Chapter 10: Fireborn from Dreams
A/N: I dedicate this chapter to SaneLunatic and Kelzery, who reviewed my chapter in the same minute in less than five minutes after I posted....
Harry was flying. The prevailing easterly winds blew through his unmanageable hair, whipping it back as he dove in his downward spiral to the ground. His scar glowed almost fluorescent in the darkness as Harry sped to his destination. About a mile below him tiny fireflies floated above the ground. His brow furrowing in wonder, Harry deepened his angle of descent and found himself suspended above what seemed to be campfires.
Large bonfires burned in the distance, each one spread far apart for just enough distance to create a feeling of solitude. Their flames reached far out into the sky, hoping to catch a falling star. The wood used to build it seemed a bit weak however fragrant (Harry could snag its scent from his altitude,) and looked like they just built it right in the center of the plant where the roots were the thickest. Harry noticed that they made an intricate trail which would take him far from the safety of Hogwarts. Harry pressed his arms to his side and landed on his feet. Taking a look around him, he saw that the closest fire held a person roped to the stake just like in the Salem Witch Hunts of America and of other places during the Middle Ages where "witches" were burned for their "practices."
Terrified, but eternally showing his Gryffindor spirit, he dashed to the stake. The person whispered a spell and a roaring fire was soon around her. Harry took a good look at the magical individual wrought with the disease of age and saw that their suicidal eyes still held the spark of life. Harry thought, You don't kill yourself because you're old!
Harry took himself closer, each step bringing him nearer to the person. The witch or wizard was now rapidly melting. Blisters popped all over their body and their skin turned into a deep brown. Hair shriveled up above the crusting skin on the person's feet and legs. To Harry, what looked like tan spiderwebs were now worming their way up the person's body popping arteries, veins, and capillaries, while effectively boiling their blood; causing it to squirt as fountains. Skin sloughed off in certain places, revealing worn muscles and bones. Geysers of blood started squirting themselves toward Harry, but evaporated even before they made it past the self-inflicted bonfire. His stomach lurched at the scene unfolding before his eyes, but he managed to keep it down.
He now stood a few feet away from the witch or wizard when they brought what was left of their hand up and stopped him. This motion threw a flaming piece of wood to the boy rooted to the ground, like a piece of molten hail that had fallen from the sky. Even though the person was, as it seemed to Harry, in danger of a certain death, they didn't want him to interfere. Now they were only made of bones, and each one was turning into ashes from the bottom up. Oblivious to the person's warning, Harry kept walking forward with the putrid scent of blood filling his nostrils, but each step felt like plodding away from the Devil's Snare.
To regain his strength, Harry closed his eyes for a moment, but as soon as he opened them again the person was gone. All that was left were a few scraps of clothing, tiny pieces of bone, and their ashes scattered on the earth. Harry was careful to wiggle the clothing remnants away from the ashes and decided to bury that since he couldn't decide which ashes were the person's or the wood.
After digging a hole that was a couple of feet deep, he recalled that he never smelt the scent of a rotting carcass or heard their scream. The wind shifted and a slight breeze lifted the air around him, exposing him to the wonders of a new morning. Upon the breeze he could vaguely make out the scent of Mrs. Weasley's Cinnamon Snaps and he felt instantly rejuvenated.
"Sir?"
Harry looked toward the rising sun where he could barely make out a silhouette against its light. "Me?"
The figure nodded and stepped out of the sun's shadow and into the shadow of the trees. "Sir, couldst thee kindly give me those clothing scraps that thou hast buried?"
"But..." he sputtered, "They're all that's left of someone."
"Of who?"
"Of someone who was burned here just a few moments ago."
"Sir, if thou hast the strength," the figure said almost mockingly yet firmly, "couldst thee give me my garments?"
Harry just stood there, the pieces of the puzzle falling in place. "Why would you nee--" he stopped midsentence and looked towards his feet. "Oh. But... I --I just saw you burn..."
"But as thou canst see, death hath not taken me yet."
Harry quickly retrieved the clothes from the makeshift grave (it turned out that the hole wasn't as deep as he thought) and returned it to the figure in the shadows, making sure to avert his eyes to studying the flower beneath him, his imagination running wild and praying that she wouldn't see the crimson blush sweeping his cheeks.
The witch stepped out of the shadows (fully-clothed!) and started, "Sir, I'm sorry I startled thee," but stopped and shook her head as if ridding herself of the old accent. "It was just my time to transform."
"I saw so many other fires," Harry stated simply, as if that was enough.
"There are many others who consider this time theirs also. And someday Sir, you will consider this your time too."
All was silent for a moment and then the witch stated, "You don't know who I am, do you?"
Harry shook his head and the witch shook hers. "You'll find out soon enough."
Unsure, Harry nodded, convinced that nothing worse could happen to him anyway. The witch smiled and she shook her head and produced a parchment which she pressed into his hand.
"Take care of this."
And the witch opened her arms and whispered a charm. Wings of flame sprouted from her back, bathing the area around her and beyond in a soft glow of heat and enveloping herself in light. The light was comparable to the morning dawn and Harry's eyes started to feel its affects. He blinked, and the witch was gone.
Whether Harry figured that what he was in was a dream, or a memory, or message, or reality, he never came to memorizing its details before another one blasted itself into his mind.
Oak, myrtle, beech, maple, aspen... each tree in the glade had a trunk that could not be spanned with one arm and cast a long and dark shadow upon him. A chilly spark flashed down his spine, and, odd sensation as it was, Harry felt at peace. Actually, he now felt like he belonged to the wood, and it to him. But one look at the darkness shoved those feelings aside and Harry was starting to doubt himself. As he tried to turn back, the ground heaved upward and hurled him deep into the recesses of the darkness.
Harry pushed himself farther into the darkness, determined to find some comfort in the cold. He noticed that each step took him farther into it, and also (he judged by the slope of the ground) downward. Ten feet and a few seconds later the cold turned to a slight warmth--and the warmth into a severe burning ten feet farther down. Remembering that the center of the Earth was a molten core, he wondered if he was even close to its mighty power. Soon the whole cavern was engulfed with the flaming sensation. He was sure that he was dying, and could feel the air from his lungs turn into smoke. Each new breath made Harry choke and he fell to the ground, eyes watering and lungs smoldering with the nauseous deadly fumes. One breath more and Harry knew that he was going to die from suffocation.
Suddenly, it stopped.
Before were the group of people from his first dream, all staring at him, each one holding a different emotion in their eyes. Each person brought their hand down in order to lift Harry from the bowels of his death.
He grasped one of their hands, and they lifted his soul out of his body high enough so that he could look down upon it ablaze with fire on the ground. The body coughed and spluttered incessantly until it could not take the heat and his eyes grew dim and glazed over without the gift of life. Harry then noted how terrible he looked scorched and scarred with the marks of flames and he genuinely smiled at his liberators. Their faces aglow with a fiery delight, each of the members gathered around him and marked his face with ashes in the shape of the Legendary Phoenix, its wings spread to his hairline and tail down to Harry's chin.
One person, so obviously the leader, grabbed a torch from somewhere and swirled it around Harry, a millimeter away from singing his unruly hair. Harry closed his eyes to avoid looking at the dancing colors before him, and felt the distinct swish of the wind after the torch. The other people who had marked his face stepped back and mumbled a song or rhyme, and the only word he could catch from it was "Fireburner" which he assumed to be the title of the leader. The Fireburner was now weaving a torch up and down his back and then pressed a thumb to Harry's spirit forehead and stepped back. The spirit Harry could feel himself regenerate; his bones appeared with muscles winding themselves into fibers. Even his skin grew anew, and lastly, his unmanageable hair started sprouting from the top of his head. Another glint of light and his unmistakable scar branded its way onto his forehead. The others saw the changes he was experiencing and followed the Fireburner's suit, disapparating quickly after their wands tapped the thumbprint. After the last one left, a thought appeared into his mind of its own accord.
I have my gift.
*~*~*~*
"Harry... Harry? Harry! Wake up!"
"Wha-What? I... I just died..."
"No you didn't Harry, you're right here."
Ron smiled. "If you had died, I would be screaming bloody murder by now..."
They were in Madam Pomfrey's wing, each of them taking in the picture of a pale Harry underneath the even paler bed sheet. Harry opened his mouth to speak, and all of a sudden he started rapidly shrinking. His body resumed its normal size and his scar turned back into the murky brown color it once was.
"What was that?"
"Harry, before you fell unconscious you were under the influence of a potion. Usually in these circumstances the potion doesn't wear off until you wake up."
"Oh."
Madam Pomfrey tsk-tsked and muttered something about faulty teaching and went about on her business.
"We were so worried about you Harry!" exclaimed Hermione.
"Yeah, comas would probably make you exempt from final exams again..." stated Ron jealously.
Hermione elbowed him hard and smiled sweetly. "You missed all the other afternoon classes so I took notes for you. But you'll have fun today, we have Defense Against the Dark Arts for our first class."
"I asked Fred and George what happened, but they wouldn't say a word. They usually aren't quiet unless something's up. Or they were cursed."
"That's odd, I didn't think Dumbledore would allow curses within the student body," answered Hermione puzzled.
Said Harry shrugging, "There's a first time for everything I suppose."
Madam Pomfrey interrupted their little conversation to usher them out of the Hospital Wing and back to the Gryffindor Common Room, snickering to herself the whole while.
*~*~*~*
"I already took notes for you on Hagrid's class. Our lesson was on ashwinders." Hermione passed Harry a parchment and he read it. Slyther emerged sometime during their conversation; first flicking his tongue out... and then his nose... and his head followed... until half of the snake sat upon Harry's arm.
By this time Hermione and Ron had already exchanged their puzzled glances and had worked up enough courage to ask, well, blurt out what they thought.
"Harry! You know snakes have been banned from Hogwarts!" said Hermione and almost simultaneously Ron asked, "Do you want people to remember the second year incident?"
Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair and glanced at Slyther who seemed incredibly intent on having him answer the question without his help. "I don't think I care about what people think right now..." Harry started, and ended up telling him the whole story.
Ron just stared, wide eyed and unbelieving at his best friend. He opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione beat him to it. Excitedly she fairly leaped up and down, a question bubbling from her mouth. "Do you know what the Order of the Phoenix is?"
"All I know is that it's a group of people against Voldemort," he stated, quickly regretting it when Ron visibly flinched.
Hermione, however, had left them in the Common Room and sprinted up the stairs to her Dormitory. No more than thirty seconds later she dashed back down, yellowing parchment in her hand.
"Look at this." She opened up the parchment to reveal--her simple invitation to Hogwarts letter.
Determined to prove that Hermione had nothing in her Hogwarts letter, Ron read aloud.
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY," and paused to interject, "So?"
Hermione nodded him onward, pointing to the next lines. "Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wiz-"but she had silenced him with a hand.
Harry, by this time, was amazed at how much Ron actually followed Hermione's instructions... Slyther looked around the room a couple times and snake-smiled at their antics before him. How could the boy be so stupid? The answer was with them all along. Ah. Slyther looked over at Hermione and tilted his head a bit. I see...
Politely, she asked, "Could you read all of that last bit over, please?"
Ron shrugged, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and read it over again. "Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand So-)"
Hermione silenced Ron with a finger to his lips. "See what you just read? Order of Merlin. Now... what Order was Harry invited in?"
She said this with some definite pauses and her voice faded to a dull murmur so Harry couldn't help but think that there was something going on between them. By the looks of it, Ron was completely dumbfounded, his expression still, but his eyes scanning the room for the answer. His best friend smiled when it alighted on Harry's dancing eyes taking in the situation before him.
"Phoenix. Harry was invited to join the Order of the Phoenix. Okay... So we know that it's something like the Order of Merlin. What's the difference?"
Hermione still stood in front of Ron, her finger no longer on his lips, but her hand on his shoulder and her eyes locked. "And that is what we have to find out."
*~*~*~*
The three entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom a bit hesitantly. The rest of their classmates were already there and waiting. Like the rest of the Fifth Years, they wanted to know exactly who their Professor was. There had been a shroud of mystery surrounding the Professor, for know one yet could even write their name on a scrap of parchment without losing control of something else.
Taking the three empty seats in the back of the class, the entire Gryffindor fifth year DADA class kept their intent eyes boring holes into the door. Approximately five minutes into the beginning of class ("I never knew a Professor to be late," murmured Hermione) none other than Argus Filch walked through the door, carrying a mop in his right hand. Straight away he went to the board and started writing all over it.
The class released their unknowningly held breaths extremely disappointed. Ron's eyes searched Harry's, his eyebrows halfway to the ceiling. Hermione looked at them both, and then whispered, "But he can't be qualified for this job--"
"He's a squib," Ron finished.
"Exactly."
Confused looks were thrown around the room, and every student in the room caught their peer's eye at least once, creating an awkward moment in spite of the usual proceedings.
Dean Thomas, who was standing next to Harry, elbowed him hard. "Look!"
Filch was getting suddenly taller, his hair changing color, and his shape turning decidedly more--feminine. After the transformation was over, the Professor spun around to reveal an incredibly familiar face.
Neville spluttered lamely, "Pro--Professor McGonagall?"
Professor McGonagall waved her wand and a ribbon of words spilled out of it she left it silent for a few seconds, purposefully leaving a pregnant pause before reading. "Polyjuice Potion. I know this isn't exactly Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I want you to know how to detect if someone is using Polyjuice Potion."
Harry defensively shivered, remembering the incident last year with the last Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.
As if she read his mind, the Professor added, "And yes, this has to do with the incident last year. You won't be allowed to take any, but this week I will be bringing people into the class. By listening to their voices and watching their actions, you will be given the task of determining who has taken a Polyjuice Potion and who hasn't. I have talked with Snape, and we have found a way to make its effects a bare minimum of five minutes."
The class stood, staring at their Professor. Not only was this the adamant Head of Gryffindor House who despised Slytherin ground talking with Snape, there was something different about her manner. What was going on?
The two chattiest girls in their House, Lavender and Parvati, bit their tongues and the rest of the House decided to follow their lead.
"Open your Potions textbook to page 302. This is the only real lesson we will have on Polyjuice Potion, so be sure to take good notes." A quiet session awaited them, coupled with note-taking and some question answering, when a knock on the door interrupted the class. Professor McGonagall walked inside and closed the heavy oak door behind her.