HARRY POTTER AND THE VEIL OF DEATH
CHAPTER TWO: THE COMING OF AGE
Harry stood looking at Grimmauld Place, his frozen hands still clutched to the handle of his broomstick. The last place he had ever wanted to return (apart from the Dursleys, of course) was that of his late godfather's. His mind replayed the scene of Sirus' descent into that misty veil and the shocked look on his gaunt face and he felt his stomach gave a great lurch. Only the feel of Remus' hand on his shoulder caused him to tear his eyes away from the magically locked door into the eyes of the only member of his father's old group of friends that was left.
"C'mon Harry," he said simply. The group seemed to tighten around him, ushering Harry towards the steps.
At the first tap of Alastor Moody's wand, the door opened and blue eyes nodded in relief.
"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, looking at each member in turn. "If you would please leave Harry with me, you all have earned a night off duty."
There was a great murmur of ascent and collectively they whispered reassurances to Harry, especially Professor McGonagall and Tonks who hugged him thrice apiece.
"See you at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall whispered in his ear, and he nodded. The only comforting thought was that of Hogwarts - the only place he wanted to be at the moment.
"Come in," Dumbledore said, stepping back so that Harry, walking automatically past the troll leg umbrella, could face him directly in the darkened hallway.
A silent conversation passed between the eyes of green and blue and with ascension Dumbledore finally conceded with a nod.
"The kitchen, Harry."
They walked soundlessly down into the kitchen, and even as they did, Harry could hear the feet of Kreacher the old house elf tiptoeing from somewhere above, no doubt to eavesdrop on what he was about to hear. Tears misted his eyes as he remembered how hopeful Sirius had been, wondering aloud to all if Kreacher would one day just die upstairs in a cupboard or vent.
"Accio butterbeer!" Dumbledore declared as they entered the torch-lit basement kitchen. Two bottles of butterbeer slid along the table, scattering dust as they settled directly across from each other. Harry sat heavily in one of the chairs, his fingers, with lack of anything better to do, wrapping around the glass bottle. He watched as Professor Dumbledore settled himself slowly into a seat, once again reminded how much he had aged since their first meeting six years before.
"The coming of age of any witch or wizard," Dumbledore began, looking directly into Harry's face. "is a stepping-stone. It is for most the beginning, not the end of ones life."
"But for me?" Harry found himself saying, a deep sense of what the answer would be hanging heavy in the air.
"You," and at this Dumbledore smiled sadly, reaching over to place his weathered palm upon Harry's hand. "are wise beyond your years Harry Potter for alas, you are different. You knew you were different since the very first day Hagrid lead you into The Leaky Cauldron, and it was then, I'm afraid, that the clock began a countdown. For years I turned a blind eye away from this thought, assured that the years would not go so quickly, that I could freeze you at eleven, twelve, thirteen..."
It took but a second for Dumbledore's hand to slide from over Harry's, coiling itself into a fist. It hit the table with such fierce anger that sloshes of butterbeer dripped from the bottles onto the carved wood.
"How foolish I was, for today," he said softly. "you are seventeen and the clock has almost run out, for Harry you now know as well as I that before one of you may live.."
"The other must die," Harry mumbled, feeling strangly detached from what was going on, as if he was just an innocent observer.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry could pick up the forced restraint of the crumbling voice very clearly indeed. "you have until you leave Hogwarts forever to defeat Voldemort. After that... "
"I will die."
Dumbledore began to speak again, but Harry could not hear. Glimpses of conversations threaded themselves together: Fred and George demanding to join the Order during their seventh year, being told that they were of age but not above - the way Tom Riddle captured his sixteen-year old self in a diary, a symbolism of the protective quality of youth - how Cedric, so close to the future, lay void of life, his dead eyes staring up at Harry...
"HARRY!"
He had not realized that he had slid off his chair, but his mouth opened and a deeply animalistic scream filled the house. From the hall, Sirus' mother joined in with rants of mud-bloods and half-bloods and other utter filth, but he hardly noticed for blinding light began to pound against his temples, causing him to vomit. He firmly pressed his right hand against his scar and as he did so, it bled - one thin trickle down the bridge of his nose, a drop quacking on his upper lip until he could taste it on his tongue.
It was this taste of blood that seemed to weaken him completely and the only thing he could see, before he allowed his eyes to roll back in his head, was the underside of Dumbledore's beard as the man held him in his arms mumbling words that he could not, or would not, allow himself to hear.
* * *
He awoke much later in the night, in the bedroom he had shared with Ron while he had been here last before. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus seemed to give a tremendous shake as he lifted his head, a sure sign that he had gone to tell Dumbledore that he had once again resumed consciesousness. Sure enough, it only took a span of but a few minutes before he heard the swishing of robes and footsteps, however considerably more than two.
"Albus, of all night's to tell him," a woman's voice whispered as they neared the door.
"Molly, time is short. You of all people realize..."
"Gerrof, Hermione! When can we--"
"Not NOW Ron!"
Harry watched as the door creaked open slowly. He turned quickly to his side, shutting his eyes. He had not known the Weasley's were here -- had they heard, no even worse, seen what had happened in the kitchen? His head swam as he remembered the taste of his own blood in his mouth and Dumbledore holding him...like a baby...
Before he could think of the horror and embarassment of the situation he felt the end of the bed dip under the weight of another. It did not take more than one guess to know indeed who it was.
"If you all will return to your bedrooms, I can assure you that tomorrow you may visit with Harry. Tonight has been extremely stressful, horrible indeed--"
Mrs. Weasley gave a tremendous sob ending in a torrent of hiccups as he heard their footsteps retreating back down the hall. Harry only hoped that Dumbledore might take his own advise, for he just wanted to lie in this bed...to think of what, if anything he could possibly do...
"We're going to fight, Harry." Dumbledore whispered. "Remus, Alastor, Severus, I...we're going to help you. We're going to be with you when you confront Tom and we're going to watch you beat him. You possess qualities that I nor even you, I believe, realize. You are like the son I never had," Harry felt tears spring to his eyes, but this time felt no shame. "I will fight beside you until I can no longer breathe. You will NEVER be alone as long as you have faith in the cause."
Harry felt him rise, and the very tips of his fingers trail the scar that ached only dully now.
"Happy Birthday Harry," he murmured, and Harry listened intently as the door clicked back into place once more.
"That one's soft on you, he is," Phineaus sneered from his frame, causing Harry to sit up and cast a burning look in its general direction.
"It must have been hell not to have anyone love you," Harry retorted softly, pausing as he felt his foot hit something solid.
"What good is love?" Phineas chortled. "The weakest of all powers I say."
With a gently 'swoosh' he once again left his portrait in the House of Black, but Harry paid no heed. Instead, his fingertips fell over the leather binding of a book so thick it would have made Hermoine drool, however, it was the title that caught Harry's eye:
The Diary of Lily Evans Potter
"No, Phineaus," Harry couldn't help but whisper in the darkness as he opened to the first page.
"Love is the strongest of all."
CHAPTER TWO: THE COMING OF AGE
Harry stood looking at Grimmauld Place, his frozen hands still clutched to the handle of his broomstick. The last place he had ever wanted to return (apart from the Dursleys, of course) was that of his late godfather's. His mind replayed the scene of Sirus' descent into that misty veil and the shocked look on his gaunt face and he felt his stomach gave a great lurch. Only the feel of Remus' hand on his shoulder caused him to tear his eyes away from the magically locked door into the eyes of the only member of his father's old group of friends that was left.
"C'mon Harry," he said simply. The group seemed to tighten around him, ushering Harry towards the steps.
At the first tap of Alastor Moody's wand, the door opened and blue eyes nodded in relief.
"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, looking at each member in turn. "If you would please leave Harry with me, you all have earned a night off duty."
There was a great murmur of ascent and collectively they whispered reassurances to Harry, especially Professor McGonagall and Tonks who hugged him thrice apiece.
"See you at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall whispered in his ear, and he nodded. The only comforting thought was that of Hogwarts - the only place he wanted to be at the moment.
"Come in," Dumbledore said, stepping back so that Harry, walking automatically past the troll leg umbrella, could face him directly in the darkened hallway.
A silent conversation passed between the eyes of green and blue and with ascension Dumbledore finally conceded with a nod.
"The kitchen, Harry."
They walked soundlessly down into the kitchen, and even as they did, Harry could hear the feet of Kreacher the old house elf tiptoeing from somewhere above, no doubt to eavesdrop on what he was about to hear. Tears misted his eyes as he remembered how hopeful Sirius had been, wondering aloud to all if Kreacher would one day just die upstairs in a cupboard or vent.
"Accio butterbeer!" Dumbledore declared as they entered the torch-lit basement kitchen. Two bottles of butterbeer slid along the table, scattering dust as they settled directly across from each other. Harry sat heavily in one of the chairs, his fingers, with lack of anything better to do, wrapping around the glass bottle. He watched as Professor Dumbledore settled himself slowly into a seat, once again reminded how much he had aged since their first meeting six years before.
"The coming of age of any witch or wizard," Dumbledore began, looking directly into Harry's face. "is a stepping-stone. It is for most the beginning, not the end of ones life."
"But for me?" Harry found himself saying, a deep sense of what the answer would be hanging heavy in the air.
"You," and at this Dumbledore smiled sadly, reaching over to place his weathered palm upon Harry's hand. "are wise beyond your years Harry Potter for alas, you are different. You knew you were different since the very first day Hagrid lead you into The Leaky Cauldron, and it was then, I'm afraid, that the clock began a countdown. For years I turned a blind eye away from this thought, assured that the years would not go so quickly, that I could freeze you at eleven, twelve, thirteen..."
It took but a second for Dumbledore's hand to slide from over Harry's, coiling itself into a fist. It hit the table with such fierce anger that sloshes of butterbeer dripped from the bottles onto the carved wood.
"How foolish I was, for today," he said softly. "you are seventeen and the clock has almost run out, for Harry you now know as well as I that before one of you may live.."
"The other must die," Harry mumbled, feeling strangly detached from what was going on, as if he was just an innocent observer.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry could pick up the forced restraint of the crumbling voice very clearly indeed. "you have until you leave Hogwarts forever to defeat Voldemort. After that... "
"I will die."
Dumbledore began to speak again, but Harry could not hear. Glimpses of conversations threaded themselves together: Fred and George demanding to join the Order during their seventh year, being told that they were of age but not above - the way Tom Riddle captured his sixteen-year old self in a diary, a symbolism of the protective quality of youth - how Cedric, so close to the future, lay void of life, his dead eyes staring up at Harry...
"HARRY!"
He had not realized that he had slid off his chair, but his mouth opened and a deeply animalistic scream filled the house. From the hall, Sirus' mother joined in with rants of mud-bloods and half-bloods and other utter filth, but he hardly noticed for blinding light began to pound against his temples, causing him to vomit. He firmly pressed his right hand against his scar and as he did so, it bled - one thin trickle down the bridge of his nose, a drop quacking on his upper lip until he could taste it on his tongue.
It was this taste of blood that seemed to weaken him completely and the only thing he could see, before he allowed his eyes to roll back in his head, was the underside of Dumbledore's beard as the man held him in his arms mumbling words that he could not, or would not, allow himself to hear.
* * *
He awoke much later in the night, in the bedroom he had shared with Ron while he had been here last before. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus seemed to give a tremendous shake as he lifted his head, a sure sign that he had gone to tell Dumbledore that he had once again resumed consciesousness. Sure enough, it only took a span of but a few minutes before he heard the swishing of robes and footsteps, however considerably more than two.
"Albus, of all night's to tell him," a woman's voice whispered as they neared the door.
"Molly, time is short. You of all people realize..."
"Gerrof, Hermione! When can we--"
"Not NOW Ron!"
Harry watched as the door creaked open slowly. He turned quickly to his side, shutting his eyes. He had not known the Weasley's were here -- had they heard, no even worse, seen what had happened in the kitchen? His head swam as he remembered the taste of his own blood in his mouth and Dumbledore holding him...like a baby...
Before he could think of the horror and embarassment of the situation he felt the end of the bed dip under the weight of another. It did not take more than one guess to know indeed who it was.
"If you all will return to your bedrooms, I can assure you that tomorrow you may visit with Harry. Tonight has been extremely stressful, horrible indeed--"
Mrs. Weasley gave a tremendous sob ending in a torrent of hiccups as he heard their footsteps retreating back down the hall. Harry only hoped that Dumbledore might take his own advise, for he just wanted to lie in this bed...to think of what, if anything he could possibly do...
"We're going to fight, Harry." Dumbledore whispered. "Remus, Alastor, Severus, I...we're going to help you. We're going to be with you when you confront Tom and we're going to watch you beat him. You possess qualities that I nor even you, I believe, realize. You are like the son I never had," Harry felt tears spring to his eyes, but this time felt no shame. "I will fight beside you until I can no longer breathe. You will NEVER be alone as long as you have faith in the cause."
Harry felt him rise, and the very tips of his fingers trail the scar that ached only dully now.
"Happy Birthday Harry," he murmured, and Harry listened intently as the door clicked back into place once more.
"That one's soft on you, he is," Phineaus sneered from his frame, causing Harry to sit up and cast a burning look in its general direction.
"It must have been hell not to have anyone love you," Harry retorted softly, pausing as he felt his foot hit something solid.
"What good is love?" Phineas chortled. "The weakest of all powers I say."
With a gently 'swoosh' he once again left his portrait in the House of Black, but Harry paid no heed. Instead, his fingertips fell over the leather binding of a book so thick it would have made Hermoine drool, however, it was the title that caught Harry's eye:
The Diary of Lily Evans Potter
"No, Phineaus," Harry couldn't help but whisper in the darkness as he opened to the first page.
"Love is the strongest of all."