A/N: I'll lay it down for the record. The Denarian Lord is the last of the Denarian Trilogy. You know, because it's Book 3 and all. I've had a few people at DLP whisper about another one to the newbies. Sadly, this is it, folks. Afterwards, I'll probably finish the RoA sequel and then- well, it might be time for me to drop out of the Fanfiction game.
A massive thanks to the following people at DLP who proof-read this chapter.
- Chime??
- Lord Xantam
- The DarIm
- KrazQ
- Dragonrider Novera
- Zyloch
It was a pity that there was so much work for them. I thought I'd done a decent job this time.
The first thing that Harry noticed when he opened his eyes was that the roof was on fire. He stared at it unblinkingly, his mind trying to play a little catch up as he lay on the cold, hard ground. A shadow loomed above him, blocking out the lamps that hung from the walls, and Harry flickered his gaze to the right as a purple-robed wizard with an extremely long beard and a pair of half-moon glasses raised his wand. The old man's mouth moved but Harry couldn't hear what he said. He couldn't hear much of anything, actually. His ears throbbed painfully and it sounded like somebody had set off an alarm in his head, blocking out anything from the outside world with a mixture of piercing screeches and static fuzz. He watched as the elderly wizard conjured a flock of birds made entirely out of sparkling water and flew them to the small patches of fire eating away at the wooden beams. His mind was moving at a sluggish pace and he thought he could hear voices, soft feminine voices, as he tried to remember the man's name. He looked hauntingly familiar, with those twinkling blue eyes and that blackened, dead hand. Dudders...Dumb...Dumbarse? Dumbshit? Dumble-elevator? Harry paused. That last one even sounded ridiculous to , he knew it had something to do with elevators. Lift? Shaft? Floors? Buildings? Buttons? Cheesy music? Dumble-cheesy music?
The man was kneeling beside Harry know, his brows furrowed. With a wave of his wand, he sprayed a trail of golden lights of Harry, obviously understanding the different displays of colour and light that hovered over him. The man tapped Harry on the head, frowned, and moved his wand to his ears. Harry watched in bemusement, idly noting that his legs seemed to be broken. Still, his mind was trailing behind his body by about two kilometres, so all he could feel was a warm haze. If his legs truly were broken, well, he'd worry about them when he'd caught up a little. For now, he'd just lay back and enjoy the...
Something in his ears broke and Harry let out an agonising scream. His legs curled up and his hands flew to his ears, clutching them tightly as waves of pain shot through his head. He never felt the second wand tap, but he felt the broken parts in his ear come together again as the pain stopped. Along with the pain went the alarms and static buzz, replaced with the refreshing sound of rustling robes and his own beating heart.
"That fucking hurt!" he gasped out loud.
"My apologies, Harry," the old man said quietly, withdrawing his wand and standing up. He offered Harry a hand, who took it and allowed the purple-robed wizard to lead him to a quaint little armchair that had suddenly popped up out of nowhere. "It appears that the backlash had a significantly negative affect on your auditory senses."
"Right," Harry said dazedly, slumping against the chair and looking as bewildered as he felt. "That's me. Harry. Harry. Hareeeee. Hairy Harry? No, just Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry." He paused and plucked his lips. "Bob." He clicked his tongue and chuckled weakly. "What a funny name. Bob. Who would call somebody Bob? Do you know somebody named Bob, Dumble-knob?"
"I'm afraid I don't," the old man said slowly, eying Harry with ill-disguised concern. "Although, I do recall that my birth certificate says 'Albus Dumbledore'. Well, I will admit that there are a plenitude of middle names, each stranger than the last, but I do not believe we really want to go there."
"Why, is it bad weather?" Harry retorted instantly and let out a loud giggle. He paused in mid-laugh and snapped his fingers, his eyes widening with comprehension. "Of course!" He exclaimed. "All elevators have doors and all doors have knobs!"
"I see," Dumbledore murmured softly, stroking his beard. He tapped the strangely restrained Harry on the head with his wand and frowned. "Oh dear. There's a slight chance that you may have suffered the tiniest bit of a little brain damage. That backlash truly did rattle your mind a little, didn't it? Well, I suppose we should be grateful that there aren't any physical side-effects. Why, I once knew a man who attempted to learn this very Art. His backlash turned him into the strangest shade of puce."
The Headmaster appeared a little pensive as he scratched his chin. "I wonder what ever happened to him? The last I heard, he had joined a muggle carnival. He always did have an unduly fascination with flashing lights..."
Harry was too busy gagging to answer. There was something in his stomach that was demanding to get out. With a series of undignified hacks, Harry threw back his head and vomited out a steam of steamy, green slime all over the floor of Dumbledore's office. The man in question took a step backwards, eying the pile of steamy goo critically while Harry cocked his head, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"I suppose discounting physical symptoms might have been a tad hasty..." Dumbledore amended carefully.
He was cut off Harry's stomach rumbled again and only just avoided the next pile of steaming goo that left Harry's mouth. It really was quite the odd physiological backlash. Perhaps the Word originated from a world full of this type of substance- whatever it was. A swipe of his wand took care of the smell, although he left the goo there for further study, while Harry stared down at the quivering masses of whatever-the-hell they were and frowned.
"Why green, Dumbledore?" he inquired, puzzled and confused. "Why is it green? Why not red? Red's a good colour. I'd even go so far as to say that red's a great colour. Great, awesome, fantastic, superb!"
Dumbledore ignored him, staring down intently into Harry's eyes as if they held all the mysteries of the universe in them. Harry was drawn to his captivating blue eyes as if he were in a trance and suddenly found that he couldn't move his head- no, his entire body had gone stiff. He sat there, frozen, as Albus's eyes seemed to bore into his head. The old man opened his mouth, his voice strangely distant and hypnotic.
"Meciel?" the venerable wizard called softly. "Can you hear me? I need to know if you will be able to fix this damage to Harry's mind."
A blaze of searingly familiar heat pooled behind his eyes. His blood surged with something and his entire body suddenly felt better, as if he were a sprinter taking the first drink of water after the race. Whatever it was that Dumbledore saw, it seemed to leave him satisfied and he lent back. Harry suddenly found that his body could move again and exhaled noisily, waving his arms in the air as he tested out his newly-found freedom. Dumbledore sighed and sat down in an armchair of his own, a smile twisting his face up into an expression of wryness.
"Well, Harry." Dumbledore coughed. "At least you are in relatively good health. Learning the Word is not an easy task, even for one with your unique capabilities. Trust me when I say that it could have been much worse."
"Dumbledore?" Harry asked curiously. He was fidgeting in his seat, squirming like a small child as his eyes roved over the room, taking in everything with an unnatural degree if fascination.
"Yes, Harry?"
"What's Meciel?" Harry asked innocently.
Dumbledore was silent, clearly taking his time and pondering the answer.
"Meciel is... a friend," he answered at last. "She will help you."
"Oh," Harry uttered. He was silent for a few more moments. "Dumbledore? Who are you again?"
"I'm Albus Dumbledore," Dumbledore answered slowly.
"And I'm..." Harry trailed off expectantly.
"You're Harry Potter," Dumbledore answered with a resigned sigh. Oh dear, it did look like he would be at this for a while, at least. "Do you remember that? Your name?"
"Harry," Harry repeated softly. He perked up and a ear-splitting grin crossed his face. "That's me. Harry. Harry. Hareeeee. Hairy Harry? No, just Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry." He paused and plucked his lips. "Bob." He clicked his tongue and chuckled weakly. "What a funny name. Bob. Who would call somebody Bob? Do you know somebody named Bob?"
Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose while Harry frowned.
"Say, are you going to eat that?" Harry demanded and pointed.
Dumbledore followed the arm to the steamy piles of green goo on his floor and stared back at Harry.
"Am I going to eat that small pile of goo-vomit on the ground here?" He repeated carefully.
"Are you?" Harry prodded.
"No," Dumbledore answered with a short shake of his head. His beard quivered, perhaps out of suppressed mirth, and his eyes twinkled. "I do not believe that you should- ah...oh dear. Now you've gone and made a mess of yourself, Harry."
"Who's Harry?"
"You are."
"Ah, that's right. I'm Harry. Hairy Haree Harry. Am I Hairy? No, not so Hairy. I could be Hairy. Can I make myself Hairy?"
Thirty minutes later, a disgruntled, embarrassed but relatively normal Harry Potter found himself sprawled in one of the chairs to Dumbledore's office- the small room they had been practising in absolutely reeking in a way that not even Dumbledore's charms could entirely fix. It had only been a couple of days since his meeting with Maeve and he had arrived at Hogwarts around lunchtime to practise his Words yet again. This time though he had made a small mistake and well, Harry distinctly recalled eating a pile of his own goo-like vomit so it had fucked his head over pretty badly. His body was still throbbing and he found that he had a small tendency to zone in and out of conversations, but Meciel had assured him that it was a temporary problem and it was probably good that Harry's mind wasn't running as efficiently as it could. After all, he had nearly blown it up when he had botched up that one syllable in the newest of Words he had been learning and it did need time to recover all of its neural pathways, or whatever the hell Meciel had been going on about. Her cool tones came off almost as annoying as Dumbledore's patience or the portrait's muttering. Added to that the stress of meeting Maeve two days ago and the nighttime searches for the Order of the Blackened Denarius, and Harry found himself with a whopper of a headache.
Fuck, his head hurt.
"It could have been worse," Dumbledore said quietly, his fingers pressed together sagely as he observed Harry from the other side of his desk. His eyes were twinkling just a tad too brightly in Harry's opinion, and he resisted the urge to growl at the old wizard. "It could have been much worse," Dumbledore continued and there was something haunted about his gaze, his eyes distant as if staring at an event playing out before him long, long ago. "Trust me on this. You got off rather lightly."
"Your face could have been worse as well," Harry practically snarled, then winced as a lance of pain shot through his head. He clutched his forehead, hissing with the type of anger that only appeared with pain that demanded the destruction of anything or anyone nearby. Harry mostly restrained this particular anger, although his leg lashed out and slammed into Dumbledore's wooden desk. The wood cracked and Harry chuckled grimly. "Good. I shouldn't be the only one who feels like this."
"We'll ignore that my desk, while old, isn't exactly the most intellectual of inanimate objects, shall we?" Dumbledore murmured with a light chuckle, stroking his quivering beard.
"Funny," Harry said with gritted teeth. "Is there anything you want, or can I go now?"
Dumbledore's twinkle faded and he suddenly looked a little older and more tired than he had before. There was also a certain grimness about him as he reached into one of the many stacks of parchments and scrolls that lay scattered on his long desk. At Harry's inquisitive look, he smiled slightly and gestured at the paperwork before him.
"The Ministry has a new Minister of Magic," Dumbledore clarified. "Although he has a certain disdain for me, it does not stop him from sending me reports and asking for advice on anything that suits him. I suppose he figures that there will be something in here that he might miss, not that he would ever admit it to the public, of course. For Minister Scrimgeour, if there is anything more important than the destruction of Lord Voldemort, it is upholding the perfect public persona of the Ministry of Magic."
"Scrimgeour?" Harry repeated doubtfully, then shrugged. "Ah well, I suppose it's better than 'Fudge.' Seriously, who names an entire family line after a type of cake?"
Dumbledore chuckled, then grew serious as he found the scroll he wanted. He unravelled it before Harry's eyes and reviewed the information again. Harry shifted in his seat impatiently, but his keen eyes made out the grubby fingerprints on the wrinkled parchment of the scroll. Dumbledore had looked at this quite a few times beforehand, it seemed. His eyes glanced away, roving around Dumbledore's spacious office. Meciel's illusion was currently strolling around in her white and silver wand-wizard robes, glancing at some of the book titles with interest. He couldn't see them from where he was sitting but he could feel the itching behind his eyes, knowing that she was using his sight to read them even from all the way across the room. Was it a bad thing if she had better control over his body than he did? It could have been worse, he supposed. He could be wearing glasses like he did when he was young. Now THAT would have been a severe weakness in his line of work.
He glanced away from Meciel, mostly to annoy her, and looked over on the wall. Many of the portraits of past Headmasters were snoozing in their frames, and only a few were eying Harry and Dumbledore with curiosity. By now, they had gotten used to Harry ducking in once or twice a week for a meeting. Harry was pretty sure that Dumbledore hadn't let them know exactly what type of training he was receiving- the Words of Worlds was one of the most demanding and powerful studies of magic and one loose tongue could have bought a lot of trouble down on the elderly Headmaster. It was probably illegal or something, Harry had deduced, although it wasn't like the Ministry could do anything about it. This was Dumbledore and as much as the man irked Harry at times with his naive notions of innocence and peace, the Denarian would freely admit that there was no other wizard that he respected more. After all, they had fought together side by side and spilled blood for the same cause. What greater bond existed?
There was also the fact that Dumbledore could probably hand Harry's arse to him on a silver platter if he so chose to, though Harry thought he'd give the old bastard a fight for his money if it ever came down to that.
It would probably be kinda fun too.
"-arry? Can you hear me?"
"What?" Harry jerked himself out his stupor and blinked rapidly. "I...yeah, I'm alright."
"Are you sure?" asked Dumbledore in concern. He dropped the scroll and stared at Harry carefully. "I can postpone this for a short while, if you want me to."
"Nah, nah, I'm good, I'm good," Harry waved him off. "Go on. What can little old me do for the great and vaunted Order of Phoenix?"
"It's quite simple, I suppose," Dumbledore answered after a moment's hesitation. He paused, glancing sideways at the portraits and Harry followed his gaze. They were all gone, probably ordered to disperse by some nonverbal command by Dumbledore. Whatever it was he was about to say, the Headmaster didn't want any witnesses. "Harry, I would like you to do me a favour."
"What type of favour?" Harry asked suspiciously.
To somebody who so obviously had a foot in the Summer Court of the Fae, a favour when properly worded could be nothing short of a trap. Harry's eyes slid to Fawkes's empty perch and scoffed to himself silently. Perhaps the Summer Fae were not as cruel as their Winter ilk (he doubted anybody could be more of a bitch than Maeve was) but they were just as inhuman. Had Amaris' mother been a Summer Fae, Harry had no doubt that he'd be facing the same problem as he did now. The thought of Amaris made him grimace. The little brat had grown on him and his determination to remove her from the 'care' of her mother hadn't lessened in the few days since their meeting. Harry wondered if that had been Fawkes' doing when the Summer Fae had demanded that Amaris stay with him for the rest of the school year- the power of love and all that crap.
Did Fawkes actually care in her own twisted way (something both Harry and Meciel doubted), or was she just playing the Fae game and trying to piss off her rival? There was some definite history between Fawkes and Maeve and Harry suspected that Dumbledore had something to do with it. It was strange, now that he thought about it. The Wand-Wizarding World was meant to be off-limits to the Fae, so how had a Summer Fae attached herself to one of the most prominent wand-wizards ever to be born?
"Did you hear me, Harry?"
"Hmm, what?" Harry murmured, then growled and slapped himself on the head. "Right. Favour. Gotcha. Damn, that Word messed me up more than all the pot I've ever smoked." He paused at Dumbledore's look and backpedaled. "Not that I've ever done drugs before, of course. Brutal murders and ritual sacrifices are one things, but drugs? That's almost as bad as alcohol and underage sex? Oh...wait..."
"I want you to kill somebody for me."
Harry jerked and stared at Dumbledore in utter surprise. There was nothing like that particular sentence to get one's mind focused. To his credit, Dumbledore looked extremely calm about it. Even Harry's advanced senses couldn't pick up an increased heart rate coming from the bearded wizard, who stared back at Harry calmly, as if talking about nothing more important about than the weather.
"What?"
"I believe you heard me this time," Dumbledore answered dryly and steeped his fingers together. He peered at Harry over his glasses, his twinkle and good humour noticeably absent. "There is a man who is detrimental to our cause. He must die."
Harry gauged Dumbledore for a few more moments and then let a dark smile cross his face.
"Shit! Dumbledore, I didn't know you had it in you!" Harry exclaimed eagerly. He leaned forward and thumped his hand on Dumbledore's desk. "It's about damn time too. See, this was what I was talking about when I said I'd work for the Order. Killing and all that good stuff! Lets knock off some of Voldemort's supporters. It's one less Death Eater we have to kill when he makes his move."
Dumbledore remained calm and emotionless, not even batting an eyebrow at Harry's exuberant behaviour. He handed Harry the scroll he had just been reading and sat back as Harry glanced over it once, allowing Meciel to memorise and distribute the necessary details to him.
"Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxas Malfoy of the Noble Malfoy lineage," Meciel's apparition said casually, strolling over from the bookcase. "Born in 1954...suspected of Death Eater activities as early as 1972, suspected of funding and hosting Death Eater activities as early as 1977, arrested, tried and released in 1981. Caught in the Department of Mysteries in early 1996, arrested and sent to Azkaban a week later. Has contributed tens of thousands of galleons, funded conservative political parties, and has had the ear of every major politician for the last ten years. He's the head of a family owned business, has shares and investments tied up that are worth quite a lot of gold...a net capital of approximately 672 thousand galleons. He's quite rich, isn't he?"
"Malfoy..." Harry frowned. "Any relation to the little blonde dickweed that goes to school here? The one whose face I bashed in more than once."
"His father."
"The stern Headmaster, disappointed in his student's academic results, resorts to assassination in order to pass on the educational message. Do your homework, bitch!" Harry snickered.
Dumbledore ignored Harry's humour and folded his hands on his lap. "Lucius," he began. "is a very slippery individual. His connections are high and the Malfoy gold runs deep." He lent back in his chair, exhaling quietly. "Deep enough to get him out of Azkaban. It is deep enough that he is shortly to be released from Azkaban, pending another trial. Apparently the Warlock that presided over his case was found to be in possession of some very powerful mind-altering potions, powerful enough that every trial he has presided over in the past six months has been declared as mistrials."
"Cunning," Harry said with an approving nod. "That's pretty cool."
"This may be the word of Lord Voldemort or it may simply by Lucius using some blackmail material or some other type of coercion in the right places," Dumbledore continued. "The means matter not. Lucius Malfoy cannot be allowed to escape Azkaban for even a single day. Not only is he a moderately skilled wizard but his influence runs deep into the Ministry. If he is allowed to resume his place of power, no matter how stained his reputation, then he may undo whatever good Minister Scrimgeour has done in a single day, merely with a whispered word and the clanking of gold."
"Oh," Harry said, and his enthusiasm was slightly dampened. "It's a political thing."
Dumbledore arched an eyebrow.
"I don't like politics," Harry elaborated. "They're..." he fumbled for words. "They're confusing and annoying. You gotta think three different ways and play the crowd and...well, it's just a helluva lot easier blowing them all up with some fire. Still, you're the boss, aren't you? You want Malfoy gone, then he's gone. Where's he now?"
"Azkaban," Dumbledore answered quietly.
"Ooh," Harry breathed out with a wince. He scratched his head awkwardly. "Azkaban? Big prison with those daemon-spawn guards? The impenetrable Azkaban?"
"Not so impenetrable now," Dumbledore said grimly. "It seems that prison breaks these days are quite common. The Ministry of Magic is being very quiet about it, but Lord Voldemort has returned to Azkaban and finished what he started last year. Most of his Death Eaters have escaped, flocking once more to their master's side. Lucius remained behind, although his motives are quite obvious."
"Why break down the door when you can get it opened on the other side?" Harry offered and Dumbledore nodded. "Still, it's going to take a bit of work to break into that place."
"I wouldn't recommend it," Meciel murmured airily. Her silver gaze was fixated on Dumbledore- she seemed to be doing that quite a lot lately, now that he thought about it. "But I wouldn't worry. Albus here has a plan." She smiled mysteriously. "Men of his ilk usually do."
"Yeah, prob- wait!" Harry cut himself off mid sentence and turned to Meciel's apparition under the bemused gaze of Dumbledore. "Albus?" he demanded incredulity. "You call him 'Albus'?"
"Of course I do, my beloved," Meciel answered, staring at Harry with an amused tilt of her lips. She reached out and smoothed back his hair, or so Harry perceived, and lent down to his ear. "You might be surprised to learn, but 'Albus' is his name."
"I know that!" Harry snapped, annoyed at Meciel's smile. "My brain's not completely fried just yet. I just didn't know you were on a first name basis with him." He paused and glanced at Dumbledore. "Eh, c'mon, it's kinda true. You are old."
"No offence taken," Dumbledore said merrily. He appeared glad that the discussion had turned to other things if the increasing twinkle in his eye had anything to say about it. "I am old, after all, and it is not the first time somebody called me a codger. Why, I believe just yesterday a Slytherin Prefect was telling a group of second years that I was a 'doddering and barmy old muggle-loving fool'. Or so the Fat Friar led me to believe- he is quite the gossiper for somebody of his age. His deathday was just the other week, too. Seven hundred and sixty-four years of death."
"Right," Harry said after a moment's pause. "Anyway...Azkaban?"
"It has been arranged," Dumbledore said, all levity from his face gone in a flash. "Auror Shackelbolt has made all the necessary details. All you must do is arrive at Grimmauld Place at around 6pm tonight- no later- and we will go through it in more detail where it is not as...ah, welcome back, Phineas. Is everything as it should be?"
"There are easier ways of getting me out of the office then sending me out on an errand, Dumbledore," one of the portraits grumbled, arriving back in his frames in a bustle of movement.
Harry glanced up to see a sharp-eyed wizard staring down at him speculatively and with no small amount of disdain.
"Finished your little session with your boy, Dumbledore?" he asked snidely. "I always knew you were into the young ones."
"Oi, you fuckhead!" Harry snapped, narrowing his eyes and glaring at the portrait. "Wanna say that again? No, wait!" Harry paused and snapped his fingers. With a dark smile, Hellfire slowly blossomed into his open palm, bringing with it the surging emotions that had got him hooked so long ago. Channelling Hellfire without a wand was extremely difficult, especially in larger quantities, but Harry was particularly skilled with his use of the Dark Flame. "Okay, let's redo that." He brandished the ball of sulphur-reeking flame in his hand menacingly. "Wanna say that again?"
"Dumbledore!" Phineas hissed from his portrait, his eyes wide. "Your dog is off it's leash."
"Dog?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Okay, now you're going to burn!"
"That is enough, Phineas!" Dumbledore said firmly. His voice wasn't particularly loud but it shot through the room like a whip crack as the Headmaster stood up, eying the portrait disapprovingly. "Contrary to your beliefs, Harry here is his own man. Hence, if he tries to destroy you, I may not be able to stop him by any means other than a wand and, believe me Phineas, you do not want me to go down that road." Dumbledore placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward ominously, eying the portrait seriously. "I just may lose."
Phineas was quiet for a moment. Then, without so much as another word, he left. Harry dispelled the Hellfire in his hand and turned a very satisfied smirk onto a suddenly weary Dumbledore.
"Might lose, eh?" he asked cockily.
"Dramatic effect has a way of clearing one's ego especially that of a man as vain as Phineas..." Dumbledore started to explain, but Harry cut him off with a waggling finger and an ever-increasing smile.
"Nope!" he said cheerfully. "For the sake of my ego, I'm going to pretend that it's true. Harry Potter, better than Dumbledore!" He ended his sentence with a flourish of his hand and cocked his head. "Catchy, no?"
Dumbledore just looked exasperated.
"Oh, just go already," he grumbled good-naturedly. "You seem to be quite capable of giving me a headache."
"Ah!" Harry declared in triumph. "The battle begins."
Meciel watched the interaction between the two powerful wizards and said nothing.
After a few more moments of posturing, Harry left Dumbledore's office and began to make his way through the halls of Hogwarts. It was a Saturday, so they were relatively empty. Most of them had probably headed off for the village- Harry knew he would if he had been cooped up in these walls for two months. His mind distracted and still recovering from the mental backlash of the misspoken Word, he almost didn't hear the soft footsteps that were coming up behind him. He didn't move, didn't reach for his wand or make any acknowledgement that he knew somebody was there. Instead, as he walked, he slowly allowed Hellfire to seep into him, energising his muscles and limbs and preparing himself to smash an enemy into the ground. With his luck, it'd probably be the junior Malfoy. Then again, Harry would just have to laugh at the irony if it was him.
Finally, tensed and ready, Harry waited for a lapse in the footsteps as they came closer and closer. He could hear the person's heart beating and the exhaled breaths- it was a female and she sounded excited? Was Voldemort employing teenage girls as assassins now? As the unknown girl got closer and closer, Harry finally sprung into action. He spun around, his left hand coming up and weaving invisible defensive magic to block any attack, his right hand slamming forward, intent on driving into the face of...Amanda?
"Hi, Harry!" Amanda chirped, before her eyes widened in horror.
Harry's left hand shot out and clashed with the Hellfire in his right. A great shudder ran through his body as he forcibly pulled back, diverting the attack. He lost his balance and, as he stumbled, slammed the Hellfire-encased fist into the nearby wall. A loud crack shot down the corridor. The walls rumbled, bits of stone and dirt falling off them as the Hellfire ripped through them. The damage was localised and rather small, but there was a basketball-sized groove where he had hit the wall when Harry pulled his hand back. He looked at the damage and winced, glancing around to make sure that nobody else was there. A nearby portrait was staring at them with horror and he stared back evenly.
"Er...she did it!" Harry lied, pointing at the shocked blonde girl standing before him. "I saw her do it with my own two eyes!"
Amanda's mouth opened in protest but Harry hastily shoved a hand over it and, gripping her arm, dragged her away from the scene of the crime.
"Well, you almost got completely fucked up," Harry told her cheerfully. "Well done!"
"What the hell was that for?" Amanda demanded, throwing Harry's hand off her mouth and glaring at him indignantly.
"What was that for?" Harry demanded. "Somebody sneaks up to me and you're surprised I don't think there an assassin?" He paused thoughtfully, scratching his chin and his eyes gazing upwards "Then again, it would be a bit strange to have a teenage female as an assassin. Although, it might have been a stalker. Am I against stalkers? Well, I suppose it depends if they're hot..."
"Hello?" Amanda called out, waving a hand in front of his face. He blinked and looked down at her. "Who are you talking to? And it's not a stalker, it's me!"
"Right, right," Harry said quickly. "Yes, you. You're...?"
"Amanda!"
"Amanda! That's the name!" Harry crowed and snapped his fingers. "The little blonde bint...yeah, it's all coming back to me!"
"Harry, are you okay?" Amanda asked. She peered at him in concern. "You're not acting like...well, a complete bastard. It's kinda strange."
"Just a bit of brain damage. Something up there exploded or something... I dunno. It's all good though, Meciel's doing her bit and knitting everything back together," Harry explained, tapping his head for emphasis. Abruptly, his mood changed, as if he had flicked a switch, and an annoyed frown crossed his face. "Oh, Amanda. It's you. What do you want?"
Amanda was staring at him and Harry took the time to stare back at her. Perhaps his memories were a little fuzzy, but is struck him at that moment on just how hot Amanda was. In fact, if he aged her a decade or two, then it was almost like she was the sister of Charity Carpenter. He supposed it was the blonde hair. Blonde hair did do it for him at times. Then again, Meciel's hair was black; a type of glittering black that shone in the light, whilst Maeve's hair was a mixture of blue, green and white shades that, on paper, sounded appalling but worked very well for her, and those two were the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Maybe it was her rack. Harry's gaze fixated downwards and he grinned at her lecherously. Maybe it was the whole school uniform thing she had going for her...
"Hey!" Amanda snapped, waving her hands in front of Harry's face. "I know I'm unbelievably sexy, but perhaps you shouldn't stare in a public place. If you're that desperate, I can give you a signed photo."
Harry blinked and stared at her. Then, frowning, he reached out and sharply flicked her on the forehead. Amanda recoiled with a loud yelp, rubbing her forehead with a pout.
"Don't...just don't act like me," Harry commanded and he stared a strangely-bold Amanda down.
Finally, Amanda blushed and her grey eyes darted away from his gaze. Harry watched her with annoyance as she fiddled with her hands and grinned.
"There we are," he said cheerfully. "Little, meek, Amanda, knowing her place."
Amanda's head shot upwards and her eyes narrowed as Harry stared down at her.
"So," Harry continued dryly. "Was there anything you wanted, apart from staring at your long-time crush, first-time lover?"
"Oh, right," Amanda said and her challenging look disappeared. She ducked her head and when her expression was properly submissive and polite, she raised it. "Harry. I want to ask you for a favour."
"Everybody does, apparently, but okay, Amanda," Harry said smoothly. He grabbed her hands and smiled as she started, her eyes wide. "I will take your sacred virginity and, if you so please, I will use your virgin blood and sacrifice it to my dark gods. Well, goddesses. Eh, there's really only one."
In his head, Meciel harrumphed.
"No!" Amanda practically shrieked, her cheeks suffusing with blood. Harry couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment, although it might have been both. "I want you to teach me again!"
"Oh," Harry uttered, looking disappointed. "Well, in that case- um...No."
"What? Why not?"
"Because I don't want to?"
"Honestly, we go through this every time I ask you," Amanda snapped. "Can't we just skip it already? I humbly ask. You refuse. I ask again. You refuse. I imply that you might be able to corrupt me, mention the fact that my dad would be pissed off, you get off on your wickedness and say yes and then you teach me some cool spells!"
"Hey!" Harry snapped and flicked her in the forehead again. "No longs rants! That's my thing!"
"I've been hanging around you for two years now," Amanda mentioned rather dryly. "You pick up a few things." She paused and smiled deliberately. "Like, from you, Herpes and Syphilis and..." She shrugged.
"Ooh!" murmured Harry, looking impressed. "That was a good one."
"Thanks," Amanda chirped. "So, will you teach me?"
"Nope," Harry responded, just as chirpily.
Amanda's smile turned into a frowned and she stamped her foot, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting like a six-year-old.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because you're bugging me," Harry said bluntly and grinned at her obvious frustration.
"Harry," Amanda started seriously, all traces of play gone from her. "I've been up against Death Eater's and I know I'm not good enough."
"You've got that right," Harry muttered.
Amanda ignored him, her eyes strangely intent. "I know I'm not good enough. That's why I want you to teach me. You're one of the best wizards I know of and you have a library of spells that I could only dream of. I don't want you to teach me the kids stuff anymore- and I know that, to you, a lot of the stuff you went through with me was just minor magic. I need to know how to fight and to...to...to kill." She swallowed and Harry was uncharacteristically silent, remembering the tears of her first kill. She opened her mouth and paused, looking conflicted. Finally, she settled on "Think of it this way. I'm on your side. The more I know, the more I can help you."
"You're serious about this," Harry concluded shrewdly. "Why?"
Amanda gently took one of his hands in her own and gave him a watery smile. "Because this is telling me to," she said softly, taking his hand and placing it on her head, before moving it to her heart "And this..." and settling it on her stomach. "And this. Everything about me is screaming that I'm going to war and...I don't know why. I just know that I'm going to die if you don't help me fight."
Harry could feel the warmth of her body as she rested his hand on her stomach. He stared at her critically for a few moments, before a loud cough interrupted him. Amanda jerked away from him, her eyes widening, and she spun around. A teenage boy, a year or two older than Harry, was gazing at them with frank disapproval on his face. A glinting silver badge had been pinned on his robes.
"Amanda!" Harry said, acting shocked. "I felt the baby kick!"
"Baby?" Amanda asked in confusion.
"Baby!" the Prefect exclaimed.
Harry just grinned.
"Okay, brat," he said, still smiling- although there was something strained about it. "I'll help you. It's, what, the first week of December? Be ready next Saturday afternoon, in the old classroom. But, before I go..." His hand rose and he flicked her sharply on the nose, enjoying her recoil and flinch. "Don't be so mature and serious. It makes you boring."
With those final words, he spun around and strolled past the Prefect, leaving an ecstatic and fuming Amanda behind him.
"Wait, so I can't be mature and serious, but I also can't act like you...so I can't be immature?" she called out to his back.
"Yep," Harry responded loudly.
"You are so annoying," Amanda groaned.
"That's your problem." Harry snickered and turned the corner. As soon as Amanda was out of sight and hearing range, his smile dropped and he looked pensive. His hand moved up to his head, his fingers brushing against his skin, before he moved them down to his heart and then his stomach.
'That's interesting.'Meciel agreed.
'Yes, it is,'
