Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, in no way do I lay claim to Harry Potter – the long and short of it is folks – there'd be no legal ground suing me because I'm not delusional enough to think that I'm a British multi-millionaire.
Author's Notes: Holy Jeez! I finally finished it! It is indeed the season of Christmas miracles, for I have finished Twasits (officially - the writing, the reading, the editing,) I'm done. I'm going to post the thing and wash my hands of it. Which means the posts should be flying in thick and fast now. I had wanted to finish the story before Christmas so I could reintroduce it online - but I was beginning to doubt I'd ever get there.
Hey - I can admit it, Twasits is REALLY hard to sit through. I am now, however, completely caught up to my account on Livejournal, which I find exciting. Speaking of LiveJournal – you can find the entire, re-edited, uncut archive (this will include some NC-17 scenes in later chapters) at Malf0yM0nkeys. Come visit, if you give me feedback, I will give you cyber hugs.
And so finally I give you what you've all been waiting for (or probably not, I've probably been forgotten about) in the reemergence of Twasits:
CHAPTER 20 The Beginning
Harry braced himself for the attack, they had been coming at irregular intervals since that first unwarranted jaunt into Snape's mind at the first of the month; since Snape declared him competent enough, he was never safe from the potion's master's legilimency. In the Great Hall he accidentally caught Snape's eye and found himself unwittingly living through an afternoon in Number 12 Grimmauld Place when Sirius had ruffled his hair and practically danced around a box of tree ornaments before Harry shut the memory off. During potions when brewing the nastily complex doxycide that Mrs. Weasley was so fond of he found himself elbow deep in rotting linguini after Dudley tipped him into a dumpster on the way home from primary, and he sloshed his potion down his robes before he could close his mind to Snape's intrusion. His protective robes and shoes dissolved into thick grey goo that leaked down his trousers and on to the floor, after enduring an entire afternoon smelling of bundimun secretion he had learned to practice Occlumency subconsciously and Snape's legilimen barbs slid around his consciousness like water drops on a hot stove.
Harry could feel it even now as he stared at his Potions professor across the empty classroom they were using for his 'remedial' lessons. He had no interest in seeing Snape's thoughts, or feeling the disgusting residue they always left behind so he kept his mind to himself and pointedly did not pursue the thread of magic that was jabbing for his memories. Occlumency was a cold thing, it wasn't about protecting your thoughts, hiding them behind a wall, keeping an inventory of the things that were, and the things that were not available for thought. A legilimens could break those walls, a more subtle user could replace your memories with his own, could steal the thoughts you didn't know you had – Occlumency was about being cold. Having no thoughts to be stolen, having nothing to protect, closing your mind off by opening it up completely, until the only ideas and memories were the present and the world quite literally flowed from one ear to the other – an Occlumens defended himself by giving the Legilimens nothing but the world at large, until they too could only see the present, and what was physical.
"Mister Potter," was the final declaration, Harry followed that point of magic around his own blank mind, there was Snape, there was an empty cauldron, there on the shelf were pickled gnats, Harry saw his own mind as the classroom and felt a surge of triumph that did not reach Snape's magic because it was not there. There was always that sick rush of fear, a moment of blind panic that no focus could conceal that demanded notice, Harry could feel his mind freeze in place and he wondered always when Snape was going to ask him what the hell he was up to, or demand answers for his apparent treachery because Harry knew he didn't stand a chance if Snape found out, because Dumbledore would know, and he spent so much time thinking of Zoo animals and complete nothingness for Snape's benefit that he was almost baying at the moon. But the good professor had said nothing to date, and would continue to say nothing. "I am sick of your presence in my classroom and I see no reason to continue your lessons."
Harry blinked at the apparent non-sequitur and wondered briefly if he was hallucinating. Always before it was 'Mister Potter you're not trying hard enough' 'Mister Potter, as fascinating as African Elephants are I do not want to see them' 'Mister Potter I realize mental exercises are challenging but do try to focus.' and now it was apparently 'No more lessons.' Harry had asked for this, he was willing to take the abuse and had on several occasions felt that his earwax was going to melt with the force of Snape's verbal harassment. He had requested this and there was no reason beyond the lie of the Headmaster's demand that kept Snape at his lessons. Had he failed? Had he revealed something, or was this another test of blankness? "Am I that hopeless?"
"Frankly Mister Potter, you have been successfully blocking my legilimens for weeks, if you'd given half as much effort to this last year, your godfather may well be alive." That stung, it twisted around in Harry's stomach because he'd given ample thought to the notion, countering it with 'if Snape weren't such a slimy git' and 'how was I to know', but the barbs of doubt stuck under his skin, dug into his brain and weighed him down with responsibility and depression because he knew it was his fault. Snape had always made the effort to make him feel miniscule and imbecilic because of some pathetic personal vendetta and the urge to make Harry into his father, perhaps more so than anyone, and he succeeded more often than he could ever know – Harry kept his mind blank and noted with fanatical devotion the wrinkles on Snape's forehead. The magic slid away from him again, greasy and all consuming in its effort to see his thoughts however mundane, and Harry felt the stab of disgust in the shriveled string of night peppers. "I'll inform the Headmaster of your progress."
"Thank you sir." It was the only thing he could say, and somewhere in the universe he could hear Sirius cursing his name.
"Yesterday evening at approximately 5:45pm the bodies of Vernon and Petunia Dursley were found in their home in Little Whinging, Surrey. It was their neighbor, Miss Arabella Figg (52), who spotted the Dark Mark hovering above the house, and immediately reported it to the authorities. When Aurors Murphy and Shacklebolt arrived at the scene they discovered the two adult victims lying dead in the kitchen with no mark of forced entry or a struggle. It is highly suspect that the killing curse was used without warning to kill the muggles.
There was neither any sign of magic, nor any magical artifacts in the quaint suburban home, leading authorities to wonder about the motive for attack. Though the Department of Under-Aged Magic had been called to the address twice before, further information concerning the Dursley residence is now strictly classified pending an investigation, as is all other information pertaining to the family. When questioned about the significance of the Dursleys, Auror Shacklebolt (45) stated, "None of your ruddy business."
The Dursleys are survived by their only son Dudley (16), who, because of his status as a minor, has been made a ward of the muggle state and is under heavy surveillance by magical law enforcement.
It was past midnight. Harry had been riffling through his chest, looking for that last elusive pair of socks that he knew he had and always cropped up when he absolutely did not need them. It went without saying that when he needed them most they were nowhere to be found, and would mysteriously appear next Thursday near the bedstead.
The Gryffindor boy's dorm was icy. Someone, probably him, had left the West Window open and over night a cold wind had blown in bringing with it cloud-cover that refused to budge. It was ridiculous and a bit sad to have been longing for a pair of Vernon's old socks, but Harry's head was an unwilling participant in his life and so his feet were left to do the thinking. It didn't occur to him, or he didn't bother with the thought that his uncle Vernon's socks were his last memento of the man, and as far as mementos went it was nothing spectacular. He had read the morning paper with the rest of Gryffindor, Hermione had shot him a furious look from across the table, anticipating a reaction – anything but how he behaved towards Ron's death, and Cho's. Harry left the table, vomited the meager contents of his stomach into the privy, and didn't leave his room for the rest of the day. Hide for a week, that's what Malfoy had said – and maybe if enough people died because of him he'd never have to move.
Harry carefully unstuck an old folder full of creased parchment, wondering who'd spilled a butter beer on the bottom of his trunk (probably him again) and spent twenty minutes idly flipping through it. More of Ron's lost homework, a pretty decent doodle of Snape as a greasy dog labeled 'The Great Git' and nearly a dozen feet of Hermione's tightly packed scrawl that read like an extra-credit assignment.
"Created in 1330 by the famous Nicholas Flammel, the Philosopher's Stone, also known as the Fruit of Life, has been the major goal of Alchemy from B.C. 270 to A.D. 1750. Though there is no record of Flammel's experiments, Natural Scientists and Alchemists believe it can be recreated. However, modern innovations to the magical field have failed to reproduce the stone, and specialist Gwendolyn Bean, 57, reports in an excerpt from Alchemy through the Ages 'It is now widely suspected that the stone may never be reproduced on earth. Experimentation through alternate dimensions seem promising, but the effects of the Elixir are at this time unstable.'
"The Philosopher's Stone is credited with the gift of life and miraculous healing powers. Other lesser-known attributes include the ability to produce precious metals or gems from lead by immersing the lead in the 'Elixir of Life' with a small piece of the base metal to be transmuted…"
The essay continued, listing various attributes of the stone, and the including sources and a cross reference section but Harry read no further. Now he sat, surrounded by old memorabilia, chocolate frog wrappers, old sweaters, Ron's long-lost Transfigurations essays – all of those things that accumulate over time with no use whatsoever. Harry had probably kept them because he was too lazy to throw them away, or 'because he might need them later.' Once again, it was Hermione's incredible mind to the rescue; Harry had the information all along. "Shit."
Seamus was snoring uproariously, his hacksaw nasal symphony occasionally punctuated by Dean's muffled snorting and Neville's stunted murmurs. Harry clicked off his bedside lamp and swung himself out of bed: Seamus and Dean could sleep through anything. The floor was frigid, but he did his best to be quiet as he slipped out of the room, Hermione's scroll in hand. Neville snorted and rolled over in his bed, muttering something about sour milk, and Harry gently shut the door behind him.
He was discovered later emerging from the kitchens in the ghostly pre-light of dawn, "I couldn't sleep," blurted Malfoy as he rounded the corner. Harry shrugged as if to say 'I never can' and they fell into step together. Harry had been so stupid, so incredibly single-minded. They had been working so hard, endlessly researching, spending every waking moment in the library – even now they were subconsciously shuffling towards the stacks of reference manuals and informative essays. Even Hermione would have been proud of Malfoy's thoroughness, but she had been distracted lately, and Harry couldn't blame her.
When he wasn't pouring over spells, Harry was having feverish nightmares about the end of the world. Standing alone at the foot of a hill as a walking corpse surrounded by those less-animated. It was wrong to be so obsessed with a murder, but all Harry felt was vindicated at last. Theirs was an almost desperate catalogue of poisons and their antidotes. Each poison absolutely deadly, and each poison absolutely impossible to use against the Dark Lord without a miracle. Harry thought he'd found his miracle.
"You smell like oranges." Said Malfoy after a lengthy silence of adjusting himself to Harry's company. It was strange, he would be perfectly comfortable addressing the Minister of Magic in his bathrobe, but something in Potter's eyes made him wish he were wearing more than striped pajamas – perhaps chain mail, because it was hard, and piercing, and completely skeptical about the orange. It made Malfoy nervous, that stare, because Harry could be looking right through him and seeing anything. "Found anything?"
Harry winced. He had searched assuming that Draco, like himself, would be awake and wandering at two a.m. – he had not been so Harry retreated to the kitchens and indulged himself in pained conversation with Dobby for an hour. He had not gone beyond Hermione's scroll for information, he hadn't thought it was necessary. "I may have." He said hesitantly, if Trelawney had really meant the Stone, then everything was over wasn't it? Dumbledore had destroyed it, whatever else Harry's views on the Headmaster were, he could be relied on to keep his word. They walked slowly, shuffling their feet across the pitted flagstones as the sun began to creep over the horizon; Harry couldn't help feeling uncomfortably full and guilty. They had found poisons that was undetectable, but had no way to administer it. They had unearthed lotions and powders that transmitted deadly fumes and chemicals with just a touch, and no way to conceal them. Just when they thought they'd found a possible solution it turned out to be impossible because of locational circumstance or some equally mundane feature of the component spell – now that Harry had a viable answer… he found it was once again out of reach and their last hope. "I don't suppose… is it possible to have a prophecy of something that's already happened?"
Malfoy frowned, staring into the distance. "They're called echoes. Well, sort of. Mediums process a lot of… metaphysical backwash you might call it. Ghosts, and memories of all sorts of psychological impressions." Harry's sense of apprehension and idiocy vanished to be replaced by embarrassed awe at Malfoy's impromptu lecture. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, Malfoy was a damned good student, and Harry was frustrated at his own ignorance. "Memories, strong ambitions, even silent ghosts that are too old to be fully manifest… nintey-five percent of being a medium is being able to tell the difference between the past and the future – they're rubbish. Why?"
Harry squirmed. How could he possibly tell Malfoy that what Voldemort wanted was utterly inaccessible? Especially after the effort they'd gone to, researching, hoping, flipping through page after page of the old spellings and dizzying sentences. After the hope. And that's what it really was, hope that eventually there would be something, a minor key that would solve all the world's problems including their own, and everyone would be around for Christmas dinner. Hope or desperation, or delirium had kept them going and if the Philosopher's stone was their only chance, which it was, then it had all been a waste. "Just… a thought. How d'y –"
"My aunt Gertrude." Malfoy overrode him. "She had the east wing of the Manor until she finally kicked the bucket. She couldn't tell what year she lived in, but she was a powerful Medium."
"Gertrude Malfoy?"
Malfoy winced and pretended he hadn't, whatever his personal disagreements with 'Draco' may be, at least it wasn't as bad as Gertrude – Gerty. "She married in."
Harry dropped it, he didn't really care, he was just trying to avoid the inevitable. He'd once had neighbors named Gertrude and Reginald Jones, but they only stayed at number 7 Privet Drive for a year before Mrs. Figg moved in. "I was just thinking… if Trelawney…" What had he been thinking exactly? That Trelawney had choked on an echo? Or that they're entire reference point was moot because the prophecy was worthless and they had to start from scratch?
"Impossible. Echoes could never… do that to a person, they've already happened. They're like… walking through a ghost, it gives you the willies but it can't steal your soul." Harry felt a sudden wash of loathing towards Vernon and Petunia Dursley: they'd kept him clothed and fed with a roof over his head, he was grateful, and furious for his imposed nescience, but it was the important things they had neglected. Whether or not motorcycles could really fly, what happened to his parents, what happened to the body of a divine medium during a prophecy – Harry could make pudding, Malfoy apparently knew all the secrets of wizardom. He hated them, because he should have known these things, and if Hermione was looking for a reaction towards their deaths, that was the only one she would ever get. "Didn't you ever pay attention in Divination? No… don't answer that."
Harry rolled his eyes, "I was just thinking… did I ever tell you about first year?"
"Public humiliation seems to ring a bell." Malfoy said wryly, tugging Harry down a corridor as a house elf rounded the opposite corner. Then Draco laughed, like everybody does when they realize just how naive they were at age eleven. So much wasted energy over a house cup and stupid rivalries.
"That's a no then." Here it went, all cards on the table. Harry had managed to blind himself, five years later he had actually forgotten why he had first encountered Voldemort, it wasn't because of a vendetta, it wasn't even because of him – it was because he stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and found himself in trouble. The only thing he'd ever wanted besides Harry's life. He was such a bloody idiot. Harry kept suffering terrible moments of panic where he said something important and he expected a cadre of death eaters to jump out from behind the tapestries and brutally murder him (or at least shout 'hurrah') but they never did. Not when he explained the Order, or Occlumency, or even Norbert, all of which had managed to come up in vital conversation, none of which mattered. This mattered, if only because Malfoy would be furious for his oversight, because Voldemort hadn't wanted him, Voldemort hadn't cared until Harry stuck his nose where it didn't belong – Malfoy had every right – Harry was afraid of losing his goal. The thought of revenge was all that kept him going, he couldn't afford to lose Malfoy's help. "It's just, I had a thought… that might have had something to with the Philosopher's Stone. The Stone is what Voldemort was after… but Dumbledore destroyed it."
Draco stopped dead and held his arm aloft, stopping Harry in his tracks and holding him there. This happened often when he was thinking on his feet, probably because Crabbe and Goyle progressed like human barges if not physically detained. "Tell me everything."
It took a full four minutes to cover the basics of the story, he left out Fluffy, Norbert, the seven obstacles, but Draco kept interrupting, and spent another two minutes resisting the urge to dance a jig or beat Harry to a mash. "What have you been brewing!?" He laughed, then tried again with more clarity. "There is no way Dumbledore destroyed the Philosopher's Stone! The stone was an accident, it's a priceless artifact, and no one knows how Flammel did it. Dumbledore wouldn't destroy it, he probably doesn't even know how!" Draco's hands clenched and unclenched with energy, balancing on the balls of his feet, this could be the answer to all of their problems if they could find it. If it still existed.
"But… Nicholas Flammel…" Harry's mild protest faded against Malfoy's grin. He knew better than anyone that some things were worth dying for. Harry winced as Malfoy practically crushed him in an exuberant hug, then backed away embarrassed daring him to comment. Harry hadn't minded in the least and said wryly "At least now we know what to give him."
Hope again, and Harry felt sick with it. At least when there had been no philosopher's stone and no potential for success the only difficulty was breaking the news; but now there was hope, and there was potential, and it made everything so much harder knowing there was the brief glimmer of a chance for them – and that it wouldn't happen. The pain of failure in collaboration with disappointment and absolutely knowing that everything would change for the worse – hope.
"Right. I'll be happy to let him know you're bringing a box of chocolates to the meeting. I'm sure he'll be absolutely delighted and he'll forget all about killing you."
The problem with Gryffindor common was the absolute lack of privacy. It was a daunting prospect for any young man to make a niche for himself in the brutally open and friendly environment, people were encouraged to sit with their friends to study, people were encouraged to associate with years not their own, they were encouraged to socialize and play exploding snap in front of the large fireplace, to sit over a loud and boisterous game of Wizard chess – Collin Creevy often thought it would be easier to be a Ravenclaw where the silence and need for privacy to study was overwhelming. Collin had never been an outgoing individual, he tended to live vicariously, smiling vaguely as his friends and family told jokes and stories somehow completely removed from himself, yes he had an arm, yes he could imagine basically the feeling of breaking his arm, but the bike his father had given him when he turned seven was sitting still unused in their garage and in no way could he experience the brief moment of soaring adrenaline as he raced down Devil's Corner and skidded on the curb, and couldn't hear the crack that he wasn't sure was real. Vicariously: through pictures, and stories, and the novels that kept him company as a child. The family he belonged to was supported by a milk delivery man, his brother regaled the stories of Collin's own school days to his muggle friends, their mother had abandoned him to a fatal car accident when Collin was five, his father delivered milk – Milquetoast. So here in the Gryffindor common room what he stood to do was the most terrifying, exhilarating experience of his life and his hands were shaking as he approached the object of his affections.
Ginny Weasley sat with her back to the fireplace, watching the staircases and occasionally smiling in tight-lipped humor at the scintillating conversation of one Claire Donahue from fourth year. She was isolated in her own way, pointedly not stepping in to fill the void left by her absent brothers, as the first Weasley witch in eight generations she was making herself out to be respectable. Collin was almost sad for her, every once in a long while she laughed without caution and he could see her stomp on the emotion moments later, feeling guilty because grieving siblings are not supposed to laugh. She had smiled without pretenses exactly three days ago and Collin had raised his camera in a flash, just before her smile slid away to be replaced with the sour grimace that only looked like one. There was something about her he found absolutely fascinating, something about her he was desperate to discover, that maybe if he took enough photographs, never took his eyes off of her he would see something new, and fresh, something so inherently lovely that even the gods could not match it. Collin would admit, even to himself, that he read far too much impossible romance.
Impossible romance, he liked that phrase for it, impossible that Ginny Weasley would ever look his way again because she had the estimable Harry Potter to adore, and impossible that she would ever let herself be in love. Collin liked to think he had a sporting chance, or would if he weren't so cowardly – if Harry Potter weren't so brave, if Ronald Weasley hadn't died, if Ginny's brothers were still around to show her that it was okay to laugh. Weasley Wizard Wheezes was still booming in Diagon Alley, the twins had taken the current situation and turned it into a large joke, creating sugary confectionaries sporting Dark Mark parodies that spouted things like "Death Eaters are Dorks" before consumption. It wasn't particularly intelligent, but the situation called for levity and so levity was had by both the twins and respective presses upon discovery. Ginny hadn't laughed, she read the article in the Daily Prophet and burst into tears. In her defense, Collin was quietly indignant and considered making badges until he realized that anti-Weasley sentiments, or perhaps a Support Ginny slogan would not be appreciated.
Maybe he did have a chance – maybe he stood to gain from all of this, from Ginny's apparent loneliness, and as horrible as the thought was maybe he could benefit from Ron's untimely death, step in to fill the void of beloved family member and confidant. Anything at all to be in her company, anything at all to see her smile, because Harry certainly wasn't making the effort. It was beyond him to feel anger or resentment towards Harry, he was the hero that saved Muggle born children from You-Know-Who, the humble and kind individual that had put up with his blatant idolatry all through Collin's first years of school, and the one person that hadn't threatened to break his camera though Harry was surely the subject of the majority of his work. During the course of his fourth year every Slytherin had mocked Collin for 'being in looooove with the boy who liiiiived', one ambitious Ravenclaw had asked to dissect him for a 'gay gene', and Ernie McMillain had offered him condolences over Cho having stolen Harry. It was embarrassing, and awkward, and he was confident that any other man would have cursed him six ways to Sunday for his constant and exuberant "Heya Harry!"'s, but Harry Potter had managed not to and that was something to be admired.
So though he knew, or thought he knew, that Ginny's eyes were inexorably locked on the Boy Who Lived, Collin was disinclined to hate him for it. It wasn't as though he could help it, or didn't have enough to worry about, or ever really smiled either, even when Dean Thomas had drawn a large poster of a Gryffindor lion flicking the Slytherin snake away with a single claw with a smug expression (McGonagall had awarded him five house points for beautiful workmanship) Harry had only smiled in the cursory 'haha' way. But still he wondered where the condolences were for Ginny, and why none of the Hufflepuffs had patted him on the back and said 'She'll see you eventually', and he wondered if the humble, and inconsequential son of a muggle might petition Ginny Weasley for her affections.
The common room worked strictly to his disadvantage as he had to cross in front of the plush and over crowded chairs to reach her, it was his heroic mission to crouch down beside her and shoot an apologetic smile in Claire's direction, "Hey Ginny… do you think I could talk to you for a minute?"
"Finally!" said someone in the background and his heart leapt into his throat, "Check!"
End of chapter - I love reviews - they fuel my desire to post more. Though I don't have the "Can't write without reviews" threat anymore, thank god.