A\N: I'm so honoured! So many so wonderful
reviewers… Wow, I hink I could get used to this… Anyway, thank
you for encouraging me, I have a bit of troubles right now, but I'll
try to spend as much time writing as possible. I promise.
Sam: I
suppose they could try to make him register, but what is the point
when everyone already knows it anyway? Though they might try to check
whether there isn't another Parseltongue around… Ginny uses the
term 'special' loosely, the Ministry, of course, determines what
kind of people they want to have registered (Animagi, werewolves,
Metamorphmagi, Seers…).
Don't forget to review if you like
this chapter.
Brynn
Chapter 7: Tonks
Harry arose from his throne. The view of a circle of dark-clad kneeling figures made him feel whole; next step on his way to the absolute power was accomplished. And that needed a celebration.
He didn't have to search for an opportunity - it was waiting for him. He had put it on stasis, but not anymore - tonight was the night he will have revenge for incompetence, revenge for disobedience, revenge for cowardice... His eyes, sharp even in the obscurity, skimmed the line of his minions, coming to a halt as he looked upon a significantly smaller shape.
Harry knew he was seeing through Voldemort's eyes. He could have Occluded; he should have Occluded. But it seemed that something of great importance had happened and he was willing to take the risk if he might have had a chance to find out more.
He took a step forwards, slowly, dramatically. He had so little time to play... Therefore he was going to enjoy it thoroughly.
"Wormtail!" he snapped, and a hooded man, whose only visible part of body was a silver hand, as though he was parading it, stepped forwards.
"My Lord..." said his minion, grovelling in the dirt. The small figure two spaces to the left shifted slightly. Harry's lips rolled in a cold smile.
"Bring the traitors forward."
The Death Eater gave an odd giggle and with one more bow turned around. Silvery hand grabbed the cloak of the smallest kneeling person and jerked it mercilessly forwards. The supposed traitor fell on his face. He scrambled to his feet; his mask was dirty with dust and earth. Wormtail giggled again and reached out for the next person in the row.
This one, however, didn't wait until the rat-man jerked him forwards; he dodged, jumped to his feet and ran. Harry laughed and raised his wand. It indeed was a good night.
"Crucio."
The curse hit the running Death Eater's back and sent him screaming to the ground. Harry truly enjoyed himself now. He quickly strode to the writhing person.
"My Lord!" called a scared voice behind his back. Suddenly angry, he faced whoever was disturbing him. A kneeling man pointed to the centre of the circle of Death Eaters. A small black-clad figure stood there. He smirked.
The traitor reached up and tore off his mask, thrusting it to Stunned Wormtail's feet. Harry looked into a pair of grey eyes shining with something he didn't know.
'Hope,' he thought, too late realising that inserting his own notice or feeling was a dead give-away. And the split-second for which Voldemort froze in shock was enough for Harry to shut off his mind and for Draco Malfoy to Disapparate.
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Harry woke up at four in the morning, but didn't feel like going back to sleep. His adrenaline was high; he knew he had to tell Dumbledore or Fawkes what he saw, the sooner, the better. He got up from his bed and changed into a random school-robe, too impatient to search for a clean Muggle attire.
He ran through the vacant dark corridors, seeing merely outlines in the feeble starlight. The vision was still fresh in his mind and it wouldn't let him stop musing about it. Voldemort turned against Malfoy... He tried to remember more details, thoughts, memories, anything that might have flashed through Riddle's mind.
'Not only Draco - all Malfoys! Incompetence: that was Lucius's failure at the Ministry; disobedience... cowardice could have been Draco's reluctance to kill Dumbledore when he had the chance...' The pity he felt for his adversary at the Headmasters burial returned, now accompanied by something else... An understanding for Malfoy's defiance.
Fawkes wasn't in the Head's office when Harry entered; it was empty. He reached up and retrieved a porcelain vase from the mantelpiece.
"Incendio," he uttered, pointing his wand at the cold hearth. He threw a handful of powder from the vase into the flames.
"Burrow."
He stepped into the green fire, holding his breath. The room he arrived in was, predictably, shady and desert. But it was out of the anti-Apparition zone. Who would have thought that he would put his licence to use again already today?
With a pop that evidently disturbed several slumbering portraits Harry found himself back in the Black Library. It seemed that Dumbledore made the book-filled room to his temporary residence, because there he hovered, accompanied by Fawkes who had been sleeping on an improvised perch until Harry woke him.
'Greet.'
He sighed.
'Figured. Good morning.'
The phoenix glared at him.
'And Albus?'
Harry sighed again. He was in a hurry... But why exactly, he wasn't sure.
"Good morning, sir."
The ghost looked from Fawkes to him and smiled.
"Morning to you, Harry. Can I help you anyhow?"
"Give me a minute, sir..." he replied, and turned back to Fawkes.
'I had a vision.'
'Hmm, may I have a look?'
Harry nodded and allowed the phoenix access to his memory of the dream. It took only a few seconds and Fawkes was wide awake, shining as if he just wised up very good news.
'Say goodbye.'
"Goodbye," Harry muttered as the phoenix settled on his shoulder. A whirlwind of red flames later he was back to McGonagall's office.
'Goodbye.'
Fawkes was gone.
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'Bloody bird does not bother to tell me a word...' stormed Harry, walking back to the Gryffindor dormitory he had been the only current inhabitant of. He hated having the entire castle to himself; the soundless scene had something post-catastrophic to itself. As though there were no students to roam the halls of Hogwarts school left... He shuddered. It was up to him to make sure it wouldn't happen. The weight of that responsibility threatened to smother him.
The floor was freezing his feet now that he didn't race. Harry cursed.
'What kind of fool runs out of his bedroom without shoes because he's too excited about his sworn enemy being in danger? The Boy Who Lived. Of course.' He must have been well-nigh the only one who would do something to prevent a Malfoy from being executed. He was just a silly notorious good-heart. And going to catch a cold. The rest of the world slept peacefully, and didn't give a damn about if the pure-blooded prat was going to live to see the sun rise.
'Why me? Why is it not Ron? Hermione? Why is it not Malfoy?' But each of those questions had an obvious answer. Ron was not one to stand up from bed if he had had a vision. Ron would groan, turn to the other side and sleep until noon. Hermione was great when it came to thinking, but once she had to do something without thinking, instinctively... there goes it down the drain... And Malfoy...
'Then it would be me who joins Voldemort. Not bloody likely.' But there was a certain consoling in that thought. He wasn't the only one who didn't like the arrangements. And if the others could stand up, straight-back, and face death, then so could he... He brought his right hand, the one with the bracelet, into his view. It was hardly more than another shadow, but he felt it entwining his wrist.
'Of course I can. I have plenty of good reasons to.'
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Sooner than he entered the bedroom Harry knew that he wouldn't be able to go back to bed. All traces of sleep had long since disappeared and the messed-up sheets looked anything but inviting. He sighed, lit up the lanterns and got to work. The tidying up, cleaning his old clothes and selecting new, which he had all left for later, took him hardly few minutes. He had hours until daybreak, until Fawkes would come to wake him up. He put on his trainers, dressed in what he used to wear for physical training, and set down at the table. A book was waiting for him.
Harry's stomach churned - he hadn't eaten since he gave up the dinner. But he was reluctant to call for Dobby; the house elf could have been still sleeping and he, having been stripped off his own rest didn't feel like disturb somebody else's. Resignedly, he reached for his gift sweets collection and pulled out a box of Cinnamon Cakes, which at least remotely resembled proper food. Biting into one of the small star-shaped pastries he turned his attention to the Survivor's Book.
Of course, Perenelle's Draught of Invisibility is only one of many suchlike and by no means the most fashionable in this century. However, I strongly advise you against buying your supplies in Apothecaries - able storekeeper puts the spectacular name on vials of much cheaper products. My friend, who wishes not to be named, suffered an extent hair-loss after returning to his visible self (which took thrice as much time as it should have according to brewer's information). From other disguising potions I might also recommend...
The featured concoctions became more complex with each chapter, and Harry eventually started getting lost. They required either skill or time and room to practise to understand. He had neither.
It was seven when he finished the twenty-third chapter and eventually looked up from the book. He had been surprised to find out that the author was a retired Auror; it endeared the text to him all that more. However, there was one more surprise - Fawkes didn't come to wake him. The phoenix never let him sleep past 6:30; any other day Harry would have been already out on the Quidditch Pitch, running laps.
He stood up, leaving the book on the desk, and went down, across the common room, through the portrait hole and down the stairs that were much steadier now; the staircases didn't change directions nearly as much as during the term. He, on the other hand, had to move much more. Even if Fawkes didn't chase him, he would return and he would be angry, were he to find out Harry ignored the warm-up.
The morning was peaceful; the only sounds were the blowing of the wind, scraping of branches in the Forbidden Forest and an occasional birdsong. The sky was overcast; heavy grey clouds hung above the land and together with the wind promised a rain soon. Harry went through with his daily torture just in time; he hardly got back to the castle before big, loud drops started banging on the windowpanes.
The hallways were filled with grey, unenthusiastic daylight, but even that made Hogwarts seem as much more friendlier place than it was at night. Harry quickly did his routine cleanup and arrived in the Head's office only minutes late for his session with Dumbledore.
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He wasn't worried; Dumbledore had all the time in the world and knew it. Since he was dead Harry hadn't heard a single berating for lateness from him. The only way he might have got told off was if McGonagall waited for him and was in hurry as yesterday.
When he entered the room, however, there was neither McGonagall nor Dumbledore nor Fawkes. He halted, unsure of what was he supposed to do. The bottle of Firewhisky and glass with ice still stood there, bearing witness that he was the only one to enter the room that day... Should he wait? Or should he go to the Library and work, without wasting time... They would find him there, after all...
"He's not coming."
Harry turned on his heel and stared at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus that was sneering at him. Weeks of Fawkes's pestering kicked in, almost automatically. He smiled.
"Good morning."
The picture frowned, not deeming the greeting worth an answer. Harry's smile didn't waver.
"Did you not understand?" barked the former Headmaster, earning reproachful glances from his fellow portraits.
"Sorry; I am afraid I have missed your point, sir," Harry said so sweetly that it threatened to wither his teeth.
"I said he's not coming - which of it you failed to-"
"Oh, shut up you old pure-coloured scribble!" yelled a tall, well-built wizard with a nest of short white hair from the next frame.
"Kindly keep your smart observations to yourself, Fortescue," Nigellus said slyly and turned back to Harry. "Potter, Dumbledore has 'asked' me to inform you that he will not be attending your today's appointment. Do you think you understand now?"
Harry nodded.
"Thank you for informing me, sir. Have a nice day yet." He stalked out of the room, leaving behind a seething portrait that mumbled something about 'insolent brats' and 'cursing Dumbledore for treating him like a messenger-boy'.
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The gargoyle leapt to his proper position behind Harry's back. He thought of going straight to the Library, but changed his mind as he had already started one book and wanted to have finished it before switching to a new subject.
'Though a bit of cross-reading might enlighten me...' he mused, remembering that the level of education expected from the reader was gradually rising and had surpassed Harry's own a few chapters back. So he decided to merely drop into the dorm, retrieve the text and bring it up to the Library with him.
When he reached the second floor, though, his plan was crushed.
"Wotcher, Harry."
He turned around, beaming. Tonks strode to him, sodden, dripping rainwater all over the floor. She was once again back to her bubble-gum pink ultra-short hair style.
"Hi!" Among all that happened he had almost forgotten she wanted to talk to him. "How did you get inside? You couldn't cross the wards, could you?" She shook her head, sprinkling Harry's face with water. He wiped it, laughing. Since Tonks got together with Remus, her presence was the good old cheerful one he remembered.
"Oh sorry..." she muttered, drying herself with a flick of her wand. "Dumbledore arranged this little nifty thing for me..." She extended her hand and Harry saw something insect-like yet metallic scurry over her fingers. It had wings, though they were folded at the moment and its body was shaped like...
"A key?"
Tonks nodded, grinning widely.
"So, young man, is there a room in this vast building where we can sit down and chat?"
"That was rhetorical, wasn't it?" Harry asked, motioning her in the direction he was going previously. She followed him to the portrait of the Fat Lady, currently without the Fat Lady, which could have posed a problem had Harry been a year younger... As it was he drew out his wand and tapped the painting. It swung open.
"You know, Harry, I've been climbing through this hole for seven years and never knew it could be opened with a tap..." said Tonks, lounging on a sofa in front of the dead fireplace.
"But you go to and fro Grimmauld place on a day basis, don't you?"
"Wow. A clever little thing you are, are you."
Harry blinked and tried to hide his surprise and embarrassment. He didn't do anything but copy what he saw other wizards do.
"So, what do you want to talk to me about?" His eyes narrowed as they fell on the metallic creature now climbing up her sleeve. "Or rather, what did Dumbledore want?" She followed the line of his gaze and smirked.
"Clever indeed! Well, my bright young fellow in trouble, the Head of the Order had divulged your little secret to me and sent me to educate you."
'Of course. I should have known... well, it's not like I wouldn't appreciate some help after what happened yesterday...' He settled in an armchair opposite the woman. She eyed him with expectation.
"So? Would you show me what you can do?" Harry shrugged.
"Is not much. Dumbledore said I didn't have much potential..." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating hard. Tonks clapped.
"Yay! Harry Weasley!"
He laughed, brushing a strand of long curly wild-red hair out of his eyes.
"That's my best trick so far, I'm afraid..."
"Don't worry; it's only start. I'll get you in shape - any shape you might like!" she proclaimed loudly and conjured a human-tall mirror. She poked Harry until he surrendered and forced his tired muscles to carry him as he stood up.
For the next hour Tonks danced around him, explained what he should think about, how to concentrate, what mistakes he was doing and praising him every time he got her instructions right. Eventually they both sat down again, Harry Accioed his sweets and set them in front of the woman, who managed to consume an astounding amount of them in an incredibly short time.
They discussed the possibilities their skill offered and Tonks named a number of situations in which she had used it. One particularly funny was when Snape caught her in the middle of the night and she morphed into a double of a Slytherin girl called Nena Platt (3), a distant cousin of Pansy Parkinson. It was probably the only time any not-Slytherin ever saw Snape deducting points from his own house.
"So, how did you find out you were a Metamorphmagus?" asked Tonks, jamming an entire Chocolate Frog into her mouth. "'Mbledore 'uldn ell."
"I drank a stuff that was supposed to make me an Animagus-" Tonks choked on the Frog and started spitting bits of chocolate.
"You're not serious!" she cried, thunder-struck. Harry nodded.
"You could have died!"
"I know. Dumbledore said so much to me. And he said I was lucky that I don't have better morphing ability-"
"Yeah, you are, Harry," Tonks said earnestly, "I saw enough today to tell that you can't morph your bones and you ought to be glad. Cause if you could, you would be a puddle of flesh now."
Harry gulped. The idea was... unpleasant.
"But I- I managed to make my cheekbones stand out once... Not intentionally, though... And Dumbledore said I can make height-difference-"
"You could have. By 'relocating' the fat and muscles – you didn't have to change the actual shape of the cheekbones. And if he said that, then Dumbledore erred."
Tonks gave him a while to think about it, shifting her attention to a family-pack of Peppermint Toads. There were still many things he didn't understand about his 'condition', though the session had been undeniably illuminating. However, Harry felt that something about him was shifty, not as it was supposed to be... something he missed and couldn't grasp, no matter how much he had tried. Was it normal to find out about his abilities after seventeen years of not knowing? How come he had never unconsciously morphed to evade Dudley's gang?
"Tonks? How did you find out you were a Metamorphmagus?" he asked quietly.
"I? Well, we - mum, dad and me - were living in this little town... I could have been five or six years old. Our neighbours, Muggles, had a daughter; she was my age and as pretty as humanly possible. She even was in some Muggle commercial and didn't miss a chance to remind it... You can bet I envied her. So, one day mum comes to take me home and sees two identical neighbours' daughters playing together. Almost had a heart-attack..." Tonks laughed at her recollections and looked at her watch. "Blimey, Harry, I've gotta go. I'll be coming every now and then, though, to check how you're progressing and for a bit of chat... I bet you get lonely in here, don't you? I never imagined Hogwarts could get so... empty.
By the way where can I find you?"
"At this time usually in the Headmistress's office."
Though he didn't know if Dumbledore would be too happy about Tonks rushing in during his lessons. But it was his idea in the first place...
"Eek - Headmistress - that sounds so weird." Tonks shuddered, already on her way out. "I'll see you then, Harry. Oh, and if you needed something, Hogsmeade is close. You can make a trip." She flashed him one last grin and disappeared.
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That afternoon Harry finished the Survivor's Book and started another tome called Liquid Disguise. While Vivax's writing was captivating and easy to understand, it was also rather popular and didn't go into details (otherwise it wouldn't fit into one volume). Therefore Harry had taken to read several cautiously picked texts that expanded the subjects Vivax merely touched.
Sure, he had been doing it only because Dumbledore manipulated him into it. However, he would be stupid to evade a subject that might help him - moreover one he finds interesting - only due to the fact that he was tricked into finding out he liked it. And it was pretty obvious that all trickery Dumbledore ever pulled against him was in pursue of their common goal - Voldemort's defeat.
So Harry didn't struggle and studied potions, though he secretly promised himself he wouldn't tell anyone, to avoid the embarrassment. He wished he would have a laboratory on his disposal, so he could try out what he had learned, but such a thing was impracticable. He would have to ask someone to gain access, and he had just decided not to do so.
It was late in the evening when he came back to his bedroom and, exactly as the night before, he fell into bed immediately after changing. When he closed his eyes the memory of his vision came back to him. He stared into Draco's glinting eyes... and wondered where the boy was right now. If he was alive. If he would be for much longer yet.
Anyway, it was pretty obvious that Draco Malfoy wouldn't be coming back to Hogwarts.
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(2) Platt - Yardley Platt was a serial Goblin killer, according to the game Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
