Beta: Digitize27
A lot of payoff in this chapter. Been planning this one for months.
I've got enough reviews about the teachers just ignoring Harry's condition that I just wanted to make a note here.
"Why are the teachers dumping logic and ignoring Harry?"
Because they're not. Dumbledore sent his note, the Teachers watched with concerned eyes and even Snape in his odd way offered his assistance. Just because I didn't explicitly tell you that the teachers were worried and having conversations doesn't mean they aren't and if Harry hadn't begun to show improvement within just a few days, then you better believe Dumbledore would have taken action.
So, while Dumbledore didn't jump into the water to save Harry while he drowned, he did send a boat and alerted the coast guard. But physically there's nothing wrong with Harry and even if they stepped in there'd be nothing they could do to help until Harry himself wants to be helped.
If you strongly believe that the Teachers weren't concerned I'd recommend you reread the chapter. Maybe you missed it when I showed you that they were, even if I didn't tell you.
"Are Harry's issues with dementors resolved now?"
No. Not for two more chapters, depending. Or, depending on what you mean by 'issues' then never.
With that out of the way we'll start the Hanged Man.
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"As humans, we have invented lots of useful kinds of lies. As well as lies-to-children ('as much as they can understand'), there are lies-to-bosses ('as much as they need to know') lies-to-patients ('they won't worry about what they don't know') and -for all sorts of reasons, lies-to-ourselves. Lies-to-children is simply a prevalent and necessary kind of lie." - Terry Pratchett
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Tracey was crestfallen that the Headmaster had deemed it unfit for Harry to visit Hogsmeade. It was 'so unfair', and a 'grave injustice' that she wouldn't be able to visit the village with her friends.
"Do you want us to bring you anything, mate?" Neville asked. "A butterbeer?"
"I'll get you a treacle tart from Honeydukes," Daphne assured him, patting his robe consolingly. "Unless you, ah, want something else?"
He just nodded and waved them off.
Harry himself didn't actually mind all that much; he could finally have some time to himself. He needed it to practice the patronus charm, and to get ahead in classes.
It wouldn't do to continue slipping, as he had been.
Harry paced patiently toward his room. The patronus first, then Ancient Studies and Magical Theory. Then, if he had time, he wanted to work on studying the Apauruseya, the God-like witches and wizards from India. He also really needed to start that Herbology project soon if he ever hoped it to go anywhere at all. He turned a corner, only to come face-to-face with Filch. He had obviously just seen off the last of the Hogsmeade visitors.
"What are you doing?" Filch snarled suspiciously.
"Nothing," said Harry, truthfully.
"Nothing?" The caretaker spat, his jowls quivering unpleasantly. "A likely story, I'm sure. Sneaking around on your own - why aren't you in Hogsmeade buying Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms, like the rest of your nasty little friends?"
I will crush your brain.
Harry wanted to warn the old squib. In Harry's current state he wouldn't be able to do much with his talents against a witch or wizard, but a non-magical like Filch? The man stood no chance.
Harry walked into his room in a decidedly worse mood and glanced up at the magical lights which twisted in the air, forming a sort of chandelier… if one were to ignore the principle components of a chandelier; like being solid, and having branches to carry the lights.
So, not really like a chandelier, more of a loose swarm of bright lights.
Harry could hear the crackle of the fire from the other room, and could smell a little smoke, which meant his enchantments might be failing. He walked into the lounge and removed the runes, deciding to simply start over later.
Refocusing on the task, he dredged up the particular memory he was using.
"Expecto Patronum," he murmured, to no effect.
He shook his head. Whatever he was doing wrong had to be fundamental for him to failing so completely; although, he couldn't think what it might be. He was focused, and was definitely supplying what he felt was sufficient power. The memory he was using was happy, joyous even, but there was still nothing coming from the tip of his wand. Nothing at all.
Why?
He glanced to the far wall of the entrance hall, to the room where he had hidden the boggart. He frowned, not even close to being ready to take that thing on again.
Ancient Studies and Magical Theory it was then. He moved to a desk and began to take notes on blood rituals from Central America. Meteomancy applied to staggering scales, the sort that could shelter a place from a hurricane and end a drought. It was the kind of magic that could only come from human sacrifice or, should it be necessary, sacrifices. It was the fine balance between history and magical knowledge that struck him; it could well be used for both his projects.
Plus, he wanted the excuse to study blood and sacrificial magic. He jotted down notes into his journal that he could turn into an essay at a later point, before growing bored and moving on to the next thing that struck his fancy.
He studied for hours before Daphne joined him from Hogsmeade, bearing a tart with her like an offering. She handed it to him and he set it aside with some murmured thanks.
She ran her hand along the seats of the quartz table as she walked over. When she was next to him her hand brushed the surface and, for an infinitesimal moment, her eyes grew wide and flicked to his left. There was nothing there but a blank wall. Well, that, and the silenced and hidden boggart he had brought down the night before. Her eyes moved so fast he was sure he was mistaken. She wrung her fingers oddly… She had been fidgety and touchy recently… since the alley?
Maybe?
He set it in his mind.
"Working on anything interesting?" There was an odd invitation in her voice. She sat down next to him and he eyed her curiously. Had she always traced her fingers along the backs of the seats like that?
What's going on with her?
"What?" She asked when his stare didn't lighten. She turned slightly red, eyes narrowing. "Are you using Legilimency on me?"
He shook his head, reaching into his bag to remove a slightly blood-stained copy of Red Sealed Enchantments. It was a guide to enchantments that utilized blood magic. He was using it for his Aztec studies, as well as his attempts to create a pensieve in the other room. The enchantments for a pensieve were inordinately complex, and he wasn't sure he had regained enough strength to even perform them. Blood magic offered an alternative.
Daphne eyed the blood stains. "Red Sealed Enchantments? What is it?"
"I believe that I can enchant that dais in the other room into a pensieve with blood magic." He watched her carefully. "It might help with the secret passage you wanted to make."
"Oh?" She eyed the book less suspiciously as he slid it towards her, instinctively leaning back in her seat as it came closer. "I'll take a look at it, um… later. Is it from the Restricted Section?"
He noted the attempt to change the subject.
She doesn't usually shy away from enchanting…
He eyed her posture.
...literally, or metaphorically.
He nodded. "Did the blood magic give it away?" He turned away for a bite of the treacle tart. "I figured we could start on that secret passage way, if you're still interested."
She nodded and gingerly picked the book up as though it might bite her. Lisa had acted much the same that night in the Restricted Section. From what he had seen, it wasn't an entirely unwarranted response.
"Or, did you want to practice occlumency?" He gently set his wand on the table baiting a trap.
When he turned back he saw her eyeing his wand, her hand a little closer to it than was strictly polite. When she realized what she was doing she turned back to him quickly, as though caught somehow.
"Huh?' She seemed distracted.
"I asked if you wanted to practice occlumency." He pulled his wand into his hand.
"Are you feeling up to it?" She sounded slightly nervous. He thumbed his jaw at the question, considering it, before shrugging with a slight nod.
She hadn't been so nervous when asking him to practice when when he was ill and hiding in the room. Had she come in, knowing that he was incapable of it? Did that make her more confident?
"I'm alright," he informed her. "Unless you've given up on it."
She narrowed her eyes lightly at the challenge, as he predicted she would, but seemed to struggle. He saw some of the same emotion she left with that day in the alley, alongside much more newly-acquired anxiety.
"Not today." She shook her head. "I-I need to send a letter." She stood and exited, as though in some retreat.
She had something to hide, certainly. She also had some sort of conflicting emotions about him being in her head. He recalled what she had felt when they practiced occlumency that day in the Alley. He found little in his experience to relate it to.
He pulled out his mirror. "Neville?"
He waited a few moments for his friend to answer, and eventually saw Neville's round face come into view.
"Harry?"
"Are you still interested in working with me on that project I mentioned on the train?" Harry asked. "I did some reading, and I think I can make it work if I had your help."
Neville seemed to positively glow at the prospect. "Yeah, of course mate. You want me to come to the room?"
Harry nodded and closed the connection, sparing a glance at the door through which Daphne had escaped.
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Harry spent the next month working on his projects, both for school, and his more personal studies. Of note was the arithmancy array he brought to Professor Vector regarding the killing curse, in the hopes of better understanding it. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a dead end.
There was some nervous energy in Daphne, and a barrier appeared to have grown between them. It made things a little awkward, even for him.
He tried to recall the feelings that Daphne had felt and what they meant, but he was lost without a compass.
Social problems aside, there was also Quidditch, the second match of the year after Gryffindor beat Slytherin. It would be Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff to start off his season, and now it was time to face the music. Harry picked up his broomstick from Flitwick and made his way to the grounds with his team, after a non-existent breakfast.
On a positive note, he had managed some sleep the night before, and even had dinner, so he had that going for him.
Less good, was the fact that the wind was downright ferocious. Harry could see posters being ripped from the hands of people in the crowd, even as rain lashed down in great sheets to rip him from his broom. He ducked beneath a loss umbrella, only to watch it collide with Roger Davies. Harry knew better than to think the match would be cancelled over this. Quidditch matches went on regardless of inclement weather.
He saw lightning, feeling the thunder roll overhead a moment later, and thought of Indra – one of the Apauruseya and an electrokinetic – and of Thunderbirds. He really should study more. Well, he wasn't sure he could study more. All of his free time currently went into it.
Harry eyed up his opponent in Cedric Diggory; a fifth year, and a lot bigger than Harry. Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory's weight would be an advantage in this weather because he was less likely to be blown off course.
Harry had been left staggering even with his feet on the ground thanks to the wind, he could only imagine how bad it would be when he was up in the air with only his broom's enchantments as an anchor.
Harry saw Madam Hooch's mouth form the words, "Mount your brooms." He assumed she said it loudly but from the distance of a few meters away it was inaudible. He pulled his right foot out of the mud with a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two Thousand. Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips, and Harry could only assume that she blew it because Diggory took off.
Harry kicked off after him.
Harry rose fast, but his Nimbus was swerving slightly with the wind. He held it as steady as he could and turned, squinting into the rain.
It was a little cold, but no worse than the cold already inside him. It almost felt comfortable being out in the storm, with the heavy rain and lightning. The cold out here couldn't touch him, because it was already there from the start.
He could do without the hail though.
He was pulled from his thoughts as he rolled to avoid a bludger he could barely see coming. He was losing track of time, and had no idea how he would even see the snitch, much less catch it like this.
Harry heard a thunderclap and saw lightning fork down onto the hoops. He could smell the ozone, and his hair was set on end just from proximity. He moved away, swinging toward the middle of the pitch, hoping he would be able to see the snitch from there. Diggory was shooting up the field, following something gold. The wind howled around him as he pursued.
Harry beamed across the field, the wind picking up in his ears as pushed his broom for speed. Abruptly, he felt truly chilled for the first time since the match begun, and realized he could no longer hear the wind. He could feel screaming from deep within his chest, echoing inside his head.
Surely not.
Harry's hands slipped on his iced-up broom, forcing his eyes down. There must have been a hundred dementors suspended beneath him. Even with his mind closed like a vice he could hear it. There were… words this time; more than just inarticulate screaming.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside, now…"
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead -"
Be quiet.
He held the voices back and shut his mind even tighter, feeling like icy fingers were crushing his brain. It didn't work.
Harry felt like he was falling.
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Consciousness came back in a rush, and Harry sat straight up with a genuine scream as he felt himself burn. He panted, gripping his skull. He felt hair come away in his clenched fingers as he clawed his skull tighter.
He woke Daphne and Tracey up, both squealing in fright.
"Lily run! I'll hold him off!"
"Not Harry! Please...have mercy...have mercy…"
"Shut up," he snarled out loud, voice rising until he was yelling. "Leave… me… alone!"
He heard something shatter and someone talking to him distantly.
"Would you beg?"
"I said be quiet!" He snapped.
He snatched his wand from the table beside him he trembled and had to claw for it to stop it from falling off the table.
He stood up, or… tried to, but he wobbled and fell.
He managed it the next time, still shaking. He could now make out blurs, but he ignored them, the voices drowning out all else.
"What would you give for your son's life?"
Someone tried to grab him, and he was unable to fight back.
"Anything-please, anything!"
"Crucio."
Harry screamed as his skull was torn open and he was forced onto the bed.
"Any-anything, my Lord. Please, have mercy."
Harry saw a light.
This is mercy.
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The next time consciousness reached Harry it was still agony. He felt like he was freezing and melting all at once.
He released a low sort of croaking noise, only to realise how raw and hoarse his throat felt. He could hear the screams and voices echoing in his head.
"…awake? Harry?"
"Headmaster?" Harry croaked. He put a limp hand over his eyes to block out the too-bright lights.
"How do you feel?" Dumbledore asked from somewhere to Harry's right.
"I'm burning," he managed. "Sir."
"I'm told you aren't running a fever," the wizened man murmured softly. "I believe it's time that we had a chat, Harry, should you feel up to it."
Harry heard the not-request in the man's voice and nodded once. He felt a warm cup be placed in his hands and was glad to feel chocolate begin to soothe the ache in his throat, warming him up from within.
"When I saw how you were healing after the attack on the train, I had believed the worst was behind us. I was concerned, and several teachers even brought your condition to my attention. Especially Professor Flitwick, who informed me that you weren't seem in the Ravenclaw commons. It seems that you rarely return to your dormitory." The old man paused. "I summoned your friend Mr. Longbottom, and learned that you desired to be alone, that you believed Madam Pomfrey could do nothing to help you. But, your school work gradually improved, and I took the time to observe your room. You were doing well enough that I trusted your recovery would continue." The wizard gave another breath. "The only question now, is how to proceed after this… relapse."
Attack. I was attacked.
The Headmaster was waiting. It seemed he wanted to know how Harry wished to proceed. "I think, headmaster, that I can recover perfectly fine on my own."
He could practically feel the Headmaster's disagreement.
"Now, I have several options ahead of me. As you so gently told the Weasley family, a mind healer is always an option." Harry sucked in a breath. "Yes, I figured you'd react poorly to that. I could mandate it, of course, as your guardian, but I felt it would be counterproductive."
"I think you should have more trust in me, Sir." There was something sharp in Harry's voice. Sharper than he meant it to sound.
"Now young man. I have trusted you to heal, I've trusted you with the entirety of our library, here. Blood magic and soul magic, Harry? Studying curses, too? When Professor Vector reported you asked about the arithmancy of the killing curse I let it slide because I trusted you. Now, I need you to trust me."
Harry breathed.
"Then what have you decided?" He asked, abashed.
"We're going to talk, Harry."
"About what?"
"Whatever you wish," Dumbledore told him. "Though I'd appreciate it very much if we could begin with something in the general vicinity of the Dementors."
Harry paused. "Is my notebook here?" He would have to play the Headmaster's game. Something slid into his hands and he opened his eyes. He and the Headmaster were alone in the dimmed Hospital Wing.
He flicked open the journal to the section on Dementors, a glance through it gave him nothing new. He sat up more and looked at the Headmaster.
"Anything in particular?"
Dumbledore gave a slow nod now that the ball was back in his court. "Ms. Turpin mentioned you heard screaming on the train. Three days ago, when you woke up, you reacted similarly."
Harry wanted to point out there wasn't a question in there, but knew better than to be pedantic. "My mother, I think. Begging for her life. Voldemort too. Maybe my father as well."
"Voices?"
Harry nodded.
"Ms. Turpin didn't mention voices."
"I didn't hear them on the train," Harry said quietly. "Just my mother, screaming."
Dumbledore nodded slightly. "Do you believe these are memories, or something the Dementors are imparting to you?"
Harry frowned. "I'm not sure. I know that they are some kind of Legilimens so either is possible."
"They aren't Empaths?"
Harry shook his head. "An Empath wouldn't have triggered Ginny Weasley on the train like that."
"Truly?"
"An Empath would have made her miserable, but only a Legilimens could have triggered specific memories and trauma like that."
"Astute of you, Harry." Dumbledore's eyes conveyed his smile. "A noteworthy discovery. It would be difficult to publish, but remarkable nonetheless. Anything else?"
"Boggarts," Harry blurted. "Did you know?" Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "They're Legilimens too."
"Professor Lupin did mention the effect your Boggart had on you." Dumbledore nodded. "Do you believe that this is also how they learn our fears and consume them?"
Harry nodded.
"Remarkable, Harry." Dumbledore gave some sort of proud yet pitying look. "You have not been idle."
"No, Sir."
"Have you been practicing the patronus?"
Harry nodded. "I can't even produce mist." Something in his voice must have gotten across the unvoiced request for help.
"Then you aren't using a happy enough memory." Dumbledore mused, hearing the silent question. "What are you using?"
Harry looked down.
"A memory I took from a woman some years ago," he said softly. "She was getting engaged. It's the happiest I have."
"Oh, Harry." Harry almost flinched. He met Dumbledore's sad blue eyes when he heard the mournful voice. "Another's memory, no matter how happy, cannot make us ourselves happy. It cannot touch us deeply enough." Dumbledore looked almost choked. "You will find more success with one of your own. Something more intimate."
"Intimate?" The books hadn't mentioned that.
"Not necessarily sexual." Dumbledore held up a hand and seemed to recover himself. "Though such memories would likely work. Your memory, Harry, must be the happiest you've ever felt. It must be personal. It is the nature of such unique magic to have a unique source."
Harry looked down at his journal, wanting to make a note.
Dumbledore extended a hand towards Harry towards the notebook. "May I?"
Harry had to be the one to open it. Had Dumbledore brought it for this purpose? Harry shook his head. He needed to trust Dumbledore.
He held out the journal.
Dumbledore took the book and turned down to examine it. He turned a page. "The Apauruseya, Harry? Interested in Indian magical legends?"
Harry nodded, feeling somehow embarrassed. It felt like some deep, private part of himself had just been put on full display.
"I was more interested in powerful magical artifacts when I was your age, than magical people," Dumbledore said in an odd tone. "Though, it is similar. Have you discovered anything?"
Harry frowned. "Maybe?"
Dumbledore nodded, seeming content with that. Harry felt himself, oddly enough, relaxing.
"Herbology?" Dumbledore looked at Harry from the book. "Not your forte, Harry."
"Muggles interbreed plants to produce more efficient varieties." Harry shrugged. "Why can't we?"
Dumbledore nodded again, turning his gaze back to the book.
"Sir?" Harry asked at the same time Dumbledore began to ask about the next project. "You first," he muttered apologetically.
Dumbledore's eyes considered him for a moment before he acquiesced. "Enchanting a Pensieve?"
Harry nodded. "I, well, I had hoped to get a copy of your duel."
He didn't specify which duel. He didn't have to.
Dumbledore smiled wistfully before turning his attention back to the notebook. "Your notes mention sacrifice." Dumbledore looked back up at Harry from the book. "Blood magic?"
"I wasn't strong enough to cast the enchantments I needed to. I figured I could use blood magic and sacrifice and figure out a way to allow others to use it, even though I would use my blood."
Dumbledore nodded. "It's possible, yes. A bit abstract, like all complex magic, but it shouldn't be too difficult, though I must ask what you intended to sacrifice."
"The books you bought me for my birthday," Harry said slowly. "They're significant to me and so have value." Harry paused and considered. "And I suppose I could replace them."
"I had hoped to scare you away from such magics. I could claim that I never looked into such things, but that would be hypocritical." Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Replacing the books would undo the intent of the sacrifice Harry, from there, should you attempt to push the ritual through it would extract its price from something else, that you don't have control of."
That could have been bad. He looked down and Dumbledore touched his shoulder.
"Remember, Harry," he began. "While I would prefer that you leave such things behind, I can't truly stop you from giving something like this up. Just remember that I have dabbled in such magic and should you like to discuss it with me, my door is open to you. Trust me, Harry. I can keep you from repeating our mistakes, but only if you trust me."
Our?
"You don't want me to stop?" Harry asked confused.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Of course I want you to stop. But I'd rather know that you were doing it, and know that you were doing it safely, rather than have you doing it where I can't see or help you. I am a teacher, Harry, as well as your guardian."
Harry nodded once.
"Now I believe you were going to ask me something?" Dumbledore looked at him with electric eyes.
Harry gathered his courage. "Why did I go to the Dursley's?"
Dumbledore rubbed his brow as something that looked like shame came over him. "Not my shining moment. I had believed that they would love you and cherish you as family. I failed you in that regard, Harry. There, next to your mother's family, I believed that you would receive the greatest benefits from her sacrifice."
"Blood magic?" Harry asked.
"Most certainly," Dumbledore returned. "If not in name. It was blood magic, however, I doubt your mother even intended to use it. She wished that you would be saved, so you were. It is abstract and perhaps blood magic by classification, if you examine it after the fact. A contract was certainly made."
"Sacrificial magic, then."
Dumbledore paused. "I considered others too. Sirius Black was named your Godfather by your parents."
Harry looked up. "Why didn't I go to him?"
"Sirius Black," Dumbledore began, sounding pained, "is a tragedy. He was your father's best friend and fought Voldemort beside them as an auror." Harry nodded. "However, he had family on the side of Voldemort. Some that he didn't care for and some that he did. But they died or were lost and then he lost your parents too. You see Harry, no matter who won the war, Sirius Black lost. I considered placing you in his care and would have, had he not made multiple attempts on his own life."
Ah.
"I'm told that he still has correspondence with one of his few living friends. One Remus Lupin."
"Professor Lupin? Was he one of my dad's friends too?"
"Yes, he and your father were exceptionally close."
"Then why-?"
"-Why didn't I let you live with Remus?" Dumbledore gave him a penetrating look. "Harry, Remus is unfit to be your guardian because, and I tell you this in the strictest of confidence, he is a werewolf."
Harry frowned, but nodded.
"There was no one else?"
"Technically, one," Dumbledore told him. "Peter Pettigrew was a third friend of your father's." Harry's eyes bulged. "However, when your parents trusted him with their location under the fidelius charm, he betrayed them to Voldemort."
"Peter Pettigrew?" Dumbledore nodded.
"That disqualified your family's former close friends." Dumbledore looked out a window. "Perhaps I could have impressed upon more distant family, but I felt your extant family was the best option."
Harry turned to see what had captured the Headmaster's attention outside. He could see nothing.
"You shattered these windows," Dumbledore said off-handedly, "when you woke up. We had to stun you."
Harry felt surprised and then ashamed.
"I'm sorry, Sir."
Dumbledore just shook his head and turned his gaze back to Harry's notebook. There was silence for a time.
"Now, Harry, I mentioned I wasn't concerned when professor Vector informed me about the arithmancy you had been studying, but I can't help but wonder; why?"
"I wanted to understand. The killing curse is one of the few pieces of magic that interacts with the soul beyond a touch, like Hominum Revelio." Twinkling blue eyes examined, and Harry continued. "What is the soul, Sir? What do Dementors do with them?"
"Confused about the nature of the soul, then?" Harry nodded. "You aren't alone in that regard. Perhaps a bit of history, to introduce the concept? The Greeks divided the person into soul and body. It is where our language gets words like 'psyche', but these words in modern language refer to the mind. You see, the Greeks imagined that the soul and mind were, by and large, one and the same, and many philosophies and religions reflect this teaching. Ancient Semitic scholars divided the person into three parts. A trinity of soul, mind, and body, which most modern magical schools of thought subscribe to. These same scholars divided the soul into ten parts, though modern magic theory contends that there is one more. They called it the Kabbalah, and the interactions of these parts make up the soul."
Harry paused to consider that. "So, what does that mean?"
"Not too helpful, is it? Modern magical theory has yet to map the soul, nor understand it beyond a few components. The soul can be split, torn, and removed. It can even heal, under the right circumstances. But should a person lose it, they will either die, or be reduced to a husk that would make anyone wish for the former."
"The killing curse, and a Dementor's kiss."
"Correct," Dumbledore affirmed. "Magical Theory seems to tell us that no two souls are identical, and that the 'amounts' of each component in the soul seem to impact our personality. You may wonder how this is different than mind magic, and then you will have arrived at the Greek philosophy. You have also reached the pinnacle of modern understanding of the soul."
"That's it?"
"It is a difficult and abstract subject, and little is known." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "There are hundreds of conflicting theories about it. As for what Dementors want with them…" Dumbledore paused to breath. "A soul is a powerful thing Harry, it is nothing less than the essence of a person. I suspect that there is great power in consuming a soul in the way Dementors do."
Harry nodded slowly.
"Have you cast the killing curse, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry shook his head.
Dumbledore followed with, "you've considered it."
It wasn't a question.
Harry met the old man's eyes and decided. He nodded once slowly. "Not on a person. I just wanted to know."
Dumbledore's face looked grin but he nodded. "Why didn't you?"
"I-I didn't want to." He considered. "I wanted to know, yes, but I didn't want to."
"I did too," Harry looked shocked at Dumbledore, "when I was your age. Instead, I found a book in which someone else carried out the experiments I intended to do myself." Dumbledore looked down at the journal and pointed at a line. "You are correct when you hypothesized that summoned animals lack souls. They are too complex and too fine a thing to merely be summoned by mere wizards." Dumbledore smiled softly. "You are more like me than you think, and I am proud that you didn't want to cast the spell. I doubt either of our contemporaries had such doubts."
"Grindelwald and Voldemort," Harry surmised.
Dumbledore nodded. "If I may be so arrogant, Harry. I am an exceptional wizard." Harry nodded; who didn't know that? "Every once in a while, a wizard is born who stands head and shoulders above their peers. The sort who are born great. You have likely heard of Voldemort, and Grindelwald. You yourself, I believe, are such a wizard. Morgana, Merlin, the founders, all of them had the power. As did Nerida Vulchanova, the founder of Durmstrang."
"Me?" Harry asked.
"You." Dumbledore nodded. "It's not that your peers don't compete with you, Harry. You must understand, they cannot. I was much the same, as was Tom. Not only are you powerful and talented, you are also," Dumbledore lightly wiggled the notebook, "an exceptional student, and you will shape the world long after I am gone. I am proud to teach and mentor such a fine pupil."
Dumbledore turned back towards the book.
"A fine bit of magic," Dumbledore looked through bespectacled eyes down at the book. "Though perhaps, not unique."
"You're referring to Tom Riddle's diary." Harry frowned. It felt like there was some accusation in Dumbledore's voice. "I enchanted the notebook before I learned about it."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, but he still looked slightly pained.
"We're similar," Harry guessed solemnly, having already begin to put the pieces together himself, "he and I?"
"Oh?" the Headmaster looked over his glasses.
"Don't," Harry demanded. "You know." Harry cut off the game before it could begin.
The Professor, in the end, simply sighed. "I do know."
"Half-bloods, orphans, parselmouths, books, best in our years," Harry listed. "What else don't I know?"
"Tom Riddle was interested in magic, soul magic, blood magic, and even mind magic." Dumbledore informed him. "Or were you looking for something more specific?"
"Legilimency?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "When I met him, he claimed to always know when people lied to him. He cared little for those who would have stood next to him, nor the witches who threw themselves at him. Perhaps not dissimilar to yourself in some of these social aspects. He had trouble recognizing and understanding the emotions of others." Dumbledore gave him a sad look. "He knew anger, however. I knew something was wrong and I let him leave unopposed."
"Will you let me leave unopposed?"
Dumbledore frowned looking pained. "Harry, it is the ways you are different that matter; not the similarities."
That wasn't an answer.
"Why are we similar?" Harry asked. "I don't understand."
"Ah," Dumbledore said. "When I first asked this question, I had little to go on, but I believe an examination of your parselmouth abilities would be most elucidating." Dumbledore seemed to be settling in for a lecture. "The ability seems to only manifest in those related to Salazar Slytherin, at least in recent history, say, the last thousand years. Certain legends go beyond that, but I believe that a thousand years is long enough to establish a pattern."
"So, that I can speak parseltongue means that…"
"You are related to Salazar Slytherin," Dumbledore confirmed. "But neither your mother, nor your father demonstrated the ability at any point. Perhaps your mother was descended from a squib offshoot of the family and her blood wasn't considered pure enough for the whatever enchantment allows parseltongue to manifest."
The Headmaster checked a finger.
"Or perhaps the Potter family simply hid the ability."
He checked another.
"Or, and this being the most convoluted explanation," the Headmaster continued. "Perhaps the Potter family was descended from Salazar Slytherin, but distantly enough that the magic didn't take hold, and your mother was too. Thus, only together did their child have enough of Salazar Slytherin's blood for the magic to take hold."
Dumbledore checked a third finger.
That was convoluted.
"Or?"
"Or." The Headmaster nodded his agreement, holding up a thumb with three other fingers. "Or, that night in Godric's Hollow all those years ago, Voldemort transferred some of his powers, to you."
"Sir?" Harry felt bewildered. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know the specifics, but we must remember that no one knows what happened that night you destroyed Voldemort. Voldemort experimented with blood magic extensively, and likely cast curses involving intimate soul magic. Who could say for certain?"
That seemed… fair. Magic was odd, even when it worked as it was supposed to.
"So, you don't know about my connection to Voldemort."
"I'm afraid not, Harry." Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid that I should be off, and you should be asleep. We'll meet again soon, I should think." Dumbledore stood up and swept from the room.
Harry frowned, but all in all, he had to admit he felt… better.
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"I'll meet you down in the room," Daphne said from above him, the words filtering through his morning funk. He opened his eyes a peak and saw Daphne standing to the side of his bed, facing away from him.
"You mean Harry's study?" A voice that was undoubtedly Tracey's giggled, and Harry could imagine Daphne fuming. "Don't take too long with sleeping beauty."
He saw Daphne shake her head and heard Tracey exit the Hospital Wing. Daphne turned back towards him before looking at his nightstand, where his journal and wand sat. She glanced back at him before extending a hand towards his things.
When he grabbed her wrist she gave a surprised squeak and covered her mouth.
"Harry!" She looked like she wanted to smack him. She turned slightly red, like she had been caught with her hand stuck in the cookie jar. "That wasn't funny."
He sat up slowly, still holding her wrist. She looked down at the contact and flushed. He glanced between her and his possessions.
"You're okay?" She asked after a moment to gather her wits. "You almost died."
"I didn't almost die." It sounded more confident than he felt.
"You're shaking right now, and you fell a hundred feet! There were dozens of Dementors!"
"I was shaking before."
"And you look cold," She said.
He nodded. He was cold. There was silence.
"Plus, you screamed yourself hoarse. You woke up screaming and pulling out your hair. You nearly scalped yourself. You… you scared me. Tracey too."
She exhaled, and slid something behind her.
"What's that?" He asked, pointing.
"What was what?"
He gave her a flat look.
She handed over a get-well card, that looked distinctly hand-made, from Ginny Weasley. He opened it, only to immediately snap it shut when it tried to sing shrilly at him.
"Yeah, you can have that back." He couldn't hand it over fast enough.
"Harry," she took a nervous step closer. "You don't seem as bad… well you're not…"
"I'm better than last time?" He finished. "What doesn't kill you, et cetera, et cetera."
"So… you're okay?" She took a timid step closer, even as she twirled her hair between her fingers.
He nodded, only to shake his head after a moment's thought. "Yes, and no."
At her look he continued.
"I'm not as...injured. They didn't get too close and I kept them out," He remembered the voices he heard, "for the most part. I had a chat with Dumbledore and he gave me some advice. I think I can get a patronus to work now. Then I'll move on to…" He gave her a look.
"...to the boggart you have locked in the room?" She gave him a cute, pleading look. "Harry, please don't."
"You know I'm gonna."
"Harry, why?! Why can't you just take a moment? Why can't you relax and just get better? You push and push and it's no wonder you get hurt so often, and it really hurts me to see it! It hurts all of your friends." She crossed her arms, turning away from him. "We all feel so helpless. I just have to watch you get hurt, over and over again."
"Daphne, come on." He grabbed her arm and turned her around. "I'm healing, and I don't like what's happening to me any more than you do. Besides, you guys are helping me."
A flurry of emotions crossed her face; anger, self-pity, impotence, disbelief, happiness. It was enough to make Harry's head spin. She leaned in and hugged him, and he almost jumped. He slowly put his arms around her in return. "I'm alright," he whispered.
After a moment she pulled back and stepped away. She was wiping her eyes. "Don't do that again," she said. "Okay? Just… work on your patronus."
She walked away from him and out of the wing.
He was informed by his friends in the room that evening, that he had lost the match, but Cho Chang had recovered his broom before anything catastrophic could happen. He'd have to thank her for that.
"Dumbledore was really angry," Hermione said in a squeaky, quaking voice. "I've never seen him like that before. He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of… slowed down, before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the Dementors, shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away. He was furious they'd come onto the grounds. He left for the ministry that day to try and remove the Dementors."
He shot a questioning glance to Lisa and Neville.
"The Dementors are still around," Lisa said. "The Minister is really digging in his heels. I've heard that he can be stubborn."
Wasn't her mother in trouble at the Ministry for something?
Neville, however, interpreted his gaze correctly and continued by letting him know that it was Wednesday and that he had only missed three days of classes.
Lisa and Hermione shared a look. "Harry," Lisa began. "We were thinking-"
Oh Boy.
"-Maybe you should consider not playing Quidditch."
"Not play Quidditch?" He repeated, stunned. The words themselves made sense and were correct, grammatically speaking, but together they didn't make sense.
"You get hurt a lot doing it," Hermione pointed out. "You'd be safer on the ground."
"They've got a good point," Neville supported with a shrug.
"But I like Quidditch," Harry said. And he did. He loved the air and wind in his face. He loved the rain and storms which harassed players. It was comfortable, and exciting.
"Harry also has a good point," Neville said, turning back towards them like he was officiating a tennis match. When he saw their faces, he followed quickly by saying, "everyone has excellent points."
"Just think about it, won't you Harry?" Hermione gave him a pleading look.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Yeah, I'll give it some thought."
"He's already decided." Lisa closed her book shut and stood up. "I'm turning in."
Harry lingered in the study for a few hours more, even as his friends marched off to bed. They shot him concerned glances but didn't press the issue. They probably thought he wasn't going to sleep. They were right, but Harry had never slept much anyway. They filed out until only Daphne remained.
"Harry? Are you going back to the Ravenclaw Common room?"
"How did you know about the Boggart, Daphne?" He saw her flinch back.
"Well… I knew that-"
"-You never mentioned your father was psychometric." He kept up the pressure. "When did it start?"
She looked gobsmacked. "Harry I-"
"Was it after you began practicing occlumency?" He pushed on. "That will do it."
She looked upset, but also confused.
"Are you mad at me?" He asked.
She looked like she wanted to smack him again, but then just sort of… sagged, looking resigned. "No, I'm not mad. I just wanted to be able to tell you, when I was ready." She bit her lip and pouted slightly. "How did you figure it out?" She suddenly looked a lot more furious. She stepped closer. "Were you in my head?"
He shook his head. "I haven't been in your head since the Alley."
She turned pink.
"The way you touched the table and knew about my conversation with Neville, that day when he forgot his book. You didn't touch the bloodstained book, but you wanted to touch my wand." He shrugged. "You weren't subtle."
"You tricked me!"
"I trapped you and you walked into it." He smirked. "Well, ran into it really."
"I've never run from anything," she asserted heatedly.
He looked down at her. They were standing a little close. She took a step back and he could almost hear the occlumency exercises wheeling in her head as she tried to wrangle her emotions.
"You don't get to almost die and then wake up and know my secrets."
"Sorry," he apologized without even attempting to sound sincere.
She just shook her head. "I'm not very good at it. My father was much more powerful. I can get images from an object, maybe a bit of knowledge, but it's usually just emotions."
"Was that why you were surprised when you discovered the Boggart?"
She looked at him. "You saw that?"
"Again, not subtle," he supplied. "Your father studied occlumency, right? That's why he was more powerful. He had a closer connection to the mind arts."
"So if I keep practicing, I'll get stronger?"
"Every mind is unique, but yeah, probably."
"Practice?" She asked. "Like the Boggart?"
He nodded. "We could work on the Boggart together."
She looked him up and down, before sighing. "You really do seem okay."
She stood next to him and they stared out the window overlooking the black lake together. It was still stormy, but the rain had stopped falling. "You know that you can talk to me, right Harry? You can trust me."
He thought about it. He… he did trust her. Probably more than anyone save perhaps Dumbledore.
"I know," he said, and breathed out. "Everyone says that Dementors are horrible and foul creatures. But no one else collapses near them."
"Weasley did, on the train."
"She was a puppet of Voldemort's for almost a year. Hardly the benchmark I want to set myself to. I'm not supposed to be weak, not like that."
"You're just… vulnerable, for some reason." She was trying to be comforting.
"Do you hear your father? When you get close to them?" He asked her. She stiffened beside him, but shook her head. "Can you see the thestrals that pull the carts to and from school?"
"Harry the carts pull themsel-"
"No, they don't." She looked stumped by that.
"Where are you going with this?"
"I hear my mother," he said simply. "I hear her screaming."
"Oh…"
"My father too, and Voldemort. He just… kills them, maybe he tortures them. I can hear what they said. I can hear them beg for their lives." He felt himself shake.
"What did they say?"
"The first two words I ever knew," he said. "I used to lie awake thinking about them. What do they mean? Why do I know them? Where did I hear them from?"
"Harry? You're scaring me." She said softly.
"Sorry." He exhaled again. "I'm scared too." He mustered his courage to tell her.
"What are the words?"
"Daphne, you're the brightest witch of our age," he said, matter-of-factly. She looked ashen. "You can guess."
Avada Kadavra.
She hugged him tightly in her arms. It was his second hug ever, and, if he was being honest with himself, which he at least tried to be, it was pretty awesome.
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"Imagine my surprise when I learned that social animals deprived of social activity become socially stunted."
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I won't be back until next week. I've got some tests coming up. Next chapter should wrap up third year, though there might be another, in the first case the next chapter will be The Hermit. If the later is true it will be titled Cloudburst.
WG