Thanks To: The Richmaster, m. j. readings , Forever hero girl, SilvermistAnineLover, Ambiguity in D Major, Zekrom1010101010, WolfassassinKing, seti31, dragonrose, Alucard-Masters, Alucard-Masters (again), jeanne2525, Parallel Parabox, Rosalind Fairchilde, CoO
(mj: sorry about the spaces in your name, it kept saving as 'm.' when I tried it as you spell it.)
Warning: I hate this chapter; everyone feels OOC, but it was the best version of a bad lot.
ALSO: what is that word? how does sentence? Seriously is it tracks, tact or tack?!
In other news: my ps2 slim has given up the ghost (again), and I am sad because I was going to go be a space pirate star god today... and now I can't.
Zuko talks things out (An ally, a clue and a secret)
Zuko pressed his hands flat against the shower wall, and dropped his head forward, enjoying the feel of hot water sliding down his back. He'd finished washing five minutes ago, now he was just procrastinating, trying to figure out what to tell the professor.
Through wet locks of hair he eyed his hands, both unbruised, unbroken and unblemished. Hermione hadn't talked him into seeing the school healer, his pain making a bad situation worse where his temper was concerned. But by the time MacGonagall had found him in the docks beneath the school, his hand had healed.
He'd run, didn't even know where he was going. He just needed to be away.
He needed privacy, he needed quiet, he needed... he needed...
Zuko missed his room aboard The Wani, his meditation table, the subtle creaks of metal, the not so subtle sounds of the engine.
The ebb and flow of the ocean beneath him.
He'd found himself in the underground docks, not entirely sure how he'd gotten there.
He didn't care, he just clambered into one of the boats and stopped.
He was back on his ship, in the frame work of the cargo-hold's ceiling. His uncle was in his room, with a late night cup of tea, only the night crew was awake.
His hand twinged, and he grimaced, slipped his hand over the side of the small boat, and into the icy water to reduce the swelling.
He gasped.
In the water, he felt two hands take his, carefully, gently. He felt the soft brush of Katara's Chi as her hands removed the bandage.
The pain ebbed, and soon ceased altogether. The phantom hands beneath the water slipped from his, and disappeared.
Zuko pulled his hand from the water and stared; the torn and bruised skin of his hand was whole again, no sign of his outburst. He peered over the side of the boat, but no matter how long he waited, or how deep he looked, there was no sign of Katara.
KNOCKKNOCK.
Zuko suppressed a tiny jerk of motion, and scrambled out from the shower's spray. It seemed MacGonagall had given him all the time he was going to get to clean up. He was glad she'd let him shower first though, two days without bathing had left him a little rank.
Now he just had to explain himself and his outburst.
The silence stretched between them for several long moments. Harry sat still and upright in his chair, posture rigid.
He wasn't looking at her, so much as a spot on the wall behind her. He was awaiting punishment, Minerva was still waiting for an explanation.
She broke first, her sigh had his eyes flickering to hers.
"Harry, I've heard from the other students what happened, would you like to tell me what you think happened."
She tried not to shudder at his look, the way he assessed her, as if determining 'friend or foe.'
'No,' she corrected herself, 'Ally or Foe.'
"No, I don't want to tell you what I think happened, I'd like to tell you what actually happened, but it's irrelevant. I reacted to a situation inappropriately, and I have no excuse."
'Oh Morgana, he's decided foe.'
"Alright then, tell me what happened."
"I lost my temper."
"Why."
"I allowed myself to lose control."
"According to witnesses, you were provoked."
"That doesn't matter, I should have better control than that."
A sense of creeping dread made its way up Minerva's spine. She changed tracks and tried a different approach.
"I spoke with several other students, they claim that you've been getting increasingly aggressive as the week's gone on. Would you tell me why."
A flicker of something crossed his face, he squashed it almost immediately. Harry was silent for a moment, watching her, re-evaluating.
He let out a gusty sigh, his posture loosening, his shoulders sagging.
"It's not easy to realise your family is different from everyone else's, that your life and circumstances are different from others. I had a moment of awakening – a while ago now – where I looked back at my personal history, and I realised I didn't like what I saw.
"Changing perspectives isn't... it isn't easy."
Harry fell quiet again but Minerva held her tongue, the boy wasn't finished.
"I was angry, very angry, for a very long time. I was angry at the world, I was angry at my family, the people around me, even myself. I figured out recently, how to be... not angry. I'm still working on happy, but I can do content most days... normally.
"See, when you're so angry for so long, the anger can stain your spirit. It becomes a mark that doesn't wash off. The anger is still inside me, and under normal circumstances I can stop it from growing, or at least keep it under control.
"This place, the people here, they make it difficult. I need time to myself, to get myself in order, to keep myself in order, and the people here won't leave me alone. There's always someone who wants something, or people making noise, and there's only so many places I'm really allowed to go - and apparently lighting candles 'all willy-nilly' is against the school rules."
"Lighting candles?"
"I use them to meditate, they help me focus."
"Would that have anything to do with the flames I saw floating above you in the docks, the ones that grew and shrank with your breathing?" Minerva caught a faint tinge in the boys cheeks.
"Yes. I know magic is different for everyone else, they need wands and words, and so do I, unless its fire." Harry looked down, shrank in on himself. Minerva froze.
"Harry, do you ever... set things on fire on purpose, just to watch them burn? Or intentionally destroy things with the fire?"
He looked up confused.
"No, why would I? Fire is the light in the darkness, the light and warmth of the sun that helps the plants grow, the hearth which cooks the food, the passion in a person's soul. Sometimes, yes, it is the brush that sweeps the dead wood clean from a forest, but fire itself is not just destruction."
"You've never harmed anyone with your fire?"
"I have never caused anyone in this world harm with it... unless you count Ron's damned cards."
"You have a problem with Mr. Weasley's cards?"
"... I don't like explosions. He kept setting them off. He wouldn't leave, he's everywhere I am, and I just wanted some quiet so I could finish my work, and he just wouldn't stop blowing them up."
Minerva frowned at the way Harry tensed. There was something he wasn't saying.
Unbidden a memory of Godric's Hollow flashed through her mind. The nursery wall and part of the roof had been blown out with immense force.
Minerva breathed in with sudden realisation; somewhere in the depths of Harry's mind was a memory of that night, a traumatic memory of death and fear capped by an explosion.
But what did she do with this knowledge, how did she help Harry? Could she even help him? Did she even have the right? He'd destroyed another student's property, though it had been in some form of self defence! What to do, whattodo?!
"Harry, you've already acknowledge that your response to the situation was... not the best, but I am also now aware that there were extenuating circumstances. You've clearly spent the weekend getting yourself back under control, but this isn't something we can do every week without severe issue.
"So tell me then Harry, what do you need to stop this from happening again?"
There was surprise in his eyes, and a sort of... triumph?
"I just need a private area that I can mediate in, somewhere I can light candles if I want and be alone, preferably with a desk for school work?" His list of requirements changed quickly into a question as if he wasn't sure what constituted pushing his luck.
"Anything else?"
"Maybe some chalk boards for... projects, and space to move around in so I don't feel trapped? A window would be nice. I like the sunlight."
"I'll see what I can do, in the mean time you'll be seeing me for detention every night for the next week as punishment for destroying Mr. Weasley's property."
"Yes Professor, thank you for your concern and leniency in this matter." Harry bowed slightly in his chair, his hands pressing together in an odd symbol of some sort.
'Must be a muggle thing,' Minerva decided, though she knew it wasn't, pretending for the sake of the privacy he so clearly valued.
Zuko was allowed back to the dorms with a note from MacGonagall concerning his week of detention. He felt a little bad about manipulating the woman like that, but it had worked in his favour, and it wasn't like she hadn't wanted to help.
All it had taken was the carefully presented truth, lying without lying; Zuko would never be Azula, but he could – when occasion called for it – play a scene. (The trip from the docks where his sunken ship, lay to the cold waters and icy walls of the North Pole, the vicious satisfaction of so easily fooling Zhao with a fake accent and a false personality.)
MacGonagall had suggested he go to dinner, which still had half an hour left, but he declined in favour of sleeping in a bed. He also still had a few sandwiches left from the Café and the stash of food from Wendy's cart.
And to be honest, while he could deal with stares and whispers, he wasn't in the mood to deal with several hundred people's worth all at once.
Finally into sleeping pants and a shirt, Zuko opened his trunk and rummaged through his food supplies. As his hand passed over the more sugary confections, he was struck with a sense of 'This chocolate frog. This one.' He plucked the frog packet from the pile and settled onto his bed, opening it with care; he'd been warned about the frog's first jump. It was no match for his prepared reflexes. He put the frogs head between his teeth, and bit down until it stopped moving. He left the chocolate hanging from his mouth, and turned his attention to the card.
The card was Albus Dumbledore.
"Headmaster of Hogwarts, Grindewald, dragon's blood, work with Nicholas Flamel-" Zuko dove for his trunk, pulling out the book on artefacts. He flicked through the pages he had marked, until he found the one he was looking for.
'Huh, so the package from the bank was the Philosopher's Stone. The package someone tried to steal... and is currently on the third floor. So what, am I supposed to protect it? Destroy it? What?'
Knock, knock.
The soft knock had him turning towards the dorm room door.
Hermione picked at her food, forcing down another mouthful. There had been a strange atmosphere within the Gryffindor house, since Harry had 'epically lost his shit' two night prior. Having gotten the whole story from Neville, Hermione was ready to... to... well she wasn't sure but she doubted it would end well for Ronald Weasley.
The ginger haired menace took every opportunity to needle her about her looks and academic enjoyment whenever Harry wasn't nearby, so there was no sympathy from her when she'd heard his stupid exploding cards had been burnt.
She was, however, concerned by Harry's reaction to the cards – as related by Neville – and the fact that he had –again as described by Neville – set the cards on fire without even drawing his wand.
His wand, which was by all accounts, still on his desk in the dorm rooms.
Something about Harry Potter didn't sit right in her head, all the facts she had about him seemed to settle just off centre.
Hermione didn't like it when things didn't quantify right. For her, an erroneous fact was like a an itch, she might take off several layers of skin, but she wouldn't stop until it settled; she had to reach the truth.
It was simply her nature.
When MacGonagall arrived late to dinner, looking both pleased and worn out, Hermione realised Harry had been found. Gesturing and whispering quietly to Neville she packed a pair of napkins with food that wouldn't require cutlery, snagged two goblets, and a jug of the mixed fruit juice Harry seemed to like, and ducked out the small side door.
She walked as fast as she dared with the jug, but still made it to the dorms quickly enough. She climbed the stairs, and stopped in the door of the first year boys' dorm.
And bit back a laugh.
Harry stood with a chocolate frog hanging from his mouth, in his pyjamas with his hair more mussed than usual, while glaring at a book. Before she could break under the ridiculous sight, she tapped the door frame with her foot.
Harry looked up so fast she was surprised there weren't any whiplash sound effects.
"Harry, I wasn't sure if you'd eaten yet," she hoisted the napkins and jugs just a little. Harry's eyes widened in understanding, he dropped a frog's card between the pages, and closed the book with a snap, shoving it into his neat trunk before closing its lid.
He took the frog from his mouth, and wiped at the smear of melted chocolate with a grimace.
"I haven't, thanks." Hermione replayed the last seconds over in her mind, something about the picture...
"Oh, professor MacGonagall healed your hand then?" Harry looked confused, glanced at his hand then back to her.
"Uh... yes?"
"So no then." Zuko frowned.
"You are scary-observant, I'm not sure I like it." Hermione shrugged and began placing her cargo onto the trunks lid.
"I like to think of myself as a Trixie Belden type." Harry went back to looking confused. "Girl detective... basically Nancy Drew before Nancy Drew existed... Yes, I am scary-observant, especially when facts don't fit together. Now who healed your hand?"
"Uh... it healed by magic?" She gave him her most unimpressed look.
"Sure why not, just another of the things about you that don't make sense."
"Sorry," she wasn't sure if he was sorry. They passed into silence as they perched at the end of the bed, eating food from the napkins.
"I'm going to figure you out you know," Hermione told him minutes later. "I know you like your privacy, but when facts don't fit correctly I can't help myself, it's a compulsion. I have to know."
"And what happens when you know? When you figure me out?" Something in his tone sounded like a warning.
"I suppose it depends on what I figure out."
"What if it's something that's... really unbelievable."
"How unbelievable? Like witches and wizards and magic is real unbelievable? Or alien abduction unbelievable?"
"... what about: divine beings speak to me because I have a destiny I need to fulfil but they skimp on the details?"
"Divine beings... speak to you? What do they say?"
"Not much to be honest, I get feelings mostly. All I know is there's a war coming, the starting volleys are already in the air, and I have to stop it somehow. I don't even know who I'm fighting."
"... you hear gods because you're the chosen one?"
"...It sounds really pretentious when you say it like that."
They lapsed into silence again.
"You could just be crazy."
"Pretty sure I'm not."
"... could be a side effect of surviving an un-survivable curse."
"I what now?"
"It's the reason you're famous, not because your parents died, but because the man that killed them couldn't kill you with The Death Curse. No one's ever survived it before, or since. Plus as a side effect of whatever made you survive, the wizard who cast it was destroyed. Like completely, no body."
Harry fixed her with a sharp look.
"Confirmation of death, there isn't any, who saw him die?"
"Just you, everyone else was either already dead or arrived later."
"So how does anyone know I survived The Death Curse?"
"Forensic spells, I was reading about them, one of the books I got for light reading – great forensic cases of the last twenty years – covers almost twenty high profile or intriguing crime files from 1970 to 1990, including Halloween 1981, the night your parents were killed.
"The Aurors – the magic police – arrived at the scene early November 1st after special wards in the ministry detected a magical explosion in Godric's Hollow. They used spells to scan magical residue, and there's one spell, but it takes thirteen people, to... it shows what happened like a silent film; you can't interact with but it takes a lot of power, and people, so it's only used on the most important occasions.
"That, combined with a sudden cessation of Death Eater activity, lead to the conclusion that 'He-who-must-not-be-named' was dead."
Harry looked pensive, something about the way he was holding himself.
"Are the divine beings talking to you now?" He winced. "Are they telling you the Dark Lord is alive?"
"No...?"
"That sounded like a question."
"It's... 'The Dark Lord is dead' as a statement isn't wrong, but it is erroneous."
"How can it be erroneous if it's not wrong?"
"'The sky is blue' isn't a lie, but it's not always true or accurate."
Hermione wasn't sure what to think about that.
She was beginning to rethink her attachment to Harry Potter.
Zuko had known Hermione's observations were going to come back to bite him; he'd just thought he'd have more time.
Giving her what he felt to be a safer version of the truth had been a gamble, but the Spirits who seemed to be invested in his completion of Harry's Destiny, enforced the feeling that Hermione's loyalty could be trusted.
Zuko just hoped he'd actually earned it.
Respect the scar Outtake:
"I just don't get why every one is so fixated on my scar, it barely a scratch!"
"Harry... you do know why you're famous right?"
"Yes Hermione, I survived a murder attempt by a wizard terrorist. Who murdered my parents."
"Not just that, that scar is the only evidence of the killing curse he tried to use on you. A spell which is forbidden, it kills instantly and without leaving a mark on the body. You can't block it, you can't cure it, you can't stop it, but somehow you survived."
"...This scratch is the only mark made by a spell that leaves no marks... something about that sentence seems wrong..."Although if it was true the scar just got a whole lot less pathetic.
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