W1: What happened to Harry, Ms. Pruett? That's all we want to know.
EP: I told you a billion times! Why are you making me repeat myself?
W3: Come now. You don't really expect us to believe your story, do you? We
respect
you as an Auror. Please respect us with the truth. EP: You know what. Fuck off. I'm leaving. You try to stop me and I'll tear your bloody
heads off.
-unfinished transcript from the Resurgence Inquiry (12/23/2012)
Ultimate Harry Potter
By Oirams
Chapter 5 Old Allies
"Take their clothes off," Harry repeated, pointing to the inert forms of John and Pruett.
"What?" His rescuer asked, nearly guffawing at the impropriety.
"I said, take their clothes off. There's at least one tattoo ward on her and the boy's bound to have hidden weapons. So strip them of everything."
The other man nodded, and then proceeded to follow Harry's orders.
"Expelliarmus! Accio! Expelliarmus! Accio!" the man chanted until the unconscious two were completely bare.
The Peugeot's trunk was made out of tesseracts—or what the Corner Corporation called pocket technology—and had just enough room in it to store the two fallen Aurors.
"Why do you want to bring them along, Harry?" asked Harry's Rescuer as he dumped all of the clothes and weapons onto the backseat. "They'll only slow us down, y'know."
Harry shrugged and then scrounged around the backseat in search of Pruett's T.V.A. Calling Device. He found it, turned it over in his hand, and then shoved it into one of his own pockets. "We can't leave them behind in the Artic cold, can we? Plus, she's Percy's second in command...If I can persuade her to help us...."
The other man laughed. "Right," he said sarcastically. "Of course, there's always a good reason for bringing along a naked chick." Harry's Rescuer started the car, and it began to pick up speed slowly as the tires spun out the last remaining snows from their threads. "Seriously, though. I think it may be better to leave her...When I was checking her over, I found numerous skinwards on her. At least four protective, and three I've never even seen before. Level five wards. It took some doing to get rid of them, too."
Harry frowned. He hated surprises. "Are the wards a threat to us?"
"Well, no...for some reason, they seemed to be inverted inwards. It's as if she's chained herself..."
"Then forget about it," Harry dismissed. "It's going to take some time for Auror Central to coordinate that All-Points-Bulletin she ordered up to catch me. I want us out of Azkaban Highway by then."
The driver nodded, and then cursed as he saw that the car had a manual gearshift. "Screwit," he muttered, and then began to lurch the car into the highway. Harry smiled as the car zigzagged its way across the snowy paths.
"Who uses manual these days? Soddin' women drivers..." growled the driver ferociously as he strained to keep the car under control.
Soon, however, Harry's Rescuer wrestled the mean Peugeot under control enough to maintain a constant speed. He looked extremely pleased with himself, muttering phrases like "yeah, who's your master, now" and "What you got now?" to the car.
The car drove on with no one speaking a word as the golden tattoos pulsed out its message.
(I really don't like giving information like this) The tattoos they both shared were Marks that were akin to magical telegraphs. They sent and received messages by pulsing a variant strain of the secret language Harry, as a youth, had developed with his friends. Some of the more ignorant Harry-mongers had pointed to it, saying that he had been branded as the Dark Lord's own. The reason for the confusion lay that Voldemort utilized nearly the exact same system, only that his Mark consisted of a black skull of death while Harry's displayed a Griffon in perilous flight. Harry had always called it Dumbledore's Mark and, in the early days, before his exile into America, he would call it as such to all those who would hear him out. But even the other people who had accepted the Mark hid it, and some even had them removed; it was just more convenient to do so. Thirteen was the number of people whom had willingly accepted Dumbledore's Mark. Only seven in total remained, now that Viktor Krum had been murdered.
Their Marks stopped pulsating.
Harry was the first one to translate the message, "Do you know how to get there?"
The other scoffed. "To Hogwart's? Of course. I drove my nephew there one time when he missed the Hogwart's Express—" He closed his mouth immediately, remembering that the last time Harry had been on that train had been in 1977 at the day of the Massacre. "Oh, sorry about that, Harry. Didn't mean to drudge up the past like that. Honest."
"No, it's perfectly fine," he muttered as he tipped his hat forward. He shouldered down, and began to nap. He felt strained. Worn thin, even. He could feel his innards slosh around, and he knew he it was only a matter of time before he would need to expunge the bad blood in him somehow—usually done by imbibing a Ricewater Potion of Controlled Regurgitation. Harry called it 'brainpuke', but Ricewater was the natural name for it.
The car zoomed forwards to Hogwart's. For the first time since he arrived back in England, he was relaxed. Dumbledore would know what to do, he thought. Dumbledore would take care of everything. Yeah... Harry saw stars, and he barely had time to say 'Bollocks' before the familiar curtain fell, and he blacked completely out. "Harry?" The driver asked concernedly. Vaguely, he remembered that Dumbledore had told him that something like this would happen. But when Harry began to bleed continuously from his mouth, he pulled over immediately. He hastily procured a Penrose from the dashboard, but the small tissue soon became overburdened. The blood spilled over, soiling his sleeve as well as the tweed suit Harry sported. He fumbled out his medicwand, and as he quickly reviewed the advanced healing spells queued inside it, he realized how inapplicable they were to Harry's sickness. But then, he still had to try. He pushed away Harry's front locks with the wand, revealing the horrid scar underneath. The scar had grown, and he could trace the little lines snaking its way from the forehead, around the nape, and then circling toward the heart. Once the scar reached there, Dumbledore had told him, it would crush Harry's heart, and finally complete Voldemort's last revenge.
The driver sighed, incanted several advanced replenishing spells, and then resumed the journey. Harry continued to bleed at intervals, but the driver did not stop to care for him. He had to get to Dumbledore's. The scar was advancing far too quickly, and Dumbledore had said something of a possible cure. Dumbledore would know what do, he thought, glancing yet again at Harry who was dribbling dirty, discolored blood from the corner of his mouth. He has to.
Chapter TBC The lion and the Unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All around the town.
Some gave them white bread And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake And drummed them out of town.
The woman muttered two more of these schoolyard rhymes. . She was dirty, and her skin hung on her haphazardly. The will to live was clearly bereft from her and the room surrounding her shared the same type of dreariness. Cobwebbed, and furniture-bare, it seemed to be an unlivable place. In the center of this prison-like room, there was a rocking chair, and at most times, she could be found there. The rocking soothed her and sometimes, the voices would even quiet just enough for her to be able to sleep. This was not a lasting peace, but she was grateful for even the smallest respite. Her self-imposed prison lay at the very topmost of Gryffindor Tower's four turrets. No one dared enter there—not even the Ghosts that haunted the place. But sometimes, on a foolish bet, a Slytherin or Gryffindor would scale the long steps of Solitary Bastion, to investigate whether the place was truly haunted. When they saw her, they had one of two reactions. They either froze up in terror, or ran off screaming, in utterless terror. Her white-kissed hair, blood-veined eyes, and sinister smile were more than enough to continue the ongoing myths of Solitary Tower. The most popular theory was that she was the ghost of Voldemort's mother—she could only chuckle at the absurdity of such a notion but she would not come down to rectify foolish Ravenclaws and their research. The myths suited her. The fewer visitors she had, the better. A person like her, she felt, deserved to be lonely.
Sybil. The Oracle wants you, Sybil. Wants the you Oracle, Sybil. Oracle the you wants, Sybil. Sybil. SYBIL! SYBIL!
"Go away!" Sybil screamed. She clawed at her face until the scabs broke, and began to pour forth fresh blood. This time, however, even pain could not quell the voices. They were strong. Almost as strong as the insinuations that led her to her very first prophecy—the one that had destroyed her.
That had been thirty years ago, and she remembered that fateful day to its minutest detail. She remembered how pretty she had been back then. Her hair had been lavender brown, and she had worn clothes of the finest Damascan silk...Looking back, she could only smile at how preoccupied she was with appearance. She had been a grown woman then, but, she realized now, Dumbledore must have regarded her as nothing more than a mere child. ------------------------Flash back section (haha)---------------------------
"I'm sorry, Ms. Trelawney," Dumbledore had said, putting on his wizarding hat. "I can't hire you. Not because I doubt your talents. Oh no. To speak the truth, I've been wanting to do away with the course of Divination for a long time. Yes, um. Well, you must know how it is." He had then followed up that lame excuse with an ambiguous smile that was both mocking and polite," After all, not everyone is Gifted...like you." "Please, Headmaster," she had ensued. "I really need the position. Please..." She remembered how desperately she was in need for a job. But it had not been always like that. Her own mother had refused to tell her where the family fortune laid hidden, and by the time she thought to use Truth Serum, her mother had already gone insane...Dumbledore had commiserated but he would never allow an unqualified teacher in the hallowed grounds of Hogwart's. "Kindly let go of my robes," Dumbledore had whispered. "This is a public place..." "No!" she had replied. "You owe my mother! She gave you that Grindelwald prophecy! You owe her! I demand..." "Be quiet, woman!" Dumbledore had hissed. He could be scary when he needed to, and Sybil remembered how frightening the man's demeanor had become as he dragged her up the stairs and into a private room. "Are you mad?" he had asked. "NEVER EVER tell a soul about the Grindelwald prophecy. No one must ever know where I imprisoned him. No one! If I ever hear you even mention it ever again, I shall not be as forgiving as I am today. Do you understand me, Sybil?" "Yes..." she had trembled. "Good. You may stay in the inn for an extra week. I've made arrangements with the innkeeper, and he'll take care of your meals as well...And, I am sorry about your mother's condition. When things settle down in the world, her recovery will be my priority. You have my word."
It was then that the Oracle first spoke to her. Her mother had said that it would come whenever She wanted, and leave when you most needed Her. There were things you can do to call Her, but mostly, it was luck.
She felt the memory wash over her. The Oracle did not enter the soul calmly. She bludgeoned, kicked and bore into the spirit before making her predictions. It was not pain in the sense of the word...it was more of a taint, a violation of her spirit that would remain with her until the day she died. And maybe, even after.
But, like most troubles in the world, the Oracle was something you had to invite first..
The Voice had asked her, Do you have need of me?
She had hesitated but Dumbledore was fast leaving and there were no use in delaying despite the warnings her mother had given.
And so Trelawney called Her.
And so She came.
"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." There can be only one, she moaned in her padded cell. This was all she remembered of her First Prophecy. The Oracle had obscured many parts from her. It was as well, for she did not want to remember. For every part of it was dangerous.
Dumbledore had slapped her.
"Fool!" His face had been livid. "Did I tell you to bring the Oracle! Of all places, in here..." He had then pulled his wand out, saying menacingly, "For your sake, pray that my scrying spell finds no unfriendly ears."
"Scrying spell?" she had asked in bewilderment.
Dumbledore had not answered her, his astral form had already projected out, and when it returned, the anger in his face had not diminished but instead, flamed even hotter.
"You...insufferable...wench...Do you realize what you've done?" He had gripped her so hard that she had thought he had it in mind to kill her.
It was only after the killings started did she fully understand what a huge mistake she had made. She had been overheard by one of Voldemort's puppets. Had it not been for Dumbledore's paranoia, the puppet would've transmitted the whole thing to his master instead of but the first two lines. But even that had been too much. In the following years, Voldemort exterminated family after family, one by one, all so that his reign would be free from the prophetic danger she had described. She had felt so responsible. Had it not been for her prophecy, there would have been no Herod. Her hazardous use of her powers had resulted in orphaning children such as Potter, Longbottom, Bones, Abbot, Everfry, and others whose name she had long forgotten. She sobbed again, clutching her heart, and recited again the rhymes that seem to soothe her pain-wracked psyche. She would need an Obliviate performed on herself again and soon.
Suddenly the door opened, and the resulting light flooded Sybil's room. Her irises burned and as she constricted her pupils to adjust, she saw a figure approaching her from the doorway.
"Who's that?" she cried alarmingly. "Go away! Don't hurt me!" She fell off her rocking chair, and scampered animally away into a dark corner. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to..."
The old man at the doorway only smiled, "What has been done is done, Sybil. Do not blame yourself for things that would have happened, regardless of your own doings. Believe me, man is never as important as they place themselves." The man's tone was light, and demure, "But...it does not mean that we should not try." He held out an inviting hand. "Arise. The time of self-loathing is done for. There are many questions I have, and they are only answerable by one with Seer's blood. Return to me, Sybil Trelawney, I beg of you."
"No...I can't...There's so many voices...they all want to tell me things...horrible things..." she began but her visitor had entered the room now, and she glimpsed him in full. "Oh, Albus, you're so..."
Revealed before her, was an enfeebled man. Soft blotches of purple littered over his exposed skin like a sickly, unripe melon, and the man's eyes, which had once been remarkably brilliant, were half-filled with glaucoma and forgetfulness. She was shocked at the change. The last she saw him was five years ago, and back then, he was aged, but not...decayed.
Dumbledore, chuckled, his long flowing beard curling along with his smile. "I'm what, Sybil? Old? Yes...I am and have been for a long time now." He lifted her up to stand, all the while pulling toward the light. "Unfortunately, I will have my rest soon...whether I want to or not." He paused, leaning heavily into Sybil. "Will you help me finish a few things? There is much to do, and, loathe that I am to admit it, I cannot go it alone anymore." The sight was more than Sybil could bear. Dumbledore was so small, so hunched, and so gaunt...this was no great wizard demanding obedience. This was a sick, and dying man, humbling himself before her.
"Oh, Albus." She hurried to support the old man before he could fall down. The climb up Solitary Bastion was a long one, and for a man in his condition, it would have been a nearly insurmountable task. He wheezed, and coughed uncontrollably before speaking, "Thank you, Sybil."
And then, silently, the two walked down the stairs.. He had been dying for quite some time now, and it seemed unworthy for such a great man to die in such a slow fashion. Fortunately, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, had lived a fulfilling life, and everywhere he went he lacked not friends, and every need he had was granted by those same stalwarts.
Dumbledore's office lay in speckled gold across the nameplate of a door. Sybil used her free hand to wipe the dust that had accumulated on the plaque, and then trudged in, Dumbledore in tow. It is time I put my affairs in order, he mused, allowing Sybil to place him on gingerly into his deskchair.
"What is it that you want me to do?" asked Sybil, her brown eyes glistening with worry.
Dumbledore leaned back, resting a spiny hand on the bauble around his neck. He had guarded the world for over three centuries, and there was still much to be vigilant over...He summoned Fawkes, his phoenix to him. The bird nuzzled him, worried. It understood neither death nor sickness. It knew only that something was terribly wrong with Dumbledore's lifeforce, and that the paleness of his skin could not be healthy. Are you molting?
"No, my loyal bird. I am not molting." Dumbledore chuckled, and then blanked out, becoming befuddled to the point of forgetting his own self. It took a nudge from Sybil to wake him from his temporary stupor. He smiled apologetically, but inside, he was angry with himself for lapsing again. He activated the bauble labeled 'Pensieve', and felt the virtual memories supplant his own decaying synapses. He hurried to give Sybil his commands. The Pensieve would normalize him, but the spell taxed the user's energy greatly—energy he had very little of these days. "I need you to help Arthur Weasley after I am gone. I shall be handing him my Headmaster Position, as well as the reins of leadership." He coughed loud and long. As usual, blood followed it, but quickly he hid it so that Sybil would not see. "He is able, if yet sometimes riddled with self-doubt. I hope you can help guide him."
"But I haven't the qualifications!" Sybil answered.
"Nonsense," stated Dumbledore. He fed Fawkes a piece of bread before he continued, "Have you ever known me to be wrong?"
"No," Trelawney admitted, but her look was doubtful.
Dumbledore closed his eyes. He did not know for how long but when he opened his eyes, Trelawney was making tea, and there was sunlight sprawled over his desk. I must hurry, he thought.
"I am expecting some visitors, as well. I have summoned the usual Seven but whether or not they can all come, I do not know...Mr. Malfoy, too, will attend. I want you to keep an especially close eye on him, Sybil. I trust him...yet his mind is something that I cannot fathom. He may betray my cause, yet be convinced he is furthering it." He took several shallow breaths, straining hard to remember his chain of thinking. "Also...arriving will be the representatives from France, Norway, and Germany...and also the Creeveys." His eyes sparkled momentarily with delight. "The Creeveys! Please remind me to give Luna a present for her young one. Every time I see here, I keep forgetting about her little Janey's birthday. I'm a bad godfather, aren't I?"
Dumbledore trailed off into sleep once again, prompting Trelawney to finish the duties she had assigned herself. Sybil was worried. He had gone much farther into senility than she had first surmised. Only the power of the glowing Pensieve, a Memory Artifact, allowed Dumbledore any semblance of logical thinking. But in the long run, the Pensieve would be useless. The Pensieve Spell was Ancient Magic. And Ancient Magic, Sybil knew, always came with a price. Just then, Dumbledore snorted awake, nearly causing her to drop the teacup she held. "Most importantly, Mr. Creevey's younger brother, Dennis, will be bringing Harry with him. Oh...there are so many things I want to tell that boy..." Dumbledore continued. "Bring them all to my office here. I will have to instruct them, but, at certain intervals, you must remember to replenish me. And, remember, do tell none of the visitors my true condition." Dumbledore's voice was serious, and commanding. "Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," she answered. "Good. Wake me when they have all arrived." "Yes, sir," she said again softly, taking a blanket from the coat rack, and wrapping it gently onto the narrow shoulders of the once-great wizard. She sat back down, and watched silently over Albus. Trelawney wasn't the brightest person in the world, but she knew why Albus had summoned her away from her self-effacement. If he had been lucid, he would have told her to use her power again. To foresee the future. To bargain with the Oracle. She finished her tea solemnly. Just because she could, didn't mean she should. It was Ancient Magic. There was a price to be paid, always, for the use. The last time Trelawney had dared call the Oracle, it had resulted in so much death and suffering...Trelawney peered down into her cup's tea leaves, and began the first in what would be a series of calculations. The power of Oracling had more to do with the mathematics of probability than it had to do with being of Seer's blood. The times needed to be calculated to the utmost precision, and the invoking done subtly. It had to be coaxed, circumvented, and even then, it was not for certain. The tea leaves gave the sign of the Capricorn, as well as producing the starting five digits needed to begin the Arithmancy. She wrote them down on her palm, and then headed over to the window to compare them with the sky. Her starcharts were not needed; she having memorized most of them ages ago. But the pre-dawn sky was filled with uncertainty, and she could barely measure the distance between the planets much less attempt the times of their aphelion. Firenze will help, she thought but in her heart, she was doubtful. The centaur was still angry with her, and she did not want to ask him any favors if she could help it. He had not understood about the Voices. He had not understood why the Oracle would demand her to seclude herself off from everyone. His wrath had been uncontrollable, and he had even told her to that he never wanted to see her again. But Trelawney had been his wife...surely that would count for something. Sandra should be seven years old by now, she thought. Only three years left before the Oracle would allow her to see her own daughter...How she hungered for that day. If only Firenze could understand about the Gift.... She sighed, and remembered again what her own mother had told her about the power of Prophecy. She regretted now that she had not listened more closely.
"My daughter," her mother had lectured. "Do you know what makes the Ancient Magic so much different than the Modern?" "Ancient Magic is more powerful!" Little Sybil had replied. Her mother had not returned her smile. "Yes. Powerful. Infinitely so. But it comes always at a terrible price. The greater the power, the greater its influence, the more one has to pay for it. How much will you be willing to bleed, I wonder? You, dear, have seen me gain fame with the power but you have not seen the dark side." Her mother's face had become menacing, and foreign. It had given her nightmares for weeks. "There have been demands made of me, sacrifices I've long forgotten to keep my sanity...Be careful! Be wary! Do not use the Oracle unless you MUST. But do not be afraid to use her. When the day comes for you to take the reins of Prophecy, you must not let the price deter you." Sybil remembered the flourish her mother had. How wonderfully majestic, and fear-inspiring she had been before her insanity. "Our power is like no other. It changes the course of the future, shapes it, bends it to our will...If you deem the cause worthy enough, call upon the Oracle in spite of whatever she demands of you.. Remember, you must..."
...must do what you can when you can, Trelawney told herself. She lifted up her dusky robes, and hustled away. There was much to do.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- (Two guitars strum solemnly) Have you ever... Lost your way? Have you ever... Feared another day?
Have you ever... Misplaced your whole life Watching This world leaving you...Behind
Have you ever? Worn thin... Have you ever? Never known...where...to begin Have you ever... Lost your belief Watching your faith...Turn to grief
"Are you all right?" asked Dennis Creevey concernedly as he activated the landing gear for the car. He was still unused to the manual controls, and to say he 'landed' the car was like saying that 'anvils were bouncable.' The crash wasn't too bad; in fact, it seemed just what Harry needed because the shock jolted him unerringly awake. Dennis ignored the fact that he had just made the world's first reverse, sideways landing, and asked again, "Are you all right?" Harry glared at him, and then began to check himself for injuries. Chagrined, he found caked blood stains all over his clothes; the car stank of him. Voldemort's curse must've acted up again while I slept, he thought as he wiped the coagulated filth off his chin. What he regretted most was the fact that Dennis had seen him in his weakened state. To Dennis, he was still an undefeatable hero, one that could do no wrong. No one could, in reality, live up to that image of purity but Harry would do his best, if only to justify Dennis' faith in him. "I'm okay, mum," replied Harry with a smile.
Won't you...Won't you give? Won't you give a man?...Give a man... A Home.
In a world, That is unwhole You have...got to find...just to... Keep your soul
The music faded away, and a clear, sharp voice came through from the raddy. "Well, that was Ben Harper playing his new song 'Give a Man a Home'," announced the wand-radio jockey. "We're giving away tickets to their SOLD-OUT concert, so owl or wand-mail us at 1230 Diagon Alley Tower to enter for a chance to win! We have to warn the contestants beforehand that there will indeed be both Muggles and Wizards at the shindig, so absolutely NO MAGIC will be allowed—" Dennis turned off the raddy, and wheeled himself axially so that he could face Harry. He glared, "Don't you get smart with me. If you're still feeling woozy, we can put Dumbledore off for another hour or so until—" "For Merlin's sake, shut the fuck up. I'm FINE," replied Harry, unbuckling his seat belt. "Really. I'm fine." Harry flashed another false smile; in truth, he was more than a little irritated at being coddled. He wasn't an invalid, and he disliked being treated like one. He stepped out of the car but ducked his head back inside the car's cabin to ask jovially, "Are you coming or not?"
With a few grumbles, Dennis hoisted himself up from his seat, and then launched himself out the car. He made to follow Harry but was interrupted. "Not so fast," said Harry, holding up a dirtied hand. He hadn't had a bath, and even his own nose wrinkled from smelling himself. But before he would do anything, he had to make sure... "The two Aurors in the trunk. I can't have them waking up before I figure out what to say to them. Did you enchant their minds with a..."
"Sleeping charm?" Dennis snickered, "Of course I did! What kind of moron do you think I am?"
"The kind that's careless," replied Harry seriously. "If they escape, I'm as good as dead. Hogwart's has almost the exact same magical repressors as Azkaban, and it'll only take a word from Auror Central to completely blockade this place. So would you please go and make sure their binds are secure?"
"Oh come on, do I really have to—"
"Yes," Harry replied in exasperation. "Really. If your brother were here, he'd have it done by now." Harry's quip had its intended effect. Dennis Creevey and his older brother, Colin, were fiercely competitive with each other. So much so that they even contested on who idolized Harry more, which Harry had always thought was strange... Meanwhile, Dennis sped off to complete Harry's orders. Harry watched the boy circle theatrically around to the car's trunk, where the captives were stored. He popped it open, strengthened the charms on the two still-unconscious bodies, and then ran back to Harry, with his face bright as if looking for approval. "Good job, Dennis," Harry gave obligingly. Dennis beamed like a schoolboy, and then skipped happily away. Bloody dope, thought Harry. That had always been the type of person Dennis was—Simple and easygoing. Harry wouldn't have it any other way. Still grinning, Harry hurried to catch up with the younger man. He picked up his trouser legs, and lowered himself gently into the waters. From where they stood, the sun was just beginning to rise over them, and the rays casted golden, purple shadows over the banks, highlighting each and every reed with quiet displays of what Harry could only describe as the magic of Nature—It was exactly like what Harry remembered the secret entrance to have been like. Even the castle of Hogwart's itself seemed unchanged. The castle loomed in the far distance, magnificent and dominating. Its four towers of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and...Slytherin seem like ancient behemoths, immortal and unyielding, unfaltering, and beyond all reproach. Here, the Gods of Knowledge resided. Here, Magic, the Wild, was learned, broken, and then tamed. Here, sleeping half-naked in their beds, and snoring peacefully were pudgy boys and dainty girls, who would one day be the future of all Britain and beyond. Harry could only look back and wonder how he could have let such a wonderful experience slip him by unappreciated. "Oof!" Dennis had just fallen on his face—Harry gave a huge laugh, and then helped the red-faced youth back to his feet. Gallagher robes were eveningwear, and while it looked nice, it was too delicate for trekking through swamp and branch. Harry did not bother to explain the difference to Dennis—Not that it would do any good if he did. Dennis had OFD, a condition that affected mostly genius wizards. They would grasp the most far out concepts, but have trouble gauging the correct price of a candy bar. OFTEN FUDDLED DISORDER could be controlled with Potions but Harry knew that Dennis loathed the taste of it, and would never drink any innovation that came from Dr. Snape. Dennis was hugely biased against the man. The Potions Master had marked his essay with a failing grade, and he had never really forgiven him.
Good times that will never come again, he quoted to himself remembering a poet whose name escaped him. Never again in the darkest time. For we all live but an instant in God's mind. "Harry, come on. Don't just stand there, help me get the branches off the tunnel entrance!" Harry helped break the branches off the seldom-used entrance, and, as he stepped into the dark tunnel, he had a pang of nostalgia. If only I could turn back time, he thought uselessly. If only...Harry stopped thinking. He had contemplated suicide once before, and he had sworn to his friends that he would never do so again. He wasn't brave enough. "We're here, Harry," said Dennis as he pushed past the knight statue guarding the way in. Hogwart's. Harry was finally home. "Yes, we are." Harry breathed it in. "Yes, we are."
you as an Auror. Please respect us with the truth. EP: You know what. Fuck off. I'm leaving. You try to stop me and I'll tear your bloody
heads off.
-unfinished transcript from the Resurgence Inquiry (12/23/2012)
Ultimate Harry Potter
By Oirams
Chapter 5 Old Allies
"Take their clothes off," Harry repeated, pointing to the inert forms of John and Pruett.
"What?" His rescuer asked, nearly guffawing at the impropriety.
"I said, take their clothes off. There's at least one tattoo ward on her and the boy's bound to have hidden weapons. So strip them of everything."
The other man nodded, and then proceeded to follow Harry's orders.
"Expelliarmus! Accio! Expelliarmus! Accio!" the man chanted until the unconscious two were completely bare.
The Peugeot's trunk was made out of tesseracts—or what the Corner Corporation called pocket technology—and had just enough room in it to store the two fallen Aurors.
"Why do you want to bring them along, Harry?" asked Harry's Rescuer as he dumped all of the clothes and weapons onto the backseat. "They'll only slow us down, y'know."
Harry shrugged and then scrounged around the backseat in search of Pruett's T.V.A. Calling Device. He found it, turned it over in his hand, and then shoved it into one of his own pockets. "We can't leave them behind in the Artic cold, can we? Plus, she's Percy's second in command...If I can persuade her to help us...."
The other man laughed. "Right," he said sarcastically. "Of course, there's always a good reason for bringing along a naked chick." Harry's Rescuer started the car, and it began to pick up speed slowly as the tires spun out the last remaining snows from their threads. "Seriously, though. I think it may be better to leave her...When I was checking her over, I found numerous skinwards on her. At least four protective, and three I've never even seen before. Level five wards. It took some doing to get rid of them, too."
Harry frowned. He hated surprises. "Are the wards a threat to us?"
"Well, no...for some reason, they seemed to be inverted inwards. It's as if she's chained herself..."
"Then forget about it," Harry dismissed. "It's going to take some time for Auror Central to coordinate that All-Points-Bulletin she ordered up to catch me. I want us out of Azkaban Highway by then."
The driver nodded, and then cursed as he saw that the car had a manual gearshift. "Screwit," he muttered, and then began to lurch the car into the highway. Harry smiled as the car zigzagged its way across the snowy paths.
"Who uses manual these days? Soddin' women drivers..." growled the driver ferociously as he strained to keep the car under control.
Soon, however, Harry's Rescuer wrestled the mean Peugeot under control enough to maintain a constant speed. He looked extremely pleased with himself, muttering phrases like "yeah, who's your master, now" and "What you got now?" to the car.
The car drove on with no one speaking a word as the golden tattoos pulsed out its message.
(I really don't like giving information like this) The tattoos they both shared were Marks that were akin to magical telegraphs. They sent and received messages by pulsing a variant strain of the secret language Harry, as a youth, had developed with his friends. Some of the more ignorant Harry-mongers had pointed to it, saying that he had been branded as the Dark Lord's own. The reason for the confusion lay that Voldemort utilized nearly the exact same system, only that his Mark consisted of a black skull of death while Harry's displayed a Griffon in perilous flight. Harry had always called it Dumbledore's Mark and, in the early days, before his exile into America, he would call it as such to all those who would hear him out. But even the other people who had accepted the Mark hid it, and some even had them removed; it was just more convenient to do so. Thirteen was the number of people whom had willingly accepted Dumbledore's Mark. Only seven in total remained, now that Viktor Krum had been murdered.
Their Marks stopped pulsating.
Harry was the first one to translate the message, "Do you know how to get there?"
The other scoffed. "To Hogwart's? Of course. I drove my nephew there one time when he missed the Hogwart's Express—" He closed his mouth immediately, remembering that the last time Harry had been on that train had been in 1977 at the day of the Massacre. "Oh, sorry about that, Harry. Didn't mean to drudge up the past like that. Honest."
"No, it's perfectly fine," he muttered as he tipped his hat forward. He shouldered down, and began to nap. He felt strained. Worn thin, even. He could feel his innards slosh around, and he knew he it was only a matter of time before he would need to expunge the bad blood in him somehow—usually done by imbibing a Ricewater Potion of Controlled Regurgitation. Harry called it 'brainpuke', but Ricewater was the natural name for it.
The car zoomed forwards to Hogwart's. For the first time since he arrived back in England, he was relaxed. Dumbledore would know what to do, he thought. Dumbledore would take care of everything. Yeah... Harry saw stars, and he barely had time to say 'Bollocks' before the familiar curtain fell, and he blacked completely out. "Harry?" The driver asked concernedly. Vaguely, he remembered that Dumbledore had told him that something like this would happen. But when Harry began to bleed continuously from his mouth, he pulled over immediately. He hastily procured a Penrose from the dashboard, but the small tissue soon became overburdened. The blood spilled over, soiling his sleeve as well as the tweed suit Harry sported. He fumbled out his medicwand, and as he quickly reviewed the advanced healing spells queued inside it, he realized how inapplicable they were to Harry's sickness. But then, he still had to try. He pushed away Harry's front locks with the wand, revealing the horrid scar underneath. The scar had grown, and he could trace the little lines snaking its way from the forehead, around the nape, and then circling toward the heart. Once the scar reached there, Dumbledore had told him, it would crush Harry's heart, and finally complete Voldemort's last revenge.
The driver sighed, incanted several advanced replenishing spells, and then resumed the journey. Harry continued to bleed at intervals, but the driver did not stop to care for him. He had to get to Dumbledore's. The scar was advancing far too quickly, and Dumbledore had said something of a possible cure. Dumbledore would know what do, he thought, glancing yet again at Harry who was dribbling dirty, discolored blood from the corner of his mouth. He has to.
Chapter TBC The lion and the Unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All around the town.
Some gave them white bread And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake And drummed them out of town.
The woman muttered two more of these schoolyard rhymes. . She was dirty, and her skin hung on her haphazardly. The will to live was clearly bereft from her and the room surrounding her shared the same type of dreariness. Cobwebbed, and furniture-bare, it seemed to be an unlivable place. In the center of this prison-like room, there was a rocking chair, and at most times, she could be found there. The rocking soothed her and sometimes, the voices would even quiet just enough for her to be able to sleep. This was not a lasting peace, but she was grateful for even the smallest respite. Her self-imposed prison lay at the very topmost of Gryffindor Tower's four turrets. No one dared enter there—not even the Ghosts that haunted the place. But sometimes, on a foolish bet, a Slytherin or Gryffindor would scale the long steps of Solitary Bastion, to investigate whether the place was truly haunted. When they saw her, they had one of two reactions. They either froze up in terror, or ran off screaming, in utterless terror. Her white-kissed hair, blood-veined eyes, and sinister smile were more than enough to continue the ongoing myths of Solitary Tower. The most popular theory was that she was the ghost of Voldemort's mother—she could only chuckle at the absurdity of such a notion but she would not come down to rectify foolish Ravenclaws and their research. The myths suited her. The fewer visitors she had, the better. A person like her, she felt, deserved to be lonely.
Sybil. The Oracle wants you, Sybil. Wants the you Oracle, Sybil. Oracle the you wants, Sybil. Sybil. SYBIL! SYBIL!
"Go away!" Sybil screamed. She clawed at her face until the scabs broke, and began to pour forth fresh blood. This time, however, even pain could not quell the voices. They were strong. Almost as strong as the insinuations that led her to her very first prophecy—the one that had destroyed her.
That had been thirty years ago, and she remembered that fateful day to its minutest detail. She remembered how pretty she had been back then. Her hair had been lavender brown, and she had worn clothes of the finest Damascan silk...Looking back, she could only smile at how preoccupied she was with appearance. She had been a grown woman then, but, she realized now, Dumbledore must have regarded her as nothing more than a mere child. ------------------------Flash back section (haha)---------------------------
"I'm sorry, Ms. Trelawney," Dumbledore had said, putting on his wizarding hat. "I can't hire you. Not because I doubt your talents. Oh no. To speak the truth, I've been wanting to do away with the course of Divination for a long time. Yes, um. Well, you must know how it is." He had then followed up that lame excuse with an ambiguous smile that was both mocking and polite," After all, not everyone is Gifted...like you." "Please, Headmaster," she had ensued. "I really need the position. Please..." She remembered how desperately she was in need for a job. But it had not been always like that. Her own mother had refused to tell her where the family fortune laid hidden, and by the time she thought to use Truth Serum, her mother had already gone insane...Dumbledore had commiserated but he would never allow an unqualified teacher in the hallowed grounds of Hogwart's. "Kindly let go of my robes," Dumbledore had whispered. "This is a public place..." "No!" she had replied. "You owe my mother! She gave you that Grindelwald prophecy! You owe her! I demand..." "Be quiet, woman!" Dumbledore had hissed. He could be scary when he needed to, and Sybil remembered how frightening the man's demeanor had become as he dragged her up the stairs and into a private room. "Are you mad?" he had asked. "NEVER EVER tell a soul about the Grindelwald prophecy. No one must ever know where I imprisoned him. No one! If I ever hear you even mention it ever again, I shall not be as forgiving as I am today. Do you understand me, Sybil?" "Yes..." she had trembled. "Good. You may stay in the inn for an extra week. I've made arrangements with the innkeeper, and he'll take care of your meals as well...And, I am sorry about your mother's condition. When things settle down in the world, her recovery will be my priority. You have my word."
It was then that the Oracle first spoke to her. Her mother had said that it would come whenever She wanted, and leave when you most needed Her. There were things you can do to call Her, but mostly, it was luck.
She felt the memory wash over her. The Oracle did not enter the soul calmly. She bludgeoned, kicked and bore into the spirit before making her predictions. It was not pain in the sense of the word...it was more of a taint, a violation of her spirit that would remain with her until the day she died. And maybe, even after.
But, like most troubles in the world, the Oracle was something you had to invite first..
The Voice had asked her, Do you have need of me?
She had hesitated but Dumbledore was fast leaving and there were no use in delaying despite the warnings her mother had given.
And so Trelawney called Her.
And so She came.
"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." There can be only one, she moaned in her padded cell. This was all she remembered of her First Prophecy. The Oracle had obscured many parts from her. It was as well, for she did not want to remember. For every part of it was dangerous.
Dumbledore had slapped her.
"Fool!" His face had been livid. "Did I tell you to bring the Oracle! Of all places, in here..." He had then pulled his wand out, saying menacingly, "For your sake, pray that my scrying spell finds no unfriendly ears."
"Scrying spell?" she had asked in bewilderment.
Dumbledore had not answered her, his astral form had already projected out, and when it returned, the anger in his face had not diminished but instead, flamed even hotter.
"You...insufferable...wench...Do you realize what you've done?" He had gripped her so hard that she had thought he had it in mind to kill her.
It was only after the killings started did she fully understand what a huge mistake she had made. She had been overheard by one of Voldemort's puppets. Had it not been for Dumbledore's paranoia, the puppet would've transmitted the whole thing to his master instead of but the first two lines. But even that had been too much. In the following years, Voldemort exterminated family after family, one by one, all so that his reign would be free from the prophetic danger she had described. She had felt so responsible. Had it not been for her prophecy, there would have been no Herod. Her hazardous use of her powers had resulted in orphaning children such as Potter, Longbottom, Bones, Abbot, Everfry, and others whose name she had long forgotten. She sobbed again, clutching her heart, and recited again the rhymes that seem to soothe her pain-wracked psyche. She would need an Obliviate performed on herself again and soon.
Suddenly the door opened, and the resulting light flooded Sybil's room. Her irises burned and as she constricted her pupils to adjust, she saw a figure approaching her from the doorway.
"Who's that?" she cried alarmingly. "Go away! Don't hurt me!" She fell off her rocking chair, and scampered animally away into a dark corner. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to..."
The old man at the doorway only smiled, "What has been done is done, Sybil. Do not blame yourself for things that would have happened, regardless of your own doings. Believe me, man is never as important as they place themselves." The man's tone was light, and demure, "But...it does not mean that we should not try." He held out an inviting hand. "Arise. The time of self-loathing is done for. There are many questions I have, and they are only answerable by one with Seer's blood. Return to me, Sybil Trelawney, I beg of you."
"No...I can't...There's so many voices...they all want to tell me things...horrible things..." she began but her visitor had entered the room now, and she glimpsed him in full. "Oh, Albus, you're so..."
Revealed before her, was an enfeebled man. Soft blotches of purple littered over his exposed skin like a sickly, unripe melon, and the man's eyes, which had once been remarkably brilliant, were half-filled with glaucoma and forgetfulness. She was shocked at the change. The last she saw him was five years ago, and back then, he was aged, but not...decayed.
Dumbledore, chuckled, his long flowing beard curling along with his smile. "I'm what, Sybil? Old? Yes...I am and have been for a long time now." He lifted her up to stand, all the while pulling toward the light. "Unfortunately, I will have my rest soon...whether I want to or not." He paused, leaning heavily into Sybil. "Will you help me finish a few things? There is much to do, and, loathe that I am to admit it, I cannot go it alone anymore." The sight was more than Sybil could bear. Dumbledore was so small, so hunched, and so gaunt...this was no great wizard demanding obedience. This was a sick, and dying man, humbling himself before her.
"Oh, Albus." She hurried to support the old man before he could fall down. The climb up Solitary Bastion was a long one, and for a man in his condition, it would have been a nearly insurmountable task. He wheezed, and coughed uncontrollably before speaking, "Thank you, Sybil."
And then, silently, the two walked down the stairs.. He had been dying for quite some time now, and it seemed unworthy for such a great man to die in such a slow fashion. Fortunately, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, had lived a fulfilling life, and everywhere he went he lacked not friends, and every need he had was granted by those same stalwarts.
Dumbledore's office lay in speckled gold across the nameplate of a door. Sybil used her free hand to wipe the dust that had accumulated on the plaque, and then trudged in, Dumbledore in tow. It is time I put my affairs in order, he mused, allowing Sybil to place him on gingerly into his deskchair.
"What is it that you want me to do?" asked Sybil, her brown eyes glistening with worry.
Dumbledore leaned back, resting a spiny hand on the bauble around his neck. He had guarded the world for over three centuries, and there was still much to be vigilant over...He summoned Fawkes, his phoenix to him. The bird nuzzled him, worried. It understood neither death nor sickness. It knew only that something was terribly wrong with Dumbledore's lifeforce, and that the paleness of his skin could not be healthy. Are you molting?
"No, my loyal bird. I am not molting." Dumbledore chuckled, and then blanked out, becoming befuddled to the point of forgetting his own self. It took a nudge from Sybil to wake him from his temporary stupor. He smiled apologetically, but inside, he was angry with himself for lapsing again. He activated the bauble labeled 'Pensieve', and felt the virtual memories supplant his own decaying synapses. He hurried to give Sybil his commands. The Pensieve would normalize him, but the spell taxed the user's energy greatly—energy he had very little of these days. "I need you to help Arthur Weasley after I am gone. I shall be handing him my Headmaster Position, as well as the reins of leadership." He coughed loud and long. As usual, blood followed it, but quickly he hid it so that Sybil would not see. "He is able, if yet sometimes riddled with self-doubt. I hope you can help guide him."
"But I haven't the qualifications!" Sybil answered.
"Nonsense," stated Dumbledore. He fed Fawkes a piece of bread before he continued, "Have you ever known me to be wrong?"
"No," Trelawney admitted, but her look was doubtful.
Dumbledore closed his eyes. He did not know for how long but when he opened his eyes, Trelawney was making tea, and there was sunlight sprawled over his desk. I must hurry, he thought.
"I am expecting some visitors, as well. I have summoned the usual Seven but whether or not they can all come, I do not know...Mr. Malfoy, too, will attend. I want you to keep an especially close eye on him, Sybil. I trust him...yet his mind is something that I cannot fathom. He may betray my cause, yet be convinced he is furthering it." He took several shallow breaths, straining hard to remember his chain of thinking. "Also...arriving will be the representatives from France, Norway, and Germany...and also the Creeveys." His eyes sparkled momentarily with delight. "The Creeveys! Please remind me to give Luna a present for her young one. Every time I see here, I keep forgetting about her little Janey's birthday. I'm a bad godfather, aren't I?"
Dumbledore trailed off into sleep once again, prompting Trelawney to finish the duties she had assigned herself. Sybil was worried. He had gone much farther into senility than she had first surmised. Only the power of the glowing Pensieve, a Memory Artifact, allowed Dumbledore any semblance of logical thinking. But in the long run, the Pensieve would be useless. The Pensieve Spell was Ancient Magic. And Ancient Magic, Sybil knew, always came with a price. Just then, Dumbledore snorted awake, nearly causing her to drop the teacup she held. "Most importantly, Mr. Creevey's younger brother, Dennis, will be bringing Harry with him. Oh...there are so many things I want to tell that boy..." Dumbledore continued. "Bring them all to my office here. I will have to instruct them, but, at certain intervals, you must remember to replenish me. And, remember, do tell none of the visitors my true condition." Dumbledore's voice was serious, and commanding. "Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," she answered. "Good. Wake me when they have all arrived." "Yes, sir," she said again softly, taking a blanket from the coat rack, and wrapping it gently onto the narrow shoulders of the once-great wizard. She sat back down, and watched silently over Albus. Trelawney wasn't the brightest person in the world, but she knew why Albus had summoned her away from her self-effacement. If he had been lucid, he would have told her to use her power again. To foresee the future. To bargain with the Oracle. She finished her tea solemnly. Just because she could, didn't mean she should. It was Ancient Magic. There was a price to be paid, always, for the use. The last time Trelawney had dared call the Oracle, it had resulted in so much death and suffering...Trelawney peered down into her cup's tea leaves, and began the first in what would be a series of calculations. The power of Oracling had more to do with the mathematics of probability than it had to do with being of Seer's blood. The times needed to be calculated to the utmost precision, and the invoking done subtly. It had to be coaxed, circumvented, and even then, it was not for certain. The tea leaves gave the sign of the Capricorn, as well as producing the starting five digits needed to begin the Arithmancy. She wrote them down on her palm, and then headed over to the window to compare them with the sky. Her starcharts were not needed; she having memorized most of them ages ago. But the pre-dawn sky was filled with uncertainty, and she could barely measure the distance between the planets much less attempt the times of their aphelion. Firenze will help, she thought but in her heart, she was doubtful. The centaur was still angry with her, and she did not want to ask him any favors if she could help it. He had not understood about the Voices. He had not understood why the Oracle would demand her to seclude herself off from everyone. His wrath had been uncontrollable, and he had even told her to that he never wanted to see her again. But Trelawney had been his wife...surely that would count for something. Sandra should be seven years old by now, she thought. Only three years left before the Oracle would allow her to see her own daughter...How she hungered for that day. If only Firenze could understand about the Gift.... She sighed, and remembered again what her own mother had told her about the power of Prophecy. She regretted now that she had not listened more closely.
"My daughter," her mother had lectured. "Do you know what makes the Ancient Magic so much different than the Modern?" "Ancient Magic is more powerful!" Little Sybil had replied. Her mother had not returned her smile. "Yes. Powerful. Infinitely so. But it comes always at a terrible price. The greater the power, the greater its influence, the more one has to pay for it. How much will you be willing to bleed, I wonder? You, dear, have seen me gain fame with the power but you have not seen the dark side." Her mother's face had become menacing, and foreign. It had given her nightmares for weeks. "There have been demands made of me, sacrifices I've long forgotten to keep my sanity...Be careful! Be wary! Do not use the Oracle unless you MUST. But do not be afraid to use her. When the day comes for you to take the reins of Prophecy, you must not let the price deter you." Sybil remembered the flourish her mother had. How wonderfully majestic, and fear-inspiring she had been before her insanity. "Our power is like no other. It changes the course of the future, shapes it, bends it to our will...If you deem the cause worthy enough, call upon the Oracle in spite of whatever she demands of you.. Remember, you must..."
...must do what you can when you can, Trelawney told herself. She lifted up her dusky robes, and hustled away. There was much to do.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- (Two guitars strum solemnly) Have you ever... Lost your way? Have you ever... Feared another day?
Have you ever... Misplaced your whole life Watching This world leaving you...Behind
Have you ever? Worn thin... Have you ever? Never known...where...to begin Have you ever... Lost your belief Watching your faith...Turn to grief
"Are you all right?" asked Dennis Creevey concernedly as he activated the landing gear for the car. He was still unused to the manual controls, and to say he 'landed' the car was like saying that 'anvils were bouncable.' The crash wasn't too bad; in fact, it seemed just what Harry needed because the shock jolted him unerringly awake. Dennis ignored the fact that he had just made the world's first reverse, sideways landing, and asked again, "Are you all right?" Harry glared at him, and then began to check himself for injuries. Chagrined, he found caked blood stains all over his clothes; the car stank of him. Voldemort's curse must've acted up again while I slept, he thought as he wiped the coagulated filth off his chin. What he regretted most was the fact that Dennis had seen him in his weakened state. To Dennis, he was still an undefeatable hero, one that could do no wrong. No one could, in reality, live up to that image of purity but Harry would do his best, if only to justify Dennis' faith in him. "I'm okay, mum," replied Harry with a smile.
Won't you...Won't you give? Won't you give a man?...Give a man... A Home.
In a world, That is unwhole You have...got to find...just to... Keep your soul
The music faded away, and a clear, sharp voice came through from the raddy. "Well, that was Ben Harper playing his new song 'Give a Man a Home'," announced the wand-radio jockey. "We're giving away tickets to their SOLD-OUT concert, so owl or wand-mail us at 1230 Diagon Alley Tower to enter for a chance to win! We have to warn the contestants beforehand that there will indeed be both Muggles and Wizards at the shindig, so absolutely NO MAGIC will be allowed—" Dennis turned off the raddy, and wheeled himself axially so that he could face Harry. He glared, "Don't you get smart with me. If you're still feeling woozy, we can put Dumbledore off for another hour or so until—" "For Merlin's sake, shut the fuck up. I'm FINE," replied Harry, unbuckling his seat belt. "Really. I'm fine." Harry flashed another false smile; in truth, he was more than a little irritated at being coddled. He wasn't an invalid, and he disliked being treated like one. He stepped out of the car but ducked his head back inside the car's cabin to ask jovially, "Are you coming or not?"
With a few grumbles, Dennis hoisted himself up from his seat, and then launched himself out the car. He made to follow Harry but was interrupted. "Not so fast," said Harry, holding up a dirtied hand. He hadn't had a bath, and even his own nose wrinkled from smelling himself. But before he would do anything, he had to make sure... "The two Aurors in the trunk. I can't have them waking up before I figure out what to say to them. Did you enchant their minds with a..."
"Sleeping charm?" Dennis snickered, "Of course I did! What kind of moron do you think I am?"
"The kind that's careless," replied Harry seriously. "If they escape, I'm as good as dead. Hogwart's has almost the exact same magical repressors as Azkaban, and it'll only take a word from Auror Central to completely blockade this place. So would you please go and make sure their binds are secure?"
"Oh come on, do I really have to—"
"Yes," Harry replied in exasperation. "Really. If your brother were here, he'd have it done by now." Harry's quip had its intended effect. Dennis Creevey and his older brother, Colin, were fiercely competitive with each other. So much so that they even contested on who idolized Harry more, which Harry had always thought was strange... Meanwhile, Dennis sped off to complete Harry's orders. Harry watched the boy circle theatrically around to the car's trunk, where the captives were stored. He popped it open, strengthened the charms on the two still-unconscious bodies, and then ran back to Harry, with his face bright as if looking for approval. "Good job, Dennis," Harry gave obligingly. Dennis beamed like a schoolboy, and then skipped happily away. Bloody dope, thought Harry. That had always been the type of person Dennis was—Simple and easygoing. Harry wouldn't have it any other way. Still grinning, Harry hurried to catch up with the younger man. He picked up his trouser legs, and lowered himself gently into the waters. From where they stood, the sun was just beginning to rise over them, and the rays casted golden, purple shadows over the banks, highlighting each and every reed with quiet displays of what Harry could only describe as the magic of Nature—It was exactly like what Harry remembered the secret entrance to have been like. Even the castle of Hogwart's itself seemed unchanged. The castle loomed in the far distance, magnificent and dominating. Its four towers of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and...Slytherin seem like ancient behemoths, immortal and unyielding, unfaltering, and beyond all reproach. Here, the Gods of Knowledge resided. Here, Magic, the Wild, was learned, broken, and then tamed. Here, sleeping half-naked in their beds, and snoring peacefully were pudgy boys and dainty girls, who would one day be the future of all Britain and beyond. Harry could only look back and wonder how he could have let such a wonderful experience slip him by unappreciated. "Oof!" Dennis had just fallen on his face—Harry gave a huge laugh, and then helped the red-faced youth back to his feet. Gallagher robes were eveningwear, and while it looked nice, it was too delicate for trekking through swamp and branch. Harry did not bother to explain the difference to Dennis—Not that it would do any good if he did. Dennis had OFD, a condition that affected mostly genius wizards. They would grasp the most far out concepts, but have trouble gauging the correct price of a candy bar. OFTEN FUDDLED DISORDER could be controlled with Potions but Harry knew that Dennis loathed the taste of it, and would never drink any innovation that came from Dr. Snape. Dennis was hugely biased against the man. The Potions Master had marked his essay with a failing grade, and he had never really forgiven him.
Good times that will never come again, he quoted to himself remembering a poet whose name escaped him. Never again in the darkest time. For we all live but an instant in God's mind. "Harry, come on. Don't just stand there, help me get the branches off the tunnel entrance!" Harry helped break the branches off the seldom-used entrance, and, as he stepped into the dark tunnel, he had a pang of nostalgia. If only I could turn back time, he thought uselessly. If only...Harry stopped thinking. He had contemplated suicide once before, and he had sworn to his friends that he would never do so again. He wasn't brave enough. "We're here, Harry," said Dennis as he pushed past the knight statue guarding the way in. Hogwart's. Harry was finally home. "Yes, we are." Harry breathed it in. "Yes, we are."
