Rating – Pg13 to an R I don't really know yet.
Characters and Pairings – it's eventually going to be a Harry/Draco and involves a whole cast of characters, some original but most from the books.
Disclaimer – I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters or anything that appears in the books by J. K. Rowling. However, the story and any original characters are my creative property so hands off.
Thanx 2 – LvlySenbei for her fantastic work as my beta =D she's bloody marvellous
Warning – if u missed it this story will eventually contain slash. There are a few "adult themes" like some violence and character death so watch out for those too. I'm setting this story at pg-13 for now though it may get to an R in the last chapter or so. I'll warn you in advance if anything changes.
A/N – my favourite fandoms are H.P and Smallville so this story is influenced by some popular ideas in that fandom. This story is not completely original but I hope to put my own spin on it and make it interesting.
- this is going to be one helluva long story but I hope to update very quickly. There's a lot of plot, lots of twists and turns, love and loss and all that . . .hope you enjoy the trip.
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~Twists of Fate~
. . . They all sprawled around the old fireplace in Harry's new (but rather dilapidated) "apartment". At least that was what the estate agent had called it. Harry preferred "shoebox"; it was much closer to the truth. The tiny apartment, just a living room with kitchenette, bathroom and the closet that he slept in, was unfortunately the best that Harry could afford on the meagre salary he got from the ministry. Harry was an Auror now, just out of training, which was why everyone had come to his shoebox to celebrate. It was hard work, and terrible pay, but someone had to do it. Save the world that is.
The gang was all here tonight, gathered around the crackling fire. Everyone had pried themselves away from busy schedules to drink some cheap champagne and reminisce about their years together. They lounged around on threadbare couches and lumpy pillows, content and a little tipsy in the mellow golden light. They talked on for hours, remembering old friends and old enemies, sharing fond and sometimes painful memories about those who had fallen, whispering fears for the future and for their families, their friends, for the world, for everything that was still at risk.
Ron was there, hair the colour of old copper glinting golden in the firelight. An almost empty flute of lukewarm champagne gently cradled in one hand, he was lying on his back staring at a crack in the shadowed ceiling, relaxed and calm - a rare thing for him these days. Ron had probably suffered the worst of them all. His two eldest brothers, Charlie and Bill, had been killed early on, shortly after joining the war effort. They had been victims of a surprise attack, brutally murdered by a group of deatheaters. Percy was now a big shot at the ministry, constantly working for the defence department, up night and day, driving himself mad in his efforts to find justice, or at least vengeance – Penelope had died defending their month old son.
Fred and George had left school to train as undercover operatives, eventually becoming experts in their field, gathering essential information for the cause. They had both disappeared on a mission two years ago. They were awarded medals of honour, golden wands for bravery. The family still hoped. Though they longed for revenge, Ron and Ginny had promised the twins to finish school and had graduated a year ago, Ginny having worked twice as hard to finish at the same time as her brother.
Now Ron had finished Auror training with Harry and was burning with a fierce desire for the revenge so long denied, finally able to do something about it. He was willing to risk his life a hundred times over to protect what remained of his family. Ginny, against the wishes of her family, had become a witch doctor, a leading surgeon specialising in field injuries. She was also here tonight, lying next to her brother. She was changed forever, her bubbling enthusiasm gone, replaced by a quiet, cold contemplation . . . frankly, it unnerved Harry.
Looking up from where he lay curled up in an ancient armchair, Harry saw Hermione swaying a little drunkenly as she picked her way around mess and other people, a new bottle of bubbles clutched in her hands. He silently pondered the confusing enigma that she had become. He didn't really understand how it had happened, how she had changed so much. They still talked every day and went out all the time . . . but something was gone, something hidden from him. She was just not the same Hermione that she had been.
In their final year at Hogwarts, Hermione had been away doing some research for The Order when she had stumbled upon a group of deatheaters; they had been having a "meeting" – torturing muggles. Hermione had run away, as anyone would. The information she provided eventually led to the capture of those deatheaters, but the muggles had not survived. Hermione had never talked to them about that night, but from then on she had been a different girl, now a woman, a stranger.
Right after graduation, Hermione had disappeared for a few months, no notice and no contact details. Understandably, everyone had feared the worst. She had returned one day, out of the blue, saying only that she had been "away", that she had needed time to "sort some stuff out". Harry did not know where she had been or what she had done, only that the moment she had returned, she had been snapped up by the intelligence unit of Merlin's Knights - an elite force similar to the Aurors but composed of specialists in most important fields, they used less magic and instead employed "traditional" muggle-like approaches to war and were a vital asset in the war against darkness, something that Voldemort didn't have.
As Hermione settled in an equally battered chair next to him, Harry smiled and wriggled a little deeper in his own, taking a moment to savour the peace of the night. A comfortable silence had fallen, everyone focusing on his or her own thoughts, lost in the memories that seemed to hang heavy in the air. The only sound that could be heard, apart from the incessant rumble of the London traffic, was the bright crackle of the fire. The world might hurry on around them but in this room, for just a few hours, they were outside it all, suspended in time, just being together in the uncommon peace of the night. But as some ancient philosopher once said - it is always calmest before the storm.
Harry must have dozed off because he suddenly became aware that the fire had gone out and had obviously been out a while now; the room was strangely chilled, freezing . . . though no one seemed to notice, probably because they were all fast asleep. Harry paused for a moment, a strange shiver running up his spine, making him glance around into the shadows, suddenly suspicious. Something was wrong here. Carefully, quietly, unfolded himself from the chair, padding over to the bedroom, where he had left his wand. It was probably nothing, but he would feel better when he had his wand in his hand.
Suddenly, Harry froze, one hand on the doorframe, holding completely still. What was that? His head cocked to one side, his eyes unfocused, Harry strained his ears to hear it again . . . that noise . . . so familiar . . . there it was again! A strange shuffle-scuffle, something dragging along the floor of the hall outside his apartment. Harry lived in a building full of pensioners - no one would be up at, Harry quickly checked the clock on top of the mantle, 2 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday. So who, or what, the hell was making that noise?
The strange noise sounded again but was abruptly silenced by a cold, blood chilling hiss - an evil, reptilian sound that sent shudders of recognition down his spine. He knew that sound, or more so the maker of that sound - too well. But Harry was completely helpless, unable to protect himself or anyone else - his wide eyes were glued to the door in petrified fascination and his feet were equally fixed to the floorboards . . . In the split second he had to think, to move, he did nothing but stare. And then it was too late.
The door exploded in a burst of blue flame and wood fragments. The debris flew to all corners of the apartment, the speed such that small fragments of wood ripped holes in the walls and floor, impacting like stray bullets, just as deadly. Bright flashes of magical fire were visible through the smoky darkness of the tiny room, scorching flames of icy blue and poisonous green burning beyond the blackened hole that had once been a doorway. In that endless instant time slowed to a stop before kick starting into double-time, leaving the world to fend for itself. Instinctively, Harry ducked and rolled into the bedroom, plastering himself against the wall. The flimsy plaster barrier was all that stood between Harry and his worst nightmare. Voldemort.
Breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating from spine-chilling fear, Harry crouched next to the door, his mind flying desperately from one plan to another, discarding them all. Voldemort had found him, had come to finish their battle, to put an end to it once and for all. He was in Harry's very home, just a few steps away. By a cruel twist of fate, Voldemort had chosen the perfect moment to attack, just when Harry had finally let his guard down.
There would be no miraculous escape this time. Harry heard malicious shouts of joy and knew that the Dark Lord had not come alone; he had brought scores of Death Eaters. Harry's only chance at surviving this attack would be to finally defeat Voldemort, to face him in battle and emerge victorious. Voldemort had come here looking for an end to it all, and that's what he would get. If Harry succeeded, the Death eaters, left without their leader, would hopefully scatter. If he failed . . . then the Death Eaters would no longer be a concern.
All this had tumbled through his fear-muddled mind in less that a second. Harry was still crouched against that mouldy wall when the first scream shattered the silence of his shock, echoing through the rooms before breaking off with a sickening gurgle. Abruptly, Harry was brought back to reality, he had not been alone in the apartment, this had not been another normal night.
Ron.
Ginny.
Hermione.
A wave of heartrending grief rose from the depths of his soul, banishing all fear and leaving a terrible rage behind. Harry lunged for the bedside table, fist closing about his wand as he turned to the living room, his momentum carrying him forward and out of hiding.
They had been his only true friends, his family, all he had in the world. In a blaze of evil green flame they were just piles of ash scattered in the darkness. The sight before him was like nothing he had ever seen. It broke his heart, smothered his soul and simply destroyed his entire world. All thought, all feeling burned to ash along with them. His being was consumed by one desire. REVENGE.
A cruel bark of laughter had him turning to face his tormentor, murder in his emerald eyes. In the ruined doorway he stood, a being of pure darkness silhouetted against the bright flashes of magic behind him. Harry's wide eyes looked to the man who had destroyed everything and everyone he had ever loved and felt a single tear roll down his cheek. Voldemort.
A screech of pure pain clawed its way up from inside him, searing his throat and leaving his insides bloody and raw as he let loose his fury on the world.
"NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
And reality fell away, the world disappearing in a wave of painfully pure white light . . .
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BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
"And a good morning to all you poor witches and wizards who are awake listening out there at this ungodly hour. That's right it six in the a.m. and while its still dark outside let's lighten things up with a little of the Enchantress of Pop - Morag Thistledown . . ."
The painfully flat warbling of Miss. Thistledown was cut off mid squawk when the radio alarm clock met with the hard floor, breaking apart and giving up the ghost with a little puff of smoke.
Moments later, a heartfelt groan emanated from somewhere under the mountain of covers on the bed, followed by various rustling noises and a few sleepy yawns. Slowly, the rumpled man hiding from the day beneath the lumpy quilts was revealed. First appeared a head of messy raven silk, dark locks falling in disarray over the tanned forehead, hiding the thickly lashed eyes that remained stubbornly closed, ends tickling slightly crooked nose. The rosy mouth opened and closed in little mewling yawns, pink tongue flicking out to wet dry lips.
Leanly muscled arms emerged from the tangle to push the constricting bedcovers down to his waist, revealing great expanses of bare golden skin, taught across wide shoulders and a solid chest lightly dusted with dark curls. The ebony curls thickened as they trailed down the tanned chest, over the flat stomach to disappear into a pair of old tartan boxers. With a long feline stretch and the aid of sluggishly kicking legs, he was finally freed from the embrace of the covers. He relaxed from the full body stretch and, eyes still tightly closed, rolled to his side –
"Argghhh!!"
- where there was no longer a wall, just a whole lot of hard wooden floor.
He had moved the bed to the middle of the tiny bedroom the night before "for a little change". Groaning and rubbing his throbbing head, he admitted what he had long known – Harry Potter was not a morning person.
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Stumbling in the dark, Harry somehow made it across the cold floorboards, out, and into the bathroom on the other side of the hall. Hands firmly gripping the edges of the sink as he pressed his fevered brow against the cool mirror. Dear Gods but he hated that dream. He had already lived through it once and that was enough for him, but someone insisted on making him relive it again and again in his dreams, a painful reminder of something that happened a lifetime ago. But the passage of time could not dull the pain of those memories or the sharpness of those dreams, so real that he felt the pain of loss every time, every night. It was killing him. Literally. He had an ulcer the size of his fist and constant migraines. Life was hell.
Hand groping blindly against the wall, Harry flipped on the lights, blinking rapidly at the resulting brightness. Sighing, he shook himself, one had rubbing over his bristly face as the other turned the rusty tap. Reaching both hands into the flow and splashing his face and neck to chase away the last vestiges of sleep, Harry hissed as the freezing water hit his still warm skin. He hadn't really been expecting that, considering that he had turned the hot tap on. Harry turned off the icy stream and sunk to the floor. Bringing his knees to his chest, he rested his head in his hands and tried to find some control. He was an idiot. He had forgotten to pay the heating bill.
Uninterested in the prospect of a cold shower and thoroughly unenthusiastic about starting the day, Harry lay back against the cool bathroom tiles and threw an arm across his eyes. This day could not get any worse. But the frightening thing was this wasn't unusual for him, no, but yet another bad day in a string that spanned months. The stupid things like forgetting to pay the bills were becoming every day occurrences. It wasn't that he didn't have the money – he was the youngest and most powerful head Auror in over five hundred years – it was just that with years of having no one to care about him, even he had eventually stopped caring about himself. He was tired. He was lonely. And gods he sounded like a grumpy child, not the world famous 27-yearold wizard that he was.
The world saw him as a young man who had survived incredible danger and saved the world. He may have saved the world but he hadn't been able to save his friends, hadn't been able to save his soul. He should have died with them that night but his cowardice had saved him and condemned all he loved. He should have died that night. But he hadn't. Instead he had been left a shell of a man, mechanically moving through life, continuing to save people in an attempt to atone for his awful failure. He had fulfilled his dream of becoming an Auror, although it was hollow now, and had quickly risen through the ranks. No one noticed he wasn't alive inside. No one cared. There was no one left to care.
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The man in the mirror was a stranger. Too long hair that hung longer that his shoulders, thick and dark as night. The skin was rough from exposure to the elements, fine wrinkles feathered out from the corners of his perpetually narrowed eyes. Haunted eyes. Still a rich emerald but the shadows lurking there were clear if anyone looked close enough. No one did. The generous curve of his mouth had thinned over the years to a hard, practical line, not cruel but still, smiles a rarity. The granite planes of his face were strong. Unreadable. Unquestionable. Untouchable. He looked older than twenty-seven, tired and cold, hardened and distant.
He looked the way he felt. But most people didn't see that, they didn't see the truth, they just saw exactly what they wanted to see. The capable leader. The brave saviour. The man who had everything. He had everything, and nothing. For what good was money and power if he had no one to share it with? Harry raked his hands through the long raven locks, tying the mass of hair back before rubbing still tired eyes and preparing to start the day.
Harry lived in a Muggle apartment in London, not far from the Leaky Cauldron. It was bigger than his first flat, but really nothing special. No one knew where Harry lived, no one suspected he lived in Muggle London, and that was just the way he liked it. He loved magic, and the magical world, but living constantly in the public eye had worn Harry's patience thin. So he bought this little flat and apparated into work everyday. Besides the privacy, living amongst "normal" people was safer – he hid from his enemies in plain sight. The apartment was out of the way and protected by powerful wards. Not even Voldemort could have found him here. Even if he was alive.
Because Harry had lived so long in the muggle world, he wholeheartedly believed that magic was a precious gift, and treated it as such. He used it whenever he had to but tried to do everything he could without it, hence the heating bill. Bills actually added to the appearance of normalcy and helped convince the Muggles that he was one of them, but they were completely unnecessary if Harry chose to use magic. Though he would never admit it, Harry also felt that using magic for everything made a person weak. And Harry despised weakness in himself; he simply could not afford it. Not again.
Deciding to indulge himself for once, largely because he was nearing the end of his very short tether, Harry filled the sink with water and dipped a hand in it. A moment later, the water was no longer freezing but pleasantly warm. Smiling a little smugly, he washed his face properly this time before drying off with an old towel. Harry stared a moment at his image in the mirror before closing his eyes and whispering a few words. When he looked back to his image in the mirror, he was clean-shaven and appeared decidedly more civilised.
One of Harry's most important accomplishments was his amazing grasp of wandless magic. After his defeat of Voldemort, Harry had promised himself to learn how to perform magic without use of a channelling device (like a wand) so that he could never be taken by surprise and rendered defenceless again. Years of intense study and practice later; he could perform most spells and charms with just a small amount of concentration. The more complex spells, or those he was unfamiliar with, were harder, and for those he still used his wand, which he carried with him everywhere in case he had need of it.
Harry was lucky; he had a natural talent for wandless magic, though it had been incredibly challenging at the beginning. Actually, the challenge had been what interested him the most; it was something he could throw himself into completely, something to distract him from his all consuming guilt and grief.
Defensive magic was the easiest; at its most basic it was simply a need to survive – a powerful force that existed in all creatures. Even Muggles had shown signs of this kind of magic, in its raw form; they sometimes described it as finding an unknown reserve of strength, or they simply called it a miracle. With training and true magical ability, some wizards could harness that power and direct it to a conscious purpose with just a spoken word. Defensive magic was mainly used in protective and healing charms, but if a person were a true master, then he could find many uses for it. At its strongest, defensive wandless magic could deflect almost any spell or charm known to the practitioner, even an unforgivable.
Offensive magic was harder. The urge to protect ourselves and others close to us is a very basic part of all of us, but consciously attacking another being, especially without obvious provocation, is not instinctual, but something quite different. It had taken him a long time to master it, but eventually he had succeeded. Offensive magic was essential to any Auror, and being able to attack an enemy without a wand was an enormous advantage. Just as Harry had hoped, it meant that he could never be totally defenceless. The only problem was that after years or practicing wandless magic, of trusting his instincts and his first reactions, when Harry was surprised he sometimes lashed out and his power could do some damage, as a few novice Aurors had learned the hard way.
Harry found it quite easy to perform, manipulate and control large amounts of magic; he had an enormous source of "natural" magic, which was tapped when one used wandless magic. But he had trouble with the small things, those spells that required just a small flow of power, for which he had to constrict the amount of power he used. He thought of his power like a huge reservoir inside him, which had been dammed for so long. In most people it remained blocked up for ever, but Harry had managed to punch a hole in it, one that he could open and close at will. But holding back that amount of power was difficult. In larger feats of magic, he just opened the hole wide and let it flow, but smaller spells needed smaller amounts of power and thus a smaller hole.
Before perfecting his control there had been many embarrassing incidences in which Harry had, for example, been trying to float a pencil and had ended up launching it into space. He had always found it more dangerous performing the smaller spells because they required such strong control. So, naturally, Harry practiced the smaller spells and refined his control. When Harry had heated the water, his smug smile had been understandable; few people could perform that charm without boiling the water, luke-warm was a grand achievement.
The shaving spell was actually very complex, a personal transfiguration. It had taken an infuriatingly long time to safely perfect that. Most people tried to remove the hair, and ended up going completely bald. Harry's spell transfigured his face with stubble to what he knew his face looked like when shaven, absolutely identical in every other way and completely safe. The spell was subtler than the old mouse into a chalice but no less effective.
Detouring to the kitchen to grab some coffee and a little dry toast, Harry wandered back to his bedroom. Foraging in the closet he found jeans and a T-shirt and his clean robes. Harry's official Auror robes and the rest of his gear was kept at his office, and he would change when he arrived. The Aurors were a little like the magical secret service these days; some people even doubted they existed any more, and when you were off work no one needed to know who you were or what you did. After the fall of Voldemort, the Aurors had faded into the background. They still saved the world on a regular basis, but no one had to know about it. They moved in mysterious ways.
Shaking his head at his foolishness, Harry glanced at his watch and cursed violently – he was running late. It was almost seven o'clock and though work didn't officially start till nine, Harry had things to do before then. Calling his wand, wallet and everything else he needed to him with a soft "Accio," Harry straightened his robes and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Another day of the rest of his life.
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TBC.
Tell me what you think!!!! I need the encouragement *blush* I also think I'm addicted to feedback (there's no such thing as too much or enough) so feed my addiction or I might go into withdrawal and not be able to write =P
Thanks muchly,
Amy(BaBe_WiTh_BiTe)
!!