Disclaimer: Neither SD nor myself, JA, own Harry Potter or the Potterverse. That is exclusively the intellectual property of JK Rowling and whoever she's sold rights to. You know who you are…. And I'm not one of you. So behave.
Quilting the Soul
Chapter One: Piercing the Fabric
A man stood there, looking over the battlefield that was once a beautiful meadow. A pasture where horses grazed, and children played. A place of beauty of nature, and peace of mind. He closed his eyes and could see two boys, one fair and one dark, playing knights. And there, to his left, a girl with flame colored curls picked a basket of wildflowers. She would take those home to her mother, who would smile and tell the girl they were wonderful. The girl would smile, and dimples would appear in her rosy cheeks as she watched her mother place them into a vase.
He opened his eyes, and the death, the destruction, the desecration washed over him like a plague. And he knew that even though he won, he has lost. For never again would children play here. Never again would flowers grow here, waiting to be picked by an adventuress. He knew it was over, and that he could no longer return to the life he lived. He sighed and turned, his emerald gaze saddened by the death of so much. Friends, allies, foes, comrades, nature. With a soft 'pop', Harry Potter left the wizarding world behind forever . . . or so he believed.
Ten years later
H. James Pierce, known as James by his colleagues and Mr. Pierce by anyone else, sat alone in his office as the end of the day. He was going through a stack of essays his students had handed in during the course of the school day. He sighed in frustration as he read an essay on Arthur Miller's 'The Crucible'. He didn't know what possessed him to assign that particular piece of literature, but it seemed to have caught the fancy of nearly every student in his classes. His mind traveled back to his own school days, and he idly wondered what Miller would have done with Wendolyn the Weird. He couldn't imagine such a serious illustration of the times jangled by a character with such a disregard for the intensity of the prejudice that she would have herself caught no less than forty-seven times simply because she enjoyed a good tickle. James shook the musings from his head and returned to his work, resolving to think no more on his previous . . . he couldn't call it a life. It was more of an existence.
Two hours later, James was leaving a small Italian eatery with his dinner to make his way home. It was already dark and he could smell the approach of summer in the fresh mown grass. He listened to the sounds of the night. Crickets chirping, the faint sound of a television filtering through an open window, an owl hooting, the distant bark of a dog, and the occasional passing car on the high street. He settled down to watch the news as he ate, before he turned in for the night. He opened his window to cool down his bedroom, and fell asleep to the hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, and the rustling of a cat.
James was passing back the essays he graded the night before when he heard a sound he thought to never hear again. He shrugged it off as the effects of the story on his memory, until one of the girls squealed and pointed to the window. A cacophony of voices soon erupted.
"Look! An owl!"
"How cute!"
"What's it doing out during the day?"
"Aren't they nocturnal?"
And, James' worst fear confirmed:
"What's that tied to its leg?"
James wanted nothing more than to ignore the bird, going so far as to tell his students that it must be lost, but its continuous tapping gave lie to his words. One compassionate student opened the window before James could stop her, and the owl flew in and perched on the back of James' chair. James stalked over to his desk and muttered softly to the owl.
"Go away. I don't want it."
The owl looked at him with intelligent eyes, but refused to budge. James attempted to flap the owl away to no avail. He tried shooing it out the window, but it stayed put. Eventually, he seemed to give up and sat down heavily on the chair, finally dislodging the owl only for the ruddy bird to land on his desk. He closed his eyes with a loud sigh.
"Fine. Give it here, then," he said.
And, in front of his astonished class, the owl stuck out its leg and their teacher, kind but distant Mr. Pierce, gently untied the letter from the owl's leg.
"Sorry. I haven't got anything for you. Not exactly expecting you, you know," James told the owl with a weary smile.
One student gasped and brought the teacher's attention back to them. He stood jerkily and told them to get into pairs and trade papers. Then they were to read each other's papers and give their thoughts on what could be improved or what they thought was exceptionally well done. And they were to hand in a paragraph that told why they received the grade they did. Of course, none of the students did this. They got into groups, only to discuss their teacher and his strange new friend who was still sitting atop Mr. Pierce's desk.
James stared at the owl for a moment before realizing that it was waiting for a reply. Slowly he picked up the envelope from his desk and looked at it.
Mr. Harry Potter
Teacher's Desk
Classroom 21
Stonewall High
Surrey
Dear Mr. Potter,
I understand that you have been living away from our world for ten years now. I also realize that you wish for no part of our world again. That is why all contact with you has been stopped. Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley felt that you should and would make first contact when you decided you were ready. They have forbidden us to write to you, and intercepted any owls to you from fans who wish to thank you for what you did on that long ago day. I dare say they despair of ever hearing from you again, but hope that is not the case. However, while they have forbidden us to write, and we have, up to this point, acquiesced to their demands for your privacy, I fear I must ask you to come back to us. There is a new threat to the Wizarding World. I know this seems callous to be calling on your help yet again, Mr. Potter, but I would not do so were it not so desperate here. Mrs. Ginevra Malfoy, among others, has been abducted by these self-styled Dark Knights. You would remember her, I believe, as Ginny Weasley. We have done all that we can to find them, but we fear that it will soon be too late. We do not yet know what they want, and are unsure if we ever will. They are cautious in a way that Lord Voldemort never was. Please reply promptly with your decision. Know this, Mr. Potter. We would have left you to your privacy if we could, but we fear for more than your peace of mind right now. Horatio will await your response.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Professor of Transfiguration
HogwartsSchool of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Order of Merlin, First Class
James felt a deep sense of guilt well up within him. One he thought he buried with his past. He felt a pressure behind his eyes as if a dam of tears was struggling to break free. He removed his 'frameless' glasses and rubbed at his eyes, giving himself time to think. He became aware of a certain tension in the room, as if the world were waiting with a breathless anticipation. Looking up, he found every pair of eyes trained on him. He gave his class his trademark Pierce smile, crooked and disarming, and raised a brow.
"I see you must all be finished with the assignment. Who wants to collect the papers?" he asked with a smirk.
The class busied itself with writing papers and looking over their essays while keeping an eye on him. This became another integral part of the enigma that was their Literature teacher. No past to speak of, no friends hanging around, the strange wooden pointer that wasn't long enough to point at much and was always up his sleeve, and now an owl with a strange letter that he seems oddly comfortable with. After watching for a few moments, he grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper and began to write his reply.
Prof. Minerva McGonagall
Hogwarts
Dear Prof. McGonagall,
I thank you for your hesitancy in writing to me in the hopes of preserving my privacy. I was rather surprised to receive your letter, as were my students. Horatio certainly got us off topic rather well as he does not appear in any of the literary works that we are currently covering. Perhaps I should have assigned 'Horatio Hornblower' to their list of required reading. But perhaps, with his insistent tapping, Poe's 'The Raven' would have been more apropos. These Dark Knights you speak of are news to me. I assume they haven't been attacking muggles yet, as there have been no strange occurrences on the news. As for your request, I am unable to provide an answer at this time. I would, however, like to propose a meeting if you are so inclined. I will be at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow (Saturday) at noon for lunch if you care to join me. I would like to refrain from a decision until I have spoken more in depth with you. Please do not mention our meeting to anyone unless you feel the absolute need to inform someone of your whereabouts. But please, if you must, restrict that information to one person only.
Sincerely,
H. James Pierce (crossed out)Potter
James rolled the letter up and tried to wait, but Horatio, like his mistress, was not one for patience. James sighed and tied the letter to Horatio's leg and watched as the beautiful bird flew out of the window. With any luck, McGonagall would have it by dinner.
Minerva McGonagall watched as Horatio flew into her office. Dinner would just have to wait this once. She quickly unrolled Harry's reply and gave a rare smile to his opening remarks. Her eyes widened fractionally at his offer of a meeting. She didn't think it would have been so easy. Perhaps she was a bit too heavy handed in her letter to him. But perhaps he just wanted Horatio out of his classroom. She smirked to herself, thinking that was one of her better ideas; having Horatio deliver to his class rather than his home. He would be sure to answer if for no other reason than to rid himself of the owl.
She entered the Great Hall with a spring in her step and took her place beside her long time friend and mentor, Albus Dumbledore, and murmured to him that they needed to speak later. He gave her an inquiring look, but nodded when she shook her head. She would see that infuriating twinkle back in his eyes before the night was over or she would know why.
-tbc-
Author Notes: Please forgive us if this takes a while to update, as I'm in school or working most of the time now, or working on schoolwork. My quill pal and I will be updating as we can. Never fear, we will not abandon this story. Oh, I suppose I should add a request for reviews. If you want to, do so. If not, don't.
Additional Note: I have re-loaded this chapter to correct spelling errors that were brought to my attention by Isisoftheunderground. Thank you!