Yes! Harry's mind sung out, Yes! Hit me again! But Vernon was already leaving, Dudley's Smeltings stick in hand. Harry couldn't stand it. Vernon couldn't leave! Vernon had to punish him, beat him so he could be forgiven! Harry had half a mind to stand up…
To stand up and what? Rush Vernon? Harry might be a glutton for punishment, but he wasn't suicidal, and rushing Vernon Dursley was nothing if not suicidal. But Vernon had to hit him again! Had to!
"Vernon," Harry heard his own voice say. It sounded different outside his head, deeper. He wondered vaguely what he was planning, and why he hadn't called him 'Uncle Vernon', and why his voice sounded odd. Then Dursley turned around, and Harry knew.
Vernon Dursley snarled, and whirled around. He raised the stick above his porky head, and started to yell. That's when Harry did it. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes slightly, and gobbed the blood right in Vernon's face. Then, he stood up off of his bed, and waited for the next blow to hit.
He wasn't disappointed. Vernon roared like a lion with a toothache, and swung the stick down and hard. The first blow caught Harry just below the temple, and his vision blurred with red. He staggered forward, determined not to pass out. Through the red cloud blurring his vision, Harry saw the next blow coming, and he leaned away from it.
The tip of the stick caught Harry on the bridge of the nose, and although it didn't break, tears sought Harry's eyes. The light of a thousand suns burned of the red fog, and Harry's vision was clear again. Harry staggered forward again.
This time, Vernon's oversized fist sailed over Harry's shoulder, not connecting. "You've got to hit me!" Harry bellowed. Suddenly Hagrid's words came back to him, "Dry up Dursley, you great prune!" Vernon turned as purple. He's going asphyxiate before he's finished beating me, Harry thought dispassionately. He was beyond caring again. It had all stopped mattering.
Vernon how ever, was just getting started. Harry felt a delightful sting as the stick caught in the ribs, and the again on the shoulder. Harry ducked slightly, so the next fist could land on his jaw.
It was an elegant dance, all around Dudley's old room. Vernon, the bull, roared, and punched and threw things if they got in his way; Harry, the matador, danced and spun like he was on the ballet, fielding blows with his head and shoulders. Vernon was determined to beat the insolent unnaturalness from the boy, and Harry was determined to remain conscious.
Eventually, the dance slowed and finally stopped. Vernon stood there, exhausted and baffled by the boys resiliency. Harry swayed precariously, exhausted, in agony, and determined to come out on top.
"Have you forgotten I'm a murderer, Vernon? Do you really think that was a good idea?" He said in the nearest approximation of the terror-voice he could manage. Through his mangled lips it sounded thick, and petulant.
Vernon didn't even bother to ball his fist. His palm hit Harry square in the nose, and Harry felt it give. Small chunks of bone cut through the cartilage, and the blood began to pour. Harry lost consciousness before he hit the floor.
It was nearly eight o'clock at Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore was content. In the last two hours he had eaten an exquisite dinner courtesy of the house elves, hired a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and figured out how he would save his hero. Now, he sat in his personal chambers, sharing a brandy with his thoughts and memories.
The solution to his problem was almost embarrassingly simple. Harry Potter was mourning the loss of yet another person in his life. So, Dumbledore reasoned, he would bring someone else in to fill the gap. That left the question of whom, and that had worked itself out with an owl.
Remus Lupin, marauder, werewolf, unregistered animagus and single best Defense Against Dark Arts teacher had seen in 100 years was returning to Hogwarts. Harry loved him, and since his flight from Hogwarts two years ago, Harry hadn't seen him. Hogwarts had hundreds of unknown rooms, and even more hidden rooms. It was the safest place for the man to be, and had the added bonus of lightening Harry's mood.
Albus closed his eyes and smiled. Everything was working out right. He took another drink of his brandy. Too right. Nothing ever works out that neatly in real life. Albus sighed. Now he remembered why he didn't drink: it made him paranoid. Not that he didn't have reason to be. Only Voldemort had more reason to be paranoid, and he was beginning to doubt that. Still, no use in wasting good brandy. He drained the glass.
Voldemort. That was still a problem. He knew he couldn't kill Voldemort himself. That wasn't the way these things worked, and besides that bloody prophecy forbade it. The boy would have to kill Voldemort, he knew, and the boy could. If only he could get there. He just didn't seem to realize he can't save everyone. He didn't understand that it wasn't his responsibility to fight every Death Eater. He couldn't let anyone go.
He had risked his life to drag Diggory's body back. He didn't have the luxury of a body for Sirius. In first year, he had tried to save Quirrell. In second year it was Ginerva Weasely. Third year the child tried -–and succeeded!—to save Lupin, Black, and Snape. He glad of that one, for sure. A dead spy is a bad spy. And yet, the only good spy is a dead spy.
He chuckled. He could always put Harry under Imperius, and command him to attack. Or insert a post-hypnotic suggestion to leave the hostages. He could apparate everyone else away, and leave Harry and Voldemort alone in the middle of a battle field. They could hardly make up. Not at this point.
Albus sighed again. He was thinking like Julius. He would not sink to that level. He would have patience, and things would work themselves out. They always do. Still, someone has to think that way, now that Julius is dead. This thought process was certainly getting him nowhere, so he stood up and put away his dishes. It was approaching nine now, and he really had some work to be doing. There was still a myriad of Ministry forms to fill out, indicating he had found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
He ducked in the backdoor of his office, and sat down at the desk. Along the back wall, between a large sneakoscope and a small arithmancers tablet, a large back quill was writing feverishly. Magical children must be being born all over the country, to have it working at such a rate. Something seemed wrong, but Albus accounted that to the brandy.
A line of green among the white pile of his mail drew his attention. Only official ministry documents came that dark green. He picked up the letter, letting several on top of it fall onto the floor. The parchment was thick under his fingers, and almost as rich as vellum. He turned it over, and the gold ink stood out just as he knew it would.
To Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, Headmaster.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
That's when it hit him. The magical student quill was in the transfiguration office, where it had been since he taught it. That quill was enchanted to write about…
Harry Potter, the large Copperplate writing said across the top, July 29
Sanite 8:33:01Alohomora 8:34:17
Alohomora 8:34:17
Alohomora 8:34:17
Alohomora 8:34:17
Alohomora 8:34:17
Barbas Desinite 8:41:32
Aloho---
The quill was still scratching. Dumbledore thought quickly, Harry knows better than to use magic outside of school! Does he want to be expelled? No, the spells seemed too ordered to simply be a plea for attention, and thereby expulsion. Therefore: Harry's in trouble. Too tame to be Death Eaters though. Therefore: Harry's in trouble with his aunt and uncle. He won't want to risk using magic on muggles, so he won't stun them.
To Albus, it made perfect sense. If he had slowed down to think about it, he may have come to a different conclusion. However, if he had slowed down to think about, he may have missed saving Harry Potter.
"Six Unlocking Charms at once? What fifth year could do that?" He mumbled, as he prepared to leave.
An old woman, one of the nameless, faceless headmistress of yore, answered him. "You could."
"But the magic was different then."
He knew he couldn't run Severus' lab, or even to Minerva's office. He had no illusions about being an old man. He closed his eyes, and promised himself just as he did every time, that this would be his last. With that, he apparated.
He appeared in Minerva's office first, and after taking a minute to calm himself, informed her off the situation. Half a minute later, she explained it to Severus. Six minutes and a short broom ride later, they apparated from just outside the Hogwarts gates, leaving cat hair and profanity in their wake.
Half way across England, half an hour or so earlier
That must have been one hell of a bludger, was Harry's first thought upon waking. A few moments later, midway through his second healing spell, Harry's mind caught up with his body. His second thought, consequently, was Oh shit. Harry hadn't fallen from his broom; Vernon had beaten him. He was an underage wizard, performing magic both outside of school, and potentially in front of muggles. A quick sweep with his proximity sense, coupled with the jolting of his memory told he was alone. Still, he was lying on the floor in a muggle-infested area performing magic with a – he open one eye tentatively – a pencil.
In for a penny, in for a pound, He thought bleakly, and finished the healing spell. The pencil crumpled into dust. Harry sat up, and looked around. It was dark in his room, but he couldn't see the moon. Half eight, then. The Dursleys (Petunia and Dudley anyway; he couldn't sense Vernon.) were gone, probably for the night. Their friends in London held an annual party, around this time of year, and the Dursleys often stayed over. Harry sighed, and tried the door.
Locked. Am I surprised? No, I'm not surprised. Alohomora would be nice right about now. His wand, however was locked up downstairs with the rest of his belongings. He hadn't even gotten to unpack. He looked around the room again. The pencil was certainly not going to help. There was always the window, but no. Just no.
His mind drifted back to his mysterious new sense. He could sense the power around himself, of course, like he could anyone else. He could even direct it around, and move small objects with it. Yet, every time he tried to use that power it left him exhausted, physically and mentally. Still, it wasn't like he had a better option. Besides, it was so draining anymore.
Harry closed his eyes, and directed his aura onto the locks. Slowly, coaxing and teasing, he got it in and around them. Now! He thought, Unlock! Nothing happened. Alohomora! Alohomora! Unlock you rat bastard! Harry sighed. This wasn't working.
"So much for Alohomora," he muttered aloud, and started to pull back his power. A quiet shuffle, a muted clunk, and Harry's door swung slowly open. Six locks at once?
Harry wasn't one to question fate. He walked out into the hall of number four Privet drive, and looked around. Now what? He wondered. He hadn't actually expected to get out of the room, so he hadn't bothered to plan.
Well, the Ministry officials should be here to arrest me any minute now. I have probably ten minutes. Might as well have a shower then, Harry thought, it's not as if I could run. He made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on any lights along the way. When he got there, however, he turned on every light, even the ones above the mirror he had never seen the point of.
His reflection shocked him. He looked like Sirius had, just after Azkaban. Don't think about Sirius! His hair was long and matted, falling about at his shoulders. His beard – I have a beard!? – was thin, but definitely shaggy. The only difference was the eyes: bright green emeralds, flashing from behind the black mane.
While he was in the shower, his thoughts inevitably turned back to Tom. He thought of the way Tom looked, the way Tom smelled, the way Tom spoke. Not Tom now, but Tom as Harry remembered him from second year. The vicious, brilliant boy of 16, radiating power and possessed of a beauty that Harry couldn't miss, even at twelve. That was the real Tom, in Harry's mind, not that scaly thing, and not the new body he had just built. The real Tom was a Raphaelite angel . Harry wanted him, he wanted to have him, and hug him and….
No! Harry's conscious mind cut it, as he toweled himself off. I do NOT want to kiss Voldemort!
No, you want to kiss Tom, his terror-voice said.
I don't have time for this! Harry thought back grumpily. He was rummaging in Vernon's closet for something to wear. He was going to be whisked away to the Ministry before Vernon could return to kill him, he had reasoned, so he might as well look good. He selected a forest green, satin shirt Vernon rarely wore, and felt it shrink to fit him as he buttoned it. He also picked up a pair of black slacks, and while he had to drastically take down the waist, the legs were just the right length. A pair of soft leather shoes and a matching belt round out the outfit.
Harry looked at himself in the mirror, and smiled for the first time in three weeks. He looked different, good. His face, indeed his entire body, had lost that boyish look. It was as if he had somehow squeezed the entirety of puberty into three weeks. His cheeks were higher, and his face was thinner accentuating his eyes. His hair now fell softly on his shoulders, and after a quick beard-be-gone charm he can see the set of his jaw. His nose…well, it would be long and aristocratic, if it wasn't broken sideways. At least there's no pain.
Harry walked downstairs, and swept the house for people. Silent as a grave. Not that Sirius will ever get a grave. Harry shuddered. "Harry Potter, my good sir, you deserve a drink," he said aloud, relishing in the sound of his own voice. It was rich, and mellifluous. It sounds a lot like Lucius Malfoy's, he thought.
Harry took a brandy snifter down out of the cabinet, and sat it on the table. He had never had a drink before, and didn't what he wanted, or even why he wanted one. He closed his eyes, opened Vernon's liquor cabinet and picked something. Jose Cuervo, Harry read. Sounds good. He poured himself a liberal amount, as much as he had seen his uncle pour into the snifter. He considered it, and added a bit more. Aunt Marge size.
Through some miracle, Harry didn't spray his first mouthful. It burned his mouth like fire, and as he forced it down it was like drinking lava. Harry sighed, rolled the small stem in his fingers, and tried again. He got a full mouthful this time, and swallowed. By the third try he didn't ever sputter. No wonder people like this stuff, Harry mused, my mind is moving like quicksilver.
He wondered why he couldn't help thinking of Tom. He wondered if he liked blokes. He tried to imagine kissing Ron, but it did nothing for him. He pictured himself kissing Hermione, then Ginny, then Cho. None of it stirred even the smallest emotion. Not much did these days.
He imagined kissing Neville, and Seamus, and Dean, and just for a lark, Malfoy. Draco, He corrected himself, if I'm going to be kissing him, I will definitely be on first name terms. Even still, it did nothing for him. Maybe it's the fact he's older than me. Harry imagined kissing Remus. Nothing. Maybe it's because he's scary. Severus; nothing. Maybe it's because he's so powerful. He imagined himself kissing Albus Dumbledore. Much, much less than nothing. Harry took a huge gulp, as if he had actually just kissed the old man.
Maybe it's just Tom, Harry thought. Oh well, there goes my sex life. He put his feet up on the table, and began to giggle. After a few seconds, he stopped, and peered suspiciously at the drink. Shagging Voldemort was no laughing matter.
He didn't have long to ponder however, because his proximity sense went off. Two warm bodies had just appeared out on the front lawn. His first instinct was to panic, but something overrode it. What would Tom do? He asked himself. He didn't know. What would Dumbledore do? He queried. This one he did know.
He took another sip, to clear his throat, and waited for the knock. It was tentative, as if the person behind it had never knocked before and wasn't quite sure how it was done. He smiled to himself, and called up the best voice he could to say, "Do come in Severus, I've been waiting for you."