Chapter Two

Harry gazed at the face before him; a boy just on the borders of becoming a man. The contours of his face were becoming more defined, though he guessed he would never lose that softness to the curves of his face that gave him such a young look. Small measures of facial hair were beginning to grow, dark and looking rather intimidating. His appearance was almost gruff, and one Harry wouldn't want to come across at night in a dark alley.

The body was short, obviously shorter than most males his age. It was skinny, and looked frail as well, but he knew that beyond the clothes there was little but developing muscles. Running for years and being faced with unfathomable tasks accounted for that. Probably helped he was into sport as well.

Apart from his face, Harry couldn't find the person in front of him very intimidating at all, especially in the clothes he was wearing. He looked like a boy who hadn't a dime to his name – not one that had piles of gold waiting for him in a Gringotts Vault. He looked scruffy and gruff, the perfect part of a tramp trying to appear civilized. He wasn't at all intimidating.

Harry looked his mirror image carefully up and down. Where he lacked intimidation, he felt he made up more than enough with a sense of mystery. His eyes always drew his gaze above everything else, and more than once had he found himself caught up in them. He wasn't obsessed with his looks in any manner, but there was something about his eyes that always made him stop and just stare.

Perhaps it was because they had belonged to his mother – that would make them the only thing he had to really remember her by. Sure, he had pictures, but they couldn't give him the sense of familiarity his father's invisibility cloak could. He'd been told on many an occasion that he looked almost identical to his father; maybe that was why. Out of all similarities he had to his father, his mother's eyes were unique. They were unique, and so in a way so much more powerful.

Every time he actually looked at his reflection with time to actually thing, he had to wonder if his mother ever looked at her eyes in the mirror and saw the same green eyes staring back. Those green eyes that showed emotion so clearly he grimaced at the thought of how easily he could be read through them. He had to wonder if his mothers eyes had ever been so very dull at a time, as his were now. The emerald green was no longer bright and dancing, as he had seen in happier times, but clouded and sad, with sharp fragments that told the horrible truth of what his life was becoming.

Even being so clearly a mirror to his feelings; his eyes portrayed mystery. They were beginning to grow old, and beginning to show that harsh life wisdom that Dumbledore sometimes showed. Not that he had come across that wisdom in the ways that Harry had done – his experience was through an odd hundred and a half years – Harry's was from sixteen years of hell.

He glanced up to his scar and scowled automatically. With each year that passed he was beginning to dislike the lightening bolt more and more. There had been a time when he was younger that he actually liked the reminder of his parents, and something that made him so unique and special, but that time was no more. The scar only caused trouble.

His scar told a story just by being there on his forehead. More mystery. How had he survived the killing curse? How did he keep escaping Voldemort? How…

To the public of the wizarding world, he could only imagine he was one of the more tasty appetisers for their curiosity. He had broken records more times than he could care to count; was the source for most happenings in their world at the moment. He was like a focus of it all, and no one knew him at all really.

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. It was rather silly really; he was trying to find a way to make it at least look like he was ready for his next challenge. You couldn't really expect a boy who looked like he did to be the figurehead the wizarding world wanted and needed. He hated his fame, and he hated even thinking about changing who he truly was for anyone or anything, but he knew it was necessary. An example had to be set, and he was one of the few that could set it well.

So, he had decided upon mystery. He didn't really enjoy the hard, cold look that his potions professor was so very adept at. Neither did he like the strict, strong foundations that his Head of House was so very at showing. Mystery was his best bet.

He felt rather sick to realize that he was in a way aiming for something like Dumbledore. No one really knew the old man, or his limits or the amounts of secrets he held in his head. No one knew anything beyond he was a figurehead and a very powerful man, and that gave them hope. Harry knew though that Dumbledore was getting old, and weak, and making mistakes. People were turning to him in matters concerning Voldemort more and more, and he would let them. He would never manipulate them. He knew better than to think he could play God, and he was appalled that Dumbledore didn't.

He looked back to his eyes and decided with a small nod he would accent what mystery he could. Detachment was the key, from all those but the select few who were closest to him. Keep quiet and in a corner; appear as insignificant as possible, and then, when the time comes, give a demonstration of power. Dumbledore's used the façade of an old bubbling man with a fondness for sweets – harmless really. That's what made him appear so great when he showed his true side.

Harry's eyes had always been intense, whether they were shining or as dull as they were at the moment. In the few instances Harry had met someone eye to eye, only the most powerful hadn't broken away first. Even Malfoy, despite his hate for Harry and insatiable pride, had been unable to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. Despite how reluctant, he always looked away. It was something Harry would have to take advantage of.

In truth he hated thinking along the lines he was doing. It made everyone seem like pawns he was planning to manipulate through his changes, and he kept being reminded more and more of Dumbledore. He did not want to turn into that man.

A small rush of anger rose in him, and his gaze was suddenly drawn to his eyes as he saw a small swell of colour in them for a moment. Red. That meant Voldemort.

Harry wasn't particularly bothered, in all truth. He had felt Voldemort probing his mind just after he awoke, and it had only been a small discomfort, swatted away with a fly. He just couldn't be bothered caring, or even putting an effort into being worried. The only thing he was directing his efforts into was planning for the future. Voldemort was a hassle he could do without for a while. If Harry dared to say it, he almost felt that at that moment Voldemort was insignificant.

He was interested to see though that as the red dissipated his eyes turned a disturbing yellow for the split second before the normal green came back. He remembered from his muggle primary school that red and green made yellow, but he wasn't dealing with lights. He peered closer, and all but jumped backwards as he saw his eyes flicker yellow once more for a few seconds.

Now that was interesting. He carefully leaned closer until all he could see was his eye. He examined it to a long minute before wondering if it had simply been the light that had made it appear so. Almost as soon as he considered the point, he saw the yellow show again, and this time stay just a bit longer, allowing him to see perfectly well it wasn't a trick of the light.

He blinked and his eyes turned back to the normal green. Watching himself closely, he blinked once more, and there they were again – yellow. He felt an eyebrow rise, and began to blink in and out of colours in total bafflement. Why could his eyes suddenly go yellow?

He chewed on his lip for a minute before remembering that with paints, red and green normally made some sort of brown. It was with coloured lights they made yellow so it had to be something to do with…

He stared at his reflection as his eyes soaked into a quite normal brown colour. He leaned forward and quickly examined it, trying to make sure he wasn't seeing things, and noted that when he blinked he turned back to green. He wondered what happened to the yellow, and then it was back. Catching on, he concentrated on the brown again, and then sure enough it appear once his eyelid lifted once more.

Grinning to himself at his new found revelation, he concentrated on black, but was disappointed to see nothing at all happen. He frowned and thought back to brown, seeing the emerald disappear almost immediately. From the brown he willed for black again but only succeeded on making the shade of brown slightly darker.

A soft rustle of movement from the window startled him backwards. He quickly returned his eyes to the normal colour, praying that they would stay that way, and turned, more than surprised at the sight that greeted him.

"Good morning Fawkes." He received a small trill in response, but it appeared Fawkes was in rather a hurry judging by the promptness he skipped pleasantries with and held out a leg. Harry immediately noticed the slip of parchment there and his face darkened ever so slightly. That was much too thin for a proper response.

An indignant sound brought him back to his senses and he quickly apologised to Fawkes, relieving him of his burden.

"Sorry Fawkes. Would you like something to drink?" Fawkes gave a soft sound he couldn't quite identify before rubbing his head against him. Harry couldn't prevent his smile and quite happily stroked the phoenix before he suddenly took to the air and disappeared with a small cry and flash of fire. Harry stared after him.

"Well!" He huffed, upset that Fawkes had been so abrupt with him. He always seemed to have some time for him on previous occasions. He hoped it wasn't the state of his present relationship with his master that made him act so.

He looked down at the slim sheet of parchment in his hand in disgust, having half a mind to burn it, given he could find a lighter somewhere. It was barely more than a note, he knew, and opened it with very little expectations.

This letter will take you to my office at exactly 12pm

AD

Harry scowled, but it was more out of nerves than pure annoyance. The whole reason he hadn't requested an actual meeting was because Dumbledore had a way of making everyone do what he wanted whenever he spoke to them face to face. Harry was afraid he'd lose track of what he wanted to get across.

With a sigh he decided at least it wasn't a flat out refusal. All Harry had to do was keep his head and nerve and everything should be alright. That was all. He had just less than two hours to work on that, what was hard about that? He chucked the letter onto his bed and turned back to the mirror deciding he wanted to make his eyes look a lot less intimidated.