A/N: Well, this chapter has arrived a lot sooner than I'd expected ! My muse was harassing me, and thus not only have I achieved a new chapter, I've also put a lot of thoughts in the plot, and in some background elements as well. Especially in genealogy, in fact.
About the OCs I will introduce, they will be characters whose existences make sense and fill gaps in the potterverse. No self-insert, no mary sue. Their personalities might overlap with characters from other verses, though.
I think true OCs are almost useless in the potterverse, as it's known for its Loads and Loads of characters. I will have A LOT of work just using the forty-three students of Harry's year, and not leaving some of them in the darkest shadows (hello, Kevin Entwhistle, Sally-Ann Perks, whatever-your-first-name-is Runcorn). Their non-existent personalities can be bent to meet my needs and whims, so why should I create new characters ? Well, because it's an AU. A sufficient reason in and by itself.
In the previous notes, I've said I wouldn't give details about rape, child abuse or torture. Emphasis on details. These atrocious acts still exist, since my story is supposedly darker than My Lady Rowling's, the one and only gospel for any Potter-related issue.
Thus, here comes a WARNING: this chapter will contain mention of violent and heinous crimes the author does NOT caution, but is responsible for anyway, since he's basically a god to his characters. Don't read it if you are (very) easily offended (as an obscure element of comparison, I'm still far from the worst chapters of Renegade Cause).
DISCLAIMER ! I don't own Harry Potter. Fortunately for him. JK Rowling does, and even if she tortured him a lot, I'll do worse. Sorry, pal, but although you've had a bad time, it won't improve much. You won't be alone in your sufferings, however.
Now, read and enjoy (hopefully). A lot of foreshadowing is coming. Remember dreams are dreams and beware of unreliable narrators.
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Harry was sleeping in a comfy bed for the fifth night in a row, a nice change he was still trying to get used to. Under the warm sheets, his thin body was soft and dull while his mind was sinking in a well of blissful darkness. Harry didn't like it one bit – it made him feel so vulnerable ! That's why he was fighting against the slumber which threatened to drown him.
Despite his best efforts, his fight was a lost one. For four nights he'd resisted the temptation of a deeper sleep, and he was finally reaching his limits. Even on a floor of bare stones it would have been difficult for him to stay awake, let alone on a true bed. Little by little, his traitorous consciousness was abandoning him.
Next thing he knew, he was hearing a woman's scream. Again. Every now and then, his earliest memory woke him up in the middle of the night, filling him with dread and regrets. Yet Harry wouldn't have it any other way. A light sleep was all he asked for, and when nightmares came, it was time to awaken, else he might sank too far into the void. He even heard his mother's voice with a bit of fondness, for it was the only thing he used to know about her.
This time, however, it wasn't Lily Potter who had screamed in the night. It was the other one – one of his few benefactors. Harry immediately jerked awake, and was on his two feet at the next second, hesitating between survival and altruism.
He knew what the woman was enduring, why she'd screamed so desperately. He knew her husband was certainly dead. He knew their son was probably in the room next to his, his cries of terror covered by the pain of his mother. He could help one of them. After all, his powers may have been sufficient to oppose the black-cloaked men's.
Yet he didn't rush to the door. Instead, he ran to the window, opened it wide and jumped through. He knew he wouldn't break his legs, although his room was on the second floor: he often fell from such heights, and never suffered from any broken limbs. This time again, he slew down before touching the soft lawn of the garden.
To flee, Harry needed to hurry past the portal, but someone was guarding it – a man wearing a long, black robe and a mask. Fortunately, Harry had found a corner of shadows darker than night itself, and he was confident he couldn't be seen.
However, before he could think of anything, the events began to accelerate. A huge, bulky man ran precipitately out of the house's main gate, while a red, unnatural light could be seen through the doors and windows of the first floor.
"At last !" said the waiting man. "I thought your fun would never end. Did you take care of the boy, so we can leave before the order arrives ?"
"Yeah," grunted his companion. "I sent him a little surprise."
As to underline his words, a great fire suddenly set the whole house ablaze. The hungry flames were spreading quickly, devouring every room, every brick, every tile. It was no ordinary fire, but a malevolent conflagration which seemed very much alive.
"Well done," nodded the waiting man. "Though I wonder whether the boy has managed to escape or not."
"He's slippery," agreed his bulky friend, "but that will teach him a lesson".
"Quite right. Well, it was good to see you again, Crabbe. Pay me a visit, one of these days. I'll have a bottle of brandy ready for you."
And the man disappeared with a loud 'crack'. For one moment, Harry thought his companion would imitate him without further lingering. But the fire flared more intently than before, and the black-cloaked man caught him with the corner of his eyes.
"Here you are" he jubilated, and Harry could all but see the feral grin behind the mask while the man was drawing his strange stick from his sleeve.
Harry knew it was no good news. He could have left quickly, but back then he couldn't control where he'd arrive, and he wanted to wait for the 'order' the other man had spoken of. He tried to run away, but...
"Crucio !"
Pain struck him like a lightning bolt, twisting his nerves in tight knots and piercing every inches of his skin with red-hot blades. Harry would have screamed loud enough to wake the entire town, but he couldn't: his throat was strangled by his own muscles.
The black-cloaked man hold him like this for a full minute, before releasing him. Harry inhaled a few deep breath, despite the black smoke which was invading the air, then he backed against the garden's hedge, his eyes fearful like a little mouse's when cornered by a cat.
"How do you like it ?" spat the huge man. "The aurors had a great fun using it on me !"
Harry's mouth tasted of blood, and his body ached like he had been hit by a thousand sticks. Terrified, he lifted his head toward his torturer.
"Please... Stop... Why are you hurting me ?"
His eyes were full of tears, but the man only laughed, and pointed his wand toward him without hesitation.
It was a frightening picture. There was the burning house and the bright red, hungry light, the black smoke who smelled like coal and blood, the noise of the collapsing tiles, and, in front of everything else, the black silhouette towering above him, barking a harsh laughter.
Fear and anger overcame Harry. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to suffer ! He gathered all his strength to leave this place, but the man was quicker.
"Crucio !" he shot again.
In the blink of an eye, Harry understood he couldn't go away before the red ray hit him. Instead, he pushed. With all his might. He wanted his foes to disappear, he wanted his trials to cease, and his power responded accordingly.
With an astonishing speed for a man of his weight, his torturer flew off the ground, and broke through a window, screaming in surprise. When he recovered, rage was strong in his voice.
"YOU ! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE..."
He never finished his sentence, cut short by a yell of pain. Turning his gaze to his right sleeve, he choked out in horror: flames had begun to attack his forearm. Harry could almost see the feral grin of a little red demon, who was growing bigger with every mouthful taken on the black fabric. The bulky man cursed and try to remove his clothes, but it was too late. Soon enough, a dozen malicious creatures were biting his legs, his shoulders, until he was covered by the starving flames.
The black cloaked man screamed, screamed like no one ever did, to no avail. The fire was devouring him alive, mercilessly. Even while his life was consumed, the whole red blaze was taking the shape of a great skull, and, when its victim gave out his last breath, it turned it's flaming eye-sockets toward Harry, and laughed an evil cackle.
The air was hot, but Harry's blood was frozen in his vein. This apparition felt so wrong he wanted to puke. Unable to stand it any more, he wished to be elsewhere, anywhere, and his magic granted his wish.
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"Mister ! Wake up, young mister !"
Harry jerked awake and saw a pair of big, teacup-like eyes staring into his. Still caught in his nightmare, he summoned his magic, and the little silhouette went flying through the room, then crashed against the closest wall.
Panting, the boy sat on his bed and looked at his chamber with crazed eyes, before realizing he was at Hogwarts. In safety, at least theoretically: what if his visitor had been a death eater, or one of their servants ?
But it really was a house-elf. Harry had been introduced to them on the very first day he'd arrived at Hogwarts, when he'd accompanied McGonagall to the kitchen. The deputy headmistress had ordered them to prepare the dinner, and Harry had been shocked to see them obey so willingly, so enthusiastically.
"Eeech !" shrieked the elf plaintively.
Seeing the little creature aching, Harry felt a little guilty of his violent reaction, even if he wasn't really to blame. After all, who sneaked in other people's rooms at night, if not robbers and assassins ? Still, Harry hated the idea of hurting someone unwillingly, and he rather liked the elves – they seemed harmless, which was always a good point in his books.
"I'm sorry, Twitty" he apologized. "I had a very bad dream, I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you all right ?"
The elf lifted up and looked at Harry in awe, eyes widened.
"Mister remembers Twitty's name ? But mister only saw Twitty once !"
Harry blinked. Why was she surprised ? McGonagall had addressed every elves by their names, so it was only natural he remembered most of them. It didn't seem too difficult to him. After all, the transfiguration teacher had flooded him under a waterfall of names he never heard before: Lily and James Potter, his parents, Voldemort their killer, Crouch the Minister of Magic, various other important figures, and all the staff working at the castle. Hagrid the gamekeeper, Filch the caretaker, Pomfrey the matron, professors Sprout, Flitwick, Hooch, Forester, and he could go on and on for hours. What were a few elves' names when compared to this flow ?
"You're not really hard to recognize," reasoned Harry. "You're the only elf wearing a yellow ribbon, after all. What were you doing in my room, Twitty ?"
"Twitty was tucking the laundry, mister ! It's clean, now !"
The boy stared at her with some incredulity. Did she really clean the dirty, ragged clothes he was wearing when he arrived ? He supposed she did. Considering how proudly the elves wore their uniforms, they probably had a clothes-worship.
"Thank you, Twitty" he said. "And thank you for waking me up."
He meant it. His nightmares usually didn't last this long, and didn't need to diverge from his memories to be frightening. This time, however, some details has changed. He never heard the name of the dead death eater's, for once. And he was sure the fire never laughed either – he would have remembered for sure, and didn't like such changes at all.
"Mister doesn't need to thank Twitty" protested the elf. "Mister seemed in pain, and Twitty always protects his masters."
"But I'm not your master" remarked Harry.
"Any mister who sleeps at Hogwart's is Twitty's master, mister."
"So, any student is you master ?" asked Harry, startled. It seemed an awful lot of masters to have.
"Yes," acquiesced Twitty, "but the professors are bigger masters than the little masters, and the headmaster is the biggest master of all masters."
Well, that did explain a lot. Elves could probably have as many masters as they wanted, so long as they maintained a hierarchy between them, so to avoid conflicts. Harry kept this information in mind for future uses.
"What time is it ?" he asked aloud.
"Almost six in the morning, mister" supplied Twitty's high pitched voice.
'As good a time as any to get up' thought Harry. He stood up from his bed, reached the wardrobe, and began to dress. He didn't understand why the wizards were so intent on wearing robes, but couldn't say no to free clothes. Moreover, it was the uniform he would have to wear all year's long, therefore he might as well get used to it.
Behind him, Twitty snapped her fingers, and his bed was made again, as good as new. Then the elf asked if he needed anything, and after he said no, she took her leave with a loud crack. Harry didn't know why every method of travel he came across in the wizarding world had to be noisy. His own certainly weren't.
Harry got out of his room, and began to wander in the vast castle's corridors. At such an early time, there was no way he'd met anyone, so he thought he could further his knowledge of the place. He already knew where the great hall, the library and the kitchen were. And the headmaster's office too, but he couldn't enter – he needed a password.
Since he arrived, Harry hadn't been left alone too often, hence why he wanted to learn more about Hogwarts. McGonagall always seemed to be around, for which he was thankful. After all, she did defeat two of the hounds on her own, and the boy had never been one to disdain an extra protection of this kind. There was, however, a downside.
He wasn't allowed to explore on his own, and it frustrated him to no end. No one had ever managed to restrict his movements, and he didn't want it to change. Even the years-worth of informations he got from the deputy headmistress weren't worth it.
Of course, he'd been quite glad to learn all that stuff about the wizarding world. Their currency system was a little obscure, but understandable. He was, however, astonished to learn they used owls to send letters – he had met McGonagall's, but he hadn't thought it was so common.
Even more pleasing had been the stories about his parents. Yet, that was no reason to smother his freedom !
Harry's steps eventually led him to the dungeons. It was a gloomy place, but there was a lot of dark corners, which meant a lot of places to hide. The boy found the idea quite reassuring, although he hoped he'd never have to actually seek shelter in a big armour's shadow.
Clang-clang-clang
Without waiting to see what exactly had caused the chains-rattling noise he'd heard, Harry instantly jumped behind a statue. 'Of course' he thought depressively 'something had to happen just after I hoped nothing would'.
Then he saw a translucent human shape approaching. It was a man, and his robe was covered by stains of silver blood. A ghost, Harry understood. According to McGonagall, they couldn't hurt the living, but the emaciated man seemed dangerous nonetheless, therefore Harry decided to wait until the lingering spirit disappeared.
From a closer range, the ghost's expression oscillated between boredom and remorse. His robe arboured a snake emblem, and he was wearing chains. How they could produce any sound without a substance of their own was beyond Harry.
" I know you're here" said the ghost in a hoarse whisper. "Show yourself."
But Harry didn't see a reason to abide his order. Such bluff was a common trick, and not one Harry would ever fall for. If the ghost really knew where he was, he'd have looked in his direction, but as he didn't, Harry found it wiser to remain hidden.
"I heard footsteps" continued the ghost with the same tone of voice. "You aren't Peeves. Therefore, you shouldn't have any reason to hide. Show yourself, lest I warn professor Snape an intruder has penetrated the dungeons."
Reluctantly, Harry had to admit the bat-like man was likely awake at this early hour, and he silently left his cache, for he didn't want further trouble with the suspicious potions master, who often looked at him with weary eyes. Yet, he was so quiet while stepping out of the statue's shadow that the ghost didn't hear him, and was unknowingly turning him his back. 'Perhaps' thought Harry 'ghost's senses aren't as sharp as ours'.
"I'm here" he declared, and smiled smugly when he saw the ghost jump in surprise. Now he could say he'd scared the life out of someone who didn't have one to begin with.
"You're stealthy, young boy" remarked the ghost with suspicion. Then he added: "I didn't think this year's term had begun."
"It hadn't" answered Harry truthfully.
"Then why are you here, child ?"
"Someone told me it was a great place to play hide-and-seek" the boy answered sarcastically – he hated to be called 'child' in such a condescending tone. "But you cheated. You can't ask the adults for help."
The ghost narrowed his eyes, but didn't raise his voice.
"Show more respect for your elder, young boy" he warned. "I was born a thousand years before your own parents, and I saw horrors you can't even imagine."
"I don't feel like exchanging horror stories with a ghost" retorted Harry. "I've been through enough painful experiences, I don't need to know yours, thank you very much."
And he left in the direction from which the ghost had come, but the transparent being apparently wasn't done with him. He followed Harry, and appeared at his side with a slight frown on his face.
"Who are you, child ? Your eyes are too hard for someone of your age."
"I get that a lot" snorted Harry. "My first name is Harry, and my surname is probably Potter"
"Harry Potter," murmured the ghost. "The dead have been talking about you a lot in the recent years."
That chilled Harry, but he realized the 'dead' thing had to refer to the Hogwarts' ghosts, else it'd be quite creepy. Well, even creepier than it already was – the ghost talking about him wasn't an idea he found much relish in either.
"Had they something interesting to say ?" he asked, keeping his apparent bravado.
"Perhaps" answered the ghost vaguely. And then he said : "I'm called the Bloody Baron."
"I didn't introduce myself as 'the Boy-Who-Lived'" replied Harry dryly, annoyed by the ghost's unhelpful answer. "I gave you my name, why don't you give me yours ?"
The Baron watched him intently. There was no anger in his stare, only a thoughtful curiosity, even though Harry hadn't showed him the respect due to his rank.
"You're right" he admitted. "Although no one asked my name in more than fifty years, I shall give it to you."
He seemed lost in a dream for a few moments, and his eyes were full of regrets and nostalgia when he finally gave out his identity.
"When I was alive" he declared "my name was Waldemar Gaunt."
And before Harry could ask anything else, the Bloody Baron had disappeared through a wall. Being a ghost seemed to have perks, even if the price to pay to become one was somewhat heavy. Harry wondered idly if there was a magic way to cross through concrete barriers at will. It was an interesting concept which could prove very useful in his opinion.
However, it wasn't a matter he could investigate while standing alone in a dark corridor. Shrugging, Harry continued his exploration of the dungeons.
Soon enough, he saw a feeble light glowing through an half-open door, while an odd smell was hanging in the air. With small, soundless steps, Harry came closer to the ajar opening, and took a cautious look.
Professor Snape was standing above a copper cauldron, stirring its content steadily, apparently quite absorbed in his task. His dark, narrow eyes didn't wavered from the boiling potion as he seized one of three helmet-like, yellow pale flowers, and began to cut them carefully.
"Enter or not, Mr. Potter" the potions master sneered "but don't think for a moment I don't know you're here."
Astonished, Harry complied. How did Snape detect his presence ? Did he use ultrasounds to locate him, like an actual bat ? At any rate, the potions master didn't lift his head from his work when the young boy entered the room.
"These flowers doesn't look edible" remarked Harry.
"They aren't" grunted Snape.
"They look funny, though. As if the plant was wearing a hood."
"How... amusing" snorted Snape. "Considering how monkshood is actually one of their names. Of course, you probably read it in one of the books the deputy headmistress lent to you in advance, thus giving another proof of her blatant favouritism."
Harry shot a dark glare which didn't faze the potions master. He hadn't even open said books, and they were coming from the school's library, anyway. They were meant to be used by students. And what was this 'favouritism' accusation about ?
"I'm not even sorted" he protested. "How does it classify as favouritism ?"
McGonagall had explained the four-houses system to him, and while he didn't care much about which house he would join, he understood that the potions master's house, Slytherin, was the archrival of the transfiguration teacher's, Gryffindor. However, as Harry was in neither of them, it was ridiculous to associate him with this childish rivalry.
"Both of your parents were in Gryffindor" sneered Snape contemptuously. "Obviously she'd see you as one of his precious lion's cubs."
It made sense, but it was still unfair to blame it on him. 'Maybe there's history between him and my parents', thought Harry. 'They're about the same age, now that I think of it.' If that was the case, it was useless to protest against Snape's accusation.
"What's the other name of monkshood ?" he asked instead, hoping to deflate the teacher's animosity.
"Wolfsbane" answered Snape curtly.
"Does your potion kill wolves ?" enthused Harry. "I could use some – I've had some bad experiences with canids."
"It doesn't" growled the potions. "The Wolfsbane potion is used to alleviate the symptoms of lycanthropy, but it might indeed kill the patient instead, if you keep disturbing me while I brew it."
But Harry wasn't impressed. On the contrary, he was only too glad to get back at Snape for his previous scornful behaviour.
"What's lycanthropy ?" he insisted. "Some kind of disease ?"
"Yes. Its victims turn into werewolves during the full moon, and this mixture is supposed to render them harmless in their transformed body."
"So, muggles stories are accurate about werewolves" mused Harry. "I did wonder, after one of them chased me throughout Hyde park."
This gave Snape a pause, and the potions master shot him a quick, surprised glance.
"How are you still alive, then ?" he inquired. "In lupine forms, werewolves are fast, resistant to magic, and their noses are excellent. Not unlike the Hounds of Shadows we saved you from, in fact, and you didn't seem to fare too well against them."
"I beg to differ" grimaced Harry. "The hounds were far worse. In both case I found a way to flee very fast, very far from them, but the werewolf was unable to follow me after that, whereas the hounds kept appearing, until professor McGonagall forced them to let us go."
"Nothing surprising here" said Snape. "They are, after all, among the few creatures supposedly able to apparate."
"You mean, like Dumbledore's instant travel ?"
" Not really. Since nobody can apparate within Hogwarts' walls, the headmaster had to ask his phoenix familiar to bring us in instead. But yes, apparating means travelling from a place to another in the span of an instant."
"Urgh" winced Harry. "These dogs didn't need another advantage against me."
"No," agreed Snape against all expectations, "they didn't."
Silence came back, only disturbed by the boiling mixture in the copper cauldron. The potions master looked quite focused again, and Harry watched as the liquid turned dark grey. Then a blue smoke began to raise from the cauldron.
"Satisfactory" commented Snape. "Despite your unceasing interruptions, it seems I managed to perform adequately this highly complex mixture."
"A testimony of your unparalleled skill, no doubt" replied Harry dryly.
"Quite" acquiesced the potions master.
'Well, I was being sarcastic' shrugged Harry 'but flattery can't hurt either'. Snape probably had a lot of confidence in his skills – and rightly so, if the title 'potions master' meant what it sounded like. Idly, Harry wondered if a shampoo was the only thing he'd never brewed, or if the idea had simply never occurred to him.
With a flick of his wand, Snape summoned quite a few empty flasks, and proceeded to fill them one by one with the newly achieved Wolfsbane potion. A little bored, Harry asked if he could help him, and was annoyed by the man raised eyebrow. 'I'm a street child' he thought, 'a liar, a robber, a killer if you want, but it doesn't mean I can't be polite or helpful'.
"Unless you wear dragonhide gloves" declined Snape "I can't allow you near the potion."
But then he said, somewhat relucantly:
"If you don't have any better way to lose your time, you can find such gloves on the shelf behind me. Be careful not to break anything."
Surprised by Snape sudden compliance, Harry went to the shelf, and seized said gloves. They were scaly, of course, since dragons were reptilian creatures, but felt smooth inside. Before he went back to the cauldron, however, his eyes caught a glimpse of a box filled with rounds, polished stones. On this box, the word 'Bezoar' was written.
"What does 'Bezoar' mean ?" asked Harry while he was filling Snape flasks with great caution.
"It designs an agglomerate of organic and inert elements which can be found in the gastrointestinal system of some animals" provided Snape, quite unhelpfully.
"And in simpler, understandable terms ?"
" It's a special stone you might find in a goat's stomach" sneered Snape, clearly annoyed by Harry's insistence.
"That's better" smirked the boy. "But why do you keep it on your shelf in such quantity?"
"They are essential components in the brewing of many antidotes" explained the potions master. "In fact, their efficiency in that particular area is so great they can be used against most poison, just by shoving it in the victim's throat."
Harry widened his eyes. He wasn't getting out of this room before he'd put his hands on at least one of these life-saving stones !
"It sounds brilliant !" he enthused. "Why aren't they sold everywhere ?"
"They have no effect on muggles. Plus, they are far less effective than the specific antidotes, and thus useless after too long a time had been spent, or too much poison had been ingested."
"But it would save my life if I swallow it quickly after having drunk just a few drops of poison, right ?"
"Yes it would" conceded Snape. "That is, if the poisoning hasn't incapacitated you beforehand. A master of poison would make sure you couldn't save yourself."
And, while saying it, the professor's eyes were glowing threateningly. Of course, Harry was undeterred, and, when he went to the shelf to tuck his flasks of potions, he took advantage of Snape's first moment of inattention to snatch one of his bezoars. It was a risky move, since he didn't knew which magical protection the potions master could have set, but worth it in his opinion. After all, poisoning may very well be the next attempt on his life the black-cloaked men would try, especially once the terms would have started – McGonagall had told him some of the former death eaters would send their children to Hogwarts this year, which made it only likelier.
"Where did you put the flasks ?" asked Snape suspiciously.
"Under the Wolfsbane etiquette" Harry replied. "Next to the 'Draught of Living Death'. Who did you brew it for, anyway ?"
"It's none of your business, Potter" snapped the potions master. "Werewolves have a right to keep their condition secret if they wish so."
"I was asking about the Draught, you know. It sounds pretty lethal."
That gave Snape a startled pause, during which he seemed to weight his answer carefully.
"The Draught of Living Death" drawled the potions master "has the interesting property of provoking every symptoms of a true death without actually killing its victims. While I do not want to expand on which circumstances can require its use, you may rest assured they do exist, and I wouldn't want to be caught off-guard by them, not without this particular potion at my disposal."
It seemed like a sensible subject, so Harry didn't react. Apparently, Snape wasn't aware of his theft. Harry didn't need to upset him for a different reason, did he ?
"I've wondered" he asked instead, "did you know my parents ?"
Caught of guard, Snape froze, and shot a calculative glance at Harry.
"Yes, I did" he admitted reluctantly. "However, I'd rather not speak about them. They weren't exactly the best friends I ever had."
'So, there was history between them' thought Harry triumphantly. Snape wouldn't share stories about their time at Hogwarts like McGonagall had done, but at least he had an explanation for the potions master's cold and distant behaviour. Unless, of course, it was his natural attitude.
"Oh, I just wanted to know if I look like my father as much as the deputy headmistress claims" Harry inquired innocently.
McGonagall had commented a lot about this particular point. So did Hagrid, the half-giant, when Harry was introduced to him. It got him mildly curious, of course.
"You do" winced Snape with obvious distaste. "You'd be his spitting image, if you were wearing glasses."
But his dark eyes and his twisted features softened considerably after he added:
"However, you do have your mother's eyes."
Startled, Harry peered at the potions master while he seemed plunged into an old dream. He really looked his age – early thirties at most – when he wasn't sneering, frowning or wincing. Nevertheless, this softening didn't last, and Snape's turned his head toward Harry as quickly as a cobra,glaring at him with obvious animosity.
"What are you still doing here ?" the potions master barked. "Get out ! Now !"
Harry was only too glad to oblige. He knew, after all, when was coming the time to leave a place where he'd dwelt too long. Before two minutes were spent, he was out of the dungeons, and going straight to the kitchen, for breakfast time had arrived.
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Minerva McGonagall had woken up at seven in the morning, rather late when compared to her habits. The last days, however, had been quite busy, and she had stayed awake until very late the previous evening.
As deputy headmistress, one of his main duty was to answer Hogwarts' mails. And oh, so many letters had been received during the last three days ! Somehow, everyone seemed to know Harry Potter was back, and there wasn't a wizard in Britain who did not want to say something about this.
The messages were ranging from 'Please, let me adopt the poor boy' (this one was from Molly Weasley), to 'Say the brat his days are numbered' (this one wasn't signed, of course). In between, there were a lot of congratulations, as well as snide remarks, the palms going without contest to Rita Skeeter's 'why didn't you find him before, we can only wonder' line.
Yet, despite the unusual flood of mails, the deputy headmistress wouldn't have been overworked, if there hadn't been some more serious, completely unrelated letters in their midst.
'It seems we'll have an over-enthusiastic muggleborn student at Hogwarts again' she thought, caught between fondness and exasperation. Miss Granger had sent mail after mail ever since her eleventh birthday, nearly a whole year before, causing the transfiguration teacher to question Hogwarts' custom to inform the students of their attendance on this particular day. The young witch appeared to be on a permanent sugar high, judging by her frenetic handwriting.
It was quite reminiscent of some students among the best the school ever had the privilege to host, Lily Potter being one of the most striking examples, but far from the only one. The late husband of Andromeda Tonks, Ted, had been quite proficient in the theoretical aspects of magic, and had used his talents in the last war with much success. If not for his untimely demise, Minerva had no doubt he would have risen high in the ministry's hierarchy.
However favourable to miss Granger were these comparisons, the deputy headmistress sometimes wished the young girl would be more like Mr. Finch-Fletchley, who sounded like a calm and compounded boy, while the last muggleborn student, Mr. Entwhistle, hadn't shown as much an interest in the wizarding world as the other two.
At any rate, she now had another student to worry about. Mr. Potter was muggle-raised – though in fact raised by no one but himself – and as such had as much to learn about the wizarding world as his muggleborn colleagues. Alas, he seemed to have inherited his father's carefree studying style rather than his mother's studious one, and thus didn't spend nearly enough time reading to make up for his lack of knowledge. Indeed, most of what he now knew about their world had been taught through lengthy discussions with Minerva herself.
The deputy headmistress entered the boy's room, only to find it empty. The bed was made, and, as he had no true possessions, it was as if nobody had ever occupied his chamber.
"Of course" she complained aloud "Harry Potter would be the only eleven years old to wake up before eight during the holidays."
What was the name of elf responsible for the teacher's wing where Harry was currently residing ? Oh, yes.
"Twitty !" she called.
"Mistress wants Twitty's help ?" ask the tiny creature. Minerva smiled to her. She never understood how some purebloods could behave so condescendingly with their house-elves, when the serving creatures were so nice and helpful.
"Very much, Twitty. Do you know where Mr. Potter may be ?"
"No, mistress" answered the elf, bowing the head with some misplaced shame. "The young mister must have left shortly after he'd thrown Twitty against the wall."
"He WHAT ?" choked Minerva out.
The deputy headmistress was positively outraged. Difficult childhood or not, such violent behaviour was unacceptable, especially when it was committed on defenceless entities: the Hogwarts house-elves couldn't hurt nor disobey the students, hence why they weren't supposed to show themselves to the children during daytime. Abusing the weaker wasn't something Minerva was willing to let slide, whoever may be the culprit.
"The young mister didn't mean it" added Twitty hastily. "He had a bad dream and Twitty was trying to wake him up."
"That's no excuse !" exclaimed the transfiguration teacher. " One does not accidentally throw a fifty pounds elf across a room !"
"It was an accident !" shrieked the elf desperately. "The young mister accidentally used his magic on Twitty, he didn't mean it !"
'Accidental magic ?' frowned Minerva, perplexed. When a child was upset, it did arrive, from time to time, that he could briefly used powerful wandless spells. Young Harry Potter showed remarkable affinity with this particular branch of magic, but Albus said it was controlled. Did he lost his control because of his nightmare ?
"Did he apologize, Twitty ?" she inquired.
"The young mister did, mistress" the elf replied happily. "He even remembered Twitty's name !"
Startled, Minerva wondered when the boy had even learnt it. Then it struck her they could have met on his first evening at Hogwarts, when she'd brought him to the kitchen. But Minerva had addressed a dozen different elves at the time, and never more than once for each. Had the boy such an excellent memory ? If so, it was a pity he didn't seem quite eager to learn.
"Well, it should be fine, then. Thanks you very much, Twitty."
"Twitty's always happy to help ! She'd search the young mister for the old mistress !"
And then the elf disappeared with a loud noise. While not too happy to be called old (she was only fifty-five, for Morgana's sake ! Why did everyone seem to think she was seventy or more ?), Minerva appreciated the elf's eagerness. She could certainly use her help, as Mr. Potter had proven quite elusive in the past ten years.
Out of the chamber, she was greeted by an old friend, who was fleeting idly above the floor.
"Merry meet, Minerva !" the ghost said jovially. " I've just heard the Potter's heir was at Hogwarts, is it true ?"
"It is, sir Nicholas" she replied. "For five night he's stayed in this very room. How come you've learnt it just now ?"
"Well," shrugged the ghost, " we dead people don't feel time flowing as the living does. The news has been brought to me by the Bloody Baron, who met the boy in the dungeons this very morning, I think. The Baron seemed impressed by his demeanour, though I don't know what they spoke about."
"Which part of the dungeons ?" inquired the deputy headmistress. "We can't let the boy wander wherever he wants."
" I'd imagine it was near the Slytherin common room, as the Baron likes to make sure Peeves doesn't mess with it."
With a quick word of thanks, Minerva rushed to the dungeons. There was no telling how would turn a confrontation between Severus Snape and the spawn of James Potter, and the potions master was the less dangerous being among those who could be found in the castle's underground. The others were kept locked, but Harry Potter has proven unpredictable enough to open the wrong door.
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Minerva found his colleague lost in the contemplation of an old image book. It was a sad vision to see, in her opinion. At thirty-one, you'd think the potions master wouldn't have the eyes of an old man remembering better times, but he had. The deputy headmistress knew how great a toll had the war taken on Severus Snape.
His role had lost him everything. Being a spy in the midst of the death eaters had alienated him many of the Light families, and all of the Dark Lord's supporters. He had friends on both sides of the war, and none had remained to side with him when the smoke had cleared. If not for the headmaster, Severus would have been killed without a trial.
But Minerva knew he was truly a hero. How couldn't he be ? The Dark Lord's was the greatest legilimens alive, Albus had told her, and the potions master had deceived him countless times to give the right side a tiny edge. Severus had killed innocents against his sentiments, damaged his very soul and lost any hope to redeem himself in the eyes of the people who truly counted for him. He had done it for the greater good, but everybody looked at him with hatred.
It was the price of treason. Even when you betrayed a great evil, the stain of your deception would follow you all your life. For that reason, neither Severus nor his heinous counterpart, Sirius Black – may Merlin spit thrice on his name ! could be forgiven by their contemporaries. It was said, however, that the Dark Lord admired both men's skills.
" Good morning, Severus" she greeted him softly.
" Minerva" replied the potions master, lifting his head from his book dispassionately. "What can I do for your service ?"
Always so cold. Always so distant. Did the man fear the judgement of his peers, or did he fear to get attached and lose even more than he already had ?
" I'm searching for Mr. Potter. I've heard he was seen in the dungeons."
"He was" confirmed Severus. "He came here uninvited, and began to pester me incessantly with unnecessary inquiries. How I've managed to perform a decent Wolfsbane potion is a mystery even to me."
"Well, I'd be glad if Lily's son was pestering me about transfiguration" replied Minerva dryly. "However, it's not quite why I came here. When did he leave your office ?"
"Not so long ago" sneered the potions master. "He stayed for quite a while, like a true parasite, and even had the gall to ask if he truly looked like his father."
"You can't blame an orphan for asking this, Severus" protested Minerva. "Everyone will comment about that, anyway. He's James reborn, the eyes and the glasses excepted."
"As I've kindly explained to him, even though I had no true reason to comply with a Potter's whims and wishes. I guess he didn't present himself before you after leaving, then ? He truly is his father's son."
Minerva had to admit her younger colleague had made a point, as she had the very same thought earlier. Both boys seemed utterly reluctant to obey orders of any kind. However, there was a key difference between them.
"I don't think so, Severus. James was a mischievous child who'd claim every prank he'd commit. He would stare in your eyes insolently while explaining how and why he acted so. Whenever he fled from the teachers, he laughed so hard he'd eventually lost his breath and got captured."
"I know how James Potter was, Minerva" snapped Severus. "As you very well know, I was one of his favourite victims. How different is his son, according to you ?"
"I can't know for sure" admitted the deputy headmistress "since the term hasn't started yet. But Mr. Potter is a lot quieter than James ever was. If I had to guess, I'd say if he had to run away from us, he'd do it silently, and would soon disappear behind a corner."
"A la Evan Rosier, then ?" snorted Severus dryly. "I'm not sure I'm relieved."
"Your bad faith is impossible, Severus. Mr. Potter is clearly not a pureblood pampered heir, unlike James, or Black and Rosier for that matter. In fact, he's more like you than he's like any of them."
This, at least, elicited a reaction. Minerva had never seen such a wince on Severus' face: he looked as if he had swallowed something particularly sour. But, surprisingly enough, he didn't come back with a sharp retort.
"I see why you might think so" he drawled reluctantly. "Half-blood, a difficult upbringing, trusting no one but himself -"
"You did trust someone else, Severus" she reminded him.
"Did I ? In the end, it made no difference. Soon enough, I ended alone. But it doesn't matter. Whatever Albus might say, I know of a graduate who was more like Potter than anyone else."
"Oh ?" Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Do I know of him ?"
"You certainly do. However, it's not my story to tell, but the headmaster's. Now, as I can't help you, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me return to my work."
And, to end the discussion, the potions master rose up and went to his shelf. Without another glance to his colleague, he began to collect ingredients for another potion, causing Minerva to sigh and leave without another word.
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Two hours later, she was in front of the great hall with no idea of where the boy could be. Twitty hadn't manifested herself, and...
"Mistress ! Twitty found him ! The young mister is on the second floor, but bad Peevys is after him !"
… Now she had. Sweet Merlin, why had she done to deserve it ?
Soon after, the deputy headmistress had at least found Peeves, if not Harry. The poltergeist was never hard to catch, as he rarely tried to dissimulate his mischiefs. At the moment, Peeves was busy doing a ruckus while systematically dismantling the suits of armour of the gallery.
"Peeves !" the deputy headmistress barked. "Cease right away, lest I call the Baron !"
"If it isn't sweetie, cattie Minnie !" grinned the poltergeist. "You can't find your whiskers, I mean, your whiskey ? I solemnly swear I didn't stole it, not this time. Maybe you should ask the Weasleys twinnies ? Oh, but they aren't there, right. Merlin, I'll die of boredom before the bratties come. Hah ! You'd like it ? But it was only for the sake of poetry, you hag !"
"Where's the boy ? I know you saw him."
The first ten years, Minerva had been upset by Peeves' teasing. Then it got old, and she'd learnt by then it was better not to respond in kind. Only Fred and George Weasley were mad enough to try. It never ended well.
"The brat ! Ah ! Ah ! I hate him already. I'd set a perfect trap, a falling armour on a tiny child, but he dodged, the coward ! Hours of preparation spent in vain ! If I catch him, I'll prank him till Arthur comes !"
"Peeves, if your... prank had succeeded, he could have been hurt. Very seriously. These armours weight at least ten stones !"
"Pah ! Whatever ! If he can take on Voldyshort, why'd he make my joke abort ! Hey, that was a rhyme again !"
"Where. Is. He." growled Minerva dangerously.
"Dunno" Peeves shrugged. "He was there, then he wasn't. Couldn't find him, and believe me I tried. So the cat can't find the rat ? Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe you'd actually find a rat-tlesnake ! HA HA HA !"
And then he flew through the ceiling. No hint, no clue, and a whole gallery to clean. There were days like this, thought Minerva, when she'd gladly sleep until ten.
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'What's going on with this castle ?' Thought Harry angrily. Everything was mad inside. The ghosts were fickle at best, lunatic at worse, and one of them was even outright murderous. He'd tried to make a full steel-made suitfall on him, and from the ceiling, for goodness' sake !
The talking pictures had awed him the first day, but now it was getting old and creepy. He couldn't walk in front of them without receiving stares and overhearing whispers. It was very tiring. There was even a knight among them who had harassed Harry for hours ! He wanted to exchange hero stories, or something like that. Completely crazy.
Even the doors and the stairs had their own will. Harry had tried to go out of the castle, even if McGonagall had prohibited it when he was alone, but no gate would allow him out of the building. He'd also tried to reach the astronomy tower, which was forbidden to him for whatever reason, and the moving stairs simply wouldn't bring him there.
And then there was the dust-coloured, yellow-eyed cat who'd followed him for the last ten minutes, and was beginning to creep him out. Canids weren't the only animals he was weary of. Cats and the likes had also been after him for quite a long time, and they were sneakier. Harry preferred snakes. At least he could negotiate with them, whereas mammals never listened, and birds never answered.
"Are you done following me around ?" he hissed to the cat.
Harry felt superbly ignored by the gaunt animal, as it didn't stop, but watched him intently with obviously malicious intents. He could feel such things, and he wasn't pleased to know he was the target of the cat's hostility.
Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath. Then he moved exceedingly fast, and kicked the cat in the ribs, essentially throwing her away from him. As she meowed in pain, a voice shot:
"Mrs Norris ! Are you all right ? Is it Peeves again ?"
And Harry ran away. For the second time this day. Perhaps he was safe from any outsiders, but it seemed Hogwarts' others inhabitants had decided to pick on him. Well, their loss: he wouldn't be caught by anyone.
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This very evening, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office tiredly, but somewhat satisfied by the way things had turned. Paperwork was a necessary evil, and negotiations were always quite trying, especially when his partners were as stubborn as minister Crouch was. But finally, he had managed to convert the ministry to his views concerning young Harry Potter.
Initially, Bartemius Crouch had wanted to organize what could be best described as an auction sale for the child's guardianship. Many families had proven quite willing to adopt the heir of a rich and ancient line. Though not a member of the sacred twenty-eight 'Most Ancient and Noble' households, Harry was of sufficient fortune and nobility to attract many attentions. Of course, his fame and status as a national hero didn't play a small part in this gathering of vultures. Who wouldn't want to adopt the 'Boy-Who-Lived' ?
Most of these families were purebloods, and some were his own unconditional supporters, such as the Longbottoms, the Weasleys, the Abbotts, the Bones, or even the Lovegoods. Other were nests of death eaters, like the Malfoys, the Notts, the Selwyns, the Yaxleys or the Flints. In between, many clans were on the ranks. The Diggorys, the Greengrasses, the Slughorns, the Hilliards and indeed the Crouches themselves were the most prominent among those.
Despite the minister's idea to send Harry to the most generous sponsor of the ministry, Albus had used his influence and managed to delay the decision until the end of the year's term. Forcing a family upon a child simply wasn't healthy in Albus' vast experience. When said child was Harry, hardened and sharpened by his trials, and when the candidates were motivated by greed only, it was a sure recipe for a disaster.
Far better would be to let him bond with children his age, and to ask his opinion once he'd made friends. He'd used all his political talents to convince the minister this wasn't just an idealistic view of the world. Who did Crouch take him for, anyway ? A senile old man who spent his time sucking sweets and candies ?
As quite a lot of the candidates would sent their heirs at Hogwarts this year, the delay he had earned would probably start a kind of competition between the pureblood children to gain Harry's attention, but, oddly, the headmaster trusted the young boy's judgement concerning his choice of friends.
Many things could be said about Albus Dumbledore: he was ruthless, heartless, even inhuman when required, but he didn't relish in other people's misery. Especially when it was about a child whose parents had been among his most loyal followers. Although he wanted Harry to become his weapon, Albus certainly didn't want him to be miserable. Riddle's example had proven it would likely lead him to embrace the dark arts. Avoiding was the headmaster's main motivation, but not the only one.
Albus wanted to give Harry a reason to fight beyond simple survival. Maybe it wouldn't ensure his loyalty. Maybe it wouldn't ensure his victory. But at least, it would ensure the boy would try to win, and Albus knew very well how frightful could be those who defended the only happiness they ever had.
Indeed, back in the days, Grindelwald's advance in the West had been stopped for the first time when he'd tried to get through the first and only reserve of French Veelas. His forces hadn't bothered to negotiate, in which they might very well have succeeded. Instead, they had begun to systematically capture and rape the bird-women's daughters. As a result, the Veelas had fought so fiercely that even outnumbered three-to-one, they had defeated the Dark Lord's army, thus shocking all Europe, and giving hope to the rapidly retreating French forces.
When cornered, the weak could triumph over the strong. Albus had learnt this lesson. It was the kind of strength he hoped to give to young Harry, so that he could stay in the Light and put an end to an eventual new rise of the Dark Lord. That was why he wanted him to live in a loving family – retrospectively, the Dursleys would have been an incredibly bad choice on this aspect, though they made it up in safety, thanks to the blood wards.
To that end, Dumbledore had agreed he wouldn't use his political weight to make sure Harry's guardianship wouldn't go to one of the so-called 'Light' family. He even accepted to let the Daily Prophet cover the Boy-Who-Lived reappearance – fortunately, reporters weren't accepted on the school's ground, which meant Harry would only be bothered on Diagon Alley – and credit the ministry for the young hero's return. It didn't bother Albus too much. No one would take that claim seriously, not after ten years of fruitless researches.
These weren't true sacrifices, he reasoned. Albus certainly didn't need to polish his public image, and Bartemius Crouch wasn't such a bad minister he didn't deserve a small bit of good publicity. Furthermore, the headmaster expected Harry to befriend Gryffindors, like his parents did. Even if he didn't, he still wouldn't be deceived by the lies of the children of those who'd tried to kill him for the last ten years. The boy looked sharp enough for that.
Suddenly, the sound of an old copper bell warned him someone had pronounced the password to his office in front of the gargoyle. He didn't need his usual detecting spell to know who it was, though.
"Good evening, Minerva" he greeted. "What brings you in this old man's lair ?"
"I'm going to the news, Albus" replied the deputy headmistress. "Did Augusta succeed in her tenacious attempts to gain Mr. Potter's guardianship ?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear" smiled Dumbledore. "Though her obstinacy appeared to impress even Bartemius."
"Then who ? Amelia ? Molly ? Not Horace, I hope ?"
"None of those, Minerva. Indeed, it appears the question of which household will have the privilege to host Mr. Potter until his coming of age is still far from being answered."
" Thanks Merlin for small mercies" breathed McGonagall with relief. "Their letters kept coming for the three last days, although I don't know how they learnt he had been found."
"Maybe they had as much confidence in the Founder's charm as I did" supposed the headmaster. "Or maybe Bartemius simply told them the good news as soon as he received it."
"The latter is considerably more likely" snorted the transfiguration teacher. "I assume Hogwarts will have to act as his guardian until the end of the term ?"
"You're right, Minerva. How was young Harry's day ?"
Albus was a little startled to see his trusted deputy headmistress begin to laugh dryly. Did something happen while he was at the ministry ?
"Nothing out of the ordinary" she told him. "He had a nightmare, so he nearly killed a house-elf in what he thought was self-defence. Then he descended to the dungeons, talked with the Bloody Baron and discussed with Severus the longest any child ever dared to. He spent most of the following hours eluding with much success my best efforts to find him, engaging a game of hide-and-seek with Peeves and Argus, winning against both, and certainly not reading the books he have such a great need of. Why, Albus, it was a very normal day for a boy his age."
"Was the house-elf seriously injured ?" asked the headmaster with a worried face.
Minerva McGonagall repressed a sighed. Even after so many years, she still couldn't follow his train of thoughts in the slightest. Was it truly the only thing he noticed about Harry's day, or was he simply playing with her ?
"Not quite" she admitted. "Twitty was very excited to tell me the 'young mister' had remembered her name, and had apologized for sending her flying across his room. She seemed in perfect shape."
"Well then, Minerva, you brought excellent news to my senile, agitated mind."
He truly meant that. Even if Tom could have apologized to the elf, he would never have remembered her name. After the worrying temper the boy had shown on the evening they'd met, any difference between him and Riddle was a good point in his books. Maybe there was nothing significant to their similarities, after all – though there still were a lot of them, even physically.
"If you say so, Albus" said the deputy headmistress, somewhat abashed. "Will we soon bring Mr. Potter to Gringotts and Diagon Alley, then ?"
The white-bearded man pondered the question a few seconds, then he smiled, the famous mad twinkling back in his blue eyes.
"Why, of course Minerva. The day on which you'll accompany our muggleborn children would be ideal, don't you think ?"
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And yes, next chapter will be Diagon Alley. Maybe. Probably. Without a doubt. Whatever, next time we'll meet Hermione, Justin and Kevin, aka the muggleborn gang. And no, I haven't forgotten Dean Thomas. I've just thought his true father may have survived... Or not. You'll know all about it if it becomes relevant.
Don't forget to REVIEW, pleeeaaaase, I'd love to get a detailed opinion of my work so far (because I know the first chapter was a little short, you see ? But this one deserves better).