Disclaimer: No... no... nononononononononononononononono! Why... why my viewers would I ever choose to own the Rowling Harry Potter books? Nothing is at allllllllllllllllllll right in them. There's no Dark Harry, no Character Bashing *cough Dumbles cough*, Draco and Harry aren't friends, Nagini isn't Harry's foster mother (yes I have read that one), Voldy hasn't renamed Harry as his heir and only beloved child! But most of all... its those WEASLEYS! Those Weasley's questioning every move HE makes, comparing him to bodily functions, why its simply vile! And I ask you... WHY WOULD I WISH TO OWN SUCH A THING!
To my lovely Lords and Ladies of the Manor, please enjoy the latest requisite to my collection, may yours every grow larger and stronger,
May the odds ever be in your favor,
*Kasamira
Dumbledore's office was silent.
The portraits which copiously littered the walls were snoring loudly in their antique frames, and Fawkes looking as regal as ever was posing quietly on his perch. When Harry sank into the chair opposite Dumbledore's desk Fawkes had instantly perched himself on the Gryffindor's leg, it was small comfort, but it was a show of support... one Harry would not likely be receiving from any other being.
Dumbledore wasn't looking at him, as the 5th year stroked Fawkes magnificent red plumage. Still after an entire year of ignoring him, still not able to look him in the eyes. Like he was a child, never mind his age Harry had never been treated like a child for a day in his life by anyone other than Molly Weasley. Even then he hadn't particularly enjoyed being smothered constantly, and decisions being made for him.
Dumbledore was treating him like a child in the worst possible way. Doing things for "his own good" without consulting the boy he was supposed to be protecting, not even giving Harry the time of day for nearly a year. A year when Harry had needed it most, a year when he was going through the aftereffects of Cedric's death, Voldemort's rebirth, his friends, his schoolmates, and the entire wizarding world turning against him. In a single school year he'd been tortured by a teacher for months, and under threat of Cruciatus he'd turned to Snape... Snape! of all people on this planet Severus Snape had been his best choice to turn to for help.
"Desperation," Harry considered wryly, "will make people do the extraordinary... and not necessarily in a good way"
"Well, Harry," Dumbledore finally spoke, "you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events."
Other than a small tightening of Harry's hand in Fawkes plumage the Gryffindor gave no other indication of hearing a word the Headmaster had spoken.
"Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up now," Dumbledore continued on blithely, " Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungo's, but it seems that she will make a full recovery."
Avoiding the subject. And then, finally... Dumbledore said the words he was dreading.
"I know how you are feeling, Harry."
Not a word escaped the teen, not a single word of the icy rage he was still feeling, the boy couldn't even look at the man before him. Just focused on the phoenix on his lap. Breathing softly, in... and out... in... and out, counting each inhalation and exhalation in turn, Muggles said you should count to ten before doing anything rash. Ten counts came and went, and Harry was well on his way to twenty when he spoke again.
"Tonight never should have happened, my boy."
It was those words that did it. The cold fury that had settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach, roiling like one of those awful potions Snape brewed burst forth, bubbling and spewing all over, leaving vitriol in its path.
Finally, he looked in that... that man's eyes. Utterly unaware that the young teen's eyes were glowing a deadly Avada Kedavra green, in that instant the Headmaster's desk ornaments became shattering. They imploded, one by one, as if someone had pulled their feet out from under them, like puppets with their strings cut. Then Sneakoscopes the Lunascopes and various golden and silver instruments were next.
And as he stared into that things blue eyes, Harry once again felt possessed by that blinding ice cold hatred. Like someone had dropped his body off in the arctic without so much as a by your leave, his lips felt frozen as if they couldn't form the words.
"Your right, Headmaster. Tonight NEVER should have happened..." his voice was quiet, barely heard over the rooms stillness. One small corner of his brain observed that the portraits appeared to be frozen.
That same hold was kept over Harry, as if he didn't have full control of his body, but was still very aware of what was occurring around him, and agreed with every step taken.
"Tonight could have been avoided, could have never even been a thought on the horizon of a dream. If you'd perhaps talked to me... at all this year. No! Wait," an ugly sneer twisted his face, "lets forget talking for a moment here! If perhaps... you'd looked at me sometime during the past nine months, then we could have gotten somewhere." instead of shouting, Harry's voice had retreated to a near whisper. But just like Snape controlled his classroom without a raised voice Harry knew he commanded Dumbledore's attention currently, he was practically speaking in Parseltongue with all the control he had left.
Dumbledore interrupted, "My fault? Harry, my dear boy tonight very well could have been avoided had you kept faith-"
This time it was Harry cutting him off, "Faith," he whispered, a hiss almost escaping at the end. "You wish for me to keep... faith" derison entered his voice, "in a person who can't be bothered for ten minutes... ten seconds of time. You wish for me took keep FAITH in a man who has denied an answer to a question I asked nearly four years ago as a first year in the Hospital Wing."
"I had FAITH then," he spat. "Faith in a man like you that got me nowhere. Just an empty head full of questions and no answers, answers that were meant to be too great for my childlike mind to bear. That same mind you supposed that I hold currently, after everything that has happened in these past four years. Basilisks, Riddle, werewolves, Dementors, Pettigrew, the Tournament, dragons, Cedric's murder, being kidnapped by a man that has given me more answers about why he does what he does than you have! Nearly being murdered for Merlin knows what time, being cut open, Crucioed, Imperiused, and attacked by a Death Eater disguised as my teacher, not including anything that's happened all year. After all of this you... expect... me... to trust... you."
At the end Harry's voice had turned from anger, derision, scorn, disbelief, to amazed. Amazed that this man would expect so much from others when he himself had given so little in return. After being repeatedly being thrown to both the literal and proverbial wolves with no explanation for his troubles, Harry had realized that Voldemort had given him more reasons for his need to end his life than Dumbledore had.
His parents had been opponents to Voldemort already, defying him, supporting Dumbledore, threatening the Dark Lord and his followers lives in battle. The prophecy had been the final straw, the final warrant for his parents and his own deaths. It made perfect sense, Harry could almost see it as merciful, killing all three of them instead of just a one year old baby. That way the parents didn't have to live without their child, and the child didn't have to live without its parents.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, as Headmaster of supposedly the safest place on the planet, as the title holder of Head of the Wizengamot, Chief Mugwump, Defeater of Grindelwald, and holder of a googolplex of middle names was unable to keep his students safe in the school he'd been charged with. It was child abuse at the worst and neglect at the least, in the Muggle world the man would have been sacked as incompetent. In the wizarding world Dumbledore was far too important for such a discretion.
It made him sick. The more he dwelled on it, the more that piece inside him grew, became more powerful and filled him with that rage. Ice cold rage that still hadn't turned hot, a raw fury that couldn't be contained as the temperature dropped. The windows frosted, Harry's lips turned blue, and his heavy breathing was apparent in thick tufts of white carbon dioxide escaping from his lungs and out the boy's mouth.
The windows shattered.
Finally... finally Dumbledore began to look alarmed.
"Harry," he started.
"Sirius is DEAD! Dead! My godfather is dead! Gone, deceased, extinct, lifeless, expired, murdered! And all you can speak of... is TRUST! Trust in a man that can't be bothered! That hasn't shown one ounce of kindness all year. What is trust old man," Harry murmured.
"Trust, is belief. Belief in something to be fact." the 5th year looked the old wizard in the eye, "facts can be proven wrong."
He left. Left the Headmaster's office without a backward glance, gripping the door handle tight and wrenching it towards him, dropping the knob on the floor when it cracked off in his hand. He couldn't go to Gryffindor Tower, people would be there, the very last thing he wanted to do was see or worse; talk to anyone. The Room of Requirement had been overrun by the Inquisitorial Squad, there was no where left. Nowhere left that was sacred, untouched and pristine by outside hands.
For most of the journey Harry wasn't even aware of where he was going, mind blank as he continued down staircases, travelled through doorways and arches, until finally he arrived.
The Quidditch Pitch. Pristine, untouched with its gentle, flat green grass that swayed gently in the moonlight. It was touched by moonlight that was peeking from beneath the clouds turning the entire stadium inside out with shadows.
He could do anything, logically Harry knew this. Knew that Umbridge had his Firebolt (at the mere thought Harry's heart gave a painful twinge) locked up in her office. But still his holly wand appeared and a soft Accio escaped his lungs. Through the midst of the spell Harry felt a slight tug and pull, like tug of war being played, inside him, until finally the broom appeared.
Letting Harry run his hands over it. Memories appearing as easily as breathing, the first time he'd ridden it. Seeing... Sirius in dog form in the stands during a game. Riding proudly through the pitch his wand upheld casting the Patronus Charm, snitch held triumphantly in his hand.
The quiet joy that flying had always brought him was calming. Cleared the green eyed teen's head from the pain, the pain he knew was only just beginning to take hold. Pain he didn't know how to deal with, the agony of losing something he'd just begun to know was two fold.
It came from all the moments he'd shared with Sirius, hugs given, embraces received, claps on the back, a hand on his shoulder. Smiles, the look in his godfather's eyes during the Christmas holidays when the man had pranced around Grimmauld Place singing God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriff. In that same way it was twofold.
Twofold when Harry thought of all the things he'd never experience with the other. A life outside of Grimmauld, a life without constant fear, a life as Sirius's son, a life with an adult, an adult that was his own and proud of his accomplishments. That would play a round of Quidditch with him if he was feeling down, tell stories about his Hogwart's days, teach him how to be an Animagus.
Despite the flying, an emptiness had filled him.
It was a closed casket funeral. There was no body left to bury, what was the point of a funeral at all. Everyone showed up, after Sirius had been declared innocent by the Ministry there wasn't a single politician who wasn't attempting to convince Harry he'd been singularly positive of Sirius's innocence. And that it had just been a "matter of time" before the rest of the wizarding world caught on. I mean really, no trial, that just reeked of dirty political laundry.
Harry didn't speak throughout the whole ordeal. Twitching in black dress robes that were itchy on the collar and too tight in the sleeves, he didn't hear a word of the eulogy given. It was given by a wizard he'd never seen before in his life, a man who assured his audience that he had been a close personal friend of Sirius going all the way back to his schools days, through Azkaban, and until his death. Harry had never seen the man before in his life.
Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna were all there. It was a gesture of support Harry supposed, shown by Hermione's hand firmly clasped on his arm, and Ron's own appendage slung around his shoulder. It didn't feel comforting, it was the middle of June, they were all in black, and Harry felt like he was being mauled by a series of Muggle space heaters. It was Luna that provided the most comfort, not during the ceremony, but afterwords.
He'd gone for a walk, robes unbuttoned, shoes off, and a cooling charm on towards the Forbidden Forest. Luna had been there, feeding the thestrals handfuls of raw meat. Completely unconcerned about the blood staining her robes. They didn't say much, and Luna seemed to understand that, for she didn't press conversation except when Harry asked a question.
"Who died for you?" it was a personal, some might consider rude question, but not something Harry imagined Luna to take offence at.
"Oh, my mum. I was just a girl, nine I believe. My mum was quite a brilliant witch, you know. But... she did love to experiment, and one day a spell went badly wrong in front of me."
Harry said nothing. But this time Luna spoke again patting a single bloodstained hand against his knee.
"You shouldn't be sad though Harry, I used to be quite sad about it from time to time. But it's not as if I'll never see her again." the blonde haired girl's voice was comforting.
He knew instinctively what she was speaking of but still chose to contradict her softly.
"Luna, they won't come back as ghosts."
She giggled, peering up at him with large blue eyes that painfully reminded him of Sirius.
"You can't feel them then, just outside of reach. Beyond..." she waved a general hand around them, "this. Just on the edge of reality that sometimes you've wondered whether or not your truly sane for believing it could be true."
It wasn't really a question, for Luna already knew the answer.
But still, it brought something back to Harry. Something that had been lost, and now had been found. Something that melted down the ice block his body had become in the wake of loss. A small blossom of warmth kindled in his chest.
The feeling... of hope.
AN- Hello all of my wonderful Lords and Ladies of the Manor, it is with great pleasure I wish to bestow upon you all the second chapter in this recent fic of mine. I would be absolutely delighted to hear your comments, questions, and concerns which I will (of course) do my best to answer. So just REVIEW review review (just move your mouse... over to the review button, and click, leaving me with wonderful varieties of tips for my next addition) I simply adore reading your comments.
What's more? Oh yes! In this chapter it's sort of like an interlude... Harry's cut himself off completely from the outside world, not really processing anything (that's why the funeral details were so sparse) but in the next chapter there will be a bit more action in regards to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. There will also be a POV switchy between Harry to the Dark Lord that We all Love to Hate :) and some confrontations featuring: Draco vs. Harry, Ron vs. Harry, maybe some Hermione vs. Harry. No Voldy yet I'm afriad.
If you have made it this far into my AN then I wish to bid you good day, and good night (good morning really it's one o'clock in my time zone :)
With regards,
Your friend in time,
*Kasamira