Author's Note
It's been a long time in the making but here is the second chapter of Through the Veil, I hope you all enjoy it.
I had convinced myself that I could actually write this story as three chapters, but the more tussled with it the more bogged down I became, untill I thought "stuff it" and went back to Carrow. And so it lurked and leered at me every time I shuffled my fanfic notebooks around (yes, I write hard-copy first) and on my lap-top. So one evening I felt brave enough to wrestle with it again and try and see if I could bring it to some sort of conclusion...and lo and behold, I had the most amazing revelation...what if I did this story as four chapters instead!
And all of a sudden it wasn't difficult anymore...and all I needed to do was round up my trusty beta, Jacobus-minoris (who has done an excellent job as usual) and you are now about to read the results...
Chapter 2
The carriage was rather smaller than he remembered, Atum thought, as he sidled carefully down the corridor sideways, manoeuvring his luggage, his kit-bag hampering his movements, packed lunch in its paper bag clutched in one hand. Aunt Petunia had become rather obsessed about feeding him, much to his delight, and from the weight of it she hadn't stinted him today. Thank goodness he was able to shrink his trunk. Having arrived early also had its advantages, as most students were still on the platform saying their goodbyes to their families. He dreaded to think what it would be like with the little first years running up and down, which brought him to a growing concern that had increasingly began to occupy his mind. He knew he had to go back to Hogwarts because legally, physically, he was just sixteen years old, despite his psyche being a strange chimera of two such different souls...but would he be able to blend in, be accepted as one of the rest, just a regular student really? Of course he would need to find a space suitable for his extra-curricular studies and experiments, and the Forbidden Forest promised to be an interesting and exciting hunting ground; he couldn't wait to encounter the Acromantula again...
He paused, peering through the windows of a compartment at familiar faces, or familiar to Harry anyway. Neville Longbottom, a strange looking cactus in an earthenware pot perched on his lap, the curious plant squirming and wriggling as he stroked it, and across from him, Luna Lovegood wearing mismatched shoes and socks, her wand tucked behind an ear, already deep in the current issue of the Quibbler.
Atum steeled himself, suddenly feeling rather awkward and nervous. These were Harry's friends, and unlike Ron and Hermione they hadn't had a chance to get used to him, but it was as good a place to start as any. He slid the compartment door open.
"May I join you?" he asked softly, his voice so deep it set the windows buzzing in their frames. Neville and Luna jerked round with surprise, staring wide-eyed at this gigantic stranger who seemed nearly as tall and wide as Hagrid. And then Luna's already protuberant eyes widened even further in recognition. "Hello, Not-Harry," she smiled up at him, her eyes unusual sharp and focused.
Atum grinned in relief. "Hello, Not-Looney. Did you have a nice summer?"
Luna broke into a dreamy smile. "Oh yes, Daddy and I went to hunting for the Crumple Horned Snorkack in Sweden. We didn't find any, unfortunately, they're very elusive, but we did find a Whispering Fire-Berry Bush." She turned a few pages in the Quibbler, and held it up to show him a photograph of a shrub with long spiny growths and clusters of small white flowers.
Atum examined it carefully. "I presume it vibrates in the wind, and that causes the...whispering?"
Luna nodded. "Partly," she gazed into the distance, "but they also have a symbiotic relationship with Fire-Berry fairies, which nest in among their branches and chase off any predators..." She smiled up at him. "Well, are you going to sit down? I'm starting to get a crick in my neck."
Atum grinned at her as he stowed his belongings.
"Uhmmm...Harry...is that you?" a tentative voice asked behind him.
oOo
Inflection of Egyptian Sigils in Tomb Traps of Palace Bureaucrats of the 15th Dynasty by Emilia D. Carter was shaping up to be an interesting read, Atum thought, almost as good as Numerological Applications of the Golden Ratio by Archimedes Pye. He was so glad he hadn't let Mr Wilkes talk him out of it. Fancy saying something this intriguing and inspirational was dry and dusty, really, he thought as he gazed out the window at the passing landscape, the Hogwarts Express rattling along at a fair rate now that it was clear of London, fields and hedges and trees racing past.
"All right there, Har...woah, mate, you've grown even more," a stunned Ron exclaimed as he put his head around the door, staring at Atum wide-eyed. "What have the muggles been feeding you?"
"Ron," Hermione's voice drifted in from the corridor, "we really need to get going, prefect's meeting remember. Hi, Harry...umm," she stared at him in shock, as she joined Ron in the doorway, "wow, Harry, you look...well."
"You don't mind do you?" Ron asked nervously, Hermione looking on solemnly.
Atum looked at them puzzled; mind what?
"Being alone on the journey," Ron said carefully, "you know...after, uhmm, the Ministry and everything..." he explained with unusual sensitivity, Hermione nodding in agreement, both looking at him with concern.
Ah, Sirius; finally he understood their concern. Though a part of him did miss the man terribly, it was tempered by the bulk of Horemheb's experience and greater maturity. Now he understood why he would grieve so deeply; Sirius had represented Harry's hope, a living connection to his parents, his desire for a better life, a family all of his very own, somebody who cared about him and him alone, someone all his...
Poor, naive, vulnerable Harry.
"I'll be fine," Atum reassured the two concerned teenagers, "I won't be alone, Neville and Luna are here after all," he smiled at them all.
Ron and Hermione left reluctantly with concerned expressions.
oOo
Atum gave a triumphant exclamation, as he finally found his journal where it had wedged itself under his spare sandals, somehow right at the very bottom of his kit-bag. He swore he'd packed it near the top for easy access. He'd acquired his first leather bound journal from a stationery shop on Diagon Alley; it had had the cheek to claim it would never run out, "a page for every occasion, a life time's supply!" the advertising had cheerily claimed. He'd had much fun putting that claim to the test, and three weeks later had triumphantly returned to the shop with his now full journal; he'd got a discount on the next one. Chewing the end of his pencil, he gathered his thoughts.
How did the psykery he was used to relate to this "magic"? What was the Warp, the other dimension he understood he was in some way connected to? What were the Tutelaries? Did this magical world know about such creatures? Why had his turned on him...Horemheb, tried to devour him? What had gone wrong? He had a feeling that the answer to those particular questions was so disturbing, he might be better off not knowing. A little part of his mind suggested that the tutelaries were opportunistic predators, parasitic creatures of the Warp that had seen an opening, but had the patience to wait for their moment when they could pounce and devour their victim.
A gaggle of girls went past in the corridor loudly, a girl, Romilda Vane, Harry's memories supplied, peering round the door before withdrawing. "No, just some nobodies," Atum distinctly heard her tell the crowd of giggling females before they gradually moved on down the corridor.
"Were they looking for someone?" Neville asked.
Atum shrugged, equally puzzled by the intricacies of crowd dynamics among teenage girls.
Now where was he? Oh, yes.
Such dark thoughts made him worry for his brothers, his Legion and most of all his Primarch; the thought of Magnus the Red brought low by such beings was the stuff of nightmares, but still that nasty cynical part of his mind asked where had the idea for such a symbiotic relationship come from? His conscious mind veered sharply away, unable, currently to deal with the implications.
And so he had turned his considerable intellect to his first question; magic, what was it? Could he make something that would express its essence in its purist form? His extensive reading suggested that nested runic seals and arithmantic logarithms were probably the best way forward. Now if he could just find a way to...
A lock of blonde hair drifted against his arm. Leaning forward, her face mere inches from his hand as she read his notes, was Luna Lovegood. How had she managed to get across the compartment without him noticing? When he had last seen her, she had been engrossed in her copy of the Quibbler, reading it upside down in the approved fashion. Atum could think of a number of books that would also be radically improved by such an approach.
"Don't mind me," Atum huffed in annoyance as Luna's head obscured his view of his own journal completely.
"I won't," she gave him a dreamy smile, before removing the notebook from his grip.
Atum crossed his arms, scowling in annoyance, while Neville tried to hide his amusement.
"This is quite brilliant, Not-Harry," Luna finally said, her voice devoid of its usual vagueness.
Atum jerked round from his slightly sullen contemplation of the view as it rattled past, fields of cows, sheep...crops, towns and villages, the occasional wood, industrial areas...
Luna looked up at him, her normally vacant eyes shrewd and accessing. "I think you need a research assistant," she said, "and I think I'm the perfect person for the position."
Atum opened his mouth to protest, but Luna beat him to it. "Wonderful, that's sorted then...so, are you alternate people on alternate days or are you mixed together like blue and yellow making green?"
Neville gave them a strange look before going back to his happily purring plant.
Atum gave the question some serious consideration. "I think," he said thoughtfully, "it's more like raspberry ripple ice-cream."
Luna nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense...I rather like raspberry ripple ice-cream...particularly with chopped cashews on top..." she trailed off, giving him a vague smile, before returning to his journal.
Shaking his head with an exasperated smile, Atum went back to his book. It appeared he wasn't going to get any more note taking done today.
oOo
In the corridor outside a familiar pointed face peered in. "...No sign of Potty...just Loser Loony and the fat squib...don't know who the half-breed freak is, though...must be the new Potions professor. Honestly, this year is going to be such a pain if we've got that every week."
Atum turned away from the window. Draco Malfoy, Harry's memories helpfully supplied along with a host of memories and negative associations, that were almost comical in their strength and heartfeltness; though he noted that the boy looked rather more rumpled than Harry's memories suggested. This was Harry's school boy nemesis and Atum had every intention of avoiding the young man as much as he physically could.
A face appeared, Vincent Crabbe, pale, round faced, with an unflattering hair cut, an unfortunately lumpen and thick-set boy. Maybe he would grow out of it? But now he was staring at Atum with...surprise, a little trickle of drool working its way down his chin.
"Come on, Crabbe...honestly, if you got any slower you'd be going backwards, and we still haven't found the Great Golden Boy of Gryffindor. It's only a couple of hours till Hogsmeade."
Crabbe reluctantly peeled himself away from the window.
"Looks like you've got a new admirer," Luna smirked, still flicking through his journal. "I'm not sure he's the flowers and chocolates type though."
Neville and Atum exchanged looks. Neither had any desire to delve deeper into the personal world of Vincent Crabbe. Atum sighed heavily to himself, mentally adding Crabbe to the list of people to avoid.
"Did Malfoy give you any trouble?" Ron asked scowling with concern as he abruptly entered the compartment. "The nasty little ferret tried cursing us near the toilets. Didn't get very far though," he grinned smugly as he plonked himself down next to Atum.
"Really, Ron," Hermione sighed as she came in, "was it necessary to laugh at Malfoy like that?"
"Well, yes." Ron gave her a funny look. "Girls," he muttered softly. "Got any chocolate frogs?" he asked Atum hopefully.
Atum shook his head with a smile. "Sorry, I brought a packed lunch."
Ron's face fell slightly. "Exploding snap, anyone?" he asked, pulling a battered deck out of his pocket.
Atum smiled to himself as he went back to his book; at least Harry's circle of friends accepted him as he was.
OOOOOO
"You can't play seeker at that height and weight," a horrified female voice exclaimed.
Atum jerked his attention away from his note taking; he'd finally managed to retrieve his journal from Luna a matter of minutes before they arrived at Hogsmeade, and was currently making up for lost time recording his thoughts and ideas. Standing over him, or rather beside him, was a furious Katie Bell, who eyed him up and down, obviously not at all pleased with what she was seeing.
"I'm Quidditch Captain this year and, since Umbridge's stupid life-time ban was lifted, I was rather expecting you back on the team. But no, nothing can ever be straightforward with you, can it?" she snarled, obviously upset. "What the hell have you done to yourself?"
Atum blinked at her in surprise. "Ermm, well, actually, I was intending to resign this year anyway. My studies, you understand." He gave the Quidditch fanatic an engaging smile. "You could always ask Miss Weasley to fill the position; she's a rather talented flyer, and I'm sure she would do well."
Katie Bell spun round on the spot, honing in on the female Weasley. Ginny froze where she sat with her small group of friends, doing a rather passable imitation of a rabbit caught in the headlights of an articulated lorry as the seventh year stumped towards her.
Atum went back to his journal. Now flying, that was something he was going to miss; Harry had been rather talented at piloting his unconventional conveyance, but Horemheb had experienced everything from jet bikes that flashed across the landscape at hundreds of kloms an hour to gigantic spaceships that travelled the interstellar depths...and now he was land bound, rather like a large rock; something else to add to his list of possible lines of research. He'd read somewhere about flying carpets, maybe...
The insistent tugging at his arm could be ignored no longer, and he turned to find himself nose to nose with a rather startled red-head.
Ginny Weasley jerked back slightly. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked curiously. Atum blinked, puzzled at what she could possibly mean.
"Quidditch...playing seeker!" Ginny clarified, clearly exasperated.
Ah. He nodded. "I wish to concentrate on my studies, and I'm...too large now in any case. Stay here a moment," he commanded, sweeping up the spiral stairs to the boys' dormitories, his school robes swooping impressively around him.
Ginny was still standing where he'd left her, arms crossed, the beginnings of a frown on her face, which quickly turned to puzzlement when she saw him coming down the stairs, holding something.
The Firebolt looked ridiculous in his hands, like a child's training broom to a normal adult.
"Since I can't fly it myself any more, I'm going to give my broom to the Gryffindor team, specifically for the seeker to use...something of a good luck charm, I think," he smiled down at the youngest Weasley.
Ginny stared back up at him wide-eyed. "Are you sure?" she squeaked, half surprised, half excited.
"Yes," Atum replied firmly, "I cannot ride it or play Quidditch, but I can contribute to future Gryffindor success. Look after it."
Ginny clutched her prize to her chest. "If you're sure?"
Atum nodded. The red-head quickly scooted away with her new broom before he could change his mind. Atum watched her go with a smile before returning to his journal, doing his best to ignore the scrutinising gaze of Hermione Granger. If he wasn't careful, he was going to end up as her latest project and that he could well do without.
oOo
"There's something not at all right about Harry," Hermione muttered darkly to Ron, as they finally sat down to lunch after an exhausting first morning back at classes.
"What, you mean the growth spurt?" Ron said round a mouthful of cheese and pickle sandwich. "Well...I suppose it is unusual to sprout up over a foot in the space of two months, but..."
"No!" Hermione hissed, "not that...well, not just that. It's his behaviour too. I mean, look..."
They both turned to the Ravenclaw table, where Harry, very easy to pick out, was sitting next to the considerably smaller Luna Lovegood, having a heated discussion about an article in the Quibbler. Beside them were several piles of books which both occasionally rifled through to emphasise points in their arguments. The rest of Ravenclaw were watching this strange spectacle with an air of horrified fascination as they tried to follow the train of thought of this strange pair.
"He looks happy," Ron said thoughtfully.
Hermione could see what he meant. Harry was actually smiling, cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling with life.
"He only normally looks like that flying a broom...over a book or something- now that is just freaky," Ron shuddered dramatically ignoring Hermione's glare and disdainful sniff, taking a huge mouthful of sandwich to calm his shattered nerves.
"And his giving his broom to the Quidditch team didn't strike you as odd then," Hermione asked, dabbing chutney on a piece of sausage roll.
Ron thought hard for a moment, a crease appearing between his brows. "Well yeah, brilliant though...but definitely odd...especially considering, err...Snuffles gave it to him...but definitely brilliant. Gin-Gin is so excited getting to fly that broom," he sighed wistfully.
"Exactly...definitely odd," Hermione scowled, "but we know for a fact he was being watched more than ever over the summer by people like Professor Snape no less, so..." she trailed off.
"So...you think, somehow, that isn't Harry. He's an imposter put in place for...nefarious reasons," Ron lowered his voice dramatically, "probably during the whole Ministry incident, considering how weird he went after that."
"Maybe," Hermione glared at the source of her worry, who was currently drawing something for an excited Luna, who was helpfully giving advice and occasionally grabbing the quill from his hand to add something herself. The rest of Ravenclaw appeared to be trying to inch away from them, an empty space opening up around the strange pair as people suddenly found things they desperately needed to look up in the library.
Harry finished his scribbling with a dramatic flourish throwing down his quill, making a series of gestures over the paper, which had a few of the older Ravenclaws running for the doors and some of the teachers standing in alarm. A strange prickling sensation grew in the air as a small pillar of smoke began to drift up from the Ravenclaw table, Harry and Luna watching with rapt attention.
And then...
It was almost like an enormous clap of anti-sound, which shook the Great Hall, causing the illumination from the enchanted ceiling to flicker slightly.
"POTTER!" the familiar bellow of Professor Snape broke the silence. "You utter imbecile!"
"I see what you mean," Ron said as they watched a furious Professor Snape storm towards their friend, "wow, detention on the first day and not even dinner yet. The Twins would be so proud."
Hermione shook her head in exasperation.
oOo
Hermione's suspicions and dire predictions bore fruit rather more quickly than either she or Ron would have ever expected.
In the very first DADA class, to be exact.
Much to everyone's mutual horror (except Harry), Professor Snape had finally won his heart's desire, the role of Defence Professor.
"Well, at least we're only going to have a year of the overgrown bat," Ron had muttered darkly at breakfast, gaining him a glare from Hermione, a strange and penetrating look from Luna...and absolutely no response from Harry.
Ron poked his over-sized friend hard in the shoulder until Harry actually looked round from his deep contemplation of something on...runes. Ron shuddered with horror. How could he do such a thing to himself?
Harry blinked at him in polite puzzlement.
"Snape...teaching DADA," Ron explained slowly.
This only seemed to make Harry's bewilderment worse.
"What do you think?" Ron asked carefully.
Harry's face creased as he thought hard about it. "We should certainly learn something useful this year. The set book is rather good too." He turned back to his runes.
Ron stared at his best friend in horror. Had Harry just said something nice about Snape? If there was ever confirmation that there was something deeply wrong with Harry this was it; even Hermione seemed to agree with his assessment.
Over the years the DADA room had changed radically, reflecting as it had the various Professors who had been inflicted on them. Garlands of garlic, a multitude of self-portraits all with their blinding smiles, posters of interesting creatures, dark-wizard detecting devices, and most recently, Ministry approved posters. But Snape had out-done them all; the DADA classroom had been transformed into a shadowed gloomy place that seemed to celebrate everything that was dark and twisted in magic, deformed things preserved in bottles of formaldehyde, what looked suspiciously like torture devices, posters on the walls displaying the effects of various curses. Ron winced as he eyed the one nearest him, a lively animated image of a woman having her skin peeled off inch by inch in gory, exacting detail. He looked away before his stomach could rebel. Across from him was another image of people caught in transformations gone horribly wrong, their limbs twisted and contorted partway between human and deer...dog...horse...antlers or misshapen ears sprouting from their heads. A man crouched forlornly on all fours, unable to stand due to the deformities of his limbs, a bushy tail rising up behind him...and a woman like some caricature of a mermaid, flopping desperately as she tried to breath.
Wonderful; if he wasn't going to have nightmares now, he'd be very surprised.
He was jerked from his miserable thoughts by a rather pointy elbow jabbing into his ribs.
"Ronald," Hermione hissed, "pay attention."
"Indeed," said a very unwelcome voice. Ron jerked round from glaring at Hermione, only to find Professor Snape standing next to his desk glaring down at him.
"Since Mr Weasley obviously knows the course material so well, he doesn't need to pay attention," Professor Snape curled his lip with a disdainful sneer, "I'm sure he can answer my question."
Ron gulped nervously, sinking down in his chair as his classmates all stared at him, mainly highly amused at his predicament.
"What, Mr Weasley are the advantages of non-verbal spell casting?" Professor Snape glared down at him.
Ron's mind went completely blank, as he stuttered and hummed, unable to think of anything relating to non-verbal spell casting; the only thing that came to mind was his mum using her wand to stir cake mixture to get a nice smooth consistency. And even in this well of desperation he found himself in, he had a feeling that that wasn't the answer that Professor Snape was looking for.
Professor Snape's glare turned positively murderous and he turned to the class in general. "Anyone willing to rescue Mr Weasley from his little fix?"
Beside him, Ron felt Harry raise one enormous hand.
"Mr Potter?" Professor Snape turned to his least favourite student with a half-hearted glare, which bounced off like water off a duck's back.
"Non-verbal spell-casting enables you to add an element of surprise and unpredictability to your repertoire. It is harder in a duel say, for an opponent to predict when and what you are casting, further enhanced by different spells that have similar spectral frequencies. For instance, it is hard to tell the killing curse apart from a very common mint-flavoured breath freshening charm, but in a combat situation you would be forced to evade both.
"Also in situations where secrecy and stealth are of the upmost importance, non-verbal spell-casting enables one to incapacitate or even kill any opposition without alerting others to your presence, including such things as disabling wards, but in that case it would be necess..."
"Thank-you, Mr Potter," Professor Snape stalked back to the front of the classroom, "that was a fair summary of the various benefits of non-verbal spell -casting, now..." he turned dramatically in a swirl of robes, "pair up. One of you will attempt to cast a jelly-legs jinx silently, while your partner shields against you, silently. Ten attempts then switch."
Ron stared horrified between his two friends. "Hermione, he's turned into a male version of you, it's terrible."
Hermione gave him a sharp slap round the back of the head, causing him to yelp, before she stalked off to partner one of the Ravenclaw girls.
"Ron, do you want to try first?" Harry asked somewhere above the level of the top of his head.
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head. That had hurt, damn it! Carefully considering the matter, he chose a position where he wouldn't have to look at that awful flayed woman, and set too.
Silent spell casting turned out to be rather harder than he'd expected. It was too easy to cheat and say the incantation just under your breath, but unfortunately Harry seemed to have developed the hearing of a cat, and kept pointing it out to him. Not that anything he cast actually reached Harry, though he didn't appear to be casting a shield, not any that Ron recognised.
"Fine, you have a go then," he snapped feeling frustrated and wound up. Why did this have to be so hard?
Harry held his wand ready, the slim piece of wood looking utterly ridiculous in his large hand.
"Ready?" he asked.
Ron nodded, flinching slightly; he was never going to get used to that voice, far too deep and rich, inhumanly so, it sounded so...wrong on his friend. He fidgeted as he waited for Harry to send something, anything his way, but he seemed rather preoccupied, standing as still as a statue, eyes half-closed...
...and then those vividly green eyes snapped open, and the delicate seeming wand described the familiar flick-jab of the jelly-legs jinx, except that the tip of Harry's wand was beginning to glow a blinding white.
On instinct, Ron threw himself to the ground.
A sound like the very air being torn apart ripped through the classroom, the floor vibrating alarmingly, causing Ron to cover his head and ears protectively.
...and then there was silence.
Feeling pale and shaken, Ron pried himself off the floor and staggered upright. Harry stood there, completely unhurt, looking down at the shattered remains of his wand in complete bewilderment. Turning round, dreading what he would see, Ron could only stare. There, bored right through the castle wall, was a two foot wide hole, its edges blackened and smoking, and, he really couldn't help but notice this, it was just at his head height. Feeling rather faint, he sank down into the nearest chair.
"Ron, are you all right?" Harry's voice asked in concern.
He looked up into worried green eyes that carefully inspected him for signs of damage. Ron gave him a shaky nod, and Harry seemed to accept this at face value.
"Professor..."
"You stupid boy," Professor Snape snarled as he stormed down the classroom.
"Professor, my wand has broken," Harry rumbled, forlornly holding out the sad handful of charred splinters for inspection.
Professor Snape gave them a cursory scowl, before turning his attention on his second least favourite student. Ron had made the mistake of giving the new aperture a close inspection, taking note of its rather molten edges, the way the stone was still glowing slightly in places...
He had to admit he was feeling rather faint, despite Hermione's best efforts to calm him. Having Professor Snape point a wand at him really wasn't helping matters either, even though he knew the man was actually casting diagnostic charms, checking that he was in fact whole and healthy.
"Drink this," Professor Snape finally said, not sounding at all like his usual scary self, and thrusting a vial of calming draft into Ron's hands.
"As for you, Mr Potter," he sneered, turning on the perpetrator of this act of heinous stupidity, "detention, tonight, after dinner. Do not be late."
oOo
The morning was bright and sunny, small fluffy tufts of clouds scudding across the ceiling as Atum turned a page in his book Arithmancy: 1000 questions you always wanted to but never quite dared ask by P. Quizzic. It was promising to be a nice day, and he had a good book, so what more could he ask for? Certainly better than yesterday; apparently wands weren't repairable, even with the Reparo charm...which made sense in a way, considering the application of foreign magic would affect the flow of the owner's magic through their repaired foci...rather like veins in marble...the actual lines of any breakage always being present if only psykicly as it were...which of course would render the wand as nothing more than a rather expensive back scratcher...
"Mr Potter, stop your ridiculous day-dreaming this instance," the familiar voice of Professor Snape snarled from behind him. Atum blinked in surprise, before carefully twisting round on his seat, mindful of just how fragile the furniture he was currently using was.
"Good morning, Professor," Atum cheerfully smiled at the obviously annoyed Professor, "how can I help you?"
Snape's glare deepened. "As I'm sure your Head of House had told you, today you are being excused from morning classes so you may visit Diagon Alley in order to purchase a new wand, accompanied by a member of staff." He gritted his teeth. "I have been...delegated...to this task, and the sooner we leave the sooner we can return."
Atum's eyes widened in realisation; of course, Professor McGonagall had mentioned something about it to him that very evening when he had returned to the Common Room after detention, 2000 lines of I must not experiment with the nature of magic at breakfast, so apparently lunch or dinner was fine then, and he had been rather preoccupied with the numerological properties of Pertho...but...yes, Professor McGonagall had indeed approached him about something...
"Mr Potter, do you want a new wand or not?" Professor Snape practically shouted. "I think you'll find your classes rather difficult without one and I would rather like to return to the Castle before 11 o'clock!"
Atum lurched to his feet, stuffing his book in his bag and excitedly following the irate Professor out of the Castle. His first wand...well, Harry's first wand had been the brother to that of Voldemort's, the self-styled "dark lord" that plagued Wizarding society; what would he end up with this time?
The ride on the Knight Bus was quiet and subdued. Atum would have happily chatted to Stan Shunpike, but with the dampening effect of Professor Snape sitting next to him glowering at anything that dared make a cheerful noise, even the normally friendly conductor stayed away.
Diagon Alley itself was grim and overcast, heavily cloaked people scurrying urgently from shop to shop, not stopping to chat or browse but hurrying on with their errands as if terrified what would befall them if they dared linger. Atum watched it all with an air of bewilderment. Horemheb had memories of worlds that had suffered far worse hardships than this Wizarding World, worlds where despite everything, civil disturbance, oppression by xenos-overlords, death world conditions even, a woman with a couple of baskets of home-grown produce could turn into a busy street market in the blink of an eye. He sighed to himself; there was no understanding some people.
He slowed in puzzlement as they came level with Ollivander's shop, only to find it boarded up, clearly deserted.
"Come on," Snape grabbed his arm and tried to pull him along. Atum reluctantly complied, with many backward glances at the deserted shop.
"Don't you read the papers?" Snape asked, his tone caustic. "You seem to read everything else that isn't nailed down. Ollivander disappeared over the summer; the...Dark Lord's involvement is suspected."
Oh, magical terrorists, not interesting, Atum's thoughts automatically turned to more fascinating subjects. Horemheb had battled and subdued much more credible threats to Humanity's continued existence; the Death Eaters were like a blip on the landscape by comparison. Frankly, he was more interested in where his new wand was going to come from.
He followed curiously as Professor Snape strode past Gringotts and down a narrow side-street, the rather unfortunately named Pong Alley. Atum hadn't really taken much notice of it before due to the lack of bookshops. Much shabbier than the main part of Diagon Alley, it lacked the criminal associations of Knockturn Alley. Mostly residential, this was an area of modest and law-abiding poverty and desperation, a place where quite a few muggle-born ended up when they left Hogwarts and found themselves uncomfortably sandwiched between two worlds, unqualified for the Muggle world, but lacking the family contacts and breeding to make their way in the Magical world.
There were also a few shops, unusually owned and run by half-bloods and muggleborns. Professor Snape stopped outside one such establishment.
"In," he snapped at his errant student.
Atum carefully pushed the door open noting the sign (Harrow, Cardwell & Bloggs – We may be second best but we try harder!). Ducking, he sidled through carefully, whacking his head on a bell with a clonk and a jingle as he did so. He rubbed his forehead as he looked round the small shop; it wasn't that it hurt, it was more that he hadn't been expecting it.
"Oh don't be ridiculous," Snape huffed, "if a wand exploding in your hand left you without so much as a scratch, then I highly doubt a little metal bell could do much to your thick skull."
Atum gave Snape an odd look; there were times when he really didn't understand the man's sense of humour. No matter, this was a very interesting place, he thought as he slowly turned on the spot, taking in the worn and shabby shelving and counter all stuffed to bursting with stuff, mainly familiar boxes, long, flat and rectangular; but where those Ollivander provided were mock leather with a velvet lining these were plain brown cardboard with a small paper label on the end. Much more utilitarian, Atum thought idly as he let his mind drift slightly, taking in the heavy scent of what he was quickly coming to consider as being magical potential that hung in the air. It crackled and fizzed over everything, giving the feeling that almost anything could happen...
"May I help you?" a feminine voice asked, wavering slightly at the end as the owner took in exactly who her customers were.
Atum jerked round, ignoring the flinches his sudden movement caused, particularly from the frizzy mousey-haired woman behind the counter, the light glinting off her large gold-rimmed glasses as she looked between then accusingly, saving a particularly venomous glare for Professor Snape. She might have been pretty, but she was obviously the sort of lady who favoured practicality above appearance, considering her plain, almost mannish grey robes and white blouse.
"Ah, Miss Cardwell," Professor Snape said, "my student here," he gave Atum a nasty glare, "recently broke his wand and is in dire need of a replacement."
Miss Cardwell stared up at Atum with a raised eyebrow. "Engorgio charm go wrong, did it?" she asked, coming round the counter, holding what looked like a glass paper-weight full of intricate multi-coloured swirls.
Atum shook his head. "No, just puberty," he said firmly.
Miss Cardwell's other eyebrow rose to join its fellow. "Hold this," she said abruptly, holding the glass globe out. Atum took it carefully. It was obviously magical, so how did it work and what did it do? But it didn't appear likely that he would receive any sort of explanation anytime soon, as Miss Cardwell started muttering and tapping the globe with her wand.
The coloured swirls danced and glowed, much to Atum's fascination, so he raised it up for a better look.
"Stay still," snapped Miss Cardwell, "great big lump," she muttered under her breath giving the globe a particularly vicious jab.
"Two hearts?" she muttered. "This is ridiculous." She plucked the globe from Atum's hand. "Professor Snape, would you hold this for me a moment?"
Snape held out his hand accepting the magical artefact with an annoyed huff. "Is there anything you'd like to admit Mr Potter?" he asked his charge sarcastically.
Atum blinked, non-plussed as to what all the fuss was about as Miss Cardwell went through her routine of mutters and wand jabs again. Frowning she nodded. "Well, that appears to be in order...we would recommend a wand of ash, elder or yew...with a core of...dragon heartstring preferably from a Hungarian Horntail...Thestral hair or even powdered Gargoyle horn...eleven to thirteen and a half inches in length..."
Snape nodded with a small smirk. "Indeed, now...what would be suitable for Mr Potter?"
Miss Cardwell gave him a small nod before turning to the awkward lump, her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hmph, you don't look much like your picture," she snapped as she handed him back the globe. "Now, stay still."
Atum gazed round this small shop, the beginnings of frustration born of boredom beginning to niggle at the back of his mind, as Miss Cardwell went through her detection process. He suspected it was probably related to Mr Ollivandor's strange measuring tape, but his method seemed to rely heavily on trial and error as well...so how was wand material suitability chosen? A magical person's body seemed to have a certain amount to do with it as did their personality. Was a person's magic a sum of their parts or was it something separate...something that was filtered and flavoured by one's physicality...
Was there anything published, he hadn't really looked before...or maybe he should just ask.
"I'm just going to consult with my colleagues," a frowning Miss Cardwell announced, heading towards a small "staff only" door hidden among the racks. A hurried whispered conversation followed as the increasingly irritated Snape shifted restlessly, frustrated as how long this supposedly simple errand was taking.
A thin freckled man with sandy receding hair put his head round the door taking in the difficult customer and his fuming escort with a nervous grimace. "All right Liz?" he asked quietly.
More whispering followed.
"Right," Miss Cardwell said finally, "we can make a wand for...Mr Potter here, but..."
"Well get on with it," Snape snapped frustrated, "it's a bit of wood with a core of some magical creature, how difficult can it be? I'm sure one of these will be suitable!" He gestured round at the stacks of cardboard boxes with an irritated wave of his hand.
"Ah, well that's the thing," Miss Cardwell said, eyeing the forbidding pair nervously. "Mr Potter requires a custom-made wand...wood won't do, not at all. He needs a silver-tin base for his wand. It's probably the only material that would withstand his sheer strength of will...as for the core, most options possible are exceedingly rare, and expensive...in fact we suggest Mr Potter's own hair as a wand core...and it will take at least three hours to assemble..."
Snape ground his teeth in frustration; there went his morning, and he suspected, probably his afternoon too, the blasted brat.
When they left twenty minutes later, Snape's temper was coming nicely to the boil and Atum was still rubbing the spot on his scalp where Miss Cardwell had carefully plucked seven living hairs out by the root. This fact was apparently very important, but it did little to sooth Atum's ruffled feathers; he had very quickly discovered that he had an intense dislike of other people doing things to his anatomy, even if it was necessary and he had agreed to it. What he really needed now was a good book and a nice cup of iron-root tea.
He gave the back of Professor Snape's head a speculative look. Maybe...
"Sir?"
Snape turned with a snarl. "What?" he snapped at the annoyance who had ruined his morning, and now...now he was stuck in Diagon Alley for the next three hours while they waited for the blasted brat's new wand.
"Could we go to a bookshop... 's, sir? Just for an hour or so?" Atum asked hopefully. "They have a very good section on defensive magics and the potions section is interesting too...they've got some rather rare books on alchemy and how it relates and interacts with brewing. I didn't buy them though becau..."
"Absoultely not!" Professor Snape said, his expression daring Atum to argue, "we are currently representing the school, you are in you uniform. We can't possibly go into a place of such ill-repute." He stalked off, Atum trailing close behind, towards the nearest apothecary.
Atum looked down at his uniform, plain black robes with the school crest and Gryffindor red and gold trim; what was the fuss about? And how was 's a place of ill-repute? He really didn't understand, but he knew what he wanted.
Snape tried examining the jars of pickled newt spleen again, but the blasted bane of his existence was just too distracting, standing too close so he was constantly tripping over, or walking into him, stoic sighs of utter put-uponness, hopeful wistful looks from those large green eyes, the dejected hunch of the shoulders; and the dreadful brat was completely immune to every glare, snarl, threat and sarcastic comment he threw his way.
Snape hunched his shoulders in suppressed fury as another gusty hopeful sigh came from a level just over his head, slightly ruffling his hair. A muscle under his left eye began to twitch uncomfortably as his temper began to come to the boil. He made the mistake of looking round again, catching those bright eyes, so full of sadness...so stoic...so...
"All right, we'll go to your blasted bookshop," Snape stormed, slamming the jar of pickled newt spleens down, causing the proprietor to wince, "but if anything goes wrong, remember this was your idea."
Atum perked up instantly, nodding happily, much to Snape's utter disgust.
oOo
Neville looked in concern at his fellow Gryffindors across the table in the Great Hall. Hermione and Ron looked rather frazzled, only picking at their dinner, rather than eating with their usual gusto, occasionally glancing down the table at...Neville turned to look...the shockingly large Harry, who was busily having a very animated discussion with Luna which involved much gesticulating and sheets of parchment.
"So what happened then?" he asked tentatively, almost dreading the answer.
Ron and Hermione looked at him blankly, their expressions tired and drawn.
"I'm taking it something happened in...erm...what class did you just have?" he asked.
"Potions," Ron said heavily.
Neville's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Well, that can't have been too bad, can it? I mean everybody, so far, has only had good things to say about Professor Slughorn..."
Ron and Hermione shared a look. "Oh no," Hermione began, "Professor Slughorn is a wonderful teacher, he's really enthusiastic and inspiring, and we're going to learn a lot off him this year...no it's just..." She glanced down the table to Harry who had pushed the dishes out of his way, and was now rapidly scribbling something on a fresh sheet of parchment. At the High Table, many of the professors had stopped eating and were cautiously watching, a whispered and vicious argument breaking out between McGonagall and Snape.
Hermione sighed heavily. "It's Harry, he's just so...different..."
Ron nodded, grimacing sadly. The two sank into grim silence.
"So, what happened?" Neville asked, now more intrigued than ever.
"Well...Professor Slughorn showed us some advanced potions that he'd pre-brewed, "Hermione began, "just to whet our appetite...actually it was really fun, identifying them and then explaining what they did. Harry seemed to really enjoy it too..."
"...yes, quite correct Miss Granger, five points to Gryffindor," Professor Slughorn smiled cheerfully into his walrus moustache. "This is indeed Amortentia. Though it produces a feeling of euphoria and passion in the drinker towards the intended target, it does not produce the real thing, not at all, and many a tragedy has occurred due to its misguided use, yes indeed..." The portly man stroked his moustache as he moved to the next cauldron, scooping up a ladle-full and letting the thick liquid drip back into the cauldron. "Now," his gaze swept over the gathered students, "can anyone tell me what this concoction is?"
Hermione's hand leapt upwards closely followed by Harry's.
"Ah, Mr Potter this time," Professor Slughorn grinned happily. Hermione lowered her hand disappointedly.
"The polyjuice potion," Harry announced to the class in his deep, deep voice. Slughorn nodded encouragingly. "With the addition of something from your target, hair or nail clippings generally, as they are easily procured, the drinker can transform into a likeness of the person of their choice for a few hours, any longer requires additional doses of the potion...but it can only be human body parts that are introduced to the potion. Any inclusion of anything animal produces strange results, partial transformations, that sort of thing. I'm curious as to why...is there some inherent difference in the qualities of humans compared to other living beings that produc..."
"Indeed," Slughorn bounced on the balls of his feet, "and five more points to Gryffindor. Polyjuice potion is indeed a must for those wanting to disguise themselves as another; not prone to easy detection as glamours are, its only real drawbacks are the frequent dosage required and the terrible taste. Now..."
...Neville looked thoughtfully down the table at his overlarge classmate, "he does tend to ramble nowadays, about the strangest of things, doesn't he? I noticed on the train when he and Luna really got going...couldn't understand one word in three," he mused, "but that can't possibly be what's bothering you...I mean, he does it all the time nowadays..."
Hermione nodded ruefully, "I'll admit I have difficulties following Harry's ramblings too, half the time it sounds like complete rubbish, except..." she gestured down the table to where Harry and Luna were both hunched over a piece of parchment, muttering back and forth while Harry carefully drew something.
Nearby, Professor Snape was busily admonishing a trio of second year Hufflepuffs, who he had caught attempting to slip something into the pumpkin juice jug, their mutters of "we only wanted to see what happened" obviously not cutting it. But anyone with half a brain could see that Snape had in fact carefully placed himself so that he could pounce on Harry Potter the moment he did something dangerous...or just plain strange.
"Yeah...he obviously knows what he's doing," Ron said, "not like Harry at all," he muttered, scowling down at his plate.
"So...we didn't really notice anything really strange until about an hour into the brewing," Hermione said tiredly. "Professor Slughorn had set us a challenge, brew the Draught of Living Death, and the most successful completed potion would win a vial of Felix Felicius...luck serum," she explained to a puzzled Neville. "As you can imagine, everybody was really excited with a potential prize like that...so we all set to brewing..."
"Yup, absolutely wicked," Ron grinned, showing Neville a small wax-sealed vial he'd fished from his pocket. He put it back safely, giving the pockets a small pat.
"Wow," Neville said, seriously impressed.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Anyway, that's when I noticed Harry chewing a piece of Gurdy Root!" Her lips thinned in annoyance. "I mean, what was he thinking, Gurdy Root is toxic, that's why lavender oil is always used in conjunction with it, it neutralises the..."
"Thanks Hermione, but no thanks," Ron interrupted, "I had a free period this morning of Harry telling me at length why a tri-layered matrix of Saturn would be a good basis for a sleeping charm to attach permanently to a bed, so...no...just no long winded explanation. My brain still hurts." He rubbed his temples.
Neville narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "But he wasn't just eating Gurdy Root, was he?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. "No..." Hermione said, "no, he wasn't." She poked queasily at her dinner. "He was trying everything, and I mean everything...rat spleens, dried tarantula eggs, newt tails, bubtubour pus...that jar of..."
...Hermione looked sideways at Harry's cauldron; it was so far from the required shade of lilac it wasn't even funny, she thought. The sea-green liquid bubbled briskly, giving off iridescent tendrils of golden steam; very pretty, but bearing absolutely no resemblance to the Draught of Living Death that they were actually supposed to be making.
"Harry," she hissed, her annoyance at her lackadaisical friend rising, but Harry was too engrossed in a well-thumbed copy of Bartram's Encyclopedia of Brewing to hear her.
"Harry," she hissed louder. Harry jerked slightly, a guilty look flitting over his features so quickly she wasn't sure she'd seen it, but she didn't miss the quick movement of his sleeve as he hid something within the confines of his lap. Hermione frowned suspiciously at him. "That's not the potion we're supposed to be making," she hissed. "You're going to get a zero for the day if you're not careful. What were you thinking?!"
Harry stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I am brewing the same potion," he muttered slightly defensively, "it's just I'm using different ingredients to get the same effect...but it should work exactly the same...I'm pretty certain." He gave her a reassuring smile.
Hermione was not reassured.
It seemed fairly stable though, so she left him to it, nursing her own concoction through the next tricky stage...and then she heard it, the slight sound of a knife against glass. She took a crafty sideways look, only to jerk round in horror.
Harry had a jar of pearlescent...eggs...ashwinder eggs, her mind helpfully supplied...and he'd just speared one with his potions knife and was carefully raising it to his...mouth...
She gasped, revolted, as Harry chewed on the smoking morsel with every sign of enjoyment. "Harry!" she shrieked, "what are you doing?"
Unfortunately she attracted the attention of Professor Slughorn, who appeared with surprising rapidity by their bench.
"I hope there's no tomfoolery going on," he frowned, "can't be tolerated in a Potions lab, it's a matter of safety you see."
Hermione pointed at her large friend, who was doing his best to look the picture of innocence, spoilt rather by the fact he was still chewing. Sighing in frustration, Hermione lunged over, dragging the jar of ashwinder eggs from its hiding place, much to Harry's startled indignation.
Brought into the light, the jar was revealed to be...
"Half-empty, Harry!" Hermione yelled at her errant friend. "How many have you eaten? It was a full jar, wasn't it?!"
Harry's shifty look betrayed him, and he shuffled slightly on his seat, muttering inaudibly. Professor Slughorn watched with an expression of dawning horror. "What were you thinking you foolish boy?" he gasped, pale faced, all signs of good humour draining away.
"But I was really hungry," Harry burst out, "and they smelt so delicious..."
...Neville tried not to laugh; he suspected Ron and Hermione wouldn't appreciate it. "So...another detention, yes?"
The duo nodded grimly. "That's pretty much one a day so far," Ron said. "Even the Twins weren't that bad."
They looked down the table to the source of all the trouble, only to find Snape was now watching the oblivious pair's activities over their shoulders with an air of fascination, as Harry pulled out his new wand, a veritable baton of silver metal, and made a series of gestures with it over the parchment.
The students closest by began to edge away as the parchment began to glow brighter and brighter, crumpling and twisting itself into a new and strange form, as it began to resemble a small sun, a shrill whistling just audible on the edge of hearing...
...and then it plunged through the table leaving a sagging hole as if the oak planks had melted like butter, dripping on to the floor with a hiss.
Students leapt over the bench to safety as the thing, whatever it was, zipped along underneath the long table before plunging back up, zig-zaging towards the ceiling like a drunken fly...and then it exploded with a deafening bang.
"Mr Potter," Professor Snape's voice broke the silence, "I do believe that you were told about this before, on your first day, in fact."
"Yes, but only at breakfast, sir," Harry replied with his best engaging smile. "It's dinner."
Snape's broad grin was the stuff of nightmares.
oOo
Atum's brisk jog slowed to a walk as he returned to his starting point. The last few days had just been...he hadn't realised just how difficult it would be to blend in with hundreds of teenaged students. Didn't they all do strange and unpredictable things, prank one another, have irrational emotional outbursts, do dangerous things, with little regards for the consequences?
The reactions of Horemheb warred in his mind; the older and mainly dominant Horemheb couldn't really see what the fuss was about. It was a school, a place of learning, of the pursuit of knowledge; his activities were in the pursuit of knowledge, so therefore...
Harry, by contrast, was wary of what they were doing, having any love of books or learning destroyed by his uncaring relatives; but on the other hand, he also felt picked on. Didn't the Ravenclaws do things like that (all right, not quite as explosively) most days? The whole thing rankled, even though part of his mind told him he was being ridiculous.
Which left him feeling...almost dizzy, he thought, as he gazed across the Lake watching the small waves that were being whipped up, the a stiff breeze full of the promise of winter with its cold bite, ruffling the sweat damp curls of his hair.
What he really needed was a nice distraction. He looked around carefully; nobody was about, and- he looked towards the rising sun just peeking over the trees- he'd got time. Excited now, he quickly stripped off the only thing he was wearing, a simple loin cloth and draped it over a nearby shrub.
The water of the Lake was as chilly as he'd expected, but his enhanced physiology thought nothing of it. A few powerful strokes, and Atum was well away from the shore, surrounded by lapping water, the smell of mud and rotting plants, the sound of the wind and distant birds, the feeling of currents swirling around his body, something tentacled brushing delicately against his ankle...
Ah yes, this was perfect, he hummed happily to himself as he swam across the lake intent on the opposite shore.
oOo
"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked Ron suspiciously, looking around the Great Hall, in case the enormous lump had managed to somehow sneak in undetected. But no, he was stubbornly not there, leaving poor Luna looking quite lost without her friend and ally in strangeness.
Ron shrugged. "He's never there when I wake up. He goes running or something before breakfast," he shuddered, "definite sign of insanity if you ask me, but he's normally back before we come down to eat. Maybe he got distracted by something."
Hermione nodded frustrated; Ron did have a point there. A sound at the main doors had her jerking round, hopeful that he was just running late...but no, just Vincent Crabbe, looking rather odd on his own, walking rather carefully, and clutching his school bag to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
"Where have you been?" a familiar and loathed voice drifted over from the Slytherin table. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" Crabbe scurried towards the angry blonde, grunting something unintelligible.
"Probably got lost on his way from his common room," Neville muttered. Ron choked into his fried eggs, while Hermione snorted, torn between admonishment and amusement. "Neville!" she finally managed.
Neville grinned down at his plate; people always liked to see him as shy and reserved, so it was always fun to shake them up a little. He looked up in concern, as Hermione breathed in sharply, her face pale, eyes wide as saucers. "What is he doing?" she squeaked.
Beside her, Ron had frozen mouth open, a fork with a piece of sausage precariously dangling from it paused half way in its journey.
An eerie hush descended over the Great Hall, broken only by the padding of large feet. Neville turned cautiously on the bench, wary as to what precisely he was going to see, just as Harry came to a halt in front of the High Table, dripping wet...and stark naked...
Neville blinked; he hadn't realised backs could look like that, heavy corded muscles that twitched and jumped with every slight shift and movement of their owner, further enhanced by the intense coppery glow of Harry's skin.
"Somebody took my loin cloth," Harry plaintively boomed, "I looked everywhere for it."
Noise exploded around the hall as students began to laugh and cat-call, standing on benches and even the tables to get a better look, while others shrieked and giggled and hid behind books and bags, the teachers leaping up to impose some order and calm once more, though Neville noticed distractedly that Professor Snape seemed to have ducked down and was keeping out of the whole thing.
And above it all...
"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall shouted, "go and attire yourself properly at once. Of all the disgraceful things..."
And in among it all, Harry stood there, looking utterly bewildered. "But my loin cloth," he protested.
"It's not the point," Professor McGonagall shouted over the noise, her face rather flushed, "what were you doing to lose it in the first place?"
"Swimming," Harry shrugged, "in the lake...it was nice."
Professor McGonagall sighed heavily. "Really, what ever gave you the idea to do such a thing?"
Harry's explanation was lost in a thunderous bang.
The Headmaster stood there, wand raised, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well now," he smiled around at the gathered students, "I do believe it is time for Mr Potter to go and find his uniform, while the rest of us finish breakfast in preparation for the day. If you would, Mr Potter," he smiled meaningfully at his errant student, "classes start in less than half an hour, young man!" he explained to the puzzled Harry.
Harry bounced round, wide-eyed and frantic, setting all sorts of things jiggling much to Neville's horror, causing a fresh wave of giggles and laughter from the other students as he trotted from the hall, light gleaming off his bare bottom.
Professor McGonagall turned back to the High Table with an exasperated hrumph. "What was the boy thinking?" she muttered. "Really, Albus, what are we going to do with him? Swimming in the lake, honestly!"
Dumbledore smiled up at the ceiling, eyes twinkling merrily. "I think it's going to be a rather nice day today."
OOOOOO
He was lonely, Atum thought to himself, lonely for the company of those like himself, Battle-Brothers, Space Marines...Astartes. On some fundamental level, a part of him ached for his...Horemheb's lost brothers, surrounded as he was, all day, every day, by reminders of how different he was.
And today was particularly driving it home. He flicked a page unseeing, trying to ignore the excited chattering around him as the rest of Gryffindor House prepared themselves for the first match of the Quidditch season, bundling themselves up in cloaks and scarves and hats...
"Are you coming?" Ron asked. Atum looked up to his left to find his...Harry's first friend standing there, looking at him with concern.
Atum shook his head. "I...no...it's not the same watching. I've got some reading to do." He held his book up so Ron could glimpse the title.
Ron grimaced, his eyes glazing over. "Right, runes...looks like lots of fun...yeah...riveting, well...if you're sure?"
Atum nodded solemnly.
Ron looked around nervously. "You know, if you ever want to talk about anything..."Atum looked at him in surprise, only to find Ron had moved closer, "...me and Hermione, we're here for you." He patted Atum's shoulder. "You're our friend, and if we can do anything to help..." Ron shrugged. "Well..." He trailed off, looking embarrassed.
Atum stared until Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Thank you," he said, giving Ron a small but genuine smile, "I really appreciate it...go and enjoy the Quidditch."
He watched Ron go, trotting after the rest of the house as they all made their way through the Portrait Hole, the Common Room gradually emptying, until he was left alone with just the crackling of the fire and the distant whispers of the portraits.
He knew he was being ridiculous, of course there weren't any other Space Marines, he'd know this for months, but his heart ached for his brothers, their presence, their voices, the sparring and conversations, the arguments...
That part of him that would always be Harry rather sagely identified what he was experiencing as home-sickness, not something Harry had ever experienced himself, but he'd witnessed it and its effects in others.
Atum scowled in disgust, he did not get home-sick; he was Astartes.
...and promptly felt rather silly. What he needed was a nice meaty distraction. Digging his journal out, he started flicking through it. He'd had a rather good idea on how to improve that...
oOo
The Gryffindor team were on fine form, Ron thought, particularly Ginny. Shame he hadn't made keeper, though. Hermione had given him an ultimatum; if he managed to get Exceeds Expectations on all his NEWTs (though she made allowances for Divination and History of Magic, one couldn't expect miracles, after all) she would be his girlfriend.
This had caused him severe internal problems as various parts of his mind had warred viciously against one another...Hermione...Quidditch...Hermione...
What had made his mind up was actually Potions. Unbeknownst to him Professor Slughorn had written to Mum telling her how wonderfully talented her youngest son was, a credit to his family, blah, blah, blah...
Mum had written him the most revoltingly soppy, emotional letter ever, telling him how proud she was of her darling little boy (Dad had even added his agreement at the bottom) accompanied by the biggest box of homemade fudge, toffee and biscuits Ron had seen in his life. He was slightly embarrassed to admit it, but he'd started reading other books around Potions out of sheer interest. The Half-Blood Prince was just so brilliant at explaining stuff...but he wanted more. And that had resulted in him spending far too much time in the library as he tried to find decent books to help him. The Twins used potions a lot in their pranks and maybe...yeah, he'd write to them and ask.
oOo
He checked the series of number squares again, yes that should work...he carefully examined the nested runic seals again, carefully examining his penmanship, the placement, the correlations...
Satisfied with his handiwork, Atum cleared his notes from the table and spread his latest creation out in the centre, carefully aligning it. Raising his wand, he began the series of complex motions he had calculated. If all went well, he'd be able to study the very essence of this "magic".
oOo
Ginny went into a spectacular dive. Leaping to his feet, Ron cheered her on, even as Cho Chang followed after her, nothing more than a blue and bronze blur. But the older girl had underestimated her opponent, committed too fully to the dive, and found herself unable to pull out as they neared the ground.
Ron howled with glee, jumping up and down on the bench. His little sister had performed a perfect Wronski Feint; turning, he enthusiastically hugged Hermione, who was too busily waving her Gryffindor scarf to tell him off.
As they walked back to the Castle, Ron basked in happiness; Gryffindor had decisively won the match, inspired no doubt by the wonder of the firebolt...Hermione was letting him hold her hand as they walked back to the common room. Could life get any better than this, he thought as the Castle loomed above them.
An earthquake, more felt than seen, struck, sending him sprawling to the ground, Hermione at his side. Ron looked round wildly, expecting to see devastation, the earth torn apart, a pile of rubble instead of the familiar solidity of Hogwarts. But the castle stood unmoved, its reassuring bulk stabbing into the sky with its towers and turrets. Around him, people sprawled on the ground, dazed, confused and upset. "What happened?" he asked stupidly as he helped Hermione to her feet, but Hermione already had an idea.
"Harry," she simply said.
Around them, some of the teachers seemed to have had the same idea, rounding up confused students into their house groups amid suspicious looks directed towards the Castle. A series of bangs broke through the nervous chatter. "If I may have your attention, please," Headmaster Dumbledore called out, his voice amplified, "it appears that an accident of a magical nature has occurred within the Castle. If you would all proceed to your common rooms in an orderly manner, and continue with your festivities, I'm sure we can quickly get to the bottom of this mystery." He smiled reassuringly at the students.
Except Ron didn't feel at all reassured as he made his way to the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione at his side. Harry, once solid and predictable, now a dangerous enigma, had been left to his own devices for close on three hours. There was no knowing what he'd managed to do in that time.
"Somebody, get Professor McGonagall," the seventh year prefect Mandy Brentwood called out. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.
"We'll go," Hermione called back, and so they sidled back through the crush of their housemates to find their Head of House.
Professor McGonagall went pale-faced and pinch-lipped when she had entered the Common Room. Striding over to the fireplace, she rapped smartly on the frame of the portrait that hung above. The portrait startled awake with much theatrical snorting and spluttering.
"Get the Headmaster," Professor McGonagall snapped, utterly unimpressed.
The portrait gazed round the Common Room. "Oh Merlin," he gasped, staring wide-eyed.
"Now, please."
The portrait jerked, distracted and unnerved. "Yes, yes of course," he said, staring again, before hurrying out of view.
oOo
He couldn't help but groan as he blinked the enveloping darkness from his eyes, his head feeling as if he'd been slapped with a practise blade...hard. What had happened? It seemed to have been working this time...all he could remember was a giant blast, sudden pain and then darkness.
Grunting, he sat up, rubbing the back of his head, grimacing as powdered blood fell out of his hair; now he was going to have to wash it again. So where had he gone wrong this time? He looked around; he could have sworn the table had exploded, but there didn't seem to be much damage...his eyes widened, all pain and disappointment forgotten. Scrambling to his feet, he hurried over to the table...or more accurately what was left of it.
The table had exploded, or at least it had got half-way; the splintered pieces of antique oak lazily span in the air, tinkling softly as they did so, leaving a golden after-image in their wake. He tugged gently on a piece, and watched in fascination as it drifted back into position when he released it. At the centre of the gently orbiting cloud of wood splinters, shredded parchment, and to his fascination, part of the floor, was an intense golden glow like a young star hidden in a dust cloud. He reached a hand towards it...
"Don't even think about it, you silly boy," a voice barked beside him.
Atum pulled his hand back, looking round guiltily. It wasn't as if he could hide this after all. Professor McGonagall glared at him, as furious as ever he'd seen her, a grim-faced Madam Pomfrey standing behind her, and beyond them watching him solemnly, the Headmaster himself; in fact, he blinked in surprise, it appeared most of the teaching staff were here.
"At least sit down," Professor McGonagall continued, "you've been hurt, there's blood on the wall, you foolish child...and where are your notes for this..." she gestured at the almost explosion, "whatever it is. Tell me you at least have some."
Atum nodded mutely, pointing to his everlasting notebook and the pile of parchment sitting forlorn on an armchair. At least he'd had the foresight to clear the table.
The teaching staff present had gathered round the book and accompanying notes, whispering and muttering among themselves as they examined their wayward student's handiwork, their expressions becoming ever grimmer as they worked their way through.
"So we are agreed then," Professor Dumbledore said to his staff.
"Indeed," Flitwick replied, "we might be able to remove this...oddity, if we completely lower the wards on the school and purge a mile radius area centred on the anomaly of any magical trace, down to the bedrock."
OOOOOO
There had actually been blood on the wall; Atum brushed his fingers lightly over the dent he had left when the explosion from his experiment had flung him against the wall. He turned; despite the best efforts of all the staff, they hadn't been able to get rid of the semi-exploded table at all, and so it still hung there several days later, an object of curiosity to the students who thronged the common room. If he'd played around with that particular arithmantic puzzle in the Great Hall, say, the results would have been...Horemheb's memories threw up the scent of blood and burnt meat, tangles of broken corpses...he blinked; it would not have been pretty, not at all.
He needed a proper space to work in, something Luna had been telling him for the last month, especially after that first year had stumbled on his summoning circle, but he'd just been too stubborn to listen.
So where would be suitable? The Castle was large and old and had numerous out of the way nooks and crannies; it was bound to have a room that would be ideal. Nodding decisively to himself, he left the Common room in search of Luna
oOo
What followed was a week of frustration.
Atum had discovered, after a rather dangerous leap from a moving staircase onto a disused landing, a set of unused tower rooms, a bedroom, a parlour maybe (containing a lone sofa, its velvet upholstery threadbare and shredding), the remains of a library (he'd tried investigating the few books left, but their pages crumbled to dust at his touch), and at the very top a circular and very empty room, the remains of its ceiling painted blue picked out with golden stars, arched windows giving spectacular views of the Lake and the forest...and so he'd retreated.
Luna had found a room full of unwanted mirrors, full of their whispered conversations, a duelling hall with piles of broken chairs at one end, and a windowless room she claimed was for growing mushrooms in.
After that he'd found a disused bathroom, its pool so big he could have used it to swim in, and an office, heavily warded, in which resided a skeleton still sitting at its desk, a quill clutched tightly in one hand.
Luna had been fascinated. "Maybe it's Professor Binns," she suggested, but the contents of the room were more oriented towards arithmancy and spell creation than magical history; yet another mystery of the Castle to solve.
It was all very interesting, but they were no closer to finding a suitable place to set up long term experiments. In the mean time, the first-year had returned with friends and a ridiculous scheme for caging daemonettes and selling them as pets. Luna blamed the over consumption of cheap fantasy novels.
And so now they were checking the possibilities of their standby plan, the come-and-go room.
Except someone seemed to have beaten them to it.
Atum peered carefully around the corner. There, parading up and down in front of the door to the room were two first, maybe second year Slytherins. But there was just something off about the way they walked, something far too familiar. He retreated silently back down the corridor.
Luna looked up at him enquiringly. "Someone else is using the room," he explained with a puzzled frown, "though I think I could get us past them to have a look. Trust me?"
Luna smiled brightly at him. "Always," she nodded.
Atum scooped her up in his arms and sidled back to the corner, trying to ignore how nice Luna's arms felt around his neck. And now for the possibly tricky part. He extended his preternatural senses forward. He wasn't trying to make himself and Luna invisible, precisely, more very difficult to notice or maybe extremely uninteresting and unmemorable.
Carefully, he edged down the corridor past the two strange children. Did they realise how suspicious they looked, marching up and down like toy wooden soldiers? Now for the hard part; did he knock or did he wait?
Thankfully, his dilemma was solved for him as Pansy Parkinson jerked the door open and peered up and down the corridor suspiciously, her eyes sliding off Atum unseeing. Her eyes narrowed as she spied the two erstwhile guards. "Really, you two," she snapped, "try and look a bit more natural and really Cra-Georgina, you can't walk around with your hair all mussed like that." She stalked purposefully towards the two younger students, who stood there petrified. "Anyone would think you've never put a hair bow in before..."
Atum dived through the door and made for cover as quickly as he could.
"I've never seen it look like this before," he murmured to Luna as they crouched behind half-a-dozen broken desks, "it's enormous and all this...junk..." he trailed off.
Luna looked around the cathedral sized space. "Hmm, if this is where broken school equipment, lost possessions and even things people have tried to hide," she looked meaningfully at an axe, its blade suspiciously stained, "all ends up...why, we may be able to find one of the founders' lost socks..."
Atum nodded thoughtfully. "Probably...if we looked hard enough...I wonder where it all started..." he trailed off as he spied a bookcase, several shelves half filled with tatty looking volumes.
oOo
"So what do you think Malfoy is trying to achieve?" Atum murmured to Luna as they watched the Slytherin and his friends carefully dismantle a cabinet with much bickering and shouting, from behind a scorched looking wardrobe and a pile of abandoned old trunks.
"Isn't that a vanishing cabinet?" Luna asked.
Atum shrugged, and looked at her enquiringly. "The one the Twins broke last year maybe." He frowned as Harry's memory trickled to the foreground of his mind.
"Maybe," Luna said thoughtfully, fiddling with her new-to-her mokeskin bag, "so where's its pair? They always come in pairs...to transport objects, parcels...that sort of thing," she explained at Atum's puzzled expression, "you don't get big ones like that anymore; they're not very practical and very expensive to make...or mend. Small ones are still used though. Dad has several for his most regular correspondents...though he was very surprised to find a half-eaten biscuit in one once..."
"Which means Malfoy is up to something," Atum frowned, "bringing something in or taking something out...we should definitely keep an eye on him. One last search?" He smiled at her.
Luna grinned up at him. "Maybe I'll find another fairy lure," she held up a strange pole, one end of which was covered in little iridescent windmills trimmed with what looked like tinsel, and with a large cluster of pom-poms on the top.
oOo
Atum happily flicked through the copy of Raising Demons for Profit and Pleasure; the author's name was rather ominously obscured by a scorch mark, but the contents...the contents bore striking similarities to some of the rituals he'd...Horemheb had witnessed and performed as a young neophyte. He'd also found a halberd that at a pinch, would make-do as a training weapon, though he desperately needed to do something about that...
...something snagged at the edge of his consciousness, taut and dark and angry...a hissing chitter at the edge of his mind...
Atum carefully turned on the spot, trying to pinpoint the direction it was coming from...there...past that barrel full of broken brooms and the teetering pile of chairs...left...and then right...several suits of armour slumped disconsolately in a undignified heap...a twisted deformed thing that might have once been a sofa...then...there it was. He stopped abruptly in front of a bureau, it's polished surfaces scratched and worn, unloved. A diadem or tiara sat there...and anchored within it was a scrap, a broken torn piece of a man, one he was familiar with...the Dark Lord...Voldemort...
And someone who was stupid enough to do something this disgraceful to their fundamental essence, and then just leave it lying around where anyone could just pick it up- well, they deserved everything they got. His mind boiled with all the possibilities, the wonderful experiments he could do with this shard of a soul. He turned to Luna.
"I do believe we have our very first experiment!" His evil smile turned to puzzlement as he spied the jar full of angry smoke she was holding. "What's that?" he asked.
"I don't know," Luna replied, "but I'm looking forward to finding out."