Disclaimer: For the last time, I don't own this.
AN: So, guys, this is it; this is the last chapter. Don't panic! There's a sequel! Er, continuation, or whatever. It's just convenient for me to split the story up, in part because this story is a solid T, but future chapters will by necessity be M...and I'm starting to get annoyed by the number of chapters. I hate scrolling through lists.
Anyway, I confess that I'm pretty nervous about publishing this. The end is kind of the big reveal, in a way, and now that I'm showing you a significant portion of what's been going through my head as I write all this, I'm actually kind of scared.
So...it's a little weird, a little freaky, a little sad, and very me...but I hope you guys enjoy it.
Chapter 51: Anticlimactic
There were times Harry wondered if there was something wrong with him.
There were times when he felt like he had been swallowed up by his life, that he was adrift in a vast and lonely ocean; other times, he was a stranger to even his own thoughts, small and trapped inside his own head. There were times when he was immersed in a world full of magic and wonder, eager to explore and interact and just live in a present full of people and things that had so much to offer; other times, the world was an incredibly dark place, a place he wished would just disappear in all its sickness, violence, and fear. There were times when he was confident, striding forward with a purpose; other times, he was paralyzed by guilt and hesitation. There were times when he was consumed by an unquenchable fury; other times, he was floating, unaffected and silent. Sometimes he didn't know how he felt. Sometimes he felt like he wasn't a real person at all.
There was this dichotomy, this divide, this inconsistency, and even though it felt so incredibly wrong, he could think of no more genuine aspect of himself.
Yeah, there was definitely something wrong with him.
Not that he didn't already know that, really. The Dursleys had always reviled and disdained him; for the longest time, he was an inferior being, an unfortunate creature born into a hostile world where he, while being the one oppressed, remained the villain. He knew they were wrong – he knew that they were the villains, but there would always be a part of him that had to acknowledge that they had, in part, been right. He wasn't a good person – he didn't think he was a bad person, but he was fairly certain he wasn't a good one either, and when he looked at the world around him, he saw that he was...different. Singular. Alone. There was something wrong with him – he had just never dared voice this little fact, because he wasn't alone, not really. Tom was listening.
Tom, who never failed to point out his every fault, failure, and weakness. Tom, who knew Harry better than he knew himself. Tom, who seemed to revel in Harry's wrongness. It was a point of constant tension – yet another unpleasant feature of his incredibly complicated life – Tom's moral status, that is. Perhaps it wasn't even morality – perhaps it was just a matter of preference. Whatever it was, it made Tom encourage him to perform actions which widened the divide, which exacerbated Harry's wrongness. And yet, while it was indubitably the case that there was something wrong with Tom, Tom was never wrong. Tom was always right, and he knew that he was always right...and Harry often speculated that he didn't know how lucky he was.
You are...preoccupied.
Harry nodded absently, lifting his mug of orange pekoe tea to his lips and sipping, before wincing – he burnt his tongue.
Should I be concerned?
Harry's lips twitched. "You're concerned about me?"
It is an hour after midnight and you are sitting idly in the Room of Requirement with a cup of tea in hand, when you could be either asleep or studying for your exams. Tom sounded slightly annoyed and generally unimpressed.
"Maybe I just wanted to try out that boiling charm Remus taught me," Harry mused.
You could have done that in bed.
"I could have."
And yet you did not.
Harry's eyes drifted from the steaming mug in his hands to the flickering, softly crackling fire in front of him. "I wonder if I've somehow desecrated the Room of Hot Chocolate by drinking Remus's tea in here."
Harry.
Harry sighed. "I can't sleep."
Because you are preoccupied.
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, I suppose so."
Is this preoccupation actually of substance, or are they the insignificant worries of an adolescent wizard? Tom asked, a little impatiently.
"I...really don't know. I guess I'm just a little...unnerved?"
By what? Tom sounded slightly more attentive now.
"I don't know, I just...it's so quiet."
It would be unusual if it was not at this time of night.
"No, I mean...things are quiet. There's no...Philosopher's Stone, no Chamber of Secrets – no horcruxes to find and replace, no master soul to interfere with things. Things are so...simple, you know, quiet. Nothing's happening."
This past term has hardly been uneventful.
It was true – rumours and contrary opinions concerning Sirius's trial and subsequent acquittal had upset the natural rhythm of Hogwarts, and soon after things had returned to normal, Miranda Thistlebaum's article had once again thrown everything into chaos.
But even so, second term had otherwise passed quietly, and without anomaly or obstacle; classes went smoothly as expected, and the Order continued to meet regularly. Visits with Sirius and Remus were still a pleasant fixture of his weekends, and by the end of May, Sirius's release date was announced – July 12th, 1994 – the lateness of which demanded that Harry be appointed a temporary guardian for the three weeks between the end of term and Sirius's release, a fact that had troubled him considerably. He had grown even more troubled when he learned a few weeks ago that this temporary guardian was to be Professor Snape, of all people; the man had looked rather disgruntled about it when they spoke after Potions, so Harry didn't know why he had agreed to it in the first place, but he decided it was probably best not to ask.
Other than that, though, the rest of Term 2 was...quiet, routine. No magical artifacts, no dastardly plots, no murder attempts. All in all, it was utterly anticlimactic, which he had initially thought suited him just fine. That's what he had told himself – but when he was alone, late at night, and Tom was silent, he started to crave the lure of adventure and danger; his restlessness was unmistakable. It concerned him, having no grand purpose, no pressing goal, while the air around him still buzzed with the allure of his story – for the first time, he felt left out of his own life, and couldn't decide whether he was truly craving adventure, or instead complete and earnest normalcy.
But even stronger was the haunting impression that things were not as simple, not as easy as he and Tom thought. That the anticlimactic haze of Term 2's closing was a ruse. And apparently the impression was strong enough to cause a...preoccupation. And now he didn't know whether he should be flattered by Tom's 'concern' - for he knew Tom didn't quite know how to be concerned in the same way other people did - or annoyed with himself for not being able to hide his discontent.
"I know it hasn't been uneventful, but it's all...it all seems to have worked out fine, and I've just got this feeling, this bad feeling that something's wrong, that there's something we're missing, that something isn't right but we don't know about it."
Tom was silent for a long moment, before he spoke up in a soft, thin sort of tone that told him that his words had not gone unheeded.
All is well.
Harry grimaced. "Do you really think so?"
If it is not, we cannot remove any obstacles until they present themselves.
Tom was right, of course. He supposed he should be taking the relative peace as proof that they had become very adept at quickly and easily dealing with obstacles. Engineering Sirius's release had been a complete success, and even the debacle with Miranda Thistlebaum and her intrusive article had been dealt with relatively neatly.
But it was still a debacle, to say the least.
His teachers were tactful about the whole ordeal, and treated him no different than they had before – they called on him in class, handed out a lot of perfect grades and house points, and smiled and nodded when they passed him in the hallways (with the notable exception of Professor Snape, of course). His classmates treated him differently, but that was to be expected; his peers lacked the sophistication of thought needed to feign indifference. The sixth and seventh years did a decent job, but that was about it.
As a rule, he found that there were four categories of people, the first being the aforementioned group who feigned indifference. Or perhaps it wasn't feigned, which was even better. Besides that one...well, he was thankful that the largest category was his favourite. They were the people who still seemed to pity him somewhat, but they looked at him admiringly, with respect; they were the people the damage control plan had actually worked on. The third group of people were the people that the plan didn't work quite as well on – the people who still outright pitied him. They were so blatant about it too, the way they apologized so profusely if they bumped into him, showered him with encouraging smiles, and stared sympathetically at him when they thought he wouldn't notice. There were a lot of Hufflepuffs in this group, and a large percentage were girls. It wasn't unexpected, but it was still annoying, and somewhat embarrassing. The last category was especially small but exceedingly irritating, and a few notable members of this category were rival quidditch players. These were the people who simply weren't very nice about the whole thing. Sirius called them arseholes. Or wankers. Or cu... Remus would scold him for even thinking the word.
Anyhow, they were the ones who made cupboard jokes and tripped him in the hallways and mockingly begged him not to tell the Daily Prophet; they were the ones who went on jeering about how he let a couple of muggles hurt him, and what a weak, pathetic child he was, complaining to the rest of the world about it. Luckily, there weren't many of these unreasonable people, but there were enough to try his patience. Fortunately, since he had to repeatedly placate his friends in order to spare them detentions and/or lost points, his frequent enunciation of "ignore them" served as a reminder to himself as well.
A few of them were caught by teachers and prefects, and were punished for their idiocy, but a month after the whole affair, there were still stragglers intent on making his life miserable. They didn't succeed, but he was bound to snap eventually, which is exactly what happened.
"Oh, look, it's the Boy-Who-Lived-in-the-Cupboard-Under-the-Stairs!" some stupid fourth year Gryffindor had called after him as they passed on the second floor corridor. It was sometime at the end of May, right after Slytherin had beat Gryffindor in the latest quidditch game.
As far as insults went, he was used to it, and it really wasn't that bad, objectively. It wasn't clever at all. It was actually quite sad. But enough was enough, and suffice it to say that said fourth year Gryffindor wouldn't be using his book bag ever again, nor the textbooks or stationary items that were inside.
Because they were a pile of cinders on the floor of the second floor corridor.
At this point in his life, Harry had mastered lighting things on fire and didn't require a wand or incantation, or even much thought at all, to do it, but the fourth year Gryffindor had still, miraculously, deduced that it was him and wouldn't just let it go, and so they ended up standing in front of a visibly irritated Professor Snape.
"Well?" the Potions Professor drawled after Clara Rosier - one of the few witnesses - dropped them off in front of him.
"Lewis was mocking the traumatic ordeal that was my childhood," Harry deadpanned, utterly fed up at that point. "Sir."
Lewis turned his furious gaze to him, at that. "That's not – he lit my bag on fire!" he spat out.
Professor Snape quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and then turned to Harry. "Did you light Lewis's bag on fire, Potter?"
Harry raised his eyebrows and put a haphazardly innocent look on his face. "I did no such thing, Professor. I just walked away. My wand was in my pocket the whole time."
"Don't lie, you little -"
"Did Potter draw his wand?"
Lewis scowled. "No, but -"
"Hm. Did he say an incantation?"
"No, but -"
"Well then -"
"You saw him with that newspaper!" Lewis blurted out, "He doesn't need a wand! He's some sort of freak -!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor, for interrupting a teacher," Professor Snape hissed menacingly, "Five for insulting another student, make that ten because you've done it twice. Now, dismissed."
Lewis gaped, his face a bright shade of red. Not Gryffindor red, mind you – it was more of a pinkish sort of red. Closer to salmon, you know? "But my bag -"
"It's called spontaneous combustion, Lewis – a rare phenomenon but not unheard of. I suggest you look it up. Dismissed."
Suffice it to say that Harry was relieved that, when it came to detentions and lost points, his being a Slytherin trumped him being a Potter in Professor Snape's eyes.
Lewis had tried to hex him after that, but Harry just deflected the spell back at him and walked away, and that was the end of it. After that, the Gryffindors seemed to be divided on whether to be angry with Harry or Lewis over the lost points, but there were no more incidents, at the very least.
All and all, though, that was the most dramatic event to have come out of the whole Daily Prophet ordeal.
But there were also some decidedly positive category-2 type reactions as well, particularly among his housemates. Sure, there were some older Slytherins who liked to make snide comments once in the confines of their common room, but they were fairly consistently told off by Clara Rosier, until Harry took matters into his own hands and cast the nightmare curse on one particularly annoying sixth year. He removed it before it did any real damage, of course, but that seemed to deter any further inconveniences. After all, Tom thought it was about time to remind his housemates who they were dealing with.
Other than those few, though, several of his older classmates seemed genuinely impressed with his letter, and actually wanted to talk to him now. They'd even roped him into a couple of debates, where his knowledge of the muggle world was taken advantage of.
It was both interesting and concerning, how little some of his pureblood housemates knew about the muggle world; they didn't know about the moon landing, what missiles or machine guns or mines were, what the Cold War was, or anything about technologies like telephones or computers. Some didn't even know about atomic bombs, or even the Holocaust, let alone the Vietnam War or the Armenian Genocide. They'd never heard the term mutually assured destruction. They had no idea what muggles were capable of. He, of course, sought to rectify this.
"They might not have magic, but they're clever, and dangerous, and we can't afford to underestimate them. If we're not careful, they could kill us all."
He'd gotten several skeptical looks but even more grim nods at that. Hermione would have just hit him over the head, so it was a pleasant change.
In the meantime, in return for his extensive knowledge of muggles, he was given vast amounts of information on both the Wizarding World and the Ministry of Magic. Many of his housemates' parents worked at least in tandem with the Ministry, and so they had a lot of inside information that he wouldn't have otherwise been privy to. Information about how departments were funded, who drafted bills, who approved them, and the process for doing so.
More than ever, he became convinced that Tom was right. Nepotism, partisanship, and corruption ran rampant in the Ministry of Magic; many of his housemates joked about it and spoke of how their relatives or friends of relatives used it to their advantage, but it really wasn't a laughing matter. The tax system wasn't scaled like it should be and too much Ministry funding came from regular, wealthy donors who had too much say in where the money went. Wizengamot seats were either bequeathed or assigned by the Minister of Magic, who was elected by way of what was essentially a popularity contest. Sure, that was democracy for you, but that didn't mean he had to like it. The whole thing needed to go, Tom was right.
In the meantime, Daphne fawned over him and was sweeter than ever, and Tracey no longer badgered him for information...not as frequently, at least. Parkinson no longer scowled whenever he entered a room, and Millicent seemed a little less frosty and intimidated by him now, which was certainly a good thing; Crabbe and Goyle were more awkward around him than ever, though, but he hadn't really expected better. Zabini...well, he was a category 1 for sure, but he also seemed to resent Harry a lot less, and seemed to actually acknowledge him as a person to some degree. Before it was just an unhealthy mixture of disdain, resentment, and fear, which could get awkward if they both happened to be in a bad mood at the same time. So there was that.
But there were some notable outliers, when it came to his fairly comprehensive categories.
Draco...was more affected than he pretended to be; if one looked closely, they would be able to see that he was clearly rattled by the whole thing. He simply wasn't the same; there were times he would look solemn, staring at the wall as though in deep thought - an action no one would have thought Draco Malfoy capable of - and times when he would speak in a low, distracted tone. The sullen affair that was Draco's demeanour culminated in two short words that he had uttered to Harry in the Room of Requirement when no one else remained.
"I'm sorry."
Harry had stared at him for a good minute, after that, while the other boy refused to return his gaze. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what Draco was sorry about, or what he thought was his fault. He didn't know why Draco was feeling so bad in the first place. He didn't understand, and he didn't both asking, because he had this feeling that he wouldn't be able to.
After a while, though, he settled on, "It wasn't all terrible. I got to live with the knowledge that I could have poisoned them or burnt their house down at any given point in time. That was empowering."
Draco met his his eyes with an incredulous look on his face.
"You're bloody insane," he finally responded.
They'd both had a bit of a laugh at that, and things began to normalize thereafter, much to Harry's relief.
Theo...well, Theo was a category 1. Which was entirely unexpected, and made him an outlier nonetheless. His reaction hadn't been one of shock or horror or even knowing acceptance. He hadn't had a reaction. He had expressed his admiration of Harry's writing skills, but that was about it. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still, he greeted Harry at the breakfast table with a bowl of strawberries, begged for Harry's help in Transfiguration, made bets on duels he knew he'd lose, and gave facetious and occasionally scathing commentary on their daily lives at Hogwarts. There was no reaction, no interrogation, no discussion. It was just...constant, and Harry didn't know whether he liked it or not. He still wasn't sure what he was going to do about it either...but he had this nagging feeling that something had to be done - a fact that was constantly in the back of his mind these days.
And aside for those two...well, there were two people who saw through his damage control tactic; two people who, to some extent, saw it for what it really was. At least he was only aware of two people...
The first was Hermione. She had approached him on Monday evening after staring at him intermittently during classes throughout the day, and asked if they could talk in the Room of Hot Chocolate. He had, of course, complied.
"Why did you write that letter?" she asked quietly as soon as the doors shut behind them.
He shrugged, unworried. He had expected the question. "I was taken advantage of, Hermione. Did you expect me to do nothing?"
She looked a little affronted, at that. "No, of course not, I just – why didn't you just say so?"
His eyebrows rose. "And look even weaker than I already did?"
"It's not about that, Harry!"
"That's all it's about," Harry argued, "Fame and rumours, the writers that blow it up in everyone's faces – it's about being more real, more important than someone else's life. It's not just exploitation – it's fictionalization. It's about placing a certain majority on a higher existential level than someone, and getting to be the person on top who assigns all these values. It's messed up, Hermione, really messed up. And I refuse to be stuck on the bottom!"
Hermione gaped at him for a moment. "I've...never thought about it like that before..." she stammered.
"Yeah, well, I've thought about it a lot in the last couple of days."
"Yes, well," Hermione began, still a little flustered, "That doesn't explain why you didn't just tell everyone to mind their own business."
"I'm not a Gryffindor," Harry said, unable to completely keep the disdain out of his voice.
Hermione scowled at him. "Fine! But still, you can't tell me that there was no political angle to that letter. I'm not stupid!"
"Of course there was a 'political angle'- " No point in denying it.
"Exactly -"
"Because someone needed to say something, Hermione. The Ministry of Magic is incredibly irresponsible when it comes to magical children in the muggle world. They don't watch over us, they don't protect us, and they don't let us protect ourselves. Something needs to change, and fast."
"And that's fine Harry – it's an important issue, I know it is – but did you really not think about what the other consequences will be? There are already so many witches and wizards who hate muggles, but most of them just look down on them. But what happens if they start to see muggles as a threat? That could completely change how the average magical person interacts with muggles! And if these new interactions don't line up with the Ministry of Magic's established policies – and not only the Ministry of Magic, the International-"
"You're missing the point, Hermione."
"Am I? Because I think a lot of people will miss that point – I think you've already seen a lot of people miss that point, namely your housemates – and missing the point could actually have serious consequences in this case!"
"Saying that you think a lot of people will miss the point is just conjecture."
"You made it exceptionally easy to miss the point, Harry!"
"That's not fair -"
"Isn't it? 'One exception is too many' – absolutist thinking. 'Morally deficient policies' – calls into doubt that the Ministry of Magic is a trustworthy institution. 'Left defenceless' – implies that the muggle world is an inherently dangerous place. 'Those who would take this away from them out of fear or spite' – suggests that the magical world is something we can lose and that someone would want to take it away from us out of jealousy or anger, namely muggles! Your letter is full of Red Herrings!"
"Everything I said was true and relevant. One exception is too many, many of the Ministry's policies are morally deficient, and the muggle world is a dangerous place, just like the magical world. And as for taking the magical world away, the Dursleys -"
"Are freaks! They are abnormal monsters, Harry, and muggles aren't like that!"
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but fell silent for a long moment. He only opened his mouth when he arrived at a decision.
"You're right. I wanted to scare people. I wanted to cause the Ministry of Magic problems."
"But why?"
Harry sighed. "Because I want things to change. And people don't change unless they have to. People don't look for solutions unless their old ones stop working."
"And what if nobody finds a solution?"
"Someone just needs to give it to them."
"And who's going to give us this solution?"
"...I'm working on it."
"Harry! This isn't a game!" She was frustrated nearly to the point of tears by then.
"I know, that's why I'm completely serious about it."
"Then surely - surely you know that there are ways to make change without scaring people! I just, I can't believe you're saying these things! I can't believe you'd actually try to actively scare people into mistrusting the Ministry of Magic to get what you want! What are you doing, Harry!?"
At that point, it had become clear to him that things were spinning out of control. Hermione wasn't going to agree with him. She just wasn't. And by then he was starting to panic, internally, as this fear gripped him - that if Hermione saw through his letter, saw through him, she'd never want to speak to him again. She wouldn't want to be his friend. She'd leave. And he couldn't let her leave. He just couldn't.
So he prepared to summon some tears to his eyes and started shouting too. She started it, after all.
"I'm doing what's right, Hermione, I'm helping people!"
"By scaring people, Harry? That's never the right thing! That's not how you create positive change in the world!"
"Well how am I supposed to know that!?" He flavoured his voice with anger and desperation, measuring it carefully as to not over-act. "Everything I do, Hermione, everything - it's because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't do them! Why did I learn magic!? You know the answer, don't you? Because you're so clever!"
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"You know it's because - because I -" He paused, unsure of whether he wanted to verbalize this shameful fact; half a second later he decided it was for the best. "Because I was afraid of them!" He took a deep breath. "I learned magic because I was afraid," he repeated in a much quieter voice, a voice that withered and shook ever so slightly, "I was afraid of them."
She had staring at him with wide eyes, at that point, and he could see that the frosty indignation in her eyes had cracked, leaving behind a misty tenderness.
"I was afraid, so I did something, and I'm better off for it," he said quietly, forcing his voice to crack. "I'm better now. Is it wrong to want everyone else to be better too? I just want to help. Because maybe...maybe if they're a little afraid now, one day they'll never be afraid again. Everything will be better. Like me." He released a shuddering breath. "Like me."
By then Hermione had closed the space between them and pulled him into a warm embrace, gripping the back of his robes tightly.
"I just wanted to help," he whispered.
She took a step back, hands still on his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. They both had tears in their eyes now, stubbornly refusing to fall.
"There are better ways to help, Harry. There are better ways to help people."
He looked at her sincerely. "But don't know how." It was true. He didn't.
She smiled sadly. "Then ask for help."
And then they spent an hour talking about childcare in the magical world and the student support programs that Hogwarts should have, while Tom laughed in his head about how the whole thing was so sickeningly delicious. Tom's words, not his. He hadn't felt his friend that amused in...well, maybe ever.
In the end, Hermione had left the room with a few pages of notes and was determined to write a letter to Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall requesting either a peer support program or a formal counselling service in the school. Preferably both. A month later, Professor McGonagall had called Hermione into her office, saying that she had spoken with Professor Dumbledore, and they would be looking into the idea over the summer. Hermione had been immensely pleased.
So he counted it as a success. He didn't lie. He didn't say anything that wasn't true. He just...faked some anger and tears and yelled a bit. And only good things came out of it. It was the right thing to do, right?
Right?
But of course not everything could be that easy.
Since that fateful Monday morning, Harry knew that the Headmaster knew about his intentions – to some degree, at least. He knew that the man knew that Harry was trying to accomplish something with his letter - that he was, well, being a Slytherin. He, like Hermione, had likely picked up on the message he was trying to send. The man's expression had made that clear. But he hadn't expected anything to come of it; Professor Dumbledore, in his experience, was a man who liked to leave well enough alone; he knew that, at the very least, the elderly professor had chosen to overlook the hasty attempt at an active mental barrier he'd constructed after the first Chamber of Secrets incident. As it turned out, though, the man had overlooked a lot more. No, overlooked wasn't quite the right word, not really.
He knew. Professor Dumbledore knew that he had been lying to him; he knew that he found the Chamber of Secrets; he knew he was a parselmouth; there was even an undeniable possibility that he knew Harry had lied about how he cleansed Tom's diary. He and Tom had drastically underestimated the Headmaster's intelligence and insight, and the professor had been right – Harry had mistaken silence for ignorance. All this time, he and Tom had thought themselves so very clever, so very discrete, when really, they were being watched all this time. Professor Dumbledore knew he was a seasoned liar; he knew exactly what to look for; he knew exactly when Harry had been trying to deceive him. He knew.
It had been baffling. He had never, ever felt so small. It was different, from being locked in a cupboard, from being insulted and belittled and reviled. Professor Dumbledore didn't act like a villain - he was kind; he was pleasant. He acknowledged Harry and looking at him, Harry could just tell...he knew deep down that the man cared. He hadn't looked down on Harry. He had simply dwarfed him.
He never noticed, the first time he talked to the Headmaster, the way his eyes picked you apart into little pieces, as they sparkled a pleasant blue; he never noticed that they saw everything. Harry had tried so hard to keep it together, to centre himself, to practise what 5 long years of occlumency training had taught him - but he knew, just knew, that the man saw it; every time his hand twitched, every time his eyes widened, every time his skin paled or reddened, every time his breath quickened only slightly. He had felt like an open book, he had felt so simple.
And then he'd just lost it! He started ranting unreservedly about his feelings and beliefs. There was something about the Headmaster that made him just...just...the man made him want to reveal all his secrets. He didn't know what it was, what he did, but for a moment he'd wanted to say it.
I'm a horcrux. Help me.
He had no idea where it had come from. He didn't need help. Certainly not from the man who - according to Tom - would kill him if he knew what he was. It didn't make any sense. None of it. After he left the Headmaster's office, nothing had made any sense. In all honesty, it had taken him the better part of a month to completely pull himself together.
Because he had a lot to pull together. He needed to rethink so many things. He had to rethink how to deal with the Headmaster; he and Tom could no longer sneak around, believing that they wouldn't be noticed. They were being watched - that much was evident - and they would be even more closely watched now, now that he had truly caught Professor Dumbledore's interest. He wouldn't be able to avoid him. They'd speak again, he knew - and though he couldn't admit it to Tom, there was something about the prospect of meeting the elderly wizard again that excited him.
Which meant he also needed to rethink how he thought about Professor Dumbledore. Before, the professor had been a faceless threat - the archenemy that was the single greatest threat to his existence. He was a powerful wizard who knew too much, and that was it. But that wasn't it, not really. Professor Dumbledore had taken the time to speak with him, to try to teach him, to drive him to think harder about what he had said and done. He hadn't condemned Harry for his letter - he tried to force him to consider the implications of what he had said. And more than that - he had apologized. He had apologized. He didn't have to, and he certainly didn't have to look so genuinely morose and grim; he didn't have to exude so much grief and guilt. The man wasn't a faceless threat anymore; he was more complex than that. He was a person. He was real.
The professor had forced him to rethink his goals. He'd thought that when he and Tom controlled the Ministry, they'd be able to protect magical children and keep everyone safe. But of course it wasn't that simple. Everything they did would require resources - time, people, money - and they only had so much available to them, even after they took control of the Ministry. He expressed his concerns to Tom, who said that he would take care of the particulars. But Harry didn't feel satisfied with that - it wasn't that he didn't trust Tom, he just...wasn't satisfied.
And speaking of Tom, he had been furious. Harry knew Tom wasn't angry with him, but it hardly mattered – Tom's anger and hatred were always painful, regardless of their target, and suffice it to say, Tom had an almost irrational and frantic hatred of the Headmaster – because the barrage of pain he had unleashed on him once they reached his dorm was nearly unbearable. Perhaps more unnerving, however, was that Harry had to talk his friend down from a haphazard plan to assassinate the old man. Because they couldn't. Albus Dumbledore was arguably the most powerful wizard alive, whereas Harry and Tom...well, they weren't. Not even close, at this point, really. Tom conceded, of course, once he calmed down, but was in a terrible mood for weeks to come. And this terrible mood had prompted him to rethink something else.
Tom. 'A man who has lost everything'. At first he had told himself to ultimately disregard what the professor had told him about Tom, but Tom's terrible mood had affected Harry as well, and left him feeling more than a little bit resentful over the whole thing. And that made him think...was Tom the villain Professor Dumbledore had said he was?
Of course not. The Voldemort that Professor Dumbledore knew was, perhaps, but not his Tom. Surely not his Tom. But then he started thinking...what did the professor mean? Was Tom trapped inside his own mind? He was trapped in Harry's, but...
Had Tom sacrificed his future for an empty dream? Surely not - Tom had yet to accomplish goals, but he and Harry definitely had a future...right? Had Tom lost his humanity? Perhaps...he had always regarded Tom as something more than human, but he'd never considered that it might be the case that Tom had actually lost something in order to get there. But of course Tom was more than just a villain. He was a visionary. Of course would amount to something; he had already - he was one of the most powerful dark wizards to ever live, and he had nearly brought Wizarding Britain to its knees; that was amounting to something...right? And when he and Tom fixed the Wizarding World, they would be heroes. Or had Professor Dumbledore meant something else entirely?
He didn't know. The whole things was so confusing, and before he knew it, he found himself doubting Tom, which he simply could not do. Tom was always right. Tom had saved him. Tom made him who he was. Tom was his best friend. The least he could do was trust him. And he did...but he didn't think the Headmaster's words would ever truly leave him; part of him knew he'd never be able to forget those questions. He was a terrible friend.
Honestly, what was wrong with him? Actually though. What was wrong with -
-arry. Harry.
Harry blinked. "Were you saying something?"
Tom made a displeased sound. I said that in the absence of any apparent obstacles, I would strongly suggest you drink or vanish the rest of this quickly cooling tea and either review your transfiguration notes or sleep.
"Still concerned about me then?"
Yes, Harry, I am concerned. Now drink the tea, and sleep.
Tom had been suspiciously nice after he'd gotten over his anger which followed their meeting with the Headmaster; he had made Harry black out for 2 hours from all the pain he'd suffered through because of Tom's fury - three times. Harry knew that Tom never did anything without a reason, but he chose to believe that his friend felt bad about the whole thing. After all, Tom was always telling him to reign in his temper.
"The caffeine might keep me awake."
Harry.
Harry's lips twitched. :Yes, Tom.:
None of it mattered, in the end. None of it. Tom was his friend. It was a fact. It was a decision he made long ago, and he accepted the consequences. And as Tom's best friend, it was his duty to see good in him when no one else could. Everything was fine. Tom was right. Tom was always right.
"Protego! Reducto! Expulso -"
"Protego!"
"- Locomotor Mortis!"
That one hit Draco, and he tumbled over, losing his wand in the process.
"Cover me, Theo!" Hermione called, as she pointed her wand at Draco. "Fini -"
"Interfodio!"
"I said, cover me," Hermione ground out as she hopped out of the way of Harry's curse. "Finite."
"I was trying! Reducto!"
"Where's my wand?!"
"Oh for god's sake, Malfoy -"
"Watch it, Granger -"
"Or what, Mal-"
"Stupefy! Will you two stop it?"
"Stupefy!"
Harry easily sidestepped Hermione's stunning charm, having blocked Theo's with a wordless protego a moment earlier. "Aguamenti! Glacius! Oppugno!"
"Protego!"
"Protego!"
"Protego!"
"Petrificus totalis!"
Hermione toppled over.
"Shit, Hermione! Fini -"
"Expeliarmus! Stupefy!"
Theo fell over as well, unconscious, leaving Draco standing there awkwardly.
"I surrender."
Harry stared at him.
Draco stared back.
"So...do you accept my surrender?"
Harry pursed his lips. "I'm debating on it."
"Debating on what!?"
"Whether to still curse you or not."
"Oh, come on, Harry."
Harry grinned. "Fine, fine." He pointed his wand at Hermione. "Finite."
Hermione gasped, and winced as she rose to her feet. "That curse will be brutal in a few decades." She glanced over at Draco, scowling. "You surrendered. Again."
Draco quirked an eyebrow. "And if I did?"
Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "Slytherins."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Granger. Anyhow, I've got to go meet Pansy."
Hermione nodded as Draco made his way toward the door. "And I need to find that one last book on warding before our last meeting."
"Alright, well, see you around," Harry said absently, lifting his diary out of his pocket and scratching some notes down.
'Attempt to diversify spell choices in 3 on 1 duels.'
"Aren't you going to wake Theo?" Hermione asked.
Harry glanced up at her and shrugged.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
'You're getting stagnant and uncreative.'
A moment later, he heard the door slam shut.
Harry looked down at Theo, laughing a little at the strange face he always made when he was stunned.
They'd started spending more time together again, just the two of them. Over the past month and a half he'd begun to once again take refuge in Theo's presence; the only consistency left in his life. His friend had remained unaffected, unchanged through everything that had happened over the last couple of months – he remained exactly the same person Harry had befriended. But spending more time with Theo made him wonder – wonder why Theo was unaffected, why he, too, seemed to crave normalcy and reminiscence above all else. It occurred to him, after a while, that something might be wrong; that Theo might be affected after all, but remained silent out of some secret conviction. What he could do about this...he had no idea, so he just kept bantering, joking, and duelling, hoping that whatever was going on without his knowledge would eventually rise to the surface.
Sighing, he picked up Theo's wand, sat down, and pointed his own wand at his friend. "Rennervate."
Theo's eyes shot open and he gasped.
"Bloody hell – you stunned me!" He sat up and rubbed his head.
Harry grinned, handing Theo's wand to him. "I did."
"Oh Merlin, I made that stupid face again, didn't I?"
Harry chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "You did."
Theo scowled. "It's not like I can help it."
"No, you definitely can't do that."
Theo narrowed his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Stunning me over and over again."
"Maybe."
Theo rolled his eyes. "Bastard."
He leaned back against the wall as well, beside Harry, as he swiped his sleeve over his forehead, mopping up the film of sweat that had settled there.
"Where are Hermione and Draco?"
"Hermione's gone to the library, and Draco promised he'd meet up with Pansy."
Theo nodded slowly. "One more meeting, right?"
Harry shrugged. "Well, we're gone at the end of next week, so there's not really time for anymore. Unless you've thought of some last minute practise we need to get in."
"Not really."
The both fell silent.
"I really don't want to go back this year," Theo admitted suddenly.
Harry frowned, a little puzzled by the odd announcement. His stomach churned when he realized that's exactly how his conversation with Hermione started...when he first told her about the Dursleys. "Why? It's just you and your father, right?"
Theo scowled darkly, at that, and Harry was taken aback – this was the most expressive he'd seen Theo in months. "That's the problem."
Harry just stared at him, not quite knowing what to say, and not wanting to mess this up.
"We had an argument, at Christmas. Well, that's not...I yelled at him, threatened him, and he nearly cursed me."
Well that was certainly concerning. "He nearly cursed you? With what?"
Theo shrugged. "Who knows. He knows a lot of curses, and he's good enough to cast them all wordlessly, so there's no way to know for sure..."
"Would he...actually do it?"
Theo shrugged again, uncomfortably. "He's threatened before, but he never follows through. I swear though, New Years day, he was ready to crucio me."
Harry went white in the face and his hands tightened around his wand. "If he did that I'd -"
Theo let out a short, derisive laugh. "You'd do what, get him arrested? He's built up an immunity to veritaserum, and he'd be able to fix both our memories; he's too good to get caught -"
"- I'd kill him."
Theo's eyes went wide, and he looked somewhere between horrified and touched. Maybe a little bit of both. "You'd do that? For me?"
"Unless you asked me not to. Would you?" In hindsight, that was probably a cruel question to ask.
Theo pursed his lips, eyes troubled. "I...yeah, I would. We don't always get along, and he's a right bastard...but he takes care of me. I think he cares. I don't imagine he'd put up with me if he didn't. Besides, I can't let him die...there's something I need him to do first."
Harry nodded slowly. "What were you fighting about anyway?"
Theo smiled wryly. "He caught me stealing dark arts books from his library – you know, for the spells I copied over for your Christmas present -"
"Thanks for that, by the way."
"Don't mention it. Anyway, he caught me, and...yeah...he wasn't impressed."
"I thought he didn't mind you learning dark magic. I thought he was happy about it."
"...he is. But he wants to be absolutely sure I'm not learning anything from him."
Harry frowned, puzzled. "Why not?"
Theo's eyes flickered down to his hands. "My mum...she made him promise not to teach me. She didn't want me getting involved in...everything."
Harry nodded. For a moment, he said nothing, but in the end, he couldn't help but ask, "What did you threaten him with?"
Theo shrugged. "To get him arrested."
"For being a Death Eater?"
Theo shook his head.
"Then what?"
Theo stared at him, but said nothing, and after a few moments Harry started to get the impression that he wouldn't get an answer.
Finally, though, Theo closed his eyes, a moment later opening them and casting them at the ceiling. "I threatened to tell the truth about how my mother died."
"You never did tell me how that happened," Harry commented musingly, trying not to sound as curious as he felt.
Theo turned his head, and looked him straight in the eye. "You can't tell anyone. Ever. If someone's going to turn him in, it will be me. And I will someday, I swear."
"I'd never say a word."
Theo nodded curtly, but still hesitated for a moment. "He killed her."
Harry's eyes widened.
Well, that is certainly unexpected. Nott was quite taken with Lyanna. She must have truly earned his ire, considerable as it often was.
Harry nearly grimaced at Tom's callous comment.
"When I was seven years old. The killing curse. I saw it...I saw it all. I still don't know why he didn't just obliviate me..."
Harry stared at his friend's pained face, unable to keep a shocked and greatly unnerved expression off his. To think...that Theo had seen something so horrible and had kept quiet about it all this time. Didn't he trust him? How much had this affected his friend? How could he have missed so much? And why...didn't any of it make any sense? Why would someone do something like that? "But...to keep a promise he made years ago, even though she's dead...didn't he love her? You only do that for people you love, right?" he couldn't help but ask.
Theo looked back up at the ceiling, wiping his eyes. "I think he did. But he was angry...really angry. He gets like that sometimes. They'd been fighting for a while, I don't know what about...I've always been too afraid to ask...but I know that...the night it happened, she threatened to turn him in. Threatened to tell the Ministry he was a Death Eater, a real Death Eater. I don't think she would have done it, not after keeping his secret for so long...I don't think he believed she would either, I don't know...I really don't know...I just..."
Meanwhile, Harry was enduring a great deal of inner turmoil. He was pretty sure that when your best friend is crying – because, subtle as it was, Theo was definitely crying – you're supposed to give them a hug - that's certainly what Hermione would do - but that would be physically awkward given the positions they were sitting in. The most obvious substitute would be to hold Theo's hand, like Madame Pomfrey did for him, but he wasn't completely sure if that was something friends did.
Harry hesitated, but in the end, he decided that it was the appropriate course of action – he reached out and placed his hand on Theo's. The other boy pulled his hand away on reflex, but just as Harry was about to withdraw his, Theo reached out and took Harry's hand in his.
"I've never told anyone that," he whispered. "Not even Draco knows, and I've known him forever."
Harry said nothing, and for a long time, they sat in silence, Harry staring down at their entwined hands and Theo staring off into space.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Theo asked quietly, after a few minutes.
Harry's eyes didn't leave their hands, oddly unnerved and fascinated by the action he himself had initiated. "About what?"
"About how bad it was. About the cupboard. About being locked away for days at a time."
Harry shrugged, withdrawing his hand.
Theo's eyes were trained on him now. "They put you in a cupboard -"
"Why are you bringing this up now?" Harry asked sharply. "The story was published nearly two months ago. You didn't say anything about it then."
Theo scowled. "I didn't want to force you -"
"Then don't."
"Harry!"
"What?"
Theo was looking at him with unreserved desperation now, his eyes pleading. "Please, Harry, you're my best friend. Why didn't you trust me? I just told you that my dad killed my mum – you would have never found out on your own...but would you have even thought of telling me about what the Dursleys were like, what they were really like, unless that story was published?"
"Probably not, no," Harry admitted flatly.
Theo's pathetic expression twisted into another scowl. "And you wrote a letter to the Daily Prophet before you told me! Am I really that untrustworthy?"
Harry sighed. "It's not that I don't trust you, Theo. I just...remember what I said when you asked me about revenge in one of your letters?"
"That you would leave, and never think of them again," Theo replied instantly, not even having to think about it.
"That's all I wanted. They don't deserve my attention or anyone else's. They're muggles, and they're weak, cruel vermin, and I don't want to think of them ever again. But now I can't have what I want, ever. People will always remember. And they'll never let me forget, no matter how hard I try."
"Well maybe you shouldn't forget! Maybe -" he stuttered to a halt. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I just..."
"Do you really think they're worth remembering?" Harry asked quietly.
Theo steeled himself. "It's not about them – it's about you. You're strong, Harry – you're one of the strongest people I know – but you can't tell me that this is really nothing to you. It's not about the fact that they're muggles, it's about the fact that they hurt you, and that that's all you knew for a long time. Nobody's strong enough to forget that. I see things, Harry, I know how people work - and you haven't forgotten, and you won't anytime soon."
Harry stifled a glare. "If you're so concerned, then why have you been pretending like nothing's happened this whole time?"
"I knew that you were going through enough – but that doesn't mean you can go on like this forever. I just want to help. That's all."
"I've been dealing with this a long time, Theo. I know what I want. Trust me."
Theo stared at him for a long moment, before he sighed. "I guess it's your choice."
"It was," Harry corrected. "But they took that choice away from me. That's why I wrote the letter – at least they'll remember what I had to say about it now, too."
Theo nodded slowly, pausing. "It was a good letter."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I know."
Theo chuckled, weakly. It was a little forced. "You should be a politician. Minister of Magic. I'd vote for you."
Harry smiled wryly. "Maybe one day. Let's get past our OWLs first."
Theo's blinked, his expression suddenly more open and bemused. "What, really? You actually want to be a politician?"
Harry shrugged. "I want to get things done."
Theo looked at him strangely. "Get what done?"
"Fixing things."
"Fixing what?"
"The world."
Theo frowned at him. "You want to fix...the world?"
"It's all wrong, Theo," Harry said, pleased with the change of subject, "Muggles – they're weak, cruel creatures...sure, not all of them, but enough of them..." Was that Tom talking, or him? It didn't really matter. "...and the Ministry makes it so easy for them to hurt young witches and wizards and get away with it, and no one cares. We write laws to keep the muggles from getting hurt, but what about us? It's our right to grow up in our world, where we belong, but instead we're left as freaks, as abnormalities in the muggle world. We don't belong there, none of us do."
Theo pursed his lips. "But what do you think you can do about it?"
"Alone? Nothing. But the Ministry of Magic – they could. We could go and find children, bring them into our world before they even get a chance to suffer in the muggle one. We could rescue them."
He didn't know quite why he said that - he supposed a part of him was bursting, urging him to tell someone about his and Tom's plans. And a part of him knew they'd need help, if they were ever going to get anything done.
Or maybe...maybe he was just looking for someone to tell him that he was wrong. That he was crazy. That his and Tom's plan had to be rethought and reconstructed. He didn't know.
Meanwhile, Theo's eyebrows rose, and he looked a little alarmed. "You want to take muggleborns away from their parents?"
Harry hesitated, his brain still having to catch up with his mouth. "Not if their parents are willing to keep their children out of the muggle world." That sounded reasonable, right?
"And if they're not?"
"Then yes, take them away." He steeled himself. "It's a security risk, to show our world to little children who have muggle friends and go to muggle school, but they deserve to be here."
It was, obviously.
"So then..."
"Total isolation," Harry said decidedly. It made sense, didn't it? It was what everything was pointing to - the culmination of everything that he knew. It was a good idea, wasn't it? A really good idea. It might have been Tom's idea...but it could be his as well. "Don't you see? Then the muggles can't threaten us with their weapons, then we don't have to go through so many convoluted measures to hide, then we don't end up with people like Voldemort who think we should kill all the muggles, because they won't even matter anymore."
"You do realize how crazy this sounds, right?"
Of course it was crazy...but it didn't have to be. "Why does it have to be crazy? Wizardkind can't reach its true potential while we're weighed down by the muggles. We need to separate ourselves. We have so much potential, Theo, all of us! Magic is without bounds, without limits." Yes, yes, that's exactly right. It made so much more sense when he said it out loud.
Theo looked at him incredulously. "That's...not true..." he stuttered.
"It is effectively. Sure, there are physical limits to what we can do, but conceptually – we can cure deadly diseases, build monuments in minutes, bring dreams to life, defy death! We've grown lazy, Theo, too fixated on things that don't matter – muggles, blood purity, politics – but we could be so much more! We could be pushing the boundaries of magical possibility. We could be protecting magical children, building empires impossible for muggles to reach, exploring the stars, but instead we write Muggle Protection Acts and slaughter our own kind because of some messed up idea that the purity of someone's blood actually matters."
Theo's mouth had fallen open.
"We could have so much, but we're holding ourselves back. The Ministry of Magic – it's a corrupt, outdated, useless institution, and Wizengamot is full of old purebloods who have no idea what the rest of the magical world needs. We're too afraid to let go of the past, but if we have the courage to discard the things that make us weak, to move forward, then...then we could do anything. We could all be happy. We could have peace."
Theo was looking at him with wide eyes, mouth still open, looking both bewildered and enraptured.
"You...you're serious, aren't you?"
"More serious than I've ever been about anything. This is our future, Theo."
Theo was silent for a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Right then. Let's do this."
Harry stared at him - the words didn't quite register.
"You're right. You're completely right. The Ministry of Magic – it's not what we need; it's mediocre and ineffective. Somebody needs to do something about it – why shouldn't it be us?"
A smile began to spread across Harry's lips – a genuine smile giddy with hope. He was far away from himself now - this didn't feel like him. This didn't feel like his life. It was too easy. It was too simple. But it was good.
"You're brilliant, Harry, you're smart, and talented, and brave, and powerful, and a good leader, and you know how to do what's right. And I'm...well, I'd follow you anywhere, I really would, and I can do everything you can't. And together, we could start a revolution. You're right. We could do anything. We just need to make people listen."
Harry's smile was unrestrained now. "Let's do it then." He pulled his diary and a quill out of his pocket, and began writing. "We'll change the Ministry, and then we'll change the world. It's a promise."
"Exbibo Metus."
Harry could feel it - the anxiety, the tenseness, the burden weighing on him so heavily. The fear. It was foreign, even though it was his. It started at his finger-tips but it got under his skin, and crawled up his arms to his heart, and gripped it tight, twisting.
I want this, he told himself, Your pain is my pain.
"Alright, good, it's working."
Harry nodded quickly, and exhaled shakily. "Finite."
"Ridikulus!"
The boggart fled, and Harry pocketed his wand, wiping the sweat off his forehead. It wasn't easy, taking someone else's fear inside of you. It was both mentally and physically exhausting, and it always made him feel just a little bit nauseous.
"You're really nervous around full moons, aren't you?"
Remus smiled wryly. "There's a reason that's the form my boggart takes."
Harry nodded, taking another deep breath. "I got it on the first try, that time."
Remus continued to smile as he walked over to his desk, and filled his kettle with a wordless aguamenti, before casting the boiling charm on it. "You did. I really am impressed, Harry – you've learned most of these spells exceptionally quickly - I think you're a natural. Given, it's not really a surprise, considering how like Lily you are."
Harry smiled bashfully. "You're also an exceptionally good teacher, Remus," he said as he sat down on the spindly chair in front of Remus's desk.
Remus's smile twisted slightly, and he suddenly looked quite sad as he placed teabags in two mugs and filled them with water. "I enjoy it very much. It's a pity I can't do it for longer."
Harry frowned. "What?"
Remus handed him a mug. "Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? I've resigned."
"Why?"
"Oh, yes, well, someone let slip about my, er, condition, and let's just say the Board of Governors wasn't too pleased."
Harry gaped at him. "But – who – why -"
"I have a suspicion."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Professor Snape."
Remus smiled wryly. "Don't hold it against him, Harry. He's got good reason to dislike me."
"Whatever it is, it's been a long time. He should get over it."
Remus chuckled taking a sip of his tea. "Professor Snape has never been good at 'getting over things'."
Harry stared down at his cup, before taking a sip. "You don't say."
"Looking forward spending a few weeks at his house?"
"Not really, but it's worth it, if I get to live with Sirius after."
"I'm very happy for both of you," Remus said fondly, "You both deserve something good to come your way."
"Maybe you can come live with us."
Remus chuckled again. "As much as I'd love to, I've found a job, and it's not close by."
Harry frowned. "Where is it?"
"A wizarding settlement not far outside of Vancouver, in Canada."
Harry widened. "In Canada? Why?"
"Professor McGonagall has family there who are sympathetic to...people like me. They're willing to pay me quite well."
"But...but...isn't there any work here?"
Remus smiled wryly. "It's very hard for people with my condition to find work with decent pay. I need to take what I can get."
"I...I can give you a loan!"
Remus shook his head. "I need to work, Harry."
"Well...well...couldn't you just, you know, portkey over or something?"
"International portkey use is heavily taxed, and it's difficult to get approval, especially for regular use. Not to mention, it would be very inconvenient to have to go through security at the Canadian Ministry of Magic every day."
Harry's face fell.
Remus tried to look reassuring. "It's only temporary, Harry, I'll be back before you know it. And I'll visit whenever I can."
Harry sighed. "I suppose so, but...how does Sirius feel about this?"
"Ah, well, he's not especially pleased either, but he understands." Remus paused, and took a sip of his tea. "You'll keep an eye on him, won't you, Harry?"
Harry frowned. "Am I keeping an eye out for anything in particular?"
"Well, you may have noticed that Sirius isn't the most..."
"Grown up grown-up around?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. He's not very good at thinking things through, all the time. He can be rash and brash, and has a terrible habit of finding himself in trouble. He's very good at getting out of it, of course, but it's best if he doesn't find it in the first place."
Harry nodded slowly.
"Now! You're welcome to stay, if you like, but I need to finish marking final exams – I'm rather behind." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I should have finished two days ago."
"Oh, yes, of course – no, I'll go...curfew is in a few minutes." He gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up.
"Oh, right. And before you go -" Remus began rifling around some of the papers in his desk, smiling when he pulled out a stack of bound parchment, and held it out for Harry to take.
Harry reached out and took it, staring at it curiously.
"They're notes," Remus explained, "Written by your mother."
Harry's eyes widened, and he almost dropped the parchment. "My mother?"
Remus nodded. "I found them while I was packing. They contain all the spells we've been working on, plus a few more, and all the theory behind them. There are also a few letters we exchanged, about the thesis project she was working on."
Harry stared at the stack of parchment in his hand, unabashed awe written all over his face. "Wow...I mean, thank you Remus. Thank you so much."
Remus smiled. "They're rightfully yours. You deserve to know her as well as I did."
Harry hugged the notes close to his chest. "They won't go to waste, Remus, I promise."
"I'm sure they won't. Remember what I said though – practice caution. The more strenuous ones are carefully marked."
Harry nodded quickly. "Of course."
"Good. Now off to bed. If not before, I'll see you at the End of Term feast in a few days."
Harry grinned. "Goodnight Remus."
"Goodnight Harry."
Harry left Remus's office in high spirits, still gripping his mother's notes tightly in his hands. Instead of returning to his dorm, though, he headed for the Room of Requirement and summoned the Room of Hot Chocolate, where he plopped himself down on the red velvet couches and began to read.
He browsed some of the spells, at first, but, unable to temper his curiosity, soon decided to skip to the letters.
'Dearest Remus,
I do hope this letter finds you well. James and I are, despite being kept quite busy by the Order. Professor Dumbledore has asked me to work on research for him – very fascinating stuff, I wish I could tell you all about it, but it's top secret – so between that and my thesis, I barely have time to sleep, let alone eat.
James is very busy as well. He and Sirius have an assessment coming up - they're about midway through their training now. I confess, a part of me hopes they fail their exams. These are dangerous times to work as an agent for the DMLE, let alone as an auror, and I can't bear the thought of hearing a knock on the door or receiving a letter or a firecall or however the DMLE does it, and having to -
I'm sorry. I don't mean to worry you - James and Sirius are actually doing really well and have gotten excellent marks so far. Frank and Alice are keeping an eye on them as well. We really don't have anything to worry about. That's what I have to tell myself, anyway.
That unpleasantness aside...how is Wales? I wish I could visit; it sounds lovely, and some new scenery could do me good. Being cooped up in the Potter Cottage isn't good for me, I think, but at least I've got lots to keep my mind off of it. Work, school, the book I'm writing -
Oh, speaking of school, wait until you hear what I've found! There's this fascinating theory that a Spanish Wizard...'
Harry blinked, as a drop of water suddenly stained the page – he realized a moment later that it was a tear.
Is something wrong?
Harry shook his head, wiping his tears away. "I just...I guess...I wish you hadn't killed her."
Tom was silent.
"It's so strange – I barely remember her. I didn't even know her. But I still miss her. So, so much."
Tom remained silent for a couple more seconds.
I don't understand, he admitted.
"I know you don't."
They both fell silent.
If you are seeking an apology, Harry, you will be woefully disappointed. I am not sorry for what I did.
"I know you're not," Harry whispered. "I know you'll never be. And sometimes I really, really wish I could hate you for it...but I don't."
Tom hesitated for a moment. Why?
"Because...because I've been inside your head. And I know why. I understand. It hurts...but I can't hate someone for something they can't help."
Some might argue that no one can help anything they do. Some believe that free will is an illusion, that everything we do is predetermined, that all our fates are predestined by our pasts. Tom paused. Do you believe that?
"...I don't know. I honestly haven't thought about that one. What about you? Do you believe in free will?"
I believe that it is foolish not to.
Harry's eyebrows rose, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Huh?"
Eloquent as every, Harry, Tom said wryly. To deny free will is to admit powerlessness, to undermine oneself, to reduce oneself to a mere puppet. I do not find this to be an acceptable state of being.
Harry's lips twitched. "It's a little ironic then, isn't it? Free will might make you more powerful, but it's sort of freeing, I think, to accept that everything has to be the way it is, that there's nothing you could have done to prevent it, and every mistake you make in the future won't really be an error on your part. And the acceptance, the knowing, I guess, would give you a kind of power, right?"
Ironic indeed.
They both fell silent once again, and Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring into the flickering flames dancing in the hearth.
"Do you ever miss your mother?"
Never. I hated her for her weakness.
Harry grimaced.
You knew that.
"Yeah, I just felt like asking. Don't know why."
You are an exceptionally strange child.
"It's your fault."
Perhaps.
"What do you mean, 'perhaps'? I was perfectly ordinary until you came along."
We both know that that is a lie.
"Perhaps."
You were never ordinary – you were always destined for greatness. I will say it again. Greatness is your birthright.
Harry smiled. "Thanks Tom."
I will not dignify that with an answer.
"You just did."
You are an obnoxious, overindulged child.
"Now that's just mean."
But true.
Harry laughed.
Foolish child.
"I love you too, Tom."
Harry froze.
...what did you say?
"I mean...never mind."
Tom said nothing, and Harry cast his eyes downward.
'...a Spanish Wizard published in a journal in 1876. He theorized that every curse has a counterpart - not an countercurse, a positive opposite - and likewise for every piece of light magic there is a dark 'twin', if you will...'
As soon as they entered the house, Professor Snape's upper lip curled in disgust.
"You have five minutes, Potter, to gather your things and meet me outside. Take longer than that, and I'll apparate without you."
"Yes sir."
And with that, Professor Snape turned on his heel and swept down the entrance hall, slamming the door shut behind him.
Sighing, Harry looked around. Nothing had changed – Number 4 Privet Drive stood pristine like a whitewashed prison, walls a cold pastel and furniture frigidly matched to perfection. Only the slightest layer of dust coated his surroundings, and that was the only sign that this place had been truly abandoned, for good.
Well, at least until the Dursleys were released from prison.
His head was buzzing, and his heart was thumping in his chest. This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for for over a decade now – he was free; he would never have to see this wretched place and the wretched people who once lived here ever again.
His footsteps were loud and hollow as he trudged up the stairs, echoing slightly in the emptiness of the house. When he reached his bedroom door, he opened it slowly, listening with satisfaction to the absence of the creaking sound Dobby had fixed a year ago. His bedroom was as he left it – mostly barren, with only a few muggle books left behind, along with his old red backpack. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out the shoe box containing Hermione's old discman and earphones and the various mixed CDs she'd sent him over the years, and shoved the contents into his red backpack, along with a few issues of The Amazing Spiderman, and his copies of Batman: Year One, Batman: Arkham Asylum, and Thus Spake Zarathustra, all stolen from the bookstore on Birch Street or the local library. And that was it – every piece of his muggle life. It was over. There was nothing more to it.
Anticlimactic.
Sighing again, he lifted the backpack onto his shoulder and quietly left the empty room behind, crossing the hallway – but he froze when he passed the bathroom door.
There was blood on the floor.
No there wasn't.
His finger was bleeding.
No, no it wasn't.
He remembered this room. He remembered so much about this room. It was the place he first met Tom. But it was also...
What? What was it?
Oh, right. He remembered now. He never really forgot. It was still so vivid in his mind. Sometimes. Like now.
His finger was bleeding.
It was just a finger. Just a little cut, right there. But it bled – a lot. What a mess!
He just wanted to know what it felt like.
It felt like being alive. Because life hurt. So much. Yesterday, today, tomorrow...it was always the same.
Freak.
Burden.
Worthless.
Nobody wanted him. Nobody loved him.
That's not true. God wanted him. God was waiting for him in heaven, with his mum and dad, and they loved him too. Right?
Father Matthews said so.
Mum and dad.
Heaven.
Father Matthews said there was a place for everyone in heaven. There was a place for him in heaven. With his mum and dad.
Why did he have to wait?
He didn't, did he?
When you die, you go to heaven. When your heart stops, you die.
Where was his heart?
Found it...probably.
It's worth a try, right?
One...two...three -
She screamed, and the knife clattered to the ground.
"You! What are you - what are you doing!?"
"It's ok, Aunt Petunia. There's a place for everyone in heaven."
"Go! Go to the bathroom and clean this up before Vernon comes down! You stupid child!"
The blood was all over him, now. Fingers bleed a lot.
The cold water was roaring in his ears, frigid as it ebbed over his skin.
He wasn't allowed to use the hot water without permission.
When you die, you go to heaven. When you stop breathing, you die. You can't breathe under water.
He wasn't one to give up.
He lay on his back, closed his eyes, and waited for a cold film to envelope him, exhaling one last time right before he pinched his nose as the water encased him entirely.
It hurt. His chest quivered, something angry crawling around inside, begging for release, threatening to burst forth at any moment.
Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Soon it will be over.
But it wasn't. Why was it taking so long? He couldn't take it anymore. He had to breathe. He had to -
Cold bathwater rushed into his mouth as he gasped, dragged down his burning throat as his lungs futilely begged for air. He tried to scream, and failed, and tried again, and failed, and tried again, and failed - but then it ended. It just...stopped.
He opened his eyes, and was met by black.
It stretched out around him, seeming to never end, formless and empty, except for a dim light rippling overhead, as though dancing above softly pulsing waves, distant and ethereal. It cast a faint shimmer over the dark, glassy surface he stood on, but revealed nothing else.
He took a step back, disturbing the water-encased surface beneath him, a wet, slapping sound breaking the silence as a web of delicate ripples fled the place where he stepped, expanding outward until they disappeared into the black.
"Hello?" he called, his soft, high voice sounding so very small in the dark expanse.
"Hello."
He spun around to find a woman standing behind him – the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her hair was like fire, and her eyes glowed emerald green in the darkness, glimmering as her pink lips curled into a soft smile; her feet were bare, and she wore a dainty summer dress, white and covered in sunflowers.
"Who are you?"
The woman looked amused by the question. "Do you not recognize me?" Her voice was soft and sweet.
"Are you God?"
Green eyes flickered in the darkness. "There are no Gods. There is only Death."
"Am I dead then?" Harry asked hopefully.
"No."
His face fell. "Why not?"
"It's not your time to die, sweetheart."
"Then when is my time to die?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"It has already passed."
Harry frowned. "Then when can I die?"
The woman stared at him, smile still and unmoved, her face betraying no sentiment. Then, slowly, she began to walk toward him. "Are you not afraid of death?" she asked, her voice firm, demanding an answer.
"No."
The woman stopped in front of him and sunk to her knees, lowering herself so that she stood eye-to-eye with him, her smile faded into nearly nothing. "What are you afraid of?"
"Life," Harry replied without hesitation.
"And why are you afraid of life?"
"Because it hurts."
"And why does it hurt?"
"Because I'm a worthless freak."
The woman stared deeply into his eyes, her gaze piercing him mercilessly. "You are a freak."
Harry nodded miserably.
"And you're beautiful."
Harry's mind stuttered to a halt, shocked into silence by the woman's potent and sincere voice. "...what?"
For a long time, she stared at him, and he stared back, mind empty, fixated on her vivid green eyes, which looked so incredibly familiar.
Without warning, the woman rose to her feet.
"Let's play a game, sweetheart." The smile had returned to her face, eager and encouraging.
Harry frowned. "What kind of game?"
"A secret game."
"Then how do I know if I want to play it?"
The woman laughed softly. "You're a smart boy, aren't you?"
"That's a question, not an answer," Harry pointed out.
The woman laughed again, and tapped him on the nose. "Have you ever played hide-and-seek?"
"No," Harry said, but then added quickly, "But I've seen other kids play it. Are we playing hide-and-seek?"
"Almost."
That was close enough for him. "I've always wanted to play hide-and-seek," he admitted quietly, but then went on in a louder voice, "Are you 'it', or am I?"
The woman poked him on the forehead. "Tag, you're 'it'."
Harry didn't know you tagged someone in hide and seek. Oh well. He poked her back. "Now you're 'it'."
The woman laughed. "It doesn't work like that."
Harry nodded. That was fair. "Alright. Should I close my eyes while you hide?"
The woman shook her head. "You won't be looking for me."
"Who do I look for?"
"Not who, what."
"Then what do I look for?"
The woman held up three fingers. "Three things."
"What are they?"
The woman winked at him. "That would be telling."
Harry frowned. "How do I find them if I don't know what they are?"
"That's part of the game."
Harry thought about this for a moment. He supposed it made sense. "Alright. What are the rules?"
The woman winked at him again. "They're a secret."
Harry stared at her in confusion. "Then how do I play?"
Smile widening slightly, the woman held out her hand. "Follow me."
So he took her hand, dainty and soft but cold as ice, and followed by her side as she lead him deeper into the darkness.
Wet sounding footsteps followed them as they walked, but they encountered no other sounds, and it occurred to Harry that they might be the only people for miles around.
But then he saw something, not too far ahead – a shape rising out of the ground. As they drew closer, he recognized the shape as a man, clad entirely in flowing black fabric – but he was not just any man; he was like no man Harry had ever seen before. His skin was pale – deathly white – and his face was serpentine, his lips thin and his nose nothing but slits, just like a snake's. He lay on his back, unmoving, his robes rippling only slightly as they drew near to him, sending tiny waves crashing against his still form.
"Who's that?" Harry asked.
"Tom Riddle."
"Is he dead?"
The woman seemed to find this question upsetting, because her green eyes grew darker and her lips drew into a thin line. "No, just sleeping."
Harry frowned. "He's not breathing."
"He's sleeping very soundly. In fact, as he is now, he will never wake."
Harry nodded slowly, unsure as to what that meant. "What does he have to do with our game?"
The woman's smile returned. "He's going to help you follow the first rule."
"What's the first rule?"
The woman winked again. "I told you, it's a secret."
Harry wrinkled his nose in annoyance. "Does he know the rules?"
"He knows the first one."
"So I can just ask him?"
The woman chuckled softly. "He knows the rule but he doesn't know the game."
"Oh." Harry frowned. "So what now?"
"We wake him up."
"How do we do that?"
"With this."
Seemingly out of nowhere, the woman produced a knife – a stainless steel kitchen knife, identical to the one he was holding in his hands earlier, his blood still staining the tip.
Harry stared at it. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Take it," the woman said encouragingly.
Cautiously, Harry took the knife from her.
"Now what?"
"Do to him what you were going to do to yourself earlier."
Harry's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in horror. "But he'll die!"
"No, he'll wake up."
Harry stared up at the woman fearfully, only to be met by her serene gaze.
"Trust me."
Harry nodded shakily, and slowly made his way over to Tom Riddle, kneeling down beside him. He could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest, and he was breathing heavily now. He was afraid. His eyes darted over to the woman, who was still smiling, and she nodded to him.
"Trust me."
And for some reason, he truly believed he could.
He gripped the knife in both hands and drew it up over it head, plunging it down into Tom Riddle's chest a moment later.
The effect was instantaneous – Tom Riddle gasped, drawing a sharp breath, and exhaling harshly as Harry pulled the blade out. Blood was pouring from the wound now, wafting outward in intricate swirls, dancing through the air around them as though it was water. But even as the crimson liquid began to drench Tom Riddle's robes, seeping into the water below them, he remained motionless, save for the rising and falling of his chest.
Harry glanced at the woman, panicking. "He's not waking up!"
The woman, however, seemed perfectly unworried. "He will. Give it a few months. Maybe a year."
"A year?" Harry cried, "What if I break the first rule?"
The woman smiled at him. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you won't."
"But -"
He never finished his sentence.
He was in the bath again, coughing, throat burning as he expelled water from his lungs.
He stared at the wall in front of him, eyes wide as he shivered, his breaths coming out short and harsh.
His mind was blank, save for one thought, pulsing and throbbing in his mind - he had nearly died. And he was afraid. He was afraid of death.
"Potter!"
He was standing in the bathroom doorway. He was cold. He looked down at his hands, white and frigid, and he ran his thumb over his left index finger, just barely feeling the presence of the old scar.
Where - how - why - his mother -
"Mum..." he breathed.
His mind was buzzing, and all he could see were here eyes; all he could hear was her soft voice.
"Don't worry, sweetheart..."
"POTTER!"
"Coming, Professor Snape!" he called hoarsely, before pausing, closing his eyes.
Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
What did he just see? What...what...
"What...?"
Harry? Tom's voice cut through his mind like a sharp knife.
Harry frowned, trying so urgently and desperately to understand why he was standing there, why he was dreaming, what he was dreaming...
"I'm fine, just...daydreaming."
Tom said nothing.
Taking one last deep breath, he picked up his backpack – which had at some point landed on the ground – and slung it over his shoulder, briskly descending the stairs and crossing the hall.
Professor Snape stood in the doorway, eyes narrow and mouth twisted into an unpleasant scowl; he said nothing as he flung the front door open, robes billowing as he strode outside.
Harry followed behind, pausing only as he stepped over the threshold; and with one last look over his shoulder, for a split second he shoved aside the static buzzing inside his head to revel, just for a moment, in the sentiment of freedom, smiling ever so slightly at the small door etched into the side of the stairwell – the cupboard under the stairs.
The End...for now.
The sequel will be up within a few weeks, but I'm going to take a bit of time to edit this first. Nothing too extensive and no retconning, but there are a few parts that I feel are too wordy or maudlin, and there are also some Author's Notes want to delete. Additionally, there are some bits where I feel like Harry's reasoning wasn't too clear or kind of...off, so I'll be fixing a couple of spots like that. I know it's bad taste to edit after you all have read it, but I really can't help it...I won't feel satisfied unless I do.
Anyway, the sequel is called Harry Potter and the Autumn Chrysalis (at least, it will be unless I change my mind again), and what I'll do is post one more chapter on this story to let you all know when it's up.
And finally, I want to thank all of you for reading my story. It means a lot to me to know that so many people have enjoyed my writing, and I hope that I've lived up to all the support I've been given. Thanks again, and see you all soon!
