Catechism

By: Dreamfall

Summary: What if the Dursleys were smarter? Smart enough to turn Harry against magic- against himself. How long would it take anyone to realize how much damage was done, and once it was discovered how could they ever hope to fix it? A disturbing look at a Harry who has been taught from infancy to hate and fear everything he is.

Warnings: Quite disturbing. Various kinds of abuse. Harry with something of a house elf mentality. If you don't want to read it, don't.

Author's Notes: Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Specific spelling/grammar issues that are pointed out are corrected as immediately as I can arrange. Usually within 24 hours.

Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

Thanks: To Rory, who has been allowing me to bounce ideas off her and has been shooting them back with flawless aim and great suggestions and feedback. And to Azelma, who, likewise, has been granting me her time, patience, and understanding of children, for which I am duly grateful.


Chapter Nine
New Schedule

Harry slipped behind a tapestry of a forest, climbed three flights of dark, narrow stairs, pulled a metal lever, and stepped out into an undecorated side corridor, a stone wall sliding silently back into place behind him. He left the hallway for another, wider, one, and then turned into a larger one still, this one full of the murmurings of paintings and the rusty shufflings of suits of armor. He walked quickly down the hall, and then turned to face the gargoyle, murmuring, "Candy corn," with no discernible hesitation.

The gargoyle leapt out of the way, and Harry jogged up the spiral staircase to tap lightly on the door at the top.

"Enter," the deep, rich voice from behind it summoned him. Then, as he obeyed, the headmaster's sharp blue eyes smiled at him. "Harry, my boy! Did you forget something?" he asked solicitously.

The pleasure at successfully completing his task dissolved into horror. "Sir?" he asked uncertainly.

Professor Dumbledore's brows rose slightly and he lifted one hand soothingly. "One day, perhaps, I will learn not to jump to conclusions. For now, though, what can I do for you, Harry?"

The boy stepped forward and hesitantly held out a small stack of parchment strips, held carefully to avoid wrinkling them. "You said to return when I had these, sir."

The headmaster blinked, but reached out to accept the stack. "So I did," he murmured. "Quite right." His eyes widened slightly as he flipped through them, but he smiled at Harry and said softly, "Very nicely done, Harry. You got them all. Well, that soothes my last lingering concerns that you might get lost about the castle. You found all the rooms I asked you to very quickly indeed. Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Harry murmured, uncomfortable with the praise.

"I'm not going to take the wards down until next week when the students come, but I am quite satisfied that you no longer require the map. Even after the wards are down, I would prefer that you stay away from those areas that were marked as warded. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. For this last week until the children arrive, I'll have you follow your school-year schedule so that we can all get used to it before the first madness of classes. Does this look reasonable?" he asked, passing over a sheet of parchment.

Harry accepted the sheet and read it, struggling to interpret the script, which was decorative in a way that made it quite pretty, but also rather difficult to read. The words came together as he studied them, and he realized that it was a list of days, times, classes, instructors, and locations. He looked at it for a moment longer, trying to work out what the man wanted him to say, then finally fell back on the generally acceptable, "Yes, sir."

"Very good! I shall very much look forward to seeing you Monday afternoon. Tomorrow, Madame Malkin has agreed to come here to make you some robes, since I don't believe you are ready to go exploring Diagon Alley quite yet, for all that Professor Sprout says you are doing much better in her clear greenhouse. Your books and supplies have already been ordered and should be delivered over the next few days. We'll cover your expenses for this year, since I was the one who insisted you come early, but I thought you might like to have a bit of pocket money. I can give you a small loan until you're ready to go to the bank yourself. Any money your aunt and uncle may have sent with you, you can save -- Muggle currency isn't accepted in most Wizarding stores, but you can get some Wizarding funds from your family vault once you're up to the trip. Until then, let me know if you wish to make a purchase."

"Yes, sir," he agreed, hesitantly, when the wizard looked at him expectantly. He knew what money was, of course. The Dursleys spoke of it rather a lot. They never had enough of it, mostly due to the cost of raising a freak of a child they had never wanted but who they came to love anyway. But he'd never held money, except to collect it neatly when he came across some while cleaning or doing laundry, and had certainly never actually spent any of it himself.

The headmaster opened his mouth to speak again, then paused as his fireplace roared to life. Harry suppressed both his leap of surprise and his shudder of disgust at the magic as a head appeared in it, flickering with green flames.

"You're there, Albus -- good! I just wanted to--" The voice cut off as the man's eyes flickered about the office and took in Harry. "Oh! You've company. I'll try you again later, so sorry!"

"Not at all, dear boy," the headmaster disagreed. "We were just finishing here. Actually, why don't you step through? I'm eager for your report, and there's someone here I'd like you to meet."

"Yes, yes, of course. One moment," the man murmured. Then the light flared brighter as he stepped through and paused, brushing a stray fleck of ash from his shoulder. His eyes again flickered about the room, then landed on Harry and widened. "Harry?" he gasped, eyes roving over the boy with some emotion Harry couldn't read. Unlike almost everyone else Harry had met, this man's eyes made no sign of pausing at his forehead, though.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, quickly turning his full attention on the man. He was a tall, slim man with patched robes and short brown hair punctuated with a few strands of gray. His skin seemed somehow thin and was pale, except for the dark smudges beneath his eyes, but those eyes were a warm chocolate brown and filled with something that Harry had never seen before.

The headmaster smiled genially. "There, I see that I need not introduce you after all."

"No," the man breathed. "I'm sure you've heard it before by now, Harry, but you do look remarkably like your father. But you won't remember me -- I'm Remus Lupin. I was ... I was good friends with your father. Both your parents really." He held out his right hand.

Harry hesitated infinitesimally, then raised his own in answer. "Thank you, sir. It's very nice to meet you."

The hand took his in a light grip, then startled him into a stumble by tugging slightly. Harry fell forward, and found himself engulfed by the man's arms, pressed, though not painfully, and surrounded by warm cloth that smelled a little like fresh laundry, and a little like Professor Sprout's greenhouses -- extraordinarily alive. He forced himself to relax in the grip, wondering, as he waited for the pressure to become painful or for the first blow to fall, what he had done wrong. Was it stating pleasure in meeting the man, when obviously he should be -- and was -- horrified at his emergence from the flame, clearly marking him as magical?

"It is good to see you again," the man murmured in his ear, then released him, rising from the knee he'd dropped to. Harry looked back uncertainly.

"Is your news urgent, Remus?" the headmaster asked.

"Not terribly," he replied, eyes not leaving Harry as he absently answered the question.

"Then stay for dinner, my boy, and report in the evening. For now, why don t you spend a bit of time getting to know Harry? Unless you have some other commitment this afternoon, of course."

"I--" the man looked torn, but finally sighed. "I can't. If I disappear for more than an hour or so, questions will start to be asked."

"Very well, then. Harry, would you be so kind as to guide Mr. Lupin to Professor McGonagall? I'll summon the others while you're at it," he added to Mr. Lupin after Harry's quick affirmative. He nodded gratefully. "Thank you. I'm sorry I can't stay longer."

"What must be, must be," the headmaster replied with a twinkling smile. "Off with you both now. I'll see you at dinner, Harry, although if you have need of me before then, you're always welcome."

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"Sounds good," Remus added. "Lead the way, then, Harry."

"Yes, sir," he agreed softly, turning to lead him out of the office.

"I wonder if I could ask you a favor, Harry?" the man asked gravely as they emerged from the staircase and passed the gargoyle.

"Yes, Mr. Lupin," he quickly assured him. "Of course."

"I wonder if you would be willing to call me Remus? Every time I heard you say 'sir' or 'Mr. Lupin', I can hear James and Lily laughing at me."

Harry froze for an instant. "I--" he broke off uncertainly.

"Never mind," the man murmured, lifting one hand apologetically. "Don't if you'd rather not. I'm just another stranger, after all. Do whatever's the most comfortable for you."

Mind whirling, Harry continued down the hall, trying to figure out the right answer. Adults outside of family, he was to call by the appropriate titles of respect at all times. But to disobey a direct order – or at least a direct request? He finally swallowed hard, and then murmured, "I can do that, Remus."

The look he received in return took his breath away. It was the look he'd been craving for two years, ever since the first time he saw it. There was a broach that Aunt Petunia had fallen in love with, but when she convinced herself that she could afford it, the shopkeeper had informed her that not only had it already been sold, but that it was a handmade, one-of-a-kind piece that he was unable to get another of. She had been incredibly disappointed. But a few weeks later was her birthday, and she'd opened her gift from Dudley to find the broach. And she'd looked at Dudley with exactly that expression. The surprise and the pleasure both so deep and strong that Harry could have gotten lost in them and never wanted anything more. He'd dreamed ever since then that some day she might look at him like that. Perhaps when he proved that he could be good, that he had become good, she would be that surprised, that happy, with him. He fought desperately to hide the dull ache that seeing it now, knowing he didn't deserve it, caused him. It wasn't real, he reminded himself. Just another attempt at tricking him. What made that look so amazing was that it was rooted in joy, but also in love, and Remus couldn't love him. Nobody but the Dursleys could. He knew that. He knew it. But he was still tempted to let himself believe that it could have some thread of reality in it. He forced a slight smile, since it was expected of him, and turned into a smaller corridor. Tapping the brick that opened a passage, he waited for it to slide smoothly open, revealing a dark corridor beyond.

The man behind him chuckled, and he looked up, uncertainly.

"You found one of the secret passageways, huh?" the man asked, smiling.

Harry cocked his head slightly to one side. "I was told to explore the castle," he explained.

The smile grew slightly, and Remus nodded. "Ah, then it was nothing less than your duty to find the passages?"

"Yes, si -- Remus," he corrected himself quickly.

"But of course, there's no need to mention having found them to anyone who doesn't specifically tell you about them," the man continued, eyes sparkling. "Or show them to anyone who doesn't."

Harry had long since stopped being surprised at his inability to understand the reasons behind the instructions he was sometimes given. He simply accepted them. "As you say," he agreed with a nod, obediently stepping through the door as Remus waved him ahead, followed him, and closed the door behind them.

"So, what do you think of Hogwarts so far, Harry? Are you going to be taking classes in September?"

"Yes, Remus," he said, "but not like the other students."

"What do you mean?"

"The Sorting Hat wasn't able to place me yet, so Professor Dumbledore is having me take some general classes and share some others with first years. But I'm not going to really take classes like one of the real students."

He could feel the man's eyes studying him thoughtfully despite the darkness of the passageway. Finally, Remus said, "I see. Well, that could be for the best. I understand that over the years some students who have been sorted early have been given a pretty hard time for being younger than anyone else. It doesn't seem like a year should make so much difference, but it does, sometimes. What is he having you study?"

"Reading and writing, mathematics, history, Latin, herbology, defense against the dark arts, and potions."

At the last word, Remus stumbled slightly. "Potions," he repeated, regaining his balance. "With Professor Snape?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a long moment of silence as they reached the end of the passage, and Harry reached up to open the doorway, but paused when a hand touched his shoulder. He froze, waiting.

"There has been..." the man hesitated, then started again. "Professor Snape is a good man, Harry. He's very honest, very loyal, very brave. But he never got on well with your father and myself and our other friends, and it is ... it's possible that he won't be terribly kind to you because of old, remembered wrongs. It's not fair that he would hold our behavior against you, but it is possible that he will. If so, try not to hate him, Harry. He's been through a lot, and more of it than I care to admit was our fault. And he's truly a master of his art – impatient and easily angered, but incredibly skilled. He's not always a good teacher, but if you put your mind to learning from him, you can learn a great deal."

Harry waited, horrified that someone could think he might hate someone, as though he could possibly look down on another, but he couldn't possibly interrupt. When Remus finally fell silent, he said quickly, "I don't hate Professor Snape."

"You've had some dealings with him already?"

"Yes, sir. He came to pick me up from home, and I stayed in his rooms my first week here. Then he gave me a name for my owl," he added, listing all the interactions he could think of.

A startled smile turned up Remus's lips and his voice shook slightly as he repeated, "He named your owl?"

"Yes, sir. I was very grateful."

"Then please, disregard what I said. Apparently it was unnecessary, and I hope it won't change how you feel about him now. Shall we continue on?"

"Yes, Remus," he agreed, opening the door, and ushering them both through it. They were fairly close to Professor McGonagall's office, and Harry moved quickly through the halls until he reached it, knowing that in the unlikely event that she wasn't there, she would have left a note indicating where she could be found. He stopped at the door, and then looked uncertainly up at the man he was guiding.

Remus smiled reassuringly down at him, and stepped forward to knock lightly on the door.

"Enter," Professor McGonagall's clipped tones called from beyond it.

Harry settled himself to wait for further instructions, but a light hand on his back indicated that he was go go in as well. Professor McGonagall looked up and then a small smile fleetingly touched her lips before moving on to linger in her eyes.

"Remus! I see that you have renewed your acquaintance with Mr. Potter."

"And was beyond pleased to do so," the man agreed. "Sadly, I can't stay with him for long. I have a report to give, and then I must be on my way. But Albus had us fetch you in person so Harry and I could have at least a little while to get to know each other."

"A good thought," she agreed. "Was your test interrupted for it, Harry?" she added, turning to the boy as she gathered up her papers and neatened them, before rising to her feet.

"No, ma'am. I finished just before he arrived."

Her gaze flicked over to the clock, then back, surprised. "Had you? You must have made very good time, then. You passed, I assume?"

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

"What was the test?" Remus asked.

"Learning his way about the castle," she explained. "Albus made a map for him, but he can't very well keep it once the students come. So we wanted to be sure that he'd figured out how to get around."

"Ah," he murmured, eyes twinkling. "Well, he seems to have done fairly well at that."

"Yes," she agreed, casting one more sweeping glance over her desk to ensure that all was in order and nodding her satisfaction. "Well, let us be off, then."

This time, she led the way, and Remus and Harry followed, Remus's eyes sparkling at some private joke. "What shall you do this afternoon, then, Harry, since your test is out of the way?" Professor McGonagall asked him.

"I don't know, ma'am. Nobody's said."

"Why don't you ask Madam Hooch if she'd be willing to spot you for a while as you take a few loops about the Great Hall? You haven't had a chance go fly in the past week or two, have you?" she asked.

Harry's heart sank even as it leapt. He wanted to fly -- but that was the whole problem with it. "Yes, ma'am. I can do that."

"The Great Hall?" Remus asked blankly. "Last time James did that, he got a week's detention!"

"And it was only James, wasn't it?" the transfigurations professor asked, a slight smile on her thin lips. "You, of course, were nowhere near at the time!"

"Well, of course not!" the man replied, "I wouldn't be caught dead flaunting school rules like that."

"Nor alive, of course. It is still against the rules, but Harry's case is special. He can't go outside, you see, and it would be a pity to curtail his flying altogether."

Immediately concern overwhelmed the amusement in the younger man's eyes. "Can't go-- Do the Dea--"

"No, no, nothing like that. His presence here is known, but we've had no sign of interest beyond what is to be expected. We've had nobody testing our wards, thus far. But -- well, I'll explain at greater length later, but the briefest form of the explanation is that Harry suffers from acute agoraphobia."

Remus blinked, looking back at Harry, then turning back to stare at Professor McGonagall. "He-- But--" he started, then cut himself off, taking Harry's hand with a reassuring smile. "Well, it hardly matters right now. Do you like flying, Harry?"

"Yes, very much," he admitted, knowing that he wasn't going to be punished for the admission, and hating that knowledge.

"Think you'll be on your house team in a couple years? Whichever house you get into?"

"I don't know, Remus."

This time, Professor McGonagall's smile was a bit wider. "Oh, he will be. First year, most likely, and I can only hope that it's Gryffindor that gets to fight for the dispensation to let him fly first year."

"Really? You must be good," he said to Harry.

The boy dropped his gaze, the intonation was all wrong for the statement. Amused, proud, joking even, rather than the angry, disappointed order it ought to be.

Professor McGonagall nodded sharply. "He is. Madam Hooch took him and some other children up for a game of dodgeball on his birthday, and Harry, here, earned thirty-two stripes his first game. Ten Spudgers flying at the end," she added reminiscently. "Wish I'd gotten to see it -- Xiomara was kind enough to let me watch her memory, though."

"Thirty-two?" Remus asked blankly, amusement giving way to shock.

Harry hung his head as Professor McGonagall firmly repeated, "Thirty-two. An incredible showing. But here we are. Candy corn. Harry, you run off and find Madam Hooch, please," she finished, as the gargoyle leapt out of the way.

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

Remus dropped to one knee and set both hands on Harry's shoulders. "It was truly wonderful to meet you, Harry. I look forward to doing so again."

"Thank you, sir," he said, not looking into those serious eyes that held so much that they shouldn't. "It was good to meet you, too."

The man pulled him into another gentle hug, then watched as he walked off down the hall to find Madam Hooch. Harry didn't hear the gargoyle jump back into its normal position until shortly after he'd turned the corner and lost the prickling sensation of eyes on his back.

The flight was, as always, everything he hoped, which made it everything he feared. He held the miniature broom gently as he returned to his rooms afterwards, fighting back tears as he contemplated just how mad his family would be if they had been watching him -- and just how much he deserved that anger.

"You could just tell them that you don't like it."

Harry's head jerked up to look at the speaker, and found that he was standing before his own door, and that Augustus was looking at him wistfully. "I'm sorry, Augustus," Harry said politely. "I don't understand."

"You always look so sad when you come back from flying," the child said. "If you just told them that you don't like it, they wouldn't make you."

"But I do like it," Harry stated.

Augustus frowned in confusion. "That doesn't make sense," he stated. "Doing things you like doesn't make you sad. That's what liking things is all about. If it makes you sad, you can't like it, because if you liked it, doing it would make you happy." He shrugged in irritation and flipped a stray hair out of his eyes. "I can't say it right, but it's true!" He scowled at Harry. "I just don't like you being sad."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

The portrait sighed and swung open, and Harry moved through it.

"Have a good evening, Augustus."

"Thanks," the boy said, offering a quick smile that didn't quite reach his troubled eyes, then closed himself.

Once the portrait was finally closed, Harry sagged. His breath caught in his throat as he knelt on the hard stone of his floor, staring down at the toy broom in his hand. Such a little thing to be so very evil. Even as a toy it was beautiful, the lines smooth and clean, the lettering along its side a lovely script. Even the grain of the wood, shrunk down so far he had to squint to see it, was lovely. Terrified by what he was doing, he set it down on the floor and then, slowly and deliberately, rose to his feet, placed the heel of his right foot on it and transferred all of his weight onto that heel. Then spun. The sound of cracking wood was almost physically painful, but he welcomed that pain, knowing he deserved it on a very deep level. Deserved far, far worse. Finally he picked up the splintered remains, staring at the little pile, and, furiously biting back the tears prickling his eyes, hid the scraps behind Neville's plant. He had never in his life deliberately destroyed something before, and that had been the most frightening part. He shouldn't break things -- even magical things, he suspected. It was not for him to decide what deserved to exist and what did not. After all, he didn't deserve it himself. But the broom had been more incredible each time he rode it, and he couldn't bear to continue facing it, again and again.

After breakfast on Monday morning, Harry cautiously moved through the halls making his way to the DADA classroom,w here he knocked lightly on the door.

"Yes, yes, come!"

The irritated snap drew him through the door and he closed it softly behind him, and then turned to Professor Mungrove, waiting uncertainly.

Hazel eyes glared down at him. "I haven't the faintest idea what Professor Dumbledore is expecting us to do with you this week," she stated. "And to be honest, I'm not terribly pleased to have my last week of freedom suddenly become significantly less free. But he's the boss, so here you are. However, since this is my first -- and hopefully only -- year to be teaching here, and my predecessor's notes and lesson plans are utterly useless, I also simply do not have the time to entertain you. It's not personal, but I have work to do."

"Yes, ma'am," he said softly, waiting to be locked away until he was needed for something. His eyes flicked about the room in search of a cupboard, but found nothing.

"Okay, then. Look over that bookcase over there, pick yourself out something to read, and sit reading it. Quietly. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated, moving over to the indicated case. It was perhaps half a meter wide and held three shelves of neatly packed books. Dropping to his knees before it, his breath caught in dismay as he began to read the titles. A Little Book of Useful Counterhexes. Recognizing Dark Creatures. Dark Dreams and Other Fae Powers. Ten Simple Shields and When to Use Them. Finally, his gaze landed on a slim volume entitled, Without Your Wand: Non-Magical Protection and Defense.

With a silent sigh of relief, he pulled the book from its place, settled down on his knees, and lifted the book to his face to begin reading. Then blinked as his eyes refused to focus on the words. Uncertainly, he moved it away, and was relieved when the words focused. He still wasn't used to the change the glasses made to his vision. Quietly, he began to read, only to be interrupted a few minutes later by a sharp, "Mr. Potter, what do you think you're doing?"

"Reading, ma'am?" he offered tentatively, not sure what he'd done wrong.

"If you've picked a book, go sit at a desk, don't loll about on the floor!"

Startled, he rose smoothly to his feet. "Sorry, ma'am," he apologized, seating himself at the nearest desk. He waited until she turned back to her papers, before once more beginning to read. His back didn't ache as much from sitting as it had at first, but he still preferred kneeling. It was more comfortable, but it was also what he was supposed to do. It wasn't right for him to be on the furniture. But he had long practice in not letting discomfort, physical or mental, distract him, so he continued carefully reading the book.

Finally, Professor Mungrove rose to her feet and moved towards him. Harry carefully relaxed his muscles in preparation for a blow, but she merely said, "That's it, then. Lunch time. What did you pick?" She took the book from him without awaiting his response, one finger slipping between the pages at the point he'd reached. She studied the cover for a long moment, then turned to look at Harry from below lowered brows. He held himself still beneath her gaze. "Good choice," she said at last. "But odd."

When it became apparent that she was expecting some response, Harry ventured, "Ma'am?"

"Most muggle-raised would immediately go for the most overtly magical book they could find," she said thoughtfully. Her tone made Harry wonder if he'd been wrong to speak -- she sounded more like she was talking to herself than to him. Abruptly, she stuck a slip of paper between the leaves to mark his spot, and reinserted the book onto the shelf. "You can continue on Friday," she stated. "Go to lunch."

"Yes, ma'am," he acknowledged, slipping out of the desk to leave the room.

After lunch he went to Professor Dumbledore's office for what would be, in the coming weeks, a history lesson. It proved far more nerve-wracking than Professor Mungrove's time, as the headmaster immediately began talking to him about how he was settling in and how he enjoyed Hogwarts and how Hedwig and his Witch's Wode were doing, and if he was happy with Augustus as his portrait-door. Harry did the best he could to answer as they would expect him to, and gradually he relaxed a bit as he saw the hint of hard concern behind the twinkling eyes slowly soften and dissolve. The look vanished almost entirely when Fawkes left his perch in the corner to settle dry-eyed on Harry's shoulder, crooning softly as the boy scratched him behind the crest.

Although he was almost certain that he had made steps towards convincing the headmaster that he didn't know he was bad, Harry found the whole time extremely stressful. Behind their sparkle, the old man's eyes were sharp and his questions just the ones the Dursleys had warned him to avoid. Questions about his family, his life at home, his feelings. The hour seemed to last an eternity, and leaving was a relief.

But if his hour with the headmaster was uncomfortable, the following hour was actually painful. Professor McGonagall met him in her classroom with her desk full of picture albums which were, in turn, full to overflowing with silently moving photographs, mostly of old students. She flipped through them, pointing out one here, pausing over one there, with a quiet stream of commentary about the people in them. And the overwhelming majority of the pictures she showed him were of his parents. Together and separate, alone and with friends and with teachers, there seemed to be a never ending supply of them, from the earliest ones when they were barely older than him, to the most recent, in which they were adults, or nearly so, and leaving the school for good.

In one of the first, a little boy with short black hair in wild disarray, turned to wink one hazel eye through his glasses (all of which let Harry recognized him before Professor McGonagall named him: James Potter. Bully. Alcoholic. Wizard. Freak.) at his audience before sneaking up behind a redhead, her hair vibrant against the black of her school robes, and casting a tickling charm directly into her ribs. The girl squirmed and spun about, showing a silent squeal, her emerald eyes narrowed and flashing with fury (Lily Potter. Spoiled Brat. Whore. Witch. Freak.) as she snapped a counterspell. The boy's eyes widened in comic dismay at how easily she'd rid herself of his hex, and then he spun and fled, laughing as she gave chase.

In another, a slightly older Lily sat on a bench in a garden, almost hidden within a lilac bush, the clumps of purple and blue flowers shifting slightly in the breeze. At her side sat a tall, pale boy with smooth black hair held back in a neat queue, and a shy smile. ("Professor Snape as a lad," the transfiguration professor commented quietly.) They were bent over a large book spread across both their laps. She was nodding slowly as he pointed out something, his mouth moving rapidly in some complex explanation, looking back and forth between her attentive face and the book as he tried to get something across. Then, suddenly, her face lit with a glow of comprehension, and she touched his shoulder with one hand to get his attention and began to speak excitedly. He nodded enthusiastically and they shared a delighted smile.

Older still, James led three other boys in a strange dance. The first was tall and rugged, with long, black hair hanging about his face and a smile that Harry could barely stand to look at because it seemed to say that he knew that he was bad. Knew it and reveled in the knowledge. ("Sirius Black. You -- one day you shall hear his story. But not today, Harry.") The second one was brown-haired and thin, wearing old robes and an air of quiet contentment deeper than the job on the others. ("Remus, of course, who you met just yesterday. He was never happier than when surrounded by his friends.") The last was a well-fed blond boy who was always a quarter step behind the others, all of his attention on them, trying to be just like them. Harry felt a surge of sympathy for the awkward boy, knowing how hard it was to behave like everyone expected, all the while knowing that you are nothing like them or like they expect you to be. ("Peter Pettigrew. A good hearted lad, and a good friend to the end.") Each had his hands on the hips of the boy before him as they swayed forward in time with James's hands, which spun about each other. Every few steps, one of his hands would lift, pointing up and out, and all the boys kicked out with the leg on that side. After a few steps, the other side would lift. As Professor McGonagall chuckled over the picture, more boys flooded into it, joining the lengthening line, swaying and laughing and kicking.

About the same age, Lily, with her hair tied tightly back, stood before James, hands on hips, jaw outthrust, head tilted back to look him in the eye as she spoke. And he stood there, first grinning broadly, but slowly the grin turned to something approaching remorse. He started to speak, but one of her hands clenched into a fist and whipped out, striking him with enough force to knock his head back. She snapped out one more phrase, then spun about, surreptitiously raising one hand to dash a tear from her eye as she stalked away. He watched her go, hand absently exploring his bruised jaw, staring after her with a look of wonder and something else that Harry didn't quite recognize but which hadn't been on his face in any of the previous pictures.

"I think that's the moment James started to fall in love with Lily," Professor McGonagall said softly, smiling down at the picture. Harry looked up at her, uncertainly, hoping he'd misheard. He knew his father was a bully and a freak, but to fall in love with someone because they attacked him? But then, perhaps he wasn't all bad? Perhaps he knew he was bad and recognized the punishment as a sign that she would help him get better? "She never got so angry when he picked on her," she continued, "but if he dared lay a hand on one of her friends she was enraged. Merlin, she would have taken on a basilisk single-handed to protect someone she cared about, and I think that was the moment James figured that out -- and he wanted to be one of the people she would do anything to protect. Not that he wanted to be protected, mind. James was no coward. But he wanted to be loved as only Lily loved -- with all her heart and soul, loyal to death and beyond."

She turned the page again, then stopped as the clock on her desk clicked softly. Looking over at it, she sighed. "Well, we're out of time, and even now when school hasn't actually started, I daresay Professor Snape will be upset if you're late. Off with you, Harry, and we can look at some more pictures when you come back tomorrow morning, if you like."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, trying to feign excitement as he realized that part of who they were pretending he was a boy who had never known his parents and who would believe whatever they said about them and be eager to hear more. But every picture hurt and every word stung him. Reminding himself that he deserved the pain, he added, "Thank you, ma'am," and obediently headed down to the potions classroom, where he was to have his math lessons. His last stop for the day.

Professor Snape barely looked up from the potion he was working on as Harry entered the room. He was actually in a small private lab just off the potions classroom, and as Harry entered, he waved towards a stool, and snapped, "Sit. There. Don't move and don't make a sound. I need to concentrate."

Harry took the seat he was motioned towards, and held himself perfectly still and silent, watching attentively as the man chopped and stirred, occasionally leaving the potion to clean a cauldron, mortar and pestle, blade, or cutting board, then hurrying back to it once more. He showed no further sign of noticing Harry, who slowly relaxed on the stool, relieved that this period at least he wasn't to be tested or attacked. Once he understood the pattern of the potions master's movements, it took an effort of will to stay put, and not to move forward and clean the knife after he had used it to chop the squashy red things that apparently couldn't be mixed with anything else. To take the cauldron after the third time it was used and set aside, but not before, and scour it, put boiling water in it, and let it sit while the next one was used three times, then moving the next one to clean and setting the current one behind the one Professor Snape had moved on to. But he had been told to be still, so he was still, even as he watched carefully, seeing how he could make himself useful were he allowed to move.

The two hours ended, and he continued to sit, quietly awaiting further instructions as the professor continued his work. At last, he cleaned out a cauldron for the last time, stretched, rolled his shoulders, and turned. He froze as he saw Harry. "What are you still doing here?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said quickly, responding to the irritation in the voice, then internalizing a wince at the annoyance the apology brought to the man's dark eyes. "You told me not to move, sir."

"Well of course when your time's up you can leave. So leave!" he snapped.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Harry murmured, before fleeing the room.

That night at dinner, Harry ate quietly, responding when he was asked a direct question. Just before he left, though, Professor Flitwick called him aside. "Mr. Potter, I was trying to come up with some way to entertain you this week in our meetings, and suddenly it occurred to me that so far nobody has shown you how to do anything with your practice wand! I should have done so before, but time is so very short just before school starts, you know. Bring it with you tomorrow, and we'll get started," he said excitedly.

"Yes, sir," Harry acknowledged.

"Oh, this will be fun!" Flitwick exclaimed in delight, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Goodnight, Harry, I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, sir," he repeated, watching as the little man turned and bounced away, seeming to be counting something off on his fingers.

Feeling his shoulders begin to droop, Harry deliberately straightened them, and returned to his room to get ready for bed. He felt like the real test would begin tomorrow. The first time he really had to deceive them, had to do poorly at something.


"Put me on, Harry."

Harry dropped his gaze to his hands where he was scrubbing at an old stain on the floor and scrubbed harder, trying not to hear the hat.

"Harry."

His hands stilled, but he still didn't look up.

The voice turned suddenly harsh and angry, strangely punctuated by a sad warbling cry from the phoenix, "Put me on, Harry! Now!"

Like a puppet on a string, he rose to his feet, scrubbrush falling from one limp hand, and crossed the room, lifted the hat, and placed it on his head, unable to disobey that tone when it wasn't countering one of his direct orders. He closed his eyes as the fabric covered them, and clenched his jaw against the sudden onslaught of memories from the past week. There was some good, of course, Professor Snape had stopped telling him to stay still, and after studying the man for a while to ensure that he understood the patterns properly, he'd begun cleaning and organizing as the man worked. Professor Snape hadn't even noticed at first, until the third time he reached for a cauldron that shouldn't have been there and had it exactly where he wanted it to be. He'd paused, staring at it like he hadn't seen it before, turned to look at the pile of filled beakers, then turned back to the clean cauldrons, then looking at Harry as if he'd forgotten he was there. Harry had waited to see if he'd gotten it wrong, but at long last the potions master had simply gone back to work, occasionally laying his measuring gaze on the boy as he moved through his self-imposed tasks, watching for the slightest mistake. Eventually, though, he'd turned his full attention back to the brewing of his potions, which Harry had taken as a good sign. And when he'd switched potions, and Harry had moved to the background to watch for the pattern, Professor Snape had snapped orders as to what to do when, clearly irritated that he didn't already know, and which Harry had quickly obeyed, managing to silence his instinctive apology. He had assisted throughout the rest of his math and potions pre-classes, slowly falling into a quiet rhythm, neither speaking unless Snape was changing something in the routine he wanted Harry to perform. Harry enjoyed the quiet work, doing his tasks to the best of his ability.

And there was the moment of relief when he was reading in Professor Mungrove's classroom when he reached a discussion of looking through illusions and found that it wasn't actually magic. That muggles had been taught to do it just as well as wizards.

But those good moments hardly balanced out the horrible talks with the headmaster, and the seemingly infinite supply of photographs brought out by Professor McGonagall, much less the lessons with Professor Flitwick. The hat focused particularly on those, pausing frequently on the teacher and his increasingly confused expressions.

"He's figuring it out," he commented.

Harry, watching his own memories with the hat, bit his lip but didn't answer.

"You have, potentially, eight years of trickery to last out, and Professor Flitwick is starting to figure out in only five days that you're faking inability. It's not going to work the way you're doing it, Harry." When Harry didn't answer, the hat continued, "It's hard to convincingly fail to learn something. Especially when you've already proven that you're intelligent and hard-working. You're not convincing him, Harry."

"I have to," he finally muttered.

"Did he looked convinced to you?"

The boy remained stubbornly silent.

"Afraid to admit to a flaw? You are failing to deceive him, do you deny it?"

At the sudden accusation, the boy's eyes opened and his shoulders straightened. "No, sir."

"That's right," the voice murmured, gentle once more. "Here's the trick of it, Harry. It's been proven again and again. You can only effectively pretend to be bad at something if you really are bad at it -- which we both know you're not capable of remaining for any length of time -- or if you're very good at it, indeed. The only way you can hope to convince them you're bad at it -- and believe me when I say that Professor Flitwick is the least of your problems: if Professor McGonagall had been there with you, she'd have confronted you already -- is to not only learn what he's teaching, but to master it. So that you can know just what tiny thing to change to make it fail. Pulling your flick short by just a fraction of a centimeter. Swishing just a trifle too far. Incanting with just a hint of a stress on the wrong syllable. All mistakes that are hard to pinpoint if you're subtle enough, and even harder to prove are deliberate. But you can only understand how close you can get without getting it right if you know how to get it right, Harry. And if you continue bumbling as you have been -- pronunciation all wrong when he's quite aware that you have perfectly good ears, wand movement backwards when he's seen how graceful you can be -- they'll see through you in no time, Harry. And then, they'll demand answers."

Harry was too shocked by even the concept of deliberately learning, mastering magical skills to put it into words. But the hat lifted the thoughts directly from his head.

"Is it worse to learn magic or to give away your charade, Harry?" the hat asked, voice soft. "You know what giving yourself away means, don't you? It would mean they'd start asking questions. And once they start asking questions, once they realize how many questions there are to ask, it's only a matter of time before they find out everything, Harry. I'm not the only one around here who can read minds, you know. If you give them cause to do so, you'll be left with no secrets at all. And do you know what will happen once they've opened up your secrets?"

"No," Harry whispered.

"Yes, you do, Harry. Of course you do. What will happen?"

"They'll try to turn me against the my family. They'll try to use everything I care about and everything I know against me to twist my mind into believing them."

"Oh, they'll do that. But it's more than that, and you know it. What else will they do?"

"Hurt them," Harry admitted, voice cracking. "They'll hurt my family, won't they?"

"Once they see what they've done to you? Oh yes. They'll hurt them. So it's up to you, Harry. Do you protect your family by learning what you are not supposed to learn? Not using it, of course, because that would be wrong, but simply learning how to use it so that you can effectively pretend not to know? Think, Harry! As long as you're using the practice wand, nothing you do is actually magic. Not if you do it for Professor Flitwick, and not if you learn to do it on your own so that you can effectively convince him that you're failing to learn. So if you can learn how to do magic without actually doing any magic, so that once you get a real wand you won't have to do magic -- and by doing so you protect your family, how can you even consider doing otherwise?"

"I can't learn to do magic. I have to be bad at it," Harry stated.

"You have to convince them that you are useless, is that not so?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Are they more likely to believe that you are useless if they think you can't do magic, or if they think that for some reason you're deliberately refusing to learn magic? Which is more likely to make them angry, Harry? Are you supposed to make them angry?"

"No," he whispered. "They're very dangerous and they could hurt my family if they knew that they tried to prepare me to resist them."

"That's right, Harry. Do you want to risk your family like that? Is that really what they'd want?"

"They don't want me to learn magic!"

"Of course they don't, Harry. But would they rather you know how to do it, intellectually, and have nobody know, have them safe and you safe from the wizards prying further and further into your secrets, or would they rather have you outright defiant, showing the wizards that you could learn but that you refuse? Do you think they'll take defiance well, Harry?"

At the first mention of defiance, a shudder ran through Harry's body and his breathing quickened a bit.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" the hat asked, a note of discovery in its voice.

"Yes," Harry admitted.

"You're afraid that if you learn the magic, you'll be tempted to use it. That you'll realize that your family lied to you all these years and that it isn't wrong or unnatural. That if you use it, you'll have to reconsider everything you believe."

"No!" he gasped, shocked.

"Then if you're firm in your beliefs, if learning the mechanics behind it can't tempt you, what is so dangerous about it, Harry? What's so dangerous that it's worth risking your family?"

"I'm not supposed to learn," he whimpered, tears beading on his eyelashes, hidden beneath the hat.

"You're also not supposed to put your family at risk. Think, Harry. Is it worse for you to risk temptation, or to risk the lives and well-being of your aunt and uncle?"

"They don't want me to learn magic," he whispered, almost pleadingly.

"Do those platitudes make you feel better?" the hat demanded. "Will your family be pleased with you when the headmaster takes you with him to confront them, and says he knows all of what they've said and done to you? Will they look at you and say it's okay, since at least you didn't let them teach you magic? Will they forgive you, Harry? Will they?"

Harry threw the hat from him, and buried his head in his knees, curling his arms around his head in a vain attempt to block out the words.

Suddenly the voice was gentle once more, soothing, but projecting easily through his arms, as easily as if it spoke directly into his mind. "It doesn't have to be like that, Harry. You can learn but never use the lessons. I can teach you how to deceive them, Harry. But only if you let me teach you. I can't show you how to do it wrong without you learning how to do it right. It won't work. It's difficult, I know. Making decisions with nobody you trust to guide you. But think of what your uncle would tell you if he was here. What comes first? Protecting Dudley and Petunia from the magic, or protecting yourself from the possibility of temptation?"

"Protecting them," he whispered, voice dull and drained of emotion.

"That's right. They have no defense against magic. You're the only one who can protect them, and you can protect them by doing this. By learning to feign inability better. And as long as you use the practice wand you're not doing magic. You're using a magical item, but it's equally magical whether you use it or not, you're not making magic in any way by learning with it, Harry. You're just protecting your family. Take out your practice wand, Harry."

Reluctantly, his hand reached into the pocket of the robes he had been provided earlier in the week, and pulled forth the stick.

"That's right, Harry. Good. Now repeat after me. Wingardium leviosa!"