Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox
Chapter Seven
What should have been a relaxing morning at the Burrow was ruined within minutes of Heather coming down to breakfast. After the hustle and bustle of yesterday she had actually been looking forward to doing nothing today, with the sole exception of more quidditch. The dream had been absent again, and for the first time since leaving the Hospital Wing she had gotten a full night of restful sleep.
It wasn't until her plate was loaded up with sausage, eggs, and toast that Mrs. Weasley, who was busy reading the Sunday Prophet, let out a cry of disgust. Everyone looked at her questioningly. The paper concealed her face, but from the way her hands trembled with fury they all knew that whatever it was couldn't be good. Slowly, shakingly, Mrs. Weasley lowered the paper. Heather had seen her irate on many an occasion, but never before had Mrs. Weasley been this red in the face.
"Molly?" asked Mr. Weasley hesitantly. He had been waiting patiently for his turn to peruse the paper.
"What's up, mum?" asked Ron.
"That. Vile. Woman." Spat Mrs. Weasley. She closed the paper and jabbed it directly at Heather. "Page six. I'm so sorry, dear." Heather took the still fluttering newspaper and tentatively opened it. The article that had made Mrs. Weasley as angry as she had been dueling Bellatrix Lestrange jumped out at Heather immediately. Taking up the top third of the page was a wide angle shot of her wandering the aisles of Gladrag's Wizard Wear. It wasn't a particularly good photograph, having been taken through a pane of glass, but that didn't change the fact that she was easily identifiable.
Harry Potter, cracked at last?
Has Harry Potter, The Boy who Lived, The Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World finally broken down under the many stresses he had suffered during the past few years, asks Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Little introduction is needed for this young man whose name is nearly as famous as the likes of Merlin and Gryffindor. Since the night he miraculously survived the killing curse, he's been heralded as a hero by nearly the entire magical community. This affection, bordering on worship, has only increased since the downfall of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named at Hogwarts School a week ago, allegedly at the hands of young Mr. Potter. Rumors and speculation have run wild since then, including several stories which this reporter feels shows Mr. Potter in a very different light.
It would seem that the fame of being Harry Potter is no longer enough for our young hero. Eye witness reports from the Battle of Hogwarts tell that Harry insisted numerous times that he be called 'Heather,' and referred to as female, despite every evidence to the contrary. According to one student, a seventh-year Slytherin who bravely rebelled against her house to fight the Death Eaters and wishes to remain anonymous, Potter "refused to help in the battle unless we agreed to call him a girl. To him, that was more important that defeating The Dark Lord."
This statement, taken alongside others that this reporter is certain will come to light shortly may come as a blow to those who continue in their blind worship of Harry Potter. Further proof of this slip from reality can be found in his trip to Diagon Alley of yesterday. Once again, in the crowded lobby of Gringotts Bank, Mr. Potter threatened the goblins with harm if they did not call him Heather. So far, representatives of the bank have refused to comment on the situation, which might be taken as further proof of Potter's wrath. After threatening and eventually bribing the goblins in order to access his vault, Potter was observed entering Gladrag's Wizardwear, the well known clothing shop, where he proceeded to purchase several dresses. It is unknown how Mr. Potter was able to enlist the help of the shop's owners, but he was observed in the company of several aurors.
This is unfortunately not the first time that the sanity of our Hero has been called into question. No less than three years ago, during the height of the Triwizard Tournament, this reporter saw with her own eyes Potter's impending instability. Frequently throughout that school year he was seen collapsing during classes, claiming that his scar was hurting and that He- Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was sending him visions. Even after he was proven correct that Lord Thingy had in fact returned, Potter continued to act in ways that several of his classmates described as "peculiar."
"Potter is showing all the signs on delusion that so often accompany great trauma, certainly at such a young age," says one Healer Westwick of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. "It is almost to be expected of a young man who had dealt with so much during his formative years. That being said, continuing to support this delusion will only cause further injury to Potter's health in the long run. In order to comes to terms with and move past his trauma, he must face the truth that he is still a boy."
Mr. Potter is known to be meeting with the Interim-Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt tomorrow morning for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts. Inside sources have not revealed the exact nature of this interview, allowing speculation to rum rampant. Will the Minister do what no one else seems to be willing, or too frightened, to do and set Potter straight? Or will he be too awestruck by the Young Hero to do what's right, both for him and the rest of the Wizarding World?
Heather's jaw had dropped by the end of the second paragraph. She was surprised that it hadn't hit the kitchen floor. She closed the paper in much the same way Mrs. Weasley had and cast it on the table. Several hands reached out to grab it at once, with Mr. Weasley nabbing it first. He began to read immediately.
Inside her, war was raging. She wanted to scream, to snatch back the paper even as Mr. Weasley's eyebrows skyrocketed and throw it into the fireplace. How dare that hag print such absolute rubbish. No, that word was not nearly strong enough to describe the tripe printed on that page. She had refused to fight unless she had been called a girl? She had intentionally not told anyone the truth about herself so as not to distract anyone from what was going on! And who was this anonymous Slytherin who had, what was the phrase, "bravely rebelled against her house" that wanted to remain nameless. If they had been brave enough to fight, then they should be brave enough to put their name with their lies. Besides, to her best recollection, the entirety of Slytherin House had been evacuated before the fighting had even begun, led by Filch out through the secret passageway with the rest of the underage students. It was true that some, Like Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had hung back to fight for the Death Eaters, but Heather couldn't remember a single one who had stayed to fight for the school.
The paper had now been read by everyone, snatched from hand to hand by each Weasley in turn. "That utter bitch," said Ron, his face matching his hair as he finished reading. As though he could hear Heather's internal thoughts, he balled up the paper and threw it into the fireplace, where it ignited with a wave of his wand. It did not go unnoticed that Mrs. Weasley made no effort to call Ron out for his language. Ginny's glare was cold, almost calculating. "Ron's right. She can't have really written that…filth, can she?"
"Of course she did," snapped Heather. "I bet she's been waiting all week for her first opportunity to come at me like this. Look at what she did to Dumbledore just after he died."
"And now she's gone and outed our meeting with Kingsley tomorrow," added Ron.
"Unfortunately," said Mr. Weasley wearily from the head of the table, "That meeting was an open secret from the moment Kingsley wrote those letters to you both.
"What do you mean?" asked Ron.
"Ron, secrets are very hard to keep, especially at the Ministry. Too many people have to be informed of almost anything that happens, and people like to talk. They want to show off to their spouses, to their friends, and, worst of all, to reporters. The more people who know a secret, the harder it is to keep it. I'm honestly surprised it took this long for it to get out, especially with what Kingsley is planning."
"Which is…?" asked Ron after waiting a half beat to let his father explain that cryptic statement."
"It's not my place to say, Ron. You'll find out tomorrow." Was Mr. Weasley's only answer.
"It doesn't matter," said Heather, looking at Ginny and releasing the fists her hands had formed. "We doubted it would be a secret. That," she gestured at the smoking, blackened remnant of the paper in the grate, "won't make it easier though."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ginny.
"What can I do?" Heather asked, throwing her hands up in an exasperated gesture of defeat, "She can print whatever she likes, whenever she wants. Can't she." She asked Mr. Weasley even though it wasn't really a question. No one besides Hermione had ever been able to restrain Rita Skeeter.
He nodded forlornly. "That is true. Kingsley isn't exercising the same control over the Daily Prophet that Scrimgeour or Fudge used to. He's said that if he did, he'd be no better than they were. In a way, he's right. The downside is that rubbish like this can be printed with impunity." His words were met with a stony silence. "The only consolation," he continued, "Is that Rita's popularity isn't what it used to be a few years ago. Her Dumbledore book didn't do nearly as well as she hoped it would, partly due to the truth of what she did to Bathilda Bagshot getting out."
"What?" Heather asked, shocked, "How did that happen?"
Mr. Weasley's face flashed a weary, but pleased, grin. "Let's just say the Order had something to do with it and leave it at that. The pieces were pretty easy to put together when we checked Bathilda's house."
"But, what good does that do if she can still write shite like that?" asked Ginny. Again, Mrs. Weasley remained quiet over her children's use of language.
"Only that Rita Skeeter has just gambled what's left of her career and popularity on that story," explained Mr. Weasley to the table. "She said so herself, we all owe you our lives Heather. You are more than likely the most famous witch in our history, not to mention an incredibly popular one at that. By going after you publicly like this, she's left herself open to it backfiring on her if the public were to take your side."
"Right!" exclaimed Ron. "I bet there's a crowd right now outside the Daily Prophet's office right now, demanding their heads."
"Maybe we should go join them," said Ginny darkly.
"Now kids, that isn't the way to handle this," chided Mr. Weasley. "It's up to Heather how she, and we, should respond to this. Reacting to it with violence will only play into her hand." He said this last sentence more to his daughter than anyone else at the table.
Heather lowered her head into her arms and closed her eyes. The idea of rushing down to Diagon Alley and setting fire to the paper's office was extremely appealing at the moment. She hadn't been able to do anything when Rita had written all those things about her years ago, and as far as Heather was concerned, it was about time that Rita's bill came due. She knew Mr. Weasley was right though. Anything she did that could make Rita Skeeter the victim would only work in her favor. She was already trying to make Heather out to be a deranged psycho who used intimidation and threats to get her way, wouldn't Heather doing just that confirm it? "Doesn't really matter," she said aloud into the table. No matter what dirt you did up on Rita Skeeter, she always manages to land on her feet." She turned her head so she could see Mr. Weasley over her arm. "I suppose it's too late to out her as an unregistered animagus?"
"Yes. She registered herself two years ago."
"Damn." Heather muttered, turning her head again and staring off into the darkness of her closed eyes.
After a long period of silence, Mrs. Weasley began to clear the table. "What are you lot of you today?" she asked to lighten the mood. Heather didn't really pay attention to the non-answers that Ron, George, and Ginny gave. Someone might have said quidditch or chess, but she wasn't sure. She was too busy, letting her brain satisfy her anger by coming up with plots for revenge that she would never carry out.
A hand on her arm pulled her up, and as she had so many times this week, she was dragged bodily up the stairs to a bedroom where clothes, hair, and makeup were made into a huge deal, in her opinion anyway. She let Ginny talk on, lamenting frequently over the lack of color in Heather's recent purchases until an outfit was decided on. It was incredibly plain, even Heather would admit that, but she didn't care.
Before long Heather was tightly curled in one the sitting room armchairs. Ron and George were playing exploding snap on the coffee table, and Ginny was somewhere, Heather wasn't sure where. She was too busy lost in thought, remembering those long days while she, Hermione, and Ron had been on the run. Was it bad she was looking back at that time longingly? Life as a fugitive could hardly be called relaxing or care-free, but at least then the threats had been real and could be fought against. She hadn't had to hear the lies being told about her by her enemies, for the most part anyway. She could just be herself without a problem. Slowly, her plans shifted from getting revenge to just getting away from everything. How hard would it really be to just slip away?
The deck of cards exploded in an acrid cloud of smoke and noise that snapped her back to the present. Both boys were laughing and coughing at the same time, their faces covered in soot and, from the looks of it, each missing part of their eyebrows. She waved her hand in front of her nose to try and clear the smoke to little effect. Using the pretext of getting away from the smell, she climbed the staircase, headed back to her room. It was too hard to try and pretend to be normal right now. Hermione was gone, the patronus that had protected her the last few days had faded, the darkness was returning.
She laid down on the bed and stared out the window at the partly cloudy sky, not seeing any of it. Her emotions ran wild inside of her, overriding any desire to get up or move at all. It was as though she were physically locked in a high tower, the trap door sealed, watching a dark storm swirling all around her. There was no predicting which way the storm would strike, or for how long. It just, was.
She was in a corridor. Running for her life. Something told her that if she stopped running, something terrible would catch her, but she didn't know what. On her left, she could see the first hint of a pale, cold dawn that did nothing to illuminate the lands beyond the glass. Her breathe caught in her chest, as cold and icy as the sky.
Behind her, pursuing relentlessly, was the darkness. It swallowed the little light of the corridor, grasping at her with hazy tendrils. "Come back, come back and face death, Harry," it whispered from beside her ear. She didn't look, but out of the corner of her eye she thought a tendril had formed the ghostly image of a face.
"No!" she screamed, her voice sounding distant and far away, lacking any sort of volume or power. The only response was an amused laugh.
Down the long corridor she ran, looking eagerly ahead for the turn that she knew must come soon. She was going to escape this time. She wanted to see what was beyond that door, to reach the safety that it promised. She managed the turn without impacting the wall and sprinted for the open doorway, using every ounce of her strength to enter the light. With a last effort, she flew through the archway, hearing as much as feeling the dark tendrils flee from the warm glow of the room. She stumbled, falling to her hand and knees, and slid several feet.
The door slammed shut but the vision did not fade. The floor under her hands was warm, it's worn stones feeling solid enough. She looked up to see the walls of a large chamber, brightly lit by tall windows and floating candles. The dawn had come now, sending shafts of sunlight into the hall. It was breathtakingly beautiful, even though her eyes could not bring anything else in the chamber into focus. Just being in here drove the chill and fear of the corridor from her. How could such evil enter or last long in a place like this?"
"Why?" demanded a voice from behind her? It wasn't icy in the same way that the darkness's voice had been, but it still sent shivers through her. She whipped around, and saw a boy, more of a young man, staring at her from a few feet away. She grabbed in vain for the wand that should have been in the pocket of her robes, but it wasn't there. The boy was wearing Hogwarts robes also, lined with the red of Gryffindor House. He was pale, with hauntingly familiar green eyes that bored into hers from more than half a foot above. Over these eyes was a head of black hair that stood up in every direction, and there under the bangs, was a lightening shaped scar.
"Why?" Harry Potter said again, continuing to glare from behind his large, round glasses. His voice was deeper than she remembered Harry's ever being. But, wasn't she Harry Potter? Wasn't he, her? How could she be standing her facing herself? And why was he staring at her with such…hatred? "Why?" he all but screamed at her, his fists clenching in rage.
Heather opened her mouth to speak but no words formed. Then she wanted to scream. A spot of blood appeared at the bottom tip of Harry's scar, then slowly trickled down his face. It ran down the point of his nose under the bridge of his glasses, before dripping onto the stone floor. Even as she watched, the trickle became a constant flow and his glasses became opaque with red blood. In the center of his chest, a dark spot formed, which quickly turned red. It was the same spot that Voldemort's last killing curse had struck her. Harry Potter rushed at her, his mouth open and flinging blood everywhere as he shouted again, "Why!" Heather raised her hands to ward off the blow and protect herself from the flying blood.
She awoke in the darkness, sweating despite the chill of the room. She was still in her day clothes which were completely soaked, along with the sheets. She didn't know when she had fallen asleep, but it must have been hours ago. Her last vague memory had been of a sky just starting to shift towards red. Now only inky blackness could be seen. Her breath was ragged and sounded unnaturally loud. It had been a dream, she told herself. But it hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt too real to be a dream. She screwed her eyes shut and the bloodied face of Harry Potter swam before them.
What had he meant? What was he asking? And why was he bleeding? She asked herself these and other questions as the last remnants of sleep left her. Was she the one killing him by becoming Heather? This was true, in a sense, but if that were the case then he had been dead for years now. And why did he hate her? Restlessness prevented her from laying in bed any longer. She needed to walk, to fly, to run. She needed to stop being her, to stop being anything for a single second so she could just think.
The landing was dark when she opened the door, and no lights could be seen in the sitting room below. As quietly as possible she crept down the stairs and entered the kitchen. Her illuminated wand showed a note on the table, which she picked up and read.
Heather,
we tried to wake you for supper but you were fast asleep. I left some for you on the counter.
Molly
Heather saw the leftovers sitting where it had been left, but she wasn't hungry. Instead, she crossed the kitchen and wrenched open the door. She was greeted by a puff of cool air infused with the smell of flowers that felt wonderful on her still damp skin. Overhead the stars glittered, spanning the entire horizon, unhindered by moon or any earthly light. Stepping out into the garden, Heather could see no one in any direction. It was almost like she was the only person in the entire world. Without being completely aware of it, she walked towards the bench at the edge of the small pond and lowered herself onto it, not taking her eyes off the stars. The cold metal sent unnoticed shivers up her spine.
It was quiet here, just sitting in the Weasley's garden. The only noises were of animals and insects and the wind blowing through the leaves on the trees. It wasn't that she was lost in thought, staring up into the dark sky, more like lost in not thinking. She knew that many people, both human and not, could read the stars and believed them to hold portents of the future. Firenze had instructed them several times on reading the stars during his tenure as Divination teacher, but if the stars were trying to tell her anything, she wasn't getting the message. Still, their sheer beauty did much to quiet the voices in her mind.
Heather almost missed the rustling of a nearby clump of trees, at first dismissing it as another of the night's natural noises. It wasn't until it was repeated that she returned to herself. With a sigh that masked an internal scream, she said loudly enough to be heard, "All right, come on out Proudfoot." She didn't want this moment of peace to end, but knowing she was being watched was going to ruin it either way. How had he known she was out there? Was he watching the house that closely?
"How'd you hear me?" Proudfoot asked, extracting himself from behind the trees and looking put out.
"You tried hiding upwind," Heather explained, still not looking at him. The chill of the evening was taking hold, and she crossed her arms over her chest for warmth.
Proudfoot grunted, "Lack of any better option." He walked over to her. "Can't sleep?"
"No."
"Thinking about what Rita Skeeter wrote?" Proudfoot pressed, stopping just outside her wide field of vision.
"Among other things," Heather replied noncommittally. She had hoped that now he'd been caught, the auror might take the hint that she wanted to be alone and leave. He did not. He just stared at her. Several minutes like this passed until Heather's patience couldn't take it anymore. "What?" she asked, sitting up and facing him.
He didn't answer at first but kept staring at her. "Potter," he began hesitantly, "I know this isn't really my place, but you've got a huge chip sitting on your shoulder."
"You're right. It isn't your place." A moment later she added hotly, "And just what the hell is that supposed to mean anyway?"
Proudfoot also crossed his arms but didn't look away. "Maybe you're right, but I've seen this too many times to not say anything."
"What?" scoffed Heather, "you've seen a famous bloke turn into a girl while the entire world turns on her for it?"
"Not exactly," Proudfoot replied slowly with a chuckle. "But what I have seen plenty of is people who live when others don't, and who blame themselves for that simple act of survival. It affects their whole lives and eats them up from the inside. That's the chip that's sitting so large on your shoulder it would give Gilderoy Lockhart's ego a run for its money."
Heather looked away. She could feel her shoulders sag while she stared into the starry water of the pond. "Yeah, so what?"
"Look Potter, I've seen more than you know this week. Heard a good deal too."
Heather whipped around, springing to her feet. "You've been spying on me?" she cried so loud that it echoed off the house.
Proudfoot backed off half a step then planted his feet. His hands were kept low, conspicuously nowhere near his pockets. "Not spying, protecting. You could even call it protecting. It was part of my job. To be honest, I've been keeping a very close eye on you because I've expected you to run off and vanish on me."
Heather's fists were still clenched and shaking with fury. "Believe it, it's crossed my mind." She bit out.
"Wouldn't blame you if you did actually." He tried a small smile, but behind it Heather thought she saw a look of satisfaction.
"So is that why you're here now? To make sure I don't grab my tent and go flying off into the blue?" She asked, crossing her arms over her chest again and pacing a few steps farther away from the interfering man.
"Oh I wasn't too worried about that," Proudfoot said, his satisfaction now clear in his voice. "I took the precaution of hiding your tent the day you and Miss Granger first arrived here."
Heather fell back onto the bench. She had to give him credit for his foresight, grudgingly anyway. Why couldn't he just leave her in peace? When he made no move to leave, she let out a long sigh. "So, according to you I'm blaming myself for everyone dying, and that's making it harder to be myself as a girl?"
Without asking, Proudfoot moved closer to her and sat down next to her. "More like, you're blaming yourself and letting it stop you from enjoying who you are."
"It's a little hard to enjoy being who I am when the entire wizarding world thinks I'm nuts for it." Heather countered.
"It's not everyone, and you know that. So far it's just an old hag of a reporter and her few readers."
"Same difference" bit out Heather, looking away from him and back at the sky.
She saw out of the corner of her eye as Proudfoot shook his head. "No, it's not. And you need to realize that. What you're going through is called survivor's guilt. That's already a beast to tackle. On top of that, you've most likely got some form of mental issues going on from everything you've been through."
"You calling me mental?" asked Heather, flicking her eyes back to him and fixing him with an icy look.
"Sorry, not my best choice of words." Proudfoot winced. "I'm not an expert in this sort of thing, I'm just going on what I've seen. Yes, you probably some something going on up there like depression. Couple that with your guilt and everything going on with you becoming who you are, and you have a cauldron that's ready to boil over at the slightest touch."
Heather's reply was cut off by a noise from behind them. She and Proudfoot reacted instantly, whipping their heads around and peering into the dark garden. Proudfoot lit his wand, illuminating the head of a gnome that had just emerged from a nearby bush. It ignored the two humans and clambered out before tottering off into the darkness to find food. "What you've got going on is like that gnome." Proudfoot said after extinguishing his wand.
"You're gonna have to walk me through that one," said Heather nonplussed.
"Well, one gnome gets into a garden, it's no big deal, right? Get a whole bunch of them and then there goes the whole thing."
"So…what am I? An overflowing cauldron or a gnome infested garden? asked Heather with a faintest trace of amusement in her voice.
Proudfoot chuckled. "Look, I'm no expert, I already told you that, but I feel like what I'm saying is making sense."
"It is. Still not sure what to do about it though." Heather said dejectedly.
"Well, the way I see it you have two options, you can face it head on or you can run. Either way, you're going to have to deal with it one day."
"Story of my life" muttered Heather.
"Exactly. You've faced worse than this before, and chances are you will again." He rose from the bench and stretched. "Whatever you decide to do, just make sure it's the right thing for you and not someone else."
"And if I want to run?" Heather asked, looking up at him.
He shrugged. "Your tent is in the attic with the ghoul. Thought it would be the last place you would look."
"Smart choice."
"You don't get to be an auror without being smart, Potter. I'll see you in the morning to escort you to the Ministry. Or, I won't," he added as an afterthought. With that he vanished into the gloom, leaving Heather apparently alone. She doubted he'd gone far, or that he would let her vanish quite that easily.
Heather took a few more minutes to stare into the starry heavens. Mars wasn't bright tonight, she noted idly. Maybe that meant something good. Whether she drifted to sleep sitting there or became lost in thought, the next thing she felt was the gnome brushing past her leg. Her watch showed that it was well past four o'clock in the morning.
Knees creaking from the chill, she rose and started back towards the house. Her eyes sought out the top window and the attic beyond it. It would only take her fifteen minutes to throw everything she would need into her rucksack, retrieve the tent, and be on her way. Then all her problems would disappear, and just maybe she'd be able to outrun that dream and leave Harry Potter behind for good. Would Rita's words still hurt if they couldn't find their target? She sighed. No, life as an exile wasn't what Heather had spent the last year fighting for. Running would only help in the short term, but one way or another her problems would find her again. One way or another she would have to face the world as the witch she was becoming.
Her bed was warm now after the early morning chill. The sheets and blankets were dry, and Heather felt her body relax as she slid between them. Maybe she'd run away tomorrow, but for now she would sleep.