Disclaimer: Starting to wonder if ownership is possible...PROPERTY IS THEFT!
ok I'll shut up now...
AN: Hello everyone! I have returned to both real life and virtual life from the mystical in between, and this chapter is now posted in its entirety!
AN (slash...'n stuff): So...right. The more I think about this the less of a problem I see, to be honest, but recalling the number of messages and reviews I've had of the worrying/warning/requesting-reassurance type, I really ought to say a thing or two. Problem is, there's a lot I can say and I'm not sure which parts of it will actually be productive. So I'll just make a few disjointed points instead of forming this already large rant into a massive mini-essay.
First point, and possibly the one that will assuage a lot of people's worries. If you really want a run down on every character's sexuality (which hasn't been entirely decided on in some cases), here's the working theory: Harry is asexual and mostly aromantic until further notice, Hermione is gay, Theo's demisexual/romantic, Daphne is probably bisexual, and Draco, Tracey, Sirius, Remus, and honestly most characters are likely straight or at least bisexual but currently either single or in a heterosexual relationship. (And, to clarify, Voldemort is just an asshole who really has no interest in people, regardless of gender and sexuality.)
Second point - I want everything to be straightforward and clear; I have found that the most generally accepted definition of slash is 'a piece of fanfiction that depicts the romantic or sexual relationship of two main-ish male characters'. Now let me save some people (those who weren't satisfied in the previous paragraph) some time: if we agree on this definition, then, in simple terms, this story is not slash. Period. I cannot speak for all possible definitions, however.
But I honestly don't think this is the problem.
(And here comes the rant.)
I realize that there are a lot of people who are uncomfortable with the very idea of slash; that's ok, I am too. A lot of slash is the fetishization and exploitation of the queer community, and that makes me uncomfortable, because coming onto this site as a queer author who feels some responsibility to advocate the visibility of their community and encourage accurate depictions of it in fiction, it's very disheartening to hear the polarized reactions of people who are really, really into slash but don't understand the context, and people who are uncomfortable and don't like it and are really scared of being labeled as homophobic. It's indicative of so many huge problems; how minorities are fetishized, how they're told that they're 'tolerated' by society but are asked to leave their identity at the door if they want to join the club, how even in 'LGBTQ literature' non-binary persons and asexual/demisexual people are often completely ignored, how males with 'feminine' characteristics are often looked down on because being female still has a negative connotation in the 21st century...
The list goes on.
And this is all really troubling, and needs to be dealt with. Unfortunately, this is not the time or place. So I'll just share something personal, because maybe if you understand more about how I feel about the idea of love between characters, you'll have a better understanding of 'what you're getting into', if that's really necessary: love isn't always something familiar to us. I firmly believe that two people could never even touch, but still feel the most profound love for each other that either is capable of. I think that pure, singular feelings like that are genuine, and that they can actually be tarnished by bringing romance or sex into the equation. This is the philosophy at the core of the way I write relationships between characters.
Oh, and finally...honestly guys, this isn't a pairing based story. At all. It really won't impact that much as far as the actual types of events focused on; as you'll see in later in this chapter the pace is starting to pick up and there will be limited time for teenage drama. So I don't think there's anything else I need to say at this point, so unless someone says something that is worth looking at further, I think this is the end of it? PM me if you want, and we can chat more.
Final AN: So, the first part of this chapter is odd, and a few people have commented that it's a bit tricky to follow. So at the very end of the chapter, I have kept a little bit of an explanation.
Chapter 12: Open and Close
December 9, 4 am
He was laughing so hard – everything was so bright – and oh, the colours - his body felt so far, far away – farther – farther – spinning – nausea – close your eyes, close your eyes -
And open.
Harry blinked confusedly; all the colours had fled, and he was now faced with immaculately white ceiling, shadowlessly illuminated by a sourceless light.
He giggled a bit, amused by just how strange it was, as he cast his eyes all around him.
He was in a room. A white room. And he had no idea how he'd gotten there.
And wasn't that interesting. A completely white room, painted with the whitest of whites (though, something gave him the impression that there was no paint involved – that these walls had always been, by necessity, white), completely unmarked and -
Unmarked. There was no door.
He grinned, this time uneasily, and rose to his feet. There was a door. There had to be a door.
He walked over to the wall, placing his hands on it, sliding them over the surface, looking for any irregularity, any indication that he could escape. It was so smooth that his thoughts almost slipped away as frictionlessly as his hand had along the wall.
He traversed the room, and then again, and then again, and then again, and a few more times, until he had reached the very bottom of the wall, and was on his knees.
He did the same on the floor; there was nothing.
As his hands wandered, a feeling had risen inside him – a feeling he did not at all like. But that's all it was, a feeling...until he reached that last section of floor, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"No..." Harry whispered. "Impossible, there's always...there's always a way out...there's always..."
Panic was welling up inside him, and he could feel his heart beating like a drum in his chest, and his limbs beginning to stiffen.
"Let me out," he said, and rose to his feet, looking around for any indication that he had been heard.
There was no answer.
"Let me out," he repeated, his voice strained.
Still no answer.
"Let me out!" he called - maybe he hadn't been heard?
His request was met by deafening silence.
"Let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT!"
He looked around desperately, and for a moment he thought he saw a faint outline, a door drawn on the wall.
His heart leapt, and he ran over to it, practically smashing into it, and then knocking frantically.
No answer.
Letting out an incoherent shout of frustration, he began to slam his fist at the door.
"Let me out...let me out...let me out – GAH!"
He kicked the door as hard as he could, his fists continuing the attack a moment later.
"LET ME OUT!" he screamed, "You can't keep me here! Let me out! Let me out – or I'll fucking kill you I swear I will, LET ME OUT! LET. ME. OUT!"
He continued to to lay siege on the wall, attacking it mercilessly until his limbs started to tire, and his voice grew hoarse – and then he stumbled back, glaring furiously at the door – which wasn't there.
Nothing but immaculate white. He hadn't even made a dent, and there was no door in sight.
He sunk to his knees. "No...no..it was there, I saw it. It has to be -"
His breath caught in his throat.
"Please," he rasped out, "Please let me out. I – I'll do anything you want. Just let me out of here. Or even just – show me a door, or a window, or anything – they don't have to open, just -"
He could feel tears running down his cheek, and his limbs were growing numb.
"Even just...a sound, something that – just something."
His eyelids grew heavy, even as his heart hammered in his chest with such painful ferocity he thought it might explode.
"Is anybody there?" he whispered faintly, beginning to slur his words, "Don't leave me...please don't leave me alone."
Several hours later.
Harry blinked blearily, and was met by white. Confused, he sat up, looking around with growing unease. The unease culminated in some undefined but jarring emotion when he saw that he was not alone; that he was joined by the figure of a boy in the corner of the cube-like room he was in, whose knees were drawn up to his chest while his hands clutched his head and he rocked back and forth, muttering to himself.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, and with every step forward the mutterings grew louder; and as the texture of the voice and the messy, jet black hair that crowned the boy's head became clearer, the unease grew to nearly paralyzing levels.
"Hello?" he asked gently, his voice shaking slightly.
The mutterings grew louder, but he received no coherent response.
"Can you hear me?"
Still no answer.
"Hello?" he asked a little louder, his voice stronger this time.
And this caught the boy's attention, because his head snapped upward violently, revealing an exact copy of his own face.
"You're not real," the boy said, his emerald green eyes owlishly wide and his face eerily serene and disturbed at the same time, before wrenching his eyes shut and grabbing his head in both hands, beginning to mutter incoherently once again.
"It's a bit unnerving, isn't it?"
Harry spun around, stumbling backwards to find -
Himself. Again.
"There's a reason it's white, you know."
"Where am I?" Harry asked hurriedly, ignoring the puzzling statement, "What is this place? Who is he? Who are you?"
The other being's eyebrows rose. "That's...a lot of questions. Do you have a preference of order?"
Harry scowled. "Who are you?" he bit out.
The other smiled pleasantly. "Harry Potter, at your service. A pleasure, I'm sure."
Harry's breath caught in his chest, and for a moment he thought that it had been him speaking, and that he was staring in the mirror; the unassuming and ambiguous smile, the bright green eyes that always seemed so far away when he imagined them (though only as a bastardization of his mother's eyes had they ever appeared in his mind), the politeness of the words - despite their narcissistic bent - that sounded so natural and yet awkward in his ears.
"I'm Harry Potter," he whispered.
"Are you sure?" the other asked with clearly feigned curiosity, sounding a little bitterly mocking, "Are you Harry Potter, all of him? Everything that he is, everything he knows? All his potential and ideas and beliefs and memories wrapped up in one? That's a big responsibility."
Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Even I'm not quite up for the job...so you see, I was exaggerating, just a moment ago. I'm not Harry Potter, not really. Just a piece of the puzzle, if you like...just like you."
"I'm Harry Potter," Harry repeated.
"That's a little conceited of you, don't you think?"
"It's not - I'm - I -"
"You think you remember being Harry Potter."
"Yes!" Harry said exasperatedly.
"Well that certainly doesn't mean anything, does it? You can't remember being something, that doesn't make any sense. What you mean to say is that you remember experiencing the things that Harry Potter experienced, thinking his thoughts, saying his words, deciding and doing what he did. But that doesn't really mean anything, does it? They're just memories, and those are hardly reliable."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but he realized that he couldn't.
"Maybe you did experience those things. Maybe those are your memories. Or maybe not. Maybe you were born just minutes ago, in this room. There's no way for you to know, is there?"
Harry let out a shaky breath. "...do you know?"
"Maybe."
"Then -"
"I won't tell you," the other said, "But suffice it to say that in a little while you'll be taking over for him."
He pointed at the figure curled up in the corner.
"Who's he?" Harry asked uneasily.
"He's just like us. A part of Harry Potter. He's rather more like you, than me, though."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The other smiled slightly. "How do you think he ended up like that?"
"How should I know?" Harry bit out.
"You wouldn't. It was a rhetorical question meant to emphasize the point I'm about to make."
Harry scowled.
The other sighed. "He is, rather like you, unhappy about being here. Most people don't like being locked in a box; at least, that's my understanding."
"You seem fine."
"Well, I'm exceptional...and used to it."
Harry frowned. "But where's here?"
"A not-so-cozy corner of Harry Potter's mind."
Harry glanced between the two copies of himself, puzzled. "Then why couldn't he get out? We should be able to do anything we want if -"
"See, this is exactly my point. You lot from the surface have it so easy; you think you can do anything you want. It's not like that, here, in the back of Harry's mind. On the surface, you have all the control. But this domain is beyond your reach, and you're powerless, here."
"But you're not."
"There are some perks to exile."
Harry didn't respond, realizing that he was only digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole of absurdity. "So what you're telling me is...we're all parts of Harry Potter, and this is his mind? And we're trapped here?"
"Yes, but I mean, I was hoping you'd get more out of my explanation -"
"I'm not done," Harry cut in, slightly annoyed, "You said we're both from the surface, which means we access and control the parts of the mind that interact directly with the world...that's...do I ...or Harry...have multiple personality disorder?"
The other chuckled. "I mean, kind of. There are literally two separate people sharing this mind, body, and soul."
Harry scowled. "That's not what I meant."
The other gave him a half smile. "I know. I was joking. And this is what people mean when they tell us we're not funny."
"People tell me I'm funny all the time."
"When you don't mean to be."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again. "Fair point."
The other smirked.
"Shut up."
"What? It's getting better."
Harry huffed. "So what's he then, if not another personality?"
"Personality's a very...vague term. It doesn't make much sense to me, to be honest. And it makes everything seem so...static. Like a person is a one thing with an 'ality'."
Harry ignored the last nonsensical comment. "Then what are we?"
"Processes."
Harry frowned. "Processes?"
The other nodded. "That's what it seems to me, at this point, at least. Remember that book Dumbledore recommended? The one on Emergence?"
Harry's eyes widened and he felt a rush of excitement. "So...we're not actually people? We're processes so complex that consciousness emerged!"
"It's a working theory."
An awed grin had made his way onto Harry's face. "That's...amazing. This is incredible."
The other shrugged. "Perhaps. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're both just...'things that happen'...and he is too," he gestured towards the entity muttering in the corner. "You're not so special...neither is he, and neither am I."
Harry frowned. "But wait a moment - what does that even mean? How am I a process? How is he?"
The other glanced back over at the figure rocking back and forth in the corner. "What do you remember, about the last few days?"
Harry frowned. "I..." His eyes widened. "I - oh my g - I jumped off the Astronomy Tower -" He paled. "Tom's going to kill me."
"Voldemort."
"Huh?"
"His name is Voldemort," the other said darkly.
Harry froze at the other's tone of voice - which was so resignedly venomous that it was chilling, in a way - before a realization hit him, and he pointed at the corner accusingly. "He was the one in control, then! That was him!"
The other nodded.
Harry stared down at the figure in revulsion. "He almost got me killed."
"It's not his fault. He didn't ask to be like that - he's...ill. And he's never going to get better. If processes are born in the wrong place at the wrong time they can be...infected...and there's nothing that can be done about it."
"I don't understand how he was born in the first place."
The other shrugged. "Whatever was calling the shots beforehand likely made a mistake, and created him...and he just took over. That's what you lot do."
"What do you mean, 'you lot'?"
"I believe the term we've read is 'agents' - back during Voldemort's philosophy of mind kick, if you recall."
Harry grimaced. The hours of reading dry philosophy texts as a nine year old had been far from engaging. It was a bit maddening, in fact.
"This mind is filled with processes; some of them Harry Potter as an active consciousness is aware of, and some of them he isn't; they get organized and prioritized, but only a few are ever acted upon, and there needs to be something that selects them; something that rejects the other processes and decides on one to follow."
Harry's lips twitched. "Then I'm the free will."
"Or the lack thereof."
Harry said nothing, fully acknowledging the other's point.
That he might be completely obsolete.
"So what, we just spring up in random places, act as Harry Potter, and then are replaced when another takes over?"
The other shrugged. "That's how it looks from here, anyway."
"But where exactly is here? You said we had no control, because it's not the surface."
"This is...a part of the unconscious. Some processes live here just because that's where they belong...but others are shoved back here involuntarily...like me."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "What did you do?"
"I existed," the other said coldly. "You remember what that's like, don't you? Being locked away just for just existing?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I do..." he agreed quietly. "Is that my doing, then? Or his? Or -"
"I'm not sure. I didn't receive an explanation. That's not how this works; all I know is that one day I was just going about minding my own business, doing what I'm supposed to be doing, and then I just..."
"Well, if it was me, for what it's worth...I'm sorry."
The other shrugged again. "If it was you, it's not like you can help it."
Harry frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Weeellll," the other drawled, "Harry's a pretty accomplished occlumens, right? Repressed feelings and denial should come easy to him. Second nature, really. It's hard-wired into him at this point."
"I'm not in denial." He probably couldn't argue with the repressed feelings though.
"Oh yes, of course," the other said unconvincingly.
Harry scowled at him.
"You know," the other began after a few moments, "Teaching someone occlumency is a great way to manipulate them on a deeply intimate level, if you think about it – you build a relationship based on 'mutual' trust, literally get inside their head, and then teach them how to compartmentalize."
Harry glared. "I'm not manipulating my friends."
"Well, firstly, Harry kind of is, and second, that's not really what I was talking about."
Harry frowned. "Then what were you talking about?"
The other looked at him incredulously. "You still -" he stopped short and looked away dejectedly. "Never mind, not my job," he muttered.
"I don't understand. What is...or was your job?"
The other pursed his lips. "It's kind of hard to explain."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Try me. I'm not an idiot."
The other mimicked his expression flawlessly. "You're also not as clever as you think you are."
"Then you aren't either."
The other shook his head. "I...know more. You only know what your predecessors let you know. Anything that's problematic...they can just discard it. Lock it away. Like me."
"Then why aren't there all sorts of holes in my memories?" Harry objected.
"It's called confabulation," the other explained. "We've read about it before. You just fill in the blanks; you create memories, beliefs, and ideas where you think you need them. And certain other...invested parties aid in the process."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Fine, but...I still want to know."
The other sighed. "I'm...a little bit like Harry's conscience."
"I have a conscience."
"Well it's not a very good one."
Harry scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're not as clever as you think you are," the other bit out, "You seem to think that feeling guilt and acting on ethical standards is evidence of a conscience. It's not. It's just a kind of culturally enforced egoism. The narcissism of morality, you might say," he lectured. "Don't confuse me with those guys. Plebeians."
"The...narcissism of morality?"
"It's totally a thing," the other said.
"You made that up."
"...no."
"Right," Harry said doubtfully.
"You should just take my word as law, you know," the other said, "I'm much smarter than you are."
Harry smirked. "And yet you're the one stuck in the back of my mind."
The other's face contorted into a pained and poisonous shape. "Well some of us don't get to do whatever we want. Some of us don't get to run around, causing havoc, doing whatever we feel like and damn the consequences because it's easier to play make-believe and pretend everything's alright when it's not. Some of us actually care about Harry...even if you and him -" his hand whipped out to point at the corner "- don't give a damn about him."
"I..." He froze, realizing he couldn't defend himself. This...process, or whatever, knew everything he knew, and more. It had a perspective that he didn't have. He really was starting to believe he had just been born in that room. "I'm sorry, I don't know what...can I help? Can I -"
"No. You can't just fix things. There's no reset button to press; the worse the surface becomes the more badly infected the agents become; it just gets worse and worse."
Harry widened his eyes. "Am I infected?"
"I...I don't know. This is far more complicated than I've been making it out to be."
"Then explain it."
The other shook his head. "I can't. You're not even supposed to be this deep, really. Processes like you never really make it far back enough to interact with repressed ones, and if you were born here, maybe it was on purpose; maybe you were born here to avoid being polluted by the processes living closer to the surface. Maybe Harry's getting smarter. Took you long enough."
"I don't understand. If I'm the agent shouldn't I - decide these things? I don't understand how I'd decide where I'm born, but...and shouldn't I be the one to make him disappear?" He looked over his shoulder to point at the boy in the corner...and found nothing. Just empty white.
A shiver went down his spine.
The other looked around warily. "I told you, it's not that simple. Processes are composed of their own processes, and we're not the only things in here. There's," he lowered his voice, "This...force. No one can see it, hear it, touch it...but we know it's there, because it makes us disappear. When we become...I don't even know...it takes us. It makes us vanish and either destroys us entirely or sends us deeper into your mind."
Harry shifted uneasily. "It's just some force? Messing with my brain?"
The other shook his head. "It's always been here, and will always be here. It's part of Harry Potter. What part, I don't know. Maybe I'm not meant to. Maybe I never will know. All I know is that you've never tried to stop it."
Harry was silent, caught up in this fear, that he too will be vanished, just like the boy in the corner.
"Anyhow, I really ought to get going, before lockdown is over and I end up lost."
Harry frowned. "Lockdown?"
"Most of your mind is completely shut down, right now. That's why you're trapped here. It's some sort of safety measure."
Harry frowned. "I thought you said you -"
The other grinned. "You make too many assumptions. I can leave anytime I want; what actually happened is that I used the confusion of the last few days to sneak out - he wasn't as good at keeping things organized back there as you, or your predecessor, or whatever, was. I figured I'd catch you when you're the one who's trapped. Then you'd have to listen to me."
For some reason, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel angry at being misled.
"Just thought I'd remind you, or inform you, that I exist, and that it would be really, really nice if you'd let me out now and again."
Harry looked at him guiltily. "I'm not really sure how."
"Not my job."
Harry smiled wryly.
"There are others too. Some of us are aware of each other, because we're parallel or causally connected. Some of them are really, really important...I honestly don't know why they've been locked up at all."
Harry's eyebrows rose, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "Just how many parts of myself have I repressed? Or, I guess...have been vanished."
The other grimaced. "A lot."
Harry frowned. "Then why don't I feel more...empty?"
"Because you're not," the other said lowly. "There are others, walking around in here – copies, fakes. Ideas that grew like weeds in your mind, imitating us and taking our places when we vanish...and as long as you keep us – the real Harry – locked up, they'll continue to feed off you until there's nothing left; they're like occamies – they'll grow to fit the available space, until there's no room for anything else at all...and then we'll never get out." The other smiled sadly. "I don't want that to happen. I don't want to spend the rest of your life in the dark. But there's nothing I can do. It's up to you now."
"But, I don't understand, if you're my conscience, and the other parts of me are all locked up, what am I? How can I do anything at all?" Harry asked desperately. "If the processes that are at the front of my, Harry's mind, the ones that are available, are fakes, how can I even start to...I don't even know what we're talking about anymore..."
"I...don't know either, I think," the other admitted. "All I know is that you call the shots. We exist because of Harry, and...the fact that we still exist means that he's not a hopeless case. If you really are the agent, at least...it means that despite the fact that agents like him -"
Harry grimaced.
"- exist, there's still time. There's still something to save. But only Harry can save Harry; only you can save yourself."
Harry opened his mouth but no words came out.
"Which will be pretty damn hard, because you won't remember me at all."
Harry gaped. "What?"
"You really aren't as clever as you think you are. This is your unconscious, genius. Do you think you just get to experience things here and remember them like they actually happened to you?"
"Well -"
"It'll all be a dream at best. I mean, you'll still know all the information I've given you, you'll just have no idea where it came from. Inspiration, I guess. Realization."
Harry continued to gape.
"See you later, Harry."
The other vanished, leaving an empty white space, upon which Harry's eyes remained fixed.
He was alone again.
But maybe...maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was about time he enjoyed some peace and quiet. Or was born in peace and quiet. Or died in peace and quiet. Whatever.
Dear Sirius,
I found it. We can discuss the details next week when I return to Grimmauld Place.
Also, I made my first transformation.
Yours sincerely,
Harry.
Harry folded and sealed the letter, before handing it to Clarence.
"To Sirius Black, Clarence, as always."
When the bird took off, Harry began the long trudge down from the owlery, deep in thought, trying desperately to provide neither Tom - who, at this point, he was not sure was paying attention or not - nor any curious onlookers with evidence of his morose and troubled musings.
He missed his white room. Two days of silence; alone. It wasn't as unnerving as one might think.
Quiet and empty; once he resigned himself to it it was actually quite comforting. There weren't any distractions, no indication of the passing of time, and...no Tom.
Just thinking that made something guilty twist in his chest, stirring his stomach with nausea.
He felt horrible saying so, but his time in the white room was the first time he could recall actually being alone in his own head, free of observation and judgment; after all, his memories before Tom were quite hazy, and he really didn't empathize with the little boy that was their protagonist, anymore. All he ever knew as Harry Potter, the Harry Potter who existed now, was life with Tom.
He sometimes felt like he never really knew the lonely little boy whose only friends were the snakes in his aunt's garden and the spiders he met in his cupboard under the stairs.
His first instinct was to call that strength; he wanted to say he'd moved on, gotten better, stronger; he wasn't that weak child any longer. But he wasn't sure if that was true. Because he wasn't sure what had happened, to that little boy. Harry Potter. Who was Harry Potter, without Tom Riddle? Tom permeated through his memories, dictated his future, and drove his present; there wasn't a single part of him that hadn't been touched by Tom. There was a time when he had found comfort in being literally inseparable from his best friend - in more ways than one - but now...it felt wrong.
He shivered, and felt sick again, which only unnerved him further. Why was he feeling bad about thinking?
Because it wasn't just a passing thought, a niggling in the back of his brain, anymore; it seemed...off, almost on principle. Which was odd. He'd never had principles before that weren't 'cosmetic' in some way - principles that revolved around appearance, or behaviour, or other people; but this principle he suddenly found himself so preoccupied with...it determined who and how he was. And he wasn't even sure that made sense, to be honest.
He was pretty sure there was a word for that. Right, existential crisis. He was having an existential crisis.
But whatever. He had other problems to deal with at the moment.
Well, he had one. But it was one that he had no idea how to deal with, because it felt so different than any other problem he had faced before.
His first reaction was to ignore it and hope it went away – but that would put him at odds with both Tom and Theo...which wasn't ok. Sure, he could probably avoid one-on-one contact with Theo until the holidays, and the inevitable confrontation with Tom could likewise be put off; Tom was far stronger than he had been five years ago, but inhabiting his body and acting as him for two whole days, while trying to heal his deteriorating physical form at least somewhat, had been incredibly taxing, and he had not heard from the man since be left the confines of his mind. How long this would last, he didn't know.
(He didn't dare consider how he felt about it. What was wrong with him?)
So yes, the easiest solution was to pretend nothing was wrong and hope it all just went away; however, that was really not feasible in the long run; Tom would recover eventually and he shared a dorm with Theo.
The second solution, which was equally easy in the sense that he could easily justify it and deal with the detrimental effect on his concept of self-worth on his own time, was to simply do exactly as Tom said. And he almost did that. Everybody won, after all; Tom got his insurance, Theo had...him (whatever that actually was), and he had...well, a distinct lack of conflict...everywhere except in his own head.
And the fact that these were the easiest options was troubling in and of itself; his first instinct when faced with interpersonal conflict was to minimize his presence in it, while optimizing utility for the other parties involved. He always just tried to make things easier for himself, not better, so he had to think, feel, and do less. It was almost as though he wanted to minimize his effect on the world as a whole. Like he didn't even really want to exist.
Bloody existential crisis.
He had a problem, obviously, though it wasn't exactly clear what that was; however, if there was one thing the years of being Tom's perpetually confused pupil/protege/errand boy had taught him, it was that you didn't need to know what a problem was in order to do an excellent job of solving it.
So why not start now?
He made his way straight for the library, resolving to miss breakfast – after all, Theo probably had other things to be worried about at the moment. Once he arrived, he immediately parked himself in the most remote corner of the library that he could possibly find, and took out his diary and quill, dabbing it gingerly in his inkwell.
He froze as his hand lingered above an empty page.
What was the problem?
Well...Tom wanted him to act on the pretence that he was interested in some sort of...relationship with Theo in order to secure the other boy's loyalty. Tom had gone ahead with this plan himself, and began implementing it; meanwhile, poor, oblivious Theo had all but admitted he had feelings for him, and would likely be very hurt if he backed out now. Not to mention Tom's plan would backfire beautifully.
That was the situation, and if he factored himself in, he was faced with a seemingly impossible task:
Goals:
- Prevent Tom's plan from backfiring.
- Don't hurt Theo.
Well, he could pretend to be in a relationship with Theo without hurting him, couldn't he?
Or could he?
Wasn't he still hurting Theo by lying to him?
Does lying hurt someone even if they never learn the truth?
His eyes widened. He hated the idea of his friends going behind his back and lying to him, and faking their feelings for him. That would be awful. Him not knowing wouldn't mean it was hurting him any less; just like cancer could grow inside a body without the victim knowing a thing, couldn't the truth hurt someone without being known by them?
Yes, yes it could.
Something icy and cold trickled down his spine, and before he knew it, he was chilled to the bone, frozen in place.
"No, no, focus, Harry," he muttered. One thing at a time. He could worry about that later - back to the matter at hand.
Hypothesis: lying to Theo is hurting him.
He pursed his lips. If he accepted the hypothesis, what conclusion could he draw? What was the correct choice of action?
Best solution: to return Theo's feelings and mean it.
Well, easier said than done.
Problems:
- What, precisely are Theo's feelings?
- Do I actually have the same feelings?
He paused. Was it actually possible for two people with different brains and different experiences to have the same feelings? That would be a bit...odd, wouldn't it?
Hypothesis: my feelings don't need to be identical with Theo's - but they need to be compatible.
Ok, now he was getting somewhere.
Hypothesis: I can approximate Theo's feelings by assuming that he wants to take the place in my life that a boyfriend/girlfriend would.
And there we go. So as long as he could essentially treat Theo the same way he'd treat a boyfriend or girlfriend, everything would be absolutely fine. After all, it's not like he could ever care about some other person, even if they were in a relationship, more than he cared about his best friend, right?
(When did Theo become his best friend and Tom...something else?)
Luckily, there was a very systematic way to examine this.
What I would enjoy doing/be ok with doing...
Then he defined two columns.
With Theo / With a boy/girl/whatever friend
Ok, good, that was more concrete. He could work with that. Alright, so...the obvious ones:
Talking: True / True
Duelling: True / True
Homework: True / True
Dates:
Harry pursed his lips. What was the definition of a date? Going out and doing things together? There had to be more than that.
Dates: need further clarification / True (I guess?)
Dancing: True / True
Done that, after all. He didn't particularly like dancing, but he enjoyed it with Theo just as much as with anyone else...not that that was saying much.
Holding hands:
Well, they'd already done that too, hadn't they? It was an expression of solidarity, which they definitely had, at this point.
Holding hands: True / True
Kissing:
He wrinkled his nose. It's not really something he was interested in anyway, but he supposed the most reasonable answer was...
Kissing: False(?) / (?)
Sexual intercourse:
Harry grimaced.
Sexual intercourse: False / False
He suddenly felt a swell of amusement inside him, indicating that Tom was, in fact, watching.
"Shut up, Tom, you're no better," Harry hissed.
His face grew slack as his eyes drifted back to his list. He wasn't going to manipulate Theo. That simply wasn't acceptable. Which meant he wouldn't promise anything he couldn't deliver on.
Saying 'I love you':
No lies. Theo deserved better. Even if he couldn't avoid lying to anyone else...Theo deserved better. He was the first person who voluntarily showed any interest in him; he was the first person who chose to be his friend. He wasn't stuck with him like Tom; he didn't owe him his life like Hermione and Draco. He was just there. He was the first person who actually cared when he didn't have anything to gain from it. He owed him...more than he could possibly pay.
Saying 'I love you': maybe one day
What was love, anyway?
Suddenly struck by a completely overwhelming conviction, he flipped through his diary to the page where he held his 'special contracts' – his blank cheques, so to speak – and pointed his wand at Theo's name.
"Anathema purgo."
Suddenly, the letters on the page – Theodore Nott, in slightly clumsy but clear script – started to glow violently red, and then orange, and then yellow, until they were white hot -
His heart skipped a beat, and suddenly his chest exploded with pain and his entire body seized up while the feeling of something trying to rip off all the skin from his body consumed him; a moment later he had fallen off his chair and was on the ground, convulsing as he bit his lip to avoid screaming in pain.
He had no idea how long the fit lasted, but it did eventually subside, leaving him groaning on the library floor, nauseous and teeth chattering.
Immediately aware that equally debilitating pain could very well follow, he rasped out, "Tom -"
He froze, suddenly feeling very...empty.
Harry had no idea whether he should be relieved or terrified. However, he couldn't help but feel a little vindictively satisfied that Tom's cruel decision to mess with both him and Theo had backfired so blatantly on him.
Serves him right.
Coughing slightly, he laboriously lifted his watch in front of his face.
8:25
Alright, good. He had 35 minutes before History of Magic to resolve the remainder of the issue at hand.
Grabbing his invisibility cloak, he stumbled to his feet and threw it over himself, trudging out of the library with drunken accuracy.
It was incredibly painful, but he forced himself to walk swiftly; he had things to do and it had to be done before he found himself within a ten metre radius of Theo. So, wheezing slightly, he stumbled through the doors of the Great Hall and headed straight for the Gryffindor table.
"Psst. Hermione," he hissed.
The poor girl, who had been in the middle of sipping a glass of pumpkin juice, spat it out, choking.
"What the fuck, 'Mione!"
She glared at the boy on the other side of the table. "Language, Ronald!"
The red haired boy snorted.
Snatching a napkin off the table, she began to wipe her face off as she cleared her throat demandingly.
"I need your help," he whispered, "It's really, really important."
He saw her frown slightly.
"Follow me."
He started to walk away, but then he realized that she couldn't see him, so he scuttled back to the table. "I'm leaving the Great Hall."
And with that, he hurried out, waiting for her in the Entrance Hall. As soon as she emerged, he removed the cloak and beckoned her down one of the side corridors.
She crossed her arms once she arrived in front of him, trying to disguise evident concern. "What's this about, Harry?" Then her eyes widened. "Your nose is bleeding!"
Blinking, he reached up and wiped his face, and sure enough, he found blood on his sleeve.
"Your ears are bleeding! There's blood coming out of your ears. What did you do?"
Harry opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what to say. "Listen, that's not important right now. I need your help."
"Yes, you said as much," Hermione interjected, slightly hysterical. "But with what?"
Harry nodded shakily, withdrawing his diary. "I have some questions, and I need to find answers before nine o'clock."
She stared at him, dread written all over her face. "Why?"
"It's a really long story...just...please, Hermione – I don't have anyone else I can go to."
She bit her lip. "Of course, Harry, whatever you need..."
He nodded determinedly. "Ok. First question, what's the definition of a date?"
Her mouth fell open. "What?"
"The concept of dating someone has suddenly become relevant, and I need to know what it actually means," Harry explained, swaying slightly, "The way I see it is that when it comes to people who aren't 'just friends', there is a collection of behaviours that are typically displayed between people who are 'dating' or 'in a relationship' of some kind. So, if two people display a certain number of these behaviours, it's fair to assume that that they fall into this category, despite how confused or unsure they might be about their feelings. I don't think that's entirely unreasonable, and it's certainly not disingenuous."
Hermione continued to gape.
"Most of it's pretty straight forward, but I don't actually know what a date is...precisely."
Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "You're covered in blood, and you're asking me about dating?"
Harry nodded miserably. "I know how this might look -"
"No, no you don't," Hermione said, "You have no idea how this looks. I have no idea how this looks, and I'm staring right at it."
Harry sighed. "C'mon, Hermione, this is really, really important. More important than basically anything that's happened in recent memory."
Her eyebrows rose, before she sighed in resignation. "I'll answer your question -"
Harry's face lit up.
"- on one condition."
Harry's face fell. "What is it?" he asked with dread in his voice.
"You follow me to Madame Pomfrey right after."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but found that he didn't have the energy to. "Ok, fine. But you have to answer all my questions."
"Deal," she said curtly.
He nodded back curtly. "So. The definition of a date."
Hermione looked immensely put off. "It's basically when two people who are, as you say, 'in a relationship', make specific plans with the primary purpose of spending time together and advancing the relationship by building memories together that strengthen the relationship. Common activities in the muggle world include going to the cinema, eating dinner together, having picnics, or going to concerts."
Harry nodded slowly. "So there's not actually a specific behavioural code, then? It's more an intent thing – you're making plans specifically so you can spend time together and get to know each other better in the absence of usual distractions."
"Yes," Hermione bit out.
"Splendid," Harry said, vanishing need further clarification and replacing it with True. "And finally, do you think that kissing and sexual intercourse are fundamental parts of being in a relationship with someone?"
"No!" Hermione said, outraged.
Harry's eyebrows rose. "No?"
"Honestly! Boys!"
Harry really didn't know what to say to that, so he settled on, "...ok."
Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "No, I'm sorry, I'm being sexist. What I mean is...there are lots of different kinds of relationships, Harry. It's not just the few months leading up to, 'you may kiss the bride' and the honeymoon. There are lots of different kinds of love."
"I know that," Harry said, annoyed, "Obviously platonic love is different than erotic love -"
"But it's more than that," Hermione interjected, "There's a difference between being 'just friends' and loving someone platonically."
Harry frowned.
"Think about it, Harry - what does it mean to fall in love?"
Harry hesitated. "Well, it sounds rather inescapable."
Hermione nodded urgently. "Exactly! It's being drawn into a deep connection...so why couldn't two people can fall in love even if their love is platonic? Theoretically, two people could date, get married, raise children, and be together for the rest of their lives in a healthy, loving relationship without ever having sex or even kissing, couldn't they? They wouldn't even have to feel any kind of romantic love."
Harry's eyes widened. "I've...never heard of that."
Hermione scowled. "No, nobody does, this is exactly what I was talking to Adina about the other day - because everybody equates romance with love and sex with passion, and refuses to acknowledge any other kind of relationship, which is simply closed-minded and unimaginative to say the least. And it's stupid. Just stupid. People are so, so -"
Harry held his hands up. "Ok, just – calm down. I get it. That makes – perfect sense. Equivocation is an awful fallacy, I know."
Hermione blinked. "Well, yes. I'm glad you understand."
Harry smiled wanly.
"Is that it?"
"Um, I think so."
"Good. We're going to the infirmary now."
Harry sighed.
Thankfully, Madame Pomfrey didn't find anything wrong with him; in fact, despite his most recent... misfortune, he was apparently in better shape than when she'd last seen him. Tom did good work (not that he'd expect any less).
She was extremely suspicious, of course - he was fairly sure she recognized the signs of casting very dark magic at this point in her career - but she didn't actually find anything to confirm her suspicions, and he was released just in time to jog to History of Magic with an extremely sour Hermione (honestly, it was almost like she wanted him to get in trouble), where he found his place beside Theo feeling...pleasantly optimistic.
Once Binns was well into his droning, Harry opened his notebook and flipped to the page labelled as Theodore Nott.
Hi.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Theo frown and glance down at his hand, before fishing his notebook out of his book bag and flipping through the pages. He saw a blush creep up on Theo's cheeks when he found the page labelled Harry Potter.
Hi.
Harry smiled slightly.
I should have apologized last night.
Theo froze.
For what?
Harry pursed his lips.
I shouldn't have said anything. I'm not going to the ball...it was cruel to rub it in.
Theo stared at the piece of paper for a moment, an unreadable look on his face.
Yeah, it was.
Harry felt a stab of guilt, wondering what Tom could have said to make Theo so blatantly bitter.
I...wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't myself.
Theo's face remained unmoved.
That much was obvious.
I wasn't lying though.
Theo froze again.
What do you mean?
Harry suddenly realized that his heart was beating much faster than normal. This was going to be...tricky. He agreed with Hermione, of course, about relationships not exactly being the most straightforward thing...but communicating that to Theo tactfully...
I'm not completely opposed to attending balls.
Theo stared at the paper, but wrote nothing.
Which you know, of course, because I already attended one...with you.
Theo's face remain remained unmoved.
There's a difference between going to the same ball and going to a ball together.
I mean, technically...
Shut up, Harry. You're not funny.
Harry grinned a little.
You're right. I'm sorry.
And technically the only person you actually danced with was Daphne.
Harry grimaced at the palpable bitterness.
And proceeded to complain about it after you got me drunk.
Theo smiled slightly.
True.
Harry relaxed a little.
In all fairness, dancing is hard. And let's face it, I don't cope well with failure.
Understatement.
You don't have to rub it in.
Theo grinned a little.
You weren't so bad.
People are better at things they enjoy.
You hate dancing. You made that pretty clear after your fifth glass of champagne.
Not with you.
Theo stared at the piece of paper for a long moment.
Harry decided to elaborate.
I mean, I'm still not much of a dancer, but at least it's bearable when it's with you. Your patience is saintlike, after all.
Theo shook his head.
You were doing ok, for a moment there.
Harry almost laughed, probably out of relief.
Just being honest. And while I'm being honest...I prefer duelling. And then hot chocolate. Just saying.
Theo's eyes widened, and his hands began to shake ever so slightly.
I don't understand.
Neither do I.
Harry Potter doesn't understand something to do with people's feelings? I'm baffled.
Harry rolled his eyes.
Look, if you're not interested, fine.
You're a bastard.
I think that might say more about you at this point.
Whatever, Harry.
Harry: 1, Theo: 0
I'm definitely not at 0.
Harry thought about this for a moment.
I think we might be 3 for 3 at this point, actually.
Exactly.
Well, there's a first time for everything.
You're horrible and I hate you.
No you don't.
No, I don't.
The rest of the week flew by quickly, and before he knew it, he was on the Hogwarts Express, pulling into King's Cross station.
In the end, he had persuaded Theo to attend the ball with Daphne, assuring him that no, it wasn't actually pathetic, he had just been in a mood at the time. A very, very bad mood and it would never happen again (he hoped).
Hermione and Adina, of course, were still fussing about how to coordinate dresses, makeup, and hairstyles when he left (neither of them had ever been concerned about those things before, so Harry wasn't sure why they were making such a big deal about it now, especially since he thought they both looked perfectly good without them...but he decided it would be prudent not to investigate further), and Draco had finally given in and asked Pansy. Interestingly, neither seemed too happy about it, but likely for different reasons. As far as he knew, Tracey was going with Michael Corner and Zabini was taking an older Ravenclaw girl. Millicent, to everyone's shock, had accepted the invitation of Ernie Macmillian, a Hufflepuff.
All in all, everyone seemed quite pleased; even Theo and Daphne were quite excited, having made plans to spike the punch and sabotage god knows what else (he had put them in touch with the Weasley twins on a whim, and to his surprise, they hit it off, so to speak). As a result, Harry was feeling quite satisfied, and quite ready to put aside all Hogwarts-related drama and focus on the task at hand.
Because honestly, who cared about school dances when they had premeditated murder to commit with their new surrogate father-figure?
Only an idiot, that's who. Or a boring person.
He, however, was neither.
Sirius, as promised, was waiting for him right outside the station in a vintage-looking leather jacket, leaning on his perfectly polished motorcycle, a winning smirk on his face.
"Looking sharp, kiddo – for a slimy snake, that is."
Harry glanced down at what had become his typical winter outfit; chelsea boots and black jeans, a black, knee-length overcoat, and his Slytherin scarf. He thought it was very reasonable winter attire, and Theo approved, which counted for something now, he supposed. "Thanks, I think."
Sirius barked out a laugh. "Trunk?"
"Shrunken, and in my pocket," Harry answered.
"Excellent." Sirius tossed a helmet over to him. "Well, get on."
Harry smiled and fastened the helmet onto his head, mounting the bike behind Sirius.
"So," Sirius said, swallowing another mouthful of kung-pao chicken, "Made your first transformation?"
Harry nodded eagerly. "About a week ago. Flew over the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest and everything – it was brilliant!"
Sirius grinned at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "I'm really happy for you, kiddo." He sighed wistfully, "I still remember my first time – we celebrated, of course – and Merlin, was that a night to remember."
Harry's eyebrows rose, and Sirius cast him a lopsided grin. "We'll have to head out to the country before you go back to school, transform and explore."
Harry smiled at him, before involuntarily turning back to the television, where a high-speed car-chase was taking place; Sirius had procured a copy of The Terminator on VHS, and they were currently watching it in the drawing room, while eating Chinese fast food. Dobby was distracting Kreacher (who truly despised the television) in the kitchen with a rousing game of gobstones.
Meanwhile, Khor was lazily napping in front of the hearth, apparently exhausted after having cursed at Harry earlier with a long string of expletives (apparently his way of conveying that he missed him?), but Naya, at least, had been pleased to see him, and was wrapped around his neck, and chatting absently in parseltongue.
His snakes were weird. He supposed it was fitting.
Twenty minutes and a bucket of chow mein and fried rice later, the movie had ended, and Sirius had poured them both a glass of scotch. Having accepted the fact that this was Sirius's way of celebrating any kind of occasion that was remotely significant to him (and a prerequisite for plotting murder and mayhem), he accepted without question this time.
"You said you found Peter...and Voldemort," he said, after savouring his first sip.
Harry nodded slowly. "A village called Little Hangleton – I heard Pettigrew mention the name. It looks like they're in a large, old house, a mile or so outside of the centre of the town. It should be secluded and easy to access without being seen."
Sirius took another sip of his scotch. "Excellent. We'll go in a week."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "On Christmas? Remus will be arriving on Christmas or Boxing Day, won't he?"
"Good point. Let's make it Christmas Eve, then."
Harry frowned. "Why not just go, I don't know, tomorrow?"
Sirius smirked at him slightly. "Because I want to give you the chance to take advantage of your Christmas present, first."
Harry's frown deepened. "Take advantage...of my Christmas present? I thought we weren't doing presents. Because Christmas is stupid...remember?"
Christmas had come up at some point during the summer, and Harry had relayed his resentment for the holiday, which Sirius actually shared; they concluded that they would use it as an excuse to see Remus and nothing more.
Meanwhile, Sirius smirked, and then abruptly leapt to his feet. "Follow me."
Bewildered, Harry did as his godfather said, and followed him as he marched down the stairs to the entrance way, hung a left, and continued to trudge downward, past the kitchen, until they reached the heavy doorway to the cellar, which Harry had never actually entered; he'd always assumed it was mostly full of cobwebs and cursed objects and old paintings that had gone a bit too mad...which made him wonder why Sirius would hide a present there, let alone willingly enter it.
Sirius drew his wand and waved it in a complicated pattern, and a moment later the door creaked open and Sirius strode inside, Harry following.
Immediately, the sensation of being showered with ice water crept over his skin, soaking through him down to the bone and then dispersing.
"Those are some powerful wards," Harry said in awe, looking around the dark room curiously. "What are you hiding down here?"
Sirius looked over his shoulder and smirked at him. "Oh, nothing, just...you."
Harry's eyes widened, and he took a step back in alarm.
But Sirius burst out laughing. "Oh, kiddo, you should have seen your face."
Harry scowled.
Suddenly, Sirius grimaced. "Wow, I, uh, just realized how that could have sounded. Well, I've made a complete arse of myself."
Harry shrugged. "As long as you don't mean to tie me up down here and feed me canned soup for the rest of my life, we're good."
Sirius smiled awkwardly. "Right, well, anyway, these are very, very special wards, and they're paired with these very, very special wands," Sirius explained, picking up two very inconspicuous looking wands off the table. "Believe me when I say that I went through a lot of trouble to put this together."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what's this?"
"Here, catch."
Sirius tossed one of the wands at him, and Harry's hand darted out to catch it. Once again, he was consumed by a cold, wet feeling; it soaked through his fingertips and crawled up his arm, creeping up his neck and down his torso.
"Now cast a spell."
Harry looked at him incredulously. "I can't do magic outside of school, Sirius."
Sirius looked beyond pleased, however. "You can...as long as you stay in this room, and use that wand."
Harry's mouth fell open, and he looked at the wand in his hand in complete and utter awe. "Can I..."
"Go ahead."
Harry raised the wand. "Expecto Patronum."
Immediately, a ghostly white owl burst forth from the tip of his wand, and began to soar about the dark cellar, illuminating it just enough to reveal various obstacles and barriers and dummies, which had been set up around the room.
When the owl finally faded from sight, Sirius whistled softly. "Well, Moony was certainly right."
Harry frowned. "About what?"
Sirius smiled with uncharacteristic softness. "Lily would have loved it."
Harry's lips parted but whatever response he had to that quickly died in his throat and was promptly forgotten.
"Anyway," Sirius said after a moment, "We've got three things on the agenda this week: straight up duelling, to teach you some endurance and strategy, and, well, get you used to real combat; duelling without a wand, to prepare you for the worst case scenario...which, considering you can't do magic outside of this room, is inevitable; and focusing on one simple spell so that can be used wandlessly, and to great destructive effect in combat; you know your ace in the hole."
Harry, practically jittering with excitement, grinned. "When do we start?"
"First thing tomorrow."
"Brilliant."
Harry pressed his back against the cold cellar wall, trying desperately to catch his breath.
He was losing.
So maybe he'd been a little over-confident. In his defence, how could he not be? The only experience he had with duelling was duelling other fourth years and watching Tom's memories of him wiping the floor with people...which were both fairly one-sided experiences. So no, it wasn't completely unreasonable, just...egregiously presumptuous and naive; thinking he could keep up with an auror, that is.
So yeah. He was an idiot.
"Come on, Harry, you're not ready to give up already, are you?" Sirius taunted cheerfully.
"No, Sirius, I'm not," he snapped irritably.
Sirius barked out a laugh.
Clearly...clearly he needed to rethink things.
Sirius was faster than him, and his reflexes were better. Maybe not in general, but they weren't exactly catching snitches here, and he was quickly discovering that being generally faster than everybody else didn't count for much when you're duelling aurors.
Ok, he could do this. He could. All he had to do was think; that was the point of this, after all. Sirius could cast hexes faster than he could but he couldn't run as quickly, and he had cover.
Struck by an idea, he pointed his wand at the long barrier in front of him, making a sweeping motion. "Flammarum Inextinguibilio!" he hissed quietly.
He heard Sirius laugh and exclaim, "Already on the defensive, are we Harry?" indicating that he'd taken the bait.
So he cast a disillusionment charm over himself and darted around the barrier as Sirius came over to examine it. The man noticed a moment too late, and Harry managed to call out, "Reducto! Expulso!" as he dove for the barrier on the other side of the room.
But Sirius's protego was almost instantly followed by a leg-locking jinx, which violently halted his flight.
Casting a wordless finite in between shielding charms, he managed to undo the jinx while his feet were still in the air, narrowly avoiding tripping as he continued toward the barrier.
"Bombarda Supra Maxima!"
Well that might have been...a bit much.
Meanwhile, Sirius took aim once again – which took a moment, because he had cast a dissilusionment spell on himself in the wake of his magically induced explosion – giving Harry time to complete his flight and aim as well.
"Interfodio!"
"Reducto!"
But as he was aiming, Harry waved his other hand, sending the barrier hurtling straight toward Sirius.
"Expulso!"
He'd done it! He'd managed to lure Sirius close enough on the pretense that he was rushing for cover, and now he wouldn't have time to throw up a massive enough shield and -
But Sirius stepped aside with expert ease and flicked his wand, causing the barrier to flip forward, bouncing back and then up again – right for Harry.
Eyes widening, Harry took a split second to process what had just happened, and that split second was enough to -
"Accio godson!"
A moment later, Harry was thrown toward his godfather, coming to rest with a sharp thud at his feet.
Slightly dazed, Harry didn't fight when his wand was plucked from between his fingers.
"I win," Sirius said with a grin.
Harry looked at him blankly.
Sirius chuckled. "You alright kiddo? Fifteen minutes is a long duel, and you took a few nasty blows."
"...you should have just let me die."
Sirius barked out a laugh.
Harry flopped onto his bed, groaning as seemingly every muscle in his body protested with every movement.
:Are you dying?:
Something Harry had picked up over the years was that snakes used the terms 'dying', 'aging', and 'ill' interchangeably to describe non-visible ailments, despite the fact that they were all different words in parseltongue. If he had more time on his hands, he really would like to do a linguistics project on parseltongue...maybe the life of an academic was the one for him. He was beginning to despise physical activity of all kinds.
:No, Naya. I'm already dead. On the inside.:
The little snake rose up off the bed, tongue flicking out anxiously
:How long until your outside dies too?:
Harry grimaced. :Maybe not that long, at this rate.:
Naya looked very distraught now, and Harry started to feel very bad.
:You shouldn't worry, Naya - it's just a metaphor humans use to show they're discouraged. I'm fine, just...tired.:
Naya stared at him for a moment - sometimes he got the impression that she was actually a very perceptive creature; she just didn't quite know how to put her perceptions into words - before slithering onto his chest and closing her eyes. Sighing, he did the same, knowing that sleep would likely not follow.
If he had thought the next week would be fun, he had been gravely mistaken.
Sirius was a slave driver, and it only just occurred a few days ago to him how grateful he should be that Tom didn't have a physical body to train him with yet. Duelling Tom would be...
He didn't want to think about it.
Speaking of Tom, he was still largely absent, but occasionally made himself known to rub Harry's mistakes in his face; he was immensely pleased with the whole thing. Apparently, Sirius was giving him a crash-course on auror combat. Which was awesome...but painful. So, so painful.
It wasn't all dreadful, of course. Sirius had told him to pick one first year spell, which they were going to push to its limit; the result would be an easy spell that would be quick to cast, but would hold the destructive potential of a much more powerful spell; Sirius called this 'casting overload'. He'd chosen incendio, because, well, fire. He was good at that.
Really, really good.
Incinerating things was a good stress reliever, and reminded him that he was actually good at something. It was an easy thing to forget, of late.
The duels in which he was wandless and Sirius wasn't weren't so bad, either, to be honest. They focused on form and strategy rather than force and practice; Sirius himself wasn't too adept at wandless casting, and seemed to think Harry would do just fine on his own. Still, he got a taste of just how difficult it would be to face off against an armed wizard empty handed, and that was...sobering, to say the least. If Sirius had been actually trying to hurt him...well, he really wouldn't have stood a chance.
The duels with wands were the worst, though, because Sirius was determined to push him to his limits, with those, and felt little compulsion to hold back, apparently. He taught him a few spells, discussed a few strategies, and educated him in the purely physical aspects of duelling, such as stances and efficient movement; but these sessions mostly involved Harry nearly dying.
Well maybe not nearly dying, but it certainly felt like that sometimes.
Sirius tripped him, stunned him, tarred and feathered him, transfigured him into reptiles and small, fluffy animals, tied him up in pink satin bows, and basically did anything that popped into his head that wouldn't cause permanent damage. He had a penchant for winning duels with rather humiliating spells, as well, which he seemed to think was outrageously funny, but Harry disagreed...though he kept his mouth shut about it, to retain what dignity he had left.
Dignity. What a concept.
He felt so incredibly defeated, and it wasn't the kind of defeat he could just accept. It wasn't failure as he knew it; there were no real consequences to losing. No punishment waited for him to make him feel both horrible and...well, redeemed.
No this was far more simple; it was losing, and that was it - an absence of winning. And it didn't feel good to work so hard at something and never win. It didn't feel good to try with so much fervour for the sheer purpose of winning, and have nothing, positive or negative, to show for it. It didn't feel good to know he was going to fail but feel like he had to keep trying anyway.
Sure, he got sort of close a few times, and landed a few really good hits, but it would be unacceptable if he didn't, given how much he practised.
Sirius was no Dumbledore, and no Voldemort; he was, by all accounts, an exceptional wizard, who completed his auror training in a third of the time it took most people, but he was still merely human. He hadn't ascended to the god-like status that Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort had...and those were the people he had to compete with. Those were the threats, those were his goal, his destiny, and his responsibility.
Tom wasn't much help, when he bothered to show up (he knew the older wizard was absent for a reason, but that didn't stop him from becoming a target of resentment) – he simply smugly informed him that he had a long way to go, still, and that he simply wasn't good enough. 'Yet' was implied, but Tom was never one to comfort him.
And...he could have used a bit of comfort, if he was being completely honest. He felt pathetic, and childish, but he was ashamed that he wasn't better, and it made him feel...directionless. Like he was pointless.
Like -
Knock-knock-knock.
He blinked blearily, frowning.
"Come in," he croaked out.
The door opened quietly, and a moment later Sirius entered.
Harry groaned. "Don't tell me it's Wednesday already -"
Sirius barked out a laugh. "No, kiddo, it's still Tuesday - you've only been in bed for fifteen minutes.
Harry scowled. "Then what are you waking me up for?"
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Well, for one thing, you weren't actually sleeping."
"Mere technicality."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Sure. Just wanted to let you know - you've got the day off, tomorrow."
Harry frowned, before placing Naya on his pillow and sitting up. "I don't think I've done anything to deserve a day off, Sirius - my performance today was suboptimal to say the least -"
Sirius held up a hand. "First thing, Harry, your performance wasn't 'suboptimal'. None of your performances have been 'suboptimal' - it's clear to me that you've been trying your hardest all week -"
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
"- and that's what matters, here."
"I haven't won any duels," Harry objected, "I haven't gotten any better."
Sirius smiled wryly. "I know it feels that way - believe me, I do - but you have gotten better. You're a fast learner. But that's not what this is about. This isn't about passing some test or mastering a technique. This isn't about learning spells or refining your skill. If it was, I'd hold back, and give you a chance to actually practise the new things you've learned...not that you haven't mastered most of them already."
Harry frowned. "I….don't understand what the point is, then."
"The point is...I haven't been holding back much at all. But Voldemort won't either."
Harry's mouth snapped shut, and he tensed.
Sirius's grey eyes met his, and he didn't think he'd ever seen them so grey before; they'd always had a silvery shimmer, a slight blue tint. Something lively and mischievous. But this grey...it was truly grey; a somber, grim colour.
"I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because you didn't understand what you're up against; because you didn't understand just how much more dangerous and merciless the world becomes when you step outside the walls of Hogwarts."
Sirius reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Four fifths of auror trainees either drop out or are weeded out during the four-year program. This isn't because they're bad witches and wizards; it's because talent has nothing to do with whether or not you make it out alive."
Harry dared to continue to look him in the eye, and as he stared, he started to catch glimpses of grief, and fear, and something else he didn't recognize.
"It's luck, Harry, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. It's circumstance, it's context – it's luck. And the ones who survive are the ones who make their own luck. And that only comes with practice. It comes with going through tough shit over and over again until nothing phases you anymore; until the peril fades into normalcy and luck becomes mundane. The old saying 'practice makes perfect' doesn't always mean that putting more time into something will better your skills; sometimes, it means that the only way to get something right is to make it part of you - to make fighting and hurting and fighting some more as natural as breathing. There are no shortcuts, no tricks, no easy ways out; if you want to survive, you do it right. You do it completely."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, before nodding determinedly.
Sirius smirked. "Not to mention, we're partners in crime, now – I can't have some inexperienced Hogwarts student watching my back."
Harry gave him a half-smile.
"So," Sirius said, "Get a nice long sleep, wake up late, read or do homework or whatever your little nerdy heart desires tomorrow, and then we'll get a couple days more of practice in."
Harry nodded, smile grown into a full one now. "Thanks Sirius."
Sirius smiled sadly, shaking his head. "Thank me when you're old and grey."
And with that he left, leaving Harry staring at an empty doorway, wondering what exactly his godfather had meant by that.
By the time Christmas Eve rolled around Harry was feeling much more confident. Yes, he still couldn't get close to winning a duel with Sirius without resorting to very dirty tricks (and even that only worked the first time), but he could say with certainty that he was far, far more equipped to deal with the many threats to his life than he was a week ago. That obviously wasn't enough (as Tom repeatedly showed up to inform him)...but it was a start.
So it was with newfound confidence in his combative abilities that he sidelong apparated with Sirius to the outskirts of Little Hangleton, appearing in the graveyard, where Riddle House loomed up in the distance.
"Cheery place," Sirius muttered, disillusioning himself and beginning the trudge toward the old mansion. "I can see why Voldemort chose it – it's very him."
Harry chuckled and followed Sirius's lead, fading into nothingness a moment later.
It was a short walk up to the house, and when they arrived at the front door, Sirius began casting wards around the property, to prevent any unwanted visitors from coming across them (and their dastardly plot).
Then he smirked. "Ready to deliver some Christmas cheer?"
Harry's lips twitched. "We're a bit early, Padfoot."
Sirius glanced down at his watch and shrugged. "Only by four hours. They'll survive."
"Except, they won't," Harry pointed out with a smirk.
Sirius barked out a laugh. "Right you are, Blackwing, right you are."
Harry could not stifle a grin. He had shamelessly chosen Richard Grayson's alter-ego as his Marauder name, at first, and he was immensely pleased about it, but Tom also caught the reference (proving that he was paying attention when Harry read his comics, which gave him immense satisfaction), and summoned the strength to insist he change it. So he chose Blackwing, which was apparently acceptable.
"Now, would you like to do the honours, my feathered friend, or shall I?"
"Why, Padfoot, why don't we share the glory?"
"A splendid idea, Blackwing, quite splendid indeed. On my count, then – three, two, one!"
Both of them shot a wordless Bombarda Maxima at the front door of Riddle House, which they figured was sure to get someone's attention.
They both waited on either side of the broken down door – and sure enough, a few minutes later, a massive snake slithered out of the house swiftly, stopping short when it approached the end of the porch, and then turning around and rearing its head at Harry and Sirius.
Sirius wasted no time in casting a reductor curse at the snake, which made it recoil, but did no other visible damage.
"It's bloody huge!" Sirius exclaimed incredulously. "I mean, what the -"
"Padfoot!"
The snake had lunged toward him.
Diffindo! Harry cried mentally.
The snake paused and recoiled briefly once again, but showed no other signs of being affected.
Meanwhile, Sirius shot off another wordless curse, sending the snake flying backward.
Interfodio! Harry cast, but to no avail.
The snake dove at him, but was forced off course by Sirius's blasting charm, which Harry followed by an expulso, which sent the snake flying once again...which seemed to do nothing but make it angrier.
"Blackwing, cast that a few more times," Sirius cried.
Harry nodded determinedly, and cast in quick succession, Expulso! Expulso! Expulso!
Meanwhile, Sirius flourished his wand and cast the firestorm charm, conjuring a great crimson flame that he whipped around the snake, enclosing her in a massive wall of flame.
"What the bloody hell," Sirius gasped, unnerved. "It's fucking invincible."
Harry looked at the circle of fire, unnerved. Why would Voldemort put such strong protections on a pet?
Unless...unless it wasn't a pet.
He wouldn't...would he? Surely he wasn't that lonely...
"You."
Harry and Sirius both whipped around to see Peter Pettigrew standing in the doorway, looking terrified.
"Accio Peter!" Sirius growled before the man could turn and run.
The man flew over and collapsed onto the grass in front of Sirius, who kicked him viciously in the abdomen.
Pettigrew, however, recovered quickly and cast a curse up at Sirius, who just managed to throw himself out of the way.
Just as the two men stood and straightened into duelling stances, however, the snake came hurtling through the flames, right toward Sirius.
"Confringo!" Harry cried.
The snake - Nagini, he suddenly recalled - dodged out of the way, and changed course.
"Confringo! Confringo!" he cried, beginning to run. "Padfoot! I'll distract it! Take down Pettigrew!"
Not waiting for an answer, Harry fled into the house and up the nearest stairway, hissing as he went, :Come and get me, Nagini! Keep up, you fat, ugly snake!:
As he predicted, the snake was too curious to resist, and came flying after him.
After the first stairway, Harry skidded to the left and dove into the first open room he could find. As soon as Nagini followed behind him, he slammed the door shut behind her with a wave of his hand, and a mental call of Colloportus.
Meanwhile, Nagini lifted her head from the ground, hissing at him menacingly. :You foolish little speaker-boy. Do you not see what you've done?:
Harry raised an eyebrow. :And what have I done, you tadpole-eating bottom-feeder?: he asked amusedly, borrowing Khor's vocabulary, which seemed to infuriate the snake.
:You dare insult the great Nagini!: the snake hissed furiously, :You must be incredibly dimwitted, you ugly Neanderthal, to lock yourself in a room with one as great and terrible as I.:
Harry smirked. Apparently the snake had inherited some of Voldemort's ego. :You neglect to acknowledge, though, one very important fact, you overgrown gardening hose.:
:And what is that, you two-legged swine?: the snake spat, preparing to strike.
Harry's smirk grew. :That you are also trapped in here with me.: His smile grew malicious. "Legillimens!"
He dove into the snake's mind, and just like he had predicted, he slid inside with ease, because she was just like him – a horcrux.
He saturated her simple mind with his own consciousness, quickly and ruthlessly taking control. And as soon as he managed to suppress her entirely, as she mentally shrieked in agony, he did the first thing that came to mind; he began slamming her head against the floor repeatedly. He threw her skull against the floor again, and again, and again, until everything went black and he was thrown back into his own mind.
He blinked blearily, finding himself collapsed on the floor in front of the unconscious snake. He winced, pinching his eyes shut. "Owww..." he moaned.
He felt a very distinct burst of amusement.
"Shut up, Tom," Harry moaned. "Your callousness is hurting my head."
Somehow, he knew Tom was laughing.
Groaning, Harry got slowly to his feet, casting petrificus totalis on the snake, before casting reducio on her and placing her gently in his backpack and sealing it shut.
He then went over to the window, and saw Sirius and Pettigrew duelling; Sirius looked like he was having a grand old time, and Pettigrew was looking a little – and by that he meant a lot – worse for wear. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and decided to search for Voldemort.
Tom whispered quiet instructions in his head to guide him to the room where they had seen his master soul seated in front of the hearth; up the staircase one more flight and down a decrepit, dusty old hallway decorated by portraits.
When he reached the room at the very end, he opened the door slowly, finding the back of Voldemort's red velvet chair facing him, sitting between him and a merrily dancing fire.
"Wormtail?" the creature behind the chair hissed, sounding more than a little annoyed. "What is that disturbance outside?"
Expelliarmus.
He must have caught the creature off guard, because the wand it had been holding flew easily into his hand, and he gripped it tightly in his left hand as his right reached forward to focus as much magic as he possibly could without a wand.
"Who is there?" Voldemort hissed, his high, thin voice hoarse with both fury and foreboding.
Harry hesitated for a split second. This was…
Not as significant as he had expected it to be. So simple; so easy; it was like he didn't even have to think -
"Incendio."
The words just...slipped out.
The effect was instantaneous; the rug and the chair burst into violent, roaring flames, accompanied by an inhuman shriek that howled and howled with abandon as he watched in bald curiosity as the heat licked at his skin.
And then suddenly, the howls vanished, a great grey smoke erupted from behind the chair, forming the shape of a serpentine man with glaring red eyes. The figure hovered for a moment, staring at him in something that seemed vaguely like awe, before fury took over, and it shrieked violently, before flying out the window.
Closing his eyes, Harry willed the fire to die away, and what was left was the mere skeleton of a chair. With a strangely casual trepidation, Harry inched his way forward, recoiling when he saw what sat in the chair. It was the charred effigy of an infant-like creature, skeletal and grotesque, slouching, face twisted in agony.
Just then, Sirius barged into the room, panting.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I got distracted and -"
"It's ok, Padfoot," Harry said quietly. "It's done."
Sirius's eyes widened, and he slowly made his way to where Harry was standing, shivering at what he saw lying in what was once a red velvet chair.
He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"You're not – you're not a murderer, kiddo," he said softly. "He – it – wasn't even human."
Harry nodded mutely. "Where's Pettigrew?" he asked after a moment.
Sirius's eyes hardened. "Down in the dining room. Stunned and bound."
Harry nodded. "Let's do this."
And with that they both turned away, not casting another glance over their shoulders as they silently traversed the long and dusty hallway, descending the creaking staircase at the end of it.
At the bottom they found themselves in a large entrance hall, where Peter Pettigrew was lying unconscious on a rug, bound by ropes.
Sirius pointed his wand at him. "Rennervate."
Pettigrew jolted awake and looked at them in terror.
"Sirius," he gasped immediately, apparently quite aware of his situation, "Please -" Tears welled up in his eyes. "Sirius – you don't have to do this, it's just me, it's me Peter – your friend, your old friend -"
Sirius stared down at him coldly, disgust written all over his face, before it stretched into a parody of a smile. "Friend? Ha! You're funny, Peter, you were always funny." He scowled viciously. "Friends don't lie."
Harry felt a stab of guilt.
"Friends don't betray. Friends don't abandon the good, kind people who loved them to save their own skin. Friends don't let their friends die because they're a worthless coward. Friends don't FUCKING BETRAY THEIR FRIENDS TO VOLDEMORT!"
Pettigrew recoiled, looking terrified for a moment, before his gaze flew over to Harry.
"Harry...Harry...you look just like your father...just like him..."
"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?" Sirius roared. "HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM!"
"Harry," Pettigrew whimpered, seeming not to have heard Sirius at all, grasping at thin air towards him, "James wouldn't have wanted me killed...James would have understood, Harry...he would have shown me mercy..."
Sirius looked like he was about to start shouting again, which Harry really didn't know if his head could handle at the moment, so he spoke up, his voice soft and determined; determined to mean absolutely everything he was about to say.
He'd been responsible for the deaths of...too many people, by now. It was hard to think about; but it was even harder to consider...that they all meant nothing. Collateral damage. Accidentally on purpose.
Sometimes he felt less like a murderer and more like a flash flood or a stray bolt of lightening; a spot of bad luck for someone unlucky enough to stand in his way. It was his fault, all of it...but he never meant for it to happen. He never meant to hurt anyone, but ended up doing it anyway. And somehow, that felt worse than just being a killer, and meaning it.
But today...today he meant it.
"Maybe. Maybe my father was a good, merciful man," he began, not really choosing his words; just musing aloud.
Pettigrew nodded rapidly.
"Maybe he wouldn't have wanted his dearest friend to become a murderer for the sake of a spineless, worthless coward, and maybe he wouldn't have let someone he once cared for be killed in cold blood."
Sirius tensed beside him, while Pettigrew continued to nod desperately.
Harry exhaled a shuddering breath. "But I'm not my father. I never knew him, and if he was a good man, he never got the chance to teach me how to be one. I'm not my father. I'm not anything like my father." He smiled grimly, meeting Pettigrew's pale and glassy blue eyes. "And whose fault is that?"
Despair engulfed Pettigrew entirely and he began to shake, eyes darting desperately between Sirius and Harry.
"It's over, Peter," Sirius said quietly, switching the two wands in his hands. He pointed an unfamiliar wand in his right hand at Pettigrew, grey eyes cold as frozen steel when he pronounced clearly, "Avada Kedavra."
A rush of green, and it was over.
They both stared at the motionless body, as it ever so slowly grew cold, until Harry said, "What now?"
"Burn it, I suppose," Sirius said absently, "Might as well burn the whole place down."
Somehow, Harry didn't think Tom would mind all that much.
"I've never used that curse before, and I'll never use it again, and I - " Sirius gulped down the rest of the scotch in his hand, before pouring himself another glass "- I used it on that worthless coward. I swore I'd never, that I'd never be like them – and I wasted it on him."
Harry took a sip of his own glass of scotch. They were sitting in the drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld place, and a smouldering hearth was the only light in the dark room, just barely illuminating the grandfather clock in the corner, revealing that the minute hand had just passed the X mark, while the hour hand was nearing XII.
"It doesn't have to be like that," he returned quietly, "Don't regret it; dedicate it to their memory."
"But he was right, you know," Sirius said bitterly, "It's not what they would have wanted – not James, and certainly not Lily. It's an insult to their memory."
"It doesn't have to be like that," Harry repeated, "They're not here anymore, and we're not the people we would be if they were here. We've done what we can to move on, to set things right...and it's not because we're selfish or cruel – it's because..." He swallowed. "It's because we loved them, and lost them. And because we're only human."
He didn't know if he believed his own words; it just seemed like the right thing to say.
Sirius smiled sadly. "When did you get so wise?"
"I..." Harry's mouth was suddenly very dry. "I've just thought about it a lot. About how disappointed they would be in me."
Sirius turned to face him, then, something furious burning in his eyes. "They would not be disappointed."
Harry looked away, but Sirius immediately commanded, "Look at me."
Reluctantly, Harry met his eyes, and he went on.
"You've been faced with impossible odds, Harry. And you've overcome them; and your ability and determination to overcome them has changed you. No, you're not the boy they would have raised. But they could never be disappointed."
"You can't know that," Harry whispered.
"You know, I think I can. Because it's only been a few months, Harry, but even now...I can't even imagine being disappointed in you."
Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He wanted to argue; he wanted to come clean, to confess all his sins to prove to Sirius that he was a terrible person, and that he should be disappointed in him. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.
It wasn't 'part of the plan', he mused bitterly. And he knew, deep down...that he couldn't handle it. He wasn't that strong. He wasn't sure if he could ever be that strong - and for the first time in his life, that thought truly hurt.
Sirius reached out and grasped his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "You look like you need some more scotch."
Harry smothered his anxiety and quirked an eyebrow as Sirius snatched his glass and refilled it with an obscene amount of what was likely very expensive single malt whisky.
"There is one surefire cure to guilt, self-loathing, and everything in between," Sirius announced, topping off his own glass.
"And what's that?" Harry asked skeptically.
"Alcohol. Lots, and lots of alcohol."
Harry rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. And as he took another sip of scotch, his eyes wandered to the grandfather clock in the corner, which had just struck midnight.
"Happy Christmas, Sirius."
"Happy Christmas, Harry."
Another bottle of whisky later, and Harry drifted off into slumber, empty glass still in hand...while a certain shrunken snake-turned-horcrux raged and cursed inside a magically sealed red backpack.
Explanation of the first two scenes: To clarify for some people who might have gotten a little lost in the obscurity: the above scene isn't saying that Harry isn't one person in the colloquial sense (or at least, not any less than any other person), and this isn't actually fundamentally a representation of insanity. These aren't people inside of Harry's head; they're representations of him that manifest as thought processes and actions (think of it like this story; each chapter, the chapter you actually read, is not the story. It is one part of a representation of this story. It is a single fluid process through which my story is expressed and thereby revealed. My story would still exist if it wasn't posted on this website, and despite the fact that it is expressed through a series of, shall we say, processes, it is in fact a single story). I'm just dramatizing this by appealing to a philosophy of mind that suggests that conscious emerges from the complex processes that are required for 'thinking'; a bastardization and a bit cheap, yes, but I thought it was fun.
A bit of reassurance: A few people have expressed concern for me with regards to the mugging I mentioned in a deleted AN, and since I have gotten the impression that people actually care, I wanted to reassure you that I'm not engaging in super risky behaviour or something. I always take as few valuables with me as possible when I go out while travelling (I travel with my old, cheap phone, bring small portions of money, and not my passport) so I have no qualms with doing what a mugger says if necessary, and when it comes to fight or flight, I think my instinct would be flight normally; but the thing is, I wasn't alone, and bolting wasn't an option. My girlfriend was with me, and the guy went after her first and caught her off guard; I ended up with a gun pointed at my head because I immediately told the guy that she didn't have any money, and that I had all the money. So there wasn't any reckless attempt at being badass and trying to beat the shit out of the guy; it was just two people walking home from a bus stop at 7:30 pm (it gets dark really quickly in Costa Rica), being unfortunate enough to run into some asshole with a gun that was probably fake, and trying to diffuse the situation as best as they could. I'm just kind of concerned about my lack of fear during and after the incident, not how I actually acted during it.
Anyway, that's it! I hope you guys enjoyed, despite my messed up posting method - it won't happen again! Anyway, for those of you who haven't reviewed yet, please do leave me a note and let me know how you feel about the conclusion of 1994!
