Chapter 11: Amiss and Adrift
AN: Rights are to JK Rowling and Warner brothers. Please write a review, feedback would go a long way to improve my work. People are reading but I don't know if they are staying or enjoying it. I don't care if you want to tell me I am the worst writer ever (if you do please tell me why and what I can improve) just tell me what you think! I still very much need a beta to help me improve on my work. Today's chapter is the third without a card as the title.
As always, I really need a beta. I make little mistakes in grammar and spelling and could use help in phrasing.
I am sorry for the late chapter (hopefully only one week). Writing The Toll took more out of me then I thought, the nature of the chapter was quite difficult to work and left me exhausted.
I don't know if everyone knows this, but I have been replying to almost every review, in addition, though I will address a common misconception here. The events of the last chapter were either of the past, or of the most probable future. The reason that everyone was named Harry, or some variant, was that Harry's consciousness would be seen as less intrusive. Also, note death is prominent in every vision. In order: he remembered Hermione, met the Dursleys, was at a Grindelwald attack with his great grandparents, was a member of a team attacked and killed by vampires and saw Quirrell, met Fleur at Beauxbatons, saw Sirius be imprisoned, witnessed the rise of Voldemort, met the immortal king, died defending his/her child Igor Karkaroff at the walls of Durmstrang, and the end of the basilisk fight.
Sorry, this was so long, hopefully, the next weeks is shorter. I blame myself for having to write so much, I need to write more clearly.
One final thing, I am debating on having an interlude chapter (from another POV) after this chapter. It would not be Albus again. Would you want this, or should I continue with Harry until the epilogue chapter for year one?
Amiss and Adrift.
The Black Lake stood a deep and powerful and beautiful thing. Even in the cool air of early winter, only the fringes of the pool bore any signs of ice as the inky waters clashed against the white drifts entrapping the lake. Despite the beauty, he witnessed it appeared different, off-putting. He could not remember when it began, but the world dropped some of its sheen, the bright hues dampened, and the darks brightened. At first, he attributed this to the coming of winter, but in the candle-lit halls of Hogwarts, without the natural light, the effect still kept firm. Food lost a tinge of flavor and music became less colorful. Harry sat on a ledge he cleared off, his time flying removing his petty fear of heights long ago, turning it into a heaven, as the large branch he perched on held strong over a small gust of wind, flipping through his transfiguration text. He had much to catch up on.
Midterms loomed only days away and Harry was horribly behind on theory, much less his practical's. To say he was behind on theory would be an overstatement, he reassured himself; he already studied months ahead in that regard before the... encounter. Harry still had trouble comprehending that he battled against a troll, and Hermione Granger died. The details between remained a mystery to him and the greater school. He woke and was released from the hospital in a single day by Madam Pomphrey, the school's matron, who appeared as a kind woman entering the prime of her life as a wizard with a speckling of grey hair emerging on her head. Her only caveat to his release was no magic, a stance Harry agreed with. Even now, sitting on the ledge with his winter cloak wrapped firm, his nerves burned with the stress of magic, the burning pain from attempting spells now a constant and bitter reminder of undefined events.
The lake often distracted him from reading, the theory being boring, discussing why similar-sized objects and similar styled materials transfigured better the different. Waves crashed, bringing a new thin sheet of crystal ice on the banks of the rocky shore, the jagged knives basking in the sun, and returning to the lake that birthed them. The deep always called, pulling to him, away from the book and into the deep. Harry returned to the reading, memorizing the facts would be the key to passing without a practical grade. Harry understood the topics, but the nitpicked facts and random instances of who invented what confused him and made studying difficult.
They called him a murderer in the halls; they whispered how he was a squib. He cared not for what they thought. The only ones who mattered were Dumbledore and Hagrid, two people he couldn't speak to. Dumbledore was out for a week doing various things with the International Confederation of Wizards or the ICW, and Hagrid. Hagrid's absence was a different problem. Harry killed a troll. That fact he knew for sure. He used his wand and murdered a sentient creature; he held no remorse for his action. The matron had told him how he used a spell that killed the troll to save his life, and he shouldn't feel sorry about it. He didn't. Harry held no regret knowing that he killed the beast which attacked him, even if he sought it out.
He cared for Hagrid, and Hagrid loved life. Every life was precious to the giant, little, large, kind, or rageful they all held a home in his heart. Trolls were a cousin species to giants, killing one surely hurt the gentle man subconsciously, so much that Harry couldn't bear to look at his face. The giant would forgive him if Harry asked, but the truth of his forgiveness would be less certain, enough so Harry didn't dare ask.
He continued watching the sun move over the waters, traveling through the sky unwavered by bouts of clouds, determined in its goals. The warm sun brought back the memories of experiencing Diagon for the first time, wandering the streets with Professor Sprout, experiencing magic for the first time, XIX, The Sun. Harry had no knowledge of the future or his current self, the moon for the month had passed into nothing leaving Harry lost to wander an unfamiliar road, a blind man walking without a guide, a newborn crawling across a bridge with no rails. The breath of winter tickled him and flipped through his text for him, any desire for study abandoned as he sat content to watch the sun's trek from his perch on the fringe of the Forbidden Forest.
Amiss and Adrift.
At breakfast, the following day, Headmaster Dumbledore sat on his throne, the message for Harry sat on his seat. He chose to not read it, doing so would be a waste of time; you are excused from classes, we will talk in my office after the meal. Harry waited for the headmaster by completing some of the classwork his Head of House had given him. The busy work was boring and unneeded as potions class came naturally, combining ingredients and following instructions was a simple task, yet the Potions master insisted on the menial task, a waste of his precious time. The homework from the rest of the teachers was as meaningless as those prescribed by the Potions Master, but they seemed more important and theoretical than the razer thin topics that Professor Snape assigned. An entire thirteen inches on the use of Bwindersnap extract as a base and the consequences of such a start was borderline insanity. What purpose did that topic bring to increase his understanding of potions?
He wished he could enjoy his book, read on what interested him, the wonderful magic of the ancient text was more compelling than the drivel of charms, with essays that only spoke to the same topic in original forms. Herbology was a saving grace, it needed little written work for the class, and Petunia's upbringing made sure that his practical's in that class were nothing short of outstanding, something that the other classes lacked.
He scrawled across the parchment, the unfamiliar grip on the quill assuring the illegibility, pulling the basic instances of magic that would associate to the Bwindersnap extract. He scowled at the parchment and continued his furious retelling.
"I always find opening the correct book is essential to writing the essay," the wizened professor stated behind Harry. With a glance up Harry glared at his transfiguration text open on the table.
"I struggle to understand how repeating a book is improving my education," he turned, "welcome back, Professor. The school is brighter with you here." His smile never reached his eyes, a match to Dumbledore.
"It could be, perhaps, intended to memorize by repetition?"
"It's dumb."
"I do not disagree with you," behind him the hall stood empty save a ghost Harry often saw at the Gryffindor table, oft with a dangling head. The collection of plates and uneaten food slowly disappeared, though how Harry never saw. Originally, he assumed the tables had an enchantment, but the more he felt for the familiar touch of magic the more Harry concluded that the tables held no magic. "But for some students, repetition is needed."
"It's still dumb." Over the weeks leading to Harry's absence the conversations with Dumbledore had become increasingly familiar, the process unfolded slow enough to be unrecognizable but peering at his former self, the new, open Harry's actions to the bearded wizard were completely different.
"I was a bad student," Dumbledore confessed unprompted. Harry's head whipped to meet his eyes, no longer interested in the disappearing act the food and dishes were performing.
"No."
"Yes," He had a shimmering gleam brimming on those blue eyes.
"But you're claimed as one of the greatest students to pass these halls or any halls."
"As much as that flatters me Harry, I think the term is wizard, not student." He chuckled, "I was, modestly, one of the greatest theoretical minds ever by twenty-five, and at sixteen I was already transfiguring more than most masters. I even tutored under Nicolas Flamel in France for my final years, let me tell you, those portkeys are unforgiving." The name, Nicolas Flamel, brought warmth and comfort to Harry unrecognizably. Another strange happenstance was the way the professor's language dipped on his last word. "We should go."
The duo left the now clean hall to go to the Headmaster's office.
Amiss and Adrift.
Fawkes perched on the comfy armchair as Harry scratched the bird's head feathers. The walls of books and artifacts surrounding them stood as an audience to the room. Several portraits decorated the walls, depicting Headmasters nearing the end of their ten-year in the school. Portraits deeply fascinated Harry, like ghosts they held a semblance of sentience and personality, though time spent dwelling with them pulled a disturbing realization, calling them shadows would overstate them. A portrait was nothing less than an artist's depiction of personality on a canvas, a wonderfully advanced enchantment held in secret by few masters, without the ability to think, reason, or remember longer than magic supplied them. When one conversed with a portrait, they linked their magic to it causing it to behave alive; they were as alive as the stone of the castle.
Dumbledore peered with longing at his long pipe sitting on the desk, not smoking before the young boy. Harry returned his attention to the red bird beside him. The feathers colored as frozen flames dancing whenever he moved, the trill he gave made the darkened hues of the room brighten again fading away with the silent breaks. The song's that Fawkes performed for Harry always reminded him of a lament, each song dropped the face of the Headmaster further.
"I have two topics to cover with you today, Harry," the headmaster finally spoke, a firm voice. The wavering tone covered well, "your living situation and the incident on Halloween." Harry looked up from the bird who took to Dumbledore's side, rubbing his head against the wrinkled cheek of the headmaster. "Do you have a preferred starting point?"
Harry sat proper, "we can talk about the housing."
Dumbledore smiled, "I have reached out to many families, families I trust, and have received quite the response." The glee flowed with every word. "My first choice was Andromeda; she is your aunt."
Harry flinched, "Is she magic?"
"She was, the..."
Harry cut him off, "Why didn't I live with her then?" His eyes narrowed and his brow tightened.
Dumbledore's smile only grew kinder, "She was disowned, Harry."
"What?"
"She is related to you from your grandmother, further removed then... she... was." He stopped, "She married a muggleborn, her family, the Blacks, did not agree with the action." The Black's, like Cepheus? Was Harry more Black than Potter? The cryptic message Cepheus left him with rang through, "They are a traditional family and dislike fresh ideas entering the Wizarding World." The headmaster held venom in his voice unfamiliar to Harry.
"I could try meeting her."
"I agree you should try to meet her; however, she cannot take you in."
"Why not?" He wasn't sure why the woman he never met abandoning him caused his hurt, but the sensation of the rejection cut more than a knife.
"She and her husband, Edward, both work at St. Mungo's, as an expert and operator, respectively. When I approached Andromeda, she was heartbroken to say no, but she just didn't feel right with the long shifts and brief nights." Harry slumped into his chair. The reasoning was sound, but still, it hurt.
"I pondered asking Amelia Bones," Harry widened his eyes making Dumbledore laugh, "my thoughts exactly. So, next, I moved to my older friends. I am asking around, but I counted on Andromeda."
"Sir, I have a question."
"What is it, my boy?"
"Black talked to me the other day," he left the lead to the conversation, speaking of his house's dislike of the headmaster was not recommended, "he told me I should have been at their Christmas, and something about being a head of Black?"
Dumbledore grew a concerned face and pensively relaxed in his chair, reaching for his unlit pipe and biting at the end. "Strange, I did not realize you were close enough to the mainline to inherit. It should be Regulus after Arcturus and then Cepheus. You are certain he said you would be head?"
"I think so."
"I will ponder this and put out feelers to locate the truth. I promise you that, Harry."
"So, I will not be spending Christmas with them?"
Dumbledore's face set, utter lack of emotion writ upon his face, "Sorry Harry, you did not respond to the stay notice last week." Yes, because he was unconscious. Harry chose to not respond and wait for the professor to speak again. "Are you prepared for our next conversation?"
"Waiting would not lead to a more pleasant conversation."
"I find myself agreeing with you," he stroked the breast feathers of his companion and chewed on the pipe with determination, "What do you remember of Halloween.
Halloween, the word sent shivers down his spine. The word dipped the hues of the world further and twisted his gut. Pain, anger, sadness; those feelings came to mind when he imagined Halloween. No memory came, no images or sounds. "I remember Weasley teasing Granger after Charms, thou that was before, wasn't it?"
The headmaster removed his half-moon spectacles, placing them on his desk and rubbed the brim of his nose. His spectacular eyes popped more when removed from the thick-cut glasses. "Yes, that was a few days before the event in question, before you ask Weasley has been thoroughly punished for his horrible actions." Harry never questioned that. Why should he care?
"That's good. It is no way to act."
"I agree, too many problems are caused because of people's inability to accept others." Harry enjoyed looking into Dumbledore's eyes. He rarely received the disorientating and distracting flashes. An uncomfortable sensation rolled across his mind as instances of Harry's life played before him, times when he was disgusted with people. He tried relaxing, but they still played. He instead thought of his Potion's homework but that brought his periods of hatred for Professor Snape. Harry tried closing his eyes, but the glowing eyes of Dumbledore were too compelling to ignore.
Harry saw a familiar blonde, a figure which posed power and fear in his soul. The flashes of his own life stopped. Dumbledore's eyes held a knowing look with a mixture of shock. Instead of watching the professor more, Harry turned to the lonely widow. A bright blue-sky interlaced with crisp white clouds calmed his racing mind. Fawkes sent his tune again, bringing Harry back to the present. A tang of smoke and pine filled him as the professor soundlessly lit his pipe, setting down his deep brown wand. The wand, called. It sang for Harry to grab it, to rip it from the professor, and claim it.
"What happened, professor? I don't understand."
"At dinner, Professor Quirrell notified us that a troll had found itself in the halls." He paused. Trolls were in Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them, inherently resistant to magic, stronger than an ox, a powerful nose, and sharp claws. The first attempt at self-defense should be fleeing. Only the strongest of spells and curses could pierce the tough resistance, furthermore transfigured objects held little help as the hide was thicker than the resistance. Blunt force trauma like the attack spell Bombarda was ideal when mixed with transfiguration to confuse and hit the beast with blocks of debris.
"How did a troll get in?"
"We are looking into that; currently, we still don't know." Lie. "Back to what we remember from Halloween." You are the one who knows. "Afterwards, a handful of teachers and myself searched the halls to find and capture the troll."
"Why not all of them?"
"And leave you and the others undefended?" Harry hid his eyes, cheeks reddening, "I don't fault you for your question Harry, but you are inexperienced and learning."
"Thank you, sir."
"It is my job, Harry, education," after a large inhale the sweet vanilla scent filled Harry, "after that Professor McGonagall learned of a missing student, from Mr. Weasley, and took many more teachers with her to find the lost lamb." Harry closed his eyes, letting the soothing voice of the headmaster and the calming smoke lull him into a trance, "She instructed the prefects to escort everyone to their dorm, an idea I should have had."
"Why would the dorms be safer than staying in the hall?"
"In all of Hogwarts history it has been sieged twelve times, the castle has fallen twice. The first documented is Godric's raid upon Salazar's takeover and the second was a demonic force numbering over a hundred, both times the only rooms that never fell were the common rooms, they are more protected than the headmaster's sweat. This is a school. The safety of the children is paramount."
"Godric's raid?"
"A story for another time, a somber tale of warring brothers cruelly put against one another." Dumbledore's eyes darkened.
The wall behind Dumbledore had portraits of the founders of the school, they did not move. The animation charm used can be first documented in 1771, well after the death of the founders, by an Italian enchanter who loved painting. Godric appeared a proud man housing a beard that surrounded his face like a lion's mane. He wore a golden breastplate over deep red robes with a cruel staff in hand. On his hip a sheathed sword that disappeared into his cloak, but the exposed hilt shimmered with beauty. The silver mouth of a lion gripped a ruby in its mouth leading down the warn leather grip. He stood a sizeable man with beefy arms and littered with cuts. Godric's eyes peered a familiar shade of hazel which thirst for battle and the hair flowed a long auburn that would fit on Dumbledore well. He stood on the foreground of a battle, the scene reminiscent of Death, broken banners scattered the ground.
Slytherin was frail. He adorned a simple green tunic with silver fastening and brown trousers. On his left shoulder he had a silver half cape which appeared to flutter in the still frame, a bone-white wand showed behind, the yew unmistakable. While Godric loomed large and full of life, Salazar instead was anemic and short, he appeared as old as Dumbledore but had the hair of a younger man, a sweet blonde combed neatly back. His face was clean-shaven and his dark eyes weary. The portrait depicted him in the office Harry now sat in, it had been renovated but the general concept lasted the time.
"This is when, we assume, you left to save Mrs. Granger." His eyes held back tears. "You found her, and the troll killed her before you, you then killed the troll using Avada Kedavra." He spit the spells name with a bitter sound, the very name made the room less cheerful and Fawkes retreated with a flash of red and purple flame.
Harry heard the scream, the sound which fueled his nightmares as a child, for as horrible as the Dursleys acted, the sound of his mother's final desperate cry was far worse.
"These are the parts we must discuss." Dumbledore, no longer a kind-looking man, features twisted more focused, and angrier. "Why didn't you ask for help, Harry? Your prefect, yelling for a teacher? It would have saved her life."
Why wouldn't he ask for help? Why did he go at all? Harry was not brave; he knew no helpful spells. Why did he go? He killed Hermione, not the troll and not the professors, Harry killed an 11-year-old friendless girl. Harry cried into his hands as the image of a broken girl laid in his arms, profusely bleeding yet happy. Would he be as Happy when death claimed him, the release from his dismal life a blessing rather than a curse?
The hug was unexpected. The headmaster was cooler than Harry and his robes were smooth on the exposed skin. He was scented as the sweet vanilla and the feeble arms held him firmly. Hot tears joined his own as they lamented the loss of life, pure and unneeded in the cruel world they inhabited. The timeless interaction ended as the headmaster took back his seat.
"I am sorry, Harry, I forget how young and inexperienced you are. I forgot your feelings, forgive me." Harry chocked and nodded his head. He wished for Fawkes to sing, fill the room with the warm song, a crutch to hoist him into the correct frame of mind. The bird had fled, the evil words pushing him away. Avada Kedavra, he cast the brutal spell, a spell he hated. He was as bad as Tom Riddle. It was not the use on the creature, it was the spell itself, an evil rush every time he thought of it passed over him.
"What is that spell, sir? It feels, taboo to speak it."
Dumbledore took to his pipe again, "It is, the spell is evil." He paused, "The spell rips away the soul, a cruel death, the fuel of such a spell is nothing less than unbridled hatred. How did you learn it, Harry, what books did you read to gain that knowledge?"
"I never read it, sir, nor have I knowledge of what it does. I remember it, from the day my mother died. Riddle," the headmaster's eyes bugged, "cast the spell on my mother and then on me, I remember every detail, I can do the wand movement in my sleep and recite the words in an instant. I knew those words before my name, I heard them every night, over and over again, drilling the knowledge into my mind. Even now, the rasp from his wicked mouth book-ending his cruel laughter." Harry spoke with an even tone, his mind focused only on this task. "My father must have gotten him," Dumbledore's astonishment turned to confusion, "it didn't show on his body, but his robes were torn and bloody, I assume he stuck him at least once."
Dumbledore stared with a teared expression, "Your father may have been one of the greatest transfiguration users born in the last fifty years, be proud of him, I am."
"I am, I only wish I met them."
"Harry, I have an idea," he turned his wand and a cupboard door opened. From within, a silver bowl floated down, held inside appeared a silver mist obscuring the bottom of the bowl. Dumbledore, putting his wand to his temple, drew out a long silver string and placed it into the bowl. "Think of leaving and you will. Now, look into the bowl and immerse yourself into it."
Harry did as instructed. After a blink he watched the Great Hall, dampened further than normal. He sat at the teacher's table looking over the long tables of the hall stacked with unfamiliar students. An old man wearing the blue of Ravenclaw opened the Great Hall's doors and led the progression of students in. The setting was the sorting as the worn hat sat on the stool with the class size doubling his own. Looking around the hall showed fuller and longer tables.
Arnett, William was the first sorted. Harry intently studied every sorting, wondering why the headmaster sent him here.
The first name he recognized was Black, Sirius Black. His hair flowed the same black as Harry's and his eyes glowed indistinguishable from the hues of the world. A twang of familiarity and affection coincided with this boy who held himself with swagger.
Then she was called, Lily Evans, his mother. Her beautiful red hair sparkled in the memory's grey as her eyes brightly shimmered with curiosity and excitement. Eyes he saw every day in the mirror, yet full of life rather than his defeated expression. Her sorting took the longest yet, after nearly three minutes she moved to Gryffindor to join Black, she sat away from him, ignoring his attempts at conversation.
If Black was confident, then his father, James Potter, personified narcissism. He walked to the stool like a gift from god, his eyes matched the portrait of Godric Gryffindor and his hair was the same as Sirius, only cut short. The face presented a full and healthy version of his own and stood the tallest of the first year boys. His sorting into Gryffindor was the fastest of the ceremony.
Harry longed to join his parents at the table as his father joked with Black and two other boys, continually trying to converse with his mom who ignored him in favor of the girls flanking herself. An annoyed grimace grew with every attempt.
"Snape, Severus." The name had Harry focused on the sorting again. His Head of House was in the same year as his parents? Sure enough, the pale boy had the same hooked nose and black hair as the potion's teacher. As he approached the chair, he sent a small smile to Harry's mother, one she returned. Were they friends? Lily watched the sorting with bright eyes and clapped loudly when the hat yelled for Slytherin, a genuine smile lay on her face.
Snape alternatively appeared conflicted. His pride for his house was removed with every glance at Harry's mother.
Harry re-watched the memory until the need for sleep pulled him out. He woke up to the snoring of his roommate, tear stains still on his face.
Amiss and Adrift.
The 11th, 12th, and 13th were all set for midterms. Each class had a written and practical test totaling one hour each, Harry had three fewer hours' worth of exams because of this, as he could not cast magic again considering his re-aggravation of the previous injury. Wednesday began with the Charm's test, a boring regurgitation of pointless facts and names that should have been in History of Magic instead. Next was Transfiguration, which comprised matching the wizard or witch with the theory they developed and write a short essay on a theory that you could choose. After that was Transportation, which focused on the rules and regulations of floo use. After lunch they had the Transportation and Astrology practicals which had a flying test and a star map quiz.
Between those classes his classmates held a study session for the next day's test, the group shunned him when he looked to join them.
Potions practical began at ten as they brewed the boil cure from the first week of class by themselves rather than pairs. After lunch was History and Herbology. The following morning was the Practical for Herbology followed by the Preservation and Astrology written test and Harry was done. He joined his fellow students that night for the departure of the Hogwarts Express as his house unloaded onto the long red train. The disappointed glare of Cepheus made itself known when Harry was the lone Slytherin remaining on the platform. The smoke of the express jetted out, and the whistle sang as the train slugged forward, gaining momentum every second. Harry stood in the cold as the groups of students from the other houses returned to the castle, Harry alone weathered the chilled air and watched the express disappear into the night.
The bright moon broke through the clouds as he stood, basking in the pale imitation of the sun, soaking up the sounds of the bustling township beyond the platform. The scents of baked goods and oils replaced the smoke. Above, the stars appeared, first Sirius as the rest followed. Another cool breeze rushed through him as he stood at the tracks. Where would they lead if he followed them, took his wand, and went away, away from the bustle of Hogwarts, the unkind student body, the cruel poltergeist? Maybe this was his next step? Without his cards future was uncertain. He took a step forward, the first step of his new life.
"What are you doing? I am getting cold and would like to go to bed before they return." An annoyed voice broke his trance. He spun and looked at the female voice as Tracy Davis stood twirling her hair with an annoyed stare at him. "Well, are we going?"
Amiss and Adrift.
Sorry again for the late upload, I am going on vacation this upcoming weekend so I cannot promise the next to be up in a week but give me two and it will appear. Read my authors note if anything is confusing from the last upload.