Hy! I'm sorry it took so long, but I wanted to do longer chapter, and I worked much more on this one! So first, thanks Star-Scrap, who is a wonderful beta and teach me a lot about English!
I hope you will like this chapter, and please review, it helps and please the poor author that I am.
Warning: the usual, really
Disclaimer: Well, unless someone lied to me on my identity I don't own Hp, nor am I rich for it. Snif.
BLACK WAVES
4-CONSEQUENCES
Hello hello! Already here I see!
Yes, yes, I know, it isn't like you had anything else to do, is it? Not that I'm complaining. I enjoy telling stories, and, may I say, I am rather good at it. Stories to smooth the pain, stories to send people in the right direction, stories to give hope back…
That particular story is of a different kind, isn't it?
For you to understand how the ministry panicked like a five year old losing his mom in a shop, you need to know how it was working before the incident.
The ministry was ruled since years by Millicent Bagnold. She was a very efficient minister, mostly because she had been named under Voldemort's rise to power, and fall, in 1980. She saw to political backlash of the Potter's murder, she managed through the trials of the most feared and violent death eaters.
It is said, but it's only a legend, that she threw threw a man that tried to bribe her out of a window. A fierce woman, I tell you. She was a clever student during her youth, I remember.
Said woman was very attached to the International Statute of Secrecy. She had helped to put it in place once again, after Voldemort's downfall. Come on, don't be afraid of his name! He cannot hurt you here anyway, can he? Anyway, she was known to have defended the wizarding celebrations, thus conserving our ways and traditions, with the famous sentence: "I assert our inalienable right to party."
The declaration was, as you can imagine, welcomed by cheers and applause from the very serious (and maybe a bit drunk) assembly. She rebuilt the ministry, the wizarding Britain, as much as she could.
The aurors under her care were the same ones that had fought Death Eaters. They were people that had seen war, death. Some had been tortured, some had lost their family, some had sent their own children to a fate worse than death for their country.
They had had ten years to heal as much as they could.
Some of them backed down and kept low profile, such as the Malfoys, for obvious reasons. Some just went back to a normal life, if such thing is possible.
Some kept screaming 'CONSTANT VIGILANCE' randomly.
You guessed it, there is no such thing like effective psychiatric services, a consideration for war's trauma or a special service for veterans in the magical world. There were too many veterans and not enough wizards for that.
All these people could be separated in two groups and two subgroup. First they were dark and light wizards, meaning wizards that were in favour or against the integration of the wizards in the muggle world, including the acceptance of the muggle-borns. Of course, it wasn't all black and white, mostly a lot of people wanting to survive and to assure their families' future, but the lines were drawn anyway. Then, within these groups, there were the wizards who believed the Dark Lord was dead, and the others. Which mean that about half the ministry was fearing acts of Dark Magic as the announcement of another Rise, and the other half was fearing any kind of magic out of control, because it could break the Statute of Secrecy.
The worst part was that there were people that belonged in two of these categories.
It was exactly at 3:24 a.m. of the 12th of December 1987 that an alarm rang in the Surrey.
Immediately, all the aurors on guard received the order to go check what was going on. That's how, at 4.30 a.m., Mad-Eye Moody and John Dawlish, aurors, along with Arnold Peasegood, member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department and obliviator, arrived at number 7, Abkey Road, Little Whinging, Surrey. Or at what was the number seven before what happened… happened.
Luckily, the attack had happen at night; only a dozen of muggles were gathered around the ruins.
Muggles weren't a problem. It was true that there weren't many obliviators, even a fewer good ones, but such accident could be explained by a gas explosion, or something like that.
That would explain the house. The corpse was an other problem.
A corpse left after an obscurius attack have some very distinctive marks, mostly the fact the the victim was unrecognisable, and the weapon nonexistent. It looked like the person had burned, frozen, and was attacked by an animal with very human precision...
Something utterly horrifying, but, and it is an enormous but, obscurials aren't supposed to exist.
It is like a lot of things, racism, slavery… We think: it has disappeared, and if it happens, it is only in some far away country that we imagine as being somehow more dangerous, less civilized than ours. Ignoring the bigotry of the very idea, it is also dangerously false.
The last obscurius acknowledged in the wizarding world was a certain Credence Barebone, and he was used by the feared and powerful Gellert Grindelwald. The last obscurial, was a young girl named Maya Campanula, in the 60's.
Oh, yes, forgive me, some of you might not know the difference! It isn't very complicated, don't worry.
An Obscurius is created from an obscurial; the obscurius is the disease, the entity, while the obscurial is the child. Not every obscurial let out a raw obscurius, actually, almost all of them die before that, unable to contain the flow of power in their frail body. It is even more true that all of these children were abused - it is often the very source of the disease, which mean that they were weaker, and more inclined to...wish for death.
Don't gasp that way! None of this information is new or uncommon. First, yes, children suffer from depression. Especially when they are so terrified of themselves that they repress emotions, feelings, social interactions, and, in this case, magic. It isn't uncommon for a wizard to die because he wants to. That's why torture spells are far more violent and quick to act than muggle techniques in that area: if someone has nothing else to live for, his own magic will kill him, to protect him.
It is sad but true. I myself had the displeasure to encounter that fact when I had to study the case of Merope Gaunt - Voldemort's mother. Some may said that she died out of love, because of a broken heart, because of the delivery, because of the starvation, or the beating she suffered before. But no, her death was the result of a pile-up of abuse and depreciation that led her to undervalue her own life.
Therefore, her life without the presence of the one she loved had lost its meaning. Her will was destroyed in a life of servitude and verbal abuse, making her depend on the will of her family. Without it, she only had the one she loved to give her approval. Her magic, feeling that the life she was living was considered a danger, started to kill her. I think that her death would have been much sooner if the baby's magic hadn't protected its host.
But I'm losing myself! oh, my my, the bad habits of an old man…But these are important facts! It would be better if I told you everything.
Moody was the first to arrive on scene, of course, constant vigilance. He walked- limped- through the small crowd of muggles until he put his foot on the house's landing.
There, rolling his electric blue eye in all directions to watch both the sky, the basement, the house, and the muggles, stopping with suspicion on a poor cat passing by and who started to run for its life without any apparent reason, he began to murmur an infinite number of spells and charms to detect if anything could still explode in the muggles face, and irremediably to his own.
About a minute later, as it was the procedure, Arnold Peasegood arrived in order to take care of the now not in immediate danger muggles. He waved at Moody, who waved back without turning around, and started to work quickly. Arnold, who shares his first name with Mr. Dubonpois, but only that I can assure you (they don't quite like each other), was the sort of person you feel like you can trust with your life. A bit like Mr. Weasley, he emits an aura of a clumsy-but-nice father than could cool down any panicking muggle. Which was great, as it was the point of his job.
He stopped next to a woman in her forties. One could tell that she had children by the way she stood and dressed, the way she seemed ready to run home with the slightest sign that there was still danger. From her point of view the wizard was an ordinary man, who, drawn by the crowd, had stopped to observe the disaster.
Certainly, he had some strange clothes, but in view of the hour, his wizard robes could be taken for pajamas.
"What's happening here, M'aam?" he asked in a whisper, as if he was asking her to confess him a terrible secret. It is the best tone for rumors of all sorts, after all.
"Oh I don't really know, sir. We just heard… something strange. All the lights went off and it was like the very air was crushing us! It even woke the children, poor things! Then, we heard something like an explosion, and so I tell Peter- my husband- that I had to see, because if there's fire it may extend to our house by the roofs. I came here and well, you can see the rest by yourself!"
"Blimey, what a story! Did someone else see anything?"
"I've asked other people, but everybody is telling me the same thing, y'know? Light out and poof! The house crashed, or exploded or something. What do you think it is?"
"Probably an electricity accident. That would explain the lights!"
"Makes sense, but electricity, causing that type of explosion? I just hope nobody was hurt!"
"Merl- I mean Good Lord, yes!"
When he discretly removed some of her memories from the tip of his wand, hidden in his sleeve, John Dawlish arrived and joined Moody on the house's steps.
"How's the situation, Alastor?"
Only a few people were allowed to call Mad-Eye Moody 'Alastor', and Dawlish was certainly not part of them. But he was really, really nervous. For all of his career, he had worked on children's incidents, such as colorful hair changes, and dark artefact trafficking. Now he had a muggle house destroyed and the very air was reeking magic.
Moody growled at the young Auror. He was a good element, after all, no need to scare him away. He had the feeling that this, whatever it was, was going to need a lot more aurors than expected.
"Whatever it was, whomever it was, came from the outside. Fell on the house like a lion on his prey and left. Should have taken him an hour to destroy the house that much," he muttered, almost for himself, passing his hand in his gray hair.
His magical eye came back in front of his face and seemed to fix over something.
Without a warning, he walked into the ruins.
It was quite sad to walk in the middle of these ruins. You could see all the remains of life that had been here: tattered clothes, torn photographs, fractured frames, papers flying in all directions, furniture of the house had to be from a living room, with a room below, but everything was mixed during the incident.
"I'm not sure if it's a good idea - Hey Moody wait!" exclaimed the younger Auror, trailing to follow his mentor and superior among what was left of the house.
"Dawlish, we have a body," Moody said abruptly before taking a sip out of his personal gourd.
Dawlish approached the man warily, eyes fixed where he was looking.
As you may imagine, it wasn't a pretty picture that waited for him.
"We should call for backup."
Moody only noded.
It took five more minutes for the wizarding press to wasn't pleased.
A few hours later, a not-that-completely-clueless Harry woke up. He had dreamed the strangest thing, about screams and black mists. Yes, a dream. He couldn't say that it was a nightmare because out of the terrifying imagery it had felt right. Not morally right, but… good would be a better way to describe it. He felt relief.
He knew it was wrong, to feel that way in front of violent images, but it was just a dream, wasn't it? He had only dreamed about a well deserved revenge. Nothing to worry about.
He winced when he tried to turn to look at the small clock that was next to his bed. It was nearly 6 in the morning. He had only a few minutes before having to get up and prepare the breakfast.
He pondered for a moment the idea of not getting up. Just… just stay here with the satisfaction of his dream, oblivious of the day ahead of him. He sighed, shivering under the coolness of the room.
He was tired.
Bracing himself for the day - and not noticing that his ribs were all healed, his skin scarred but not wounded, he sat on his bed and stretched. His hair was forming a messy black cloud of fluffy locks around his head. He tried to comb it for a few seconds, but of course nothing could tame a Potter's hair.
Petunia had learnt that one day, trying to comb it because 'the freak should at least look decent in front of the teachers, a disgrace for the family really'. In despair, she had try to cut it.
The next day it had grown back.
He replaced his T-shirt (three times too big) on his shoulders in vain, the right sleeve just did not want to stay in place. He smoothed his shorts on his legs, also a hand-me-down from Dudley, and moved his hand toward the door to go out to eat.
But the door wasn't quite as he had left it last night.
Which, you will recognize, is quite unusual for a door.
The door had black markings that slid from top to bottom, far too big to be from Harry's hand. The door was ajar, and the first boards, the closest to the lock, looked as if they had been destroyed by hammer.
First, Harry was afraid of whatever had done that. Then, he panicked imagining his relatives's reaction to it.
His first reflex was to quickly close the door and hope no one would notice.
But Harry was a smart boy.
He only had half an hour ahead of the Dursleys, but it was enough. This meant that he could cheatthe rules. He didn't know who destroyed the door, maybe a prank by his cousin, maybe he had been a freak again…
But the fear of the beating was stronger.
He had to be ingenious. If he couldn't count on others, he would only rely on himself.
He grabbed the door and put it back on his hinges gently, to prevent the noise from waking his family prematurely. The black markings inside were not important, nobody paid attention to what was in the cupboard.
He replaced the boards gently, so that the fissure could only be seen if looked at closely. He took the screws and replanted them, slightly looser, to put the bolt back in place. Once that was done, he went into the closet that contained Vernon's garden tools which only Harry used since Vernon largely preferred to sit on his couch watching TV.
There he found the glue he was looking for. He went back to his closet and pasted glue to the inside of the boards, relying on gravity to hold them in place until the time it dried. Once that was done, he cooked the bacon for the family and broke eggs in a salad bowl, taking care that no shelsl fell in; It would be worth five belts lashes.
He took advantage of the cooking time to set the table and put away the glue. He grabbed his day clothes, piled in a corner of the closet, dressed quickly and closed the door cautiously. He returned just in time to turn the slices of bacon and hear the heavy footsteps of his uncle and the light and fast ones of his aunt upstairs.
Of course, the food was impeccably prepared, but he had forgotten a knife while at the table. He took a punch in his stomach that took his breath away. Without a word, without a protest, he caught his poor school supplies and followed Dudley at a respectful distance, to avoid provoking his cousin.
He wondered if it would be better not to return home. Something, in the pit of his stomach, was telling him that something wasn't right, something more than usual, that is.
By the time young Harry and his cousin arrived at school and sat in their usual places (Dudley at the far right, in the middle of his gang, Harry in the middle left, near a window), the Ministry of Magic had been informed that a large amount of black magic had been used in Surrey, causing the death of a muggle.
The public was also informed, thanks to the intervention of Rita Skeeter. That is how most of you were informed of the beginning of this tragedy, reading your paper in the morning in front of a chocolate or a coffee before going to work.
A dark wizard on the loose, there was something to excite the readers, to bring a feeling of fear and excitation. The newspapers sold like hotcakes, and everybody was waiting for the rest, and the answers.
This is how I, myself was informed of the situation, a few minutes before I received a letter from the minister. And this is how I enter into the storm that was the Potter case.
There were only five wizard in the world that knew where Harry Potter was living : myself, Professor McGonagall, the Minister, Mad-Eye Moody and Miss Figg. And all of us, knowing what we knew, thought that something was terribly wrong.
That's why, at 8.30 sharp, I was in the minister's office, debating the situation.
The minister was sitting in front of me, her head in her hand, looking quite tired and much older than the last time I had seen her, but who was I to make such remarks?
In front of her, the newspaper was displayed.
MURDER IN THE SURREY- WHAT IS THE MINISTRY DOING?
Your very dear and devoted reporter was awakened by secret ways this morning at a strange hour. The only thing I knew was that something important had happened in Surrey. Of course, I did not suspect the gravity of the situation, but I went to the spot, with the eternal mission in my heart to inform you of all that is happening in our country, my dear readers.
The rest of the article was hidden, but I knew how devastating all this was going to be for the minister's career. Skeeter accused the ministry of committed budgetary displacements, lacking of attention of the aurors, and being visibly incapable of doing its duty and protecting the brave citizens of this country.
It was incredible how many people could read this tissue of lies. Well, there were only three journals in circulation, and one of the three was the Quibbler…
And objectively, Rita was good. Too good for our sakes, dare I say.
"The muggles have been handled. The problem is that the public heard of the story, and therefore we need to find answers quickly. This isn't an incident involving a muggle, but a direct attack on a muggle by a magical being," she explained, her long white hair falling from her bun.
"Albus, don't you think that it would be safer to move Potter from the area?" muttered Alastor.
Oh dear Merlin, that was the question. Moving the boy would be screaming his location, the past and the present, at the face of the entire wizarding world. Which would mean that he would be in danger, along with his family. His muggle uprising meant that he was more at risk, he was utterly defenseless and helpless. Not even mentioning the scandal, and the message sent not only the the ex-Death-Eaters, but also to every politician in the wizarding world.
But if we didn't move him, we took the risk of the child being harmed, not in his house of course as the blood wards were protecting him - the very reason we put him there in the first place. But the wards weren't active at school, or in the street, in the shops, anywhere a seven year old child could go. But, the attack was possibly unrelated with the boy, and moving would put him in an unnecessary danger… and kick the anthill.
Especially if the public discovered how the Dursleys were treating the boy. That information, at the time, was only a deduction on my part. I had no idea to the extent of the abuse, but for the boy it was that, or the risk to be kidnapped, sold, corrupted, killed or Merlin knows what fate he could have if found by an ancient servant of the Dark Lord. And again, it was his family.
Truth was: I was quite worried for the boy. But there were too many things at stake.
"We'll let the boy where he is until further informations. Maybe… ask the aurors to investigate around the boy and in his immediate neighbourhood? As long as the public doesn't know where he is, there is nothing immediate to worry about."
It was a question, and it wasn't at the same time. Everybody in the room knew that I was the one in charge of Harry Potter. It was better that way. The minister nodded and wrote something on an official note that she sent to her secretary.
"They will know, at some point. I'm pretty sure Skeeter is already putting her disgusting nose in the neighbourhood. And with Malfoy pushing me out on my control on the media, I cannot do anything about it…"
The silence was tense. Of course, Malfoy should be in Azkaban, but he was that kind of person that just got out of every situation without a problem. In short, he was rich.
'Is the victim identified yet?" she asked with energy.
Crisis situations were more of her habit than not.
"Yes. Mrs Tacklebot, 25. Muggle, single, no children. She was a teacher."
Alastor wasn't the most talkative man there is, that was for sure.
"I know it is sordid to say it like that, but at least she's a muggle. I don't even want to imagine what it would be if she had been a witch - or even a squib. With the law on the magical creatures I'm trying to pass, my position is most… precarious."
I didn't frown at her for that. I knew she wasn't the type of witch to think she was above the muggle, it was just that politics were a very cynical art. But the idea that it was a common idea among my pears… It felt like I had fought for years in vain.
"I'll keep an eye on the wizard community around the crime scene. there is only one wizard and one squib anyway," blurt out the Auror.
"Thank you Alastor. I shall be going, Minister."
"But of course. We will take the necessary measures concerning Mr Potter; I'll keep you informed."
And with that dismissal, I went out to face the masses.
At the same moment, Harry and Dudley were waiting, worried and excited. Their teacher had still not arrived, and Dudley's little gang was starting to become agitated. Children that age often do after about ten minutes of waiting.
However, it didn't take long before someone entered the class, pale and nervous. How do you explain to seven year olds that their teacher had been murdered? I understand the nervousness, it took me years to master the concept, and my students are much older!
"Children, please, keep quiet. I have something very important to tell you," he said, trying to keep composure. "You will not have classes today. I regret to inform you that your teacher died last night. We called your parents for them to take you home. I want all of you to know that a service have been put in place if you want to talk about what happened to someone. That will be all."
It wasn't the most… subtle way to announce the tragedy, but it did it's job.
Of course, when the Dursleys came to get their son, they did not allow Harry to get into the car. "As if I would let a freak like you in my car! Walk, you good for nothing cunt! This will teach you to make me waste time!" whispered Vernon angrily when Harry tried to put a foot in the vehicle.
Harry was so shaken he couldn't even answer. His teacher was dead. He had dreamt of it! What was happening?
Something was wrong, he could feel now it in his gut. He was stricken by the not so irrational thought that everything was because of him. For the first time in his life, it wasn't fear or anger.
He didn't know that it was guilt.
He had to check, to see it himself. He had to be sure that his teacher had died in her sleep, maybe because she drank too much, or some other accident. That her house - unlike in his dream- was still standing between the other eerily similar houses.
Not quite thinking about what would be waiting for him at the Dursleys if he came home late, he took the road to the other end of the town, where he knew his teacher was, used to be, living.
He passed the streets as discreetly as he could, shivering. Of course, he didn't have gloves or a scarf to protect himself from the harsh winter weather. He sighed and slid his arms against his chest, slightly leaning forward and hands curled in the sleeves to leave as little exposed to the cold as possible.
There was a lot of wind these days, and it was messing with his hair, making it slap his face with every step. He didn't mind, he was lost in his thoughts. He didn't really want to know if his dream was true, but he had to. Something akin to morbid curiosity was pushing him, like when you're paranoid someone is following you and you turn around to see, even if it's not going to change anything.
Harry armed himself with all his determination and ended up passing the corner of the street facing the house of his teacher.
He stopped in shock.
It was ... exactly as in his dream. Except that here, in reality, destroyed beams cut themselves on the winter sky like an inaudible threat to the heavens. Something heavy was floating in the air. He could see from where he stopped small points - people - walk through the ruins, inspecting the house.
Police officers.
He had committed a crime.
He didn't know how but he had, he could feel it, he was here last night and he had… he had actually killed her and he had enjoyed it…
The realization that all this was true - was true, crashed on his heart and he began to tremble. Of guilt, sadness, anger towards himself and others, towards the whole world, but above all, especially from fear.
What if the policemen could find evidences? There were marks on the cupboard's door! It was evidence, as in the police shows that Petunia was watching on Sunday afternoon. He had to leave so that he should go home before the Dursleys suspected anything, so that he would erase all traces …
And in his head he could only think: what the hell did I do? His body was frozen, and he could not look away from the ruined house that seemed to scream at him: assassin! murderer! Freak!
"Are you ok kiddo?"
Harry jumped and looked at the man that called him, and who was looking at him with worry.
But he was an adult, and adults are liars. He was not worried, he just wanted to trick him into confessing what had happened... And Harry couldn't let that happen, could he?
"Yes sir… It's just…" he stammered, trying to mask his real feelings - and failing brilliantly. Luckily for him, the man interpreted them in his own way.
"You knew the victim, is that it boy?" he ask, his face softening.
"Yeah… shewassortofmyteacher…" the boy muttered, eyes stubbornly fixed to the ground.
"I'm sorry can you repeat?"
"She… she was my teacher…"
"Oh, I see. I'm sorry for… your loss… Don't worry, young lad, it was an accident. You should go to your parents, right?"
The man had no idea how his words were truly affecting the distressed kid. Harry closed and opened his little fist in a desperate effort not to lose control in font of the stranger, and before him laid the scene of the crime, of his crime. He took a deep breath to calm down.
Harry nodded and went back home. As his head was lowered, Dawlish didn't see his scar. But he most certainly felt that something was wrong, absolutely wrong with that kid. Maybe something haunted in the way his back seemed to carry the whole world.
He quickly went to inform Alastor of this strange encounter.
And that, my friends, was how i was reintroduced to the young Harry Potter, while said boy was introduced to the concept of guilt.