(Author's Thanks: TheShadowWithin, RaistlinofMetallica, Fanny for their
reviews. *grins* No need to sell yourself to Voldemort just yet, Fanny.
Disclaimers: All characters in the story belong to J.K. Rowling.
Warnings: This story will eventually be slash. If you are against homosexual relationships, please do not read this story. Any furious rant against slash in a review will be mocked. Thank you, and enjoy Chapter Two of Next of the Phoenix!
~Cinaed)
Nest of the Phoenix
By Cinaed, Born of Fire
Chapter Two
"Charlie?" Harry whispered again, the soft word unbelieving. The ruddy man who stood before him could be no other, with the trademark Weasley mop of flaming red and the short, stocky build that kept him apart from the tall, lanky Percy and Ron. And yet, Harry knew this was somehow not /his/ Charlie, the Charlie Weasley he knew, because this man wore a puzzled smile and had a blank look in his eyes.
"Do I know you?" was asked in a tone of politeness, even as the blank look in his dark blue eyes shifted to one of slight unease.
"Charlie, how can you not recognize me?" Harry demanded, his voice higher than normal from a panic that was beginning to grasp at his belly and twist his stomach into artful designs. "It's me, Harry!"
"I'm afraid I don't know anyone named Harry."
The stunned teenager turned his gaze upon Madam Pomfrey, and he said, in a tone of desperation, "You recognize me, don't you Madam Pomfrey?"
"I'm afraid not, child," Madam Pomfrey informed him, her visage betraying her own unease. It was only then that Harry began to wonder when on earth the woman had ever called him, in his entire four years at the school, child. The Madam Pomfrey he knew had never called anyone by an endearing moniker.
Harry's bewildered gaze flew between Madam Pomfrey and Charlie, and the panic in his stomach increased until he wanted to double over and clutch his abdomen in a vain attempt to get the alarm out of his system. Maybe then he'd be able to think clearly and realize this was all a horrible dream.
"You—you can feel pain while you sleep, right?" The weak, frightened voice could hardly be recognized by Harry as his own.
"No, you can't."
"But—but I /have/ to be dreaming, because you all should know me! Everyone should know me!" The teenager's words were a desperate plea, and both of the listeners looked sympathetic if a smidgen mistrustful of this distraught boy.
"Hey, Charlie, did you find Pig?" An achingly familiar voice filled the silence after Harry's frantic claim, and the trio startled a little in their stances before turning their heads towards the entrance of the infirmary where yet another Weasley stood.
Harry swallowed hard as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. For a moment he simply closed his eyes, trying to pretend that this was all a dream and that soon he'd wake up on his bed, wondering what he had eaten that had caused such an odd nightmare. When the moment passed, he opened his eyes and gazed at the lanky figure in the doorway. Swallowing hard once more, the teenager spoke, his voice hoarse from suppressed emotion. "Ron. Ron, you remember me, don't you?"
The freckled boy's quizzical look and shrug of his shoulders answered the young wizard's question, and with a low, despairing groan, Harry crumpled onto the nearest cot, burying his ashen face in his sweating hands.
"This isn't happening," he mumbled, feeling quivers move up and down his skinny frame, racking his body in convulsive shudders. "This can't be happening. This has to be a dream. A horrible nightmare. Someone, please wake me up...."
"We'd try to wake you up if we didn't know you were awake, child."
Harry looked up, and fixed Madam Pomfrey with an incredulous stare. "And how was /that/ statement helpful to me at all?" he demanded before burying his face in his hands once more. "Bloody hell, this may not /look/ like Kansas, but now I know it certainly isn't. Maybe I'm over the rainbow?" He was aware that he was babbling and probably not making any sense, but somehow he couldn't help himself.
"If you're Dorothy, then where's Toto?" A voice came from the doorway, and Harry didn't have to glance up to recognize his other best friend. Of course, had he glanced up, he would have noticed that Ron was nowhere to be found.
"I think I'll call my trusty wand Toto, thank you Hermione," he began, lifting his head long enough to fumble in his robes for the aforementioned magical object. After a moment of fruitless searching, the panic in his frame increased until he was shaking so hard he couldn't see and could barely speak. "W-where's m-m-my wand?"
"I have it." Charlie's words caused Harry to look up, an expression of pure relief on his countenance.
"It's not broken, is it?"
"No," the older wizard assured him, even as he drew the wand from one of his pockets. "But I'm afraid I can't give it back to you until Dumbledore gives the okay. You're upset and bound to do something stupid, not to mention you could be a spy for You-Know-Who."
Well, at least they remembered Voldemort. Harry opened his mouth to resist the foreign custody of his wand, but after a moment he sighed and declared, "Fine. When can I see Dumbledore?"
"Right now, actually. It does pique one's interest in someone if a certain Weasley comes dashing up to one ranting about how there was some boy in the infirmary who knew everyone's name and was being 'mad.'" Dumbledore's voice was slightly cheerful, but Harry knew the man enough to detect the underlying seriousness in the headmaster's tone.
The Boy-Who-Lived glanced over at the doorway where the familiar man stood. Ron was peeking over Dumbledore's shoulder and glancing curiously at Harry. "Where should we talk, Headmaster?"
"In my office." Dumbledore cast a glance at the now four listeners, and added, "Privately."
Madam Pomfrey, Charlie, Ron, and Hermione all wore identical looks of consternation that Harry would have laughed at had he not had such a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Lead the way, sir." Harry attempted to hide the dread that he was feeling inwardly. He had a suspicion that while Dumbledore would be able to provide him with some answers, the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't going to like them.
"Here's his wand, Headmaster," Charlie said, stepping forward to fairly thrust the wand at the silver-haired wizard. Dumbledore accepted the magical rod with quiet thank-you, tucking it out of sight amidst the flowing robes.
Harry ducked his head a little and clasped his hands together, his thin fingers almost white as his knuckles turned pale from the death-grip. He needed something to hold onto, and without his wand, he couldn't think of anything to cling to. He glanced up after a moment and saw that Dumbledore was motioning for him to exit the infirmary first. Ignoring the curious gazes of the other four, the teenager crept through the familiar doorway, feeling oddly drained though he hadn't exerted himself. When had been the last time he had eaten a whole meal?
He could hear Dumbledore's slow, gradual footsteps follow him from the medical wing, and the black-haired boy turned towards the headmaster of Hogwarts, waiting for him to lead the way. Instead, the old wizard raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes keen.
"I suspect you already know where my office is, young man?"
Harry swallowed hard, wishing that the lightheadedness would simply overwhelm him and let him crumple into peaceful oblivion if only for a few minutes of tranquility. After a minute, however, he bobbed his head in concurrence to Dumbledore's words.
"Then I'd prefer that you led the way."
Without a word, Harry urged his numb appendages to stir beneath him and propel him in the direction of the headmaster's office. If his walk was a little bit of a lurch, it could be blamed on the loss of blood he had suffered from his 'fight' with the Whomping Willow.
When he reached the spot where only someone who knew the password to the office could enter, he waited for Dumbledore to say the password, covering his ears automatically. If they thought he was a spy for Voldemort, listening to the headmaster's password wouldn't be a good idea. A moment later, he pulled his hands away as the entrance to Dumbledore's office opened wide. Without even glancing at Dumbledore, he stepped into the headmaster's office, a pang of anguish assaulting his stomach once more as he gazed around the familiar and yet alien workplace. Where were Fawkes and the knick-knacks that had made the office uniquely Dumbledore's? Where were all the smiling (or sleeping) portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts?
"W-where's Fawkes?"
"His business is his own. I don't ask him where he goes when he disappears," Dumbledore stated, settling into a comfortable leather chair that Harry didn't remember being in the office. "So, is there any particular reason you know all of us, and even know that I am acquainted with a phoenix?"
Harry sank into one of the chairs, his expression shifting to a weary one. "So you don't recognize me either?"
"I'm afraid not." Dumbledore's tone was slightly apologetic, and the Boy- Who-Lived sighed, rubbing his forehead and resisting the urge to groan.
In the next instant Dumbledore had grabbed the hand he had been pressing against his forehead and smoothed the dark locks away from his forehead, an odd look on his visage. "What's that?" the headmaster demanded, gazing at Harry's scar.
"My-my scar. The one Voldemort gave to me."
"Voldemort?" Dumbledore repeated in bewilderment, still gazing intently at the scar. "Who's Voldemort?"
"Come on, You-Know-Who. The man Charlie was accusing me of being aligned with." Harry's high tone revealed his annoyance and panic.
"The Dark Lord's name is not Voldemort. His name's Ragimara."
"Ragimara?" Despite the easy pronunciation, Harry's tongue stumbled on the foreign word. "Sir, Voldemort gave me this scar because /he's/ the Dark Lord who murdered my parents. I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who everyone thought had destroyed Voldemort once and for all when I was only a babe." A dark note had unconsciously slipped in his tone during the final statement. If he had killed Voldemort as a babe, if his mother's protection had slain the Dark Lord, so many people would be alive. Mr. Crouch, Frank Bryce, Bertha Jorkins, and especially Cedric Diggory.
"I'm afraid I don't know this Voldemort that you're speaking of. We only know Ragimara, the Dark Lord who's terrorized the world for the past twenty- so years." Dumbledore gazed at the scar for a long moment before he let the untidy locks settle back over the scar that marked Harry as the Boy- Who- Lived. "Tell me more about this Voldemort."
"He's a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and he was in the Slytherin House. He attempted to rule the world and kill all Muggles, and he was going to succeed too. Then he came to the house of the Potters-"
Dumbledore made an odd sort of sound, but when Harry glanced at him, the headmaster simply raised a hand to urge him on.
"That would happen to be the house I lived in, seeing as the Potters were my parents. I was around a year old at the time, and one of my father's friends had been our Secret Keeper but actually a spy for Voldemort." Harry paused, biting his lower lip. He had never had to explain what had happened that night before. After all, everyone knew him, so there had been no need to give details on how his parents had died. Nevertheless, he continued, and told Dumbledore the details of his parents' murders, Voldemort's downfall, of his servant Pettigrew, and then his resurrection of sorts after the third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.
When he finished, he raised his eyes towards Dumbledore and realized he hadn't explained very well, but that didn't justify the odd, closed look on the headmaster's visage.
"Cedric Diggory? Peter Pettigrew?" Dumbledore repeated slowly, the clandestine look never leaving his visage. When Harry nodded, the headmaster glanced off into space for a long moment before asking, in the same slow tone, "Is Voldemort the Dark Lord's real name?"
"No. His name's Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore's visage drained of all color, and his blue eyes blazed with a million foreign emotions that Harry could neither define nor understand. After a long moment of silence, he said quietly, "What's your name?"
"Harry Potter."
Those intense azure orbs blazed to the point that Harry had to glance away, cowering from the countless emotions in Dumbledore's eyes. He glanced away towards the bare walls, wondering why the headmaster didn't have the portraits of the former headmasters on the walls.
At last, Dumbledore spoke, and his voice was very, very quiet. "Mr. Potter, we have a problem."
(To be continued)
Disclaimers: All characters in the story belong to J.K. Rowling.
Warnings: This story will eventually be slash. If you are against homosexual relationships, please do not read this story. Any furious rant against slash in a review will be mocked. Thank you, and enjoy Chapter Two of Next of the Phoenix!
~Cinaed)
Nest of the Phoenix
By Cinaed, Born of Fire
Chapter Two
"Charlie?" Harry whispered again, the soft word unbelieving. The ruddy man who stood before him could be no other, with the trademark Weasley mop of flaming red and the short, stocky build that kept him apart from the tall, lanky Percy and Ron. And yet, Harry knew this was somehow not /his/ Charlie, the Charlie Weasley he knew, because this man wore a puzzled smile and had a blank look in his eyes.
"Do I know you?" was asked in a tone of politeness, even as the blank look in his dark blue eyes shifted to one of slight unease.
"Charlie, how can you not recognize me?" Harry demanded, his voice higher than normal from a panic that was beginning to grasp at his belly and twist his stomach into artful designs. "It's me, Harry!"
"I'm afraid I don't know anyone named Harry."
The stunned teenager turned his gaze upon Madam Pomfrey, and he said, in a tone of desperation, "You recognize me, don't you Madam Pomfrey?"
"I'm afraid not, child," Madam Pomfrey informed him, her visage betraying her own unease. It was only then that Harry began to wonder when on earth the woman had ever called him, in his entire four years at the school, child. The Madam Pomfrey he knew had never called anyone by an endearing moniker.
Harry's bewildered gaze flew between Madam Pomfrey and Charlie, and the panic in his stomach increased until he wanted to double over and clutch his abdomen in a vain attempt to get the alarm out of his system. Maybe then he'd be able to think clearly and realize this was all a horrible dream.
"You—you can feel pain while you sleep, right?" The weak, frightened voice could hardly be recognized by Harry as his own.
"No, you can't."
"But—but I /have/ to be dreaming, because you all should know me! Everyone should know me!" The teenager's words were a desperate plea, and both of the listeners looked sympathetic if a smidgen mistrustful of this distraught boy.
"Hey, Charlie, did you find Pig?" An achingly familiar voice filled the silence after Harry's frantic claim, and the trio startled a little in their stances before turning their heads towards the entrance of the infirmary where yet another Weasley stood.
Harry swallowed hard as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. For a moment he simply closed his eyes, trying to pretend that this was all a dream and that soon he'd wake up on his bed, wondering what he had eaten that had caused such an odd nightmare. When the moment passed, he opened his eyes and gazed at the lanky figure in the doorway. Swallowing hard once more, the teenager spoke, his voice hoarse from suppressed emotion. "Ron. Ron, you remember me, don't you?"
The freckled boy's quizzical look and shrug of his shoulders answered the young wizard's question, and with a low, despairing groan, Harry crumpled onto the nearest cot, burying his ashen face in his sweating hands.
"This isn't happening," he mumbled, feeling quivers move up and down his skinny frame, racking his body in convulsive shudders. "This can't be happening. This has to be a dream. A horrible nightmare. Someone, please wake me up...."
"We'd try to wake you up if we didn't know you were awake, child."
Harry looked up, and fixed Madam Pomfrey with an incredulous stare. "And how was /that/ statement helpful to me at all?" he demanded before burying his face in his hands once more. "Bloody hell, this may not /look/ like Kansas, but now I know it certainly isn't. Maybe I'm over the rainbow?" He was aware that he was babbling and probably not making any sense, but somehow he couldn't help himself.
"If you're Dorothy, then where's Toto?" A voice came from the doorway, and Harry didn't have to glance up to recognize his other best friend. Of course, had he glanced up, he would have noticed that Ron was nowhere to be found.
"I think I'll call my trusty wand Toto, thank you Hermione," he began, lifting his head long enough to fumble in his robes for the aforementioned magical object. After a moment of fruitless searching, the panic in his frame increased until he was shaking so hard he couldn't see and could barely speak. "W-where's m-m-my wand?"
"I have it." Charlie's words caused Harry to look up, an expression of pure relief on his countenance.
"It's not broken, is it?"
"No," the older wizard assured him, even as he drew the wand from one of his pockets. "But I'm afraid I can't give it back to you until Dumbledore gives the okay. You're upset and bound to do something stupid, not to mention you could be a spy for You-Know-Who."
Well, at least they remembered Voldemort. Harry opened his mouth to resist the foreign custody of his wand, but after a moment he sighed and declared, "Fine. When can I see Dumbledore?"
"Right now, actually. It does pique one's interest in someone if a certain Weasley comes dashing up to one ranting about how there was some boy in the infirmary who knew everyone's name and was being 'mad.'" Dumbledore's voice was slightly cheerful, but Harry knew the man enough to detect the underlying seriousness in the headmaster's tone.
The Boy-Who-Lived glanced over at the doorway where the familiar man stood. Ron was peeking over Dumbledore's shoulder and glancing curiously at Harry. "Where should we talk, Headmaster?"
"In my office." Dumbledore cast a glance at the now four listeners, and added, "Privately."
Madam Pomfrey, Charlie, Ron, and Hermione all wore identical looks of consternation that Harry would have laughed at had he not had such a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Lead the way, sir." Harry attempted to hide the dread that he was feeling inwardly. He had a suspicion that while Dumbledore would be able to provide him with some answers, the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't going to like them.
"Here's his wand, Headmaster," Charlie said, stepping forward to fairly thrust the wand at the silver-haired wizard. Dumbledore accepted the magical rod with quiet thank-you, tucking it out of sight amidst the flowing robes.
Harry ducked his head a little and clasped his hands together, his thin fingers almost white as his knuckles turned pale from the death-grip. He needed something to hold onto, and without his wand, he couldn't think of anything to cling to. He glanced up after a moment and saw that Dumbledore was motioning for him to exit the infirmary first. Ignoring the curious gazes of the other four, the teenager crept through the familiar doorway, feeling oddly drained though he hadn't exerted himself. When had been the last time he had eaten a whole meal?
He could hear Dumbledore's slow, gradual footsteps follow him from the medical wing, and the black-haired boy turned towards the headmaster of Hogwarts, waiting for him to lead the way. Instead, the old wizard raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes keen.
"I suspect you already know where my office is, young man?"
Harry swallowed hard, wishing that the lightheadedness would simply overwhelm him and let him crumple into peaceful oblivion if only for a few minutes of tranquility. After a minute, however, he bobbed his head in concurrence to Dumbledore's words.
"Then I'd prefer that you led the way."
Without a word, Harry urged his numb appendages to stir beneath him and propel him in the direction of the headmaster's office. If his walk was a little bit of a lurch, it could be blamed on the loss of blood he had suffered from his 'fight' with the Whomping Willow.
When he reached the spot where only someone who knew the password to the office could enter, he waited for Dumbledore to say the password, covering his ears automatically. If they thought he was a spy for Voldemort, listening to the headmaster's password wouldn't be a good idea. A moment later, he pulled his hands away as the entrance to Dumbledore's office opened wide. Without even glancing at Dumbledore, he stepped into the headmaster's office, a pang of anguish assaulting his stomach once more as he gazed around the familiar and yet alien workplace. Where were Fawkes and the knick-knacks that had made the office uniquely Dumbledore's? Where were all the smiling (or sleeping) portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts?
"W-where's Fawkes?"
"His business is his own. I don't ask him where he goes when he disappears," Dumbledore stated, settling into a comfortable leather chair that Harry didn't remember being in the office. "So, is there any particular reason you know all of us, and even know that I am acquainted with a phoenix?"
Harry sank into one of the chairs, his expression shifting to a weary one. "So you don't recognize me either?"
"I'm afraid not." Dumbledore's tone was slightly apologetic, and the Boy- Who-Lived sighed, rubbing his forehead and resisting the urge to groan.
In the next instant Dumbledore had grabbed the hand he had been pressing against his forehead and smoothed the dark locks away from his forehead, an odd look on his visage. "What's that?" the headmaster demanded, gazing at Harry's scar.
"My-my scar. The one Voldemort gave to me."
"Voldemort?" Dumbledore repeated in bewilderment, still gazing intently at the scar. "Who's Voldemort?"
"Come on, You-Know-Who. The man Charlie was accusing me of being aligned with." Harry's high tone revealed his annoyance and panic.
"The Dark Lord's name is not Voldemort. His name's Ragimara."
"Ragimara?" Despite the easy pronunciation, Harry's tongue stumbled on the foreign word. "Sir, Voldemort gave me this scar because /he's/ the Dark Lord who murdered my parents. I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who everyone thought had destroyed Voldemort once and for all when I was only a babe." A dark note had unconsciously slipped in his tone during the final statement. If he had killed Voldemort as a babe, if his mother's protection had slain the Dark Lord, so many people would be alive. Mr. Crouch, Frank Bryce, Bertha Jorkins, and especially Cedric Diggory.
"I'm afraid I don't know this Voldemort that you're speaking of. We only know Ragimara, the Dark Lord who's terrorized the world for the past twenty- so years." Dumbledore gazed at the scar for a long moment before he let the untidy locks settle back over the scar that marked Harry as the Boy- Who- Lived. "Tell me more about this Voldemort."
"He's a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and he was in the Slytherin House. He attempted to rule the world and kill all Muggles, and he was going to succeed too. Then he came to the house of the Potters-"
Dumbledore made an odd sort of sound, but when Harry glanced at him, the headmaster simply raised a hand to urge him on.
"That would happen to be the house I lived in, seeing as the Potters were my parents. I was around a year old at the time, and one of my father's friends had been our Secret Keeper but actually a spy for Voldemort." Harry paused, biting his lower lip. He had never had to explain what had happened that night before. After all, everyone knew him, so there had been no need to give details on how his parents had died. Nevertheless, he continued, and told Dumbledore the details of his parents' murders, Voldemort's downfall, of his servant Pettigrew, and then his resurrection of sorts after the third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.
When he finished, he raised his eyes towards Dumbledore and realized he hadn't explained very well, but that didn't justify the odd, closed look on the headmaster's visage.
"Cedric Diggory? Peter Pettigrew?" Dumbledore repeated slowly, the clandestine look never leaving his visage. When Harry nodded, the headmaster glanced off into space for a long moment before asking, in the same slow tone, "Is Voldemort the Dark Lord's real name?"
"No. His name's Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore's visage drained of all color, and his blue eyes blazed with a million foreign emotions that Harry could neither define nor understand. After a long moment of silence, he said quietly, "What's your name?"
"Harry Potter."
Those intense azure orbs blazed to the point that Harry had to glance away, cowering from the countless emotions in Dumbledore's eyes. He glanced away towards the bare walls, wondering why the headmaster didn't have the portraits of the former headmasters on the walls.
At last, Dumbledore spoke, and his voice was very, very quiet. "Mr. Potter, we have a problem."
(To be continued)
