a hole the size of a basketball in the evil bitch, just before he'd been tagged from behind by some random mook and bleed out in the Hogwarts hallways. Luna had still retrieved his body, despite it being behind enemy lines at that point. No one knew how and she wouldn't talk about it.
Hermione hadn't cried when she heard about Neville in the aftermath of the fall of Hogwarts. In fact, she hadn't ever cried for her dead lover that he knew. But he'd seen the circle in the grass around where she'd been standing when she'd gotten the news, blacked instantly in a powerful accidental magic discharge. Nine years later it was unchanged by time, cursed ground where nothing was able to grow, as dead as her heart had become. Everything kind and Light in the young woman had evaporated that day.
Oh, Hermione. Why hadn't anyone noticed that she always, always had the power to do any of the powerful spells they practiced, especially in the later years? It was really only the emotion-based spells she had had trouble with previously. Stuff like the Patronus charm, healing magic, divination. Also, Dark curses had escaped her for a long time as she couldn't seem to get in the right frame of mind. But after Neville died, she hadn't had any trouble with them, or with Avada Kedavra.
There were other signs of her power, like how she was able to practice for hours longer than anyone else. It was really obvious, in retrospect. She had a deep well of magic when other people merely had shallow puddles, and it only grew as she matured. By nineteen, she was as powerful as any witch or wizard in the world and knew more spells than all but the most ancient of them. Her skills were incredible and she sought out knowledge and devoured it relentlessly – something that neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore really continued to do in their later year. She could do permanent enchantments with minimal preparation, could Conjure heavy metals and even some radioactive elements in combat, and no ritual had ever been beyond her ability, even ones that usually required an entire Coven of witches to cast. Even before she started boosting her abilities with Dark new powers and Eldritch bargains, the Hogwarts founders themselves couldn't have been much more powerful and knowledgeable. No human alive knew how strong her magic was when he'd met her for that last time, in that terrible ritual.
Luna wouldn't join them until next year (he counted the days) but Neville and Hermione would be there with him in a month. They would be his core this year, along with Ron (nearly fatally lazy but a very skilled and methodical plotter when you forced his hand) and the Weasley twins (constantly ditching class to work on some of the most amazing magical inventions since the Founders' time). He'd need the Twins on his side until he could convince them the Marauder's Map was Harry's legacy so they'd hand it over. Maybe if he showed them the Room of Requirements after proving Sirius' innocence (and nickname) they'd consider it a fair trade.
Tapping his quill on the page, Harry was trying to remember something. What was he forgetting? Something about the map. Something it didn't cover? If it was important, he was sure he'd remember. But first, finish his lists. Harry tried thinking outside the box more, getting some more extreme ideas.
Though it was tempting, he couldn't get one of those fancy trunks like Mad-Eye had – someone would eventually notice even if Dumbledore didn't. The Headmaster had seen his room and current trunk and the old man had virtually a photographic memory. And that was if he didn't detect the crazy magic on the trunk itself.
He couldn't get any poisoned knives or goblin swords – those were almost certainly restricted and Dumbledore would surely spot them even if the Hogwarts wards didn't. Also violates the "don't look evil" plan. Same for undetectable poisons or cursed underpants or some such. He'd have to limit himself to stuff the Twins could get away with.
Other clothing had similar issues: if he got something he had to regularly wear (like armor), the Headmaster would wonder when he'd bought it. Especially if he was decked out like an Auror or a Hit Wizard all the time. Maybe if he bodged something together from spare parts. What kinds of things could he use?
Wand holders were obvious, maybe just one for his current wand. Once Dumbledore believed in the threat of Voldemort, maybe he could get away with a spare wand. Until then, just a quick-draw arm holster would work. Nothing with magic, though. So just leather and a simple friction releases with something attached to the base of his wand – just let them try and disarm him with a leather cord tied to it! He could make something from some of Dudley's old clothing, currently stowed in his bedroom closet, and maybe use some of the broken toys also shoved in there. Harry started sketching out the design and poking through the closet for parts, disturbing Hedwig who was still trying to take a nap.
The ice-cold Kentucky bourbon was rapidly warming to room temperature in his glass, but the dark-haired man didn't notice. The finely tailored robe he was wearing (not his usual, shabby lab robe) was still sparking slightly from the magical discharge, secondary static electricity audibly arcing into the overstuffed chair he was lounging in. The same accidental magic generating the electrical display had dispelled the minor cooling charm he'd placed on the glass of alcohol. Yes, magic to cool his glass. Not a waste, really. Only a berk diluted drink with ice when magic was available, was his opinion, but now he had something else on his mind.
"Excuse me Headmaster," he said, oozing with relaxed charm, barely keeping himself from crushing the glass in his hand. "I must have misheard. Could you...repeat that?"
"Oh my dear boy, this is all my fault," Albus said, almost in tears.
That part alone terrified Severus, who'd seen the old wizard calmly continue fighting Death Eaters without a moment's pause seconds after seeing friends cut down in front of him. "It's Harry Potter, James and Lily's child Severus: he's been at a Muggle relative's home this whole time, one I selected for him. And they've...they've been abusing him quite harshly I'm afraid. I'm so sorry, Severus. This should never have happened."
Albus slumped into his own overstuffed chair, looking pale and completely defeated. "He's safe now, I made sure of that personally. Wards on his room, compulsion charms on the Muggles, long-term protection charms on the child. New tracking and health monitoring spells based on a magical artifact of an Ancient House. As for young Harry's current health, he is well enough now but...it looks like years of physical abuse, though not...we do not think..."
Albus seemed to have trouble breathing for a moment, then continued, "We'll have a mind healer on-site the first week of classes and once a month after to work with the boy. It is the least we can do."
"A mere bandage applied late to a gaping wound? Yes, it does seem like that has been our level of effort up to this point, doesn't it?" Severus snapped.
He ground his empty hand into his eyes. Albus winced yet again.
"What about your worries concerning Potter, about him being Dark because of the curse mark, about his influence on a developing young mind?" the raven-haired man asked, his shoulders slumped, head bowed and hair hiding his face.
"Severus, that remains to be seen. He is not cruel, not Dark that I could see. He seemed neutral at worst about my confrontation with his...guardians. He didn't seem happy that they were being brought to task, merely...sad."
Albus visibly pushed down his emotions. "But there are other worrying signs: I believe he is a natural Occlumens of some strength, or has become one because of the Dark scar or the abuse. I did not dare test him for fear he'd feel it, but the way his mood shifted around like it was on ice made it clear he was hiding his emotions from even himself behind strong mental shields. That is the only unusual ability I saw him demonstrate, which is most worrying in and of itself but certainly not Dark. One would expect some strange magical side-effects from the cursed scar. The Dark magic within it would fight against the boy's natural magical core, at least to some extent, and his magic would grow around the wound to contain it. You know my original theory, that it would strengthen the boy's powers."
Here Albus paused, tapping his fingers. "But instead his magical aura is...muted, stretched. He seemed magically...well, frail for a boy his age. He might even have passed out from a reaction to wand testing, though it is possible he was ill and that affected it.
"But if the question is, 'was it like with Tom?' The answer seems to be a resounding 'no'. Tom was arrogant in bearing, boastful when questioned on his favorite topics, and untruthful when cornered on his misdeeds. Harry seemed quite normal if a little shell-shocked. Amazingly so, given what he must have gone through. I will be checking up on him before the school year starts and later I'll get his Muggle school transcripts. Hopefully those will not show anything...dangerous, like with Tom."
The old wizard sighed and looked at the young man in front of him. "It may come down to how he is received here. Can you put away your hatred of his father and lay aside revenge for the great discourtesies he showed you?" Albus asked. The old wizard's eyes started to twinkle, annoying Severus as it always did (as Albus knew it did). "Treated with love and care, he could be our greatest ally against Voldemort."
Severus twitched at the name.
Albus continued, "If not for the Greater Good, then, perhaps, for Lily's sake. Did you know that Harry has her eyes?"
The glass shattered into sand in the Potion Master's hand, his other whipping out his wand. Not pausing for a second, Severus gestured at the spilled liquid on his chair and lap to clean it up with a single, silent spell. He noticed with interest that Albus hadn't even blinked at the sudden movement.
Putting his wand away again and straightening his robes, Severus gathered himself visibly. "Fine, Headmaster," he said, words dripping, "if he is anything short of a completely useless, clod-brained, selfish, self-important, arrogant, preening brat then I shall teach him my fine art without harassment. I'll not coddle him, though. No matter what other dolts think, I'll not put him on a pedestal. And I'll have to be distant, too; my cover won't work otherwise."
Albus stood with some effort, already drained though he was not even close to finished for the night. His project on the third floor was extremely exhausting, as carving a new space out of Hogwarts' magical structure usually was. As he started to leave, he spoke over his shoulder, "Thank you Severus. There will be hope in the boy's life again, I promise you that."
Severus grunted for his reply.
Minutes after the Headmaster had left, Severus was still lost in thought, still unmoving, mind lost in the memory of flowing red hair and soft, caring green eyes. "Perhaps," he said to the empty room, "perhaps for her..."
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Harry's head hit the library desk loud enough to bring frowns and stares from a librarian. They had already warned him off for humming too loud to himself. Best not anger them further, even if he had just realized how incredibly stupid he'd been, forgetting Hogwarts' greatest secret.
For the last week, he'd been going to the local public library every day. His relatives were glad to see the back of him and he was glad to be out of the house. It was useful for clearing his head, researching some Muggle-related stuff he'd need this year, and also making a good cover story for his Diagon Alley trip – if caught, he might even be able to pass it off as an accident that he'd called the Knight Bus and he'd simply taken advantage of it.
But, most importantly, it helped him finally remember the greatest secret of Hogwarts. In his defense, it was nineteen years ago as his personal history counted it. But still – how could he have forgotten Salazar's giant fucking basilisk?!
He'd been researching snakes, in case he ever needed to make an army of them in an emergency or something. Also, because he was very, very bored and couldn't read his magic books in the library for fear of being discovered. That was when he suddenly remembered about another snake, the basilisk of the Chamber of Secrets.
Would he wait for Tom's diary to appear first? Just hold off "discovering" it until Second Year, so he wouldn't screw up Lucius leaving the diary with Ginny? Maybe Lucius didn't know what the diary really was or what Tom's soul fragment would do once it gained control of someone. And it would be really, really hard to sleep at night knowing the huge deadly snake was just waiting there under everything. But could he control it? Maybe he could go to Dumbledore about it, tell him about the ancient secret.
There was a thought: maybe he could pretend to have some of Voldemort's knowledge in his head. Technically, he did. It was just in the form of visions of what he was doing, beamed into his brain through the scar link in the later school years. And after school, from him hunting down and beating the crap out of Death Eaters who died conveniently after monologuing at him. Well, all that and some of the Dark knowledge Hermione and her gang had wrenched from the burning shell of Europe, whatever he'd been able to understand and to stomach using. So quite a lot, really.
Harry even considered how easy it would be to head-off some of the other fears Dumbledore had by "exposing" other secrets about that link. Maybe tell the Headmaster that he sometimes got visions of his parent's deaths and Voldemort killing other people and such. The old man was already worried about Harry and this would give him something concrete to latch onto. That Harry already had Occlumency shields would help Dumbledore trust Harry's mental security more. Also, if he ended up showing some advanced knowledge of Dark and secret spells that he couldn't possibly know about, well, that was why. A good excuse to cover a multitude of situations.
It would give Dumbledore simple problems to solve, like his scar hurting when he was around Quirrell, and draw the two of them together closer and faster than the first time around. Harry thought that much of the uncertainly and distrust between the two of them had been the Headmaster trying to figure out how compromised Harry's mind was by Voldemort's failed attack when he was a baby and the resulting cursed scar's effects.
Yes, this could indeed work. He'd be able to confide everything important that happened to him to the most powerful wizard in the world without fearing being locked up as a madman and the Headmaster would get to feel he was helping Harry deal with the situation.
Not realizing how he cursed himself, Harry briefly smiled and thought, "What could possibly go wrong?"
He was going to have a heart attack, standing right here in the train station. This was crazy. He wasn't fighting Death Eaters, he wasn't seeing his friends slaughtered by giants, this wasn't a ritual of blood and death and madness and fae power beyond human comprehension: it was just a crowd. What the hell was wrong with him?
Harry gulped again and tried not to turn on the spot and run. His whole body ached (except, hilariously enough, his scar), he felt sick and jittery, he wanted to stun everyone in sight or yell at them or something. He was a mess.
The Dursleys had left him between platforms 9 and 10, not even looking back. Vernon had snorted at the lack of a platform 9 ¾ and then smirked at him, turned, and left, having determined Harry and his school trunk were now somebody else's problem.
He'd been standing there for ten minutes. The pressure was now drilling into Harry's head, sweat beading on his brow. He reviewed where every weapon he owned was and what he had on him right now, which was basically just his wand in the new makeshift dueling holster (he'd done some improvements after looking at a real one again while shopping). Anything really interesting had to be left behind at home as the Hogwarts wards would surely pick them up.
The shopping trip last week had been...odd. Disguised in an old Halloween costume of Dudley's (black Sith robes from Star Wars, hilarious), he'd picked up more than he'd originally intended and hadn't gotten caught. In fact, after getting some gold from the bank, everyone just accepted his money without asking any questions. Hood down, he'd even managed to shop in Knockturn Alley. He hadn't gotten anything truly Dark, just maybe a little sharp and pointy and poisonous. A good, uneventful shopping trip.
And then Dumbledore had showed up at his Aunt's door minutes after he'd returned, just after he'd changed out of his disguise, scaring the piss out of him. But the old man hadn't even asked to come up to his room, simply talking to him briefly in the hall before having yet another meeting with his relatives. Dumbledore had left without talking to him again, whatever his task was completed.
Harry hadn't freaked out then, though, either at Dumbledore or the crones in Knockturn Alley – a place honestly more dangerous than here, this safely padded and supervised public place, a neutral ground where the wealthy and powerful sent their kids off to school. So this latest bizarre reaction was worrying him a lot.
Crowds – they had meant danger to him, before. Anyone could be a Death Eater, a Faewalker, a Shapeshifter, or worse: a Polyjuiced Ginny Granger. He knew that was now impossible, intellectually. The Bargain hadn't been sealed, wouldn't if he could stop it. Ginny was sane, sweet, lovable, sane, not-at-all-dangerous; a normal-eyed ten-year-old girl who was most likely walkingupbehindhimrightnow! Harry whipped his head around and almost drew his wand.
"Shit, shit, shit," he thought, realizing he'd freaked himself out just thinking about meeting the Weasleys.
Harry was there early, for the first time in his life, and he'd have no excuse not to pass through the entryway this time. Dumbledore's instructions were crystal clear on how to do it. He couldn't stall any longer in case someone was watching him. "Remember the cover," he repeated over and over behind his mental shields. "No mistakes, no more second chances, CONSTANT! VIGILANCE!"
Looking both ways then dragging his trunk (bird cage in his other hand) through the portal, he saw the last thing future-him had ever thought he'd see again: the Hogwarts Express. It was gleaming, loud, steaming, and not at all broken and on fire, lying beside scorched tracks, tiny little bodies scattered around it like seed-heads blown by a giant.
"Pull it together, Potter!" he yelled inside his head, trying to relax while continuing to trudge forward. "Look!" he thought, "There's a disguised Auror, being terminally bored looking after little kids getting on a perfectly safe train that no one has ever died on. And there, some of the parents of the students, gathered and chatting to the brats through the train windows. And no one trying to kill anyone, just like it should be."
Harry slid to a halt and started concentrating on his breathing, looking down at Hedwig as a distraction, attempting to calm himself somehow. He could do this. He just needed something normal, a task he could complete to advance mentally past this. Hermione instantly, horrifically, came to mind, but he didn't know if she was even here yet. He was still very, very early, so he decided to not think about Dark witches and instead went to buy a couple of papers to read while on the train. He grabbed a Quibbler and a Daily Prophet without even looking at them, practically throwing the correct change at the bemused attendant.
His current plan was to grab Ron, find an empty set of seats, and then go hunting for Neville and...her. Harry figured he could be looking lost and confused in about fifteen minutes and keep it up until the last second before the train left, which was when Weasleys were genetically programmed to show up. But he couldn't look too lost or someone else might pick up on it and try to help. He had a few plans there, but he didn't want to employ them as they would involve lies and misdirection, possibly to his future friends.
Putting down Hedwig's cage and stuffing the papers into his trunk, he turned around and looked directly into the face of his doom, not three feet away. His wand snapped down his sleeve as his arm whipped up, just like he'd practiced; a silent cutting curse was in his mind, his next spell after that (a maximum strength shield) ready on his lips. He had almost started the wand movements before realizing he was about to murder a cute little frizzy-haired eleven-year-old girl in the middle of a crowded train station.
