Harry Potter and the Year he Broke Free
Chapter Sixteen: Life
Life. What a wonderful thing. It's enjoyed, hated, ended, begun. Full of good and bad, some get it in equal measures and some have either in disastrous proportions. Harry's was one of them.
Bad stuff happened every other week. Parents - murdered. Friends - alienated. Godfather - on the run. Oh wow, he really had it going for him: a fantastic future ahead. In one hundred years, people will say, "Oh, Harry Potter? That kid who's parents got offed by Voldemort, so then he went and blew the guy up?" That was what Harry strived for.
He didn't want anyone else's families being murdered, people feeling terrified it would be them next. He wanted them to barely remember the troubles of the past, far too content with their own happiness to be bothered with the suffering of those before them. Memories of those gone because of the terror honoured, and kept with the living in every thing that they did. Surviving, and thriving despite the grief they might feel. That was what Harry wanted above all.
He wanted (and it may seem cliché) to fight for a better tomorrow, so that those after him could really enjoy their life.
So what if he was dealt a bad hand? He could still make a difference even without friendship, or love. Even with the horrors in his past, he would endure even more of it if it meant nobody else got hurt. As Ron had said, he had a 'saving people' thing. Harry couldn't resist, and he didn't want to. Even if it got him killed.
So yes, what a miserable existence. Being there purely for the good of others, even if they didn't see it right now. He was a pariah amongst his fellow students, and most of the magical population. Sometimes he felt the true sadness of his life, but he had hope that one day, he really would be their saviour. Their hero, the one to stop all of the darkness threatening to engulf everything they ever cared for.
"Hey, Potter! Can I speak to you?" said Angelina, the new Captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team.
Oh damn. She sounded pissed. Harry turned around to see the fierce seventh-year pushing apart crowds of smaller students to get to him.
"Yes, Johnson?" Going off her quidditch robes, it seemed they'd just finished training. A little earlier than with Oliver - usually they wouldn't finish until nine. It was just gone eight, and Harry was milling around the corridors, bored of staying in his room all the time. Thursday was dull, everyone on edge waiting for the weekend.
She finally reached him, and sighed angrily. "Where the hell were you?" she huffed, glaring at him.
Harry attempted to look mildly surprised. "Where was I supposed to be, Johnson?"
"Quidditch practise, of course! Don't be so dense, you knew it was on tonight! I put a training schedule on the noticeboard especially for you!"
"Ah. Sorry, must've slipped my mind. I'll turn up to the next one." In fact, he hadn't forgotten at all. He'd spent the last hour watching the practise, assessing everyone's skill levels. Plus he really, really missed quidditch. Like more than his friends. Practising on your own just isn't the same, especially under tons of enchantments keeping you under a certain level of height. Harry had just settled on letting a snitch go, giving it five minutes head-start then chasing it around his house on a broom. Sometimes indoors, sometimes outdoors. It was pretty entertaining though.
Harry had decided to invest in his own snitch, quaffle and bludger, as well as the accompanying bat. Sometimes he could persuade Dobby to fill in as one of the other positions (which was always entertaining on its own) and zoomed around the small field next to his house on his new Firebolt 360. What? He couldn't resist. Plus it had better turning functions, and even more powerful protection spells. It was helpful knowing how to play all the positions, plus he loved having his own shiny snitch. Sometimes he just played with it minus the broom, letting it sweep out of his hand and grabbing it again.
"No point!" she yelled, snapping him out of his head. "The match versus Ravenclaw is on Saturday, and I swear I'll murder Joe Thorn if I have to look at his smug face again... Okay, we have another option - tomorrow, I'll schedule another training session, optional for the rest of the team. Are you free?"
Harry thought for a moment, eyes grazing the stone walls. "Hmm... I'm pretty busy, but I can clear a space in my schedule for tomorrow." He gave a reassuring smile.
She rolled her eyes, and walked away. Harry sighed.
"Wait, Angelina!" she turned back, a puzzled expression on her face.
"What?"
He gulped. "Are you- are you sure the rest of the team are alright with this? I mean- with me being on the team?" Harry looked at her cautiously.
She peered at him. "Yes, you idiot. And besides, you're the best seeker we've had in ages. I'm telling you, Sophie Grindle was awful." At Harry's confused look, she added: "She filled in for you while you were... away." After casting another thoughtful glance in his direction, she finally disappeared round the corner.
When Harry got to his room, he whooped and cheered in his room, saying "yes!" to all of his furniture twice. He collapsed onto his bed, feeling giddy. Whoooooo! he was back on the team! He didn't think they would've let a supposed crazy person back on the team, let alone invite him! This was the happiest he'd felt in ages, and his mood couldn't even be spoiled with the fat pile of homework sat on his desk.
McGonagall was not pleased he was skipping lessons, but if it put Hogwarts back to normal she was willing to do anything. Instead she insisted on giving him weekly OWL practise tests to make sure he kept up with revision. It wasn't like they were hard, just tedious to fill out. But Harry didn't reckon McGonagall was just going to let him skip education and get away with it, even if the teachers were completely useless.
Harry had decided to sign up for all 12 OWLs. Herbology, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Divination, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies. He had studied enough to at least get a passing grade on each of them, so figured what the hell. McGonagall's eyebrows disappeared into her grey hair when he handed the sheet she had given him back.
Normally, studying for just nine of them is exhausting enough, so students only signed up for the ones they were taking the classes on. Passing nine of them is a feat in itself so doing all twelve is almost unheard of. But Harry was not ordinary. Plus, it would help him brush up on some runes (which he struggled with). Arithmancy was quite frankly annoying, but extremely helpful when calculating equations.
Even Hermione wasn't going to attempt them all. Hopefully Harry could wave his twelve OWLs in the know-it-all's face.
He studied his room. It was a complete tip, stacks of books, pieces of parchment, various items of clothing and quills littered around the room. His broomstick was propped against the door of the bathroom, bristles tickling the doorframe. The fire was roaring, as it somehow always was, and the moonlight filtered through a gap in the closed curtains, shining on the ajar door of the wardrobe. A fancy set of black dress robes was hung up there, with a short note from Sirius.
Dear Harry,
These dress robes are for the Christmas Ball coming up at Hogwarts, which you probably don't have a clue about. Because last year's Yule Ball was so successful, the School Governors decided to have another one (probably for more cash). Partners are optional, and you must wear the dress robes. I actually got thrown out of a ball for turning up in quidditch robes. It was your dad's idea, by the way, and well worth the detention I got for it. Anyway, I miss you.
Yours,
Snuffles.
P.S. You don't actually have to go, but it's sad if you don't. Plus, who'd want to miss a party?
Typical Sirius. He didn't really want to go, but what choice did he have? Harry did love a good party, and if there's some booze too... No, dammit. Champagne only for the seventh years, at least according to the notice board. But if he used the cloak, maybe nobody would notice a glass or two being swiped...
And it wasn't like he was going to do anything else at the party. He'd finally learnt to waltz, and do other stupid dances reserved for the ballroom, but on no account would he dance willingly. He couldn't skulk around with Ron anymore, and people would probably grumble about breathing the same air as a lunatic. So all he would do is scope out the dance, grab something good to drink and then leave. Sounds good.
Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. Last night he'd only gotten an hour or two of sleep, making him completely exhausting. It was the dreams - he tried to avoid sleep as much as possible, fearing he would wake up screaming again. His throat was sore and scratchy from tearing it apart with ear-splitting yells, and the shadows under his eyes were only getting worse.
He couldn't pinpoint exactly where they started, but it would probably be around the first week of the summer. It was a warm night; not yet swelteringly hot, but a pleasant temperature with a cool breeze that was often encountered in early July. It had begun in the Graveyard, then went somewhere else entirely. A dark room full of shadowy people in long dark robes, faces obscured with strange masks. If Harry had to hazard a guess, he would have said they look like death eaters, but everything was so blurry. Nowadays his dreams were much sharper... almost like they were real. All they were doing was talking to someone, someone they feared greatly. Harry could almost feel the anxiety swirling around the room, the panic whispering at his very core. It was so strange.
They were addressing him, or the person he was standing in front of: again, it was very fuzzy, and he couldn't really make out anything. The words that flowed from their mouths were just as jumbled, empty syllables uselessly pounding against his eardrums. When he finally woke up, his scar was burning like hell, making his piercing headache even worse. Harry could feel the darkness rippling under his skin, aching to be set free. And he obliged, cutting his skin for the first time.
Of course Harry had had few jarring dreams before that, reminding him of all the terror in his life, but none were as bad as those dreams. Some of them were different to the usual ones, differing from the whole graveyard catastrophe and the endless winding corridors. It was where he was front and centre in the small huddle of people in cloaks, sometimes casting terrible curses at innocent people. Just last week he had put the cruciatus curse on a small girl, watching the child writhe in pain as terrible jolts of agonising pain rippled through her small frame. The blood-curdling scream that erupted from her mouth was like music to his ears, only making him thrust more of his magic into the spell.
Hearing the pitiful cries of others only made him happier, and he laughed jubilantly into his victim's faces.
It was strange - like there were two parts of him. The one that thrived in chaos and death, and the other the (mostly) harmless Gryffindor. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, best friend of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, Dumbledore's golden boy, Sirius' godson, James and Lily's son, vanquisher of the Dark Lord. That was how it felt before: two distinct lines between the real him, and the him that only came alive in his dreams. It was like a whole part of him he hadn't even known existed.
Now the lines were so blurred that Harry doubted if they were ever really there.
Harry had cut off Dumbledore, Hermione and Ron, and most of the Wizarding World thought he was nuts. What hadn't changed was that he was still close to Sirius, and would always be his parents' son. Equally, he had now defeated Voldemort many more times, but had never managed to get a clear shot at him. And he had never wanted to before. How naïve of him, to think killing is bad. Taking another life should be avoided at all costs, but if he could cast any spell at Voldemort? He wouldn't hesitate with Avada Kedarva. Sure, that might make him 'bad', but was it so evil if he was saving people in the future who would've fallen cold at the other end of his wand?
All that Harry knew was he was not going to go around casting unforgivables at people; he did not enjoy the pain of others. At least when he was in his right mind, and not in his other... self... in his dreams. It was more like he was possessed at night, or he had two minds. Like Jekyll and Hyde. Okay, now he did sound crazy.
Explaining the mess that was his current state of mind was impossible. So many dreams, memories (almost like he didn't own half of them) and emotions thundering round his brain it was like a whirlwind. That was why Harry liked consuming knowledge and facts - they were sure things, definite, evidence-backed. Harry could hardly tell the difference between reality and dreams sometimes.
He had thought about telling someone. Sirius? Dumbledore? But how could he deliver a proper explanation to them when he could barely make sense of his own head?
He sighed, and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape, condemning himself to yet another night of nightmares and the fleeting comfort of sleep. Oh well, he took what he could get.
Oh fuck. Friday morning, double potions. Harry stared at his timetable, pausing to rub his eyes free of any leftover sleep. He had opted to use a glamour this morning: he was beginning to look like a moonshine-addict that hadn't had a dose for a week (the Hog's Head was full of them). He sighed, and began digging into a bacon sandwich. It had never been this bad before. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week or so. Harry blamed his insomnia on Hogwarts, and all the stress he was being put under. Dreamless sleep potions never helped. Almost like they weren't... dreams...
The bell rung, shaking him out of his early-morning musings. Lovely, he got to enjoy Snape's company for two whole hours. Harry wandered down to the dungeons, pondering whether McGonagall would let him skip this lesson too. He meandered to the end of his class' queue, staring purposefully at each of them. It was a good creeping-out tactic, and made sure people left him alone. Why not use his reputation as a maniac to his advantage, especially when it was so good at rattling the younger years?
Mostly, he endured his lessons just staring off into space, dreaming of the ways he could be making a better use of his time rather than listening to some teacher prattling on about something he'd learnt about months ago. Ancient Runes and Arithmancy were two interesting lessons, well, the only ones he might actually struggle with. Muggle Studies was a breeze, probably to do with the fact Harry grew up in the muggle world. It's hysterical how ignorant wizards and witches were, like the other day when Millicent Bulstrode thought rubber ducks were sex toys. Harry told her it was all up to personal preference (earning a detention from Professor Burbage, which he had no intention of attending).
Potions would not be one of the lessons he could drift off in - Snape would make sure of that. The classroom door opened, and the looming, bat-like shape of the potions Professor appeared.
He surveyed them down his long, hooked nose. "Proceed inside," he sneered at them.
Everyone took their places, and suddenly, Harry was stuck. Where could he do? Normally he would slide onto an empty table, as he had been doing in all his other lessons, but it was four people to each table here. Ron, Hermione, Dean and Seamus had all gone onto one table, clearly avoiding his gaze. All of his previous friends were very aloof towards him now, which suited him fine. The crowd of students slowly thinned, until nearly every table was filled. Nearly.
One table had one single occupant. Neville Longbottom was sat on the bench, looking glumly at his cauldron. After blowing up his potion so frequently, people now tended to leave him alone, including Harry, Ron and Hermione. He had blown past Neville on a weekly basis, too consumed with talking with his friends to remember that one of them had been forgotten. No more.
Harry slumped his bag onto the floor beside the table, and retrieved his cauldron before setting it on the table. Neville looked faintly surprised, and even a little pleased but didn't say anything. He flashed the other boy a short grin, which was returned, before turning back to the front.
"The headache draught. A common but complicated potion that will no doubt come up in your OWLs. Instructions are on the board, you have one hour and forty five minutes, don't get it wrong." with that, Snape snapped his head back to the marking sitting on his desk.
Trust Snape to be so vague and unhelpful. Really, what was the point of becoming a teacher only to doom your students to failure? Harry shook his head and began to read the instructions on the board. It was quite a basic recipe. If Harry were brewing for himself, he would add in lemon juice to get rid of the nasty taste. Dewstone powder would sort out the gritty consistency, too. Having made the brew so many times for his almost constant headache, he had personalized it to his taste. Maybe after Snape had graded it he could slip in his own ingredients.
Harry made his way to the store cupboard while everyone else was still reading through the instructions. Some flicked their heads in his direction to see what the disturbance was, and some ignored him as always. Ron's blue eyes clicked into his green ones, and Harry's customary bored expression deepened into an almost frown. He had perfected that expression, since it seemed to piss a lot of people off that he didn't care. At all. Harry just couldn't be arsed with any of this anymore.
The connection was broken when Harry wrenched his stare away and it fell onto the racks of ingredients lining the cupboard walls. He spied the things he needed, and was just delving into the jar of dried poppies when he heard movement behind him. So, they'd finally caught up. He turned around to find Hermione standing in the doorway. He looked over he once, and then let his gaze drop to the floor, unimpressed. Arms full of ingredients, he swept past her, noting the slight frown on her face. They had hardly spoken over the past few days apart from exchanging a few words during lessons.
"So, you're back on the team?" said Ron, arms folded. He was standing beside his table, almost like he'd been waiting to ambush him.
Harry nodded.
"You know I'm the-"
"Goal keeper. Yes, I'm aware." he studied Ron's expression, which flipped from haughtiness to surprise, then anger to neutral. Was he aware he was so easy to read?
"Right. Well, uh, see you at the match tomorrow." he shot another confused look over his shoulder before going back to his own table. Hermione had returned, and almost immediately began an urgent whispered discussion, probably talking about Harry.
He dumped the ingredients onto his chopping board, and picked up the knife. He plunged the flashing, silver blade into the wings of the glass flies and dicing them swiftly. This was going to take a while.
*I do not own any characters, all rights to J.K. Rowling.
**Hey guys! Did you know this fanfic hit 13,000 views? That's crazy! Thank you so much for all of the support I've gotten over the past few weeks. I never dreamed of it going so well. Also, I have added in a Christmas party because why not. Thanks, Tea33.
***Thank you all so much for the favourites, follows and reviews!
