Chapter 5. Strange and Wondrous Things
Having said goodbye to Madam Flemings and having collected the very few items he had to his name, Harry followed Dumbledore through the halls of Hogwarts. He still couldn't believe he was actually going to Dumbledore's house, though he wasn't sure how they were getting there. The Hogwarts Express must have left by now.
"Do you have everything, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, suddenly stopping to push open the door to the Transfiguration classroom.
Harry, having barely missed walking into him, hiked the backpack he'd been given higher on his shoulder; it was pathetically light. "Yessir," he said.
"Wonderful," the professor stated, leading him through the desks to the small office in the back, "In through here then, my boy."
Harry entered curiously. The last time he had been in this office, he had been too busy fending off Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey to take a proper look at it. Between their concern over the dementors and him collapsing on the train (and Harry's embarrassment over having done so), it was no surprise he barely remembered the room that had been McGonagall's office. That being said, he was pretty sure it had not looked like the cluttered, colorful mess that he was staring at now. Unfortunately, he did not get much time to gape at it though, for as he blinked rapidly, Professor Dumbledore swiftly walked up to the crackling fireplace.
"Alright, Harry," he said clapping his hands together, "Have you ever traveled by Floo powder before?"
Harry's nose crinkled as he nodded, "Once, sir."
"Wasn't a good experience?" Dumbledore guessed with a smile as he grabbed a small pot filled with glittering powder.
"You could say that," Harry grimaced, remembering Borgan and Burke's creepy shop and its creepy wares. "I may have swallowed a bunch of ash and ended up falling out of the wrong fireplace."
"Oh dear," the professor said, eyebrows raised. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm always sure to keep my fireplace clean so hopefully, this time will be better." With that, Dumbledore took a pinch of the powder and threw it into the flames. As the fire roared emerald green, he said, "Just be sure to say Bezarld Bend very clearly."
"Bezarld Bend?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded in confirmation. "Go on," he urged, "I'll be right along after you."
Harry reluctantly stepped into the emerald flames which felt exactly as he remembered—a warm breeze. He shielded his mouth with his arm, clutched his glasses to his face (he did not want to break his glasses again), and announced "Bezarld Bend!"
He only had a second to feel relieved at the lack of ash in his mouth before he felt the familiar yank of being sucked down a drain. The spinning was just as awful as he recalled it—green flames whirled and roared around him and he squeezed his eyes shut. This time, he was ready and stuck out an arm when the spinning abruptly stopped to keep him from crashing to the floor.
He was still on his hands and knees, covered in soot when Dumbledore stepped sharply out of the fireplace a moment later. To his credit, he didn't mention it as he helped Harry up.
"Well, here we are," Dumbledore exclaimed as Harry began to wipe off his glasses with his shirt, "Welcome to Bezarld Bend."
Harry placed his soot-streaked glasses onto his nose and gasped.
A part of him recognized that he was most definitely brooding as Tom cradled his wand in his hands; he just couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't as if he had no reason to brood after all. In less than an hour, he would be separated from the miracle made of phoenix and yew resting on his palms and isolated from the glory that was the wizarding world. He would be forced to hide among muggles. Warring muggles at that.
Merlin, he hated the summer.
He hated leaving for it, too. The train compartment he was sitting in rang with the clamorous, excited chatter of his classmates as they prattled on about vacations and second homes. The rest of the Slytherins may have had good reason for excitement when presented with the summer holiday but not Tom. No, not him. Bitterness knotted in his chest.
"What about you, Tom?" Edwin Mulciber asked suddenly, "Got any summer plans?"
Tom felt a twinge of surprise at being addressed by the pureblood. Though Mulciber certainly had learned to respect him, he wasn't one of Tom's yet. "Nothing concrete," he replied smoothly, fully knowing his plans to find a job in Diagon Alley were indeed concrete, "but I have no doubt I will find something intriguing to pursue."
Mulciber gave a disinterested hum at the vague answer and turned back to the other boys. Normally, Tom would've bristled at the dismissal, but he couldn't bring himself to care as his mind strayed to the journals he'd spent enchanting over the last several days. His lips curled. Intriguing indeed. He wondered just how long Evans would be able to resist the clever compulsion charms he'd placed on the boy's journal. A day? Two? He resisted the urge to pull out his journal and barrage the boy with questions.
"Well, I kinda saw three of you?" the boy had said.
Tom wanted to curse Dumbledore for interrupting them. What in the name of Merlin had that meant? How could you "kinda" see something? Could Evans be any less helpful? The more he learned about the boy's strange golden magic the more fascinated he grew. Hell, even the boy himself was intriguing. The instant hostility Harry had towards him was highly unusual for Tom and clearly passionate. Which made it all the more interesting when he had cringed away in guilt after the sharp words he'd spit at him.
"I'm hardly the first orphan Hogwarts has taken in, after all, am I, Riddle?"
What Harry didn't know was that Tom could care less about the insult—it was hardly the worst he'd heard. No, what he wanted to know was how on earth Harry had known he was an orphan. Had he received the same sort of vision he'd gotten today in the library? But that vision had appeared to be catalyzed by touch... Would that happen any time the boy touched someone? Perhaps he would be able to convince Evans to test that.
"Hey Tom," Charles's voice pulled him out of his musings, "C'mon. We're almost at the station."
Tom's hand curled possessively around his wand as he nodded. It was almost time then. He sighed and stood, grabbing his backpack and trunk. He couldn't deny the summer any longer. Faced with returning to Wool's, his mind couldn't help drifting to thoughts of hunger and war-time rations and greedy little muggle kids who cried. He ignored a lick of fear as he remembered hiding with those greedy little muggle kids in a bunker—but it would not come to that again. He wouldn't let it.
As the train pulled up to the station, he allowed the other Slytherin boys to rush for the doors, tossing their farewells over their shoulders. It was only when he was alone that he relinquished his wand, placing it reverentially into his backpack next to his spelled journal. Perhaps, he mused as he traced the binding, he would actually have company this summer, even if it only was in the form of writing. Perhaps Harry Evans could keep him from boredom.
Harry was... overwhelmed as he stood there in what he reckoned was either a dining room with a horrific number of books or a library with a dining room table. Either way, the wooden table sagged beneath the weight of several towering stacks, and of the eight mismatched chairs surrounding it, only two were void of books or papers. More eye-catching, however, were the walls, of which every inch was covered in shelves. Bookcases, baking racks, floating shelves, cabinets, display cases: they all lined the walls haphazardly. Even more impressively, not a single shelf was empty.
"Oh my god!" Harry took off his glasses to clean them again.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said, clearing his throat embarrassedly, "It is a bit much, isn't it?"
"I just—! You have so many books!" Harry exclaimed, putting them back on hurriedly.
He really did. While not every shelf held books—one oddly long one seemed dedicated to a variety of oddly shaped skulls, for example—the vast majority of them were stuffed with them. On one of the floating shelves, Harry saw, the books magically hung from it like bats, giving it the odd appearance of being upside down. A quick glance upwards found that even the rafters were covered with books.
"So, so many!"
Dumbledore chuckled. "And that's just this room." Harry turned to gape at him and the professor's smile only grew. "Why Harry, you're filthy!"
Harry glanced down and frowned until he remembered the spell Riddle had used to get the dirt off him. He tapped his wand on his robes. "Scourgify!" To his delight, the soot disappeared.
"Nicely done," Dumbledore said kindly. "Now, would you like a tour, or would you like to settle in your room?"
"I have a room?" Harry asked.
"Of course," the man said, eyeing him strangely, "Where else would you stay?"
Harry shrugged before deciding, "If this is what your—" he paused, scanning the room. "This is your dining room, right?" Dumbledore nodded. "Okay, yeah, if this is what your dining room looks like, I'd like the tour."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with mirth. "Right this way then."
As they stepped away from the fireplace, Harry glanced back at it to see a collection of silver, miniature animals, all magical in nature, lining the mantel. He immediately halted as he recognized the hippogriff, the centaur, and the unicorn and eyed the others curiously. One of the creatures, a small, furry critter with a long snout, appeared to be grasping at its silvery fur and frantically attempting to shove it into the pouch on its belly.
He managed to tear his eyes away when Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Shall we?" the professor asked.
"Er, yeah," he grinned sheepishly, following the older wizard.
"I promise you'll have all summer to examine my various odds and ends," Dumbledore reassured him as they made their way around the table, "but for now, I just want to make sure you can navigate through the house."
Harry nodded, stepping out of the dining room and into a hallway whose walls were just as cluttered with portraits as the dining room's walls had been cluttered with shelves. He flinched as a cacophony of noise slammed into the two as the portraits shouted their various greetings.
"Hello!"—"Albus!"—"Who is this?"—"Welcome back!"
The men and women in the frames all clamored for attention until Dumbledore held his hands up. "Please, one at a time, my friends."
An old man who looked remarkably similar to the Albus Dumbledore Harry was used to (except for his brown eyes and straight nose) rushed to speak, "Albus, my boy, it's been too long! You make an old man worry."
"It has been a while," Dumbledore conceded; Harry balked at hearing someone refer to Dumbledore as a boy.
"Yes, yes, we all miss Albus," a grumpy-looking middle-aged woman said impatiently, flipping her long, auburn braid over her shoulder. "I'm more concerned about the boy, personally."
"Yes, who may this be?" This was spoken by an older woman with dark hair and a regal face. She had Dumbledore's eyes. Or, Harry realized, perhaps Dumbledore had hers. Either way, they x-rayed him with an intensity that had him fighting the urge to smooth the wrinkles from his robes.
"Er, I'm Harry," he said awkwardly. "Hi."
He waved a little at the chorus of hellos and welcomes that followed.
"Harry will be staying here for the summer," Dumbledore elaborated.
"Why?" a man with huge mutton chops asked bluntly, eyeing Harry suspiciously.
Harry shifted.
"Because, dear Wulfric, Harry needed a place to stay." Dumbledore's tone held a significant amount of finality to it; Wulfric looked away, suitably chastised. After a moment's pause, he turned back to Harry, "But alas, we have paused too long on our house tour. We must come by later for proper introductions, hm?"
"Yeah, sure," Harry said, eager to get away from prying, painted eyes.
As the portraits said their goodbyes, the two wizards made their way down the hall.
"You'll have to forgive Wulfric, Harry," the professor said, voice remorseful, "My great-uncle has never been one to mince words."
"It's okay," he replied quickly before changing the topic, "I can't wait to see the rest of your house."
And see he did.
As Dumbledore directed him through the first floor of the house, Harry found himself gaping at a huge variety of strange and wondrous things. In the library (which somehow managed to have even more books than the dining room), Harry admired an impressive collection of fossilized magical creatures, and a miniature, tumultuous ocean encased in a glass orb. In Dumbledore's study, Harry counted about a dozen different magical clocks, only one of which had appeared to be normal—until it had turned into a cuckoo bird as the clock struck three—as well as an absurd amount of seashells, rocks, and crystals. Beyond yet again more books, the living room was relatively bare, though it did have a mysterious glowing jar that seemed to be filled with tentacles and most alarmingly, a fountain of blood. Harry hoped it wasn't human.
"And I would show you the conservatory," Dumbledore was saying after having pointed out the glass door leading to it, "but I'm afraid the frogs will escape. They moved in right under my nose one day and I haven't the heart to remove them. At any rate, on to your room, hm?"
Harry nodded, a little too overwhelmed to speak, and followed the professor up the stairs.
"While we are headed upstairs, I am reminded of my need to discourage you from wandering downstairs," Dumbledore said seriously. "I am something of an alchemist and my labs are down there, and quite dangerous."
Harry vividly remembered some of the passages Hermione had once read to him about people vaporizing themselves practicing alchemy and grimaced. "Yeah, think I'll avoid downstairs then."
"Good lad."
They had arrived in front of a door.
"This is the door to your room if you'd like to go in and get settled," Dumbledore said kindly, "I have some things to attend to in my study before dinner at six but feel free to roam about the rest of the house as you wish. Just be careful of the frogs if you enter the conservatory and I would avoid smelling any of the flowers."
"What about the other rooms up here?" Harry asked, peering at the three other doors in the hall.
"Well, here's the bathroom but otherwise, there isn't much up here beyond some dusty photo albums," Dumbledore said, somewhat apologetically.
Harry nodded. "Alright. I'll just..." he pointed at the door to his bedroom.
"Lovely," Dumbledore smiled. "I will see you for dinner then."
"Great!" he replied, and the professor turned to leave.
Harry had just opened the door to his new room when it hit him. "Oh! Er, Professor Dumbledore?"
The man turned back around. "Yes, Harry?"
"Thank you."
Dumbledore's eyes were soft. "You're quite welcome."
The room was so empty. That was all he had been able to think in the silence after the door had closed. In a house so full of wonderful things, Harry's room was empty.
One moment he was blinking at the white walls and the next he was breaking.
Of course Harry's room was empty. How fitting, he thought bitterly as Harry began to cry for all he'd lost. For Hermione, for Ron, for Sirius, the godfather he'd never get the chance to know. He'd lost everything. The world he loved had slipped through his fingers as easily as—as fucking sand.
He was truly alone.
Harry collapsed on the neatly made bed as sobs wracked his body. He barely noticed how the wireframe of his glasses cut into his skin as he pressed his face into his pillow and let out a horrid, choked wail.
His eyes burned and his throat squeezed shut and his nose wouldn't stop running as he cried and cried.
When he finally stopped, rolling over onto his back, he felt as empty as his room. He mechanically took off his glasses and placed them on the side table next to him.
And then he stared at the ceiling.
Harry was paralyzed again, staring at the hospital wing ceiling now. I must've fallen asleep. He waited for the inevitable shriek for Madam Pomfrey but it never came.
Was this what it was like? Hermione's voice drifted over him.
Hm? That was Ron's hum. What'd you mean?
Harry wished he could turn his head; they were so close. They had to be sitting next to him.
When I was petrified, Hermione explained quietly. Is this what it was like?
There was a void now, where his heart was. His chest ached.
After a moment, Ron spoke. Slowly, as if remembering. Not quite, he murmured. When you were petrified, Harry and I... We had a goal. Find out who did this to you. What did this to you. And, he added, we knew the mandrakes were almost ready. Now though...
There is no goal. Hermione's voice was small.
And no mandrakes to wait for.
A strangled sob met Harry's ears.
Shh...
Harry pictured Hermione crying into Ron's chest as he stroked her bushy hair.
They'll figure it out 'Mione. They have to.
And then came the shriek. For the first time since having these dreams, Harry wished he could squeeze his eyes shut when Ron and Hermione swam before his eyes yelling for Madam Pomfrey. The looks on their faces... They hurt. They hurt and he hurt and his ears began to ring and thank God he must be leaving and the light was blinding and—
"Harry!"
The awestruck, electric blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore met his as Harry blinked through sand.