Chapter 18: Revelation

It was very late by the time Harry finally collapsed into his four-poster. He was worn out mentally and his limbs seemed to wilt from a sort of vague exhaustion which Harry didn't quite understand. He wondered, perhaps, if it had something to do with flying today after so long, but that had never happened to him before. Whatever the reason, his soft, warm bed felt wonderful and a slow grin of comfort spread across his face.

As he waited for sleep to come, Harry listened to the contented snoring of his roommates and the gentle pulsing beat that seemed to emanate from the castle itself. He tried to empty his mind, but unexpectedly, peculiar memories from the last few days kept interrupting: a glimpse of Draco Malfoy, leaning wearily onto the arm of a small couch, then again, Draco's grey eyes—sharp but tired—meeting briefly with his own, Draco prowling the hallways alone, his head down and manner dejected. It had seemed, for a while, that the normally proud, confident young Slytherin had lost his spirit, had fallen into a vague sort of depression. Then, at the meeting this evening, Draco snapped back to his old ways with a vengeance. He strutted into the Room of Requirement with a nasty smirk and pushed himself to the front of the group, where he spent the next two hours sending menacing glares Harry's way, along with the occasional scowl. While the rest of the students worked in pairs, practicing basic spell-work, Draco performed each spell once, almost lazily flicking his wand at whichever fellow Slytherin was closest, and then returned to his glaring.

Harry was glad when the lesson reached its end, and Draco swept away without a word, but he felt a tingle of unease as he watched Draco's robes whip around the corner. Something about the other boy's behavior seemed out-of-place, but Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it. Draco was, apparently, back to his arrogant self.

'So, why,' Harry asked himself, "Does that seem so wrong? And why am I suddenly so concerned for the git who's been making my life miserable for the past five years?" But before Harry could come up with any answers to his own questions, he fell fast asleep.

Harry found himself back in his small room at Privet Drive. Once again, he was perched in his window, gazing down into the glowing streetlamps, and a breeze that was unnaturally cool for a summer evening was ruffling his messy hair.

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face his Aunt Petunia.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and Harry shook his head in confusion.

"Sorry about what?" he asked, almost pleading for an answer.

"I'm sorry for all of it. All of these years. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive us?" Suddenly, the boney woman was flanked by her fat son and husband. Harry squinted up at her, somehow not comprehending her words.

"Aunt Petunia? What—"

Harry's words were cut short by a loud pop. His aunt, uncle, and cousin were suddenly gone, replaced by three hooded figures. He drew his wand, but just as he prepared to disarm the three, they pulled down their hoods, revealing the faces of three Order members. Tonks, Kingsley Shaklebolt, and Mundungus Fletcher all ushered him out of the room, muttering about Death Eaters.

"Harry!" Tonks said as she pulled him down the stairs, "You have to do something quick! We'll take care of the Death Eaters, but you have to get to school. We need that snake of yours. Hermione and Ron are being held hostage by Nagini, and your snake's the only one who can talk any sense into that evil creature!"

Harry's head reeled. "What? But Tonks….why…what…?"

"Just go! Go get him."

"Okay! I will! I must've forgotten him in the Transfiguration room."

"Fine," Tonks said, "Just hurry!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Harry concentrated with all his might on apparating to Hogwarts, hoping he wouldn't be too late for his friends. He just had to get to Hogwarts. Just make it to McGonagall's room and it would all be okay…

Smack.

Harry was awakened by a sharp pain in the side of his head, followed by a high pitched shriek.

"Harry Potter!"

Harry's eyes flew open and he snapped his head up, causing it to throb even more painfully. His vision was blurry without his glasses, but the voice he had heard was unmistakably Professor McGonagall's. What was she doing in his dormitory?

"Pr-Pr'fessor?" he slurred, squinting towards the figure in front of him and wondering why so many candles were lit.

"Harry Potter!" she repeated in a frantic whisper, "What is going on? What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

He rubbed his eyes, and squinted towards her again. Suddenly, he awoke completely as he realized where he was. He jumped up and shook his head roughly. The painful throbbing seemed to travel along the side of his skull, but he ignored it and concentrated instead on the fact that he was currently standing in the middle of McGonagall's classroom in his pajamas.

"What am I doing here?" he echoed, placing a hand gingerly against his head and feeling a hard lump forming. McGonagall sighed and stood up. She made her way towards him.

"Have a seat, Mr. Potter," she advised. He moved back towards the desk he had woken up in and dropped into it at once. "Where are your glasses?"

"They're…on the night table…" he answered, stifling a yawn and wishing he could just return to his bed. "I can walk back without them though…" he said hopefully.

"I think not." The professor waved her wand in front of her face, spoke a few unintelligible words, and Harry watched as his glasses appeared in midair. She handed them over, and by the time he had them on she was back at her desk, hastily putting away her papers and books. "I think you'd better let Madam Pomfrey take a look at you head first."

Too tired and confused to complain, Harry just nodded and followed her from the room. Unfortunately, the castle corridors were quite chilly, and by the time they were halfway to the hospital wing, Harry was wide awake and shivering slightly, his bare feet numbed by the icy-cold stone floors. He glanced at his head of house as they rounded a corner, and found her looking at him strangely.

"I…don't usually sleepwalk," he offered lamely. "At least…I never have before…" She lifted an eyebrow.

"You weren't sleepwalking, Mr. Potter," she said shortly, and the rest of the walk passed in silence.

Madam Pomfrey was not overly pleased to see Harry either. Just out of earshot, the two women had a very animated discussion. Madam Pomfrey seemed shocked at whatever McGonagall was saying, but nodded quickly and returned to her patient. She huffed and scowled, but was unusually gentle and soft-spoken with Harry, which only added to his feeling that the world was turning upside down. It didn't take her long to take care of the large lump on his head, and then McGonagall escorted him back to Gryffindor Tower. With a strange 'Good night, Mr. Potter,' she slipped away down the corridor, leaving Harry wondering if it had all been one long, very confusing dream.

By nightfall of the next day, Harry found himself making his way towards the headmaster's office. His stomach turned uneasily and Harry couldn't decide if it was due to his growing anxiety about meeting with Dumbledore, or if he was simply hungry.

He had missed dinner, nicely topping off a completely nightmarish day. Since waking, Harry had had a splitting headache and a sour mood. Hermione and Ron were clearly concerned, but soon gave up asking for an explanation after Harry had reminded them (quite peevishly) that he wasn't at liberty to discuss himself or his life. He silently cursed Nagini, for the inconvenience she caused him, but somewhere deep in his mind, he was also relieved that he would not have to explain last night to his friends. In particular, he was not prepared to explain his dream, for he was still trying to figure it out himself.

So it was the dream he was thinking of now as he stopped in front of the familiar gargoyles that perched in front of Dumbledore's office. Questions swirled about in his brain, and foremost was the mystery of his Aunt Petunia. He remembered her part in his dream with uncanny clarity, and it sparked in his mind a memory of his last night at Privet Drive. Just like in the dream, her words that night had surprised him. An apology from his aunt was unheard of; though he thought she certainly had much to apologize for, he could not imagine what had possessed her to actually utter the words. 'I'm sorry.'

All in all, Harry thought his life was shaping up to be impossibly confusing, and he knew that his Aunt's uncharacteristic behavior was the least of his worries.

"Sugar Quill!" he said quietly, "Pepper Imp!" But the door did not open, and he wondered if maybe Dumbledore should just start giving him the password on a regular basis. "Pumpkin Pasty, Blood Lolly, Canary Cream! Skivving Snackbox!" The door opened without a sound, and he made his way once again onto the spiral staircase. He knocked on the door to the headmaster's office, but received no answer. So, hesitantly, he pushed the door gently open and found Dumbledore sitting at his desk, engrossed in a large book.

Harry cleared his throat. "Sir?" Dumbledore looked up, smiling gently.

"Ah! Mr. Potter!" His smile grew slightly. "Come in, come in! Please have a seat."

Harry took his usual fluffy armchair and watched as Dumbledore gently shut the book and pushed it to the center of his large desk.

"We have much to discuss and I believe it could take quite some time. Can I interest you in tea?" Harry was about to shake his head 'No', wishing to get to the point, but before he could, a tray of tea and sandwiches appeared on a small end table, and he realized that he was quite hungry.

"Yes, thank you," he said. To his surprise, Dumbledore slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table and began pouring tea with a flick of his wand.

"Very good!" the old man said as he handed Harry a cup. "Now, as you are aware, I've asked to meet with you tonight in an attempt to explain some conundrums we have recently run across, up to and including your experience last night." Harry nodded and chewed absently on a sandwich, waiting for Dumbledore to continue.

"The conclusion that I've come to, you will be pleased to know, in an encouraging one," he paused, looking at Harry with a smile, "But I must ask you to endure a brief lecture on Magical Theory in order for any of it to make sense."

Harry agreed, and the headmaster broke into an explanation of the basic nature of human magic. Harry took it all in, wondering what it was leading to, but also finding himself rather interested in the information. Dumbledore explained the idea of a wizard's magic "source"—the intangible substance at the core of a magical person's being, which generated the actual magical energy a wizard used to perform a spell.

"This energy, or "ether" as some call it, is present in every part of your body, as it is in any magical being. Of course, in some creatures, the ether is much more concentrated, which is why we use things like unicorn tales or phoenix feathers in our wands." Harry suddenly recalled the times he had been healed by phoenix tears, and realized that this "ether" must be present even in a person's tears.

"But if that energy is present in all magical beings, then why do wizards even need to use a wand? Why not just…use their own magic?" Dumbledore nodded seriously.

"That," he said sagely, "Is the question, isn't it? For years, wizards have used wands without really knowing how or why they worked as they do. Like so many things, the true history behind it was long forgotten, suggested only in folktales and whatnot, but in recent years, a more substantial explanation came to light, and that theory has since become the foundation of contemporary Magical Theory. I don't wish to bore you with all of the details, though if you desire, I would be delighted to discuss it some more. However, the basic idea is this: a witch or wizard, though he or she does indeed possess a magic source which generates magical energy, generally produces a rather small amount of this energy on a daily basis. A creature like a unicorn or a dragon, however, produces much more, and so each tail-hair or feather or scale contains a much purer form of ether. A wand, then, works as a sort of filter. Any ether that goes into the core of the wand comes out in a much purer form. So, a wizard like myself needs only to expend a small amount of my energy to create a great effect with my wand."

He demonstrated, sending his wand flying through the air and magically refilling the plate of sandwiches, which Harry had been emptying as he listened to the headmaster's explanation. He swallowed a bite quickly, not wanted to speak with his mouth full.

"But we can perform magic without wands."

"Yes! Exactly. You see, I am no expert on the subject, but the interaction of a wizard and his wand is complicated. To put it simply, the ether I exert enters the core of my wand and as a result, a bit of the wand's ether is pushed out, though in a much stronger form. However, it is possible for me to use my own ether for a simple spell. It requires some concentration, but one can be taught to release ether in the form of a spell. The trouble is, the amount of ether a person can produce is soon exhausted, since so much must be released for any given spell.

"So, of course, it is possible and even common for a witch or wizard to perform small bits of wandless magic, most often when they are young and untrained. Accidental magic, some call it. Since children seldom get the opportunity to use their magical energies, a few spells here and there have no effect on their magical stores. But, as a person is trained, and he or she begins using their magic daily, their stores are less full. Any large exertion could be completely draining. A single spell could almost consume their store of ether, and it can take quite some time for their magic source to regenerate the ether."

Harry was beginning to get an idea of where this was going. Had he been accidentally performing wandless magic? Certainly he hadn't used a wand to regrow all of his hair, he reasoned, but that didn't explain whatever had happened last night, or the mysterious blocking of his and his friends' minds. Dumbledore seemed to sense his confusion.

"Harry," he said, looking very serious, "You have not only been performing wandless feats, but very large wandless feats. Professor McGonagall told me last night that you had suddenly apparated into her classroom."

"I what?" Harry shook his head slowly, "I…you can't apparate in Hogwarts…Hermione's always saying—"

"Indeed. So you can see, it must have taken some great effort to make it all the way to Minerva's room without even a wand." He watched Harry carefully, almost as if he expected some sort of explanation. Harry wasn't sure what to say.

"I was dreaming," he admitted finally, not sure what sort of reaction he would get.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming?" Harry nodded and went through the dream quickly.

"It was so rushed, and all I could think of was how I needed to apparate to the Transfiguration room…and then I woke up." He sighed and looked up, hoping for an explanation.

"Interesting. Very interesting," Dumbledore said, nodding knowingly. "No matter what the explanation is, though, you see that it is very peculiar for you to be exerting so much of your energy without being affected?" Harry nodded in agreement. Dumbledore gave him a contemplative look.

"Do you remember," he asked, "How you felt the other night in my office?"

"Yes, sir." Harry hadn't forgotten the strange sense of weakness, how breathless he had been.

"I do believe that you nearly used up your magical energies with whatever spell it was that you used to block off your friends' minds. It was a bit of a sign to me, of what might be going on, and when the Replenishing Potion helped, I grew even more convinced of my theory. Harry? Have you ever heard of a Confictiomagus?"

"No."

"Very few people have, even among old witches and wizards like myself. It is not a topic that is often brought up, but an important one, nonetheless. Throughout history, there have always been witches and wizards with rare abilities…abilities that can be used to benefit the entire wizarding world. The ability, Harry, to create new spells! The Confictiomagi! The Inventors…"

Dumbledore gazed silently at Harry, who looked back warily. The old man seemed lost in thought, but his eyes shone with something Harry had not seen in them for far too long: hope.

"Harry, my boy," he said, finally, smiling lightly, "I believe that you are a Confictiomagus."