Apologies for the delay. Work and university got in the way.
Note for returning readers — I redid the prologue entirely both to be truer to Harry and Lord Voldemort's developing relationship and to grant myself more creative freedom on character fates as the story moves along. But the story premise remains the same.
Without further ado, please enjoy.
6:25 a.m., January 16
Harry nervously clutched his Discernment Sphere as he started up the winding staircase of the DADA tower.
He trusted Professor Quirrell more than he trusted anyone else. Even so, to have the professor enter his mind would place him in a more vulnerable position than he had ever been in.
Of my choice anyway, Harry reminded himself. It was imperative he remember this would not be the first time a wizard entered his mind. Snape invaded his mind on his very first day of classes. That time, Harry instinctively latched onto the connection and returned the favor, at which he saw Snape cradling his mother's corpse and blaming his infant self for Voldemort's actions. But with a decade in a pig's pen disabusing him of naivety, Harry assumed Snape had subtly entered his mind at least several times since.
More importantly, Albus Dumbledore could easily attune himself to Harry's energies. When Harry accidentally set fire to the Gryffindor table during his first lunch, Dumbledore guided his magic to reverse the damage. Such was the Headmaster's finesse that Harry only surmised it from a twinkle in his golden eyes.
If I want freedom from him, I need Professor Quirrell to show me how to shield my mind. Even if he'll be in it, Harry resolved.
Yet this could not be taken lightly. Despite being in the wizarding world for only a few months, Harry already held secrets that could prove devastating if revealed en-masse. Such as his Gaunt heritage. He had been lucky, very lucky, that both Marcus and Cormac liked him enough to suppress Higgs' attempts to out him.
Then again, Cormac's first reaction was to send that mad muggle after me, Harry recalled. He held no grudge against his Dragon clan "bruv," who he'd given the Nimbus gold-edition goggles as a birthday present just a day before, but it reminded him of his secret's gravity.
Even so, he'd promised to share it with Draco by month's end, a day he could tell Draco was counting down to. He'd also have to tell Ron, Tony and Ernie once they joined the Dragon. And while he could wait till cohort confessional for the latter two, George suggested Ron would greatly appreciate being told weeks in advance, so he'd be sure Harry shared it by choice and not obligation.
Better start sharing today… "Ooof, sorry," Harry apologized to the person he bumped into.
"Harry," Oliver Rivers returned.
"Good morning," Harry greeted the Ravenclaw cheerily. "Is the professor in there?"
"Ready and waiting for you," Oliver answered with a distinct note of displeasure.
"Everything alright?" Harry asked. Perhaps it wasn't his place, but…
"Oh, just fine. The good professor yet again only has time for one student, and it's not his nephew," Oliver griped, his green-rimmed hazel eyes flashing with rage.
"Um…I'm…" Harry stammered.
"The great Harry Potter. How could I forget," Oliver retorted. His anger then seemingly receded, with his central warm-brown hue taking dominance again. "Hey, I'm sorry…"
"No…I didn't realize…I didn't mean to impose," Harry said bashfully. "If you want time with your uncle…"
"It's not your fault," Oliver sighed. "More my mom's — she and my uncle aren't too close."
Harry didn't pry, but he saw the freckled brunet's longing for a relationship with his uncle. It had not been so long ago when he grasped for any semblance of connection to his deceased blood family, so he hoped he could help.
"We meet Friday mornings to discuss all the ways to use magic," Harry explained, though he could see Oliver already knew this. "What we're doing for the next month or so is one on one, but after that, if you wanna join…"
"Well…if you don't mind," Oliver responded.
"I'll let you know when!" Harry promised while putting a hand on the taller boy's left shoulder. Oliver smiled brightly in response, and with a shoulder clap of his own went on his way.
"Good morning, Professor Quirrell!" Harry greeted as he entered the office, his interaction with Oliver lightening his mood.
"Good morning Harry," the professor smilingly returned. "I see you ran into my nephew."
"Yah," Harry answered while briefly running his hand through his hair. Offhandedly, he appreciated no longer having to reset his glasses while doing so, as Draco rescued him from that filthy contraption. "He was wondering if he could join some of our morning discussions, after our occlumency sessions."
"If you are comfortable with it, I would be happy to have him," the professor said.
"I think he's a bit open-minded," Harry ventured. He was hazarding a guess, but he knew Oliver's mom had an establishment job. He presumed that was the source of friction between Mrs. Rivers and the free-spirited Professor Quirrell. And Oliver would have already seen in their DADA class that his uncle did not pencil push the standard Ministry drivel.
"I think so as well," the professor agreed. "He would not be your friend otherwise, yes?"
Harry nodded to this.
Admittedly, he did not know Oliver quite as well as he did Tony. But he was getting a good feel for who he could be more himself with, and who expected him to be the cookie-cutter, establishment-worshiping "hero" from the Harry Potter books, plays and motion pictures made during his decade in hell. Harry was pretty sure Oliver fell into the former category.
"Are you ready?" Professor Quirrell asked without further preamble as Harry took a seat.
"There's…there's something you should know first," Harry decided to get it out of the way now, while he could still introduce it on his own terms. "As you know, I one-hundred percent reject Voldemort's crusade on blood purity. I'm proud of my mother, both as a witch and as a warrior, and I wouldn't trade her. But…I'm also related to Voldemort."
"I suspected as much," the professor informed. Harry looked at him in surprise.
"The Gaunts and the Potters are reputed to both descend from the Peverell triumvirate," the professor revealed. "While this is sourced from old pure-blood ledgers, which as we know can be somewhat unreliable, the distinct talent both lineages hold for necromancy leads me to believe it to be fact."
Harry just received two things. More information of his bloodline which, in addition to adding another three of the greatest wizards of all time to his family tree, further informed him of his talents and abilities.
Secondly, he now had an out from the discussion of being related to Voldemort. But looking into Professor Quirrell's eyes, he chose not to take it.
"My relation to Voldemort is much closer and more recent," Harry said. "I'm…a Parselmouth."
"An innate Parselmouth?" Professor Quirrell asked with amazement. "That's a very advanced gift you have, courtesy of the Gaunt dynasty."
"Well, it just means I can talk to snakes," Harry shrugged. He was thoroughly relieved that the professor took it in stride, but he did think the ability was put on too high a pedestal. "I mean, any wizard who wants can conjure a snake and direct it, or even control other snakes with an Imperius or some other form of mental magic."
"Many great wizards have devoted their lives to attempting to replicate what they call Parseltongue, and found only failure," the professor started passionately. "I believe the root issue lies in a fundamental misunderstanding of this branch of magic, which must extend far beyond speaking to snakes."
"How so?" Harry asked.
"For one, I theorize it to be soul magic, but far greater than animagus transfiguration — and infinitely beyond than the simple mind-arts charm deride it as," the professor explained. "Consider how your gift, Herpo the Great's signature power, has been preserved for thousands of years. Surely it would be lost if it were just some family secret. Indeed, you wouldn't possess the ability, and certainly not as a Hogwarts first-year. And if the magic was rooted in the corporeal, the blood carrying it would have been diluted long before Merlin."
"Animagus shape-shifting is soul magic?" Harry questioned.
"Indeed," Professor Quirrell confirmed. "Minerva may sell it as advanced transfiguration, but notice that animagi have only one true form — and not particularly one of their choice. Those with true mastery can transfigure themselves into other shapes, animal and human. But one will come first and remain forever easier than the others — easy enough to shift into wandlessly, and dominant enough to incorporate aspects of into your natural form."
"Do you know how?" Harry wondered.
"I never ventured into that, so my form may remain a mystery I'm afraid," the professor responded. "Yours is not, however."
"Am I a snake?" Harry asked, to which the professor nodded with a smile.
"All Parselmouths must be," he stated. "That would explain why nearly all wizards who attempt to commandeer the art are doomed to fail, while a millennia-spanning lineage has kept it in an unbroken chain."
"I see," Harry comprehended the revelations. "What other ways are my animagus form and Parseltongue related? And what powers bind them?"
"Now that is the critical question," the professor said with delight. "The theory behind animagus is that there is one species in the animal kingdom that possesses traits most similar to those in your soul. The resonance between your magic and their presence in magic allows you to transfigure your body into a member of their species, while retaining your mind and whatever magic you can control without a wand. Now, from what I have studied on Parselmouths, you resonate with whatever snake you come across, yes? And you exercise dominion over them just by speaking, no wand necessary?"
"Yes," Harry confirmed.
"Then there is an aspect of your magic, of your very nature, that is serpentine," Professor Quirrell continued. "And not figuratively. This may be a personal question, but have you ever used your Parselmouth abilities for something other than speaking to a snake?"
"The Slytherin doors all respond to me," Harry answered. "My king cobra — Halogi — claimed 'the power of the spirit' was both in the doors and in me."
"Ah," the professor sounded with satisfaction. "This 'spirit' sounds to be the medium that binds you, snakes, and Parselmouths that have gone before you."
Wait…are the snake voices in the Corvinus door past Gaunts? Harry wondered. Though the great majority of Gaunts forsook their ancestor's school, there had been just enough in the records to account for five voices — three male and two female.
"I see," Harry said as he resolved to list Gaunt names when next talking to the Corvinus door. "And previous Gaunts — and Salazar Slytherin, and his own ancestors — could use this medium to enchant possessions in ways that only those with the same power could access?"
"Going by your experiences, that appears to be the case," Professor Quirrell answered. "And working from that, we can reverse-engineer some other powers you must have, can we not?"
"Yes," Harry replied with mounting excitement. "To enchant something, I have to rope my magic around an object, then alter its abilities or properties through the connection. But it seems that with Parseltongue, I can do this in a way that shields my enchantments from the powers of other wizards!"
"That is my understanding as well," the professor agreed. "But I wonder, is this power limited to enchantments of other objects? Why not yourself? Or a part of yourself, such as your mind?"
"Occlumency," Harry whispered.
"Your mind is the axis of your magic," Professor Quirrell said. "And your magic contains the nature of the serpent: a creature of dexterity, stealth and precision. Attributes that should perfectly translate into the mental arena, no?"
"Yes…" Harry supposed.
"Though I suppose that is something we can explore," the professor smiled encouragingly. "If correct, it will allow you to develop your mental protections far faster than if relying on pure raw power and mastery of self."
"That would be nice," Harry said hopefully.
"But perhaps we should start with an initial scan of your mind," the professor determined. "Thereafter, you can ascertain how to best defend yourself. Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Harry resolved.
"Legilimens," Professor Quirrell stated. Suddenly, the DADA office gave way to a whirl of surroundings and wizards that blitzed Harry like a virtual-reality movie set at 10x speed. Interactions with Draco, Ron, Cassius, Graham, Hermione, Cormac, Tony, Ernie, Niall, Marcus and others flashed by so fast they almost merged.
Then a pair of stormy-blue eyes caught his sight, and Harry instantly recognized a shift toward memories with wizards he disliked. Nott, Zabini, the Rowle brother, the Rowle sister, Derrick, Dunn, Hagrid, McGonagall, Dumbledore…
And Higgs, the betrayer.
2:09 a.m., January 12
"Apiero," Harry commanded the entrance to Slytherin's seventh-year wizards' room. The doors slid open at the words of the Salazar's heir, allowing Harry to slip into the dark space. In addition to concealing him, the shadows that raised him allowed Harry to feel minor sensory and defensive wards around the beds and possessions of the sleeping seventeen and eighteen year-olds. They proved of no concern as he allowed himself into the inner room.
"Awaken," Harry ordered Terence in the serpent-tongue after ensuring that the prefect's door would ward off sounds of the…heart-to-heart they were about to have.
Terence's steel-blue eyes shot open to see Harry lying in bed next to him.
"How dare you try to twist Draco against me?" Harry demanded. "How dare you go behind my back to guys you barely talk to just to slander me?"
"Is it slander, you creep?" the half-awake prefect accused groggily.
"Libel then, which is even more cowardly," Harry sneered in acknowledgement of the fact that Terence's words to the Dragon clan were mostly written. "If I have a problem with someone, I confront them face to face. I don't go behind their backs, and I definitely don't try to trick others into fighting my battles. That's weak. That's dishonorable. That's muggle."
"Talking from experience?" Terence retorted.
"Never compare me to that filth," Harry growled.
"Your maternal family is filth?" Terence challenged.
"Call them my 'family' again, and I'll show you just what I think of cops," Harry threatened.
"So what do you want now, oh Heir of Slytherin?" Terence grunted.
"To give you one more chance," Harry offered. "You don't deserve it, but I can tell you regret crossing me. So I will give you the opportunity to move past trying to set Halogi on me twice."
"What d'ya want?" Terence asked.
"Loyalty," Harry delineated. "They say this is the house of ambition, but all I see is a pit of curs and cunts who hate those with true power. Who gang up on those with real talent and praise themselves for mooching off their parents' money and 'status'. You, at least, don't do that. You suck up to those that do, but I guess I can forgive that. You went six years before meeting me."
"What?" Terence asked with an undue measure of shock.
"I am a great wizard," Harry declared. "And not because I'm the 'Boy-Who-Lived' — Voldemort simply lost control of his powers that night. No, I'm great because I'm the 'Boy-Who-Survived'. I looked Voldemort in the eyes while most adults can't even speak his name. I spent a decade under hateful vermin who tried their damndest to turn me into an obscurius, living lower than an elf. I was returned only when the old crackpot thought I'd been broken, ready to jizz at the sound of his name. But I threw off his chains. Half-a-year later, I'm already more capable than most of you — you who spent your whole lives in magic! I think I proved that when I destroyed the beast that nearly painted the walls with your brains. So imagine, with my power, where I'll be by the year's end? How many Slytherins do you think will be able to match my might?"
Terence looked like he was having a difficult time keeping up, but Harry continued.
"Think about it," Harry pressed. "You've seen how smart I am. How gifted. How passionate. How dedicated. But I'm not just some dull nerd. I'm fun, probably the funnest wizard in first year. I make people smile, laugh and have a good time. I'm popular — I sit with Marcus and the athletes. Heck, I'm an athlete! I'm the first first-year Quidditch seeker since Randolph Lestrange. But with all that, I don't pick on other wizards for laughs. I don't need that to make myself feel good, unlike the Rowles and most of our good housemates."
"And most of all, I stand with those who stand with me," Harry promised. "If you don't betray me, I won't desert you in your time of need. Can you say the same about your girlfriend?"
Silence set over the room as Terence pondered over Harry's words.
"You know what I think?" Terence said after a long pause. "I think you're everything you said you are. But underneath all that? You're a sad, bitter boy, swimming in anger and hate."
"How dare you!" Harry spat out.
"Investigative aurors see your type too many times," Terence continued. "Underneath all the charm and vigor, whether it's a complete act or mostly genuine, you're drowning in a quicksand of rage. And if you don't let go, it'll take you entirely. Maybe it'll take months, maybe years, maybe decades. But it often ends in tragedy, for you and anyone still close to you."
"Who are you to judge me, you sanctimonious hypocrite?" Harry demanded.
"I mucked up, okay!" Terence exclaimed. "I mucked up with you, and I'm sorry. You're right that I was a coward, that I wanted to fit in. You're right that I should've stood up for you. But not because you're powerful. Rather, because you're a person, and you deserve a fair shake at this world and in this house. And because I know what it's like to have them set against you."
"You wish I wasn't powerful," Harry determined.
"That's…okay, fine, you do scare me," Terence admitted. "I can count on one hand the number of Slytherins who exude more power than you, and they've all had several more years to grow into their raw connection with magic — and whole childhoods with it! Dia and Alloy? You'd probably win a death duel against either, despite the skill gap. And you obviously don't respect the order of things. I don't have to listen in to your talks with Malfoy and Flavus to see that."
"So you fear me because I'm different," Harry accused. "Because I don't wanna play a game set by the spineless couch-warmers you call leaders?"
"There's a lot of good in this world…" Terence started.
"A lecture? Seriously?" Harry derided. "You're in no position to give me one! No, I'm the one giving you the chance to be better. Don't you dare try to flip this on me."
"We should both be better," Terence insisted. "I should have fessed up to Alloy's plot, that's true. But this 'might makes right' approach you're taking — how are you any better? Whatever you say about the Rowles, at least I know they won't barge into my room at 2 a.m. to threaten me."
"You think I've been threatening you?" Harry asked coolly.
"What would happen if I said no, I don't want to swear loyalty to the person who forced me to give up something I worked for years for at snake point?" Terence retorted.
"I can do much more than that," Harry warned. "And I will, if you don't reconsider."
"I bet you'll try," Terence returned dryly. "Marcus wouldn't favor you if you didn't have a cruel streak."
"You poke a python and wail about being bitten?" Harry mocked. "The Sorting Hat's lost its touch. Ole Salazar must be rolling in his grave to see muggle filth defile his once-great house!"
"Guess we have nothing left to say," Terence stated. "For what it's worth, I wish you the best, squirt."
Barely holding back his rage, Harry slid off the bed and stole toward the door. He turned back to deliver three final words, however.
"You'll pay, Higgs," Harry promised before walking out.
"Such anger," Professor Quirrell's voice noted in Harry's mind.
"I…um," Harry stumbled, unable to come up with a good explanation for his actions.
"I do not judge you," the professor promised. "I suspect you have very good reasons to feel as you do. Of course, as a legilimens, my next question is why. Prepare yourself."
January 16, 7 years after Godric's Hollow
Another Tuesday, and Harry yet again found himself alone at lunch.
Harry looked down at the "frugal" lunch he had packed for himself. He could only pack the cheeseburger macaroni for Dudley, despite the fact he made it and more than enough was left over. But the wanker would claim Harry stole it, just like he told Sir and Ma'am and the teachers that Harry was cheating whenever Harry did better than him in school — despite Dudley maintaining good grades and Harry ready to help with lessons he didn't understand.
All too quickly, Harry finished his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and apple. Having at least fifteen minutes before he could reasonably head out of the lunch hall and take an extra-long trip to the restroom before class, Harry took out a paper and began drawing.
His mind entered a tranquil, almost contented state as he did this. Drawing allowed him to interact with those around him without awkwardness and trouble. It provided the purest representation of how he viewed others, and how he wished he could communicate with them.
He started with the eyes — the window to the soul. To the life that lay within, which in Dudley's case often proved as dynamic and turbulent as the stormy-blue color of his pupils.
As Harry moved on to his cousin's face, a turmoil brewed within him not unlike that he had just colored into the eyes. From his first memory to his first years at school, Dudley had been his best friend. The only one who accepted him in the family.
But nothing good in his life lasted.
So Harry retreated into his thoughts and memories of Dudley, the fading favorable and the mountaining malignant, as he created a perfect 2-D replica of his cousin. As he watched the drawing stare back at him, flickering between a smile and a sneer, Harry lost sense of his surroundings to the storm of emotions within.
And so came humiliation.
"Awww, is that for me, Potty?" the three-dimensional Dudley sing-songed from behind as he snatched the drawing up.
Before Harry could seize it, Piers Polkiss seized his shoulders firmly.
"Obsessing over your own cousin, freak?" Piers mocked him while twisting his nipples.
"He's barely family," Dudley flippantly jibed — which jabbed a knife through Harry's heart, despite himself. "Just the spawn of filthy drunks that got themselves blown up."
Piers seemed taken aback momenatarily by the harshness of the words. But as surely as the sun rose, delight spread across his face as soon as he saw a flicker of misery in Harry's.
"You gotta watch this one Duds, or he'll blow you!" Piers delivered his lewd pun with a look of self-contentment.
Dudley slapped his best friend on the back with a matching look of superiority. "Fear not brother. My pops is setting this one straight."
After enjoying another laugh at Harry's expense, the two taller boys sat themselves on each side of Harry.
"Now, I like the drawing. No, really, I do," Dudley drawled. "But I seem to have left my science homework at home."
"Me too," Piers added dramatically.
"And you know how mum hates it when I don't get good marks, nerd," Dudley stated with a hint of a threat.
"Of course," Harry said defeatedly as he produced not one, but two extra copies of the homework. Both written in perfect replicas of Dudley and Piers' handwriting.
"I hope you don't have the same answers, faggot," Piers said in a seemingly casual tone. "You know how they get when they suspect cheating."
"Of course," Harry answered, barely restraining a growl. Not only did he have to do whatever homework Dudley didn't want for him, but he had to give himself the worse answers. Or ma'am would accuse him of cheating off of Dudley — not to mention the teachers might get suspicious.
Not that they found Dudley and Piers speaking to him only when they were wrangling something from him to be suspicious. Oh no, that was just good-natured fun from their point of view. For pure, perfect Dudley could do no wrong, while everything was wrong with Harry the drunk-spawn.
Muggle filth, Harry thought with disgust at how he let himself be treated. True, he didn't know any better — but who's fault was that?
A tidal wave of rage crashed through Harry as the whirlwind of confliction within his younger, weaker self turned into a hurricane of fury at the memory.
The fury whipped round and round until it turned into fire. A fire not unlike the one Harry felt when he destroyed that disgusting troll…
"Welcome back," Professor Quirrell greeted.
The calm of his voice so contrasted Harry's charred surroundings that the wizard boy blinked several times to determine if he had truly returned to the physical world.
"Ah, yes," the professor said almost absentmindedly as he produced his wand and gave it one casual flick. Immediately, any burnt and broken objects — including the shattered Discernment Sphere that Harry brought to the lesson — returned to their previous states as if nothing happened.
"As you just witnessed, raw force of will can provide an adequate counter to legilmency," Professor Quirrell stated. "But I suppose you saw the pitfalls of that approach as well, yes?"
"Um, sorry about that," Harry apologized meekly as he ran his hand through his hair.
"Please do not apologize for that. That display was nothing short of marvelous for a wizard your age," the professor countered. "I was referring to when you drove me out of your mind, not how."
"When I had a bad memory," Harry answered, comprehension dawning on him.
"Specifically, what you perceived as a bad memory," the professor followed. "Had Minerva been ransacking your mind, she would pity you for the second and revile you for the first."
"I was just standing up for myself…" Harry defended himself before he remembered who he was speaking with.
"I understand completely," Professor Quirrell promised. "But of course, we are surrounded by those born into high status. Those who never have to fight for what should rightfully be theirs."
Harry's jaw clenched as he considered all the ways Dumbledore bamboozled him, and how the old crackpot and the rest of Wizarding Britain's so-called government condemned many a wizard to the muggle world for the duration of their childhood.
"However, there is something I wonder," the professor mused. "But no…just a suspicion…"
"Please, tell me," Harry pleaded with his favorite adult.
"You wield tremendous raw power," Professor Quirrell started as he fixed an inquisitive gaze on him. "Yet those muggles belittled you without fear. Even if you did not strike out against them, those Dursleys should have been able to feel your power. Particularly given your blood connection. Unless…"
Harry waited with baited breath, both in anticipation and trepidation, for the professor to complete his thought.
"Unless that blood connection has been turned against you, to cripple your powers," Professor Quirrell unloaded solemnly.
"Dumbledore," Harry growled.
"May I see the sphere?" Professor Quirrell requested. Hands white and shaking, Harry handed over the device, grateful that the transfer would prevent him from destroying the increasingly-useful ball again.
"Yes, yes," the professor murmured to himself as he attuned himself with Harry's residual mental energies. "I believe the mental conflict within you and the bar on your powers to be directly linked."
"If I master occlumency, can I restore my powers?" Harry wondered.
"I think the other way around will prove more beneficial," Professor Quirrell stated. "Of course, that would require breaking the blood spell."
"How?" Harry asked hurriedly, desperate to be free of the muggles' hold over him.
"The spell's creator…may have tied the magic to the Dursleys life forces," the professor answered measuredly. "Particularly to that of Petunia and Dudley."
Harry scowled at the idea of those two clawing at his birthright for the rest of their lives.
"There's something you should know regarding your living situation," Professor Quirrell continued, his eyes filled with compassion and some hesitance.
"Please, tell me," Harry whispered, bracing himself for further news.
"Arabella Figg — the muggle across the street from where you were kept?" the professor began. "She has served Dumbledore for many years. She spent the past decade as the Dursleys' neighbor to make sure you stayed there, and to provide the muggles a monthly sum for the task."
Harry slumped in his seat till his face buried itself in his hands.
Of course, the pig and his bitch had to be paid to keep me, Harry thought bitterly.
"I've been his prisoner all my life," Harry murmured about the headmaster he now despised more than any other person. "He's taken everything from me…"
"Not everything," Professor Quirrell interjected earnestly. "And we can take back much of what has been stolen…starting with your powers."
"How?" Harry asked again.
The professor stiffened, looking more rigid than Harry had ever known him. For a moment, he even seemed wary. But he proceeded in explanation.
"The spell binding you is tied to the living blood of your mother's kin," Professor Quirrell stated. "I can…arrange…for it to be broken. But it will require…"
"Yes please," Harry said before the professor even finished.
"You're willing to see them dead?" Professor Quirrell inquired.
"The only reason they kept me alive was so Dumbledore's galleons could fund that filthy pig's business," Harry snarled. "And even then, they still wanted me dead half of the time."
Memories of the relentless beating from the snarling pig after precious Duddykins shrieked at the zoo python's release whipped through Harry's mind.
"On your knees, devil!"
"I give you everything, and you try to murder my son! This time, you'll beg for hell."
"One more yelp, and you will wish you had been in the car with your parents that night!"
"Pick yourself up, serpent! My son needs his birthday dinner! And don't you dare taint it with your filthy blood!"
And Dumbledore's servant saw it all, Harry remembered. With that, the firestorm roaring within him turned cold, icy, and venomous. A serpentine sensation slithered through his body, and with it came untarnished clarity.
"I want to be free," Harry told his professor. "Can you help me?"
"It will be my pleasure," the professor assured with a promising smile.
January 17
Harry stared down his seeker opponent, the bronze-skinned Valerius Ahayra. A sixth year and member of the Dragon clan, Valerius proved the favorite in betting odds.
But Harry possessed two tricks in his arsenal he bet Valerius did not. First, he took Randolph Lestrange's advice about meditating daily with his broom to heart, thus deepening his bond with the aerial channel and strengthening his attunement for that form of magic. Second, Harry capitalized on the link he found between his hatred for the muggles who enslaved him and his serpentine powers. When he struck the correct balance, he found his senses to be quicker and sharper than ever — ready to deliver him his prey.
Accordingly, Harry provided none of the chatter he did in his face-off with Cormac in November. Not that Valerius turned out to be a seeker of many words on the pitch.
Time, unlike during the previous match, seemed immaterial. Perhaps because Harry's job was to catch the snitch as quickly as possible, rather than stave off his opponent like last time. Or perhaps due to his new frame of mind. Or yet still perhaps due to experience in a Quidditch match. But Harry found himself unconcerned by the performance of the other players, the roaring of the crowd, and even the dramatic commentary from Lee.
No, Harry had eyes, ears and energy for one thing.
Snitch, Harry thought triumphantly when he detected its distinctive flutter through the cold air.
He raced through the wintry wind with both a precision and elation he never before felt. Harry always favored winter over the other months, but this winter was special. For the first winter of his life, he no longer cowered meekly under the oppression of muggle scum. Now, he flew as freely through the air as Hedwig, and he chased his golden prey with all the hunting prowess of Halogi. For much of the liberty he had found at Hogwarts, in Slytherin particularly, rested on his seeking skill. And Harry Potter would not give those who conspired against him the leverage they so desperately sought. Never again would he yield to another whose powers trailed his.
Valerius never stood a chance.
11:29 p.m., January 31
Harry paced the length of the Forbidden Corridor, weighing the chances of his friendship with Draco solidifying versus the chances of everything falling apart.
This is my last chance to come up with a lie, Harry considered. He didn't want to lie to the wizard who was possibly his best friend. But his mistakes with Higgs already demonstrated the stakes of revealing his Gaunt heritage.
Harry had been the recipient of a most fortuitous streak of luck on that regard so far, between Marcus, the Dragon Clan and Professor Quirrell. But even though Draco seemingly had more reason to stand by a Gaunt than any of the others, Harry knew he was pushing the cosmic scale by revealing his powers to yet another person.
But he isn't just any other person, Harry reminded himself. Their first week notwithstanding, Draco had proved himself time and again to be a loyal friend. Most notably when he provided support and comfort to Harry following Nott's display at the Yule gift exchange.
Harry uncrossed his arms, clasped his hands behind his back, and took in several deep breaths as he sensed a familiar presence approach.
"I do hope you have a good reason for making me walk so far from Slytherin on a Saturday night, Pottuh," Draco announced himself in a dramatically haughty voice.
Just as in hours past, Harry vacillated between verbally telling the truth and then showing Draco, or simply showing the Gaunt powers without prelude.
"Reveal yourssself," Harry called out to Halogi, deciding to "show" first and then tell.
Draco flinched in shock at the sound — then shrieked upon seeing a 20 foot king cobra emerge from the shadows.
"He won't harm you," Harry promised as his raven-black shadow companion wrapped around him. "Isssn't that right, Halogi?"
Halogi affirmatively flitted his tongue against Harry's cheek.
Stunned to silence, Draco simply stared slack jawed.
"He won't harm you because I won't harm you," Harry elaborated. "I would never harm you."
"Good…because my father would hear about it," Draco joked weakly.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief at Draco's seeming recipience of the news.
"So…this is why Higgs hates you, and Marcus favors you so much?" Draco deduced.
"More or less," Harry answered. "And before you asked, Marcus figured it out and Higgs, well, he tried to assassinate me with Halogi — and you can see how that worked out."
"The Rowles don't know," Draco figured as he began to walk toward Harry. "And neither does Nott."
"I'd like to keep it that way," Harry stated. "They haven't earned my trust."
"So it's just Marcus and Higgs?" Draco asked.
"And you," Harry added. "And some others in other houses figured it out too when Higgs went on a blabbing spree, but thankfully they're keeping under the sheets."
"My father…he would rally behind you," Draco proposed. "He would be as great an ally as you could possibly imagine."
Now that Draco had accepted Harry's connection to the Gaunt dynasty, the conversation approached the other snag Harry dreaded. The Lucius Malfoy question.
Blood ties meant to Draco what bonds of reciprocal loyalty meant to Harry. It was only natural that Draco would want to introduce his father into the equation — a wizard for whom Harry held no trust. For despite being one of Voldemort's chief followers during the rebellion, Lucius quickly abandoned his cause and his fellow Death Eaters when the going got tough. While his cousin-by-marriage and sister-in-law stood by their actions before the Wizengamot, Lucius bought his freedom and disavowed everyone he worked with except for those as cowardly as he.
No, Harry had no interest in telling Lucius about his identity. He only hoped he could impress this on Draco in a way that didn't disrespect the young Malfoy's values.
"I don't know your father," Harry said diplomatically. "But I know you. I trust you, and that's why you're the first mate I've shown my heritage to."
"I truly think…" Draco tried.
"Please," Harry asked while placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "We can…revisit this later. But right now, it'd mean a lot if you kept me secret for me."
"But…" Draco attempted in protest.
"Please," Harry repeated, to which his friend acquiesced.
"Thank you. I…" Harry began, but trailed off when he heard the pops of gunfire.
"Draco!" Harry shouted in alarm.
But Draco was nowhere in sight, for Harry was no longer at Hogwarts. He had returned to the disgustingly familiar 4 Privet Drive — to behold a scene unlike anything he ever imagined.
The pig who once lorded over the house lay in on his back just a little ways from the front door. Eyes wide and unmoving. A hole in the dead center of his forehead. A pillow of gore and brain matter on which his head rested. Mouth open in a silent scream.
Another round of pops sounded on the second floor, prompting Harry to turn toward the stairs — on which lay the bitch, gasping raggedly as she clutched her stomach in a feeble attempt to stop the blood cascading out. Harry walked past the muggle who hated him most without regard, far more curious as to see what transpired upstairs.
As he reached the second floor, two men in ski masks rushed him. Harry reached for his wand, only to find himself as immaterial as a ghost in this moment. The muggle killers thus sprinted through him without issue.
Harry continued his trek to the room the muggles had just run out of — Dudley's. Walking through the barely open door, he found the blond athlete slumped at the foot of his bed, clutching his chest as he choked on his own blood.
And Harry felt…nothing.
He thought he would have felt vindication, for all the times the oaf had beaten him mercilessly. For all the humiliations, particularly those with an audience. For all the lies told particularly to provoke the pig and the bitch.
But to his surprise, Harry watched the muggle boy struggle as his bodily fluids rushed into his torn lung with dispassion.
"Freedom," Harry whispered to himself as he sensed the boy dying. And not just from the muggle's cruelty. No, he could feel power — his Gaunt power — being unlocked from within. Restored to its rightful place…
BANG
The door was thrown wide open, flooding light into the dark room. In the threshold stood none other than Albus Dumbledore — who wore an uncharacteristically grave expression on his face.
"No boy should have to witness such things," he whispered while looking directly at Harry.
Before Harry could react, the Headmaster's golden eyes flashed with power. Instantly, the muggle prison faded from view, and Harry's surroundings whirled and warped until he found himself staring into a pair of concerned silver-blue eyes.
"Harry!" Draco exclaimed as he shook him, as if he had been doing this repeatedly.
"I—I'm fine," Harry responded as he came to.
"Really," Harry assured as Draco gave him an unbelieving look. "I'm…I'm better than I've ever been."
It was true. A newfound sense of power settled within him, washing through every inch of his body like a refreshing cold shower on a hot summer day.
"It's my half-birthday," Harry realized off-handedly. "I just got my first birthday present."
Draco looked at him with confusion and concern.
"Don't…forget it," Harry dismissed.
Draco's reaction projected that he wouldn't quite forget the incident, but he would at least drop the topic.
"Maybe we should sleep," Draco suggested.
Harry gave absentminded nod of agreement. In reality, he felt more awake and alive than he ever had. Indeed, he wanted to test his new power in a duel — with Niall perhaps, or even Cormac. He suspected he now could defeat the best of the second years, despite their considerably greater experience and skill with magic. He'd need to in any case before he dueled Nott, whose Death Eater training gave him an advantage over the vast majority of wizards at Hogwarts despite being a mere first year.
"Perhaps we can duel in the morning if you get your rest," Draco suddenly offered.
Harry looked at him with shock, to which Draco merely raised an eyebrow.
"You're not as difficult to read as you think," Draco replied flippantly.
Harry first checked the rudimentary mental barriers he had developed in his past three sessions with Professor Quirrell, only to determine that Draco must have been reading him non-magically. A timely reminder that despite the vast superiority magic gave wizards over muggles, magic was not always the be-all, end-all.
"Deal," Harry agreed.