The Death's Raven
Hey everybody!
It's been a while, hasn't it? But the reason I was so late, I think you guys would already know that if you have read the last chapter. Chapter-6.
This chapter should have been uploaded three days ago, but my windows crashed, and I really can't do anything about it, can I?
So, here we are with the new chapter, I hope you like it. This is the chapter, where the molding of our main story begins.
Also, replies to your reviews are on the last A/N. I changed the looks of the A/N, I think it looks much better than the previous one.
And yeah, I don't own Harry Potter. It belongs to its respective owners.
So, without further ado.
Chapter-7: Memory
Memories are timeless treasures of the Heart.
Looking at the photo, and then looking at the mirror, he could only utter, "Same."
He caressed his silky raven hair and moved them backward. His emerald eyes were fixed on the mirror. The mirror, he had been addicted to in mere moments.
The large oval-shaped mirror with the beautiful wooden frame, currently showed his reflection, with the two other beings which were never supposed to be seen.
On his right side, stood a woman in her twenties with deep strawberry red hair, and a perfectly beautiful face. The green mesmerizing eyes glowed which held power and warmth, much like his own.
On his left side, stood a man who he was still awed to see, a little bit. He had a similar face, with similar messy raven hairs, though his eyes were the color of hazel. He had a little more scruffy features than Harry's refined ones.
Both man and the woman held pride in their faces as they patted his shoulder.
His shoulder.
Their son's shoulder.
They were his… Parents.
As the gust of cold wind blew caressing his hair and making him shiver. His slightly wrinkled clothes flew from his body. The moonlight lit the mirror, reflecting its silver rays.
The reflected rays were directly towards but all they did was go through his body because of his perfect disillusionment.
Shuddering slightly at the lack of his clothes, he cast some warming charms on himself with his magnificent wand.
Satisfied with his work, he placed his wand at the holster back. The picture did its all to leave his hand but the efforts were little for him.
His green eyes gawked at the picture with an emotionless mask. In this picture, there were the same two individuals but he was not there.
The picture was given by Andromeda since he had never seen his parents, so she thought that it might help.
And it certainly did.
He was happy, wasn't he?
Never in his life, he had felt true happiness, but the feeling that he had encountered just now would be… overwhelming for him. The feeling was mixed with exhilaration, astonishment, and another feeling that he could not decipher.
Is it what people call 'happiness'?
When had he started feeling emotions? Since coming to Hogwarts, he guessed. From that time, he had been thrown into the peculiar crux of emotions. Since he entered the walls of this castle, perhaps that should be a fair answer.
But no…
It started much earlier since he had come into possession of this wand. The wand that baffled Ollivander, when it had chosen him. That overwhelming feeling, the intense excitement, confidence… and that strange sound.
"DEATH!"
That was, perhaps, the only thing he had called… terrifying. The voice ghastly, commanding, obnoxious, scary and he felt like he should… bow?.. To that voice.
The voice was superior to him in both power and intelligence, he assumed. Let alone by the sound he was able to comprehend that it was a powerful being or entity. The voice demanded respect.
The voice that plagued his dreams at night in his slumber.
And then, there was this Peverell…
"You have found the wonder of Mirror of Erised… Mister Potter." A familiar voice invaded his ears as the softly spoken words resonated in his eardrums. The voice was soft, yet deep. It held power and comfort.
"I have… Professor Dumbledore." Was his reply without looking at the direction of the sound.
Taken aback by the precise prediction, the Headmaster looked curious, "How do you know it was me?"
He scoffed, "Just as you it was me under the charm." As soon as he uttered those words, his perfect disillusionment charm vanished to reveal his body.
He had no mood to turn back and confront the Headmaster, so remained in the same posture gawking at the mirror.
Between an awkward silence, no moments or sounds were made, "Mister Potter, I must tell you that it does not show anything real." The Headmaster spoke, breaking the heavy silence.
Tilting his head slightly, he nodded, "I know." He sighed, "We could not bring someone back from death." He muttered under his breath.
The Headmaster's eyebrows furrowed, "I beg your pardon, I couldn't quite catch you."
With a shake of his head, he replied, "Nothing."
"The words embedded on the frame of the mirror means a lot," Dumbledore informed, with the same smile which always graced his lips.
Now, it was his turn to frown, "Which words?" He questioned.
"The same on the frame of the mirror. Observe sharply and you'll be able to see them."
Frowning again, he turned at the mirror frame, looking in each direction, he finally spotted the words, "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi." He murmured as his brain went to comprehend the meaning of the phrase.
Seeing the slight desperateness of his student, Dumbledore started, "I show not your face-"
"but your heart's desire" He completed the sentence for the old man.
The Supreme mugwump clapped his hands, "Indeed, it shows the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts"
'So, my deepest desire is my parents. How childish.' He mused internally scoffing at the last part.
Another eerie silence fell between them as the rays of the moon arched in the middle of them, "What do you see in this mirror, Mister Potter?" Dumbledore asked with pure curiosity evident in his words.
Another shake.
"Me?" He stated, "I see myself with the house cup in hand, and you are bowing to me," He answered with a snort.
Shaking his head with amusement, he snorted, "What an amazing lie!" He commented, earning a chuckle from him.
"Indeed it was," he agreed. His face morphed into pure seriousness, "What do you see in the mirror, Headmaster?" He asked, taking the old wizard aback. He suspected that Dumbledore was not expecting him to ask what he was seeing.
"I see myself knitting a pair of socks."
Lie.
With the tone of the sentence, he was able to detect that it was a lie. "Now you are lying, Headmaster." He pointed out with a slight sneer.
...
No words were uttered as he knew that he would not be able to counter Harry's rebukes. So, he let the breezes calm the situation.
Once the temperature dropped, and the situation became cool, he again found his voice. His long, white beard flew from the breeze a little as his old scruffy features relaxed.
With another question in mind which had been killing him from curiosity, he was unsure whether to ask it or not. The one such question that plagued his dreams… sometimes.
He wanted to ask about it, but seeing the situation he was not sure. The chances for the answer to the question were vague, or almost zero. The Peverell could stomp out of the room with the question, and he would not be able to do anything.
The question was about his life, the acceptance letter of Hogwarts was sent to an Orphanage, but Dumbledore had placed Harry with Petunia and Vernon Dursleys.
He was very reluctant to do so because firstly Petunia was absolutely disgusted by Magic, and secondly- all the people he believed trustful were either injured or dead.
Andromeda and Ted Tonks were, perhaps, the best options, but in the hurdle of the moment, the choice never came in Albus' mind. After all, the same night Neville became the Boy Who Lived.
Both Alice and Frank, and Lily and James went to hide at the same time, and at the same place. It was perhaps the best idea, because after all, James and Frank were, perhaps, the best Aurors. Also, Alice and Lily were no slouch with wands, either.
But Alas!
The Dark Lord killed them all. He did not even know whose protection was on Neville. The night, when Voldemort attacked, either Lily or Alice sacrificed herself to save Harry and Neville.
They both were Godbrothers, as Lily was Neville's godmother, and Alice was of Harry. He was a little pained to see that the two boys never did greet each other.
He developed some confidence (at least he thinks so) and was determined to ask about it. He knew that Harry was well-versed in various fields of magic, and claiming him the best student in decades would be of no consequence.
Now or Never.
Coughing slightly to clear his thoughts, he maintained the twinkle of his eyes, as he asked with almost soft words,
"Mister Potter, do you remember how you went to live in Orphanage?"
…
He froze as the Headmaster spoke those words to him. Saying him at a loss of words would be a big understatement.
He composed himself nigh immediately, he uttered out, "What do you m-mean, Headmaster?"
Damn! His last word was a stutter.
Dumbledore blinked owlishly at him, comprehending what he had said. The Headmaster deflated audibly as he put his words again, "I mean, how come you live in an Orphanage? Weren't you supposed to be with your relatives? I gave you to them myself."
Rage!
He trembled with rage when he heard those words.
Why?
He had no idea of it, but he just wanted to hurt Dumbledore. He had no reason to have these thoughts, but relatives?
Did he have relatives?
Why was he feeling so cold and angry? Why was he so raged? Why did he want to hurt Dumbledore? Unbeknownst to him, his eyes turned pure silver. His entire body was not controlled by rage.
"Never let your anger control you, Harry. Anger is human's enemy, and the enemy shall be defeated."
Those comfortable and warm words rang in his ear, as he breathed a sigh of relief. The voice was like a melody for his ears, the sweet voice and comforting words were all he needed at that age.
What was this voice?
He had never heard it before, nor did he ever heard the words. Never in his life. Right?
His head began to shake, as he felt an immense ache, and he clutched his head in order to remove the pain. But to no avail, the pain in his head increased. It happened for a few more seconds and only increased with time. And suddenly, his vision went black
A stormy and windy night, it was. As the torrent of raindrops connected themselves to the earth in the hope of meeting their numerous companions.
In Privet Drive, one would see nothing abnormal. The fresh gardens, the aligned houses, the same designs for houses, and everything seemed perfectly normal.
But there was a secret. A secret nobody at Privet Drive knew.
At number four, Privet Drive lived the Dursleys.
Mister Vernon Dursley was a director of a firm called Grunnings, and the best way to describe him would be a walrus. A big and beefy man, was he, with the thrice large size of the neck, though he had a long mustache, which he found himself to be quite proud of.
His wife, Miss Petunia Dursley (formerly Evans) was a mare. With her short blonde hair, she was gifted with twice the length of a normal neck.
They had a son named Dudley, who was on his journey to become the next walrus of the house, and according to them, he was the finest boy to ever exist.
And they were perfectly normal.
But the secret did not lie, in a small cupboard underneath a stair, their nephew Harry Potter sat with boredom as he completed another second class book. This was their secret.
Their nephew, Harry Potter, was given to them (or rather forced to them) to take care of. Unfortunately, they did not do a very good job, and the reason was that he was abnormal (or freak as they fancied to call him.)
So, when the boy came into their life, their normality was in danger, so they treated him inadequately, more so a child should be.
They feared that the boy would use his freakishness against them, so they beat him up to remove his freakishness. The constant beating was something he was accustomed to. He had to do his home chores which included washing clothes, gardening, cooking, and the one just name it.
He had a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, which never seemed to vanish, and for that freakishness, they hated him more.
"Boy! Get here, and start cooking! I don't have the whole day!"
His uncle's voice invaded his ears as he sighed. Another day, he had been doing these chores from the age of three, he still did not understand why they did not throw him out. But oh, well! How could they afford to lose their servant who was more like a slave?
He closed the book with an audible sound, as he began to search for the knob with the help of the most dimmed light he had of pleasure seeing.
Reaching for the knob, he unlocked his room. As he came out of the cupboard, he realized (like always) how big this house was (according to him) and how tiny the cupboard was.
With some small, yet steady steps, he reached for the kitchen. There stood his mare of an aunt, and on the sofa, sitting his pompous walrus of an uncle, and on the same sofa Dudley was bouncing?
How? He would not be able to take his weight with the pressure applied to his feet.
Shaking his head slightly, he heard the voice of his aunt, filled with distaste, "Boy! Start cooking, and don't burn bacon like the previous week!"
Grunting, he took the stool and placed it near the pan. Climbing it, he blanched what he saw. His Master Chef Aunt had already burned half of the bacon.
When he was halfway, he heard his uncle shout, "Boy! Do it, fast!"
He did not reply, nor did he ever bother to. This was the regular thing for him, and replying would do no good. So, he just listened and released.
Another shout. Then again. Again. Another one. One more time, and then he lost it. "Shut up, you fat oaf!" He hissed, it was pretty strange for a four -almost five, he reminded himself- year old to cuss, but when did he care.
Clank!
It was exactly the same sound when the same pan, on which he was making bacon, was connected to his temple, throwing slightly off his balance, and leading him to fall.
He did the first thing to rub the hurt spot, and the second, he raised an eyebrow. Didn't she know that she ruined the bacon, and the last thing was- his boring into hers?
His eyes bored into the ones of her aunt, who had hurt him. His eyes were filled with hate, anger, and the feeling he could not comprehend.
His aunt was seething with rage, "Don't you dare!" She almost screamed at him, but neither did he flinch, nor did it scare him.
His eyes still bored into her, he stood up, and fearlessly spoke, "I will, you bloody giraffe!"
By now, there was only silence. (ignoring the sound of the torrent of water coming from the open tap.)
Nigh instantly, a whip connected to his body, as he hissed in pain. As the effect of the whip died down he turned to look at Vernon giving him a scathing glare. Dudley, who was grabbing the collar, looked at him with disdain, and Petunia was unashamedly sneering at him.
Vernon was about to whip him again with his belt, and when it was halfway there. The three Dursleys froze. There were no moments, whatsoever, only their eyes were moving and they were breathing fast, really fast.
He felt a cold, yet not uncomfortable presence at his right. His eyes widened when he saw a woman…?
Yep.
She was a woman because of her figure, and the way she was standing, no men he had ever seen stood this way. But then again, he had seen a handful of men.
Wearing a pitch-black cloak, which nearly covered her entire body except for the portion of her eyes. Her eyes, perhaps, were the scariest and most mesmerizing he had ever glanced at. They were silver, not gray. But silver, they had the color of pure silver.
The design of the cloak was from medieval history as far as he knew. From the skin near the eyes, he was able to observe that it was slightly tan.
She was wearing exactly black boots, or whatever the people of that era wore.
She raised her hand, startling him. There were some scars visible on her hand. She flicked her hand, and then he heard screams.
Screams of pain. Screams of agony. Screams of coldness. Unbearable demonic screams of suffering.
Vernon and Petunia -he refused to call him uncle and aunt after what they had done to him- were howling in pain whereas his cousin was just frozen, watching his parents in pain.
A part of him wanted Dudley to suffer too, but a part of him refused to say that he was just a child. Shaking these thoughts, his eyes were glued at the cloaked woman.
A million thoughts were running in his mind, who was she? Why had she come? Why was she doing it? How was she doing it? And most important, what was she doing to them? What caused them this unbearable pain?
She waved her hand again, and the next moment Vernon and Petunia were lying on the floor. The breaths which were audible a second were nowhere to be found. He could hear Dudley's gasp, he could hear the rubbing of the fingers from the side of the cloaked woman
With his trembling hands, he very reluctantly reached out for them. Their mouths were opened, and no efforts were made to close them.
He placed two of his fingers at the side of Vernon's neck near the veins to check his pulse. The icy cold skin plunged at his fingers, almost numbing it. With his unstoppable shaking fingers, he placed them at the veins.
No pulses, the circulation of blood stopped, their skin was cold enough to make anyone freeze.
They were dead.
The swift moments of the cloaked gathered his attention, as it was now standing just in front of him. With his quivering legs, he stood up, ready to pounce at the cloaked figure if she attacked him.
He was well aware of the fact that it would do no good, and he would be killed like Vernon and Petunia.
It would be an understatement if he said he was surprised when the rigid right hand made its way to his head.
The hand ruffled his hair.
The woman's hand ruffled his hair.
It patted him.
She patted him.
And damn! It felt amazing!
Slowly, he started looking up, he first saw her -ahem- breast, then her collar bone, then the crook of her neck, her mouth, and then her silver eyes.
She was covered by the cloak, and he could not see a piece of her skin, yet he was able to understand that she was beautiful.
The background of the kitchen changed into a black room with no surroundings. It was dark, cold, it felt there was no mercy. It was like a hollow abyss.
As his eyes of green connected to her eyes of silver. He instantly felt a great burst of energy resonating throughout his body.
He could feel a burning sensation at the area of his scar, an uncontrollable burning sensation, but as the cold energy resonated throughout his body, it neutralized the burning sensation.
He could feel himself losing his consciousness, as the cloaked woman came near to her left ear. There, she whispered softly, "Remember," She started. "Never let your anger control you, Harry. Anger is human's enemy, and the enemy shall be defeated." She finished, kissing his cheeks.
Managing himself, with some great efforts, he managed to croak out, "W-wait, W-what's your n-name?"
Few letters, he was able to catch out, and they were, "I..l. ..y.e."
Darkness consumed after that as he lost consciousness.
He violently shook his head as he removed his hands from his temple. Sweat poured down his entire face.
Dumbledore was near him shaking him vigorously, he could hear, "Mister Potter! Mister Potter! Are you alright?"
He looked to his left, his eyes flashing silver and then coming back to their original color, "Y-yeah… Wha-what happened...t-to me?"
Dumbledore shook his head, "I don't really know, you were clutching your head, and screaming." He answered.
Harry nodded, "O-okay… Just a terrible headache."
Albus was not satisfied with it, but nodded reluctantly, "If the pain is severe, then you could visit the infirmary for it." He offered.
Stare.
"No, I will drink the headache potion, and go to sleep," he snapped at the old Headmaster.
The Headmaster sighed, "Very well."
.
.
.
.
The sky was dark. A dark abyss it was with the shimmering Sirius who was taking a great like in his distrust.
The crescent moon illuminated its light over him as his pale skin turned even paler, now.
The memories of the event that occurred just 15 minutes ago were plaguing his mind, the thoughts of what he had seen in his mind not so long ago.
That moment, that hallucination, the images of his mind, the sounds, the movements, the pain, the feels, and all those things, they all just felt too real, for his fancy.
He didn't like the hallucination.
Was it really a hallucination?
It didn't seem so, they were just too real, even he was not able to comprehend.
A hallucination could never be so perfect, with perfect sound, situations, smell. It was perfect.
He went through the entire night just thinking about it. The way that vision had occurred was flawless. Something knocked on the door of his mind. Something he refused to believe, something he did not like, and something he was slightly… terrified to admit.
"It was a memory." His voice was a whisper, his body shivered slightly. He was unmoved the entire night.
And that hallucination was a memory. He realized it finally.
{SCENE BREAK}
With the last lemon drop of the packet in his mouth, his eyes twinkled merrily, and along with a huge grin plastered on his face, he looked at his fellow colleagues.
The first term exam results were here, and they would be sent to the students a day before they departed to their homes for Christmas.
He was sure who would be the first in the class, and he was confident that every teacher sitting here would know that, too. There was no denying it.
Harry Potter had simply aced all the exams, with the exceptions of a few in which he did not take interest.
If he ever was being truthful, then he would admit that it was pretty strange for him to see someone, who was as capable as him and Tom, if not more. Should he say more capable, then no questions would be raised.
It always plagued his dream that the boy was a Peverell, and one day, he would discover his legacy.
Many had believed that the legend related to Peverells was just a farce. Those people were not him. All the time in his teenage days, he had nothing but sat and tracked every single trace related to the family of Warmages, and he had gained a grain of truth in all those lies and myths.
Even though he knew far more about the Peverells, he knew nothing about the Peverells. There were some manuscripts that had mentioned that Peverell was Warmages, with an affinity of Necromancy.
Sometimes, he pondered whether he had made the right choice, choosing young Longbottom as Boy Who Lived or not.
He had no doubts that the young man would become a formidable wizard just like his father, Frank, the boy was neither in Harry's league of skills nor was equally gifted.
On the 31st of October, Halloween, when Albus arrived at Godric Hollow and entered the house. He found the four dead bodies of James and Lily Potter, and Frank and Alice Longbottom.
But… both the boys were alive, and well. Both Harry and Neville had a scar on their forehead and cheek respectively. Whilst, Harry's scar was a lightning bolt, also the rune Sowlio- the Norse rune of victory and power.
Lord Voldemort's robe had fallen on the floor, with no signs of the Dark Lord.
He, firstly, was determined that Harry was Boy Who Lived, after all the Norse rune was a perfect clue, but then something gathered his attention.
He cast several diagnosis spells on them. Both had a flake of dark residue over their body, but Harry, more so, than Neville. Neville's magical prowess was radiating from his body, and he was asleep, whereas Harry was unconscious with the less magical power.
But then too, He was not convinced but what gathered his attention was the piece of cloth on Neville's crib, and the robe of the fallen Dark Lord was closest to Neville's crib. So, in the hurdle of the moment, he declared that Neville was the chosen one and that he had survived the killing curse.
Which boy vanished the Dark Lord was a mystery for him. One that he could not solve. But his doubts regarding it evaporated when he caught the first glimpse of the boy, he had left under Petunia's care years ago with a heavy heart.
The boy's scar had vanished, leaving only a slight mark of magical injuries.
He also had the spirit of the Dark Lord to find. The Dark Lord was not dead, that Albus was sure of.
There was a reason, he bragged himself as immortal, and even if the killing curse had rebounded, there must be somebody. The path Dark Lord had taken to attain immortality, still unknown to the old Headmaster.
He must also train young Longbottom, should the situation ever become adverse, the people would depend on the boy.
As for Harry's loyalty, he was still clueless about it.
Neville had been left in the care of his Grandmother, Augusta Longbottom. Being the strict she was, she must have trained Neville in every way possible. And the results were clearly shown.
For him, he had found himself in a very peculiar situation, and there was no escape to it.
He looked at his fellow professors once again, breaking down from his thoughts. Even though he consistently wore a mask of 'happiness,' he was always in the middle of a war, on a new battlefield.
"So," He started. "Who stands first among the first-years?" He echoed.
Minerva gave him a sigh, as she checked the results.
She gawked at him, "Harry Potter." His colleagues' voices chorused.
{SCENE BREAK}
She bit her lower lip in nervousness and worry as she looked at him, unbeknownst to him.
It had been exactly three days since he had visited the great hall for dinner, or lunch or breakfast. Three days since anyone had seen him, except her, and three days since he entered the trunk.
Looking at him, she shook her head exasperatedly. His cheeks were sulking, his eyes were red from the lack of sleep, his hairs were even more messy than usual, and that gaunt look dawned upon his face. His clothes were ragged, hell he even did not change.
And all he was doing was turning pages of a thick tome idly with another just left to it.
She tapped his shoulder.
No response.
She tapped again.
Still no response.
One more time.
Zero response.
Finally frustrated, she just shook him violently, startling him.
"What the fuck?!" Was the first thing he spoke, his gaze dimly fell upon her, and he raised an eyebrow with slight infatuation.
"What do you want?" His voice was a half-snarl.
She just ignored his question, and countered by her question, "What are you doing?"
"I am just finding something," he said dismissively.
She was not satisfied with it, yet she just let it go, "And why have you not come for dinner? Hell even for breakfast? Or Lunch?" She asked angrily.
Harry all but shrugged, "As I said before- I was just finding something."
Her gaze fell over to the tomes which he was reading. To say she was surprised, would be a tremendous understatement. Firstly the title of the two books were-
"Magical History: From Ancient to Medieval and Modern."
And
"The Wizarding Population."
"You are reading a history book?" She questioned with incredulousness in her voice.
With a shake of his head, he explained, "Not really, I need to find something. Something important."
She crooked her right eyebrow as she looked at him questioningly, "What?"
She heard him deflate audibly. Something was eating from inside, and she just knew it. Her gaze followed his hand, as the hand grabbed a small piece of parchment. The hand initiated it to her as she took it with hesitant
There were few words-
I..l. ..y.e.
After reading it, her eyebrows furrowed, "What's this?" She inquired.
He took the piece of parchment from her hand as he scrutinized it closely, "These are," he started. "These are letters of someone's name. The dots are like gaps. We need to fill some letters there to make a proper name." He answered.
She hummed in response. "Why do you need to find this name?"
He placed his hands on his waist as he looked down, "I don't really know, but I just need to find out about it."
She nodded. Another question rang in her mind, "Are you sure that this is not a muggle name?"
Nod. "I am sure." He looked thoughtful whilst saying that.
Tilting her head slightly, "If you would like then I could help you with it." She offered.
Suddenly, his mood from a sour one turned into an excited one, "Would you really?" He asked, barely containing his excitement.
She, once again, tilted her head, "I would." She started, "But firstly- you would take a bath and eat dinner."
And she could swear that he groaned…
How was it?
Hope you liked it.
So, I changed my writing style, increased my vocabulary, made my writing style a bit more decorative, and this is the final result.
My new style seemed much better than my final style, it is more descriptive, and enjoyable, at least according to me, you guys tell me in reviews.
In this chapter, I have explained what happened to Dursley's, how Harry's scar faded as I thought it was necessary. In the first chapter, I never gave information about Harry's scar, because he never had, and it was negligible if Dumbledore had not seen it so carefully.
Also, who was this mystery witch? Tell me in a review.
And, there was somebody, who was commenting that Peverell's were necromancers. I never denied it, in my fic, they were just war mages with an affinity for Necromancy.
The new chapter would be uploaded in a week, be patient and wait for it.
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