Title: Undivided
Author: The Lurking Writer
Summary: Haunted by the words of the sorting hat and the supposed death of his godfather, Sirius Black, Harry finds himself irrevocably changed, subtly altered by the events of last year – alterations that aren't lost on Uncle Vernon. Undivided introduces us to a Harry that is older, brooding – more mature. A Harry that has accepted he must kill or be killed, but who has not accepted that Sirius is really gone. The return of the Dark Lord sets in motion a wave of hysteria and mass panic – it even reaches inside the very walls of the most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, Hogwarts. It is up to Harry, Dumbledore and their band of merry freedom-fighting Order of the Phoenix members to quell this rising storm and to reunite a world torn asunder by deceit, death and fear.
Rating: In general this story will be PG / PG-13, though it may be subject to change. I'll post a warning at the beginning of each chapter, if necessary, to inform. In general, though, the level language / vocabulary used is aimed for a slightly older audience, but don't let this discourage you.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters, names, etc. are property of J.K. Rowling, all publishers concerned and Warner Brothers. The only things owned by the author are the plot and any names not featured in the official Harry Potter books or movies. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Word Count: This is an ongoing story, and I've not finished writing it as yet, so there will be no story specific word count. I might post a word count for each individual chapter, when they're posted, but that all depends on popular (or not) opinion.
Author's Notes: Since the sixth book has not yet been published, this story can't technically be classified as Alternate Universe, though I'd surely like to, as that would mean I could claim all characters are acting within their normal personalities – who's to say they aren't in this universe? Hmm… I know what I'll do – I'll alter some past event from canon so that the story automatically becomes AU. ^_^
Please don't worry about the time between my uploading of chapters – I have a busy life, and this story is also a work-in-progress, meaning I'm still writing.
Before I begin uploading this here, I'd like to give a huge thank-you to all those who had replied on the old thread – it means a lot for me to have such loyal friends and readers. A special thank-you goes to my Beloved Muse for helping me through countless writing blocks, and generally, each day – she not only helps me with my writing, but also with my sanity (or the lack thereof, depending upon how well you know me, and how well you think you know me).
Also, I'd like to give a huge thanks to Terry Pratchett for writing the Discworld © novels, for he's given me oodles of Inspiration (which has worked well with my Muse and I) and generally been a source of constant humour – not that I'm without those two, myself, but sometimes the fountain of sarcasmic wit runs a little dry.
And never since the Founders Four
Were whittled down to three
Have the houses been united
As they once were meant to be
Chapter One – Privet DriveHarry sat fuming in his lonesome bedroom, the heavy rain patterning the glass into a myriad of splattering puddles. The rivulets of burning saline crept bit by bit downwards towards his parched lips, the salty flavour doing nothing to improve his infuriated disposition.
The boy-who-lived had long since grown out of that title, and into the mantle of the one who must fulfil the prophecy. He despised Sybill Trelawny now more so than the vile woman who had taken his godfather away from him. Sirius. What had happened to him? Harry knew he wasn't dead; Sirius Black could not be dead. He was just trapped, somewhere beyond that veil of whispering voices.
Professor Lu…Lupin had only said that he'd gone… that at the time there was nothing he could do… but Harry knew deep within his young heart that he would rescue Sirius; that Sirius was unrecoverable was something that hadn't deigned to be known to Harry. The rift between the world beyond the veil and the living was unimaginably immense.
The world was a harsh and oftentimes unforgiving place. It didn't help Harry in the slightest that it seemed like the world held a particularly hefty grudge against him. Fate was a cruel and fickle friend, and She smiled upon Harry – it was a malevolent facsimile of a grin. The storm blew itself out in due course, allowing a brief burst of shimmering prismatic effects, more commonly known as a rainbow, through the thin glass of the bedroom window. Light entered through the window and split into seven, each part going its separate way, all trying to beat back the dull greyness that had insinuated itself into every nook and cranny.
Begrudgingly the emotionally spent teenager attempted to pull himself upright, and succeeded in flopping over the side of his school trunk, which had parked itself beside the desk-side chair. Beneath the floorboards, the low growling sound could be heard of his Uncle Vernon ranting and raving about how Harry should have been out on the streets, fending for himself, rather than living under the same roof as respectable people such as Vernon Dursley.
Showing no respect for matters of temporal continuity whatsoever, the door creaked ominously open. A silhouette against the faint spark of the landing light, Vernon Dursley stood in the doorway, one hand on whale-sized hip, the other pointing maliciously in the general direction of the sprawled mass that just might have been his nephew,
"What is the meaning of this, boy?"
Vernon's expression had pre-emptively formed a mottled hue of plum in hope of a tirade against Harry.
Feeling at long last battered through the resistant stockade that had forced all emotion from Harry. The alacrity and ferociousness were akin to the walls of a weir instantaneously vanishing, allowing a bloated reservoir to force its vastness down a narrow gorge. Resentment reared its mildly displeasing head (as opposed to the ugly visage of Jealousy) and promptly became the dominant emotion, fuelling Harry's aching muscles into erratic movement.
When first Harry had disembarked the scarlet steam engine that had delivered he and many others to Hogwarts, he'd looked as if he knew nothing at all but pain and misery; now he looked as if he knew too much. Something about his eyes suggested he'd seen things that ordinary people – even ordinary wizards (if there were such things) – never see, or at least never see more than once. Something about all the rest of him suggested to Vernon that causing an inconvenience for the boy now might just be as wise as thrusting a jam-covered finger in a wasps nest. In short, Harry no longer looked like something one of Mrs. Figg's cats brought in and then brought up.
As his movements brought him chin to nose with his Uncle, Harry's eyes glowed like crucibles, his expression a furnace overstuffed with coal, his voice held enough residual heat to melt tungsten,
"What did you call me?" Harry hissed.
Vernon's voice caught in his throat the way fish swim through tar. The words he'd spent a dozen years or more patiently gathering, storing and growing into a masterful display of invectives and commands simply faded away. Vernon looked down at his nephew's knuckles. They were white, the bone pressing through the flesh as though in a rage to escape. His gaze slid up the grey-clad arm to Harry's face. Then his eyes met those of emerald, more or less with a clang.
Vernon felt as though his flesh was being very slowly blown from his bones. He felt no more significant than a mayfly; a necessary mayfly, certainly, a mayfly that would be accorded all due respect, but still an insect with all the rights thereof. And as much free will, in the blind fury of that gaze, as a scrap of paper in a hurricane.
"Leave me alone," said Harry, in the tone of voice the Universe had used to create the moon and stars.
"Er," said Vernon.
"Now," said Harry.
Vernon gave up.
"Oh," he said. "Good. Fine. Yes. The best thing, really."
And that was the end of it, really. Vernon had disappeared down the creaky staircase, leaving Harry in relative peace*.
*Lit: a form of peace where no relatives are nearby.
The room, once filled with a smothering grey then briefly enchanted by a flood of vibrant colours, steadily grew dim and silent. Outside, beyond Harry's limited field of vision, the street lamps of Little Whinging began to flicker on in a vast swathe, as if a storm of fireflies had suddenly decided to light matches on their rear ends. It wasn't as ghastly as it sounds, for soon the night sky held an orange glow, and the clouds seemed so much closer and more comforting than they had before, as if you could reach out, grab a handful, and wrap yourself in them like a quilt.
Harry sat for what seemed like hours, anger rising and falling within him like some crazed tidal wave – never quite breaking over. How dare his uncle come into his room and demand to know what had happened; how dare his uncle come into his room as if he owned it, as if he owned Harry.
Emotion often clouded judgements, but Harry's mind was as crystal clear as a biting gale. Thoughts sped around as if caught in a high wind, tumbling this way and that, never sticking to one spot for more than an instant. As soon as one image entered his mind it had gone, swept off into the dark recesses of his memories. One thing, though, never budged, despite Harry's best attempts to squash it, crush it, stow it away. Vernon had backed down. Never mind that he'd done so quickly, without his usual bluster – Vernon Dursley. Had. Backed. Down. What was going on? Vernon would sooner wrestle a shark without the use of his arms than lose an argument, especially one with Harry.
He let loose a ragged, deeply frustrated sigh, and one clenched fist struck out, hitting the desk with such force his glasses slid rapidly towards the end of his nose, his teeth jarred and the awkward sound of a wooden desk being struck by flesh, resounding through the floorboards, whipped its way throughout the small bedroom. Once more Vernon's ranting could be heard, though Harry had learnt the art of selective hearing, and at that moment had chosen to completely filter out the ever-so-slightly annoying noise.
Eventually, after finally conceding defeat to the twin weights attached to his eyelids, Harry removed his glasses and absent-mindedly pinch-rubbed the bridge of his nose, where two purplish indentations from the 'nose-pads' of his spectacles had dug in. Quietly, and stealthily, Harry crept across the upstairs landing and slithered noiselessly down the worn, carpeted steps. He was extra-careful to avoid the creaking-step near the bottom, for if Vernon or Petunia had heard it in their sleep, Harry would be a goner. Gingerly, he tiptoed silently towards the cupboard beneath the stairs – his first real 'room' that he could remember. Using the multi-talented penknife Sirius had once given him – the blade, though it had been melted, or magicked away once, was somehow back in perfect condition – Harry was able to pick the lock and retrieve his wand. Quickly, Harry managed to shut the door once more, and waited patiently for the 'click' that would indicate the lock closing properly.
Within five minutes, Harry was back in his bedroom, one of his arms half under the floorboards beneath his bed; he'd stowed the wand in the space closest to the opening, just in case he needed it. Now, he was sitting beneath the cover of his quilt, a small torch illuminating the parchment not two inches from his short nose. These had been letters from his two best friends in all of Hogwarts; Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had written to Harry half-a-dozen or so times, each, since the beginning of the summer holidays, explaining little of the events around them, but sneaking in every so often a particularly tasty morsel one or either of the twins had picked up. It was good to have Fred and George Weasley as official members of the Order, now that they'd left school. Their extendable-ears were no longer needed, and thus Ron, Hermione and Ginny had been in far less trouble with Mrs. Weasley than the previous year.
Harry was still morose and downhearted, however, no matter the content of those letters, or the hidden message of support and love they held. Sirius had left a huge hole in his heart, and it pained him, so deeply, he often found himself gazing at his chest in shocked wonder at the non-existent wound he felt should be there. Fighting back the burning in his eyes once more, he carefully slid the pieces of parchment back into their hiding place, returned the floorboard into its usual place, moved a small pile of socks to cover it and resumed his position beneath the covers on his bed. It took him hours before he finally walked among the Land of Nod once more. The last image, before going through Customs, was of a huge shadow against the bedroom door, in the shape of a large – and black – dog.
Chapter Word Count: 1701