CHAPTER 27: SUMMERTIME SOLITUDE

Harry leaned against the brown, faux-brick tiles that adorned the walls, their surfaces slightly rough under his fingertips. Above him, the cream-painted plaster walls stretched upwards to meet a stark-white, cobweb-dusted ceiling, casting a nostalgic aura reminiscent of Aunt Petunia's childhood kitchen.

His fingers traced a path across the tiles, each with its own unique story: the chipped tile, the one with the bubble, the almost-orange tile, and the missing half-tile. These tiles were witnesses to the passage of time. Harry turned left and passed through door number seven.

Inside, a small, well-worn bag hung from the scratched, rusted metal frame of a compact bed wedged into the corner. Chalk nicks etched the window sill, marking the passage of days. Harry brushed the last of them away with his thumb. "Today's the day," he murmured, his voice quivering with both anticipation and nostalgia. It was a voice that emerged, high-pitched and cracked, much like those silent days when Dudley was away with friends, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to forget he even existed.

Harry plucked the bag off the bed and gazed out of the grimy window. He tugged at the collar of his blurred reflection, sweeping his hair to the side. "Don't dawdle," he chided himself, then pulled the door shut, making sure to straighten the crooked number seven that adorned it. "She's probably waiting."

He retraced his steps, passing the tiles he had scrutinized earlier. Questions swirled in his mind. Who was waiting for him? The brick-like tiles drifted past as he navigated through the corridors, glimpses of fleeting shadows of children haunting his path. Could it be Aunt Petunia?

As Harry reached the iron gate, he noticed pigeons striding across the empty street beyond, and stray newspaper pages caught in the gutter, their pages fluttering in the breeze. A thick knot of anxiety twisted in his gut. "Did she not want to come?" he wondered aloud.

Just then, a slender figure turned the corner at the end of the street. Sunlight flashed off a pair of thick, metal-framed glasses. Relief washed over Harry. "There she is."

A shimmering silver dress adorned her, and her hair sparkled as she gracefully descended the hill. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of blue, and her small, warm smile played like an enchanting melody in the theater of Harry's mind. His heart leaped into his throat at the sight of her.

Suddenly, a loud step echoed from behind him. "Go on, Tom. Don't keep a lady waiting, lad," a voice urged.

Harry's eyes snapped open. He found himself surrounded by clean, white wool, and the faint, citrus scent of a hospital ward's laundry filled the air. His heart, which had pounded with excitement moments ago, now returned to a gentle, steady rhythm. Legilimency is a double-edged sword, even for a master, he thought, taking a deep breath. He tried to picture room seven, but the brick-like tiles and ivory plaster had vanished.

"Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey's heels clicked as she approached. "I heard you wake up, Mr. Potter. You may as well pull the sheet back down off your head."

"I'm awake," Harry mumbled, tugging the sheet down and catching sight of the steaming goblet in her hand. "And perfectly fine."

"You are not perfectly fine, Mr. Potter," she retorted, placing the goblet next to his bed. "I am going to permanently label this bed as yours for next year."

"I feel fine," Harry insisted. He eyed the thick, chalky-looking liquid steaming in the goblet. "Maybe a little sore?"

Madam Pomfrey's expression turned stern. "You are the second student I have had in this wing in the last week suffering from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse," she informed him. "And yes, you will be drinking that down to the last drop."

Fleur... Harry glanced down the length of the ward, but the curtains were all drawn back against the walls, and the beds were neatly arranged with sheets and pillows. "I'm the only victim here."

"What's it for?" Harry questioned, sniffing the steam coming off the potion, wincing, then coughing. "Even the smell is awful."

Madam Pomfrey sighed and crossed her arms. "It's everything your body needed the last week it spent sleeping off the effects of bouncing off the anti-Apparition wands."

"Will it taste as bad as it looks?" Harry inquired, eyeing the goblet warily.

Her eyes glinted mischievously. He grabbed the goblet and gulped it down. The liquid tasted like burning liquorice, coating the inside of Harry's throat and mouth, and the fumes stung his nose.

"Yes," Madam Pomfrey confirmed, pulling her wand from her uniform pocket and tracing it over his torso. "I imagine it will taste quite bad."

"Am I okay?" Harry asked anxiously.

"You actually do seem to be perfectly fine, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey remarked, her expression softening. "This has come a week or so sooner than I'd have expected, but save for another scar, you've come away unscathed." She handed him a miniature mirror.

Harry examined his reflection in the mirror. A small triangular nick marked the edge of his cheekbone.

"I couldn't get rid of the deepest part of the cut," Madam Pomfrey explained. "Whatever they used had some enchantment to seal the wound up. I wasn't able to fully undo the effects."

Harry shrugged, examining the nick more closely. "It's barely noticeable. It's not exactly going to distract anyone from my other scar." He handed the mirror back to her. "I... er... I don't suppose you'd tell me what's happened since the tournament ended?"

"Ah, you won," Madam Pomfrey said. "It was a bit of a mess after Ludo Bagman's involvement came to light, but you did Apparate into the wards while holding the trophy. Not that we've mentioned your illegal Apparition to anyone, of course."

"Ludo Bagman?" Harry questioned, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"He was the one who put your name in. The whole tournament was rigged so you'd get there first and disappear off to You-Know-Who. He confessed to everything immediately once the Imperius Curse was lifted and spouted the whole story to the headmaster and the minister."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Where is he?"

"The minister carted him off to Azkaban immediately," Madam Pomfrey answered with a shake of her head. "No trial, no nothing, just gone. And all for things done under the Imperius Curse! If that was the standard, half of British wizarding society would be there after the last war."

Harry couldn't help but feel a small flicker of pity for Ludo Bagman. "Azkaban's a bit much, even if he did help get Fleur tortured and Viktor killed. It wasn't really him doing it. No doubt Lucius Malfoy was advising Fudge."

"He took the blame, then?" Harry inquired. "What about the other champions?"

"He took the blame for everything, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey confirmed, sniffing as she plucked the goblet from Harry's bedside. "The minister didn't seem very interested in his version of events at all, even when it was obvious he had been under the Imperius Curse. At least the students know what happened. Dumbledore announced everything at the end-of-year feast."

Harry blinked in surprise. "The end-of-year feast?"

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "Exactly what is the date, Mr. Potter?"

"Oh," Harry responded, pressing his fingertips to his lips in thought. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. It's the second of July. Everyone has gone home except for the permanent staff and yourself. You should write to Mr. Longbottom and Miss Bell; they were often in here to see you over the last week and will be grateful to know you've recovered."

Harry couldn't help but feel grateful for the friends who hadn't forgotten him during his disappearance. He was touched by their concern. However, a nagging thought crossed his mind, and he asked, "What about the other schools?"

Madam Pomfrey replied, "They've gone back to their own institutions and have probably gone home from there." She disappeared into her office, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

"She went back to France," Harry muttered to himself, a strange, sick feeling bubbling up in his stomach. "And she didn't come to visit, either. Of course."

Madam Pomfrey, now concerned, poked her head back out of her office and asked, "Are you okay, Mr. Potter? You're looking a little pale."

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry reassured her.

"If you insist," she said, sighing. "The headmaster wants to speak with you before you leave. He's probably on his way down to the ward now. He always seems to know when people wake up."

Harry swung himself out of bed and donned the rather loose, worn robes he'd been provided with. With a wave of his wand, he transfigured them into something that fit better. "I suppose it's my own fault for leaving everything in the chamber." He gazed out of the window, straightened the collar of his robes, and swept his hair off his face.

Dumbledore entered the hospital wing, his presence commanding attention. "Harry," he greeted warmly. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes," Harry lied, though something fluttered at the edges of his mind when he met the headmaster's bright blue eyes. He concealed his apprehension, focusing on the mental image of the circle of dark ink as he raised his wand.

Dumbledore noticed the act and a hint of guilt flickered in his eyes. "You've been learning the mind arts," he remarked. "I apologize, Harry. It's become a habit for me to take a peek using passive Legilimency. Reprehensible, I know, but sometimes necessary for the greater good."

Harry suppressed his unease at the idea that Dumbledore had been delving into his thoughts during his early years at Hogwarts. "How does it work?" he inquired, eager to understand this aspect of magic better.

Dumbledore sighed, realizing he'd been caught in a breach of privacy. "It's a skill that allows one to read or influence the thoughts and emotions of another. I assure you, Harry, I've only used it for good intentions and to protect you. But it's not something that should be abused."

Voldemort tore out most of my childhood and shared a good deal of his in just the instant before I Apparated, Harry thought. That can't happen again.

Dumbledore nodded as he continued to lead Harry towards his office. "It's a complicated and obscure branch of magic, one Voldemort has mastered. It allows a wizard to create a connection to the mind of another and, from there, experience his thoughts, feelings, and memories. Passive Legilimency does little more than skim the surface and lets me glimpse very strong reactions or thoughts, Harry. It's as much as I feel comfortable using with students even for a greater good. A more active approach would allow me to follow those thoughts and feelings as far back as they run and even create visions of my own in your head."

Harry contemplated this. "I think I'd like to learn to defend myself against it."

Dumbledore agreed, "It is often a good idea, especially for you, Harry, whom Voldemort has taken a keen interest in. The easiest way to defeat it is to break eye contact with the caster. All but the most skilled practitioners require eye contact to maintain the magic, and it is far easier to deal with if you can avoid it."

"That's how I broke the connection," Harry said, his memory of Apparating away from the graveyard still vivid.

"I can point you in the direction of some good books on the subject, Harry," Dumbledore offered. But then, he turned the conversation back to the pressing issue at hand. "First, I must press you on what happened after you touched the cup and were whisked away. Ludo Bagman, who altered the Portkey, knew only that he was sending you to Little Hangleton, presumably to Voldemort, and that the Dark Lord would be returning on that night." Dumbledore ushered Harry out of the door and into the corridor, heading towards his office.

"He's back," Harry confirmed. "There was a ritual in the graveyard using my blood. He has a body now."

Dumbledore's eyes were sharp as he inquired further, "What else do you remember, Harry?"

Harry focused on the circle of dark ink in his mind. "He was angry with the Death Eaters. We dueled," he began slowly, carefully framing the events in a way that protected his secrets. "Bertha Jorkins was the one who Imperiused Bagman. She killed Crouch when he found Pettigrew and Pettigrew for getting caught and risking his master."

Harry couldn't help but feel the weight of guilt, knowing that Sirius' innocence might now be impossible to prove. "We can't prove Sirius' innocence now, can we?" he added, his voice heavy with regret.

"I'm sorry, Sirius," Harry thought silently. "We'll find another way. I needed to be free."

"I'm afraid not, Harry," Dumbledore said with a solemn shake of his head. "That does explain the body that was found on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, though I suspect Cornelius will not accept its true identity."

Harry continued to weave his tale, wearing a mask of embarrassment and keeping his gaze fixed on his shoes. "Voldemort beat me," he admitted. "He was way too strong. I only just managed to Apparate away when the wards trapping me failed."

Dumbledore offered words of comfort. "Surviving a duel with Voldemort is something to be proud of, Harry. At your age, you should not have even had a chance. Did something inexplicable happen that allowed you to escape?"

Harry feigned ignorance, shrugging. "No. He Apparated to dodge my spell, so I tried to Apparate back here and succeeded," he grinned. "Sort of. Madam Pomfrey mentioned bouncing... Should something inexplicable have happened, Professor?"

"As I'm sure you remember, your first wand shared a brother core with Voldemort's. It is possible for that to cause an extraordinary effect known as priori incantatem," Dumbledore explained. They reached the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office. "Sugar quills, old friend."

The gargoyle stepped aside, allowing them to enter. Harry considered this and replied, "My new wand must be too different."

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspect so. It's a good thing, I think. Tom would've been displeased by the failure of his wand and likely gone seeking another. There are few wandmakers of great stature these days, Harry. Losing any of them would be an awful blow to the country and, indeed, the wider world."

Harry's next question was heavy with concern. "What happens now, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore's expression was grave as he answered, "I believe, Harry, that Voldemort will seek to keep his return a secret while he regains strength. I will do everything I can to expose him, but there's nothing you can or should be doing at your age to stop him. In a few years, perhaps, but not yet."

"A few years..." Harry kept his smile in place, but inwardly, he couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. "As if you plan to let me live that long," he thought bitterly.

Dumbledore took a seat behind his desk and offered a bowl of bright, striped sweets. "Take a seat, Harry, and help yourself to a humbug, if you want. I find they help me think."

Harry declined the offer, wrinkling his nose at the bowl. "I'm okay, thanks, Professor. I'm not really one for sweets. Cake, perhaps, but not sweets. My cousin serves as a pretty sizeable warning about how good they are for you."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding and set the bowl aside. He then pushed a bag in front of Harry. "Your winnings, Harry, from the Triwizard Tournament. You did, despite everything, manage to return with the cup."

As Harry looked at the bag, a soft, hollow feeling crept over him. "I won," he murmured, but deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that nobody cared that he won, only that they didn't.

Dumbledore leaned forward, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "I do have a few questions for you, Harry."

"Of course, Professor," Harry replied, his face calm and still, despite the racing of his heart.

Dumbledore began with a direct question. "What happened within the maze, Harry?"

"Viktor was killed," Harry murmured. "I came across the end of the fight."

Dumbledore continued, "You stunned Mr. Diggory, and you broke his wand, I assume?"

Harry felt a sense of unease. How did Dumbledore know this? Did he see the Fiendfyre too? He replied carefully, "I Obliviated Cedric. He was under the Imperius, too. I'm glad I did, given what I heard happened to Ludo Bagman."

Dumbledore's smile conveyed approval. "That was very noble of you, Harry. Mr. Diggory is distraught over what has happened, but given the position Cornelius has taken and your risky act, he will never suspect the part he played or have to bear the guilt. I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you," Harry muttered, hiding the turmoil that churned within him.

"It may leave you in a very tenuous position, though, Harry," Dumbledore cautioned, steepling his fingers. "You're the only living, loyal wizard who can claim to have seen Tom in the flesh since that tragic night all those years ago. There will be those at the ministry who seek to taint your reputation to discredit you, and Viktor Krum's mysterious death will be an opportunity for them."

Harry nodded, understanding the risks. "I know, Professor. But my friends would never believe that, and I don't care too much about anyone's opinion if they take Rita Skeeter seriously."

Dumbledore considered Harry's words and offered his wisdom. "That may be very wise of you, my boy. I doubt the ministry will put you on trial without any evidence. It will only give you a platform from which they'll fear you speak about Tom." He paused and lowered his hands to the desk. "And now, Harry, I'm afraid I must ask you what Tom said to you in the graveyard."

Harry lied smoothly, trying to protect his secrets. "He didn't really speak to me much. Just some insults and the Cruciatus Curse, really."

Dumbledore's expression grew heavy with concern. "I see. I'm very sorry, Harry. I don't seem to be able to keep you from harm for a single year, do I?"

Harry's response carried a trace of bitterness. "I'm sure you aren't to blame, sir." Despite his best efforts to remain composed, a touch of ice had crept into his tone.

Dumbledore winced at the subtle rebuke. "I have only one more thing I need you to speak about before I can let you Apparate home. However, I must ask you to refrain from using your excellent ability except when in the direst need. It is still illegal, if harmless, but Tom's supporters in the ministry will be waiting for any excuse they can get."

Harry weighed his words with great care before responding, "I will only use it when I have no other choice, Professor."

"Thank you, Harry. I appreciate that must be a bit of a blow for you. I'm sure you're dying to be able to use your magic whenever you can," Dumbledore said, cracking a wide smile. "Why, when I was young, I used to use my magic at every chance I got for the silliest of things."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What did you want to ask me about?" He wondered what Dumbledore was going to bring up, but he knew it wouldn't be about horcruxes, the prophecy Voldemort mentioned, or the looming specter of his own death.

Dumbledore's expression shifted into something grim as he spoke. "We found Miss Delacour quite a long way from where she remembered falling unconscious when we apprehended Ludo Bagman. It was very lucky that we stopped him, since if he had touched her like he intended, he would've suffered quite a horrible fate."

Harry felt a surge of satisfaction at this revelation. He had no sympathy for someone who had tried to harm Fleur. "Good," he thought. "If he tried to hurt her, he would've deserved it."

Dumbledore's gaze bore into Harry's eyes, and he continued to question him. "I carried Fleur out of harm's way. It was either her or Cedric. I figured he was needed alive to take the blame, but Fleur wasn't. I had to make sure she was safe."

Dumbledore's disappointment was evident in his tone. "That does not, Harry, excuse the use of such a horrible piece of magic. That was a particularly dark curse you used. There are any number of ways you might've warded her that wouldn't have harmed Ludo."

Harry felt the weight of Dumbledore's disapproval, but he remained resolute. "But it was the only one I was sure would work, Professor. It wouldn't have done anything to anyone not intending harm. I didn't think any other wards would last long if they didn't do something to whomever tripped them."

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I understand, Harry. Far worse things have and will be done for a greater good. Try not to let it burden your conscience. Nobody came to harm, but please, don't use that curse again."

Harry nodded, accepting the rebuke and the lesson. "I won't, Professor."

"I'll let you return to your home, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice laced with concern. "Professor McGonagall and the house elves have been tirelessly searching for your belongings, but it seems they couldn't locate them. So, I must remind you not to forget anything and make sure to retrieve your trunk from wherever you've concealed it before your departure."

"Thank you, sir," Harry responded with gratitude, picking up the bag of galleons and securing it against his side. "I hope you have a pleasant summer." He sprang down the winding stairs, bypassing the vigilant gargoyle, and made his way toward the Chamber of Secrets, concealed under the invisibility charm.

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