BLACK STILL AT LARGE!
"Professor Snape, why are you giving me this?" Harry asked tiredly. He was sitting at the faculty table in the Great Hall, eating breakfast with the rest of the summer inhabitants of Hogwarts, who were all adults. It was slightly awkward, but manageable. Dumbledore insisted the boy have at least one meal with them each day, so that he wouldn't become starved of human interaction. And so that they could be sure he hadn't somehow been offed in the middle of the night, but that part was left unsaid.
"Well, Potter, if you'd read it, maybe you would find out," Snape replied snarkily, hardly pausing in his meal. Harry sighed, but began tearing into the Daily Prophet article.
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.
"We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm."
Fudge has been criticised by some members of the International Confederation of Wizards for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.
"Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it — who'd believe him if he did?"
While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.
For more information on Black, turn to page three (03).
Harry turned to page three. Son of Orion and Walburga Black… Sorted into Gryffindor in Hogwarts… Fought against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named… Betrayed the Potters?
Harry's eyebrows furrowed, and he glanced up at Snape. The Potions Master was diligently consuming his scrambled eggs and hash, but Harry saw the smirk on his face. The boy pinched the bridge of his nose, and set the paper aside. There was no point in reading anymore- he'd just ask the Headmaster about it later. Or now, actually, since the old man was at the table with them.
"Excuse me, Headmaster?"
"Yes, dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, looking up from his meal.
"What do you know about Sirius Black?"
The Headmaster's fork dropped to his plate, an action mirrored by McGonagall and Flitwick nearby. The other Professors were startled enough to stop eating. Except Snape, of course. The clink of the Potions Professor's cutlery against his plate was the only noise in the Great Hall for a long moment, before Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"If you don't mind my asking, what caused you to pose that question?"
Harry picked the newspaper up, flashing the headline at the old man, who looked like he was about to have a stroke.
"Severus!" he shouted, shooting to his feet so abruptly that his chair tipped backwards, slamming against the floor.
"Yes, Headmaster?" the man asked demurely, seemingly unbothered. His utensils continued moving, eyes still cast down towards the table.
"Please come with me to my office."
"Of course. As soon as I finish-"
An immense pressure filled the room, causing Snape to choke on his words. His head snapped up, and he flinched at the heat in Dumbledore's eyes.
"Now."
Snape didn't test the old man any more, immediately rising and gliding out the room, on the heels of the Headmaster. The remaining occupants of the table glanced uneasily at each other, before hesitantly continuing their meal. They were much more subdued now.
Harry's eyebrows were quirked while he tried to figure out what had just happened, but he gave up and finished eating. He had more training to do in the Room.
Battle Transfiguration was difficult. It required so much focus, Harry could scarcely keep up with it. Conjure whatever item you needed, throw it at the opponent, usually with the use of Banishers. It was rare that the first wave of projectiles did much of anything, and they usually ended up littering the ground after being dodged/deflected. Once there, you could move them around with Banishers, Summoners, or Levitation to throw it back at the enemy. Or, you could Transfigure it from an inanimate object to an animate object to do the movement for you. If you simply Transfigured the inanimate object to another inanimate object more suited for what was needed at the moment, then you had to exert more concentration to move it around.
In battle, multiple items needed to be used at the same time to have any real effect. An enemy would have a much easier time blocking a ball from the front, than twenty from all sides. Masters could Transfigure those twenty items into various separate objects, meaning the opponent would be dodging blocks, spikes, chairs, and even the occasional cat, alongside the original ball. That was where the trouble came in. Harry had a bit of an issue with tunnel-vision, so while he was Transfiguring and moving one object, he was neglecting the rest. He needed to get better at multitasking, which is why he started with the defensive side of Battle Transfiguration first.
A number of wooden dummies produced by the Room of Requirement- six or seven, depending on how he felt that day- would launch spells at him, while he magically manipulated objects to jump in the way of his enemies' spells. As an added level of difficulty, the dolls were mobile, meaning that three could distract him from various angles, while the remaining foes gathered up, and sent a large wave of spells his way. Whenever that happened, he Transfigured the floor, causing it to rise in a wave of stone that blocked it. This method of shielding had its benefits and drawbacks, just as the Shield Charm did.
While the Shield Charm could block physical objects of certain sizes, and deflect certain spells based on the power of the caster, they could never protect against the Unforgivables. Those three particularly vile pieces of magic would punch holes right through any magical shield, shattering the entire thing and allowing the person to be bombarded, if they weren't already incapacitated and/or dead.
However, physical shields could. They would explode upon contact with an Unforgivable, but they did the job. They were also good for other physical objects. However, a Reducto or two would turn them to dust.
Then, there were the power requirements. Protego had both a holding cost, and an impact cost. Whenever something smacked into the shield, the energy draw increased momentarily. If it was shattered, then the mental backlash would put a lesser wizard out of the fight. A physical shield only drained the amount required to Transfigure it into the required shape, but was much more fragile, far less versatile, and would obscure the user's vision if it wasn't glass.
It was all a balancing act, knowing when to use each type, for how long, in what shape. Despite what many people thought, and what Harry used to think, dueling was a lot more than simply tossing spells back and forth. There were little nuances in every single thing, from where you put your foot, to how much sheer power you had. It was true that raw strength had won many wizards many duels, but the truly skilled could take the magical reserves of a First Year and lay the smackdown on someone equivalent to Albus Dumbledore. In theory. In actuality, the more powerful of the two would probably just spew explosive spells which were too strong for the merely skilled to completely block, resulting in a victory.
Harry decided to get creative, however. In his latest book, Dueling for Masters, there was described something regarded as one of the most arduous endeavors for any wizard, something only incredibly experienced and titanically powerful wizards, those on the level of Albus Dumbledore, could accomplish; wandless magic.
Of course, since it was purely intent-based, Harry had it down in a month. He was able to wandlessly Banish, Summon, and Levitate objects, allowing him incredible control during a duel. With his wand Conjuring and Transfiguring, he was able to use his off-hand to manipulate the position of those objects, whilst simultaneously altering the shape of other things. Through extensive practice, his ability to focus on many things drastically improved- further improved by the concentration-enhancement of Occlumency- and he was soon able to move on to the offensive aspect of Battle Transfiguration.
Once more, he shocked Dumbledore in one of their weekly duels. Harry had completely hidden his progress in that field, and so was able to bust out the moves in one fell swoop, blindsiding the Headmaster. Of course, the man was hardly one to be beaten by a boy, and thoroughly thrashed his student, but the smile on the old man's face definitely made up for the bruises and welts. After that pleasant surprise, their duels once more ramped up in intensity, and Harry once more ramped up his training.
"So, what was that all about at breakfast, Headmaster?" Harry asked, lounging on the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. He'd finished his training for the day, and was a bit sick of being cooped up in the Room of Requirement.
The old man, who had been hunched over a paper, deflated with a puff of air. He put the quill he was writing with back in its inkwell, then slumped backwards in his chair.
"I'm terribly sorry you had to see that, dear boy, but what Severus did was unforgivable, and needed to be taken care of immediately. I knew he held a certain degree of… Hostility, towards you, but to think he would do something like that…"
Harry tilted his head. "I don't quite understand. Why was showing me a newspaper so horrible?"
The Headmaster removed his spectacles, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I would like to say you are too young to be told, but considering how your childhood was already ripped from you… This is quite the long story, so I hope you have nothing to attend to tonight. It begins a few years before your birth. I was down at Hogsmeade, in my brother Aberforth's tavern, the Hog's Head Inn, holding interviews for the position of the Divination Professor. That day, I met Sybill Trelawney, who I hired afterwards. As for why… There is no easy way to say this, my boy, so I will be straightforward; she made a true prophecy."
Harry blinked. "You mean all that stuff about telling the future is real?"
"Yes- to a degree- but that is not important at the moment. If you wish to learn more, you are always welcome to enroll in Divination as an elective for next year. Or, you can simply speak with Professor Trelawney. What is important, however, are the contents of that prophecy. It would be better if I showed you that bit."
Dumbledore rose from his rather comfortable chair, and bustled over to one of the shelves. From it, he pulled down a stone bowl, the bottom of which was covered in intricate patterns. Placing the bowl on the center of his desk, shoving aside the undesirable paperwork to clear a space, he sat back down heavily.
"This, is a pensieve. It allows one to view memories. To acquire the memories, all you must do is hold the tip of your wand up to your temple, and concentrate on the memory you wish to view. Magic will do the rest, but it does help to be an Occlumens, to allow for easier retrieval." Dumbledore did just as he said, and pulled a swirl of silver, misty light from his head. With a flick of his wrist, the memory detached from his wand, falling into the pensieve to fill it up.
"These memories can also be stored in vials, which is useful for long-term storage. Now, if you will merely dip a finger into the pensieve, we can begin viewing."
The room was about what one would expect from a medieval meeting room in a tavern. The floors and walls were made of warped wooden boards. Torch holsters hung near the ceiling, but instead of flaming sticks, they held orbs of light encased in glass. Not Muggle light bulbs, more like a permanent Lumos. The single rectangular window was split into four panes by a cross-shaped divider.
A wooden table surrounded by wooden chairs sat at the center of the room, where Dumbledore sat across from a woman Harry had never seen. She wore thick, circular glasses which didn't quite cover the heavy bags under her eyes- though that was more because the bags were incredibly large. Her frizzy, dark blonde hair was kept out of her face with a red bandana. What really caught Harry's eye was the amount of jewelry the woman wore.
More rings than she had fingers, enough necklaces and chains to ensure she had hunched shoulders in a few more years, and all those bracelets were likely to give her arthritis at some point.
She and the Headmaster spoke for a while, with the old man asking what sounded like standard questions about her records and credentials, while Trelawney answered in a daze, her voice lighter than air, and incredibly quiet. It reminded him quite a bit of Luna. Dumbledore spent most of the conversation trying to lean forward so he could actually hear her, which his aged spine likely did not appreciate much. Then, things got… Weird.
Trelawney's eyes rolled up into her head, and she shot to her feet like a rocket, her chair flying backwards. The woman lunged across the table, grabbing onto the startled Headmaster's shoulders with an iron grip. She began shrieking gutturally, much deeper than her normal voice.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches! Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal! But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives! The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
Trelawney collapsed suddenly, sprawling on the table top, limbs hanging over the edges. Dumbledore, who was shocked beyond words, merely watched as the woman tossed around in her unconscious state, and rolled off the table, impacting heavily with the floorboards. Still, he did not move, and the memory ended.
Harry found himself tossed haphazardly back into his chair, his body throwing itself away from the disturbing scene in the pensieve. Dumbledore was much calmer, simply removing his finger from the bowl. With two flicks of his wand, the memory was Vanished, and the pensieve Levitated back to its spot on the shelf.
Harry watched the stone bowl float through the air, but turned his attention back to the old man when he began speaking.
"I have figured out a few things about that prophecy, through much speculation and consultation with Seers around the world. First of all, there were the criteria which resulted in you becoming the child of the prophecy. Born as the seventh month dies means that you would be born towards the end of July, and your birthday is July 31st, the final day of the seventh month. Next, born to those who have thrice defied the Dark Lord. This was a point of heated debate, since nobody was quite sure what the word defy entailed. Did it mean those who silently cursed Voldemort? Those who blocked his political maneuvers? Or those who stood against him in battle? Apparently, Voldemort decided on the final interpretation as the correct one, which is why he was able to narrow in on your parents. Your father, James, was an incredibly skilled Auror, who had faced off against Voldemort three times in the war, only narrowly avoiding being killed until reinforcements arrived. Your mother, while not a duelist, was still able to hold her own against some of Voldemort's less battle-inclined Death Eaters, which seemed to count as defying him. So, Voldemort hunted them relentlessly, becoming even more vicious upon learning that Lily was pregnant. With every encounter between your parents and the Dark Lord, the body count on both sides increased, though James and Lily managed to survive.
"Next, the issue of the power he knows not; the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. I must admit, I have no clue as to what that may be. I do not mean to insult, Mr. Potter, but you do not seem to have any outstanding talents, aside from your rather advanced skill in dueling. I sincerely hope the prophecy is not referring to that, though, because Voldemort has an incredible amount of experience on his side in that field. Anything you throw at him, he has likely already seen and devised a counter for, allowing him to systematically disassemble every facet of your offense, then pick apart your defense with his extensive knowledge of obscure spells. Even I, in my old age, cannot stand against him for very long. His understanding of dark magic is deep, and the things he can do with it…" The old man shuddered violently, eyes glazed, staring through Harry in that moment. It took a long moment before he regained his senses, shaking his head to snap out of his daze, ruffling his beard. "I had hoped that this power was the one which somehow reflected the Killing Curse back at Voldemort, but unfortunately, Fate did not deem it to be enough."
"I've been wondering about that," Harry said, taking this chance to speak up, despite how much he wanted to flee and curl up in the Room of Requirement, never to leave again. "The reason I'm so famous is because everyone thinks I somehow managed to destroy Voldemort, even though I was literally a baby. How did he survive that? Also, how did I survive that?"
"How you survived, nobody truly knows, though I suspect Lily dabbled in rituals; at the cost of her own life, and the chance to watch you grow into a man, she was able to ensure your survival. As a mother who desperately loves her child, there are few sacrifices worth more. For Voldemort… That is of a decidedly darker nature, as are most of the things he does. True, his physical form was destroyed quite thoroughly on that night, but his spirit, on the other hand, managed to live on. I believe you had an encounter with it in your First Year."
Harry delved into his mind, shuffling through his memories of important events in that year, and the things that stood out most to him were the Philosopher's Stone, and Quirrell, who had a Dark Lord living on the back of his head. When Quirrell had died, Harry remembered seeing a black mist rise up out of the man's mouth, shooting through the ceiling and vanishing. Honestly, Harry hadn't been sure what that was, but now that he thought about it…
"Yeah. I saw him leave Quirrell's corpse. It was only a cloud of black fog, so I thought it was just some weird thing that happened when evil people died, but your explanation makes a bit more sense."
Dumbledore smiled wryly, but the expression was weak. It was quite sobering to be reminded that his student had killed one of the people who was supposed to protect him, but thankfully, the boy did not seem incredibly affected by it. Still, it would have to be addressed eventually, along with… Other things.
"The reason Voldemort was able to survive being turned into a formless spirit was due to the blackest of dark magic; Horcruxes. The splitting of one's very soul."
Harry's face contorted in horrified intrigue, with a healthy dose of disgust, which created quite the interesting image.
"What…?" he muttered, accidentally slipping into Parseltongue in his disturbed state. Dumbledore blinked, but decided not to comment on the unexpected hissing. He, too, had cycled through many languages in his rant on the abhorrent subject when he first learned of it.
Dumbledore opened one of the drawers of his desk, and pulled out a very familiar black diary. "This seems to have been Voldemort's Horcrux. He stored a piece of his soul in this diary, which is what tethered him to the mortal realm, allowing him to survive that Halloween. I'll not explain further, since simply talking about this is making me nauseous."
Harry nodded, his green skin making it obvious that he agreed completely.
"Still, it is odd that the diary no longer seems to be a Horcrux… As far as I know, there are only three ways to destroy one; basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, and the Killing Curse. However, all three leave visible evidence of the destruction, yet the diary is intact. It is most odd…"
Harry slowly became pale, alerting Dumbledore. "Mr. Potter?"
"C-can you… Bring back the pensieve?"
Dumbledore was trembling. He didn't know what to make of what he had just seen, but he definitely knew that it could not be good.
"Mr. Potter… Harry… Would you be able to explain to me what just happened?"
"I… May or may not have… Absorbed the Horcrux?"
The Headmaster inhaled deeply, and exhaled just as loudly. He put on a calm face, exerting his Occlumency to prevent himself from exploding at the student, who seemed even more scared than he had been.
"You said your scar caused you immense pain, correct?"
"Y-yeah. I only felt really warm at first, but my scar started burning when the heat reached it."
Dumbledore casually pulled out his wand, pointing it at the boy, who flinched. Dumbledore stilled his hand for just a moment. "Relax, my boy, I am merely going to perform a few diagnostic spells, to check something."
Harry's muscles slowly loosened up, and the Headmaster's wand began to twirl quickly. Light after light flashed in front of Harry, and the boy had no clue how the Headmaster was keeping up with it. Finally, after the rainbow had passed in front of him about a dozen times, Dumbledore lowered his hand. He reached down into one of his drawers again, and pulled out… Whiskey?
The old man popped the cap, and started chugging. Within a minute, the bottle was empty, and the Headmaster belched loudly, before carelessly tossing the glass behind him, where it shattered.
"H… Headmaster?"
Steam was pouring out of the old man's ears like a train whistle, and only when it stopped did he regard the boy, seemingly calmer now.
"Apologies for such unsightly behavior, Harry, but I felt that it was necessary, all things considered."
Harry just nodded slowly.
"Now that I'm all liquored up, I feel that I can be incredibly blunt with you, and simply blame any consequences on the alcohol. Are you ready, my boy? Yes? Good. Somehow, on that Halloween night, aside from getting himself blown up, Voldemort seemed to accidentally make you a Horcrux. The piece of his soul was stuck in your forehead, where your scar is. It seems that when it interacted with the soul in the diary, it broke through the magical blocks I had put in place to prevent the thing from infecting your mind, and the two pieces merged together. Judging by the diagnostic charms I have just cast, they do not seem to be affecting you in any way, other than a noticeable increase in your magic reserves, which were already quite large for your age. I believe the pain you felt was only caused by the forceful disabling of the blocks I mentioned, which is actually quite lucky, since you'll likely need to do it again. If Voldemort's soul was unstable enough that he could accidentally create a Horcrux, that means he's ripped his spirit apart multiple times. As such, there are more Horcruxes out there, which is incredibly problematic, if I do say so myself. We'll have to get rid of them if we ever want to truly end the threat of Voldemort. Oh, and by the way, Voldemort's real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. It's getting annoying, constantly referring to him as Voldemort, when I can simply call him Tom. And now, that is all I have to say- wait, no it isn't.
"You came asking about Sirius Black. Very well. At some point, your parents became sick of constantly running away from Voldemort, and asked me to help them set up enchantments on a home which they could hide away in. I placed the Fidelius Charm on it, which blocks a property from all the senses, magical included. The drawback of the Fidelius, however, is the need for a Secret Keeper. The existence of the hidden property is the Secret, which then needs to be hidden in the soul of somebody. It cannot be either the caster or the owner of the house, since an incredible amount of magic is already running through them, and to attempt it would kill them both, and level the surrounding area. So, Sirius Black was James and Lily's Secret Keeper. The thing about being the Secret Keeper is that they are the only ones who can divulge the secret- even the caster and homeowner are unable to do that. Black went to Voldemort and shared the Secret, Voldemort found Godric's Hollow, and things went tits-up from there. Within the last month or so, Black escaped from Azkaban, the most high-security Wizarding prison in the world, and it's suspected he'll come after you to finish what his master started. Now that is all I have to say. A good evening, dear boy!"
With that, Dumbledore pulled out another bottle of alcohol, which he immediately began to guzzle, while Harry walked out of the Headmaster's Office in a daze. Before he could even reach the bottom of the steps, he heard an earthshaking belch, the shattering of glass, and the slamming of a drawer once more.
Harry was sitting in the Room of Requirement, trying desperately to sort through his thoughts. Had he not been a budding Occlumens, he would have likely been overwhelmed. As it was, though, he managed to delve into his mind, examining and rewatching each memory, continuously rereading the sheets of paper which held the information in a text form. Why his brain was set up like that, Harry had no clue, but it likely stemmed from the habit he'd developed of noting down all his known spells on parchment throughout Second Year.
Horcruxes, Secret Keepers, prophecies… What the bloody hell have I gotten myself into? Maybe it would've been easier if Vol… Tom, succeeded all those years ago. At least, then I wouldn't have to deal with Sirius Black apparently coming to murder me.
With that rather dismal thought, Harry exited his mindscape, and set to work on further training. If the Dark Lord's right-hand man was hunting him, then he needed to be prepared. That meant it was time to stop playing with the kiddie gloves, and allow the training dummies to cast lethal spells at him. He'd also need much better combat spells, which meant delving into the darker side of magic, since they were simply so much more versatile. He would start with a single dummy, and slowly work his way back up to the seven he was used to facing off against.
Hopefully, he wouldn't die just training. That would be pretty anticlimactic.
In the morning, a visit to the Library under his Invisibility Cloak granted him access to the Restricted Section, which Harry immediately began scouring. One book, in particular, caught his attention; Magick Moste Evile. Considering it used those archaic spellings, there was a fairly high chance that it had something useful. Also, the fact that it was in the Restricted Section was telling.
Harry spent an hour or two flipping through the book, committing everything worthwhile
to memory with the help of his Occlumency. There were quite a few curses in there that seemed quite promising; Disintegration, Blasting, and even Entrail-Expelling, which was incredibly disturbing when he thought about it. Still, if it would give him the edge in a battle against an experienced, bloodthirsty Death Eater, then he'd take it.
"My clothes are getting tight…" Harry muttered, stretching this way and that, only for his movement to be noticeably restricted, sleeves riding up his wrists and ankles. They were hand-me downs from when Dudley was about ten or so, and Harry was only now the same size as the younger version of his fat cousin.
With a sigh, Harry realized he'd need to go shopping. He'd also need to go to Diagon Alley, to pick up all his school supplies, and get a bit of cash from his trust vault. Did Gringotts exchange galleons for pounds? Probably. They were a bank, after all.
Down at the breakfast table, he turned to Dumbledore when they'd both finished their meals.
"Headmaster, I need to go to Diagon Alley to get my school supplies, and then I'll need to make a stop in London to buy some new clothes. My current ones no longer fit quite right."
The old man seemed thoughtful for a moment, before nodding. "Very well. However, you will need a chaperone- there is no telling what may happen outside of Hogwarts' wards. Hmm… How about you, Severus?"
Snape looked up from his plate, blinking slowly. "I'm sorry, Headmaster, but what?"
"You are the only one not currently busy, what with Minerva preparing for the incoming First Year Muggleborns, Filius participating in a duelling tournament out in the Continent-"
"Wait, Professor Flitwick's in a dueling tournament?" Harry interrupted.
Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, yes, I forgot he doesn't disclose that information to his students anymore, since they tend to be quite insistent that he teach them. But, yes, Filius is quite the accomplished duelist. Seven-time international champion, I believe."
Harry's eyes were sparkling, and Dumbledore turned back to Snape with a chuckle. "As I was saying, Pomona is busy with some of the more dangerous plants in the greenhouses, which requires immense concentration; she has no time for distractions. And the only other adult currently in this castle would be Sybill, who we can both agree is unfit to be a chaperone."
"What about you?" Snape asked, eyes narrowed.
"I, coincidentally, have an I.C.W meeting to attend. The magical settlement of Wakanda has been running into a few issues with rival tribes, and they have asked the I.C.W for some advice. Speaking of which, I must go now- if that situation escalates too far, it could throw the entirety of Magical Africa into turmoil. Have fun on your trip, you two!"
With that, Dumbledore strode quickly out of the room leaving Harry and Snape to stare at each other. Snape's scowl was a bit less pronounced than usual. Apparently, Dumbledore's scolding the other day had put out his fiery hatred. It'd probably be roaring like a blast furnace in no time, though.
"So…" Harry said, breaking the awkward silence.
"Come then, brat. Let's get this out of the way."
Snape rose, and Harry followed.
Shooting out the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry, for once in his life, did not fall on his face. Albeit, that was probably because Snape, who had gone before him, was there to stop his fall with an iron grip on his arm, but still. Small victories.
"Thanks," Harry said, dusting the ash off his robes. Snape nodded wordlessly, and walked over to the hidden entrance. A few taps of his wand, and Diagon Alley was revealed to the two.
The hustle and bustle of the place used to amaze Harry every time. Things flying around, animated window displays, adult witches and wizards in full magical dress, sometimes even complete with the stereotypical pointy hat- it just seemed so magical to him. Hogwarts was all well and good, but here, in Diagon Alley, Harry could really see magic at work. Now, though… It was just loud. It no longer seemed impressive, not when he was used to a rainbow of spells flying through the air at nearly all times in the Room of Requirement. The people staring at him with awe were especially annoying.
"Alright, Professor, you can go do whatever it is you do."
Snape raised an eyebrow at the boy. "The Headmaster specifically said not to leave you alone."
"What he doesn't know won't kill him. Probably. He might have a stroke if he ever finds out, though, so definitely don't say anything."
Snape's normally-cruel smirk seemed more amused now. "Well, in that case, I shall be conducting business down in Knockturn Alley. Here is your Vault Key- the Headmaster gave it to me on his way out. We'll meet back in the Leaky Cauldron in the evening."
Harry took the key, nodded, and waved as he walked away from the Professor. First stop, Gringotts. He needed some cash.
"What do you mean, which vault do I want to access?"
"It means exactly what it sounds like, Mr. Potter," the goblin said irately, "Which vault are you going to be accessing today?"
"Oh… Well, what are the choices?"
Griphook's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What games are you playing, wizard?"
Harry took a step back, hand ready to go for his wand. "I'm not playing any games. I just wasn't aware that there was anything other than my Trust Vault."
Griphook blinked, confused, though his anger remained. If anything, it seemed to deepen. "How could you be unaware of the other vaults?" the goblin growled.
"Nobody ever bothered to tell me! And this is my first time coming to Gringotts where I wasn't just pushed into a minecart and sent on my way!"
The goblin gritted his teeth, seemingly ready to burst a blood vessel. He stood and walked around the counter, pushing through the divider between the accountant and customer sides. Harry tensed up, but relaxed slightly when Griphook began walking away from him.
"Follow me!" Griphook called behind, not bothering to look back. They wove through the back halls of Gringotts, stopping in front of an office, with a plaque on the door reading Nagnok. Griphook opened the door without even knocking.
"Nagnok!" Griphook said loudly, agitation bleeding into his already-rough voice. "This is Harry Potter- says he doesn't know anything about his Vaults. Deal with him, he's holding up the lines."
With that, Griphook shoved past Harry and exited the room, leaving the young Wizard alone with the other goblin.
"Sit, Mr. Potter," Nagnok said, gesturing to the chair in front of him. He was just as gruff as Griphook, though seemingly more pleasant, if only slightly. Harry did as he was commanded. Nagnok dug through one of his desk drawers for a little bit. He pulled out a sheet of paper and a needle, placing them both in front of the boy.
"Put a drop of blood on that paper. It will confirm you are truly Harry James Potter."
Harry did so, idly amazed how the wound healed instantly. Nagnok examined the paper, and nodded.
"Alright then, Mr. Potter. What seems to be the problem?" Nagnok asked, leaning forward to steeple his hands on the desk.
"Like Griphook said, I don't really know anything about my vaults. I thought I only had the Trust Vault, but apparently, there's more."
Nagnok nodded. "Which vault you can access depends on your status in the family. For example, if you were the Lord of the House Potter, then you would have complete control of the Potter Family Vaults. You may also be a member of other families, so it is likely you will have access to other vaults, though that will be restricted. A simple blood test will allow us to determine these things, since being part of a family, whether through birth or blood-adoption, alters your blood." Nagnok shoved forward another piece of paper, along with the needle from before. "Put a drop of blood on that."
Within a few moments, a variety of colors appeared on the paper, which only Nagnok seemed to be able to interpret.
"Let's see… Heir Apparent to House Potter by birth, Heir Presumptive to House Peverell by birth- made Heir Apparent by right of conquest- Heir Presumptive to House Black by blood-adoption, Heir Apparent to House Gryffindor by recognition of a family artifact, and Heir Apparent to House Slytherin by right of conquest. Quite the list there, Mr. Potter."
Harry's head was spinning, for the second time in as many days. Wait, Black? As in Sirius Black? And what's up with the Founders? Recognition by a family artifact… The Sword of Gryffindor? Probably. Right of conquest might have come from that whole Heir of Slytherin mess last year. Did defeating Tom like that really count as a victory? He was a memory, though… A memory of Voldemort. Is that what it's talking about? That Halloween night? I didn't do anything to beat him- that was probably all my mother. Unless, she gained it, and then it got passed down to me? And what the heck is Peverell?
"...Potter! Mr. Potter!"
Harry was broken from his turmoil by Nagnok's increasingly loud calls. The boy quickly filed that stuff away for later, and turned his attention to the goblin.
"Uh, sorry, just… It's a lot to take in. What's this whole presumptive and apparent business?"
"An Heir Presumptive is the person likely to become the next Lord of the House. However, there is always the possibility of another being chosen by the current Lord. The Heir Apparent is guaranteed to become the next Lord, even if the current Lord no longer wishes otherwise. That is why, today, most nobles are hesitant to assign that role. However, with the more ancient families- such as Peverell, Slytherin, and Gryffindor- there are a few other factors which can lead to becoming Heir Apparent. These can be set up or rescinded at any time by the current Lord, though it is a practice that has fallen out of favor. Most common was the right of conquest; if the Heir Presumptive initiates a battle with another Wizard and loses, then the victor becomes the Heir Apparent, regardless of their relation to the family before the battle. This was used to flesh out weakness in the family, since the Lords of those times had much more realistic views on failure. In the case of House Peverell, of which there were two Heir Presumptives, a battle between them resulted in one being made the Heir Apparent. Recognition of an artifact is usually only something established by the progenitor of a blood line. Whatever heirloom they pass down can be infused with the beliefs of the original wielder through certain rituals, and should it recognize those in another, then that person will be made the Heir Apparent."
Harry nodded dumbly, lips parted slightly and eyes wide with amazement. Nagnok sighed, knowing he had lost the boy. "Basically, you will become the Lord of Houses Potter, Peverell, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. Nothing short of death will change that. As for House Black, there is the possibility of the current Lord Black changing your status. However, that is highly unlikely, considering he is on the run from the Aurors, and as such, would likely stay away from Gringotts."
"Sirius Black is the current Lord?"
"Yes. He also happens to be the one who blood-adopted you."
The one who betrayed my parents and got them murdered also made me the Heir of his House? What the bloody hell…?
"Right. Gonna ignore that little tidbit for now. So, which vaults can I access?"
Nagnok seemed amused by Harry's bluntness. "For the Houses which you are Heir Apparent of, you have full access to all their vaults. Normally, as the Heir Presumptive, you would have access to about half of the Black Family Vault, but it seems that Lord Black has decided to give you unrestricted access to all the vaults. So, which would you like to visit?"
"Uh… I think I'll just stick to the Potter Trust Vault for now. I don't have the keys for the other ones anyways."
"Very well. We will send you all the keys by owl once copies are made. Do you have any other questions?"
Harry thought about it for a moment, before deciding that he did. "How do I become Lord for those Houses?"
"You will automatically become Lord upon reaching your majority, which is seventeen years of age for you Wizards. Or, you can do so earlier by becoming emancipated. When either happens, your Heir Rings will transform into your Lordship Rings, indicating your new status."
"Heir Rings?"
"Ah, yes. Figures you wouldn't have those either. One moment."
Nagnok dug around in his drawers some more, but for far longer this time. Finally, he pulled out a stone bowl. It reminded Harry of the pensieve, though much less ornate. The rock was completely smooth, without any kind of pattern whatsoever. Nagnok shuffled aside the papers on his desk, then set the bowl down in the empty space.
"Fill this bowl with your blood, then dip your hand in it." Nagnok handed over a silver knife, and Harry took it gingerly. Holding his left palm over the bowl, he slashed a quick line across the center of it, and watched in surprise as blood began rushing out in a torrent- faster than he would have thought. In a few seconds, however, the wound closed up, leaving the stone bowl filled to the brim with crimson. Harry gave back the knife, and dipped his left hand in. It took a moment, but the blood started to bubble, then steam.
Harry watched in awe as the life-giving liquid began to congeal, then shrink until it surrounded the base of each of his fingers- aside from his thumb- in cylinders of solid blood. After a few moments of contortion, each circle hardened, and began to shift even more, until four rings sat upon his fingers. Each was quite long, covering from the knuckle to the first joint, but shaped in a way such that it didn't interfere with the movement of his fingers.
On his index finger sat a golden band, rubies lodged into it, one massive red gem embedded on the top. Carved into it was a lion, standing on its hind paws, forepaws raised and poised to attack. Harry knew exactly which one this was, considering it was his Hogwarts House. Until he got evicted by his housemates, that is. This was the Gryffindor ring.
His middle finger held a ring incredibly similar to the Gryffindor ring; gold band, rubies, and lion engraving. However, the design contained multiple lions, who were simply laying on their stomachs next to each other, feline faces turned so that the entirety of their majestic manes could be seen. Perhaps the Potter Ring? It was apparently common knowledge that Potters had always been sorted into Gryffindor House since the first one to enter Hogwarts, so...
The ring finger was where things changed. A silver band, covered in a black stone. Given the purplish tint, Harry assumed it was obsidian or something of the sort. It depicted a series of shapes; a circle inside of a triangle, with a straight line vertically bisecting the both of them. He had no clue which House this ring represented.
On his pinky, there was another silver ring. This one had sapphires dotting it, a large emerald with a snake inscribed into it as the centerpiece. Obviously, the Slytherin Ring.
Wait, that's only four. Where's…?
The final ring was still in the bowl; apparently, it wouldn't fit itself to his thumb. He picked up the silver band, taking note of the onyx implants. This ring had a simple skull design. The boy slipped it onto his right middle finger.
Harry clenched his left hand into a fist, admiring the way the cool metal pressed against his skin, running a finger over the smooth crystals. It was almost like one of the Muggle knuckle dusters he'd seen in those old gangster movies on the telly.
I'm gonna punch somebody with these.
Nagnok's guttural laughter startled Harry, causing him to realize he'd accidentally spoken aloud, and he flushed a bit. He stayed quiet, though. He didn't want to embarass himself more while trying to fix things.
"Aye, a fine first reaction, Mr. Potter! Just, try not to act on it until you're outside the bank? When you do, however, keep in mind that those rings are bound to your soul by your blood- so long as you are alive, they will not break. Feel free to run wild."
Harry nodded silently.
"Now, with all that aside, would you like to go visit your vaults now?"
Another nod.
"Then go back out to the front desks, and tell Griphook. A good day to you, Mr. Potter."
Harry walked out of Gringotts with a weightless pouch full of about five thousand galleons, and a credit card with ten thousand pounds on it. The currency exchange rate was about one hundred pounds to the galleon, so in all, his Trust Vault was now fifty-one hundred galleons emptier. Considering it held up to twenty thousand, that wasn't really much, and there were all the other vaults he had access too, so... It wasn't like he'd use up all of that, anyways. He'd only gotten so much so he wouldn't have to go Gringotts again for a while. Those minecarts were not easy on the stomach.
First stop; a new trunk. His old one had been a ratty thing in the first place, and two years had not been kind to it. Custom commissions were a thing, apparently. With a bag full of money in his pocket, Harry decided to go a bit crazy. The maximum seven compartments (books, potion supplies, clothes, school supplies, his broom and the accompanying cleaning supplies, and then two empty compartments, just to have), armed to the wooden teeth with as many security wards as the trunk could handle, which included blood locks and interference alerts. It would be made of almost-black ebony wood, with a fine silver trim. On top of the lid would be a series of runes that activated at the tap of a wand. Weightless, shrinking, full lockdown, compartment selection, and others. In the center of that mess were Harry's initials; HJP, carved into the wood, the indents filled with emerald. Obviously, the entire thing was charmed to be unbreakable, resist wear-and-tear, fireproof, waterproof, and so on.
It would take a good while for the shop owner to throw that together, which is why Harry went there first. He needed to have a trunk if he wanted to carry around all those new items, and he'd left his old one at the castle. Harry paid eight hundred galleons upfront, which he did not regret in the slightest.
Next, Ollivander's.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather core. Intact, meticulously cleaned, well-worn… You've put that wand through its paces, lad. Quite remarkable, considering you've only had it for about three years."
"Uh… Yeah, I guess." Harry was more than a bit freaked out that the wandcrafter somehow knew all that, when said wand was still in his robe pocket. Was the man a Seer or something? "I'm here for a wand holster."
"Yes, yes, please allow me a moment to go fetch one from the back. Dragonhide, I'm assuming?"
Harry blinked. He was completely unaware what materials could be used, which seemed to be becoming a trend. Ollivander, the intuitive man that he was, caught on quickly.
"Dragonhide is what many Aurors use, as it is quite durable. In a pinch, a dragonhide holster can be used to block an errant spell, but it likely won't survive intact. Other materials include demiguise hair, turning it and the wand invisible when holstered, acromantula silk for comfort, or… Yes, I suppose that could work. How about basilisk hide?"
Harry froze. Nobody aside from himself and the Headmaster should have known about the basilisk- not even Ginny, because she'd been unconscious or possessed the entire time.
"How…?"
"Let's not worry about that, Mr. Potter. Rather, I think you should come back once you've got some basilisk hide for me to work with. You can also use it to create armor, which I would highly recommend. The spell-resistance of basilisk scales is on par with that of dragon scales when they are about one month old, and only improves beyond that. Why, if a Basilisk were to survive for a thousand years, I believe its scales would be able to deflect the Killing Curse!"
Harry nodded dumbly, and left the wandmaker's store empty-handed, his words filed away with the use of Occlumency. He'd definitely have to remember that.
Madame Malkin's wasn't as bad as it was the first two times around. Although, that was probably because of the distinct lack of Draco Malfoy. It also helped that the store was empty, save for Harry himself. A few minutes under the measuring tapes, a few tailoring charms by the woman, and his school robes were fitted and made. Just because he could, he asked that they be made of acromantula silk, costing twenty galleons per robe. It was well worth it, however, when he slipped one on. It felt like water flowing down his body, and Madame Malkin laughed at the awe on his face.
He also purchased a few sets of custom-fitted acromantula silk trousers and sweaters, which were to be worn under the robes as part of Hogwarts' dress code. For another galleon or two, Madame Malkin would add Heating and Cooling Charms, which reacted with the outside temperature to ensure maximum comfort. They could be manually activated as well, since the charms could also sense the intent of the wearer. Harry nearly jumped for joy once he heard that; no more freezing to death in the Astronomy Tower on those winter nights, or in the Potions Dungeon every single class. He changed in the back room, unwilling to walk around in those slightly-small Dursley hand-me-downs for a second longer than necessary, and very nearly lost the will to move. In fact, he sat down on one of the plush couches, and simply reveled in the temperature control for a good five minutes.
Once he was done messing around, everything was packed into bags, shrunk down, and stuffed into a pocket.
By now, his trunk was complete, so he ducked in to retrieve it, dumping his new clothes inside so they wouldn't fall out of his pockets by accident. The next few stops went by quickly. A couple bags of owl treats- Hedwig had been a bit more nippy than usual lately- some extra quills and stacks of parchment, the recommended potion ingredients kit, a new telescope (he'd dropped his old one, causing the lens to shatter), and the necessary books from Flourish and Blotts. Harry only bothered to buy some extra books to help him with Ancient Runes, because as a Ministry-monitored store, it probably wouldn't have any Dark Arts spell books. He'd have to stick to the Hogwarts Library and Room of Requirement for that. Speaking of which, why hasn't he asked the Room for books on the Dark Arts? Surely there were a few somewhere in the Room of Hidden Things? Oh well, something to remember for later.
Looking in the sky, it seemed halfway between afternoon and evening, giving him a few hours before he had to meet Snape at the Leaky Cauldron. His Diagon Alley shopping was mostly done, leaving only a trip to London to get some Muggle clothing. Acromantula silk was comfy as all hell, but he knew he'd get sick of it eventually. Still, he had to wait for the professor. He wouldn't risk going out in the Muggle world unattended, especially with Sirius Black running amok.
And then, something caught his eye. A shop he'd never noticed before; Oculus' Odd Oculars. He had no clue what any of that meant, but decided to check it out. He had the time. Walking in, Harry was a bit surprised to see rows upon rows of glasses lining the walls. Some of them were as atrocious as his own moon-shaped spectacles, but others were sleek, slim, stylish, and Harry couldn't stop his feet from wandering over. One frame in particular caught his eyes; it was purely black, save for a streak of emerald green running down the center of the sides. It was like it was made for him.
"Can I help you, sir?" a voice asked from behind Harry, startling him. He whirled around so quickly it shocked the speaker- a blonde woman- and she let out a quiet shriek.
"Ah, sorry. Didn't mean to scare you, honest," Harry said, scratching at his cheek in embarrassment.
"N-no, that was my fault! I have a really bad habit of walking up to people when they aren't facing me, so of course I'm going to surprise them a bit! Terribly sorry!"
Harry chuckled. "No, it's fine. And, yeah, I suppose you could help me. I'd like to buy this frame." Harry plucked the black-and-green pair off the wall, holding them up for the lady to see.
She brightened up, happy that he wasn't going to hold a grudge. "Are you a first-time customer?" Harry nodded. "Well, if you'll come this way, we'll have our opto-medic check you out and write you your prescription, Mister…?"
"Harry Potter."
The assistant- her name tag identified her as Lucy- paused in her step, blinked, glanced at his scar, and continued on as if nothing happened. Harry heaved a quiet sigh of relief; last time he'd been recognized in public, the person had shouted his name loud enough for the whole of Diagon Alley to hear, and that was not fun. Thankfully, Lucy was a bit more subtle. Hopefully, she'd stay that way.
Getting his eyes tested was a novel experience for Harry, even though it involved little more than a few diagnostic spells from the opto-medic. Like all diagnostic spells, the only thing Harry saw was a bunch of colored lights, which the medic somehow interpreted as bad, if his frown was anything to go by.
"May I see your glasses for a moment?"
Harry handed them over, and a slew of spells were cast on them. The medic seemed grim.
"I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Potter; I'm surprised you aren't blind. These glasses are an abhorrent match for your already-terrible vision, and would only serve to further worsen matters. Had you waited a few more years, you would likely only be able to vaguely make out shapes and colors, glasses or not. Did a professional opto-medic prescribe these to you?"
Harry blinked. Today was apparently just a day of surprises.
"Uh, no. My Muggle Aunt picked them up out of a Salvation Army box one day, and that was that."
The man dropped the glasses, and they clattered against the floor. Harry stared at them for a moment, barely able to make out the black shape against the cream carpet. Then, he looked back up at the man.
"Would you be willing to tell me why?"
"...She and her family didn't like me much."
The opto-medic's eyes narrowed dangerously, not that Harry could tell.
"Mr. Potter, I believe a trip to St. Mungo's would be in order."
So many tests. At this rate, I'm going to be traumatised and develop a fear of hospitals, Harry thought morbidly, eliciting a grim smile, which slightly panicked the medics attending to him. They were already on high alert, since absolutely nobody involved liked what they found out. The kid looking like he'd resigned himself to death row was not helping.
Barely-healed fractures on ninety percent of his bones, internal bruising, numerous nasty scars both inside and out, and an incredible number of signs of physical trauma- well into the triple digits. Everything from his pinky toe to his skull had been smacked around at some point in time, and most of the healers there wouldn't have hesitated to call these the results of torture, pure and simple.
And to think, they found this all out after investigating because an opto-medic didn't like where a kid got his glasses. They were immensely grateful, thanking the man profusely for his vigilance and for bringing this to them, then set to work on Harry.
Bones were Vanished, incredibly-high concentrations of Skele-Gro were administered, healing spells flew, potions were drunk, and a room was set up. They wanted to monitor the boy for at least a week, view his eating habits, run more tests, see how he acclimated to the intense regiment of healing. Ideally, they would've kept him for about a month, but Harry was insistent that he make it to school on time. Unfortunately, he was overruled rather quickly.
For the first two weeks, Harry wished he could just die and get this over with, a sentiment which he voiced many times, much to the consternation of the medical staff- they'd definitely be sending him over to the Mind Healers after this.
To Harry, it seemed that whenever he blinked, another nurse was there with a tray of potions in hand, forcing the vile concoctions down his throat, then leaving him to his suffering. Time became non-existent, unconsciousness claiming him at random times. His appetite skyrocketed, and he was soon eating a full meal every hour, scarfing the food down then asking for more. Sometimes, he'd pass out mid-bite, only to wake up to a polished plate and a roaring stomach. His mind was a mess, even his passable skills in Occlumency unable to help him make sense of much of anything at the moment.
For two weeks, Harry wallowed in misery. And then, suddenly, it was over. Sort of. He was finally allowed to get out of the bed- or he was finally able to, whichever one- and move around a bit, so it was something. Each step hurt, sending pangs of pain throughout his entire body, but the boy powered on, shuffling around like a zombie, barely registering the encouraging words of the nurse. He made it to the door, and nearly collapsed, holding onto the frame for dear life, and that was when the nurse called for a wheelchair to be brought over. He collapsed into the mobile seat like a blob of jelly, and the woman strolled him through the halls of St. Mungo's, speaking to him the whole while. Harry couldn't understand any of it, thoughts muddled, vision swimming. The world was slowed.
In a few years, he'd get drunk for the first time, and recall this sensation. He'd also realize that being under the influence of alcohol was so much more pleasant, hangover included.
He was being set into a rather comfy chair. It was more like a bed, actually, long enough for him to lay down on, though the backrest was angled so Harry was halfway between sitting up straight and laying down. He sunk slightly into the chair. I could get used to this.
"...Potter? Mr. Potter?"
Harry blinked, shaking his head. He turned to the voice, and saw a brown-haired woman, calling out to him. She seemed a few moments away from reaching over with a leg and booting him off the chair.
"'M up, I'm up…" Harry muttered, pushing himself up the couch slightly. He hissed a bit when the bones in his arms began throbbing, but ignored it for the meantime.
"Finally," the woman muttered quietly, though Harry still managed to hear her. Her tone turned gentle, and Harry got the feeling it was genuine, despite her earlier comment. "My name is Andromeda Tonks. I'm the Mind Healer who's been assigned to help you with any problems you may have, but I won't force you to do anything. If you'd rather sit here in silence, then we can do exactly that."
Harry blinked again. "Mind Healer? What for?"
"Well, the mediwitches told me that you've been saying some rather… Disturbing, things during your treatment." The boy looked lost, so Andromeda elaborated. "You've repeatedly stated that you wish to… To die."
Realization dawned on his face. "Oh, right. I wasn't being serious, mind you. Everything just hurt, and I didn't really know what was going on. Still don't, to be honest. So, I just probably started saying random things."
Andromeda's eyes softened for some reason, like she was trying to be comforting or consoling. "It's fine if you don't want to talk about that now. Let's change the topic- how's your summer been?"
"Uh, no, let's not change the topic, because I've got to set something straight so I can get the hell up out of here. I do not want to die. And if I did, I would've already done it. I've had plenty of opportunities, trust me."
Andromeda blinked, seemingly unsure what to say to that. "...Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Potter? I'm afraid I don't understand."
Harry sighed. "Right, I suppose you wouldn't know. First Year, my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has Voldemort attached to the back of his head, and they tried to kill me, but I killed them first. Well, I only killed Quirrell, because Voldemort's soul-thing managed to escape, but that's whatever, I guess. See, if I wanted to die, I would've just rolled over and let Quirrell- Volde- Quirrelmort, dammit, that shite's obnoxious! Who the hell does something like that, anyways!? Honestly, it was so disgusting! I'd rather kill myself than let some piece of shite live on the back of my head like that!"
Andromeda was staring silently at him, something indecipherable in her eyes, but Harry had a clue as to what it was. "Hey, don't look at me like that! I only said I'd kill myself if Voldemort tried to attach himself to the back of my head, which is basically a fate worse than death. He made Quirrell drink unicorn blood to keep him alive, for god's sake! I'm perfectly justified! You can ask the Headmaster if you don't believe me!"
Andromeda nodded slowly, seemingly dazed. Harry sighed once more. It seemed he hadn't gotten through to her yet. "Can we be done for today? I'm exhausted." It wasn't even a lie, either. So, with Andromeda's go-ahead, a nurse came into the room, dropped him in a wheelchair, and wheeled him back to his own room. Once in his rather comfortable bed, he fell asleep instantly.
The next two weeks were much the same. Sleep at random times, eat enough to make Ronald Weasley envious, and chug so many potions he'd basically become a Potions Master by association. The only difference was that he was actually coherent when he was awake, and the meetings with Andromeda.
He was quite irritated that those had to continue. Honestly, there was nothing wrong with him, and he did not want to die. Unfortunately, suicidal people apparently had a habit of trying not to make other people worry, and said they were fine, only to toss themselves off a building the next day. Still, it was irritating.
Damn if it wasn't effective, though. Apparently, talking about things really did make the metaphysical burden lighter. Harry had taken to blabbering wildly during those meetings, going until he was tired. He talked about anything and everything under the sun; schoolwork, his favorite activities, the shit-show that was Second Year, the bigger shit-show that was his home life with the Dursleys, and other things. The more he spoke, the more Andromeda wrote, but she thankfully didn't ask about the few things he was hiding, like the Chamber of Secrets, his new pet, or some of Vernon's more brutal beatings. She also didn't let him go, though, so he continued talking right up until he was released from St. Mungo's.
Apparently, it took the entirety of those two weeks for Andromeda to determine that he actually wasn't suicidal. Once she did, she let him go, and by then, his physical treatment was also mostly over. He was given several bottles of a nutrient potion, which he was to drink with every meal until he ran out. There were enough for a month. When he was done with them, he'd have to come back in for another checkup, to determine if he needed more, or was fine to stop taking them. Then, the doctors told him what was done.
The short of it is, they somehow managed to correct just about all the damage done to him in his childhood, and as a result, he'd grown to the size he was supposed to be. The reason it hurt so much was because he'd grown half a foot, bringing him to a decent size of about five-foot-five. He'd continue growing normally from there, and it was projected that he'd finally stop at around six feet even, which Harry was quite happy to hear. Being tiny had been okay when he was a Seeker, but since he no longer played Quidditch, it had gotten fairly annoying.
They'd also managed to fix his eyes, for the most part. According to the doctors, they'd done the best they could, but the damage was simply too extensive. Still, Harry could actually read without his glasses, which was quite the achievement for him. Albeit, they had to be rather large letters less than a foot from his face, but still. It was better than before. And, with his new glasses- which actually had a matching prescription- the world was so clear, Harry wondered if he'd actually been blind before.
There was one downside to this whole thing, though; his new clothes definitely didn't fit anymore. It was rather annoying, since he spent a good five hundred galleons on all of it. He'd had to transfigure the clothes the medics had retrieved from his trunk, which had been kept in his hospital room for the duration of his stay.
The day he'd been released was a Saturday, so Harry floo'd from St. Mungo's over to the Leaky Cauldron, and went about his business in Diagon Alley. While in Madame Malkin's, he'd asked about forms of transportation other than the Floo. There was Apparition, which required a licence one could only get at sixteen, Portkeys, which required special permission from the Ministry to be made, and the Knight Bus. All you had to do was poke your wand in their air, and channel a bit of magic into it. It cost two sickles per ride.
Once he'd gotten all his new uniform sets (and returned the old ones, since he couldn't do much of anything with them now), Harry stood outside the Leaky Cauldron and called the Knight Bus. With a bang, a purple, triple-deckered Muggle bus appeared in front of him, nearly giving Harry a heart attack. He managed to contain his shock, however, and approached the vehicle cautiously.
The doors swung open, revealing a young blond man, wearing an odd purple-black uniform. He tipped his hat at Harry.
"Mornin' lad! Where ya goin'?"
"Muggle London." Harry flicked a pair of silver coins at the man, who caught them with a deft hand, then turned to the seats. Immediately, Harry swore to himself that he'd learn to Apparate, illegal or not. None of the chairs were bolted down- made obvious by the way they were strewn about- and if the sudden entrance was any clue, then the Knight Bus was rather rowdy. It did not help that the other passengers there looked all sorts of messed up, spilling halfway out of their displaced seats, clothes ruffled or slipping off, hats still in the air from when they flew off. Harry warily took a seat, and the Knight Bus began moving.
It was worse than he thought. The driver turned like wild, whipping this way and that all while chugging along at double Muggle highway speeds. Harry, in a desperate bid to not fly around and probably get a concussion, planted himself in place with Sticking Charms on his feet. At least, he tried, but the bus took an incredibly sharp left at that exact moment, tilting so that it was only on one set of wheels. Harry was tossed into the air, and in the confusion, accidentally stuck his shoes to the window, leaving him standing horizontally when the vehicle finally right itself.
To his amazement, he stayed like that, entirely unaffected by the wild movement of the Knight Bus. So, Harry stood on the window for the rest of the ride, which only took five minutes. Embarrassingly enough, when he let go of the Sticking Charms, he flopped onto the floor, not having remembered that he wasn't standing on the ground. With a groan, Harry shoved himself to his feet, and staggered out of the bus as fast as he could. Despite the traumatizing experience, Harry learned something useful, which he would definitely be making use of once he got back to the Room of Requirement.
Now that he actually had money, Harry decided to splurge a bit. He bought jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, sweatpants, socks, underwear, and a pair of emerald green and obsidian black shoes. The cashier looked at him like he was crazy when he saddled up to the register, loaded down with so much stuff, only to leave and come back fifteen minutes later with even more stuff. Still, he paid for everything with his Gringotts credit card, so the Muggle said nothing, even as they watched the boy exit the store with all those bags on his arms, seemingly not struggling in the slightest. Unbeknownst to the cashier, Harry had cast wandless Feather-light Charms on all the bags, so the weight of twenty became the weight of one. Outside the shop, Harry ducked into an alley, shrunk everything, and shoved it into his trunk. He'd sort it later.
Calling the Knight Bus again, he traveled back to the Leaky Cauldron- keeping his feet firmly stuck to the ground this time- and floo'd to the Three Broomsticks. Once there, he greeted Madam Rosmerta, who was a bit surprised that a student would be coming through the floo, and exited the building. He immediately ran into some other students.
"Potter?" one of them asked. A girl with platinum-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. A Slytherin, going by her robes.
"...Yes?"
"Oh, it's Potter," another drawled, and that was when Harry noticed Draco. Behind him was the constant presence of Crabbe and Goyle, scowling at him. Pansy Parkinson was hanging off Draco's arm, alternating between glaring at the blonde girl and Harry, or staring adoringly at Draco. A dark-skinned boy hung a bit towards the back, seemingly uninterested in the entire affair.
"Uh, hi? What're you guys doing down here?"
"I think a better question would be, what are you doing down here, when you haven't even been in school for the past week? What, too embarrassed to show your face or something?" Draco asked, smirking imperiously.
"No, I just got here. Floo'd in from the Leaky Cauldron, had some last-minute shopping to do."
Draco raised an eyebrow. " Did you have to wait in Diagon Alley until some kind soul finally gave you the last few knuts you needed to buy your supplies, hm? So poor you needed to resort to begging, Potty?"
Harry blinked, head tilted. "...Right. I think I'm just gonna go."
"Wait, Potter," the blonde girl called. "What's that, on your hand?"
Harry glanced down at his right hand, not seeing anything weird. "Um…"
"On your left, I meant."
Still nothing out of place. "I have no clue what you're talking about."
She rolled her eyes. "The rings, Potter!"
"Oh. Why didn't you just say that? Anyways, what about them?"
"Are those Heir Rings?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Five of them? Which Houses?"
"Alright, you're asking way too many questions for someone whose name I don't know."
The girl recoiled as if struck, before glaring harshly at him. Draco decided now would be a good time to butt in.
"Potter, are you really so stupid you can't even recognize one of your yearmates? This is Daphne Greengrass, of the Noble House of Greengrass. You should treat her with respect, Potter; she's far above your station." He sent the girl a smirk, as if expecting her to swoon at his defense of her. Instead, she just ignored him, keeping her focus on Harry's rings.
"Which Houses?" she asked again, walking closer so she could see.
"Hm… Potter, Peverell, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Black." He held up his hands for the girl to see, and she gasped.
"You're not joking…" Greengrass muttered, fingers ghosting over the centerpieces of each ring. Draco scowled.
"Telling lies, Potter? There's no way you can be the heir to either of the Founders' Houses, and definitely not House Black. That is for me."
"Malfoy, you can't fake these kinds of rings!" Greengrass snapped. "Look at them!" She grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him over to the blond ponce. Draco's face screwed up into an even fiercer glare upon his examination.
"That's not possible!" Draco screeched, voice turning reedy. Pansy let go of him in shock, taking a step back to protect her eardrums. "I am supposed to be the Heir of House Black- my father said that, because of my mother, I would be next in line as the sole male of Black blood!"
"What about Sirius Black, though?" Harry asked, head tilted to the side.
"He was supposed to die in Azkaban, and then I'd inherit the Lordship!"
Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't think that was ever going to happen. Black blood-adopted me before he got thrown into prison, or so the goblins said. Of course, now he's coming to kill me, so I guess it might actually work out that way at some point."
What little color Draco's alabaster skin had vanished abruptly. He turned around mechanically, and walked away, gesturing for his posse to follow.
Harry sighed, scratching at the back of his head. "Shite, that little ponce is annoying."
"I have to agree, Potter."
Harry looked to his left. Greengrass was still there. "Why aren't you leaving with Draco?"
"I've had about enough of that idiot and his attempts to impress me."
"Then why were you with him in the first place? Actually, why are any of you down here?"
Greengrass looked at him weirdly. "Don't you know about the Hogsmeade weekend visits? All Third Years and up are allowed to do it, granted they get a permission form signed by their legal guardians."
"I actually didn't know about that. That still doesn't explain why you were down here with Draco."
Greengrass regarded him for a moment. "You know that the Malfoy family has a lot of political power, right?"
"If you mean, they throw around a lot of money, then yes."
The blonde smiled. "Well, my family does not. It's in my best interest to stick around someone who can… Protect me from those who would hurt me."
Harry frowned a bit. "Doesn't make much sense when that protection is just as likely to hurt you as anyone else."
Greengrass nodded, seemingly pleased that he understood. "Exactly. Which is why I have you now."
"What."
"Come on, Potter, you're the Heir of five Houses, all of which are Most Ancient and Noble. Even House Malfoy is only Most Noble, since they've only been in Magical Britain for a little less than a thousand years. Once they reach the thousand year marker, they will become Ancient, but they'll have to wait another thousand years to become Most Ancient. Are you following?"
"Yeah, and it all sounds like shite. I don't care. Just say you wanna be friends."
"Fine. Potter, I want to be friends, since you are more powerful than Malfoy."
"Drop that last bit, and I might consider it."
Greengrass rolled her eyes. "Potter, I want to be friends."
"Granted. Now, since we're friends, you have to call me Harry. Only my enemies or Professors call me by my last name."
Greengrass sighed, but seemed amused, her lips curling up in a slight smirk. "Fine, Harry. Happy?"
"Very much so, Daphne. Now, what is there to do down here?"
I don't know shit about politics, or banking, or pretty much anything, so that whole Gringotts bit is just a bunch of poor speculation.
The reason Harry's rings cover the entire lower half of his fingers (from knuckle to first joint) is because they represent Heirship of Most Ancient and Noble Houses. Obviously, such rich/powerful Houses would probably have something a bit nicer than some shitty circles. And, yes, he is going to punch someone with them.
Daphne's probably OOC as fuck. Then again, she's not really a major part in canon, so I don't think anybody can really say how she acts. It's just become commonly agreed upon that she's an Ice Queen, I think.
I also happen to not know shit about Hospitals, so forgive the St. Mungo's scene. I tried to gloss over as much of it as possible to make it look somewhat accurate. As for the Mind Healer, yes, I realize that she was basically a therapist, but they probably can't always just Legilimize the patient.
K bai :D