Chapter Eleven: mania
22 October, 1991
I've been thinking a lot about chess. I suppose the giant moving chessboard got it in my head. One tends to remember something like that.
To a lot of the people in this world—to Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy—this whole thing is a game of chess. They're moving pieces and manipulating events and trying to keep all their secrets while learning everyone else's to gain the upper hand. The prize is control, power, status.
They're pathetic.
Each one is playing his own game, black versus white. Are you one of their pieces—a pawn, a rook, a bishop? —or are you one of the other side's, belonging to anyone that would stand in his way? Meanwhile, the citizens of the board they're warring over go on about their lives, desperately hoping that the winner will just leave them be.
But life isn't a game of chess. You don't hold absolute control over much of anything, simply the illusion of such.
And like it or not, not everyone wants to play by your rules.
-H
…
After the chaotic first two weeks of term had come to a close, the dust had settled, and seemingly to everyone's surprise there was nearly a whole school year left to attend. Classes had resumed the Monday after the announcement of the new professors, and despite rumors that the Ministry would be swooping in to shut down the school and a squad of aurors would be subduing and escorting Dumbledore out of the castle at any moment, things had returned to a semblance of normalcy.
Soon, Fred found himself once again attending classes, stretching the professors' patience to the limit, and shocking the new ones with his and George's ability to actually scrape a decent grade together. Only Dad seemed unsurprised at the pair's academic prowess, though he had made sure they knew that he wouldn't be taking things easy on them in his own classes.
As classes went, the mood had improved significantly. Professor Quirrell—ill-suited as he'd been for the job—was not missed at all by most of the student population, especially with someone as capable (and downright scary at times) as Madame Amelia Bones now at the helm of the school's Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. She suffered no foolishness in her class and expected only the maximum of effort every day. To her credit, she recognized when someone was trying their very best and simply unable to get results, and she handed out an encouraging pat on the shoulder as often as a biting demand to try harder.
Hermione simply loved her.
Most beloved of all, though, was Professor Tonks as the new Potions instructor. Not only was she leagues better than Professor Snape had been in literally every possible way, she wasn't bad on the eyes. Her passion for the subject was unrivaled, and she had even confessed in her first lesson that she'd put in for the position right around the same time as Professor Snape but been snubbed in favor of the surly sourpuss.
That had caused a small outrage once it had gotten out, especially among the seventh years who had already given up their hopes of taking NEWT-level Potions over a year ago.
Scholastic woes aside, school had very much resumed its old rhythm, for better or worse. History of Magic was still a wash, Charms remained engaging as ever, and Professor McGonagall was still relentless in her teaching of Transfiguration.
Fred and George were up to the task fairly often; they just found the work a bit bland.
In fact, and surprisingly enough, the highlight of their school week had become the class they'd originally taken hoping for an easy 'E'. Under Charity Burbage's tutelage, the Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts had learned about muggles in an almost patronizing way, treating them as quaint, folksy, and (bless them) trying their very best to succeed without magic to help. The simple muggle was, Professor Burbage would have it, a violent and reactionary creature prone to lash out at the unfamiliar and treat it with confused contempt.
Arthur Weasley was having none of that.
"'Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.'," he said one windy October morning as Fred and George sat for yet another of his classes. "Now, let's hear it. Ten points, no…fifteen to whoever can give me the source of this most inspirational quote."
Fred knew this one. In fact, so did George, and every Weasley boy. It was one of Dad's favorites, thrown around every time they felt ready to give up on any given task or goal.
"Come now, one of the most famous muggle inventors, held almost twelve-hundred US patents…"
Still silence. Fred and George only kept their hands down because it would have felt cheating to give the answer. Dad finally smirked, leaning on his desk and surveying the class.
"Alright, alright," he said with a small shake of his head. "I suppose you're here to learn about this sort of thing. Boys?"
"Thomas Edison," Fred and George sad in unison, and Dad chuckled.
"Wonderful," he said. "Thomas Edison, one of the most prolific muggle inventors. The light bulb, the rechargeable battery, the motion picture camera. Thomas Edison was responsible for muggle cinema as we know it, which is in itself one of the most expressive mediums out there. Do yourselves a favor sometime, you won't regret it. Go, this summer, and see a movie. One of the greatest things to come out of muggle culture, bar none. However, I've gone off-track, haven't I? Edison is a prime example of just what I love about muggles. Tell me, if I were to decide, here and now, that I wished to speak to…Madame Bones, we'll just say…what would I have to do?"
"Send her an owl?" Henrietta James spoke from the back of the room, her hand in the air.
"Well, that's an option," Dad said, "but I want to hear her voice, you see, it's lovely and clear and tonal. I wish to speak to her."
"Floo call?" Lee Jordan suggested from near Fred and George.
"That's the right track, surely," Dad said. "Perhaps she's not in her office, though. What if she's out strolling the corridors, scaring firsties?"
A chuckle ran through the room, but no one said anything. The only other option would be to search the castle, wouldn't it? Check her usual haunts or hope to find her, maybe send her a memo?
"Perhaps," Dad said, reaching into his jacket, "I could ring her up on my spanking new cellular phone."
He withdrew what looked for all appearances to be a brick made of muggle plastic. Reaching for one end of it, he extended a long and thin metal rod from the device before tapping a few buttons on the face. Humming a song to himself, he placed the brick to the side of his head, one end of it near his ear and the other by his mouth.
In the quiet of the room, they could hear the faint sound of a tone playing through the device, a humming ring that repeated once…twice… And then a soft clicking sound.
"Arthur?" a voice came from the phone, faint but audible. Several students gasped.
"Amelia, dear," Dad said with a smile. "It's me. Where are you, at the moment?"
"I'm…out by the greenhouses, I was going to talk to Pomona," Madame Bones's voice came from the phone.
"Ah, doing a bit of catching up after all these years?" Dad said with a smile. "And nowhere I would have been able to talk to you anytime soon, I presume?"
"Perhaps if you'd sent me a memo, or…no, in fact," Madame Bones said with a quiet laugh. "You called this a…cellular phone?"
"Yes, a cell phone for short," Dad nodded. "They're going to be all the rage in the muggle world in just a few short years, I promise. America, Japan, even parts of China have already got them everywhere in their magical society. But, Amelia, I'm in the middle of teaching a class. You were the subject of rather an effective demonstration, I should say."
"Well, it's an honor to advance the cause of education," Madame Bones said. "I shall leave you to it, then."
"Talk to you later, Amelia," Dad said before pushing one last button on the phone and closing the metal rod (an antenna, Fred believed it was called). He placed the device on his desk, glancing back out at his class.
"Can anyone tell me…what just happened there?" he asked.
"You had a chat with Madame Bones?" Bernard Wooley pointed out.
"Ah, but the nature of the chat itself?" Dad asked. "Amelia Bones was out for a lovely stroll through the grounds, somewhere she would have been inaccessible had I needed her for some unforeseen emergency. But thanks to a piece of technology that was created by muggles, with only a scant few modifications in order for it to function within magic-heavy areas, I was able to talk to her at her precise location. Not a letter, not a memo or voice-recorded patronus. A real-time conversation. That's impressive, isn't it?"
A general murmur of agreement went through the class, and Dad nodded.
"And all because muggles saw a world-changing invention, something that had already revolutionized their society, and they said 'Why stop there?'," he went on. "They had phones, allowing for instantaneous communication between two households as long as they were connected to a network. Sound familiar?"
"Like the Floo network," Lee Jordan said.
"Exactly," Dad nodded. "But they improved on it. They took their solution to one of our developments and made it better than ours. And with only a pinch of magic, the slightest of alterations to make it functional in our world, a muggle device can revolutionize the way we—wizards—communicate with each other. Because muggles, you see, are innovators. They didn't…come up with the horse and carriage and say 'good enough', they didn't invent candles and decide that was plenty bright. And they certainly didn't come up with the quill and ink and never dream of the possibility of a fountain pen. They improved, they…picked up where the last person left off, and as the resources at hand improved, as the methods became more complex, they went back and thought to themselves 'How can I make this better?'."
"So why haven't we adapted more of their technology?" Henrietta asked, and Dad pointed at her.
"That…that is an excellent question," he said. "The answer is quite complex, but it begins and ends with pureblood prejudices against anything not absolutely rooted in magic. In fact…for a perfect example, look no further than the commission, construction, and implementation of the Hogwarts Express. Specifically, the notable pureblood families' reactions to it at the time. That is an excellent reading assignment for you to scribble up a little essay over, let's say one page long. In the meantime, though, let's have a little talk about instances of muggles improving and upgrading their technologies which were analogous to our own innovations."
After the lesson, as everyone was filing out and heading for lunch, Dad stopped his sons on the way to the door.
"Oh, Fred, George, do stay for a moment, would you?"
He was again leaning on his desk, smiling at them in that fond way that made Fred feel at ease, because Dad was here, and he always knew what to do. Behind Fred, George spoke up.
"What's going on?"
Their father was quiet for a moment, looking away from the pair to stare out the window of his classroom. His eyes were distant, obviously not taking in the pristine mountain vista and lost in thoughts of something else. With a small sigh, he glanced back to the twins, his smile having gone and been replace by a grimacing echo of one.
"My boys," he said. "There's…something I must tell you that I think you may find rather distressing. I suppose…there's really no other way than to just do it. You see, shortly before I left the Burrow, your mother and I…well, we had quite a bit of a row."
"You and mum?" Fred asked, shocked; Mum and Dad never fought. Sure, they disagreed here and there, even had the occasional heated discussion, but they never raised their voices or fought.
"What about?" George asked.
"Well, it was rather the silliest thing," Dad said with a wry scowl. "Your sister, as it happens, has been pining after Charlie. Misses him terribly, wants to see him again, cries over him. You know how she gets."
"Oh, we know," Fred said while George nodded. Ginny's lack of emotional control was infamous, thanks in no small part to Mum's relentless coddling of her. If there was a poster-girl for the concept of being spoiled rotten, it was Ginevra Molly Weasley. "Didn't Charlie just leave only a couple months ago?"
"That's exactly what I told Molly," Dad said. "She was hip-deep in planning a trip, scrounging up money we don't really have for a jaunt off to Romania to visit him for Christmas."
"I bet Charlie was thrilled," George muttered, and Dad rolled his eyes.
"He wrote your mother a letter, telling her as politely as possible that he would rather spend his first Christmas on his own getting used to being…well, on his own," Dad said. "Ginny was heartbroken, and you know your mother can't say no to the girl."
"Can't, or won't?" Fred asked, and Dad reached out to gently grip his shoulder.
"That's the question, I suppose," he said with a shrug of one shoulder. "I'm afraid she's setting Ginny up for a harsh reality check when she's older. I tried to explain this to her, but…she got somewhat belligerent, and I may have lost my temper."
"So, what's going to happen to you two?" George asked. Dad heaved a sigh, shaking his head.
"We're taking a bit of a break," he said. "I honestly don't know what's going to happen. I spent a bit of time telling her off for neglecting her sons while lavishing attention on her only daughter."
Fred glanced to George, who looked pleasantly surprised at the news. Dad had gone to bat for them? But then, it was hardly that shocking; Arthur Weasley always looked out for his sons, even when no one else seemed to want to. Bill had been Molly Weasley's golden son, the boy she had always wanted. She'd never seemed to have time for the rest of them, especially after Ginny had been born. Growing up, all Fred could remember was Dad, constant and unwavering in his support of the neglected middle boys.
"For the moment," he told them as they left the Muggle Studies classroom, "don't tell Ronald. You know how emotional he can get. I'd like to break the news to him, perhaps over tea this weekend."
"What'll happen when school's over?" George asked. "Where will we go?"
"My sons," Dad said, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "The Burrow will always be home to you. You need never worry about that. And…perhaps it'll all work out, you know. Your mother and I have sorted out differences before."
"You've never shouted at each other, though," Fred said.
"Well, there's that," Dad said with a helpless sort of shrug. "No matter the case, you, all of you boys, are the greatest thing that's ever happened to me, and you must never forget that. And none of this is in any way your doing, is that very clear?"
"Yes, Dad," Fred and George said in unison.
"Good boys," Dad said. "Now, hop along to lunch. That Weasley appetite won't abide much longer."
He waved them off as they made for the Great Hall. The walk was a quiet one, and Fred knew that George was turning over the same tumult of thoughts in his head. The Weasley family had never been the picture of domestic bliss. Financial hardships, an overcrowded household, and Mum's short temper were only a few of the struggles they'd had to put up with on a near-daily basis during their childhood. But during that time, they had been a rock-solid (if more-than-slightly dysfunctional) family, and if Fred was honest with himself, he'd always sort of operated under the belief that even for all of her bluster and seeming indifference, Mum had been fond of them in some small way.
To discover that all of that had likely been wishful thinking bordering on self-delusion, to know that the whole structure of their family was built on such a shaky foundation which had experienced its first solid crack…
"This is bollocks," George surmised.
"Bollocks," Fred agreed.
…
Professor Dumbledore,
Checked down in Cokeworth for Professor Snape, no sign of him at his house. Got a look inside, no one's been for weeks, looks like. Even asked around a bit, but no one's seen him. Doesn't seem a popular fella round these parts.
Weather's awful, hoping you're well.
Yours,
Rubeus Hagrid
Damn it. Albus set the letter down with a bit more force than was necessary, reaching up to rub at his temples. Another dead end in the search for his wayward professor. Alastor had already been to Severus's house on Spinner's End mere days after the Potions Master had turned up missing, but there was always the possibility that he might find his way back there at some point.
Where could he have possibly gone?
"Hard to find good help these days, isn't it?" Phineas sighed. "I do hope he turns up. I'll quite miss hearing how miserable he made the rotters in this school. Why, he personally ensured my house won the House Cup for the last…what was it?"
"Enough, Phineas," Albus said.
"Eight years, right?"
"Phineas," Albus said warningly. "Isn't it about time for you to check your other portrait?"
"Still black as the family name, Headmaster," Phineas said with a smug grin. "I checked early today knowing you'd be having my favorite guest. Merlin knows, I wouldn't miss young Mr. Potter's visits for the world."
"Naturally," Albus said, glancing at the clock on his desk. Harry was due in only a few minutes, and Albus would have to break the news that he was effectively confined to the British Isles until he was old enough to obtain his own passport. Thankfully, the nature of the bureaucratic process had given Albus a couple of weeks for things to at least settle to manageable levels at Hogwarts before Harry had gotten a letter back from the Ministry.
Now, though, there was damage control to be done.
At precisely three o'clock, a knock sounded on his door, and Albus had to marvel at Harry's punctuality; where most boys his age might have turned up several minutes late or even simply forgotten about the meeting during classes, Harry yet again showed an admirable level of maturity for his age.
"Enter," Albus called. The door opened, and Harry Potter made his way into the room. He still wore his school uniform, having just come from his final class. Despite the rigors of a full day of lessons (with practical lessons from Madame Bones, no less), he still looked immaculate, not a lapel out of place. Even Dolores's uniform standards would likely be unable to find so much as a thread in defiance. Just as last time, his face was completely impassive as he crossed the expansive office and took a seat across from Albus.
"Headmaster," he greeted Albus in his usual flat tones. "You wanted to see me?"
"I did, Harry," Albus said. More out of habit, he met Harry's eyes once more and attempted a quick probe into his thoughts. Once again, though, he found himself soundly stymied by a mental barrier the likes of which no eleven-year-old should have been capable. Behind it, Harry Potter's thoughts were utterly without fathom. His demeanor vaguely at ease, his face coolly without expression, and his thoughts closed, all of Albus's usual methods of reading his guests were to no avail.
He might as well have been talking to one of the paintings.
"How have you been?" Albus asked. "Your classes have been going well?"
"They have," Harry said. After a short pause, he spoke again. "I particularly enjoy Madame Bones's class."
"She is indeed more than a capable Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor," Albus said with a nod. "It's certainly advisable to learn all you can under her instruction. And Professor Tonks is proving to be a satisfactory Potions instructor?"
"She's certainly a step up," Harry said. "Is it true Snape ran off with the Philosopher's Stone?"
"That, Harry, is not a matter I'm at liberty or inclination to discuss with students," Albus said with a wave of his hand. "Rest assured, I intend to see to it that you and the students of Hogwarts receive the finest education I am able."
"That's certainly reassuring," Harry said, and Albus had no hope of discerning any note of sarcasm in his tone. "You surely didn't call me here just for a friendly chat about my education, however."
"Quite so," Albus said with a chuckle. "Forgive me, I'm an old man and rather partial to small-talk."
"As is your prerogative," Harry nodded. "You've had plenty of time for heavier talk in the past."
"Again, quite so," Albus nodded. "Harry, I understand you've been looking to obtain documentation to enable you to travel and reside outside the country. In America?"
"America, Australia, perhaps Japan," Harry elaborated. "I've heard the magical community of Central and South America is quite vibrant. La Ciudadela de los Diecisiete Familias sounds fascinating."
His accent was flawless, Albus noted.
"Indeed, the Latin-American magical community is truly astounding," he said. "They're a fraternal people, keeping their magical instruction to family groupings and small, close-knit communities. Perhaps, someday, you can visit and learn more."
"That's why you've brought me here, then," Harry determined. "The letter I received from the Department of Transport."
"They sent me a letter as well, explaining the situation," Albus explained.
"Why did they feel the need to include you?" Harry asked him. His tone wasn't accusatory and didn't even sound all that curious. Rather, he was simply intellectually interested in an answer. "They sent a letter to my regents explaining that I needed a signed form from them to continue the proceedings."
"No, Harry," Albus said. "They need a signed letter from your guardians. Vernon and Petunia Dursley."
Harry's relaxed demeanor became absolutely stiff at the mention of the names, and a sound met Albus's ears, just on the edge of hearing—a keening whine, like a razorblade being dragged across a chalkboard. Albus soon realized that it wasn't audible but piercing through his head, dragging across his mind. As he once again met Harry's eyes, the noise grew more intense, a white-hot knife of pure rage.
He was finally getting a glimpse into Harry's mind.
"Those two," Harry said, still in that same emotionless tone, "are no guardians of mine. No family. I've already obtained the necessary paperwork to have myself removed from their custody."
"I'm afraid, Harry, that that is not possible," Albus said. "They are your last living family, and our laws dictate that you must return to them come the end of the school year."
A shriek, now, from Harry's head, jagged nails scraping and clawing against the inside of his mind as though something were attempting to escape. Despite this, Harry remained nearly stoic, betraying only the slightest twitch of his eyebrow.
"…Is that so?" he asked after a pause. "Are you aware, Professor, of the treatment I've received under their care? Starvation? Emotional neglect? Serving as a workhorse and whipping boy while they lavish attention on my whale of a cousin?"
"It was an unfortunate but necessary consequence," Albus assured him. "In order to ensure your continued survival, it was imperative that you remain with your family."
At those words, Albus became aware of a splintering crack, a creaking groan as that seamless mental barrier in Harry's head gave way and finally shattered. Beneath it, a swirling torrent of the purest fury was revealed, a howling wind of wordless and incomprehensible rage. For a split-second, the full scope of the bottomless pit of primal hatred Harry felt for his only remaining family was known to Albus—before Harry blinked and looked away to stare at a nearby table bearing the headmaster's collection of magical instruments, watching them smoke and whir unceasingly.
"I see," he said, still in a voice of absolute calm. "Of course. Brilliant. That makes perfect sense. I suppose I won't be sending that paperwork after all."
"I know that this isn't the ideal situation for you," Albus spoke while that piercing sound continued to carve its way through his hearing. "I can understand why you would feel upset or slighted by your circumstances. But it does not do to dwell on the past or to let anger or vengeance fuel you. Such thoughts, such feelings…they eat away at a person, transform him into the worst version of himself."
"That would indeed be unfortunate," Harry said, still staring away and now surveying the assortment of portraits around the office. "I'd hate to waste my life so fruitlessly."
"I would advise you to think on the blessings you have in your life," Albus told him. "The opportunities that Hogwarts has afforded you for friendships, knowledge, belonging. These small joys can often defeat even the greatest of demons."
Harry stood now, slowly pacing his way over to the table of instruments and staring at them, then moving to consult Albus's collection of books. With the loss of eye contact, his thoughts were shrouded, but the long and low shriek of his white-hot resentment for his family remained, broadcasting out and making itself inexorably known. The half of his face that Albus could see wore a splitting grin that faded as he brought his gaze (and that screaming hatred) to bear in Albus's direction once more, staring off at some point over his shoulder.
"Well, sir, if that's all the sage wisdom you have for me, I think I'll need to go contemplate it, properly absorb the message and all that," he said. "Unless there's another bit of unwelcome news you have for me?"
"Fortunately, that's the end of the bad news for the day, Harry," Albus said with a small smile. Harry's mouth gave a twitch, his entire body tensing up as he gave a jerking nod.
"Then I believe I'll see myself out," he said. "Thank you, Headmaster."
He made his hurried way to the door, shutting it with a bit of force behind him. Well, he'd just been handed rather a vexing revelation; it was unsurprising he would be in a rush to be alone with his thoughts.
His thoughts themselves, though, were rather concerning; Albus had never seen such potent hatred, most especially from one so young. A boy of eleven had no business feeling such a profound bitterness, and to know that it couldn't really be helped was most heartbreaking of all. Harry had his role to play, and while the road would be a harsh one, many more would live happier and easier for his suffering.
At the very least, he seemed on his way to accepting his lot.
…
By all rights, Daphne should have been glad to be "intended" for Theodore Nott. The concept of arranged marriages had somewhat fallen out of practice among pureblood families (more due to the dwindling pool of eligible matches), but it wasn't entirely unheard of for a little pureblood girl to grow up to a mantra of "That's going to be your husband someday.". For her to hear this in regards to Theodore Nott was not the worst news; he was cute in a way that suggested he'd grow up to be a handsome young man, and he was polite if in a practiced and coached sort of way. He spat out all of the rehearsed phrases his father had fed him, offered his arm when they went for the occasional walk together (Mother hounded her and threatened Howlers if she didn't go for a stroll with him at least once a week), and he never so much as tried to place an unsavory kiss on her cheek.
But Daphne didn't want to marry him someday. She didn't even care to be friends with him during her schoolyears. The reason was pure and simple: she was expected to do it, with no input or consideration for her opinions on the matter. It had been decided for her, and for that simple fact, she had rejected it. Rejected her parents, rejected their opinions, and rejected their approval.
Unfortunately for her, she couldn't make this known for another seven years, or her life would go from mildly eye-rolling to completely miserable. Thankfully for her, Mother and Father were content to keep things relatively innocent between them while they focused on their studies. If keeping them happy meant the occasional stroll through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts alongside one of the least interesting boys Daphne had ever met, she could make that sacrifice.
Even if she would have rather been anywhere else.
"…fascinating, I guess, how much we still don't understand about temporal magic," Theodore was saying, though Daphne had to fight back a yawn. Theodore had a habit of rambling on about whatever interesting bit of magic he'd learned about recently, though Daphne found it not nearly as charming as when Hermione tended to do the same thing. Her breathless excitement and tendency to stumble over her words could make a treatise about proper broom maintenance sound riveting. Blinking away sleepy tears, she stared out the window as a gale of sleet battered at the castle. With an early winter threatening to freeze the castle, Warming Charms were all the rage in the corridors, and Daphne had taken to crawling into Hermione's bed out of a simple desire to share warmth lately.
Not that she had needed any excuse before.
Speaking of Hermione…
"So…you've been really buddying up to Granger, haven't you?" Theodore asked after a silence filled only by the steady thrum of rain against the high windows.
"I have," Daphne said evenly. "She's lovely."
"A muggle-born," Theodore observed. "In Slytherin."
"Those are both things which are true," Daphne said.
"It just doesn't sit well with me, I guess," Theodore said with a shrug. "You know, their type are allowed in Hogwarts, and that should be enough for them, don't you think? Do they have to be in Slytherin, too?"
"Their 'type'?" Daphne asked, trying in vain to keep the heat from her voice. "What's so wrong with a muggle-born being in Slytherin, as long as she's cunning and ambitious and all that?"
"Well…you know, Salazar Slytherin wanted his house to be a place for purebloods only," Theodore said, and he at least seemed to understand he was treading dangerous ground with this topic. "I'm not saying a muggle-born shouldn't be allowed to attend Hogwarts at all, I mean… I'd just rather they respect that we want a place to be…well, apart from them, you know?"
They had slowed to a stop by now, not far from the headmaster's office, and Daphne was doing everything in her power not to openly glare at Theodore as he spewed the drivel that had been hammered into his head by his bigoted git of a father. Did he even understand half of what he was saying, let alone believe in it?
Just as she was collecting her thoughts (and fighting a losing battle against openly yelling at the boy), a figure rounded the corner ahead of them, moving at a swift walk and trailing his robes behind him in an impressive billow. Drawing closer, Daphne recognized Harry Potter himself, who fixed his eyes on her and seemed to remember her as well. Throwing his arms out to his sides, he greeted Daphne with a wide and beaming smile.
"Daphne Greengrass!" he said just below a shout. His gaze twitched over to Theodore, who Daphne saw looked a little alarmed at his fervor.
She certainly agreed with such a notion.
"Hey, this guy bothering you?" Harry asked as he approached. "You seem…I'd like to use the word perturbed, but I'm not sure if that sounds right."
"Um…" Daphne had never seen the Boy-Who-Lived even half this energetic, and she could count the number of times she'd seen him smile on one hand. With zero fingers. "No, he's just saying some things I rather disagree with. Theodore, would you like to share your opinion on muggle-borns with Harry?"
It was no secret among the students that Hermione Granger was one of the few people that Harry Potter tolerated for any extended period of time (she'd grown very slightly famous for it), so when he fixed his wide and manic eyes (and suddenly rather dangerous grin) on Theodore, Daphne was unsurprised to see her "betrothed" wither beneath the intensity of his gaze.
"Theodore Cantankerus Nott, have you perhaps been spouting some unsavory notions about muggle-borns?" he asked, the words seeming to spill out one after the other.
"No, um…I have plenty of respect for muggle-borns," Theodore said. "I just…um… We'll talk later, Daphne?"
Without waiting for a response, Theodore stumbled back and scurried away, leaving Daphne rolling her eyes at the boy before turning back to Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived stared after Theodore with an intensely wide gaze, his eyes burning with some inner fire Daphne had never seen before. The normally monotonous boy with the flat and expressionless mask was apparently out to lunch, leaving this manic ball of energy in his place.
"What a prat," Daphne sighed, turning and jolting to see Harry now peering at her with that same frenetic grin. "Um…everything alright, Potter?"
"Are you familiar with the works of William Shakespeare, Daphne Greengrass?" Harry asked, whirling away from her and abruptly pausing to stare out the window at the sheets of freezing sleet crackling against the glass. "He's quite a famous muggle playwright, in fact Hermione's named after a character of his."
"Yeah, Hermione's mentioned him," Daphne said, trying to keep up with this seemingly-random non-sequitur.
"'And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch's voice cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war.'" He peered back over his shoulder at her, his face having suddenly transformed from his manic glee to an expression of the purest fury. "The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, Act Three, Scene One. Having witnessed the assassination of a man he held in dear regard, Marcus Antonius knows what's coming next. Violent and bloody conflict, such vile and hideous deeds that the people themselves will grow desensitized to the horrors and watch their own loved ones be carved to bits with nothing more than a smile. The dead themselves won't mourn their fate but beg to be put in the ground just to get away from it all."
Daphne could only watch, transfixed as he spoke, caught up in the passion of his words.
"The…politics and agendas, the stinking rot of it all, doesn't it just make you sick?" he asked, clenching a fist as he stared out into the gray expanse encompassing the grounds of the castle. Abruptly, he let a shuddering laugh that morphed into a cackle before seemingly composing himself. "They want a game of chess, to pretend their control and think us all pawns that will just…follow orders, rigid lines and squares. Doesn't it make you want to just…?"
"Flip the board?" Daphne suggested. "Scatter the pieces? Show them what their rules really mean?"
Harry spun to face her, that manic grin back in place and now excited, positively jubilant.
"Exactly!" he shouted, startling Daphne. "More than just…just not following the status quo, wouldn't it be so much more satisfying to show them that their status quo means an unpleasant fart in the wind to you? To shove their plans back in their fat stupid faces and leave them completely unable to recover because the little black square you're supposed to occupy isn't even there anymore?"
He let another trembling laugh, positively gleeful now. Daphne found herself staring back as his eyes met hers once more, and she was startled by the gleaming emerald she found there. Unbidden, her heart gave a small thud.
"If only we could, right?" she asked, very slightly breathlessly.
"If-if only, yeah, right," Harry said, now visibly tensing. His eyes clenched shut as his hands curled at his sides, and he took a deep breath, letting it out with an explosive sigh. When he looked at her once more, the familiar and flat glass orbs stared out at Daphne, a doll's gaze.
"Everything good?" Daphne asked tentatively, and Harry blinked several times, shaking his head vigorously like a dog attempting to dislodge a bug. After several seconds, he spoke, and his voice was the familiar flat monotone Daphne was used to.
"I'm alright," he said. "I apologize if I haven't seemed myself. I would appreciate if we could…forget all that."
"Forget what?" Daphne asked with a shrug, winking at him. "We were having a lovely talk, the…details of which are already a bit difficult to remember."
Harry's mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile, and he nodded at her.
"I need to send a letter," he said. "I'll see you around, Daphne."
He turned and strode away at his placid pace, leaving Daphne to wonder what in the world she had just been witness to. Harry had been…not himself. Or rather, he'd been rather a different version of himself, one with a deeply philosophical side filtered through a lens of profoundly manic energy. It hadn't been a wholly separate personality of some sort, rather a different facet of Harry's, a side that he kept under wraps for reasons Daphne couldn't fathom.
All she knew for sure was, she desperately wanted to get to know it.