Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other canon characters or plots. JK Rowling does. Any characters that she doesn't own are mine, though.
Chapter 4: Contemplation
Harry sighed as he watched the magnificent colors of sunrise paint the sky. It was morning at last. He hadn't been able to sleep last night, or the night before. In fact, he hadn't slept at all since he woke up about three days ago in the Hospital Wing. He was afraid that if he did, he would dream about them. About home. Another sigh escaped him, but this one was one of frustration, not fatigue. Ron. Hermione. Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey. He couldn't stop thinking about them. He couldn't keep back his anger. He had been with them. He had been at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had found him. He had brought him home. He had been home.
Harry growled and shook his head. He had to stop thinking like this. He had another day to himself, and then he had to report in. When he found out that Harry had let himself be seen, be touched, be spoken to, and that Harry had spoken to them, he would be furious. No ifs about it. He had been specifically ordered not to let anyone know he was alive, unless he killed that person until the news could spread. And there was no way Harry would kill any of his friends. No, he reminded himself, not friends. Ex-friends. He couldn't have friends anymore. After all, how could someone who was alive and legally dead have friends. No, they weren't his friends anymore. And the next time he saw them – which can never happen again – he would be even ruder, even harsher. No matter how much it hurt him.
No. He had to stop thinking like this. That part of his life was over. It was buried, just like his wand and old hands. Buried with a gravestone above it. A gravestone with his name. He grimaced. Whoever said that it was funny to be at your own funeral, or whoever implied that, was wrong. It was weird, yes, but not funny. Not funny to see your best mate crying like a baby, or your other best friend crying even worse on his shoulder. It was not funny to see the faces of Dumbledore, Professor Lupin, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and his professors as they spoke at his funeral. It was hard to not go to them and comfort them. So hard, not to stop the tears. But orders were orders, and so he couldn't. He was legally dead. That part of his life was over. His life was over.
His life. What a mess that was. He was Harry James Potter, the son of a pureblooded marauder and Head Boy and the son of a muggleborn yet powerful Head Girl. He was an orphan. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He became a hero at fifteen months when a crazy magical terrorist murdered his parents and failed to do the same to him, Harry. He was then sent to live with his magic-hating aunt, her normality-and-reality-obsessed husband, and their obese, spoiled bully of a son.
He was raised in a small closet until he was eleven, when a half-giant came and told him that he was magical. Said half-giant took him to the same school for magic that his parents attended. Only then did he gain any sense of self-worth.
Every year after that he made new friends and learned more of his heritage. And every year he had to fight for his life. His fifth year at that school, he was facing death by either starvation, thirst, or suffocation (or all three) when a god appeared to enlist him. Harry still wasn't sure if Fate saved him because he was feeling generous or because Harry was useless to him as a corpse. Not that it mattered. He was alive, yes, but he was now in Fate's service, and had to obey Fate's every order.
Now? Now he was a hero, a vigilante, a phantom, a murderer. Now he ran from the only home he had ever known and from his best friends. Why? Because the god of fate commanded him to. He had never let his uncle beat him down, he never let Snape or Malfoy push him around, and he had certainly never bowed down to Voldemort. Yet all it took was a word from Fate and he submitted instantly. Why should he? Fate took everything from Harry, made him kill over and over, and he had to beg for a few days without bloodshed. He had to beg like a dog. And he hated it. He hated – no. He had to stop thinking like that. Had to stop thinking about them. Harry was his tool, his weapon, his agent. That's it. Nothing more. Even if he did wish he could – no. Never. Never never never. Never free, never again. Harry sighed again.
Greetings, master. Harry turned and was pleasantly surprised. He had expected Misno back a few days ago. After all, it had been three days since he let Misno go explore and hunt in the Forbidden Forest. He wasn't that far. And Misno traveled fast for a snake. It shouldn't have taken him that long. True, Harry would have known if his familiar was in real danger, but he still worried. The serpent was the only one he could talk to now. He pushed the regret over the Owlspeak amulet far, far away. The ache about Ron, Hermione, and Sirius is pushed even further back.
Hey there, Fang. Have a good hunt?"
I am quite satisfied with the results. And I apologize for taking so long. Truly, I had not meant to. Harry nodded, and then narrowed his eyes as he thought of something.
"That reminds me, Fang. How exactly did an amulet I thought I destroyed months ago end up in his hands?" Misno shrinks down in shame.
Very well, I admit it. I made an illusion of the amulet replace the true one when you destroyed Hedwig's amulet. You know I do have some of my own magic. And I truly like that amulet. Harry frowned. He had been so proud when he created those amulets. It was the first time he had been able to let his creativity take physical form and actually be useful. He had especially liked the Owlspeak one. He didn't need any help to talk to Misno, but to talk to Hedwig? Well, it had been fun while he had it. But then he found out. No explanation needed.
Honestly, he had been relieved when he saw that Misno had rescued it. But orders were orders.
"Hand it over, Fang." As soon as his familiar obeyed, Harry threw the amulet into the air and pointed at it, shouting. A burst of magical fire erupted in the air, and when it was gone, only the charred and melted chain remained. Finally. One less thing to get in trouble for. Even though – no. He had to stop thinking like that.
Emotions and memories firmly pushed away, Harry sat down again. Even though the first snow of winter had fallen last night, there wasn't a trace of white anywhere near where he sat. He had used a bit of magic last night to melt it all away and bring up the warmth in his twenty-meter-diameter camp. He shivered a bit and brought the warmth up a few more degrees. Comfortable at last, he summoned a well-used notebook and flipped to the next blank sheet. He used it to plan his kills, and had, fearing his wrath,bespelled it until only he could read it or even see anything on it. He pulled the pencil out of the spiraled wire binding the paper and began jotting down his view of the attack on Malfoy Manor and its master, and what went wrong. That was what had let Dumbledore find him, and he was certain that that was what he would focus on during Harry's weekly report.
A half-hour later, his head shot up. Something was wrong. He frowned as he recognized the problem to be all-purpose containment wards, a lesser version of the one he used on Malfoy Manor in his short siege, and turned himself invisible. Who could have found him? Were there some Death Eaters he had forgotten about? No, he had torn apart Voldemort's mind to find any knowledge of his servants. He had even written every name down, and checked each one off after he (or she) was killed. It was a bit morbid, and was very cold-hearted, but it helped to think of the kills as names and numbers, not people. Not mothers or fathers or siblings or anything. Family was a tender subject to the long-orphaned teenager still.
Harry turned to check on his familiars and groaned when he found he couldn't. He couldn't move at all. Apparently the wards were more than containment ones; they had frozen him. His invisibility was a small comfort – his attacker (s) could easily just walk around his now warded camp until he (or she or they) bumped into him, Harry. Panicking now (what if it was someone he knew? what if Dumbledore had found him again? he was going to be in so much trouble!), he grabbed his magic and threw it against the wards. They didn't give. He did it again, only more magic now. Useless again. He turned his magic to the problem of his immobility, but was interrupted when red and gold paint (or something like paint) fell from nowhere, sticking to him and the ground. Revealing his position. Oh no. This was bad. Very bad. He continued throwing his magic around – against the wards, against the paint, and then trying to bring the paint under his invisibility spell. It was all useless. He abandoned the paint and threw all that was left of his magic against the freezing and containment wards. He thought he felt them give a bit, and kept pushing, but then three red jets of light reached his unmoving body, and he never finished breaking through the wards.
Sirius sighed with relief as he pulled James' invisibility cloak off. Behind him, Remus followed suit with the Headmaster's own cloak while Dumbledore shed his invisibility spell. The three raised their wands and, in well-rehearsed unison, spoke the spell to undo the powerful wards they had just raised. Once that was taken care of, Sirius rushed towards the large lump of floating red and gold paint. Yep. It was Harry. He had been afraid that all their planning had been for naught when he saw his living godson somehow detect their wards and disappear. Remus had apparently felt the same, for they both instantly whispered the incantations for their paint spell. He had practically fallen to his knees with relief when the paint stopped in midair to surround an invisible Harry. He was even more relieved when their Stunners knocked him out; they weren't sure what kind of defenses Harry would have around him and had been counting on their wards and the sheer power behind their spells to do the trick.
Grinning foolishly now, Sirius waved his wand again to remove the paint and was pleased to see that Harry's invisibility spell had worn off. He stowed his wand and carefully picked his godson up, frowning at how light he felt. Then again, Harry had always been skinny. He turned to see Remus pick up Misno, Hedwig, and Harry's sword, looking curiously around the area – an area clear of snow, strangely enough. Sirius frowned as he realized that he wasn't shivering anymore; Harry must know a spell to warm whole areas. Fascinating.
"Headmaster, when you saw Harry before, did he seem to have anything with him? A bag, a cloak, anything?" Dumbledore turned towards Remus, frowning now too. Sirius was confused at first – what did that have to do with anything? – until he realized what the problem was. There was nothing else in this little makeshift camp. No tent was set up, no bag sat on the ground. There wasn't a fire or even the supplies for one! There didn't even seem to be any food! How was Harry managing without any of that stuff?
"As a matter of fact, Remus, I didn't take much notice of that. Quite frankly, I was too shocked to see Harry at all to really care about what he did or didn't have. Though it is an interesting problem. He could be conjuring things, and he could be hunting or foraging for food, but I am certain that Harry was wearing different clothes than he is now. Where the change of clothes came from, however, I haven't the faintest idea." Seeing that the two seemed quite willing to continue on this tangent, Sirius grew impatient and finally interrupted.
"Look, if it matters so much, we can just add it to our list of questions to ask Harry. But can we get him home now? Who knows when he'll wake up? Or even worse, that god might come! Maybe Harry was here just to wait for him! Can we leave?" His two companions jerked around to him; they probably had forgotten about him. Great.
"Sorry, Padfoot. You're right. Let's get Harry home." Remus moved to his friend with an apologetic little smile. He offered to help carry Harry, but Sirius shook his head. He was just getting over the shock of having his godson alive and in his arms. He wasn't about to let go for a long time. No one could make him.
Not even an arrogant and powerful god of fate.
Author's Note: Hi everyone! You know what's pathetic? This is only half of what I planned to put in Chapter 4. It was supposed to be called Contemplation and Confrontation. But I had to take the main confrontation out because it got too long. So it's just Contemplation. On the upside, I'm maybe halfway through the next chapter. Or the second half of Chapter 4. Whichever.
Anyway, please review and tell me what you think! Please?