Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar

Gasping for breath, Harry sat upright, the smell of ozone still lingering in his nostrils and a final thunderclap ringing in his ears.

"Easy, kid," he heard from behind him. Harry twisted around and looked up to see Morris Oshkosh sitting in a folding chair by the entrance to the wigwam. "It's just after dawn. The others are still asleep."

Harry's gaze shifted swept around the room, noticing that each teen was covered in a light sheet. At some point during the night, Morris must have covered them, he realized; it was probably to protect their modesty in the morning. Carla's subconscious, however, had different plans; she had twisted her sheet into a wide rope, and had entwined herself with it like it was her lover, leaving herself quite exposed. Though Harry's was quickly becoming quite fond of Annie, he couldn't find it within himself not to at least take a nice long look at the curvaceous young woman, marveling at the fact that only a year or two ago, he wouldn't have looked twice. Harry was, for the first time, glad that the leather loincloth he was wearing was uncomfortably stiff, as it was keeping his own raging hormones from embarrassing him.

Morris grinned at Harry's raised eyebrow. "No matter how many times I covered her up, she kept doing that. I was kind of hoping she'd wake up first, so a couple of teenage boys wouldn't end up ogling her, but I suppose it's not to be."

"Somehow, I think I will be okay with that," Harry said, smirking. "Andy is going to have his work cut out for him with her."

"Hmm, maybe not—she was looking at him just as much last night. Reminded me a little of how you and my daughter keep making eyes at each other."

Harry—whose gaze had come to rest on Annie's peaceful form—stiffened, suddenly overcome with the sense that he was in dangerous territory. What if Morris didn't approve of him? What if Morris sent Harry away, to keep him from his daughter? He looked up at the tall, powerful man with wide eyes.

"Don't worry, I know she can handle herself," Morris said lightly, easing Harry's unspoken but obvious concern with a casual wave of his hand. "Plus, she'd never forgive me if I got in the way of her business. Anyway, I'd be more worried about her walking all over you. She's mischief on two legs, that one."

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief with a breath he hadn't realize he was holding, and glanced around the wigwam again. Seeing the bedraggled state of the others, Harry was suddenly aware that he was quite filthy; he was covered in dirt and soot, which had turned into a sort of muddy paste when combined with a veritable river of sweat. In short, he desperately need to take a very long bath.

"You weren't in here all night, were you?" he asked Morris, hoping to lighten the mood and get away from the uncomfortable topic of the man's daughter. "I imagine we all smell pretty bad."

"Nah, if I had stayed all night, I probably would have passed out from the fumes you four were putting off," Morris replied, chuckling again. "I just came in to check every few hours, to make sure nobody spontaneously transformed. That can happen sometimes, if the animal's will is stronger than the person's."

Harry nodded, vaguely understanding. He could dimly recall times in the dream when he felt almost entirely overcome—presumably, that had been his form's will trying to impose itself on him. His ruminations, however, were interrupted by a fierce growl emanating from his stomach. His mind turned to the fact that he had not eaten since breakfast two days ago. Morris must have heard, because he got up, and told Harry that he already had breakfast cooking.

Harry moved to accompany him, but before he could stand, Morris told him to stay put. "I'll bring it out here," he said. "Keep an eye on the others; I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. If they're not all awake by then, the smell of food will probably wake them right up."

Harry nodded, perfectly willing to wait for food if it meant not getting up. He was quite sore; all of his muscles still burned from the dancing the previous night, and he had numerous bumps, bruises, and small cuts from thrashing about in his sleep. His eyes took a slight detour to peek at Carla for a few seconds, before landing back on Annie. Apparently, the talking had started to wake her up, as she began to stir as soon as Morris left.

"Mwwwwaaaaaa," she groaned, stretching her limbs out and sitting up. She opened her eyes and blinked several times, before she realized that she wasn't the only one awake.

"Some night, huh?" she asked, meeting Harry's eyes, which flicked down a bit as her sheet gathered at her lap, leaving her chest bare again. She gave Harry a sly grin; either she had planned that, or she didn't care that Harry saw. She got up and snuck over to sit down by Harry's side, bringing her sheet with her in case her father came in, and proceeding to ogle the mostly-naked Carla.

"He said he'll be back in fifteen minutes," Harry whispered. "And if you keep staring at her, I might get a bit jealous."

"Is that so," she murmured, and then sat on Harry's lap, facing him. "We'll have to see about that."

Harry recovered from his surprise at her actions quickly, and responded accordingly. Their pent-up arousal from the wildness of the previous night and (almost literally, in Harry's case) electrifying dreams combined with the fact that they were two effectively naked teenagers, and they were soon quite wrapped up in each other.

Luckily, Harry heard Morris's Jeep pull up in time to disengage himself. Once again, he would be saved—this time probably from a beating, rather than just embarrassment—by the stiff leather of the loincloth, though it required some quick adjustment, as one of Annie's hands had found its way inside. Likewise, Annie hastily returned to her previous resting spot, using the sheet to cover the prints that Harry's hands and mouth had left on her breasts, stomach, and inner thigh, which were otherwise quite obvious because of the layer of dirt and dust on her skin. As they did so, they both noticed that the other two teens were performing a similar cover-up, as Carla scrambled over the long-dead embers of the fire back to her original sleeping spot (incidentally giving Harry a front-row view beneath her skimpy loincloth as she scurried past). Andy shared a distinctly satisfied grin and wink with Harry, who blushed brightly and grinned back. Neither boy noticed that the girls were apparently having a similar "girl-talk" version of their silent conversation.

Morris entered the wigwam seconds later, not believing for a second the innocent faces that the teens tried and failed to present (Harry was still blushing, Annie was preening, Andy was smirking, and Carla had angled her sheet creatively towards Andy). Having been young once himself, he merely set down two large trays of sausage, bacon, and donuts, and went back to the Jeep to get more. As soon as the trays were down, the teens—previous lust shoved aside in the face of such a feast—descended like locusts. By the time Morris returned with a tray of eggs and bagels and several pitchers of water and juice, the first two trays were scraped clean, and the teens all had grease covering their hands and mouths. The eggs and bagels were similarly devoured, and the pitchers of water and juice were drained faster than Harry would have otherwise thought possible. It was like having four starving Ron Weasleys in one place, he mused, chugging a glass of orange juice.

After a few more minutes of shamelessly gorging themselves, the four teens piled into the Jeep. Since there were only four seats and Andy had taken shotgun, the other three sat in the back; Annie sat on Harry's lap, and Carla looked a bit put out to have her own seat. Because Morris was driving, and was fully capable of looking in the rearview mirror, they did nothing more than hold hands (though Annie moved her hips provocatively for the entire ride, reminding Harry that she was not wearing anything under her loincloth). The ten-minute ride was filled with a discussion of their dreams and speculation about their forms.

Annie had, at some point, caught a glimpse of the tawny fur that coated her wide paws, and combined with the pouncing down from trees and boulders, she was quite certain that she was to be a mountain lion. Harry wasn't familiar with that species, even when she clarified that it had many names, including "cougar," "puma," and "panther"—it took her calling it a "bigass cat" before he quite got it, leaving her to roll her eyes at the ignorant Brit. Carla was quite excited; she was an avid distance runner, and had seen a vague reflection of her form in a pool of water in her dream. The particular breed was unclear, but she was definitely a horse. Similarly, Andy loved hiking, and had found his form to be practically designed for that activity. He recounted trundling through the underbrush in the mountains, and when he dreamed of using large, heftily-clawed paws to climb a tree, he had narrowed it down to an American black bear (as no other bears on the continent could climb trees).

Harry remained quiet about his dream, simply asking questions of the others; in their excitement, they failed to notice that he wasn't really describing himself. He was slightly troubled about some of the aspects of his dream—though he was pleased to be (apparently) a large, powerful bird of some sort, the fixation on storms left him worried. The others had dreamed about the sun, and warmth, and pleasant environs, while his dream was full of dark clouds, driving rain, crashing thunder, and great tension that felt like barely-restrained destruction. Was the stormy nature of the dream some sort of reflection of his character?

Oblivious to his concern, the others went off to shower when the group got back to the inn. Morris, however, asked him to stay back.

"Not so fast, kiddo," he said, pulling out a barstool for Harry as he went behind the bar. "Remember, I promised to tell you about that scar. But for me to do that, I need to hear about your dream."

Harry nodded and sat down at the bar, staring off into nothing as he recounted his tale. "The first thing I remember from the dream was a flash. It was blue or white, or maybe both, with some gold added in. Then I was flying through clouds on big, broad wings. It was pouring rain, and the wind was incredible, but it didn't matter at all, because it was my rain, my wind...my storm. There was thunder rumbling the whole time," he said, hearing the thunder in his mind as he spoke, like some ancient drumbeat. "And then I felt hungry, like you said we would from the fasting, but it was like I was angry, too. Like I was in charge of everything, so for me to be so hungry, it was like...an insult, an insult that I couldn't let slide. And then there was another flash, but brighter, and every color, and the loudest thunderclap I've ever heard."

Harry shook his head, and his eyes cleared up, as though coming out of a trance. "And then I woke up," he concluded, "and I could still smell the ozone from the storm, and hear that last thunderclap."

Morris—who had listed to Harry's tale with rapt attention and bated breath—exhaled, triumph in his eyes. "I knew it," he murmured to himself, before addressing Harry directly. "I knew it, the moment I saw that scar, but I had to be sure."

Harry looked at him expectantly, and Morris continued. "I think that it wasn't your mother's sacrifice that saved your life on Halloween of 1981, Harry. Honestly, she was not the only witch to ever die trying to protect her child, so I don't know how Dumbledore came to believe that it could have been that. What actually protected your life was the same thing that gave you that scar—your animagus form."

This flew in the face of everything that Dumbledore had ever told or implied to Harry about that night. Even Remus, after finding out that Harry saw and heard the final moments of his parents' lives when a dementor was near, was unable to fill in any details. But this new theory, far-fetched though it may have sounded, had the ring of truth, and Harry hung onto Morris's words.

"I'll diverge a bit, but you'll understand why in a minute," Morris continued. "You might be familiar with the phoenix, a kind of firebird, since Dumbledore has one. Powerful creatures, phoenixes. They have a life-cycle that allows them to purify their bodies with flame, and be reborn from the ashes. It happens every year or so. They can survive injuries by going through the process early—in fact, that is how Dumbledore beat Grindelwald in their duel. Grindelwald was actually winning, which was not much of a surprise, since he had spent the last few decades fighting and killing people before crowning himself Dark Lord and hitching his wagon to Hitler's Nazis, while Dumbledore had spent the last few decades teaching schoolchildren, and only occasionally participating in dueling exhibitions. The thing was, Dumbledore had recently acquired a phoenix, and just as Grindelwald fired the Killing Curse that would have ended the fight, Dumbledore's phoenix flashed into the path of the spell, distracting Grindelwald long enough for Dumbledore to subdue him. Then, of course, he spun that into "a creature of purity coming to aid Light's chosen champion in his fight against Evil," and got himself a bunch of titles and accolades. But that's politics, and beside the main point I'm trying to make."

"The point, Harry," Morris said, "is that, just like regular animals, magical creatures evolve. And just like falcons and eagles descend from a common ancestor, so too does the phoenix have a distant, even rarer cousin. The phoenix is powerful, but much of its power is invested in its ability to prolong its own life, through its purification burnings. Its cousin, though, uses its power to protect the life it has, and take the lives of its enemies. So when Voldemort hit you with that Killing Curse, the thunderbird deep within you unleashed its power, and saved your life. You were always going to be a thunderbird animagus, Harry, but this event "woke it up," for lack of a better way to put it. That is why your scar has never healed—the thunderbird has been clawing to get out ever since. I think that it will heal, once you fully achieve the transformation. There is more to tell you about what it means to be the thunderbird, but I think that should wait until you've had a chance to rest. Maybe over dinner."

Harry reeled, knowing that every word Morris said must be true. It all fit, so incredibly well. For once in his life, Harry had a real explanation of why he was alive, when by all rights, he should be dead. He had a real explanation of why his scar was still an angry red slash on his forehead. He still wanted to hear what Morris meant about there being "more to tell," but he supposed he should process the information he had first anyway.

"Well, say something, kid," Morris asked after a minute of silence. "Anyone home?"

"Oh, um, yeah," Harry stammered, shaking himself out of his stupor. "That's...Morris, that is amazing. I...well, thanks. Um, I think I'm going to go take a bath now, and think about this some more."

Harry made his way up the stairs, barely noticing where he was going, and more or less ignoring his pets when he came back. After a long, hot bath, Harry stumbled to his bed, and managed to set his alarm to go off at noon before collapsing into an exhausted sleep.

Author's Note

Good guessing on the forms—though I don't think any one person got all four, they were all called out at one point or another. It is intentional that all four are animals which are native to North America; the reasons will be pointed out at some point. Unlike many stories in which Harry becomes an animagus, I intend for him to use his ability, rather than having a powerful animagus form be just a benchmark for showing how powerful Harry is becoming. It is going to be a significant and recurring plot element. The thunderbird is a recurring element in several different Native American mythologies, and I chose to use the Menominee as a backdrop because their mythology also has some other elements that are very appropriate to Harry's ongoing greater battle against Voldemort (which will be made clear eventually). Plus, it's a potent symbol for America (which, to Harry, represents independence and freedom from outside influence)—for example, the US Air Force flight demonstration team is called the Thunderbirds. Even better, there is no thunderbird in HP canon, which means that I can just make shit up!

Dark Neko 4000 brought up a good question; would Ron and Hermione be worried at the lack of contact from Harry? The answer is no—in fact, if you reread the beginning of Goblet of Fire, it is made clear that Harry's only correspondence is at the very beginning of summer asking for food (as the Dursleys are on a diet), the food he gets in return, the packages he gets on his birthday (July 31st), and the letter on August 23rd from the Weasleys inviting him to their house and the Quidditch World Cup. Since he left to go to Grimmauld with Sirius and Remus, he never had to ask for food, so they won't be suspicious unless he fails to respond to their packages at the end of July. I am basing my timeline of independent events (that is, things that Harry's trip does not change) on the calendar at the HP Lexicon ( /timelines/calendars/calendar_ ), which is an excellent reference for the aspiring HP fanfic writer. Of course, I did not know about this resource until a few chapters into my story, which is why I have the Hogwarts Express returning to London on Sunday, June 19th, rather than the actual date of Saturday, June 18th. Luckily, that difference does not change anything, except perhaps making the pickup at Kings Cross even more inconvenient for Vernon.

I want to point out that I appreciate the comments and constructive criticism I've received (even in those cases where diplomacy was a bit lacking). I think of the reviews and the Author's Notes as a conversation of sorts, allowing the writer and readers to work toward understanding each other more clearly. In fact, I think it's a major strength of this sort of "serial publishing" when compared to traditional methods, which dump books on the readers all at once, and the author never really gets feedback from the audience until it's too late to change anything. I should also point out that the time and energy I spend on Author's Notes (which are much faster and easier to write than the actual story content anyway) does not cut into the time and energy I put into the story content—I cut chapters where I feel that they end naturally (or if I want to leave a cliffhanger), and then I write the A/N. If a chapter seems short, that is a result of the purpose of that chapter being fulfilled in fewer words than normal.