Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
(All you need is) A Little Soul Searching
Chapter 1
Harry Potter had not lived an especially easy life. That wasn't to say it was one filled with hardships - the last couple of years notwithstanding - but Harry knew he had been dealt somewhat of a rotten hand. Parents murdered before he was two years old, sent to live with neglectful - if bordering on abusive at times -, and being hunted tirelessly by the most tenacious deadman in history; Harry had faced his fair share of pain. Being thrown around by Quirrel was no fun, the occasional beating from Dudley or swing from Petunia that Harry failed to dodge were a pain, but what took the proverbial cake and ate it to was being poisoned by a several-metre-long basilisk. There was an agonizing property to being bitten by a poisonous snake that you didn't forget.
Toxic, Harry. A Basilisk is toxic.
Shut up, mind Hermione.
Anyway, even that pure and unadulterated agony didn't hold a barely flickering candle to the fresh Hell Harry was experiencing currently, shortly after his escapades through time with the aforementioned bookworm. In the years to come, Harry would try and fail to describe the pure agony he felt in that possibly short period (he really couldn't tell how much time passed, so overriding was the pain). It felt, at first, as if something was slowly but surely crushing his chest. No worse than what Dudley could do to him, though it did raise some well-founded worries. Just as he was going to call for the resident mediwitch, Madame Pomfrey, stage two of pure Hell began. The crushing sensation continued to the point where Harry couldn't even suck in a desperate, panicked breath to cry out in shock. It felt as if his entire ribcage was making to crush itself and, in turn, his lungs. Hermione and Ron slept soundly as Harry was suffocated to death by some unseen force.
Was this how he was going to die? Murdered by some unknown assailant so soon after Harry had saved his Godfather? Was this Pettigrew finally finishing what he had started all those years ago with his betrayal?
As soon as it had appeared, the pressure vanished and allowed Harry to suck in a desperate, but relieved breath. This relief was misplaced and shortlived, as the crushing was merely the opening salvo of a far worse torture session.
For a period spanning anywhere from a scant few seconds to the entirety of the remaining night, Harry was subjected to the most agonizing sensation he had ever experienced. Words could never properly describe what Harry was undergoing, beyond asking a potential listener to imagine every torture ever invented and having them done all at the same time with the precision of a master. Others would merely call what Harry was describing the 'Cruciatus Curse', but Harry didn't have the frame of reference then.
What he did have was an extended period of agonizing torture.
Sunlight flittered through the blinds, betraying the morning's arrival. It was, in turn, joined by the distant twittering of birds and the chatter of school children. A light breeze carried these sounds to the thankful, though dreary ears of Harry Potter. After the experiences of the night before, if they were indeed true and not some after-effect of the Dementors, any sound that was not the white noise of ringing were welcome.
These observations mattered little to Harry, for hark! He could breathe again, and so he drank greedily the delicious air about him.
Harry could do little but lay in his bed, which at that moment felt more comfortable than the finest mattress, and float in his blissful numbness.
In time, Harry managed to recognize the snoring of one Ronald Weasley a few beds away and ne'er were there a greater sound to the mangled mind of Harry Potter. It served as a reminder that at least some of the events the night previous did truly occur. Harry's general lack of soreness could likely be contributed to the wondering of Madame Pomfrey's work, but a small part of him hoped that it was just because his torture didn't happen.
Despite that hope, a phantom pain remained in Harry's heart and head, lingering yet neither worsening nor vanishing entirely. Annoying, perhaps, but not as bad as it could have been. A certain restlessness fell upon Harry then, and with nary a thought, he swung his legs over the side of his bed.
It was as Harry rose to his feet, steady and completely lacking the unassuredness he'd come to expect from escaping a medical wing bed, that the Madame in question arrived from her office. She must have sensed some issue or merely had a ward in place to do as much, as Pomfrey's eagle-like gaze sought the standing Harry out with all the expectation Harry had foreseen.
Hmm, perhaps an activation ward overlaid with an alarm ward?
A small part of Harry's mind reasoned as he felt the lingering magic around his bed, finding it challenging to differentiate from the general aura that permeated throughout the school. His ruminations were cut short as Pomfrey stormed over, her expression thunderous and her wand held in one hand in a vaguely threatening manner.
Harry could handle Dark Lords and their followers but may Merlin help anyone who tried to face a mediwitch or wizard when they were dealing with their wards.
"Mister Potter, what do you think you're doing?!" She demanded, non-too carefully pushing Harry back onto the bed while silently casting an impressive barrage of diagnosis spells. Harry silently suffered this treatment, knowing the mediwitch meant well yet wishing to escape her clutches all the same.
A minute passed as Pomfrey continued her work, silent with her mouth pressed into a hard line. Finally, she looked up from her work and met Harry's eyes, her own narrowed in deep concentration as if attempting to solve an especially challenging riddle. Her burning question was finally asked, tentatively and with no small amount of trepidation.
"Mister Potter, are you… feeling alright?" An odd question, especially from a supposed medical professional, and certainly vague. Harry pondered for a moment before answering, his voice far more confident than it might have been mere hours ago.
"Fine? Actually… I feel… reinvigorated?" And that was the truth, Harry felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It wasn't some major shift, Harry didn't experience some great uptick in confidence, but he felt freer at that moment than he ever had in his entire life. Not when he learned he was a wizard, not when he first saw Hogwarts in all her majesty, not even when he flew.
Did saving Sirius have that much of an effect on Harry? The mere chance at a connection to the parents he had only heard second-hand stories of?
"Reinvigorated?" Some amusement entered Madame Pomfrey's voice, eliciting an embarrassed flush from Harry who had only just realized he spoke aloud. Opting to keep his mouth shut lest he incriminated himself further, Harry waited patiently for Pomfrey to finish her evaluation.
"Hmm… Maybe you need more good night's rest, Mister Potter," Madame Pomfrey ordered, clearly not willing to let Harry leave without a stern telling off about something, "And it wouldn't hurt if you ate more…"
Harry weathered the orders disguised as requests with a suffering smile, weathering her wiles for a few seconds longer. At long last, Harry was released.
For all of about three seconds. The stern voice of Madame Pomfrey sent Harry careening about again, the young wizard fighting down a scowl as he had been no more than two paces from freedom. Unlike before, however, Madame Pomfrey's eyes had moved up from Harry's and to his ever-present scar. The lingering reminder of Lord Voldemort's fall had likely remained unseen thanks to Harry's unkempt and untamable hair, but something about it seemed to have caught the mediwitch off-guard.
"Madame Pomfrey?" Harry managed as the woman closed the short distance separating them. Her eyes were narrowed in concertation, unwaveringly directed at the offending scar. Harry could only flinch as her cool hand brushed the fringe of her hair aside, allowing her unabated access to the blemish.
"Curious…" She said after a several moment's long pause, transfixed as she was. Harry needn't ask what was so curious, the scar in-and-of-itself was a mystery, for the mediwitch continued.
"I have been in the medical profession for a long time, Mister Potter, and I have seen a great many oddities, especially in this school." She started, speaking slowly and with a hint of lingering confusion in her tone.
"Please, Madame Pomfrey, you don't look a day over thirty." Her unimpressed glare as she finally looked away from Harry's scar was enough to silence him if his own horror at what he had said wasn't enough. Harry had spoken without thinking, borderline flirting with the mediwitch. Where that came from was a mystery, Harry chalking it up to the lingering drowsiness from waking up shortly before. Nevermind the fact that he was suspiciously awake and keen, he needed to justify… that however he could.
Thankfully, Madame Pomfrey continued without a comment on what Harry had said.
"Your scar was always a mystery to me, Mister Potter. One thing remained the same; the one similarity it shared with all other curse scars. Can you guess what that might be?"
Harry was caught off-guard, noting the past-tense usage of 'shared' or 'shares', but the impossibility of that…
"They don't fade," Harry finally said, reciting what he had been told 'ad nauseam' regarding scars from dark curses. They did not fade; the could not fade. They would linger until death and even beyond that.
"They don't fade," Pomfrey agreed, finally turning her piercing gaze from Harry's eyes and looking to a bedside table. A moment later, she returned with a handheld mirror, turning it for Harry to view himself.
"It seems that you exist only to disprove the standing theories, Mister Potter."
Harry looked over at the face he had seen a thousand times in puddles and mirrors, the one constantly equated to that of his father. Thin, at times gaunt, but certainly Harry Potter. His gaze was drawn up to his most familiar feature, one that defined his life and the interactions that most of the wizarding world had with him. Where once there was a jagged, ugly marring of his forehead, a faded mirror of what once was remained. It had shortened considerably and dulled to the point that could almost be missed if one wasn't looking for it. Naturally, everyone who met Harry was looking for the scar, but it did little to dampen Harry's resurgent spirits.
"Bloody hell…" Harry murmured, flinching at the reproachful glance sent his way form Madame Pomfrey. After another few moments of study, Pomfrey replaced the mirror and let Harry's hair fall back down its natural disorder.
"You are a mystery, Mister Potter, though perhaps it's for the best that one of your adventures had a positive outcome."
"Does this mean I can leave?"
It was with a wide grin that Harry was shooed from the medical wing, promising to return if Ron or Hermione were still asleep after breakfast. The good-natured scowl sent his way earned a laugh from the suddenly ecstatic Harry.
And why would he not be happy? His scar, something that served as a constant reminder of what he had lost, was rapidly fading. Harry felt elated beyond words, so much so that not even Malfoy or Snape could put him down!
It was with this pleasant mood that Harry entered the Great Hall and found a seat next to Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan, both of whom were joined by Dean Thomas in their confusion regarding Harry's suddenly sunny disposition.
"What's the big news, Harry?" Seamus asked, his own confused smirk rising as he studied Harry's face, "And why do you look like you've gone a couple rounds with a troll?"
"Just once was enough for me," Harry quipped absently, once again finding it strange that he responded like that before continuing, "but not even a troll could ruin this day."
The other three boys exchanged a meaningful glance - that is to say, Seamus and Dean did. Neville still seemed notably our of the loop - before looking back to Harry. The unscrupulous smirks that crossed over Seamus and Dean's faces were ones that played all manner of alarm bells in Harry's head.
"Good mood, eh?" Seamus asked aloud, followed by Dean who had looked around the table, "No Granger, either. Tell me, Harry, what kind of good day is this?"
It took Harry a moment or two to catch on before the realisation hit him like the Hogwarts Express. He was certain he pulled a face as a small amount of disgust filled him at the thought.
He was caught off-guard by that emotion. He saw Hermione as more of a sister, but such a sudden and panicked amount of disgust was a bit much even for that. Hermione was a cute enough girl, not that Harry had ever thought of her that way, but she was just too… young. That in and of itself was a strange thought, as she was older than Harry.
"No!" Harry exclaimed with an embarrassed blush, his voice cracking somewhat in desperation as Seamus and Dean snickered to themselves. Neville, still lost, was left in the proverbial dust now, "Nothing like that! Bloody hell, get your minds out of the gutter!"
Then, before either of the two other boys could invent some other convoluted reason for Harry to be in such a good mood - no doubt they had both also noticed Ron was missing - Harry pushed his bangs up to expose his scar.
The three boys had to take a moment to look at Harry's forehead, and another to realize what was very nearly missing.
"Blimey, would you look at that," Dean muttered, leaning over the table to get a better look at Harry's nearly bare forehead.
"Nearly didn't see it," Seamus agreed with a nod.
"I thought curse scars didn't fade?" Neville asked once he and the other two returned to their seats, his tone question with a hint of something more in its depths. The reason was lost on Harry, so he didn't pursue that line of questioning.
"They aren't supposed to, but Madame Pomfrey seems to think I am some magical mystery." The other boys chuckled, seeming to agree that Harry was, indeed, a mystery.
"Looks like you'll be able to travel around without being harassed," Dean noted, returning to his feed with resumed gusto, something Seamus and Neville were in agreement on. Harry was gathering his own meal, hunger returning to the forefront of his mind, as Seamus continued.
"Nah, mate. Now they'll look for the eyes," Seamus said around a mouthful of breaded fish, unintentionally spray an annoyed Dean in the process.
"I'm not the only person with green eyes," Harry defended weakly, knowing full well the lack of a scar wouldn't make him any less recognisable. It was a step in the direction of normalcy, something Harry constantly strove for.
"Only one with green eyes like yours," Seamus retorted to the amusement of the other two boys. Harry rolled his eyes but had a good-natured smirk all the same, enjoying the comfortable silence that fell between them and returning to his food.
This solace lasted only a few minutes, as it seems Harry pleasant nature attracted only the dourest people in the hall.
"Harry, you said a troll couldn't ruin your mood?" Dean asked, looking past Harry with narrowed eyes. Knowing where this line of thinking was going, Harry dropped his head somewhat with a sigh, Harry prepared for the worse.
"Yeah?"
"Well, what about four?"
"Hey, scarhead!"
Harry's hand twitched for the wand in his pocket ever so slightly. The reaction was natural and immediate, another tick he barely noticed and yet when he did, he was confused. Harry had never been someone so quick on the draw, yet here he was ready to whirl around and curse Malfoy. Filing yet another oddity away, Harry rose to face Draco Malfoy.
Draco was, as usual, joined by Crabbe and Goyle, his two troll-like stooges. Their simple faces were screwed up in amusement only Draco could order them to take. Pansy, the simpering fool, was glued to Draco's side as per usual.
Harry's old antagonist sneered up at him… wait, what?
Harry, for once, found himself looking down on the ponce, who in turn seemed surprised that he had to look up at Harry. They had always been roughly the same height, yet now Harry was a couple inches over the other boy. Was this because Harry was standing up straighter now? Was the weight lifted off of his shoulders a more literal one?
The phantom ache, which Harry had forgotten about in the euphoria of his missing scar, reared its ugly head. Maybe the sudden flood of negative emotions had something to do it because Harry found himself scowling down at the little blond rat-
Harry managed to control the sudden rage that flooded him, off-put by its viciousness. This task wasn't helped any by the mocking voice of Malfoy.
"Haven't you heard, scarhead? That creature, Lupin, is leaving. Good thing, too, or else he might have infected all of us with his disease."
And just as soon as Harry's anger reached its zenith, it faded. None of the old anger, assisted by Harry's red-headed bomb of temper that was Ron, that he typically felt regarding Malfoy even registered. It was… dull, like a slight annoyance when dealing with an especially noisy child. Malfoy was expecting some sort of reaction, one Harry suddenly felt too exhausted to give him.
"Good for you, Malfoy," Harry returned to his seat without another word. Before Harry could find his good mood once more, Malfoy continued slightly less assuredly.
"Maybe my father can get that oaf of a gamekeeper sacked as well, everyone knows how poor of a teacher he is!"
Harry was done with this conversation, however. He just didn't feel the usual anger regarding Malfoy, though Seamus and Dean looked ready to fight for Hagrid and Lupin's honour. Harry did the best thing anyone could do when dealing with bullies; completely ignoring them.
"Did you guys finish the transfiguration homework?" Harry asked calmly, addressing the other three Gryffindor boys. Seamus and Dean looked at Harry with surprise written clear as day on their faces. Even Malfoy was thrown off-guard, as he didn't immediately keep trying to draw a reaction.
"I understood the part about changing the shape, but the material-to-material was a challenge." Harry urged the other boys to ignore Malfoy, to follow his path. Neville, Merlin bless him, was the first to step up to the plate.
"The… The textbook says to imagine the differences between the two materials and what about one needs to be changed to match the others." Neville managed, pointedly not looking at Malfoy or his groupies in an impressive display of confidence. This effect was ruined somewhat by his next words, "Not that I could do it right, anyway…"
"It's all about confidence, Neville," Harry said, "If you believe something will happen; if you believe that you can do something, then it will be done. If you expect to fail, then you will fail."
Neville seemed to take these words to heart, much to Harry's surprise, though the effect was ruined some by Dean Thomas's next words.
"Where'd you read that one, a fortune cookie?" Dean then sucked in a breath as the toe of Harry's shoe accidentally found his shin. Hard.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, Potter!" The screamed demand for attention told Harry his plan was working, and Malfoy was growing more desperate to get a reaction. Dean and Seamus, who looked properly ready to beat the blond rat, were wearing shit-eating grins. Even Neville allowed himself a nervous, watery smirk, but silence reigned in the Great Hall when a new voice shouted over the din.
"Mister Malfoy, if you are only at my House's table to cause trouble, then you can return to your seat!" McGonagall, who had never stepped in to deal with Malfoy being… well, Malfoy, shouted. Harry didn't need to look back to know that Malfoy was doing his best deer-in-the-headlights impression, which was soon followed by rapidly retreating footfalls.
Harry dared a glance up at the head table, spying McGonagall's severe glare following Malfoy back to his table. Nearby, Snape looked like he had just swallowed a lemon and was sneering at Harry for all that he was worth. Luckily, even he wasn't foolish enough to stand against the force of nature that was Minerva McGonagall.
It was only when noise returned tentatively to its original volume that the four boys released the laughter they had been withholding at Malfoy's expense. Harry might have felt exhausted by the interaction, but sometimes seeing a bully get his comeuppance was worth the experience.
"I didn't know you lot loathed Malfoy as much as we did," Harry finally said when their laughter ended.
"Mate, I don't think there's a single student in this school that doesn't hate that arse." Seamus chuckled, shaking his head before returning to his food with renewed and enthusiastic gusto.
"Bit of a prick to everyone," Dean Thomas agreed with a nod.
"Thinks he's better than all of us…" Neville muttered, vicious stabbing the pie that had found its way in front of him.
The four boys saluted with their drinks, all in agreement that Draco Malfoy was a rat that the school would be better off without him.
"You know Harry," Dean said, "You're a lot more… I don't know, what's the word?"
"Good natured?" Harry supplied.
"Open?" Neville tried.
"Less of a shut-in, broody ass? No offence." Seamus finished.
"Some taken," Harry declared to the amusement of the other three boys before continuing, "But you might have a point. With the scar gone, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders."
"Makes you look a damn sight better, too!" Seamus agreed with a laugh, once again following the spirit of Ron and spewing an increasingly perturbed Dean with half-chewed food. Harry could only laugh at the antics of Dean and Seamus as the former made to wring the latter's neck, clearly unaffected by the fact that a table separated them.
Dean wasn't wrong, however. Harry rarely if ever spoke to anyone outside Ron or Hermione, his Quidditch teammates included. Had he always been so dour before now? So hard to connect with? Harry conceded that might have something to do with his own introverted nature - thanks to the caring nature of the Dursleys, no doubt - but if that was the case, where had this sudden burst of pleasantness and charisma come from? Worse still, where had the almost murderous disdain he felt for Malfoy come from?
Harry had been so enraptured by the short-lived anger, that he almost failed to notice what Malfoy had come over to say.
"Wait, what was that about Professor Lupin?"
That was how Harry learned that, through his more vocal and inauspicious Slytherins, Snape had spread the knowledge that Lupin was a werewolf. Clearly, the man's petty anger was made worse by Sirius's flight the night before, as he had effectively run Lupin out of the school. While Harry's fellow Gryffindors were vocally in support of Lupin, their opinions mattered little when the owl post arrived. A veritable swarm of angry letters and howlers descended on Dumbledore, who looked borderline thunderous. Snape, who had a victorious sneer written across his face, suddenly seemed horrified as his employer was bombarded by the ire of a hundred terrified parents.
The sharp glance sent his way from Dumbledore certainly didn't help any.
With a wide sweep of his wand, Dumbledore vanished the howlers before they could really start tearing into him, effectively returning the Great Hall to its earlier silence.
Thankfully, the silence was shortlived, as breakfast ended and the student body rushed to make their first period of the day. Harry, who had not thought to grab his bag on the way down, bid his fellow Gryffindors a good-bye and rushed back to the dorms.
Harry arrived at Transfiguration just in time, noting that Ron and Hermione were still absent. Realizing both were probably still asleep after the previous night's ordeal, Harry joined the only other Gryffindors available: the ever-chatty Lavender Brown and her equally gossip-bound best friend, Parvati Patil. The two giggled endlessly, as was expected while shooting Harry furtive glances. For once, Harry didn't feel awkward under the attention of the fairer sex, even going so far as to give them a winning smile and nod as he took his seat.
The missing scar must be going to my head.
Was Harry's bemused thought as the two girls fell into another fit of giggles, knowing full well he had never given a "winning smile" in his life, and certainly not one that would elicit a fit of giggles from girls.
Thankfully, further musing was put to a stop by McGonagall rising from her desk. Her expression was severe as always as she swept the class with a piercing gaze.
"Today is our final class for the term," McGonagall said, "but that does not mean I will allow any goofing about. For our final lesson, I want each of you to showcase your "inanimate-to-inanimate" transfiguration ability. In front of you is a feather-" As she spoke, said feather materialized in front of each present student, "-Transfigure it as you see fit. The more complicated your transfiguration is, the more bonus points you will be awarded for the class. But rest assured, I will not tolerate any "inanimate-to-animate" transfiguration today. Begin."
And with that, the class descended into a sort of controlled chaos. Harry looked down at the feather before him, its black and grey colouring doing little to display what bird it came from.
He thought for a second on what to do with his feather, eyes wandering to his neighbours for inspiration. Lavender, her face set in a rare expression of concentration, was going to easier route and attempting to transfigure her feather into a quill. Parvati, on the other hand, was attempting to fashion hers into some sort of circular object. Some students seemed to be trying for more complicated transfiguration, while others opted for the easy.
Neville, his face nearly red with effort, was still faced with a feather. Not in the position to help his fellow Gryffindor, Harry redirected his attention to the feather before him. Struck by a sudden bout of inspiration, Harry raised his wand and gave a downward slash, the picture of what he wanted in his mind.
The feather rapidly elongated, thinning out at the end and changing texture. In no less then a second, the feather had changed to the bow of a string instrument. It was ebony, its adjusting knob plated something appeared to be platinum. Naturally, Harry knew better than most that platinum was a pain to transfigure, almost as bad as gold-
What was strange, because he didn't know that. Why was platinum difficult to transfigure, likewise with gold? Naturally, he knew gold was an extremely malleable metal and reactive to magic in… Ways he didn't know, as they never went over it in class.
Harry shook these confusing thoughts from his head, worrying for a moment that there might actually be some adverse effects to losing his scar. Almost absently, he plucked a golden hair from the bow before setting the tool aside. Laying the hair flat on the desk, Harry visualized the instrument he wanted to go with the bow. Naturally, a cello was out of the question. Not only was it too large to fit on the desk and not get in his neighbour's ways, but a bowstring was not the ideal base for the transfiguration of that size.
Under Harry's manipulation, the string grew longer and widened, rapidly changing from its golden colour to deep ebony; matching the bow itself. This transfiguration took slightly longer, a violin was a far different beast than the bow. Though the body was rapidly taking shape, Harry was still stumped on what to make the strings from. Simple steel wasn't stringy enough, but few metals had the consistency to play music for such an instrument. Technically, playability wasn't necessary, but Harry was always one to go above and beyond the call of…
Wait, no he wasn't!
Harry warred internally for several long seconds, staring at his nearly-complete violin. Its body was ornate, decorated in faux-gold filaments and platinum stand-ins. Carvings, looping about and through one another, danced immaculately from the head, down the neck, and to the very base. Despite the beauty of the instrument, it was still without its string.
"Try Catgut, Mister Potter," Came an unexpectedly level voice in front of Harry. Looking up, Harry found himself looking up into the eyes of McGonagall, who was for once looking quite proud. Harry dared to look about and found, to his surprise, several nearby students looking at his violin with awe. Harry, for a moment, couldn't understand their surprise. This was some basic, 6th-year level transfiguration…
Harry could feel a headache rolling in and opted to just return to his violin. Catgut, McGonagall had said, or the intestine of a sheep. McGonagall could probably tell at a glance the material of Harry's violin from across the room, she had always been extremely skilled in transfiguration that way. Granted, Dumbledore could probably do the same thing just by sensing the magic itself, but Harry could never recruit Dumbledore. McGonagall… Well, she had been a few years behind him then, but he had played with the idea…
No! No more ruminating, Harry could feel his sanity unravelling with every thought and so did something he was exceptionally good at; not thinking, just doing. Plucking a few more offending hairs from his bow, Harry created four violin strings of roughly equal length, each comprised of a steel/catgut compound. It was hardly his best work, but each fit into the violin perfectly.
Harry's work was complete, and between him and McGonagall sat an extremely well-made violin - at least by appearance.
"May I, Mister Potter?" At Harry's nod, McGonagall picked up the instrument and its paired bow. Harry noticed the class had descended into silence then, all of their eyes drawn to McGonagall and Harry's violin.
Her scrutiny of the instrument and its bow lasted several long minutes, each inch of both studied. Finally, when it seemed both passed the initial test, McGonagall brought the violin to her chin and the bow to the strings.
In a few short seconds, McGonagall proved she had no great musical talent hidden behind her stern demeanour - the chords that she did play were flat and uninteresting. However, Harry flinched inwardly at every harsh note or flat sound, signs of his imperfect transfiguration.
Finally, she stopped and returned to studying the instrument.
"Impressive, Mister Potter. Very impressive," McGonagall finally said, pride coupled with surprise evident in her tone. She replaced both items on the table and turned her gaze to Harry's.
"The mixing of catgut and steel could use some work, and I notice you used neither real platinum nor real gold, but this is far above what I expect from a 3rd-year student."
"Thank you, professor," Harry managed, stunned at the praise. So much so, in fact, that he continued and said more than he intended, "Platinum is a very unwieldy metal and gold has a lot of extreme reactions with magic, so I wasn't confident enough to deal with either."
An eyebrow quirked at Harry's words and something flashed in McGonagall's eyes. A gleam or perhaps a moment of sadness before she continued.
"Very true, Mister Potter, but that isn't something I teach until NEWT year, if at all."
Realizing his slip, Harry scoured his mind for a justification and came up blank. She was right, he shouldn't know that.
"Hermione," Harry spat out, using the first justification that came to mind, "She has us read ahead sometimes, and I remembered… that…"
It was a weak excuse, Harry knew it was a weak excuse. Miraculously, McGonagall accepted the excuse at face value and gave a nod of understanding.
"Evidently, Mister Potter, Miss Granger has managed to do what I have failed to do over the last three years: push you to apply yourself," The smile on her face took some of the bite out of her words, though Harry couldn't help but drop his head somewhat in shame. Truthfully, he had no idea how had successfully transfigured the violin, nor where the knowledge had come from. A part of Harry wondered if he should go back to the medical wing and have Madame Pomfrey check his head, though a far larger part chastised him for looking a gift horse in the mouth.
"Very much like your father, in that sense…" McGonagall reminisced before the stern look returned to her eyes, "But this does show me you are capable if you so choose to be. Mister Potter, I do not think I need to tell you that I expect improvement from this?"
"No, Professor."
"I should hope not, Mister Potter… Hmm… I think, to show you are at last taking to heart what I'm trying to teach you… Mister Potter, I want you to write me three feet on the properties of gold and platinum, as well as why they are easier or more difficult to transfigure. Due when classes resume after the summer."
"Yes, Professor."
"Oh, and Mister Potter? Twenty points to Gryffindor for a well-done transfiguration."
"Thank you, Professor."
With that, McGonagall returned to surveying the class. Her glare was enough to send them all scrambling back to work. Harry noted, in his stunned state, that several students were trying more bombastic transfigurations now.
To be compared to his father in a positive light followed by the expectations that he was to be some sort of transfiguration prodigy was a bit much for Harry to accept all at once. He, who had never aspired to be anything by design, had suddenly done a complicated bit of transfiguration and knew some trivia he shouldn't even be aware of.
"Hey Harry, can I… see that?" Lavender asked after tapping his shoulder, indicating to the still untouched violin. At Harry's affirmative nod, she carefully manoeuvred the instrument between herself and Parvati, their hushed tones of awe barely reaching Harry.
Thus, the day progressed. Without Ron and Hermione there, Harry realized with increasing fear that something was very wrong. Each class - with the exception of History of Magic and Divination for obvious reasons - Harry exceeded expectations. Professor Flitwick had jumped for joy and, much like McGonagall, likened Harry's easy mastery of that day's charm to his mother's skill.
Even Severus Snape, who always made his displeasure clear with Harry, found little tangible fault in Harry's potion work.
They had been making an indigestion solution, hardly the most flashy or complicated work. It required, among a handful of other ingredients, Anjelica - a type of herb. The instructions called for it to be diced and added to the potion to 'free the juices'. Harry, however, inherently knew that to be incorrect. Despite not knowing the properties of Anjelica fifteen minutes earlier, Harry knew that the "juice" of the herb would only be properly separated when crushed. The rest of the plant was useless at best or potentially damaging to the potion at worse.
It was while crushing the herb that Snape's shadow fell over Harry and Neville's cauldron.
"Potter," Was the only warning Harry received, "What do you think you're doing?"
Harry looked up and found himself staring into the narrowed eyes of his professor. Realizing his position, Harry fought down any potential panic - and distrust, strangely enough - and spoke as carefully as he could.
"Crushing the Anjelica, sir."
"And why, Potter, are you doing that when the instructions say to dice it?" Malfoy, who had been brooding since being ignored by Harry at breakfast, was cackling with his lackeys in their corner of the class, evidently expecting Harry to get told off by their head of house.
Licking his suddenly dry lips, Harry continued, "Because Anjelica needs to be crushed to get the most juice with the lowest extra, sir."
"And where did you learn this, Mister Potter?" That was perhaps the closest thing Snape could give as a compliment; calling Harry "Mister". Almost like he was being treated as a normal student…
"The book mentions that Anjelica gives up little liquid when diced, due to how it's stored in the herb, sir."
"It seems that you are capable of learning something, Mister Potter," Snape finally surrendered through grit teeth, standing back up to his full height and glaring down at Harry, "Even if it took three years. Take. One. Point."
Not one to be caught being kind, Snape glared across the entire class.
"Let this serve as a lesson to all of you. If Potter can reason the best way to extract ingredients, then you should all be capable of as much. Ten points from Gryffindor."
Unfortunately, Neville had managed to ruin the potion in the time it took for Harry and Snape to speak.
Hermione and Ron were released by supper, the former of whom was panicking due to missing classes. Ron, on the other hand, was quite pleased that he was not just missing classes but also would be free of them considering the next day was the weekend.
Hermione forced Harry to recount the day's events, to which Harry highly downplayed his achievements. Hermione had a competitive streak a mile wide and Harry wasn't exactly sure how he was going to break it to her that he had become a prodigy overnight.
Supper passed, followed by Harry and company making a quick stop by Lupin's office. Their favourite Professor had made it through the day but was leaving that evening, resigning to save Dumbledore the trouble. He made not-so-subtle hints that he was going to be with Sirius that summer and that they would both try and write Harry. Gryffindors through and through, but it warmed Harry's heart that they were making an attempt.
When night came, Harry had almost forgotten the craziness of that day and settled for a nice and easy rest. Unfortunately, it was not to be.
It was a chilly night, he remembered that well. The sun had long since set and the muggles had since returned to their homes to continue celebrations. The sky was clear and the moon high, illuminating his way to the house.
The house was ahead of him now, hidden to all but a few eyes; his included, up until recently. The traitor, the rat, had been so proud of himself when he came before his lord, explaining his betrayal of the Potters. He was disgusted by the rat's pleasure at the betrayal, planning to ensure the rat would forever be loyal after the Potters were dealt with. A traitor once could be one again, after all.
He ascended the stairs, hampered by the wards in place for all of about a minute before they, too, fell before his might. Evidently, the Potters were extremely confident in the Fidelius and the loyalty of the secret keeper.
He could hear a man's voice now, that of James Potter telling his wife to take their child and run. He let a cruel smile spread across his lips, already feeling the ward of his design refusing to let the young family escape.
The front door fell to his might, revealing an overturned living room and James Potter, dressed in his night clothing. The wizard shouted something at him, but he was in no mood for the younger man's antics. Their fight, if it could be called that, lasted all of two seconds. Potter didn't even have his wand, the fool.
Up the stairs, following the sounds of crying and screaming, he found the child's room and Lily Potter. He was tempted to just kill the woman then, but he remembered Severus's pleading. With a sigh, he lowered his wand and entered; one could never say he didn't reward his followers.
But she refused to step aside, as he expected but had silently hoped against. A flash of green and she was dead, unfortunate but unavoidable.
Then, the child.
It wasn't crying, why wasn't it crying?
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Harry sat up gasping, blinking his eyes rapidly in the darkness and trying to figure out if he had just died. A moment of floundering and a murmured spell alter, Harry was holding his dully illuminated wand and looking around the room.
It was the 3rd year boy's dorm; no child, no dead Potters, no rat. Just his fellow Gryffindors…
Harry fell back in his bed, running one hand over his forehead as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had dreamt of his parent's deaths before, remembering their last words but little else. This was something else entirely. Unless Harry was mistaken, he had just witnessed the entire event through the eyes of Voldemort, from his arrival to his death. How was that possible?
The longer he lay there, thinking and ruminating, the more confused he grew. His mind was a mess and his thoughts were beyond jumbled, and thinking on these implications were only making it worse. Yet… the reason was on the tip of his tongue, settling at the edge of his mind just out of reach…
Why do I have the memories of Voldemort?
Or better yet, why am I in the body of Harry Potter?
Harry realised, distantly, that he was hyperventilating. A panic attack was perhaps the worst thing to have at that moment, but Harry really couldn't control that at the moment.
The previous day's events all started making sense, if he really did have the memories of Voldemort… Tom Riddle? How, how was that possible?
A hand numbly reached up and touched the fading scar, one that he had been so pleased about a few hours ago. It shouldn't be possible… a Horcrux made unwillingly by both parties shouldn't be possible.
Harry let out a giggle, though it came out more like a sob. Who could have seen this coming? And why was he so accepting of this? He had read about Horcruxes extensively- No, Tom had done that, he was Harry.
"Harry… I'm Harry…" The young Potter muttered, holding his head in his hands as he tried to keep his sanity intact. Horcruxes were supposed to work like this! Worse still, someone should have noticed that he had a piece of TOM-FUCKING-RIDDLE LODGED IN HIS HEAD!
"Dumbledore… Need…" Harry could barely articulate his thoughts, but no matter how much his own mind was screaming at him that Dumbledore should be the last person he could talk to, he needed help.
Harry half stumbled from his bed, find the cloak stuffed haphazardly into his case. The walk from Gryffindor tower to Dumbledore's officer was both the longest and quickest walk Harry had ever had in his life. It being four in the morning, Harry could only hope that Dumbledore was in and could make sense of… everything.
But I can't trust him, not really!
A traitorous part of Harry's mind repeated that sentiment ad nauseam, but he propelled himself despite it.
The gargoyle statue stood imposingly in the dark, its grey eyes tracking Harry as he approached despite being invisible.
"I need to speak to the Professor," Harry croaked but to no avail. The statue remained unmoved, glaring down at Harry emotionlessly.
"Sugar Quills! Toothflossing Stringmints! Cockroach Clusters!" None of them worked.
"Please, it's an emergency!" And just when Harry was ready to pull out his wand and throw the full might of Tom Riddle's repertoire at it, the gargoyle hopped aside. Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, he strode up the stairs to Dumbledore's office. It burst open, allowing Harry to enter the Headmaster's office. The lights were out and it was empty, causing Harry's heart to sink further. In hindsight, he wasn't really sure what he was expecting, even Albus Dumbledore needed to sleep eventually. Still, Harry was now left without guidance and-
A flash of fire and suddenly Dumbledore was in his seat, looking as surprised as Harry and still adorned in deep blue sleepwear. Harry was mesmerized for a moment by the stars shooting across the clothing, so long so that Dumbledore managed to procure some glasses and wake himself up.
"Harry?" Came the bleary murmur, Dumbledore's eyes narrowed as he seemed to struggle to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Sir?" Harry stepped forwards, letting the cloak fall to the ground as he wrung his hands. Fawkes the Pheonix had appeared on his perch, overlooking the two men with a trill, "There's… I mean, I've got…"
Harry's words came out as a mess, spoken quickly and without any rhyme or reason. Suddenly, he felt equal parts foolish and terrified. How was he supposed to explain this without coming across as insane… Unless he actually was insane?
"Clearly whatever it is has you quite distressed, Harry. Mixie," Harry watched as a house elf appeared, "Please fetch us some hot cacao? Mister Potter has had quite the distressing night."
"Sir-"
"Would you please sit, Harry?"
A moment later, Harry was sat across from Dumbledore with a cup of steaming hot chocolate in his hands, staring at the dark drink. The Headmaster gave a long sip before sighing in contentment.
"I always feel that cacao rests the spirit, wouldn't you agree, Harry?"
"Sir… I…" But harry couldn't find the words to make sense of his jumbled psyche, passing between crying and laughing each second.
"Take your time, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly, looking over his half-moon spectacles with a knowing gleam in his eye. Rage rose, for a moment, for how could Dumbledore possibly understand what he was going through? It passed just as quickly, leaving Harry as desperately confused as he was a moment before.
"Sir, I… I can't, it doesn't make any sense… It shouldn't be possible…"
"What shouldn't be possible?"
"I remember, sir," Harry dropped his gaze back to the steaming cup, untouched mostly because Harry didn't trust his shaking hands.
"Remember?"
"The night my parents died."
"I… see."
"No, you don't!" Harry snarled, glaring up at the surprised face of Dumbledore. The rage passed nad he calmed again, his voice coming out hoarse and soft, "I'm… sorry, there's a lot on my mind right now."
"I understand, Harry. This must be a challenge for you. You remember being in your crib? Watching them be…?"
"No, sir, I remember killing them."
Silence.
"... I remember talking to Pettigrew… He was so pleased, so happy that he could bring me… him… Voldemort that information. I remember how amused he was, killing them. I remember other things as if I were there… I remember torturing Bellatrix Black into insanity and binding her mind to my will. I remember killing the Bones family myself, I remember Edgar begging me to spare his children… Hell, I remember the last conversation you had with me… with Tom before everything started going bad. Do you, sir? Do you remember what you said then?"
Harry finally looked up, desperate for some sort of reaction from the man he saw as a grandfatherly figure, and as the greatest threat to his rise. Dumbledore, the hero and the vanquisher of Grindlewald, the greatest wizard to ever exist and a threat to his plans.
And a blank, dull face stared back.
"Sir, please," Harry pleaded, begged for answers, "Please, tell me what's wrong with me-"
And they both moved.
Harry wasn't truly sure what had happened. Glass shattered as he rose, likely the cup and its contents meeting a grizzly end. Dumbledore was just as fast if not more so, drawing his wand as Harry raised his own. A flash of yellow, likely a stunner of some sort, raced for Harry but was batted aside with contemptible ease.
Both men were on their feet now, wands levelled at the other but not moving further.
"S-Sir?" Harry managed, the gravity of the situation being hammered home by the hard, cold stare in Dumbledore's eyes. Gone was the kindly twinkle or knowing smirk, replaced by the expression of a man hardened by war twice over.
"Release him, Tom." It was simply said, his voice lacking any venom yet telling an age of training and power.
"Sir, please-"
"Release him, Tom."
Harry kept his wand raised and aimed at Dumbledore, his back to the now-shut door. His only other avenue of escape was the window, but that…
"I'm not-" Harry tried before dodging to one side, narrowly avoiding a flurry of silent spells. Fawkes, still on his perch, crying out desperately while trying to remain standing. Harry retaliated with a flurry of spells, none of them spoken as they raced to the forefront of his mind. Each of them was significantly darker than what Dumbledore had thrown his way.
A shield snapped in place and absorbed the spells, protecting Dumbledore and giving him the room needed to return fire. Before their fight could continue, Fawkes began to sing. Almost against the will, both Harry and Dumbledore looked up at the now soaring Pheonix. It was touching and mournful, drawing a tear from Harry's eye at its beauty. It warmed the soul and gave Harry hope that he might just get out of this intact and sane, that he would make sense of what was happening.
Unfortunately, this distraction was enough for a barrage of ropes and a disarming jinx to incapacitate Harry.
He was floated into the seat across from Dumbledore again, the room repairing itself from their brief skirmish. Not a moment later, both men were staring across from each other. Harry, after taking several deep calming breaths, returned the Headmaster's glare with all the confidence he could.
"Fawkes' song didn't hurt you." It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact.
"Sir. Please," Harry managed as calming as he could, "I need your help."
"I want you to give me your memory of our last conversation, when you asked after the DADA position. Do you know how to give a memory?"
"Yes," Harry answered immediately, relieved Dumbledore was giving him a chance. Then, "No… Wait… Damn it!" Harry snarled, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.
"Harry," The firm voice came, drawing his attention before it softened, "It's going to be alright. Just remember the conversation and I will extract it."
With a shaky nod, Harry did as he was asked and had the memory extracted. Dumbledore, with memory in hand, found his Pensieve and placed the memory inside. Pouring it in, both of them saw the glowing, soupy liquid mix about. Finally, Dumbledore submerged himself. Minutes crawled by, with Harry and Fawkes watching the Pensieve for Dumbledore's return. More than thrice the memories length passed before Dumbledore returned, his face as white as a sheet of paper and his eyes searching the pool of memory for answers.
"Tom?" Finally, he spoke, and it was with such horror in his voice that Harry could only shudder.
"No," Harry said with all the confidence he could muster, which was lacklustre at the present moment, "No, I'm Harry. Just Harry, only Harry."
And yet his declaration was weak, and they both knew it.
"Tom… Harry, please. I need to know what happened," Dumbledore pleaded, his voice now filled with such worry that Harry nearly broke down in tears again. What a night this was shaping up to be.
So he told Dumbledore all he knew, all he had theorized. From the dementors doing something to the Horcrux that was in his head, to the torturous feeling a night prior, to the memories forcing their way to the forefront of his mind. Everything Dumbledore took without a word, merely giving understanding nods.
"What do you know of soul magic?" Dumbledore finally asked, earning an exhausted glare from Harry.
"More then you do," Came his acerbic reply, "Sorry. More than average, but this… This shouldn't be possible."
"There is little known about the soul, harry. Even less about what Dementors truly do to them. I have a theory…"
At Harry's look, the Headmaster sighed.
"It isn't a very happy one."
"Sir, I remember murdering my own parents among countless others. Nothing could possibly be worse than that."
"Harry, you aren't Tom-"
"We're arguing semantics right now, sir. What is your theory?" Dumbledore leaned back at Harry's words, studying the younger an's face with a look of deep concentration.
"The night you, Sirius Black, and Miss Granger were attacked by the Dementors, how close to you did they get?"
"How close…?" Harry repeated, confused for a moment. That was a strange question to ask, and certainly one that should have any bearing. A Dementor needed to get close to consume a soul, but they never… Never…
Harry's eyes widened at the implication, horror racing through his mind at the potential truth of it. Likely understanding Harry's expression, Dumbledore continued.
"Thankfully they did not consume your entire soul, or else we would be left with just Tom. The damage to your - Harry Potter's - soul was great enough that it required repair. So, it cannibalized the nearest soul, that of Tom Riddle a decade and some ago."
"That… No!" Harry shook his head, the impossibility of it all causing him an even greater headache, "That's not how souls or Dementors work! I would know, I… he… fuck. We studied them both for years! Dementors don't take bites out of souls!"
"And babies do not survive killing curses," Dumbledore countered.
"This is completely different!"
"In what way?"
Harry's inarticulate cry brought some faded amusement back to Dumbledore's eye before it faded once more.
"Regardless of the impossibility, Harry, it happened. You are, in some parts, harry potter, just as you are Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Silence returned to them as both men mulled over their thoughts. This was… a lot to take in, especially this early in the morning.
"Sir… I can't deal with this right now. I need sleep, I need time to make sense of it all…"
"As do I, Harry," Dumbledore agreed with a slow nod, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"We reconvene in two weeks time," Harry decided, meeting the eyes of his mentor/enemy… thing, "Get our thoughts in order and figure out what we do from here."
"Will you still be in control in two weeks time?" Dumbledore asked seriously, releasing Harry from his bindings and handing his wand over. Harry tucked the wand back into his pocket, wincing and making a mental note to get a proper holster for it.
"I'm still more Harry then I am Tom, sir," Harry retorted, rising from his seat and eyeing the spilt drink. It was a shame, he could really go for some hot cacao right about now… or a hard Firewhisky.
"I was more referencing your… family."
The reminder that Harry was going to have to suffer his family as it was the end of the year made him grit his teeth, but a defeated sigh let that pent up anger out.
"I refrained from killing Malfoy, I can keep myself calm for two weeks."
"That does not make me any less worried, Harry." Harry turned and made his way to the door, mindful of the shattered glass with his bare feet, "Everything will be fine, I'll see you in two week's time."
"Goodnight, Harry."
"Goodnight, sir."
A/N: Please review what you think of this first chapter.