A/N: Review Responses are running a bit late but should be posted later this afternoon. My first priority was getting the chapter out. Thank you all for reading.

Chapter Nine: Aftermath

Harry became aware of the colours first—scintillating, brilliant colours dancing just on the edge of his awareness, like a rainbow bouncing just offstage of his perception. As the colours grew brighter, it developed a shape, until it actually began to resemble a ghost—a clumping of brilliant, pulsing magic in the vague outline of a person, with balls of magic at the forefront of what would be a face. Another hovered a few feet away in the darkness of Harry's closed eyes—not nearly as bright.

As the colours solidified, he became aware of a new sensation—that of sound. With awareness of the sound, came clarity of voices and the precision of words: "…jinxed!"

The voice sounded like Professor McGonagall, and seemed to come from the weaker silhouette of magic.

"Oh, of that I have no doubt." This new voice sounded ancient and dry, and yet there was power laced within the tones of the voice that made Harry feel comforted. He realized it was the voice of the Headmaster, who was sitting by his bed. "From what I have observed, Mr Potter learns from his mistakes. Having lost his seat on a broom the first time, I never saw him do so again. Further, the broom stopped in just the perfect location to give the beaters their shot. If not for Professor Snape's quick thinking, we may have lost the lad."

"But who?" McGonagall said.

"I have only suspicions, and no way to prove those," Dumbledore said. "But surely we both knew of the possibility. Lily's Will explained the necessity of placing him with her sister. She knew she had enemies, and it should not be so shocking those same enemies have their eyes on young Mr Potter. Given Petunia's history with magic, I knew that it would never be a caring home, but I knew at least he would be safe from those actively seeking to do him harm."

"Until now," McGonagall remarked darkly.

"Indeed, until now. And it appears our young patient is awake. You can open your eyes now, Mr Potter."

Harry's eyes snapped open, only to squeeze shut again when the ambient light of the magic flooded his brain. He started whispering the cantrip he read in his mother's book on the very first page of text, and almost immediately the flow slowed to something tolerable and he opened his eyes again.

He saw McGonagall standing at the foot of a plain bed in a hall lined with similar beds—the Hospital Wing, he supposed. Slowly, he turned and saw Dumbledore up close for the very first time, startled when the man's ghost-like magic still stood out just under his skin, making him appear almost translucent. "Are you a ghost?" he said in a dry throat.

"What?" McGonagall said.

Dumbledore, though, smiled. The magic in his eyes sparkled brilliantly and seemed almost to reach out to Harry in a soothing fashion. "I am very old, Harry," Dumbledore said in a kindly tone. "As we age, our magic grows more obvious to those who can see it, while at the same changing our bodies. So I look like a ghost to you?"

"I'm sorry sir."

"Nonsense, my boy. Your mother said I looked like a Christmas tree the first time I met her. I had the pleasure of meeting a young lady who will start next year who said I looked like a heliotrope. It is better to be seen in a unique light, than to not be around to be seen at all, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said quickly. His shoulders slumped as he looked at McGonagall. "I'm sorry we lost, Professor."

"The season's only begun, Mr Potter," she said. "However, it was a particularly brutal game and the Slytherins were docked house points by Professor Hooch for their conduct. Given the play, though, I would understand if you wish to wait a year to play more."

"What? No!" Harry said quickly. Then, remembering the company, said in a softer tone, "No, thank you, I mean. I would like to keep playing if I could."

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr Potter," McGonagall said. "Have no worries. Not only do I have confidence in you, I have faith. If not this year, then the next, but I have no doubt you will make Gryffindor proud."

"Thank you, Professor."

Blushing, Harry looked down at his hands in his lap—they looked so small compared to the pale, hairless hands that rested on Professor Dumbledore's. His hands did not move at all; did not twitch even. "Professor, did someone really try to hurt me?"

"You heard?" McGonagall said.

Harry nodded.

"I'm afraid so, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "Has Professor McGonagall discussed with you how your parents truly died?"

"Ron told me a little," Harry admitted. "You-Know-Who…"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry," Dumbledore said.

"Okay, well, Voldemort came to our house and killed my mum and dad, but when he tried to kill me his curse rebounded and he blew up."

"Succinct, if somewhat inaccurate," Dumbledore said. "It was a terrible time, you must understand. Voldemort targeted primarily wizards, Harry, not just as his victims, but also to be supporters. At the height of the war, he had nearly half the wizards in all of the United Kingdom fighting for him, with still more having crossed the Channel from the mainland. He broke up Covens, convincing wizards to turn against their witches, even their own wives in some cases. Our society was paralyzed by the sheer number who supported him. It seemed as if he would win, and with his victory would come the end of wizarding society as we know it."

"What happened?" Harry asked, enthralled.

"Well, this is where it becomes interesting," Dumbledore said, slipping into the tone of a masterful story teller. "Voldemort was after something. We don't know what, but he seemed to believe your parents had it. Or perhaps he feared James forming a new coven. Aethers are sometimes known as actuators, since they can often increase the power of their chosen through the bond. Given that your mother was such, it was possible if she overcame her jealously that Lily could have aided James in bonding another three women. That would have formed a new coven, with representation in the Wizengamot. It might have been enough to tip the balance of power in the Wizengamot and the Sabbats to give Minister Bagnold the political backing she needed to take the fight to Voldemort. Regardless of his reasons, he chose to target your family."

Harry sat so completely absorbed he had not even noticed Madame Pomfrey walk around the bed to check on him. "What happened next?" He asked. Some small, irrational part of his mind hoped that the Headmaster would tell him they beat back Voldemort and lived happily ever after, even though the rational part of his mind knew that was nonsense.

"Your parents went into hiding, but were betrayed by their dearest friend. Voldemort found them and he and your father fought a tremendous duel—you can see the damage in the living room of that home to this day. James was talented and powerful, and magical forensics has proven that he hurt Voldemort badly. Sadly, Voldemort had undergone many dark rituals to increase his power, and he overcame James. But he made a mistake, one common to many wizards. He assumed all the power was in James, and did not count on Lily being nearly as powerful as her husband. Moreover, Lily employed Aether-based magics she herself researched and perfected, for which Voldemort had little defense.

"What happens next is speculation, you must understand, but my guesses tend to be better than most. It is my belief that your mother, in fighting to save you, employed soul magic. It was a terrible magic, considered by many to be dark, but employed in this case with the purest love. She shattered her own soul, bathing you in its energy and vastly weakening Voldemort's soul in the process. That action of hers ended her life, but at the same time ripped away many of the rituals and protections Voldemort had enacted upon himself. He thought himself victorious, I'm sure, and turned his wand on you. But that was when he learned just how powerful and brilliant your mother was."

"What happened?" Harry breathed.

"The act of casting the Killing Curse, Harry, strains the soul of the caster. It is a spell which requires pure hate to cast. Voldemort, being a creature of hate, had little trouble employing it. However, in doing so, the blow to his fractured soul broke it, quite literally. His curse warped into a self-destructive energy that struck the soul-shield your mother gave you and rebound back to its caster, shattering his body just as the initial casting shattered his soul. The explosion destroyed your entire room, save the corner where one little baby miraculously survived."

The old wizard leaned forward and passed a dry, leathery finger against Harry's cheek, coming away with a single tear. "Since that day, many wizards have called you The Boy Who Lived, the only person to ever survive the Killing Curse. This is true enough, but the true heroes that night were James and Lily Potter."

"Thank you for telling me," Harry finally said, when he could find words. "No one has ever told me the whole story before."

"Then it was my pleasure to be able to do so. Read the book Professor Burbage gave you. Your mother was truly a remarkable witch, and has left you a legacy that will do great good when you are older. In the meantime, know that I and the other professors are working to ensure your safety. Just remember to stay with your friends, and do not leave the castle without supervision."

"Yes, Professor."

"Well, he's healed up right as rain," Madam Pomfrey said from behind the boy. "You were injured on Saturday, so you've not missed any classes, but you will be a mite sore tomorrow, just be warned."

"Thank you, Madame."

"Well, Harry, I must be off," Dumbledore said. "Professor McGonagall will escort you back to your dormitories. Be well, and have a good night."

"Thank you, Professor!"

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

"Mr Potter," McGonagall said. "Before we enter the Common Room, you should be aware that Oliver and I have removed Mss Johnson from the starting roster for an indeterminate period of time. Her replacement will be Lee Jordan, a friend of Fred and Georgina's. During the try-outs he was a close second, and I feel he will be a good addition to the team."

"But why…?"

"She put you in danger, Harry, before the game," McGonagall said. "I told her to keep her distance and instead she virtually assaulted you right outside the Great Hall. For that, she has been placed on the reserve team. One more violation and she will be permanently banned from the team altogether."

"Yes, ma'am."

McGonagall patted his shoulders. "I also do not wish you to feel bad about the game. Ours was a young team—we will get better."

"Yes, Professor."

"Mr Potter, I'm afraid there is one more thing, and this may be difficult for you. It is the Headmaster's belief that we should keep news of your jinxed broom to ourselves. As far as the students know, you simply lost control of your broom. I apologize for the embarrassment, but Wood is aware of what really happened and is eager to keep you on the team."

Feeling his cheeks flush, Harry simply nodded.

They arrived at the Common Room and found it filled with upper years studying, talking or just lounging about the various pieces of furniture spread about the space. Everyone, however, paused when Harry and McGonagall stepped past the Fat Lady's portrait that guarded the dorm.

Harry wasn't sure what to expect, but it wasn't to see older students start laughing; he was relatively sure they were laughing at him, not with him, given his lack of laughter. "Shut it you lot!" Wood shouted. "If you were any better, you'd be on the team!"

"At least I know how to stop a broom!" a sixth year shouted.

"Oh shut it, Connor, you can barely get it up in the air!"

"He can't get anything up!"

"Slag!"

"Hell, he did better than Wood did!" another cruel sounding voice said.

McGonagall cleared her throat, and it might as well have been a bomb going off for the instant silence that followed. "Mr Potter has demonstrated that he is the best person for the Seeker position in this House, and will continue to fill that role," she said resolutely. "That is the decision of both the team captain, and myself. If you have issue with the team's performance, take it up with me if you feel that strongly about it."

That statement silenced both the laughter and jibes. "Come on, Harry," Wood said with a bitter glance back at his housemates, "I'll walk you up to your room. Thank you, Professor."

She nodded to Wood before turning to leave the room. In the stairs leading up to the First Year dorms, Wood said, "Don't worry about that, Harry. They'll see. That was a bad start to the whole season, but we learned some valuable lessons, didn't we?"

"Don't fly off your broom in front of opposing beaters?" Harry said.

"And don't let the other team captain punch you at the start of the game," Wood agreed. "Well, here you go. Don't let your roommates give you a hard time. After all, you're the youngest seeker to start here in a century. That should quiet them down."

"Right."

"Remember, we have practice Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday," he said. "I also want everyone to go to the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw game. We're playing the 'Puffs next and it'll be good to see how they're playing."

"Okay, Wood. See you Tuesday."

Harry walked into his dorm room and came to a stop in the middle of the room when he saw what was on the floor.

His mother's face was looking up at him with a sad smile from the author's page of his book, while scattered around it were the other pages of the book, ripped, torn and some burned to little black wisps.

Harry looked up at Ron and saw his roommate looking red-faced and angry, with a bruise on his left cheek. Neville sat on his bed with his face buried in his hands, while in his bed Seamus Finnigan was whistling a jaunty tune while reading the Daily Prophet, whose headline was clearly visible to Harry as it took up the whole page: "The Boy Who Fell—Harry Potter flubs first Quidditch game!" Underneath the huge captain was a picture of Harry dangling from the tip of the broom. As he looked, the Bludger slammed into his face and he fell out of the picture frame, only for the whole play to repeat itself.

"Why, hello, Harry!" Seamus said with a huge grin. "Loved the game. Great job representing the house of the Lions there, boyo."

Harry took a halting step into the room until he reached the first destroyed pages of his book. "Why did you do that?" he said, his voice shaking from a storm of emotions he could not even begin to name.

Seamus carefully folded the newspaper until only the front page was visible, and held it up to his face. "Why do you think, you bloody pansy shite? Gryffindor is the house of winners! You were supposed to be good, what the hell is this, then?" He slapped the paper against his leg.

Harry started to tell him about the jinx, but remembered McGonagall telling him not to tell anyone. "Why are you blaming me?" he finally asked. "Catching the Snitch wouldn't have won the game."

"It would've if you'd caught it sooner, you nit!" Seamus said, climbing off his bed. "You know what Gryffindor's known for? House of the Brave. Fire in our veins and all that shite. Then me Da writes me a letter and asks what kind of cowards old McGonagall has running the show to let some stinkin' First Year on, and a captain that gets his arse kicked one play in! It was bloody embarrassing, Harry."

"What gave you the right to destroy my property?" Harry demanded, shaking as shock gave way to a slowly building rage.

"To teach you a lesson, pansy," Seamus snarled. "To teach the other boyos a lesson as well. Gryffindor is for the strong, and I just proved I'm the strong one in this group. Weasley there tried to stop me, and I put him down like a dog. Longbottom didn't even try. We see you holding that book like a bloody snuggy bear! Merlin's saggy balls, I saw you crying over the damn book few weeks back. It's time to grow up, Harry. You might think you're famous, but you're nothing but a stupid pansy boy. You don't deserve to be in Gryffindor, and you don't deserve to be on the Quidditch team."

It was hard for Harry to breathe. "That picture was the first time I'd ever seen my mum," he said in a harsh whisper. "The only picture I had of her."

"Bullocks!" Seamus said with a dismissive grunt. "And what of it? What are you going to do, Boyo? Go cryin' to McGonagall? How 'bout you go feel up Elfaba there, maybe she'll let you cry on her tits. That's all you can do is go crying to the girls, isn't it? You're pathetic, you…"

The fire boiled over, and in a moment of red-hot rage, Harry Potter lost all semblance of control. With a guttural scream he launched himself at the larger, older boy and tackled him to the ground, throwing fists with fervour. Unfortunately, Seamus was older and stronger, and easily flipped Harry onto his back to take his own swings.

The blows did not stop Harry, though. He'd been through worse with Dudley. As the fire boiled hotter and hotter in his chest, he felt a new pressure start to build. Seamus was lost to it, caught up as he was in the heat of the fight. But on the nearby beds, Neville said, "Seamus, you idiot, he's about to have a blow!"

Across from Longbottom, Weasley said, "Let 'em, Neville. Seamus deserves whatever he gets."

Seamus took another vicious swing, and in Harry's chest the fire exploded up and out in a billow of accidental magic. Seamus flew up into the ceiling so hard all the boys heard cracking bone. Harry virtually flew to his feet, glaring up at the stunned boy. Seamus did not immediately fall, and his cheeks moved as if a terrible force were holding up against the ceiling.

Suddenly the force ended and Seamus began to fall, right into the flat of Harry's hand. The smaller boy's visceral scream echoed about the room as a pulse of white magic flashed at the point of contact between his hand and Seamus's chest and sent the larger boy flying across the room.

A moment later Percy Weasley burst into the room, followed by the sixth year prefect, David Jones. "What's going on here?" Weasley demanded.

Jones, however, saw Seamus slumped against the far wall with blood running from his ears, nose and mouth. "Bloody 'ell," the older prefect said. He pulled his wand and incanted a spell Harry never heard before. "Percy, get McGonagall now! The boy's magic is dying!"

Percy's eyes widened before he turned and sprinted from the room. Jones spun about and looked at the three shocked boys. "Who did this?"

Harry shook his head, the fire in his chest suddenly gone. "I…I didn't mean…"

"Potter, figures," the sixth year snarled. "You'll be lucky to avoid Azkaban for this, you little prat. This kid is damned near dead!"

"I didn't mean to!" Harry screamed desperately.

"Tell that to the Wizengamot!"

"You shut up!" Ron shouted. "It was Seamus that did it. He's the one started it, he got what he deserved! It's not Harry's fault."

"Shut it, runt," Jones snarled.

Just then McGonagall ran into the room. She seemed to take everything in with a single gestalt glance before turning her attention to Finnigan. "Morgana," she whispered as she ran a series of charms on him. She stood, cast a paralyzing charm on him, and then said to Jones, "Pick him up and come with me."

Turning to Harry, she said, "Potter, you, Weasley and Longbottom are to report to my office right now. Do not leave that office until I, or another professor fetch you. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded his stomach dropping. "Professor, I…"

"Not now, Potter, just go," McGonagall said urgently.

After she left, Weasley said, "I'm sorry, Harry. I tried to stop him."

Seeing the black eye on his roommates face, Harry believed him. "Thanks, Ron."

"I'm sorry too, mate," Neville said. "After he punched Ron I just…I was afraid, Harry. So much for being a Gryffindor."

"Yeah, well look where fighting got me," Harry said bitterly. "Come on, we'd better go. She'll probably just ask you guys some questions, so I bet you won't be in trouble. Just me."

"No way, if you're in trouble, I am too," Ron said resolutely.

Neville raised his chin. "Me too. If I hadn't been so afraid, we could have stopped him together, and this wouldn't have happened."

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Author's Note: Very special thanks to Teufel1987, JR and Miles for beta reading.