Thank you for the reviews, everyone. Have a good Christmas. Please enjoy. G.L
Harry's instincts kicked in and he forced himself to move. His left arm had become tangled in his robe, he realised as he stood slowly up.
His senses were in overdrive but there was a haze over his vision, and a dull, throbbing confusion and uncertainty clouded his immediate consciousness.
The man just stood there while Harry straightened himself out, smiling serenely, and Harry fought to remember what had happened.
I moved to the window, to throw the Dungbombs out, he recalled. I dropped them out of the window… then there was a flash of black. Hermione was speaking while I tried to see what it was. Then there was… that face… he stared at the man in front of him. The tall, cold blonde man who was smiling. His face. Right outside the window. The glass exploded, then I was… then I was here.
He slipped awkwardly into his centre when he felt the pain begin to kick in, and he knew he was bleeding.
He turned his head slightly and saw the Hogwarts Express round a hill in the distance, the smoke from the engine lingering in the sky, meshing with the grey cloudline.
"You're 'Shujin', is that correct?" the man said, his voice crossing the distance despite it being a whisper.
"I'm… I'm developing a healthy dislike for windows," Harry replied, frowning, wondering why- even in his centre- his senses were buzzing in such a disconcerting way. Everything in his vision had a soft, blurred edge.
The man was still smiling. He raised his arms.
"You are a frighteningly disappointing mark, young Shujin. Not that anybody has ever impressed me, that is, but still… for the pay I'm receiving…"
Let's gather what I know, Harry thought, staring at him. He might be a vampire. In fact, with those teeth, he probably is. Which would explain the buzzing in my ears… previous victims have written of it… ok. So as far as that goes, I'm in trouble. He talked about being paid… he's been hired to kill me. He's taller than average, slight of build, breathing calmly, and in no rush. Good. I need to get my head straight.
He reached around for his gun… despite his tangled state and the tumble he'd taken, it was holstered. He pulled it out.
"A firearm, Shujin," the man stated, surprised. "Ah… so the plot thickens. Indeed. This will be interesting."
Harry shot him in the face. It cracked again in echoes over the hills.
The figure dropped like a stone and Harry stood, swaying, in the freezing wind, the blood on him drying slowly, his gun trained on the figure.
The blonde man stood up, slowly, frowning for the first time. He had a red dot on his cheek where the bullet had entered.
So he's a vampire, Harry decided, sighing. Shit. The bullet will about now be dissolving in his blood. That wound will heal in just under an hour. The lead in these rounds won't do shit all against him.
"Contrary to popular belief," the man said slowly, "that actually hurts quite a lot."
Harry squeezed off another round but by then it was too late… the vampire was upon him. He was taken off his feet by what felt like the Hogwarts Express being driven into his chest and he flew, meeting the cold, hard ground by the train tracks in a crumpled heap.
"Fuck," he groaned after landing, unable to breathe properly.
He'd also let go of the gun… now he couldn't even slow the man down.
Suddenly the buzzing in his head grew until it pressed against the backs of his eyes and he gasped in pain, feeling the strange presence grow in his mind. His vision was almost completely white, and small electric charges ran down his spine.
He wasn't aware of himself crying out again.
'Stand up.'
The voice echoed over the racket- he could hear it in his ear. It wasn't shouted but it was loud. He tried to put his hands over his ears, over his eyes, but instead he absently felt his whole body move.
Find my centre… find my fucking centre…
He knew he'd done as the voice instructed. He'd stood.
Jesus fucking Christ, fucking get me out of this, he thought furiously, terrified. He had no defence, no experience… nothing against a vampire.
'Come to me', the voice cut like a hot knife through the clamour in his mind… he couldn't disobey.
Harry almost screamed with shame as he felt himself comply.
Then, abruptly, the buzzing and the searing pain and the throbbing presence in his head was pushed aside… his mind, under duress, had forced itself into its centre.
For a moment, everything was calm. Harry's blurred vision showed him he'd stopped walking about twenty paces from the man. The sky moved slowly extremely slowly, the fast, biting wind was a tickle against his numb, distant shell. The presence in his head fought for control and white flashes of lightning shot upwards across his vision, burning his eyes.
'Come to me,' the voice said again, but it was quieter this time, less imposing, and almost strained.
'Fuck you,' Harry sent back, responding in the same way he did to Mar.
You're OK, for the moment, Shujin, Harry told himself, making his body breathe deeply. You're unharmed. Your mind is mostly your own. Find a way to kill this cunt. Concentrate.
But Harry knew, somewhere in his warped and struggling psyche, that this was not a fight he could win. He may have some control over his head, now, but he was completely outmatched in body.
He'd have to use his Art.
The vampire, a distant presence in Harry's immediate consciousness, suddenly broke the strange mind-charm he'd been using as a wall of snow hit him- hard- from behind.
He didn't even flinch, but it surprised him.
He grinned at Harry, whose almost-totally white eyes didn't even seem to be looking at him, and before the vampire knew it this kill had become a bit more interesting.
From all around him Harry orchestrated swamps and waves of packed snow to sweep over the vampire. He was aware of the figure laughing, but it was something at least while he began to unlock his Art, letting some angry emotion slip into his centre in spikes that physically manifested itself in the rock-and-snow masses that threw themselves over the blonde man.
Keep laughing, you bastard, Harry thought.
Suddenly the vampire was moving- it was actually too fast for his normal eyes to see, a flash of black robe and light hair that kicked up a trail of snow seconds after it'd travelled over it, but in his centre things moved slower.
Much slower… the figure was still blurred, but was moving at the speed of a normal human running.
Running at Harry.
He moved to the side, at the same speed, and the figure changed direction to match. Harry didn't have long. A chunk of blinding rage grew from a crack in his mental walls and he raised his arms.
If someone had been watching the impact they'd have seen two blurs meet in a flash of bright colour and propel away from each other just as quickly, a plume of dry snow- like still water when a pebble is dropped into it- rising in their wake.
Harry landed on his rear but the vampire stayed on its feet and began moving again.
Harry closed his eyes.
In a tremendous crack he slipped away from what was happening, a storm of oppressive black squeezing in on his being, before he appeared in the middle of a deserted, sunny country road.
He didn't know where he was. He didn't care. He collapsed to his knees, feeling the bruises and cuts from the train window and- more severely- the broken arms and dented skull from the impact between him and the vampire.
They began to heal, Harry speeding it up in his centre, anxious to be better once more.
After a time… how long he didn't know… he gasped lungfuls of air and stood, healed once more, completely submerged in the rush of his Art and power, eager to be back in the fight.
It's been a long time since I've been like this, he thought mildly. And this is probably the most- apart from that time in that wizard's flat- I've ever used my Art.
Feeling something digging into his chest, he put his hand in the gaps between the buttons on his shirt and pulled out his amulet… smashed. Barely in one piece.
In a blur he pulled his trunk from his pocket. It was a little creased where it had been squashed, but was perfectly operational.
He opened one compartment without thinking about it, flinging the broken trinket in and pulling from his apothecary two pepper-up potions and a Clarity Draught. While downing them, he opened his trunk at another combination and pulled out his Katana.
The legacy of Mito Nobunaga…
He quickly checked the blade. He was working extremely fast. Then he took off his robe and bundled it into the same compartment before slamming, shrinking and stuffing-away his trunk into his jeans pocket.
He closed his eyes, slipping into oblivion once more.
The road was empty no more than thirty seconds after it had been filled. The lane lay quiet.
Bernard, the driver of the train, was unaware of any commotion at all. He had his eyes on the tracks ahead in the dark, snowy Scottish highlands and his wand trained on the spade that was shovelling coal into the brazier all by itself.
He was wrapped up in his thickest, most enchanted cloak but was feeling the bite of the wind on his cheeks anyway.
He was humming to himself tunelessly, eyes narrowed, as he had been from Hogsmeade station and he would be until he was out of the snow.
Suddenly there was a green flash on his controls, reflected from the fire. He jumped out of his skin in surprise as the fire exploded outwards, the shovel catapulting away, and in a green blaze of glory Albus Dumbledore stepped out.
"Bernard," the elderly man said quickly. The driver automatically recognised him and, despite his shock, sketched a bow. The Headmaster continued, "Keep the train moving. Miriam just buzzed me- apparently there's been an accident. Under no circumstances will you stop this train."
And then the Headmaster was gone, despite it being the first time he'd seen the old man since he'd been approached for the job. A flash of navy-blue robes as they disappeared into the dark doorway, and he was alone once more, thoroughly confused.
Dumbledore made his brisk way down the train, casting a sonorous on his voice that allowed him to speak to everyone on it, instructing them to stay inside their compartments, close their windows and not move a muscle.
A few heads peeking out of carriages and compartments shot straight back in as he walked past, eyes fearful towards him, and he ignored them.
Eventually he came to a carriage where a sickly smell lingered, and Dumbledore recognised it to be that of Dungbombs… a Zonko's product. One of the nemeses of his caretaker.
Miriam, the woman who ran the trolley, could be heard consoling someone with a shaky voice, and Dumbledore could see her trolley where it had rolled down the train to the end of that carriage after she'd left it.
He also felt a strange draft.
He entered the compartment and said, in a soft voice "My goodness… Miss Granger, what in the name of Merlin happened?"
His eyes danced over the broken window before meeting the young girl's.
He used a brief scan of leglimency to discern, over her shaking voice, what had happened.
He stood in silence for just a second while she was talking, and Miriam was talking, before asking them the most important thing.
"How long ago?"
"About four, maybe five minutes ago," Miriam said, her arm around Hermione.
Without a second's more deliberation he disapparated with a pop. The scene he entered, when the sensation of being squeezed through a rubber tube was over, was something that burned itself into his memory forever.
Everything was a blur just a little way further down the tracks. He'd misjudged the distance very slightly in his haste, but he could see almost exactly what was happening and, to say the least, he was very surprised.
What he'd expected to see, he realised, was Harry Potter's bloody corpse and maybe- if he was lucky- a gloating killer. He'd expected to have to hunt for either Harry's body or traces of portkey residue. Traces of blood on the snow.
Blood on the snow was something that wasn't lacking, but the scene that met his eyes as he ran closer was something that ranged far beyond unexpected.
Two blurred, flashing figures darted around, backwards and forwards, screams of exertion and pain meeting his ears, and despite Dumbledore having his wand out he didn't raise it. Not only did he not know who was who, he was too surprised to react.
The scene above the two was almost literally a fireworks display, ranging from natural grey clouds to black flashes to coloured flames to explosions and puffs, all in sharp blinks, quickly succeeding each other. Coloured blades of light span every direction away from the two figures.
When he watched this scene in his pensieve he'd see Harry with a wand in one hand and a large sword in the other fighting an unknown assailant with a wand and long, deadly-looking claws.
It was a picture that didn't even range from the farthest, most unfathomable reaches of his imagination.
Explosions on the ground, of powdery snow, Earth and magical fire, covered most of the blurred movement from Dumbledore's vision. One moment the two figures were fighting furiously on the train-tracks, the next in deep snow, the next suspended for just a moment in the air.
The he saw Harry, and knew from the combat and from gut instinct that, a long time ago, he'd met him in Mundungus Fletcher's muggle property in London.
He'd been beaten by him. He was the mystery wandless magician.
And now Harry Potter had a wand, and he was apparently using it to great effect.
Dumbledore trod on something. He looked down and saw a shiny, smooth metallic object in the snow. His mind was blank. He looked up again and finally found his voice.
He pointed his wand at the moving figures, but before he could decide what spell to use to incapacitate the two, to gain control over the situation, he saw Potter fly backwards and land in a heap on the ground, his sword spinning away. Dumbledore didn't see a wand.
Then the boy was back on his feet again, clearly injured, eyes back on the blonde figure moving at him once more.
"Harry!" Dumbledore shouted in despair, and immediately regretted it.
The boy looked up at the Headmaster just as the fast-moving assailant tackled him.
Together they flew backwards onto a patch of flat white… and disappeared.
Harry's whole body burned; despite him being in his centre he felt every inch of it. He felt the hands around his neck. His eyes stung horribly as he looked upwards at the darkening ice above him… he was descending. He tried not to inhale.
His body felt like it was being crushed with hot, blunt knives.
In a strange, quiet moment, away from the chaos of the fight above-ground- in a second of detachment from the leering figure who was following him down, clinging onto his neck- he remembered stepping into a sea of blackness.
Submerging himself bit by bit to escape the black, brickwork earth of a foreign world. The cold, confining clouds.
Dying.
Peace.
No…
Yes, Potter.
He fought himself.
No, Shujin!
Yes, Harry, his mind whispered. Fuck it all. Peace.
No, Shujin, I'm not just going to die. I'm not just you anymore.
He struggled, his body cramping, his life fading.
I'm Harry fucking Potter now too, and I'll fucking live.
He cried out in bubbles, tears mixing with the water around him.
Inaudibly he screamed 'No! This isn't Shujin! Why am I so fucking weak? Why am I dying? I am Harry Potter! I AM SHUJIN!'
There was a moment of crushing blackness.
Somehow he sensed the vampire with its hands around his throat begin pulling him closer as they sank under their heavy, waterlogged clothes. He sensed teeth nearing his neck as the world pressed him from every side.
You can't drink my blood if I'm dead, can you? He whispered in his mind. Decision made.
He inhaled…
…it was Heaven and Hell in a single breath. The relief of following his instinct, and the pure and utter pain that filled his insides. Cold fire and hot ice.
He felt his body being grabbed by something, like he was a tiny fish that had been hooked on a line and was ascending to its fate.
Hands. A face. Inky blackness rushing past him…
Too late. The afterlife is taking me, for good this time. I'm fucked.
Harry's body exploded from the surface of the water after a moment and Dumbledore levitated his unconscious form before it hit the ruined ground, putting it down on his pre-charmed, cushioned area.
He cast heating charms on Harry before enervating him.
A fountain choke of freezing water burst from his mouth and he made a chilling retching sound, and Dumbledore quickly waved his wand over his mouth, vanishing the water in his throat.
Harry's eyes were wide and his chest was heaving. Combined with his injuries it looked as though, Dumbledore thought, he'd woken the dead.
Surprisingly quickly Harry sat up, not putting weight on an injured arm but spinning to face the ice-lake from the bank. He could see, about twenty feet out, where they'd entered. Dumbledore looked too.
The water, lapping over the lips of the cracked ice, was mostly still.
Harry was breathing slowly and laboriously, eyes still wide, staring around him at absolutely everything. He got up and staggered towards the train-tracks. Dumbledore let him go, still looking at the hole in the ice.
With eyes nearly as cold as the surrounding area, he raised his wand again, wordlessly freezing the lake over and casting an unbreakable charm on it that wouldn't wear off until the ice melted… in four months.
He went to find Harry; his face was like a stern deity's etched into marble.
"I cannot condone it."
Harry sighed, rubbing some colour back into his face before replying.
"After what you saw, sir, I think you can understand why I'd need them. After all, I'm not allowed to use magic when I'm back in London."
"But these are perfectly legal?" Dumbledore asked rhetorically, incredulously, holding up the sword in one hand and the gun in the other.
"No, but I don't care about non-magical law. I want to be at this school," he lied smoothly. "I'd like to survive a holiday without being killed, expelled or locked away."
"You want to be here, do you, Harry? Because if that is so, you obviously have accommodation here for the holidays…"
"I want to go home, sir," Harry said. It was completely true. "I want to be at this school but I want to be at home for the holidays."
They sat in silence for a while, Harry drinking a cup of tea he'd conjured himself. He was nearly totally healed but his magical reserves were quite significantly depleted after the day's events… it would be a few nights before he felt normal again. He'd done things that day he didn't know he could.
Dumbledore plainly wanted to drill him with questions about everything but hadn't had the chance- he'd gone straight to teacher-mode above all else, asking him about the weapons. He now had an inkling of just how powerful Harry was, when he chose to unlock it.
The Headmaster decided to move on though, putting the weapons on the desk between them.
"Tell me again what happened after you got on the train, Harry," he asked wearily.
Harry sighed, but said, "I sat with Hermione, we talked for a while, I gave her some advice on her confidence issues, the trolley lady came by, she went on, another student walked past and then Malfoy came in. He dropped Dungbombs on my lap. I went to throw them out of the window, succeeded, and then saw… saw him. His face, by the window, upside-down like he was on top of it. The window exploded. I landed in the snow and those weapons you 'don't condone' saved my life."
He'd decided from the portkey back to just be completely honest. If there was a time for Dumbledore to know about him, this was it.
Well, maybe not completely honest. He was still going to rob the old bastard blind.
"And 'him', Harry? Describe this man again."
The boy scowled.
"I have - twice."
"Yes, but I'm hoping that you'll mention a detail that will prove that it isn't the man I think it is."
Harry's eyes narrowed. His emotionless mask was not even being attempted after the day he'd had.
"Are you going to tell me who you think it was?"
Dumbledore just looked at him over his steepled fingers.
"Fuck's sake," Harry hissed and Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "He's just tried to kill me and you won't even tell me who he is? Unbelievable. Fine, though- fine. I'm going to London, and I'll find out myself."
"You don't think he's dead then Harry?"
Harry ignored him. He stood as the flames in Dumbledore's office fire went green. Madam Pomfrey's head appeared there and she spared Harry a wary glance before talking to Dumbledore.
"Headmaster," she said. "Ms. Granger is being treated for severe shock. Her superficial wounds have been healed and the glass removed, but whatever Potter did to her, it's obviously warped her psyche someh-"
"Poppy," Dumbledore said sternly, looking at her over the rim of his spectacles. "That's quite enough, thank you."
"Yes, well," the nurse replied stubbornly. "She'll be awake in half an hour."
Her head disappeared.
After a few minutes Dumbledore looked at Harry, saying, "Do you think you should visit Hermione?"
"I doubt I'm on her list of people to see."
"Very well," Dumbledore said, rubbing his temples slowly. "Could you please answer some more questions?"
Harry groaned in frustration, saying, "Headmaster, what more can I say?"
"What about 'thank you'?"
Harry was thrown for a second.
"Well," he said, thinking, "am I thanking you for distracting me, giving that assassin the opportunity he needed to nearly drown me? Or for making me take the train in the first place, despite it being an obvious target?"
Dumbledore looked at him sadly.
"I meant for letting you keep the weapons, Harry," he said quietly. "On the condition that they are never brought out in my school again… and that includes the dagger strapped to your ankle. Ever."
"Thank you, then," Harry said, without missing a beat. He stepped to the desk and picked up his sword and gun, strapping them to him accordingly.
"Now, Harry, please?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing to the chair Harry had been occupying before.
"Well, if you're walking to the Hospital Wing, I won't object to accompanying you there," Harry said diplomatically, his face finally being trained deliberately. Dumbledore would be wincing as he recognised Harry sink into indifference.
In accordance, they left the office and walked for a short time in silence, before Dumbledore finally asked, "Tell me about Mr. Malfoy's Dungbombs."
Harry laughed quietly, saying, "So it was a Malfoy."
"Hmm?"
"I should have known right away it was a Malfoy. Not Draco's dad, I assume? Being a vampire? No, probably not… but I know them by now. Same arrogance, same posture and smile. You remember the one I shot in that flat in London."
"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. "I do remember."
"Do they all have that same hair? How horrible for them. Looking exactly like each other… that sneer, that authority…"
"You're doing a very good impression of them," Dumbledore chided gently, clearly feeling beyond his depth.
Harry laughed again, shaking his head.
"Well… I believe, if you insist on knowing, that it was Saevus Malfoy who you encountered today," Dumbledore said after checking the corridor was clear.
"Alright… Draco's immediate relation? Is he intrinsic to this?"
"I don't believe so. As you no doubt have figured out, the body of the Malfoy clan are very proud of their heritage. Having a bastard brother- a half-blood, like yourself, Harry, would be extremely shameful for them. To have him then bitten by a vampire, too…"
"Brother of who? Draco's dad or granddad?"
"His father… but I don't think Draco's immediate family would be altogether involved in this, somehow… but there are rumours that have circulated about Saevus and certain … connections. That would also be very shameful to them. On the other hand, congratulations, Harry- you survived an attack from one of the most wanted men in the world."
There was silence. They'd reached the right floor.
"I can't tell you more without you telling me about your time in London, Harry… Saevus Malfoy targeting you doesn't make a huge amount of sense."
"Yes, actually, it does. Let me let you in on something… just to nudge your memory, Professor. But, remember that I'm having a moment of honesty here, for when I ask you something in the future. Wasn't that our original agreement?"
Dumbledore nodded gravely, listening intently.
"Who else was in the room the first time we met?"
Before waiting for an answer or answering himself, Harry turned on his heel and strode away. He entered a dusty classroom, ignored Peeves as he tried to taunt him, threw some powder he'd got from his trunk at the fireplace and floo'd to the Twilight Tavern in Knockturn Alley.
Come Hell, High Water or heinous fucking villains, he was getting home that day.
Dumbledore collapsed back in his chair, feeling entirely worn out.
What a day, he thought blandly.
He'd just watched the memory of Harry's fight. He'd been ashamed of his own reaction.
Most of the light show had been Harry's wandwork, but a lot of the things he'd done had been spells Dumbledore didn't recognise- they were like traditional combat spells, but with strange, amateurish-yet-effective twists. Clear flames, for instance, that a flame-freezing charm had no effect on. Curses with different colours so that the enemy had no idea what to shield themselves from.
I can't help feeling that this is completely out of my hands, he thought. I feel like I didn't make the right decisions… but it's as though those decisions weren't mine to make.
With some training, he knew Harry would end up as a more-than-competent wizard.
He'll be a very dangerous person, Dumbledore considered. Should I have let him go back to London? Knowing how dangerous it is for him now? Could I have even stopped him, short of locking him in the dungeons?
Harry's parting comment played on his mind a little and Dumbledore recognised the reference to the Marksmen… which would be why Saevus was after him.
He rubbed his eyes, flinging his spectacles onto the desk, knowing he would have to watch the memory of Mundungus' death and the ensuing fight in his flat once more.
Professor McGonagall had apparated to the train to collect Hermione, who was in the Hospital wing and was responsive if not a little quiet. The Deputy Headmistress had also collected Mr. Malfoy, who Dumbledore would be seeing afterwards.
His mind was jumbled and he tried to organise it properly, before sticking his wand tip into the pensieve once more.
I'm losing my grip, he thought as he tumbled into the past.
The station was abuzz with activity, as it always was, but there was something else hanging over everything.
As well it should, Ali Sumesqi thought, satisfied.
The rumours had spread up and down the train that Harry Potter had disappeared. Malfoy was the prime suspect, the opinion enforced by McGonagall taking him with her when she'd apparated onto the train for Hermione.
The steam from the engine pumped over the crowds of concerned and excitable children and their calm, frowning parents. The voices of chatter died away when Ali stepped through the barrier leading into King's Cross.
He was wearing one of his best suits, in the same cut as the man who met him on the other side. But the difference between them was that the man, who nodded in silent greeting and took his trunk for him as Ali began walking to the exit, had a large, thick red ring tattooed around his eye.
Ali straightened his cuffs as he stepped out of the station, pleased to be away from the crowds, into the chilling grey evening.
He looked at the man, who dipped his head towards an unmarked black car sitting in the taxi ranks.
While the silent companion put the trunk in the back, the driver got out and opened one of the back doors for Ali to get in. He did so, sliding into the seat.
Facing him, sitting on the seats facing forwards, was a smartly dressed young woman with a leather-bound file in her lap. She wasn't looking at him.
He felt doors slam behind him- the silent man and the driver.
The car pulled away, and he kept his eyes trained respectfully on the back window, watching London's traffic.
Eventually, after a moment of daydreaming, Rebecca Hume's personal assistant coughed slightly to gain his attention.
"Guess what I'm going to say," she said in a low voice.
He considered, looking out of the window.
"He's alive?"
"Yes," she replied shortly.
"I told you- he has a knack for surviving, against the odds."
"Don't tell me anything… save it for Mrs. Hume."
She let it hang in the air.
Despite himself, Ali gulped slightly, closing his eyes against the darkening skies.
He was praying he'd survive this.