Harry Potter and the Heir of Ancients
Written by: anon
Edited by: anon's cousin
Disclaimer: The usual, none of the characters are mine. JKR is the creator, blah, blah, blah. Anything you don't recognize from canon is mine. Anything I may use from any other series, novel, TV show, etc is not owned by me, and done only with the intent to entertain. My only reward is the sense of mental and emotional freedom that I get from writing. Anything you may recognize from another fic is either coincidental, meaning it's from a fic I haven't read, accidental, meaning it's from a fic that I have read, but forgot it came from someone else's work, in which case I apologize, or is something that I thought up, but saw others use in similar ways before I had the chance to post my own version, if that makes sense. Does anybody even read these things?
(Editor's Note: Sorry about how long this took to get finished. It is totally my fault. The author got it to me about 3 weeks ago, but that was my last week of classes, and then I had finals to take, so I didn't have any time to go over this. Hope you enjoy it.)[That was three weeks before I got it back]
(Preliminary A/N: Well, here we are; only took me a little over two months this time. 1/3 of the delay is my editor's fault, as his note explains. 1/3 is mine, because he got it back to me the week before I had my own finals to take. And the last 1/3 is no fault at all, because I was finishing up the chapter. At 36 pages, I'm pretty sure that this is the longest chapter yet! To those who have asked, conflict is coming [but will only be minor stuff for a while], flaws are present [forgot to put those in at first, forgive me]. Regarding the in-chapter author notes, some of you have complained, but more of you have complimented, so they stay. In an effort to compromise with those who do not appreciate my humorous commentary, the notes should be decreasing in quantity within a chapter or two, but there will still be some. Alright? Good! Then let Chapter 7 begin!)
(Prelim A/N 2: Before I forget, THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT! Please amend your memories of chapter…3, I believe it is. Harry has not read every book from every library in his trunk. He still knows all of those languages, because that will be important later, but his knowledge of magic is now roughly on par with Hermione, more so in some areas, less in others. If I have time, I will rewrite that part and repost it some time this summer. Ok, I think that's everything. Now, on with the chapter.)
Chapter 7 (or 6.5): Night Out, Next Morning, and Departure
Almost two hours later, Harry and the Stones exited the cinema. The movie had been exciting and entertaining, but was very unrealistic, and Harry was still discomforted from Kristy attempting several times to either hold his hand, or put her own somewhere on his arm or leg. That, and getting up to go to the loo at least three times, moving certain parts of her body far closer to him than he would have liked as she shuffled past him. He desperately wanted for her to stop, but this was greatly outweighed by his unwillingness to be rude, or hurt her feelings.
As they drew nearer to the football stadium, Harry marveled at its size. It was smaller than the arena for the world cup the year before, but no less impressive. After entering the stadium, they went looking for their seats, but before they found them, Harry detected a fairly strong magical signature nearby. He looked back, in the general direction that the tingle in his mind had indicated, and a few moments later, he spotted his quarry. 'I should have known he'd be here,' Harry thought. After excusing himself from the Stones by saying that he had seen a friend and wanted to say hello, he told them he would catch up with them in a few minutes. When they asked how he would find them, he reminded them that the seat numbers were written on the tickets, and if that failed, he could search for Ben's magical signature. He explained that the stadium was just small enough that he would be able to sense Ben as long as both of them were inside it.
Harry turned and began walking toward the familiar being, who, along with three others, obviously his parents and younger sister, were walking towards him. All of them were looking down at their tickets, except for the little girl, who looked to be about seven, and was holding her mother and brother's hands. Harry noticed that she too was magical; not as powerful as her brother, but she was still young yet. After giving them plenty to time to notice him, Harry greeted his friend.
"Hello, Dean."
The boy in question stopped walking, and whipped his head upwards and toward where the sound of his name had originated. His sister and mother, human chain that they were, halted a moment later, jerking him slightly forward before they had stopped completely. Dean looked at Harry, an expression of confused familiarity on his face. It was obvious that he recognized Harry, but couldn't quite figure out who he was. And then, there it was…
"Harry?" The look of shocked recognition on his face was amusing to say the least, and Harry found great difficulty in suppressing a smirk.
"Got it in one. So, how's your summer been?"
Dean replied with a broad smile, "Great. One of the best ever, and it looks like you can say the same thing. I mean, bloody hell, Harry, what have you been eating? Ouch! Sorry, Mum." She had slapped him on the back of the head.
"Serves you right," she said, "you know better than to use that kind of language around your sister. Now why don't you introduce us to your friend?"
"Er, right…Mum, Jess, this is Harry Potter, one of my dorm mates. Harry, this is my mum, Audrey, my sister, Jessica, and my dad…hey, where'd he go?" His question was answered moments later as the man who had been walking next to them returned from the direction they had been heading. Apparently, he had not immediately noticed his family's sudden halt, and kept going for a moment.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Why did you stop?"
"Dean ran into a friend, dear," his wife said. "Stop worrying, we're all fine."
"Dad, this is Harry, one of the guys in my dorm at school. Harry, this is my dad, Donald Thomas."
"It's a pleasure to meet all of you," Harry said.
"Hey, Harry," Dean began, "you never did answer my question. What've you been eating? You look like you grew about eight or nine inches."
"Actually, it was only about six," Harry said smiling. "And I haven't been eating any differently than usual, at least compared to how I eat at school. I guess whatever God is in charge of growth and puberty finally started paying attention to me."
Dean chuckled as he looked Harry up and down, finally stopping to look at his face. "That's an understatement. Hey, what happened to your glasses? I thought you were blind without them."
"A bit of threat-inspired generosity from my uncle got me some contacts, and on my birthday, someone sent me an Ocular-Corrective Potion, so I just don't need them anymore."
"Cool. So, where are you supposed to be seated in this mess? Come to think of it, why are you even here? I didn't think you were a fan, and even if you were, your uncle would never take you."
"I'm not much of a fan, really. It's just that my boss and his family decided to take me out as a going away present. We're all in the seventh row of section H."
"That's right behind where we're supposed to be!" Jess shouted, with childish exuberance. Dean confirmed this after taking a brief glance at his ticket.
"Well, then, perhaps Harry would be kind enough to lead us there, as we are a bit lost," said Mr. Thomas.
Harry proceeded to direct them to their common seating area, simultaneously following both the body of Ben's magical signature, and the trail of residual magic that had been left in his wake. This recent development in Harry's locator ability had his mind buzzing for things it could be used for once back at school. It was good to know that even if someone was out of direct range, as long as he was anywhere they had been in the past hour or so, he would still be able to track them.
They arrived at their seats, and after introductions, they all sat down. Kristi, much to her consternation, and Harry's relief, was wedged between her father and brother. Harry was on Stone's other side, and Lauren was at Ben's. The Thomas family was seated such that Dean was in front of Harry, Jess was to his right, and next to her were her father and mother, who was directly in front of Lauren. The game was not due to start for another ten minutes, so the two mothers engaged themselves in polite conversation about Hogwarts, Mrs. Thomas sharing experience and knowledge to a fellow mother of a muggle-born. The fathers did likewise, and included Ben in the discussion, which quickly changed into an argument over who would win. At least that was what it sounded like; the noise level was growing steadily, making it difficult to hear anything except what was spoken directly to him. Dean helped in this capacity, turning around in his seat.
"I can't get over how much you've changed," he said. "We're going to have to put some serious locking charms on the dorm and the showers to keep the girls from trying to sneak up to see you starkers. You'll be beating them away with your Firebolt this year, there's no doubt about it. Though from the looks of things," he said, glancing at Kristi, who was in turn glancing at Harry, "you've had to get an early start."
"Don't remind me," Harry muttered, annoyed, "she's barely left me alone all night. It's driving me batty. I don't want to offend her, but I just don't like her that way."
"What's up with you?" Dean asked, incredulously. "I would have thought you'd be thrilled that a girl that pretty was practically throwing herself at you! Any bloke would be, so what's…oh."
"'Oh,' what? What are you talking about?"
"You figured it out, didn't you?" Dean said, in a tone that warned of severe teasing.
"Figured what out, Dean?"
"Hermione. You like her. When did you figure it out?"
"What?" Harry shouted, unknowingly attracting the attention of both families. "How did you-? What are you-? Why do you want to know?"
"Just tell me, when did you figure out that you were crushing on her?"
"Just after the hols started. Why?"
"Do you know the exact date?"
"June 31. And I'm not answering any more questions until you tell me why you want to know."
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he turned back around in his seat. He proceeded to reach into his back pocket, and pulled out a large sheet of parchment. On it were three long charts: each one containing lists of numbers, names, and dates, but from the angle and distance, as well as the minute size of the writer's penmanship, Harry was unable to clearly read what was written. Then, his passive magical observation decided to kick in, and he saw a series of charms on the parchment, the most prominent of which prevented the relevant script from being read by those it concerned, making it seem as little more than a blur. This confused Harry, as the spell was at least seventh year NEWT level, which he knew to be far beyond Dean's current abilities.
Dean turned around again, the mysterious parchment between himself and Harry. He appeared to be scanning down the sheet with his finger marking his place. His finger stopped somewhere in the middle, then moved off to his right, Harry's left. "Bollocks," he muttered, harshly, "Dammit, I lost again! And…George wins again? How does he do it?"
"Lost what? How does George do what? And what's on that parchment?"
Dean giggled, nervously. He had obviously (conveniently) forgotten that Harry was actually there in his haste to check the parchment list, whatever it was.
"Dean, tell me," Harry asked, in a stern, flat voice, "What. Is. That?" Dean thought the look on Harry's face could make even Snape balk.
"It's a betting sheet!" he cried, looking almost Neville-like in his nervousness. "Except for you, Ron, and Hermione, almost all of the Gryffindors and a few of their friends in other houses have had a bet going on since second year over when you two were going to figure out that you liked each other!"
"What? Explain." Harry's face now bore a look of extreme confusion, mingled with outrage.
"Well, it's been obvious since at least second year that you and Hermione liked each other. Some of the sixth and seventh year girls who were there when we started it said you two were made for each other. 'It's so cute!' they said. The, umm, bet is in three parts: when Hermione figures out that she likes you, when you figure out that you like her, and when the two of you finally get together." He had started speaking with more confidence as Harry appeared to be calming down, but was still wary of a sudden change.
"And the charts?"
"The charts are for who gets what days. Each of us paid one Galleon apiece: that's five Sickles to join and twelve to choose three days out of the year on each bet. During the last week of term, the ones who are leaving put their days up for sale at five Sickles each, three for them, two more for the pot. Some of us still only have our original three days, but Fred, George, and one other seventh-year are up to about ten days each."
"And how much is this pool up to?" Harry asked. He supposed it was just morbid curiosity, but he had to know how much his housemates considered his love-life to be worth.
"I don't really know," Dean admitted, "all of the coins are put in three cauldrons in a secret and sealed chamber behind the fireplace in the common room. We all agreed not to count any of them until the winners for each of them was determined, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was up to about 75 Galleons each."
"WHAT!?!" Harry shouted. He couldn't believe it. George had just won 75 Galleons because he, Harry, had admitted to liking his best friend. How could a relationship between two teenagers be such an obsession to so many people? "Don't you people have lives of your own?" he asked, incredulously.
"We do; we just find yours more interesting, that's all," Dean said, sheepishly. Because of the surrounding din, neither of the two boys noticed the chuckles, giggles from Jess, and sniggers emanating from their respective families, who had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation. The exception to this quiet laughter was Kristi, who sat silently in her seat, pouting.
"If everyone is involved in this little…bet, why did so many girls ask me to the Yule Ball last Christmas?"
"Well, some of them didn't know, as for those who did…they had all agreed that you had to figure it out completely on your own: you couldn't just try to start a relationship due to a lack of options. They just decided to act like nothing was going on; at least that's what the rest of the guys think."
"Dean, I have just one more question before I throttle you," Harry ground out, "why, pray tell, are you explaining all this to me, and why did you show me that parchment in the first place?"
"I showed you the parchment because I was so eager to check it, I forgot you were there. And the reasons I'm answering all of your questions," he continued, quickly folding up the parchment as he talked, "are that you managed to perfectly imitate Snape's 'scary' look, and because one of the first things they did to the parchments when they enchanted them was to include a directed memory charm to make you, Hermione, or Ron forget ever seeing them if we showed them to you by accident." Harry was stunned. Whoever had cast that spell must have been absolutely brilliant. And he had missed the spell entirely when he had examined it. "Once this thing is fully back in my pocket," Dean said, slipping all but a centimeter into his back pocket, "all you'll remember is a conversation about Quidditch." As he finished, he gave the parchment one final tap, and it vanished from sight.
"So, Harry," Dean asked, "did you hear the rumors about the new racing broom that's coming out in a few days?"
[E/N: So that whole conversation was pointless – I feel like I just wasted ten minutes of my life trying to proofread it. Pounds head against wall]
"No. I haven't been getting any post at all. I asked Dumbledore to put an owl-repelling charm on the Dursley's just before the hols started. He took it down for a bit on my birthday, so I could get my school list and some gifts, but apart from that, nothing."
"Whoever our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is this year, he definitely is obsessive," Dean commented. Harry agreed: there were no less than half a dozen Defense texts required for the coming term. At least they were almost all by different authors, so there was little chance of the Lockhart Debacle being repeated. But then, with the return of Voldemort, Dumbledore would want to ensure that the students could defend themselves, so he would certainly have hired a thoroughly qualified teacher.
"Excuse me, boys," Mr. Thomas interjected, "but you might want to face forward; the game is about to start." All of the others present, excluding Jess, who didn't quite understand what had happened anyway, had reached an unspoken agreement not to mention anything concerning the boys' conversation, which Harry obviously had completely forgotten: the memory charm had been a complete success. Dean had just gotten settled into his seat when the ball started moving…
The Stone family and Harry finally arrived back at the house just before midnight. The game had been exciting, and West Ham had won by a narrow margin, much to Dean and Ben's delight and Mr. Stone's disappointment. "Traitor," he had muttered, watching his son cheer for the other team. Jess, apparently, had been much less interested, and had fallen asleep shortly after the second half began. Her mother, joined by Lauren, had carried her off, presumably to wait in their car and talk some more. Ben had fallen asleep himself during the drive home. As Harry watched Stone gently remove Ben from the back seat and carry him up the front walkway to the front door, where Lauren was waiting with the door opened for them, he felt a twinge of sadness at never having had such a moment with his own father.
Stone and Kristi bade Harry good night, and moved slowly up the stairs. Harry found Lauren in the living room, holding a neatly folded pile of cloth.
"I brought you some sheets and blankets," she said, handing him the uppermost pieces and unfolding the one left in her hands, she proceeded to set up the sheets on the sofa. "I'm sorry that we don't have a guest room or a cot that you could use, but don't worry, this couch is very comfortable."
"The couch is more than enough. I want to thank you, for this evening, I mean. I honestly can't remember ever having this much fun in the Muggle world before, so, thank you."
"You are very welcome, Harry," she said, looking at him with a slightly sad expression. Suddenly, her eyes took on a look of decision. "Are you tired, Harry?" she asked.
"A little. Why?" he answered.
"There are a few things I would like to talk to you about, if you're willing to stay awake for a few more minutes," she said, in a persuasive, but apprehensive voice.
"All right," Harry replied. "What sorts of things?"
"The parts that you left out in the restaurant: I saw you slip. You're always putting up this…mask to cover your emotions, and –"
"So does almost every teenaged male in existence," Harry interrupted, somewhat defensively.
"- and there were a few moments tonight when I could see through it. I know that you're right to say that most boys your age do the same thing; I had a lot of brothers, both older and younger, and male cousins my age around me growing up, so I know very well what they look like. Yours is definitely a lot more carefully put up, though, and I'm sure that you didn't intend for anyone to see it, but I did. I saw a lot of pain in your eyes, Harry, and I want to know what caused it, because I've seen that look before. My uncle Burton used to get like that sometimes, when he was telling my cousins, siblings, and I war stories. He would be talking, laughing, and entertaining us with so much emotion and energy, and then he would just trail off and get that look in his eyes. Harry, tell me what happened."
Harry sighed, resigned to yet another depressing talk. He knew that if he tried to back out, she would persist in asking him, but the strange thing, that surprised even Harry himself, was, he didn't want to find a way out. He wanted to vent, he had wanted to talk to someone about this all summer, and the fact that it was his own fault that he couldn't made the pressure to speak that much worse. In fact, he did spend a good deal of his time at work either rehearsing in his own mind what he desperately wished to voice to someone who could understand or berating himself at not being able to do so, while going through the simple, repetitive motions which the job required. Here, though, was a woman who, even if she could not completely understand, could be told, and legitimately wanted to know. The fact that her appearance very subtly reminded him of his own mother did not help much, either.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"What did you not tell us about the night that…Voldemort?" at Harry's nod, she continued "...was resurrected? How did he even get you away from Hogwarts in the first place, and what did he do to you while you were wherever it was he took you? Come to think of it, where did he take you and not get caught by someone?"
"I don't know the name of the place, but it was the cemetery in the village where his father grew up. He got me there with a portkey, an object enchanted to transport itself along with anyone touching it to a prearranged place if certain conditions are met: a specific time, a word or phrase, you get the idea. In this case, it would take the first person who touched it to its destination."
"How did he know that you would be the one to touch it, though?"
"Hogwarts was hosting a tournament between itself and two foreign schools. He had one of his servants infiltrate the school disguised as our defense teacher in such a way that no one could tell he was a fake. The servant saw to it that I was entered in the tournament as a fourth champion; there were only supposed to be three, one from each school, and the magical goblet that chose them was tricked into choosing me as well. It didn't matter that I was at least three years younger than all of my opponents, or that I was below the age limit, the goblet's choosing constitutes a binding magical contract, so I had no choice but to compete. The Death Eater very subtly helped me through the tournament so that when the last task came, I would be in the lead and be given a head start at getting through this giant hedge maze to get to the Triwizard Cup in the center: whoever got it would receive fifty points, so no matter who got it, they would win. He sabotaged the two foreign champions, and at the end, it was just me and Cedric Diggory, the other Hogwarts champion. We had helped each other get through the first two tasks to balance out the cheating that the heads of the other two schools had done to give their champions unfair advantages. We worked together at the end of the maze to beat an acromantula, a spider the size of a mini van; it had lifted me up and bitten my leg before we were able to stun it, and I sprained my ankle when it dropped me, so I couldn't even stand, let alone get to the cup. Cedric was fine, though and could have gotten it, but he told me to take it instead. He said I deserved it more. I refused and told him that he should be the one. We argued for a few minutes, each insisting that the other claim victory. Finally, I had the genius idea that we could both take it at the same time, tie for it, and split the glory and prize money. He helped me to my feet, hobbled me over to the cup, and when we both touched it…"
"It transported both of you to Voldemort," Lauren finished, gasping, realizing with horror what must have happened.
"Yes, and almost as soon as we got there, Voldemort had Wormtail, another one of his servants, and the one who betrayed my parents to him, kill Cedric. I was in so much pain from my scar, I couldn't do anything to stop it: I couldn't shout to warn him, I couldn't move to push him out of the way, nothing. All I could do was listen as Voldemort gave the order, 'Kill the spare!' he said. 'Kill the spare,' it was like Cedric wasn't even human, like he was just a bug or something. Wormtail cast the curse. I heard it coming toward us, but my scar just hurt so much, I couldn't move. And then, his body hitting the ground, the pain spiking in my forehead, and, his face, that dead, wide-eyed, blank look…" Harry trailed off, his throat tightening at the memories and at the difficulty in giving voice to them. He had not consciously thought about that night in some time, forcibly thinking about other things before his birthday, and afterwards, placing them in his pensieve so that he could only recall them if he wished to. The new pensieve didn't remove memories; it copied them, and pushed the copy to the back of the mind until the original was returned. This made remembering difficult, but not impossible. Until he actually tried to remember it, it felt as if it had happened years ago, rather than months.
"What happened afterwards?" Lauren asked, tentatively.
"Wormtail grabbed me and tied me to a tombstone. Then, he dragged over this massive cauldron, large as two bathtubs, and filled with some potion. He unwrapped a bundle of robes that he had been carrying. Voldemort found a way to create a new body for himself, but first, he needed to have a physical form again. He was in the robes. It was…disgusting. If the pain from the scar when Cedric was killed hadn't already caused it, and I wasn't gagged, I would have vomited again. He looked like a cross between a barely-human baby, a red snake, and a lump of raw flesh. Wormtail dropped him into the cauldron, and started the ritual.
"He called for the bone of the father, unknowingly given, and the grave beneath me cracked opened, a cloud of dust floated out into the cauldron, and the potion turned a bright, acid-blue. Then, the willingly given flesh of a servant: he stepped up to the edge of the cauldron, held out one of his hands, and raised a large silver dagger in the other. I closed my eyes just as he swung the knife down" Lauren gasped "and then I heard him screaming, whimpering, and a wet plopping sound, and the potion turned red, I could see it even through my eyelids. I didn't open them again until I felt and heard breathing very close to me. Wormtail had the dagger in his remaining hand, clean, and the…the stump…was wrapped up in his robe sleeve. He then called for the final ingredient, the blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, to resurrect the foe. He stabbed my arm, collected the blood into a vial, and emptied it into the mix. The light, it was as bright a shade of white as a unicorn, not surprising, the original potion probably had a good deal of unicorn blood in it-"
"A unicorn? You mean unicorns really exist?" Lauren asked, not able to resist interrupting.
"Yes, they do. I thought you would have known already from when you got Ben's supplies; their horns, tail hairs, and ground hoofs are sold in at least half of the apothecaries in Diagon Alley. A few of them live in the forest at school. We don't see them much, apart from the occasional Care of Magical Creatures class. The full grown ones are the brightest white you can imagine. They're so…I think the best word is…pure, that it's almost difficult to believe that they even can exist. It makes it that much more tragic because Voldemort must have killed dozens of unicorns to keep himself alive over the years."
Lauren gasped in horror yet again at the thought of the murder of such creatures. She then felt a sudden shame at herself for interrupting, and thus prolonging what was undoubtedly a very painful discussion for Harry. He accepted her apology without question, and at her gentle prodding, resumed the tale:
"Voldemort climbed out of the cauldron in his new body and had Wormtail dress him. He turned to face me; I'll never be able to forget his face," he paused, shuddering. "Then, he started talking about where we were; his father's village, how his muggle father abandoned his witch mother when he found out she was magical, how he grew up in a muggle orphanage because she died giving birth, and how he killed his own father and grandparents as soon as he had graduated from Hogwarts. He summoned all of his followers to him, and when they came, he punished them for never trying to find him, and recounted his attempts to revive himself since his fall from power. He told them about his plan to capture me for my blood because it would make him more powerful than he was when he fell, and how it would negate whatever protection I had against him. He demonstrated by touching my face: normally, doing that would cause us both severe pain, but I guess it only does to me now. He chastised them for ever believing that a child could defeat him, and to prove his point, he cast the Cruciatus Curse on me."
"Cruciatus?" Lauren asked.
"It's a torture curse," Harry explained, "it, like the death curse, is one of the three unforgivable curses: using one on a human gets you a life sentence in Azkaban, the wizard's prison. He uses it as a standard punishment for his followers for disappointing him in some way, but he holds back, doesn't want to risk driving them crazy and losing a good sycophant. The sick beauty of it is that the curse doesn't actually cause physical damage; it just tricks the mind into thinking that the body is in terrible pain. The only bodily harm you might suffer is bruising from thrashing around, or muscle pain from the fibers getting torn by convulsions and spasms. With me, he didn't pull any punches, and he held me under it for almost two minutes.
"I think that may have been the first time that I actually, genuinely wished that I were dead. I would have given almost anything to make the pain end. And then, it stopped. I heard the Death Eaters laughing, and Voldemort making another crack about how foolish they were to believe I could have defeated him. Then, he ordered Wormtail to untie me and give back my wand. He forced me to duel with him. He had me under Cruciatus again before I could even think to react. He kept it on for even longer this time. I couldn't think, I didn't know where I was, who I was. There was only pain, and the sounds of the Death Eaters' laughter, almost completely drowned out by my own screams."
He stopped for a moment, elbows on his knees, resting his forehead in his hands and turning his watery eyes to the floor, forcing himself not to cry. Lauren was just beginning to move forward to hug him when he began to speak again:
"When he finally took it off, it was all I could do just to stop myself from shaking. After I had managed to get back up, he asked me whether I wanted him to do it again. I didn't answer. He asked again, and still, I didn't answer. Then, he placed me under the Imperious Curse, another of the unforgivables, used to control someone's actions, and ordered me to answer 'no'. I was able to refuse because I had been taught over the course of the year how to fight it, though I was the only one in the class able to do so.
"He threatened to use Cruciatus again, but by some miracle, I dodged it, and hid behind a tombstone. He mocked me again, and I decided to go down fighting. I jumped back out and tried to disarm him at the same time as he cast the death curse. The two spells collided in midair, and Priori Incantatem took effect. That's a rare magical event that occurs when brother wands are used against each other: the cores of our wands are tail feathers from the same phoenix."
Harry finally began to wonder as he spoke why he was speaking so candidly with her. He barely knew this woman, and he was telling her what he had been unwilling to disclose even to his closest friends! He was speaking about what had been some of his most closely guarded secrets as if they meant nothing! What was causing him to be so talkative? He thought and thought as he continued speaking, as if on automatic, about the battle of wills between himself and Voldemort, the shadows of Voldemort's victims: Cedric, the old man, Bertha Jorkins, his father and mother. He was somehow able to describe the anguish seeing their faces had caused him, and then heard himself go onto a brief, one sentence tangent, telling Lauren of how she subtly resembled his mother, and then moved on to his parents' instructions to him, and Cedric's last request. He spoke of his escape, the chaos of his return to Hogwarts, the fake Moody, Crouch's confession, and Fudge's thickheaded denial. He left nothing out.
At some point after he had stopped consciously speaking, he had finally discovered that his Mage-sense, in all its annoyingly sporadic glory, had failed to notice that Lauren, despite being a muggle, did indeed possess a magical gift. It was not unheard of, but extremely rare, and always limited to some power dealing with emotions or some sort of clairvoyant or mental capability. In Lauren's case, the gift was a weak form of empathy, coupled with a projected sense of safety, trust, and honesty. She probably rarely used it, and not consciously when she did. Also, given the subtle workings of the gift's nature, there was little chance that she would ever even realize that she had such a talent, and even then, she would not know why or how.
Because he now knew what was going on, he was able to use Occlumency (after berating himself for not already having a constant mind-shield in place) to shield his mind from her unconscious psychic prodding, and turn his very long narrative into an actual conversation.
"You're a very good listener, you know?" he said. "Just talking to you has made me feel a lot better; it's like a weight being lifted off of me. Do you know the feeling?"
"Yes, I know what you mean. I've experienced it on a few occasions, and had it described to me countless times by people at work."
"Really? What do you do for a living?"
"Daniel didn't tell you? I thought he probably would have mentioned it to you at least once, but I'm a child psychiatrist and grief counselor," she said. (A/N: Bet you didn't see that coming at all, did you?)
Harry felt briefly surprised and hurt that she had not told him before she had begun what was almost undoubtedly an analysis. He got over it quickly, however.
"So, Doctor Stone," he said, teasingly, "what, in your professional opinion, is my main problem?"
It was now Lauren's turn to look surprised, but she recovered and said, in a stereotypical shrink voice, "In, technical terminology, Mr. Potter, you are seriously screwed up."
They managed to keep their faces straight for about five seconds, before having to hurriedly grab pillows to stifle their laughter and not disturb the others sleeping upstairs. A minute later, when they had both managed to get back under control, Lauren resumed speaking:
"Seriously, though, Harry, you do have some problems; you obviously feel guilty about this Cedric's death, and blame yourself for it, despite the fact that it was even more obviously not your fault."
"I know it wasn't my fault," Harry said, "he didn't blame me, and neither did his parents, our teachers, or my friends. If I'd been able to write to them over this summer, I'm sure they would have said two or three times in each letter that it wasn't my fault. I've told myself countless times that I wasn't responsible, that there was no way I could have known about the trap, no way I could have saved him. It doesn't make me feel any less guilty, though."
"I know it doesn't, yet. That will come with time, it always does. You'll just have to wait until you can forgive yourself."
"How do I do that?"
"As I said, you just have to wait, and eventually, gradually, it will happen. I'm wondering, Harry, have you been having any nightmares as a result of this ordeal?"
"No. I was supplied with Dreamless-Sleep Potion every night before returning from Hogwarts, and like I said at dinner, I was given a new bed with an enchantment on it for peaceful slumber. I've also studied Occlumency over the past two months; that's a discipline of magic used to control and protect your mind. It's very useful on nights like tonight, when I don't have any other means of preventing nightmares. It also keeps Voldemort out of my head, which can only be a good thing."
"Harry, you said that I resembled your mother. How so?"
"Your hair, mostly," Harry replied, sleepily. He was beginning to fade out of consciousness, but tried to fight it off for a few more moments. "She had a darker shade of red, but it's still close. I think you might have been about the same height, too, not that that means much. Other than that, it's just really subtle things about your faces that I can't quite describe."
"You probably look a lot like your father, I take it?" she asked, judging from the hair that Harry took more after his father than his mother.
"Up until a couple months ago, I could have passed myself off as his twin." Harry responded, with slight irritation. "Whenever I met someone who knew them, all they could ever say was that I looked almost exactly like he did."
"Almost?"
"Yeah, the only other comment I've ever gotten is that I have my mother's eyes. Lately, though, I think I've started to look more like a mix between my Mum and Dad than a clone of one with the eyes of the other. Among other things, I think I might be getting her nose, if the pictures I have of her are any indication."
"Do you have any with you?"
"Just one," he said, digging his wallet from his pocket and extracting the picture. The photograph was of his parents from when they were only a year or so older than he was now. The only reason he could even legally carry it around with him was because it was a muggle photograph. Written on the back was the caption, James visiting: Summer, '77.
His father was hugging his mother from behind, and both were laughing in the direction of the camera. Even in the still shot, Lily's emerald-green eyes appeared to be sparkling with happiness. Looking at it almost always brought a smile to his face.
"One of my parents' friends sent me her old diaries as a birthday present," Harry explained, his every word interlaced with a yawn. "She gave them to him for safekeeping before they went into hiding, and he thought I should have them. I couldn't bring myself to read them, though; it felt like I was violating her privacy. That picture fell out of the inside cover of one of them." He was now having great difficulty keeping his eyes open. He had unconsciously started to slowly turn his body to make lying down easier, and slowly began to sink down toward the pillow.
"What was her maiden name?" Lauren asked. Harry's eyes were closed and he couldn't see her staring at the photo in shocked recognition.
"Evans," Harry answered through yet another yawn, "Lily Evans."
Falling asleep less than a second later, he missed hearing Lauren gasp.
Harry was woken up at 5:30 that morning by Stone, who appeared almost criminally awake and cheerful, given how tired Harry still felt. He thanked Stone, and removed the blanket which he could not remember having gotten under the previous night. The two shared a small but decent breakfast of toast, tea, and fruit, and as they were about to start cleaning up after themselves, they heard a strange whooshing noise coming from the living room.
They walked over to investigate, and to both of their surprise, saw a magnificent scarlet and gold bird hovering over the couch, a letter held in its beak.
"Fawkes?" Harry said quietly to himself, walking over to the phoenix and offering him his shoulder as a perch. Fawkes took the opportunity, and appeared quite grateful.
"Harry," Stone whispered, nervously, "what is that thing?"
"Oh, he's a phoenix. He belongs to Headmaster Dumbledore. Let me introduce you two. Stone, this is Fawkes; Fawkes, Stone." Fawkes nodded its head once, sharply, and gave a brief trill of phoenix song around the letter, which he still had in his beak. Stone responded by giving a brief, hesitant wave.
"What's that you've got there, Fawkes?" Harry asked, turning his attention to the letter as he and Stone walked back into the kitchen.
Fawkes opened his beak, depositing the envelope on the table, then settled on the back of the chair which Harry had previously occupied, and started preening himself, occasionally pecking at Harry's hair, as Lily and Hedwig often did. Seeing the emerald green ink, Harry immediately knew that it was official school business. He picked it up and was about to break the seal, but at Fawkes' disapproving trill, he quickly read the address, and handed it to Stone.
"It's addressed to your whole family," Harry said, answering Stone's questioning look. "I'd recommend waking them up so you can all read it as soon as possible. It can't be about school supplies, and they wouldn't send another letter, especially with Fawkes, unless it was really important."
Stone nodded in understanding, and hurried upstairs. Judging from the sounds Harry heard, he had awoken Lauren first, then had her wake Kristi while he took Ben. Stone came down the stairs with his family two minutes later, two of them grumbling, but all three instantly awakening at the sight of Fawkes, who had gone back to his preening, while Harry stroked the top of his head in a way he had learned phoenixes thoroughly enjoyed. After Harry had once again explained what, and who Fawkes was, and introduced him to the rest of the family, Stone called their attention to the letter that Fawkes had borne to them.
All five people sat down around the table, Harry returning to the seat which was also doubling as Fawkes' perch. Stone opened the envelope, and began reading aloud:
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
"Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin: First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
"Dear Stone Family,
"As you are probably unaware, certain difficulties have arisen in the wizarding world of late. These problems have raised issues regarding the safety of witches and wizards who are from non-magical families, such as Benjamin. For that reason, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has decided that each witch or wizard from non-magical parentage entering their First Year at Hogwarts School will be accompanied to King's Cross Station by a Hogwarts Prefect. This is to better ensure the safety of young Benjamin, as well as to remedy a chronic problem of non-magical families having difficulty in finding platform nine-and-three-quarters without first being shown where it is and how to access it.
"The prefect assigned to escort you to the platform is Padma Patil of Ravenclaw House. Miss Patil is a highly intelligent and resourceful young witch, and I am confident that she will perform her duty admirably. Expect Miss Patil to arrive at your place of residence in the mid-to-late evening of 30 August. She will be staying with you for that evening and the next in order to answer any questions you may have regarding the magical world, and will accompany you to King's Cross Station on 1 September. I sincerely hope that Miss Patil's presence will not be an inconvenience to you and remind you that she will be there for your protection.
"Sincerely
"Minerva McGonagall
"Deputy Headmistress"
'So that's why they asked us to come back so early,' Harry thought. 'I wonder who I'll get sent to.'
"Harry!" Stone shouted.
"What?" he jolted. He had been absorbed in his thoughts and had not heard Stone try to get his attention earlier.
"About time you decided to join us. What can you tell us about…" he paused to glance back to the letter, "…Padma Patil?"
"Er, not much," Harry admitted. "Just that she's in Ravenclaw. That's about it."
"You don't know her at all?" Lauren asked.
"No, but I know her twin sister, Parvati. She's one of my best friend's dorm mates. I do remember Parvati once saying that however identical they look, their personalities are completely different. And don't ever tell Padma that I said this, because if it somehow gets back to Parvati, I'll have to start sleeping with one eye open, but her having a completely different personality from Parvati can only be a good thing."
"Why's that?" Ben asked.
"She's a Divination freak. Fanatically believes every word that comes out of that bat, Trelawney's mouth. Before you ask, Divination is a study of fortune-telling. It's an optional course offered to Third Years and higher. It's a complete waste of time, though. Professor Trelawney is one of those rare few to whom the saying 'those who can't do, teach' actually applies. She's had a grand total of two real predictions in her life, one of which I witnessed, both the prediction itself and its coming to pass. The rest of the time, though, she falsely predicts the death of one of her students, trying to sound as authentic as possible. I'm her favorite target for pointing out death omens, but I'd be considered some kind of medical miracle if I'd dropped dead as many times as she's told me I would."
Stone guffawed quite loudly at this, and his laughter only got worse as Harry continued;
"And if the way she acts is funny, it's nothing compared to the way she looks. She's always wearing dresses made of nothing but blue and green sequins, and has glasses that make my old ones look small; they're about as wide and thick as the palm of my hand. The whole effect makes her look like a great, glittering insect. And then, there's her classroom itself. She has a huge fire and a whole basket of incense burning year round. It's hard to stay awake in her class, whether from the fumes or boredom, I don't know, but I think the main reason she keeps the incense going is that she thinks the fumes will help her have a vision, or something like that."
Stone almost fell out of his chair at the mental image of a drugged up dragonfly teaching half-sleeping students how to predict the future.
"Look, Stone, it's really fun talking about my teachers' eccentricities, but if we don't leave now, we'll be late."
"Oh! Right you are, Harry," Stone exclaimed, glancing at the clock.
They bade the rest of the family farewell, left the house, and drove to the plant. On the way there, Harry kept the conversation off of humorous topics, as he had no desire to be killed by Stone having a laughing fit while trying to operate a vehicle.
They arrived at work only slightly late, and the work day went as usual, albeit with farewells being quite frequently directed toward Harry. After receiving one last goodbye from each of his friendlier colleagues, Harry left the plant. Not being in any hurry to return to Privet Drive, Harry didn't run, but opted to walk, even stopping for dinner at a restaurant where the service was notoriously slow. He was quite filthy and smelly from work, and as he was only in shorts and a tee-shirt, he was a bit underdressed by the standards of the establishment. After a quick trip into an empty side-alley and a slew of wandless cleaning charms later, Harry walked into the establishment dressed in a transfigured pair of blue jeans and a loose, black, button-up shirt.
While he was waiting, Harry read from a small muggle novel that he had brought in his bag. He read with fervor that few could match while keeping up the guise of casually flipping the pages. He attracted approving looks at his use of time from a group of elderly women a few tables down. Ironically, these were the same women who had sneered disgustedly at him after his first day at work (it has no relevance, but it happened in Ch 3).
The novel was one of Harry's favorites from the rather large muggle literature section. It was entitled Dune and was by Frank Herbert. Harry had read the book for the first time early into the summer, and had shortly afterward learned that Frank Herbert had been a muggleborn wizard who had decided to become a wiz-archaeologist and wiz-anthropologist, studying ancient magical civilizations. Harry had been shocked to learn that almost all of the Bene Geserit witchcrafts Herbert wrote about in his sagas were actually magical skills developed by a little-known sect of religious wizards and witches known as Vasuds in the southern Sahara and the Sudan during Late-Roman times, but had been lost, save for the historical records and texts, when they had all mysteriously disappeared some time in the eighth century. The prayers were also authentic, but had no magical purpose, save perhaps as a method to focus the mind and steel one's resolve before attempting a dangerous test, such as worm-riding. In reality, the now-extinct worms (they had been hunted to extinction by European and American wizards during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries) were only twenty to thirty feet long, instead of the grossly exaggerated, quarter-mile worms of the entirely fictional desert planet.
Harry had been further shocked a few days after his birthday when reading his texts on Mage-sight. Apparently, the region from which Herbert took the inspiration for his work had been, for no explicable reason, saturated with Mage-seers during those few centuries. It happened on occasion that certain regions in different parts of the world experienced a brief proliferation of a certain magical talent. In that time and place, the gift of Mage-sense had been even more common than animagus potential, which had been high almost constantly throughout wizarding history. Eight, or even nine witches and wizards in ten possessed the skill to sense magic, and developed the ability to use it in early childhood, rather than in their mid-teens, as the rest of the world's Mage-seers did. The predominately magic-sensing population had created numerous skills and disciplines that only Mage-seers could utilize, nearly all of which were discussed in Harry's texts.
He had become proficient in many of the skills, from that culture and others. The trick was almost always concentration, and as Harry had to concentrate to use mage-sense anyway, this was not an issue, just a slight increase of what he was already doing.
One trick, referred to only as "The Voice" was almost obscenely easy to master. It was basically a predecessor to the Imperius Curse. It was used by directing small pulses of magic through the vocal chords in combination with a selected tone of voice, which made the intended listener obey commands. Theoretically, it should have been just as hard to fight as the Imperius, but far more obvious. The body would obey, but it would be easy to see on their face that the person was struggling not to.
His ability to use the combative techniques would certainly make him a difficult opponent in a duel, and one skill in particular, which he called "darting", as he had been unable to find an adequate translation (The fast, zipping around thing from the sci-fi channel miniseries. If you know what it's supposed to be called, please inform me so that I may correct myself.) which he was fast approaching mastery in, would allow him to face multiple opponents with far greater ease. That was, of course, if he ever managed to become able to utilize it in a combat situation. As it was, he could do it almost every time he tried, when he didn't have any opponents to focus on at the same time.
He had been developing his ability to duel using Dueling Spheres, an invention from ancient Atlantis that the warriors used before they destroyed themselves thirty-eight centuries ago in a massive civil war, taking the island with them. The floating orbs were the perfect dueling partners; they were always ready, never gave up until he was ready, and were only slightly more powerful than he was, so he couldn't rely on brute magical force to be victorious. They were made by soaking a bronze sphere in a series of potions, then siphoning the creator's own magic into them. The balls could only accept slightly more power than the one who created them could wield, so as to push them to improve their skills. Once the magic had been put in them, they were submerged in one final potion to make them start generating magic on their own, so the owner would not have to re-charge them. Harry had been frightened by some of the possibilities his imagination conjured up when he had first read of these orbs. What if some dark wizard decided to make a huge number of them, and used them as an army instead of recruiting followers? His fears had been allayed barely a foot later when the scroll explained that one of the potions used in making the orbs ensured that they could only attack their creators, and without that potion, they would be totally inert, incapable of harming even a housefly, except by dropping one of them on it.
The spheres, when activated, began floating around him about ten feet away, spinning in a circle with Harry at the center, and gave him three full rotations' warning before they began their attack, moving freely and firing off spells with lethal accuracy, even occasionally throwing themselves at Harry in a manner that reminded Harry of small bludgers. This forced Harry to improve his ability to counter spells, as well as dodge attacks both magical and physical in nature.
Harry had a total of five of these spheres, and faced one or more of them at least twice a day. He had sufficient skill now that he could take one on with little difficulty, two at once presented a challenge, and occasionally, on very good days, he could overcome three. When he tried to face four at once however, he never lasted more than a minute or so, and he hadn't even tried to fight all five yet. He estimated that once he found a way to use the Vasuds' techniques, he would need to make a few more spheres, just to have a decent challenge. He realized, however, that he would still need to practice dueling without those skills, as he might not always be able to use them in a duel.
Harry's combative musings were cut short by the waitress arriving with his requested meal. Harry thanked her and began eating. He took his time, magically reheating the succulent meal when it grew too cool for his tastes. After he had finally finished and paid, generously tipping the kind waitress, Harry resumed his drawn-out walk through downtown Little Winging, making his way towards Privet Drive. Perhaps as a result of his concentration being elsewhere, or even sheer obliviousness, Harry did not notice the stares he attracted from girls as he passed.
Harry finally arrived at Number Four just after eleven o'clock. He entered stealthily, as was his custom, and in similar fashion, climbed the stairs to his room. He had already packed most of his possessions before leaving the previous day, and finished the job silently, leaving out only what clothing he would need the next day, and placing his now shrunken trunk in one of the front pockets. He had only to shower and dress the next morning, and he would be good to go.
He would be taking muggle transportation to London, as it was harder for magical people to trace, and he didn't want to call attention to himself by using the Knight Bus. He couldn't apparate or use a portkey outside of his trunk, because not even Moody's amulet could disguise apparition, and portkeys had to be registered and approved by the Department of Magical Transportation to be legally used. He didn't need any more enemies in the Ministry; the Minister himself was bad enough. Despite being about as physically and magically threatening as an insect, with a brain to match, his political power would doubtless be, at the very least, a severe annoyance. He had no desire to be accosted by a slew of Ministry wizards within five minutes of his arrival. Darting, while not detectable by the Ministry, was no good, as his movements would still be visible to human eyes. He supposed he could have flown in one of his animagus forms, but this was overruled by his desire to keep the fact that he was already an animagus, not just a potential, a secret for as long as possible. With certain exceptions, no one would know until Professor McGonagall's animagi unit in early November. (A/N: You know I have to do this one.)
The only other magical possibility that would have been available to him was using his broom and invisibility cloak, but that, sadly, was impossible. Harry had literally dissected his Firebolt to get ideas for the broom he was making for himself with Hermione's book on broom-making. The Firebolt was currently in hundreds of pieces on a workbench in a cleared out area of his library; even the individual twigs were separated. His own broom, custom made for himself, was nearly finished, but could not be safely flown yet, and it would take too much time to re-assemble his Firebolt. This left muggle transport as his only real option.
Harry thought to himself that it wouldn't be that bad. The ride would be quiet and peaceful, and he wouldn't draw unnecessary attention to himself. He had planned to spend one of his four remaining days before returning to Hogwarts in muggle London, anyway; to take in the sights and many other experiences that the Dursley's had denied him exposure to as a child.
Before he left, however, there was one final thing he had to do. He wanted to send the Stones a gift to thank them for their hospitality, and to thank Lauren for proving the truth behind the old saying "pain shared is pain halved". For the gift, he had impulsively chosen one of the finer sets of goblets from his trunk. The cups were the size and shape of a regular wineglass, but that was where the similarities ended. Each one was carved from an impossibly large (By muggle standards. These were mined using magic.) ruby; eggshell thin, and enchanted to be unbreakable. On the outside of the goblets were thin bands of gold, laid out in a swirling pattern that formed a cage around the ruby. The effect was that the cups appeared to be made from a transparent red-and-gold marble. The goblets were made even more beautiful by the slight glow they gave off, caused by a pea-sized ball of dim magical light embedded within the gem at the junction of the stems and the cups.
He planned to have Lily deliver the package in the pre-dawn hours of the next morning, along with a note conveying his thanks to the family, and Lauren especially, though he felt the just-in-case need to remind her that confidentiality between doctors and patients applied even towards the doctors' family members. Lily would then transport herself directly into the living area of his trunk to do…whatever it was she did when Harry wasn't around.
Six Hours Later
It was a still tired Harry who entered the Leaky Cauldron at 4:30 in the morning. He had changed his mind and decided to forego sleep to leave the Dursley residence as early as possible, which meant less than an hour after the day he was allowed to leave began. He had walked to an arbitrary place on the Main Street of Little Winging, found a telephone, and called for a muggle taxi. By the time it arrived, the time was almost two, and with the trip only taking a little over two hours, there was no point in trying to get any sleep during the journey. He had had the driver stop fairly close to the Cauldron, and walked the rest of the way, making sure the man was out of sight before stepping into the pub.
He was sure that Tom would be able to get him a room, and a bed, even at that early hour. He faintly wondered if the man ever slept at all, he had always seen him wide awake and ready to serve his customers.
Harry had decided to walk into the pub undisguised. It would be unnecessary to hide himself at the moment, and he trusted Tom to remember from his stay two summers before that he would not appreciate his presence being loudly announced. Even if Tom did forget and shouted his name for the entire bar to hear, who in their right mind would be awake at this hour? There was also the possibility that Tom simply would not recognize Harry. He honestly doubted that many people would; after all, he had changed substantially over the past two months, and Tom had not seen him in almost two years.
At the beginning of the summer, Harry had only been about five feet tall, give or take an inch or so, and had a very wiry frame. He hadn't been a weakling, but he lacked any visible musculature. His hair was always out of control, and he had those horrible, thick glasses. (A/N: Is this really necessary? We all know what Harry looked like, unless you've never read the real HP books, in which case, you have no business reading HP fanfiction. Physical description of HP as of end of GoF: Deemed Unnecessary. Skipping.)
Over the summer, his growth spurt, coupled with the effects of the healing potion he had consumed two weeks earlier had put his new height at just barely over five-foot, six. By his estimation, when he did eventually stop growing, he would probably not be much taller than five-foot, ten. It wasn't exactly short, but it was nowhere near the heights of his father, Sirius, Professor Dumbledore, and over half of the Weasley males. He was slightly disappointed, but Harry figured that not even the combined forces of magic and puberty could completely cancel out ten years of malnutrition and mistreatment.
(A/N: Sorry to break in, yet again, but this is something I've wanted to say for a long time. I absolutely hate those fics in which Harry grows to 6'3" over one summer. I mean, he was short as a fourteen-year-old. That puts him at about 5', give or take an inch or two, according to the few medical texts I have seen, at least. By that logic, he'd have to grow 12 to 16 inches in two months. This is not humanly possible, unless he suddenly contracted gigantism. Also, there is the fact that 6'3" or greater is a rare height for any male, and at fifteen, it is almost unheard of. I know we all want Harry to grow and no longer be a midget, but BE REALISTIC ABOUT IT, or at least explain the growth in a way that makes some kind of sense!!! So ends my rant, on with the fic. I think I may have forgotten my meds…yet again)
Harry's face had changed somewhat as he matured and he no longer looked exactly like his father. His facial features now more closely resembled those of his mother. He had Lily's cheekbones, nose, and as always, her eyes. James' features were more evident in his high forehead, his head's overall shape, and his hair color. Harry's mouth and eyebrows were a mixture of those of both of his parents. His ears' origins were a mystery, as none of the photos ever displayed enough of them to get a good look.
Harry's frame had definitely filled out, his chest and shoulders becoming broader, and he now had a lean, muscular build. His intense daily workouts at the factory had definitely done wonders. His eyes, he had noticed a few days earlier, were an even more vivid green than they used to be. Whether it was because they were no longer obscured by his glasses, a side-effect of his increased magical powers, or the advent of his mage-sense, Harry didn't know, though he suspected that it was some combination of the three. His hair, as a result of the eight months' worth of growing he had had from the summer and the potion, now reached to just below his shoulders. He kept it tied back most of the time, except for a few of the shorter, more stubborn locks that fell into his face and annoyed him greatly. It was still a little unruly, but as Methos had predicted, the added length made it much easier to manipulate. Harry disagreed, however, with his ancestors' belief that the look would suit him. Perhaps it was just because of the unfamiliarity, but he thought that it looked wrong, somehow. He decided that when the opportunity arose, and he wasn't dead tired, he would put his admittedly crude skills as a metamorph through their paces to find some way to control his hair, but keep it at a length he liked.
When Harry entered the tavern, he saw that the only remaining customers were a quartet of wizards in their early-twenties, all of whom were unconscious and slumped over their table. He spotted Tom, straightening up the chairs in the back, and looking as though he had just woken up, if, in fact, he had slept at all. He was at present facing away from Harry, and did not seem to have heard him come in. Harry walked up said hello.
At his greeting, Tom jumped, startled. He turned around, an expression of indignant surprise upon his face. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on an old man like that?" Tom whispered, harshly. "I could have had a heart attack! Why I should-… Mr. Potter? It that you?"
"Yes, Tom. I'm sorry for startling you. I wanted to ask you if you had an extra room I could use until the-"
"First of September. Yes, of course, Mr. Potter. Room eleven's free again. Same one you stayed in two years ago, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but I actually only need a room until the twenty-ninth. I need to go back a few days early. Listen, Tom, could we please continue this conversation in the afternoon? I haven't slept, and I would very much like to get at least a little before lunchtime."
"Of course, Mr. Potter, of course. Here is your key. I trust you remember the way?"
"Yes. Thank you, Tom. By the way, it would mean a great deal to me if no one knew I was here. I'll give you double the price of the room if you let your records show that room eleven was occupied by…er…Scott Griffin," he said, randomly mixing a first and last name of two of his muggle colleagues.
"That will not be a problem, Mr. … Griffin. And the extra fee will not be necessary."
Harry thanked Tom once again, informed him that he would appear differently when he was next seen and would make sure that Tom knew who he really was, then trudged up the stairs to his room. Unsurprisingly, everything was exactly the same. He took a moment to change out of his clothes, leaving his tee-shirt and boxers on. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
End Chapter 7
(Closing A/N: Holy hell, this thing was long! I hope you enjoyed it. Chapter 8 is still in progress, but work is being done.)