Chapter One: Waking up
"What happened here?" A voice said. He supposed it was loud but it sounded muddled and miles away.
"Fifteen year old male with multiple stab wounds to the torso. Has been unconsciousness for an unknown period of time possibly because of a head trauma on the lower portion of the back of his head. Seems to be suffering from the aftereffects of the Cruciatius Curse." Another voice called to answer the first. The words were just as muddled as before, if not more so. His eyelids felt so heavy. A stream of golden light flooded one eye, then the other. He would just close his eyes and sleep for a little bit. Just a little.
"Wasn't there a woman who arrived with him?"
"She was a D.O.A." Not being able to understand the doctor lingo, he closed his eyes hoping sleep would eliminate the dull throbbing in his head.
****** Opening his eyes the next morning seemed to be the hardest thing he ever faced. Was it always this hard to open his eyelids? But the moment he actually managed this victory, albeit a small one, he immediately slammed them closed again as bright light flooded his eyes, dilating his pupils until they seemed to overshadow the green. Cracking them open slightly, he was greeted with a scene that he knew as well as the back of his hand. The bright lights, a surreal amount of whiteness and a small tray table to his side. Yep, he was in a hospital. Not Hogwarts' hospital but still some kind of health care facility.
"Damn." Was all he said as pulled the covers over his head to go back to sleep before his brain woke up and reminded him why he was in the hospital in the first place. But sleep wouldn't come. Instead images of a broken and bloody body filled his mind and danced behind his closed eyelids. It was obvious that sleep wasn't going to help him so this called for other tactics. Pushing back the covers with more force then the task called for, he was about to move out of a bed when a sharp pain shot across his left side. Glancing down, he saw a tan bandage wrapped snuggly around his ribs.
Groaning, he carefully heaved himself from the bed. Clutching his side and half-heartedly muttering obscenities, he struggled to get to a small table that was opposite of the door and near his window. His legs could barely hold his weight as he gripped the edge of his bed until his knuckles drained of blood and turned white. After pausing the few moments to steady himself, he tried once more to make it to the table only to feel bile rise in his throat before dashing off to a small bathroom in the room. For around ten minutes, he sprawled over the toilet; dry heaving with occasional blood mixed into it. When he was finished, he glanced up at mirror to study his reflection.
He looked like shit. Dark circles lined his eyes, which contrasted sharply with the pale, almost translucent skin. His dark, messy hair was still as uncontrollable as ever but now lay matted on his forehead, which was covered with a like film of sweat. His once vibrant green eyes had dulled slightly in color and a small stream of saliva mingled with blood ran past his chapped lips before hitting the white porcelain sink. Wiping his lip and chin, he bent cupped his hand to gather the water and gurgled it around his mouth to rid it of the coppery taste of blood and the still present taste of bile. Stepping back out of the bathroom, he tried to make it to the little table across the room, gripping on to objects near by as if when he let go, he'd fall away from the world. Finally reaching the table, he lowered himself into a light blue leather chair with a strait back so relaxing was nearly impossible. Opening the drawer of the table he peered in at the contents. Four things occupied the draw: A copy of 'Witches Weekly' complete with a smiling Lockhart look-a-like, a pencil, a pad of paper and the Bible. Deciding it was best to read something, he held up the magazine in one hand and the Bible in the other.
"Decisions, decisions." He muttered sarcastically before settling back into bed, the Bible in hand.
Fifteen minutes later, a sharp knock was heard at the door. It seemed pointless, really, as the doctor waited all of two seconds before swiftly opening the door and stepping inside.
The doctor, well, he assumed it was a doctor, seemed rather young. Probably around 25, Harry reasoned. He had dark tanned skin with a head full of black thick hair that stayed perfectly in place, a luxury Harry had never known. His eyes were a rich brown and they reflected the smile on his lip that showed off his perfectly straight white teeth. He found himself feeling a little self-conscious.
"Hello, Harry. I may call you Harry?" He asked cheerfully. Inwardly, Harry groaned. That doctor was way too cheery this early .at 2:30 in the afternoon. Never mind. Remembering the doctor's question, he nodded silently and waited for him to continue. "I'm Doctor Johansson and I'll be your doctor here."
Harry meant to ask where here was but a sound refused to come out. His throat ached from lack of use and cracked as he tried to form words.
"Water?" Dr. Johansson asked, handing over a glass.
Gulping it down, he tried once again. "Where am I?"
"St. Mungo's. Anymore questions?" Shaking his head 'no', the doctor continued, "It seems the person or persons who injured you did quite a number. You suffered from eight stab wounds: one on your right shoulder, one on your right lung, two in your intestines, one in your left kidney, one to your stomach, one on your left thigh and one on your right arm. You have three broken ribs, a slight concussion; we already healed your broken femur and broken ulna and radius. A total of thirty-three bruises were found on your body along with several shallow cuts. One of the Unforgivable Curses was used on you, possibly multiple times and a poison was injected in to you from the knife that gave you these wounds. A serious amount of blood was lost but you seem to be recovering fine now." Through the whole speech, Harry watched his face change. The smile slowly disappeared, replaced with his lips pursing. His eyebrows knitted together and his eyes shone with compassion and pity for Harry.
Speaking quietly, Harry contemplated everything the doctor had said. No one should have survived the attack he just described, but then again, with Harry, death and Harry Potter became opposites.
"I shouldn't have survived that attack. It's impossible." Harry spoke quietly. Admitting it too loud meant that he really had cheated death again while another innocent person died.
"Well, miracles happen every day." The doctor began, smiling with a fake brightness.
"Don't lie."
Looking defeated, the doctor began again in a more monotone voice. "In my medical opinion if you had been bathed in phoenix tears even a minute after you received the injuries, you wouldn't have been saved. You should get some rest now." Standing up to leave, he had just reached the doorknob when Harry called to him.
"And Dorothy Figg? What of her?" He knew the answer, they both did, but Harry needed it in words to make his nightmare real.
"Dorothy Figg was found at the scene already dead. There was nothing we could have done."
"I know." Harry said silently, in barely a whisper. At the doctor's odd look he explained. Taking a sharp breath, he began silently. "I watched them torture her and then I watched them kill her. But I needed to know." Johansson nodded his head mutely before speaking.
"I didn't want to mention it before but there have been aurors, the media and some guests swarming the hospital for the past two weeks."
"Two weeks?!"
"Yes, would you like me to send anyone in? That is if you're up to visitors."
"I guess. Could you send in an adult first? I have a feeling that all of these are not happy visits."
"Of course." He nodded his head before opening the doors and getting ready to leave.
"Thank you." Harry called, giving a grateful smile that was returned warmly.
******** Stepping out into the waiting room area, Dr. Johansson was not surprised to see it over flowing with witches and wizards; some reading, most of the adults sipping coffees, a few dabbing their red and swollen eyes with napkins, a few playing wizards chess of watching. But no talking. Not one person spoke-all lost with their own grief but finding different ways to express it. Not even when one of the boys playing chess put the other boy into checkmate, he just nodded and it was understood.
"Excuse me. Who are the people waiting for Mr. Potter?" At once, twenty or so people jumped to their feet and turned their heads in his direction.
At once, he was bombarded with questions.
"What's wrong?"
"Is he alright?"
"Does he need anything?"
"Is the condition worse?"
"Has he woken up?"
"Did he say anything?"
"Silence!" A voice commanded from the back. At once, everybody closed his or her mouths towards the speaker. "Thank you. Now Dr. Johansson has there been any change?"
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore. He just woke up and has agreed to take visitors but has requested the adults. He said something about knowing that some of your visits weren't, and I quote, 'happy ones'." All of the faces looked grave as they glance around at each other.
"Very well. I assume that's my cue to go. Sirius would you like to come?" Dumbledore asked. If the doctor was surprised, he didn't show it, but if anybody looked close enough, under his jacket and above the left breast was the reason. A small gold pin with a phoenix on it sat nestled almost behind his name badge.
"I'm coming too." A voice called from behind. A young woman in her middle thirties with short, slightly wavy light brown hair stepped forward. Her brown eyes were rimmed with redness like the rest of them, though she had been crying for another reason in addition to the one at hand.
"Are you sure, Arabella?"
"My visit also borders on the not happy side. My job tells me to go with you two." Both men nodded their heads before following the doctor down the hall and into the room.
"Hello Harry." Dumbledore greeted. Sirius pushed past him and flung his arms around his godson, holding him tightly until it seemed that oxygen might be a problem.
"Sirius, Ari, Dumbledore." He nodded to all three, waiting for them to continue.
"How are you feeling?" Sirius asked finally, his voice choked up with emotion.
Rolling his eyes at the question, Harry asked calmly, "Like I've been stabbed eight time, have three broken ribs, thirty-three bruises, numerous cuts, and three newly healed bones. I'm just peachy." The twinkle that should have been shown in his eyes was absent in the dull eyes. Looking over at Ari, pained filled his eyes as he softly added, "I'm sorry about your mother." Ari nodded her head, her eyes filling with tears as she bit her trembling lip. An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. "So, who's out there anyway?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, all the Weasleys in fact, Hermione and her parents, Remus, Snape stopped by with McGonagall about an hour ago, Neville Longbottom was here for a while but then left saying he had other business here, Hagrid hasn't left the waiting room for more than an hour, Mrs. Dursley came here to check up but left quickly enough." Sirius said, counting the people off on his fingers.
"Okay." Turning to Dumbledore, his face became harder, his eyes like green chips of marble, "I want to know why I keep being attacked, Professor. I don't need anymore of that 'now's not the time, you'll find out when you're older' bullshit." All three adults flinched slightly at his words, so different sounding from the boy at Hogwarts last year. Too much death, too much blood, too many years of childhood lost. "I'm not at Hogwarts now but that doesn't stop him from attacking me. There must be something you're not telling me."
"Are you sure you're ready to hear it? I don't want to modify your memory if it is too hard to handle." Dumbledore asked cautiously.
"I'm ready."
Taking a deep breath, with his eyes never leaving Harry's, he began. "About thirty five years ago, a young woman, a muggle, by the name of Sarah Evans had a short affair with Tom Riddle with resulted in the birth of a child." Harry sucked in a breath at this point, he knew what was coming. "Her husband forgave her and adopted the child as his own. A few months later, a baby girl was born, named Lily Evans." Here, Dumbledore paused, waiting for Harry's reaction.
Trying to keep his emotions in-check, Harry slowly breathed out a response, "And no one found it important to tell me this?"
"We didn't think it was time to tell you." Dumbledore said quietly, not daring to look at Harry's blazing green eyes.
"When were you going to tell me?" Harry yelled, trying to get up but being forced into bed by Ari and Sirius. "Huh? When one of us finally killed each other? Right before we prepare to battle?" Adopting Dumbledore's voice he quickly mimicked a possible conversation. " 'Oh, by the way Mr. Potter, you're supposed to kill your only living magic relative. Fight a good fight.'" He quickly glared at him before pushing himself back into the pillow.
"Wait." Sirius protested. "I'm a little confused. Why do you need to kill your grandfather?"
"Does an evil, psychotic muggle killer out for my blood make you want to keep him alive?"
"When has this Tom Riddle guy done any of this?"
"Tom Riddle also known as Voldemort."
"Then why did Dumbledore call him Tom Riddle?"
"Do you seriously think his parents named him Voldemort?" Harry questioned with a slight scowl on his face.
Blushing scarlet, Sirius sat back down and waved a hand, signaling for Dumbledore to continue his story.
"After Lily was born, Tom Riddle wanted to keep the child for himself as it was his only heir, Slytherin's only heir. When he was refused he threatened Sarah with her and her husband's life but still she refused."
"Did he kill them?" Harry asked.
"Not then. If he had murdered them, then all of the Death Eaters would have known of his affair with a muggle."
Harry nodded silently going over everything he had heard before another thought struck him. "Why did he want to kill my father then?"
"The defeat of Voldemort lies is a prophecy along with the Potters, the last in the line of Gryffindor and Slytherin. He was aware of the prophecy and knew it ended it the Gryffindor's favor. When I say aware, though, it does not mean he knew any of the details-just the outcome. I believe I'm the only one with the complete prophecy."
"How does it go?"
"I'm not sure, as it wasn't complete until a few years ago and has still been unable to be deciphered. Around a thousand years ago, the first seer in this prophecy predicted one part of it. A hundred years past and it was predicted again with another part. And so on. Professor Trelawney predicted the last one about ten years ago. I could send it to you if you'd like." Harry nodded at this. "I think that's about all. I should wait until we have that prophecy. Any questions?" He glanced around the room at Ari and Sirius who were both expressing different degrees of shock.
"This all ends with me." Harry asked, looking up at Dumbledore, "Right? Technically I'm both the last descendent of Gryffindor and Slytherin and unless I go schizophrenic and start waging a battle with myself then that means I need to battle Voldemort to fulfill the prophecy."
"Yes but prophecies are inexact and often misinterpreted differently and often don't result in anything." Dumbledore added.
"Predicted around ten times? No, this is definitely going to happen. I have another question though. Why didn't Voldemort just try and turn me evil before or after he killed my parents?"
"He did try and find you when you were first born. Lily refused to let him have anything to do with you and, to put it lightly, he wasn't very happy. When you were born, various enchantments were cast on you to keep you safe from Voldemort until you reached the age of 16 and could decide your own side. Since he could not use you he decided just to kill you and insure he'd live forever."
"Any more hidden information for me? No long-lost siblings, no terminal diseases?"
"No, though there is something I would like to talk to you about when you look over the prophecy." Dumbledore turned as if to leave but instead pivoted to face Harry, "Are you ready to talk about the attack?"
"Not yet. Soon." Harry reassured as Dumbledore gave a small smile and stepped out.
"You don't have to tell us anything until you're ready." Sirius said, looking to Ari for support, but when none was given he elbowed her in the stomach.
"Of course."
"Ari, I know you need the closure and I know it's your job to find out what happened but I'm not ready." Harry said, looking away at the window and in a small voice added, "And I don't know if I ever will be." He swiveled his head back and looked straight into her eyes. "If you really need to know then I can try a pensieve."
"I would appreciate it but it isn't necessary." Harry could see right through her lie and sighed before telling her he would anyway.
"I'll need a pensieve." He added as an afterthought before stifling a fake yawn. "Don't bother sending anyone else in. I'm just going to go to bed. Sirius, could you send me my school stuff? Send both by Hedwig." Sirius looked a little stunned but agreed. "See you guys later." He muttered as he rolled on his side, back to them.
"Harry? Is there something wrong? It looks like you're not telling us something." Sirius stated, barely registering Harry's eyes widen slightly or his hand pressing into his arm.
Giving a nervous smile he said curtly, "No, nothing."
"Okay then. Bye Harry." The barely audible click of the door echoed through the small room and had released a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Slowly rolling up his left sleeve, he glanced at the picture engraved on his skin. The Dark Mark. Its outline was solid black and he could feel the heat rushing off it in waves, even with his pajama sleeve down.
"Nothing more than another scar to be added to my collection." He whispered to himself.
******
Authors Notes:
If anybody's wondering, D.O.A in the first paragraph or little section means dead on arrival-so it's not so good for her.
Okay that's all for now. Just for the record, I own nothing except for Dorothy Figg because I created her personality.
Just to note-Harry gets a little depressed but I will not spend the whole fic talking about his depression, though I might dwell in it for a little bit. There will be self-mutilation in the story but only for a few paragraphs.
"What happened here?" A voice said. He supposed it was loud but it sounded muddled and miles away.
"Fifteen year old male with multiple stab wounds to the torso. Has been unconsciousness for an unknown period of time possibly because of a head trauma on the lower portion of the back of his head. Seems to be suffering from the aftereffects of the Cruciatius Curse." Another voice called to answer the first. The words were just as muddled as before, if not more so. His eyelids felt so heavy. A stream of golden light flooded one eye, then the other. He would just close his eyes and sleep for a little bit. Just a little.
"Wasn't there a woman who arrived with him?"
"She was a D.O.A." Not being able to understand the doctor lingo, he closed his eyes hoping sleep would eliminate the dull throbbing in his head.
****** Opening his eyes the next morning seemed to be the hardest thing he ever faced. Was it always this hard to open his eyelids? But the moment he actually managed this victory, albeit a small one, he immediately slammed them closed again as bright light flooded his eyes, dilating his pupils until they seemed to overshadow the green. Cracking them open slightly, he was greeted with a scene that he knew as well as the back of his hand. The bright lights, a surreal amount of whiteness and a small tray table to his side. Yep, he was in a hospital. Not Hogwarts' hospital but still some kind of health care facility.
"Damn." Was all he said as pulled the covers over his head to go back to sleep before his brain woke up and reminded him why he was in the hospital in the first place. But sleep wouldn't come. Instead images of a broken and bloody body filled his mind and danced behind his closed eyelids. It was obvious that sleep wasn't going to help him so this called for other tactics. Pushing back the covers with more force then the task called for, he was about to move out of a bed when a sharp pain shot across his left side. Glancing down, he saw a tan bandage wrapped snuggly around his ribs.
Groaning, he carefully heaved himself from the bed. Clutching his side and half-heartedly muttering obscenities, he struggled to get to a small table that was opposite of the door and near his window. His legs could barely hold his weight as he gripped the edge of his bed until his knuckles drained of blood and turned white. After pausing the few moments to steady himself, he tried once more to make it to the table only to feel bile rise in his throat before dashing off to a small bathroom in the room. For around ten minutes, he sprawled over the toilet; dry heaving with occasional blood mixed into it. When he was finished, he glanced up at mirror to study his reflection.
He looked like shit. Dark circles lined his eyes, which contrasted sharply with the pale, almost translucent skin. His dark, messy hair was still as uncontrollable as ever but now lay matted on his forehead, which was covered with a like film of sweat. His once vibrant green eyes had dulled slightly in color and a small stream of saliva mingled with blood ran past his chapped lips before hitting the white porcelain sink. Wiping his lip and chin, he bent cupped his hand to gather the water and gurgled it around his mouth to rid it of the coppery taste of blood and the still present taste of bile. Stepping back out of the bathroom, he tried to make it to the little table across the room, gripping on to objects near by as if when he let go, he'd fall away from the world. Finally reaching the table, he lowered himself into a light blue leather chair with a strait back so relaxing was nearly impossible. Opening the drawer of the table he peered in at the contents. Four things occupied the draw: A copy of 'Witches Weekly' complete with a smiling Lockhart look-a-like, a pencil, a pad of paper and the Bible. Deciding it was best to read something, he held up the magazine in one hand and the Bible in the other.
"Decisions, decisions." He muttered sarcastically before settling back into bed, the Bible in hand.
Fifteen minutes later, a sharp knock was heard at the door. It seemed pointless, really, as the doctor waited all of two seconds before swiftly opening the door and stepping inside.
The doctor, well, he assumed it was a doctor, seemed rather young. Probably around 25, Harry reasoned. He had dark tanned skin with a head full of black thick hair that stayed perfectly in place, a luxury Harry had never known. His eyes were a rich brown and they reflected the smile on his lip that showed off his perfectly straight white teeth. He found himself feeling a little self-conscious.
"Hello, Harry. I may call you Harry?" He asked cheerfully. Inwardly, Harry groaned. That doctor was way too cheery this early .at 2:30 in the afternoon. Never mind. Remembering the doctor's question, he nodded silently and waited for him to continue. "I'm Doctor Johansson and I'll be your doctor here."
Harry meant to ask where here was but a sound refused to come out. His throat ached from lack of use and cracked as he tried to form words.
"Water?" Dr. Johansson asked, handing over a glass.
Gulping it down, he tried once again. "Where am I?"
"St. Mungo's. Anymore questions?" Shaking his head 'no', the doctor continued, "It seems the person or persons who injured you did quite a number. You suffered from eight stab wounds: one on your right shoulder, one on your right lung, two in your intestines, one in your left kidney, one to your stomach, one on your left thigh and one on your right arm. You have three broken ribs, a slight concussion; we already healed your broken femur and broken ulna and radius. A total of thirty-three bruises were found on your body along with several shallow cuts. One of the Unforgivable Curses was used on you, possibly multiple times and a poison was injected in to you from the knife that gave you these wounds. A serious amount of blood was lost but you seem to be recovering fine now." Through the whole speech, Harry watched his face change. The smile slowly disappeared, replaced with his lips pursing. His eyebrows knitted together and his eyes shone with compassion and pity for Harry.
Speaking quietly, Harry contemplated everything the doctor had said. No one should have survived the attack he just described, but then again, with Harry, death and Harry Potter became opposites.
"I shouldn't have survived that attack. It's impossible." Harry spoke quietly. Admitting it too loud meant that he really had cheated death again while another innocent person died.
"Well, miracles happen every day." The doctor began, smiling with a fake brightness.
"Don't lie."
Looking defeated, the doctor began again in a more monotone voice. "In my medical opinion if you had been bathed in phoenix tears even a minute after you received the injuries, you wouldn't have been saved. You should get some rest now." Standing up to leave, he had just reached the doorknob when Harry called to him.
"And Dorothy Figg? What of her?" He knew the answer, they both did, but Harry needed it in words to make his nightmare real.
"Dorothy Figg was found at the scene already dead. There was nothing we could have done."
"I know." Harry said silently, in barely a whisper. At the doctor's odd look he explained. Taking a sharp breath, he began silently. "I watched them torture her and then I watched them kill her. But I needed to know." Johansson nodded his head mutely before speaking.
"I didn't want to mention it before but there have been aurors, the media and some guests swarming the hospital for the past two weeks."
"Two weeks?!"
"Yes, would you like me to send anyone in? That is if you're up to visitors."
"I guess. Could you send in an adult first? I have a feeling that all of these are not happy visits."
"Of course." He nodded his head before opening the doors and getting ready to leave.
"Thank you." Harry called, giving a grateful smile that was returned warmly.
******** Stepping out into the waiting room area, Dr. Johansson was not surprised to see it over flowing with witches and wizards; some reading, most of the adults sipping coffees, a few dabbing their red and swollen eyes with napkins, a few playing wizards chess of watching. But no talking. Not one person spoke-all lost with their own grief but finding different ways to express it. Not even when one of the boys playing chess put the other boy into checkmate, he just nodded and it was understood.
"Excuse me. Who are the people waiting for Mr. Potter?" At once, twenty or so people jumped to their feet and turned their heads in his direction.
At once, he was bombarded with questions.
"What's wrong?"
"Is he alright?"
"Does he need anything?"
"Is the condition worse?"
"Has he woken up?"
"Did he say anything?"
"Silence!" A voice commanded from the back. At once, everybody closed his or her mouths towards the speaker. "Thank you. Now Dr. Johansson has there been any change?"
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore. He just woke up and has agreed to take visitors but has requested the adults. He said something about knowing that some of your visits weren't, and I quote, 'happy ones'." All of the faces looked grave as they glance around at each other.
"Very well. I assume that's my cue to go. Sirius would you like to come?" Dumbledore asked. If the doctor was surprised, he didn't show it, but if anybody looked close enough, under his jacket and above the left breast was the reason. A small gold pin with a phoenix on it sat nestled almost behind his name badge.
"I'm coming too." A voice called from behind. A young woman in her middle thirties with short, slightly wavy light brown hair stepped forward. Her brown eyes were rimmed with redness like the rest of them, though she had been crying for another reason in addition to the one at hand.
"Are you sure, Arabella?"
"My visit also borders on the not happy side. My job tells me to go with you two." Both men nodded their heads before following the doctor down the hall and into the room.
"Hello Harry." Dumbledore greeted. Sirius pushed past him and flung his arms around his godson, holding him tightly until it seemed that oxygen might be a problem.
"Sirius, Ari, Dumbledore." He nodded to all three, waiting for them to continue.
"How are you feeling?" Sirius asked finally, his voice choked up with emotion.
Rolling his eyes at the question, Harry asked calmly, "Like I've been stabbed eight time, have three broken ribs, thirty-three bruises, numerous cuts, and three newly healed bones. I'm just peachy." The twinkle that should have been shown in his eyes was absent in the dull eyes. Looking over at Ari, pained filled his eyes as he softly added, "I'm sorry about your mother." Ari nodded her head, her eyes filling with tears as she bit her trembling lip. An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. "So, who's out there anyway?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, all the Weasleys in fact, Hermione and her parents, Remus, Snape stopped by with McGonagall about an hour ago, Neville Longbottom was here for a while but then left saying he had other business here, Hagrid hasn't left the waiting room for more than an hour, Mrs. Dursley came here to check up but left quickly enough." Sirius said, counting the people off on his fingers.
"Okay." Turning to Dumbledore, his face became harder, his eyes like green chips of marble, "I want to know why I keep being attacked, Professor. I don't need anymore of that 'now's not the time, you'll find out when you're older' bullshit." All three adults flinched slightly at his words, so different sounding from the boy at Hogwarts last year. Too much death, too much blood, too many years of childhood lost. "I'm not at Hogwarts now but that doesn't stop him from attacking me. There must be something you're not telling me."
"Are you sure you're ready to hear it? I don't want to modify your memory if it is too hard to handle." Dumbledore asked cautiously.
"I'm ready."
Taking a deep breath, with his eyes never leaving Harry's, he began. "About thirty five years ago, a young woman, a muggle, by the name of Sarah Evans had a short affair with Tom Riddle with resulted in the birth of a child." Harry sucked in a breath at this point, he knew what was coming. "Her husband forgave her and adopted the child as his own. A few months later, a baby girl was born, named Lily Evans." Here, Dumbledore paused, waiting for Harry's reaction.
Trying to keep his emotions in-check, Harry slowly breathed out a response, "And no one found it important to tell me this?"
"We didn't think it was time to tell you." Dumbledore said quietly, not daring to look at Harry's blazing green eyes.
"When were you going to tell me?" Harry yelled, trying to get up but being forced into bed by Ari and Sirius. "Huh? When one of us finally killed each other? Right before we prepare to battle?" Adopting Dumbledore's voice he quickly mimicked a possible conversation. " 'Oh, by the way Mr. Potter, you're supposed to kill your only living magic relative. Fight a good fight.'" He quickly glared at him before pushing himself back into the pillow.
"Wait." Sirius protested. "I'm a little confused. Why do you need to kill your grandfather?"
"Does an evil, psychotic muggle killer out for my blood make you want to keep him alive?"
"When has this Tom Riddle guy done any of this?"
"Tom Riddle also known as Voldemort."
"Then why did Dumbledore call him Tom Riddle?"
"Do you seriously think his parents named him Voldemort?" Harry questioned with a slight scowl on his face.
Blushing scarlet, Sirius sat back down and waved a hand, signaling for Dumbledore to continue his story.
"After Lily was born, Tom Riddle wanted to keep the child for himself as it was his only heir, Slytherin's only heir. When he was refused he threatened Sarah with her and her husband's life but still she refused."
"Did he kill them?" Harry asked.
"Not then. If he had murdered them, then all of the Death Eaters would have known of his affair with a muggle."
Harry nodded silently going over everything he had heard before another thought struck him. "Why did he want to kill my father then?"
"The defeat of Voldemort lies is a prophecy along with the Potters, the last in the line of Gryffindor and Slytherin. He was aware of the prophecy and knew it ended it the Gryffindor's favor. When I say aware, though, it does not mean he knew any of the details-just the outcome. I believe I'm the only one with the complete prophecy."
"How does it go?"
"I'm not sure, as it wasn't complete until a few years ago and has still been unable to be deciphered. Around a thousand years ago, the first seer in this prophecy predicted one part of it. A hundred years past and it was predicted again with another part. And so on. Professor Trelawney predicted the last one about ten years ago. I could send it to you if you'd like." Harry nodded at this. "I think that's about all. I should wait until we have that prophecy. Any questions?" He glanced around the room at Ari and Sirius who were both expressing different degrees of shock.
"This all ends with me." Harry asked, looking up at Dumbledore, "Right? Technically I'm both the last descendent of Gryffindor and Slytherin and unless I go schizophrenic and start waging a battle with myself then that means I need to battle Voldemort to fulfill the prophecy."
"Yes but prophecies are inexact and often misinterpreted differently and often don't result in anything." Dumbledore added.
"Predicted around ten times? No, this is definitely going to happen. I have another question though. Why didn't Voldemort just try and turn me evil before or after he killed my parents?"
"He did try and find you when you were first born. Lily refused to let him have anything to do with you and, to put it lightly, he wasn't very happy. When you were born, various enchantments were cast on you to keep you safe from Voldemort until you reached the age of 16 and could decide your own side. Since he could not use you he decided just to kill you and insure he'd live forever."
"Any more hidden information for me? No long-lost siblings, no terminal diseases?"
"No, though there is something I would like to talk to you about when you look over the prophecy." Dumbledore turned as if to leave but instead pivoted to face Harry, "Are you ready to talk about the attack?"
"Not yet. Soon." Harry reassured as Dumbledore gave a small smile and stepped out.
"You don't have to tell us anything until you're ready." Sirius said, looking to Ari for support, but when none was given he elbowed her in the stomach.
"Of course."
"Ari, I know you need the closure and I know it's your job to find out what happened but I'm not ready." Harry said, looking away at the window and in a small voice added, "And I don't know if I ever will be." He swiveled his head back and looked straight into her eyes. "If you really need to know then I can try a pensieve."
"I would appreciate it but it isn't necessary." Harry could see right through her lie and sighed before telling her he would anyway.
"I'll need a pensieve." He added as an afterthought before stifling a fake yawn. "Don't bother sending anyone else in. I'm just going to go to bed. Sirius, could you send me my school stuff? Send both by Hedwig." Sirius looked a little stunned but agreed. "See you guys later." He muttered as he rolled on his side, back to them.
"Harry? Is there something wrong? It looks like you're not telling us something." Sirius stated, barely registering Harry's eyes widen slightly or his hand pressing into his arm.
Giving a nervous smile he said curtly, "No, nothing."
"Okay then. Bye Harry." The barely audible click of the door echoed through the small room and had released a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Slowly rolling up his left sleeve, he glanced at the picture engraved on his skin. The Dark Mark. Its outline was solid black and he could feel the heat rushing off it in waves, even with his pajama sleeve down.
"Nothing more than another scar to be added to my collection." He whispered to himself.
******
Authors Notes:
If anybody's wondering, D.O.A in the first paragraph or little section means dead on arrival-so it's not so good for her.
Okay that's all for now. Just for the record, I own nothing except for Dorothy Figg because I created her personality.
Just to note-Harry gets a little depressed but I will not spend the whole fic talking about his depression, though I might dwell in it for a little bit. There will be self-mutilation in the story but only for a few paragraphs.