Chapter Fourteen
Home Again, Home Again
September first had arrived.
King's Cross Station was at its busiest today. Harry was glad to see that some things never changed, notably the many cart-laden young people rushing impatiently to their trains, some dressed more conspicuously than others. Harry even managed a grin at them.
Platform nine and three quarters was just as Harry remembered: Tearful parents crammed themselves together on the lonely platform for one last hug, one last kiss on the cheek whilst their children were all too eager to leave. It struck Harry for the first time then that it must be very bittersweet for those poor parents, saying goodbye to their children for what would be months at a time, and not only on the first day of term either, but at the end of every holiday when their children would inevitably return to school. And then Harry wondered why the wizarding world didn't have a more modern school system, admitting students in the morning and sending them home in the afternoon; surely it wasn't outside the Ministry's capabilities to do so. Why, with all their portkeys and fireplaces for Flooing, Harry imagined the Ministry ought to be quite well equipped for it.
But then, Harry didn't work at the Ministry.
Harry negotiated the claustrophobic crowd and boarded the train, eager to turn his back on the scene and trying not to envision an alternate world where he got to have tearful goodbyes with his own parents or, were the universe so benevolent, children of his own.
While the station and platform were exactly as he remembered, the Hogwarts Express was merely familiar to him: The floor of the corridor creaked as he went, the passage was too narrow and the interior rather dimmer than he recalled. He attributed these things as consequences of being older and larger than he'd been since his last memory of it, and he hadn't had contact lenses at the time either. As Harry walked down the corridor, he couldn't help but notice the mustiness that hung in the air. It was a familiar smell, one that reminded him of days long gone. He brushed his fingers along the worn wooden panels, tracing the grooves and scratches etched into the surface. Each mark held a story all its own, and Harry was struck by the notion that he was a stranger here. This wasn't the train he remembered. It was a different train with different marks that told different stories, albeit one that shared the same name and appearance as the train of his youth.
Harry went in search for the compartment he'd been assigned. When Dumbledore had been assigning Hogwarts faculty to be chaperones for the journey, Harry had very nearly leapt to volunteer, feeling a sudden nostalgia. Harry hadn't even known the train had chaperones; perhaps it hadn't where he came from. He found the compartment easily enough; it was located about the middle of the middle car and was a bit wider than its fellows. Letters on the frosted glass of the door helpfully read, FACULTY. Harry slid open the door and peered in.
He was alone.
The compartment was lit by a flickering, pale light cast by a dying bulb. Harry entered, the plush maroon seats beckoning him with their velvety embrace. But as he sat down, a chill crept up his spine at the familiarity of it all. The air smelled of old parchment and ink, like the remnants of forgotten spells.
He gazed out the window and watched absently as children outside finished their goodbyes to their families. Harry had been assigned the second of two shifts. He assumed his fellow chaperone was already out monitoring the students as they finished boarding. He didn't know who they were, but it didn't matter as they likely wouldn't be having any time to chat.
Harry hadn't any luggage; his things had been moved into his new quarters at Hogwarts the night before. But he had brought a book to pass the time: It was an old copy of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks: A Comprehensive Guide to the Hidden Wonders of the Magical Realm, dated about half a century ago, that he'd borrowed from the Hogwarts library upon Olivia's recommendation.
The day after Harry's disastrous friendship-date with Penny, he had sought solace in Olivia's embrace. They'd spent the day together in London and made a good time of it before returning to her apartment for the night. He'd inquired about Snorkacks—where they roamed, what properties they exhibited, what they ate, what ate them, etc. He'd tried to play it off as natural curiosity for the creature whose horn now powered his wand, and Olivia hadn't found this suspicious. She'd waxed almost poetically about the creatures, giving Harry quite a lot to think about. He'd already begun to make plans for an outing to locate these creatures, hence the book in his lap.
While his dealings with Olivia had begun solely out of interest for Snorkacks, it hadn't remained that way; Harry had developed a genuine liking to her. He supposed that was to be expected, seeing as they rutted about like rabbits at every opportunity. Humans were engineered to seek companionship, and sex was a powerful device in forming such bonds. Still, Harry wouldn't have called her his girlfriend. Even relationship was a strong word, in his opinion. He felt—and he was rather inclined to believe Olivia felt the same—that they were merely two people who would meet up from time to time to have a bit of fun. In the nude. Sometimes they would go into the city, but mostly they spent their hours at her place.
He didn't see the harm in it. He was only having a bit of fun as Ron had suggested. Harry wasn't looking for love. Love was dangerous. Love was a distraction. And Harry had a job to do—several, in fact. He couldn't afford to get swept up in the grandeur of romance and lose sight of his goals, not when the fate of two worlds hung in the balance.
But say that he did fall in love: What would Harry do when it came time to return to his world and turn back the clock? Sorry, luv, but I'm going back in time to save the world next door from a horrible future. No, I can't pick up milk on my way, I'm never coming back. It was ludicrous. Harry shook his head at the thought.
No. Love would bring nothing but pain in the end. It was better not to waste anybody's time—his, Olivia's, or that of any other woman he might come to fancy. His only justification for spending time with Olivia was the fact that it was so casual; neither of them expected anything of the other, and either could bail at any time.
The whistle wailed. The train screeched as it crept along the track. Out on the platform, families were waving their third and fourth goodbyes. The light bulb in Harry's compartment flickered.
The train was off. Their journey was underway.
As the station sped past the window, Harry glanced down to the book in his lap, his thumb tapping the cover in rhythm with the clack-clack! of the wheels. Stitched into the leather, the silhouette of a creature—somewhere between an Eastern Asian dragon and a jackalope—watched him, its tail twitching like that of a cat.
A Snorkack horn—a Crumple-Horned Snorkack horn. He intended to go after it this weekend. Tomorrow was Friday, the first day of term and a flying lesson with the first years—but afterward, the hunt. It seemed a simple enough thing, and he needed to start crossing items off his list, which hadn't grown any shorter since he'd arrived in this world. He still needed phoenix flint, and everything after that only got more exotic: a phoenix egg, Heliopath fire burning on an oaken branch, a hummingbird whose animation was suspended, two more timepieces of sentimental value, and a soul.
Harry intended to get the flint from Fawkes sometime during the school year; perhaps he would be able to ask a favor of Dumbledore or offer something in trade for it. The egg, he had no idea, and he hadn't any leads on Heliopaths either. Suspending animation, he'd been told by his Dumbledore back home, could be done with a spell, but it was, predictably, so difficult that Harry wasn't likely to pull it off anytime soon without much, much practice. Though Dumbledore hadn't been able to recall the exact incantation, he had pointed Harry in the direction of theoretical and experimental magical theory and named a few books as starting points. The timepieces simply baffled him. Utterly. He saw the connection, obviously, but what did sentimentality have to do with it?
And a soul.
The compartment window rattled.
That final one worried Harry most of all. Part of him wanted to devote all his time toward finding the answer to that mystery. Why waste time collecting the rest if the soul couldn't be obtained? Then again, the Book had been right about everything else so far, hadn't it? Surely there was a way...
But the Book hadn't been right about everything, Harry had to remind himself, or at least transparent. The Book had said, or at the very least insinuated, that Harry would be able to transport things with him between worlds. Except he hadn't been able to so far. Harry was still irked by that. He was really hoping that this, too, simply required practice. Elsewise, this entire scheme was for naught.
And then there were the Voldemorts—the lord and the lady.
Harry hadn't seen hide nor hair of them. Or Nagini. He scoured the Daily Prophet and the Evening Prophet when they came—he'd bought a subscription—but there hadn't been anything of interest since that story about Snape getting assaulted in Diagon Alley. It made sense that they were laying low: Nobody knew Lady Voldemort had returned, and she wouldn't want to throw away that pivotal advantage. Harry would have called the press, but he remembered all too well the libel and slander he'd received after the Triwizard Tournament. In a way, his claims had been the catalyst that had given Umbridge a professorship for a long, terrible year.
Harry had made a second visit to the Riddle house, but the place was as abandoned as it had been before. Rarely, Harry half-wished he'd still had that mental connection to Voldemort, if only to know what was happening. He didn't know where they might be hiding, let alone if they were working together or separately. He strongly suspected they were allies, though he had no proof of it. Did Lady Voldemort even know that Lord Voldemort was here? Was it he that cracked open her father's grave and resurrected her? Or had it been this world's Wormtail or Barty Crouch Jr.? Someone else? And ahead of schedule, too, or at least the schedule Harry had been anticipating.
Since the Quidditch World Cup, Harry had decided to eschew expectations going forward; every anticipation he'd acted upon had left him the fool. The search for Lady Voldemort's Horcruxes, in particular, had been one waste of time after another. He felt like that cliché people attributed to Thomas Edison: I have not failed. I've just found ten thousand ways that won't work.
Upon reflection, Harry rather thought he should have seen it coming, ironically, the lack of Death Eaters at the afterparty. With Lady Voldemort resurrected, the Death Eaters were no longer unsupervised as they had been in Harry's time. With Lady Voldemort resurrected, the Death Eaters were too scared to cause unsanctioned mayhem.
The thought of the Voldemorts teaming up against him made Harry's skin crawl. He wouldn't put it past the Voldemort he knew to make use of his doppelganger and then betray her after she'd outlived her usefulness. Entertaining the nightmare for a moment, Harry wondered: Would Lord Voldemort be able to successfully double-cross her, or would she manage to off him first? Either scenario sounded well and good to Harry, but he doubted he'd be around to witness such a thing.
Dumbledore had told Harry to acquire allies, but Harry didn't know where to find them. Who could he tell his crazy story to without getting tossed into Saint Mungo's? If he could prove, with definitive evidence, Lady Voldemort's return to this world, he was sure he'd find friends among the Order of the Phoenix, or this world's version of it. But coming out and saying, Oh, by the way, there's a second Voldemort from another world, and he's a bloke, probably wouldn't go down well—again, Saint Mungo's. He had thought that perhaps this world's Albus Dumbledore could help him, but what if—what if—he didn't believe Harry? Telling the truth could jeopardize Harry's already precarious position in this world.
For the nonce, Harry was convinced that the only choice he had was to walk his path alone and see what fate afforded him. At least until he found a surer path forward. All he needed was proof…
Harry's fingers tapped on the book in his lap, agitating the creature embossed upon it, and he knew: "I need to bring the Book to this world and show Dumbledore."
The train groaned. Harry didn't remember his train being quite so... decrepit.
Countryside was rushing by the window now. Harry shook himself—quite literally—of his gloomy thoughts and opened his book. He would read of cheerier things now and not contemplate Riddles any longer.
But it was a long train ride, and Harry would find his mind wandering back to Lady Voldemort several more times to come.
Harry sat at the High Table in the Great Hall of his beloved castle, whole and pristine. The four House tables stood empty, silently awaiting the arrival of their students. His seat was the very last one, just beside a mildly scowling, very much alive Severus Snape, professor of Potions, who then and again shot a curious side glance in Harry's direction. Maybe because he hadn't seen Snape alive and well in years, but Harry thought Snape's hair looked a little less greasy.
Familiar faces down the table made conversation. Flitwick and Sprout were there, as was Dumbledore in his golden throne. Sinistra and Trelawney chatted about astronomy and astrology while Babbling was babbling about ancient runes to a spaced-out Binns. McGonagall and Hagrid were expectedly absent, dealing with students new and old. Perhaps the only face Harry missed was that of Madam Hooch, who, as far as Harry knew, hadn't ever been flight instructor here to begin with. Conversely, the only face new to Harry was that of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, whom he had yet to formally meet; Harry couldn't wait to unveil whatever nefarious plot this unknown quantity had in store—there always was one.
Professor Seraphina Marlowe.
Harry had asked Poppy—who was also present and smiled at Harry as he glanced her way—the names of his fellow professors and faculty so that Harry Crossley would have a legitimate reason for knowing them. She'd told him each in turn, and other than Professor Vector's new given name—Tertia, instead of Septima—only one name had been unfamiliar to him: Seraphina Marlowe.
A former Ministry employee, Marlowe was a striking witch in her forties or fifties. At the corners of her bespectacled eyes were the kind of wrinkles that suggested she spent a lot of time squinting, and she wore her shiny black hair pulled into a complex braid that Harry didn't know the name of but was sure was French. For the Start-of-Term Feast, she was wearing vermilion robes that were lovely and vibrant if a bit ostentatious. She gave Harry the impression of a younger, more fashionable and less severe McGonagall. Her wife, Poppy had gossiped, was a rather lauded Continental Auror.
Snape cleared his throat and turned to Harry. "Ahem. Good evening."
Harry blinked. "Good evening, sir."
"Please. We are colleagues." Snape held up a hand. "I am Severus Snape, potions master."
Harry stared at the hand for an instant, contemplating. He couldn't dodge this introduction forever, not if he was to be an employee of the school. So he took Snape's hand and shook it. "Uh, new flight instructor. Harry Crossley."
"Yes, poor Bartholomew Brandy," Snape said, tone as Snape-ish as ever. "I hear he's tanning himself in Bermuda these days. Yet it seems his close encounter with a bird of no insignificant size was to your benefit. Congratulations on your new post… Crossley."
Harry swallowed a lump. "Thank you, Snape. I… look forward to working alongside you."
Snape hummed enigmatically.
Harry's attention was arrested by the first of the students arriving from the carriages, entering in threes and fours and fives and settling along their House tables, which were only slightly out of order from what Harry was used to. The students carried with them a din that rose gradually as more and more returning students found their seats. Some of them, Harry was interested to learn, were familiar to him. He recognized some of the older students that had been his upperclassmen. There were some from his old class as well, though he had to remind himself that these children weren't of his class, they weren't his classmates, not really. Malfoy's platinum hair was hard to miss, as were the shades of Weasley red amongst the Gryffindors; Harry's breath caught when he glimpsed Ginny's beautiful hair, then he blanched when he remembered she was only thirteen, and awkwardly looked away, feeling uncomfortable and gross.
He still hadn't used the Stone to talk with his Ginny back home. He knew it was cowardly of him, but he was avoiding that particular encounter.
Harry searched for his own double, but if he were here, he'd been lost amid the chaos.
Movement caught his eye, and Harry did a double take as he realized Snape was waving to one of the students. It had barely been a lifting and tilting of the hand, but it had been unmistakable; it was Snape's equivalent of Hermione charging down the aisle and glomping a poor fool. Harry only wished he'd spotted the student that had elicited it.
They were closing the great doors now in preparation for the first years. Harry experienced a thrill he hadn't felt since his schooldays: the feeling of another school year beginning. He still remembered the feeling each time, naive as it had been, believing that each year would be a fresh start for him. It was usually about ten minutes into the announcements when something ominous would happen or be said, and he'd be reminded of his infamously ill luck.
Then the first years were entering, led by McGonagall, and Harry could almost hear dapper horns playing in the back of his head as the Sorting ceremony officially began. From his place at the High Table, the eleven year olds looked even smaller than Harry had imagined. They lined up, all nerves and jitters, as McGonagall introduced the Sorting Hat, and when the hat began to sing, more than one of the kids jumped.
The hat's song was more or less the same of what Harry remembered from his own fourth-year Sorting, other than introducing a founder as "Godfrey" Gryffindor. In any case, the hat didn't sing of anything unusual, and the Sorting was underway. Harry watched and applauded as faces familiar and not were directed to their Houses, the pool of first years growing smaller and smaller until, finally, the last little tyke was sent away to Hufflepuff, and Professor Dumbledore stood.
"Welcome!" he called, spreading his arms in greeting. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! It warms this old man's heart to see you all once more, and to you new students—salutations! I am Albus Dumbledore, your headmaster, and I hope you will come to find a second home in Hogwarts, just as I have."
Harry listened as raptly as the new first years, smiling a nostalgic smile as Dumbledore gave the usual rundown: The Forbidden Forest was forbidden for a reason, mind the caretaker, don't contribute to the boxes of cheating or pranking contraband, the House Cup would be awarded at the end of the year for whichever House earns the most points—and oh yes, the Triwizard Tournament was making its return at Hogwarts this year.
Finally, something Harry had anticipated that came true.
There was quite the mixed reaction from the students, the mixture being excitement for those in the know and confusion from those not, as Harry had once been. And so Dumbledore provided some context to those confused students, explaining a bit of the tournament's history, perilous reputation and modern resurgence.
"Nevertheless, only students seventeen and older will be allowed to submit—"
An uproar of many angry complaints and protests from the crowd cut the headmaster off.
"Silence!" commanded Professor McGonagall fiercely.
The Hall quieted almost at once.
Dumbledore smiled politely. "Ahem. Thank you, Professor McGonagall." He addressed the students once more. "I can appreciate your disappointment. However, it is of my opinion, and the Ministry's as well, that the tournament's inherent danger, while tempered significantly, would still be too great for an under-aged student to reasonably handle. Do not worry—whether you are a Champion or spectator, you'll get quite the show. I assure you."
That seemed to appease the student body somewhat, as if the promise of danger was enough to quell their bloodlust. Harry smirked as he fancied equating the students with piranhas.
Then a concerned sixth year shouted from the crowd: "You're not cancelling Quidditch this year, are you, sir? To make room for the tournament?"
Harry's heart went out to the poor lass; he could remember feeling just as she did now.
Dumbledore spread his hands in an amiable gesture. "Now, now, never fear. The Triwizard Tournament is sure to be quite the spectacle, and I have no doubt you'll enjoy it immensely. However," said Dumbledore, and Harry, smirking with the thrill of knowing a secret, could feel every Quidditch fan in the room holding their breath, "I would be remiss in my duty as headmaster to cancel our school league." Dumbledore smiled. "Quidditch season begins in October."
Harry felt as if the stones beneath his feet had fallen away. Students cheered and applauded in approval and relief even as Harry felt himself shrinking into his seat. He was speechless; even in the recesses of his mind, he couldn't find the words to describe his surprise and, indeed, his dread at this turn of events. His list of responsibilities was full up, and more were just dumped into his lap. Along with everything else, he was now saddled with the full burden of a flight instructor's duties—and with twice as many Quidditch matches! He'd banked on Quidditch being canceled this year, like it had been in his time, believed it so wholeheartedly, never even gave a second thought to the possibility that it wouldn't be.
Harry was distantly aware that Dumbledore was talking about him. "—Crossley, whom I daresay is more than up for the job." Dumbledore looked to him and led the students and staff in a polite round of applause.
Harry felt the weight of hundreds of eyes land on him at once. Unable to stand, let alone speak, he just managed a timid wave in reply.
A few final words were spoken, though about what, Harry didn't hear in his distraction. Suddenly the High Table was populated with food as the feast began in earnest, and Harry stared at the whole roast chicken in front of him unseeingly.
"Alright there, Crossley?" queried Snape, perhaps a touch sadistically.
Harry swallowed, though his throat was dry. "Yeah, thanks. Just... just not one for the spotlight, you know?" He reached for his water goblet with a tremble in his fingers.
"Indeed?" And Snape give him an appraising if cursory glance. "I once knew a wizard," he said slowly, "a detestable boy, really. A swine. Craved the spotlight. Always about with his little friends, showing off."
Harry gulped at his water, his throat somehow drier than before. "Sounds like... a real pain in the arse."
Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "Yes, a pain in the arse indeed. He thought he was entitled to everything, to all the attention and accolades. But mark my words, Crossley, those who seek the spotlight often find themselves consumed by its unforgiving glare."
Harry didn't know where his courage came from in that moment. He returned his goblet to the table and twisted to face his colleague. "Tell me, Snape, do you have a problem with me?"
For a second, it seemed like Snape might whip out his wand and curse Harry. But then Snape's demeanor cooled just as suddenly. "Not at all," he replied, taking up his fork and returning to his meal. "Forgive me, you reminded me of someone."
"Clearly...," said Harry, but he let the matter rest, as it was rare that he'd heard Snape apologize for anything. Harry caught Poppy's quizzical glance and shrugged.
The rest of the feast passed quietly for Harry, who, sitting at the very end of the High Table, didn't converse much more after that. Then the students were sent away, led by their prefects to their common rooms, until just the faculty remained.
Trelawney spoke. "Anyone fancy a sherry?"
"We've lessons in the morning, Sybill," rejoined a disapproving McGonagall as she fetched the Sorting Hat and disappeared the stool beneath it.
Flitwick squeaked and held out his glass for Trelawney to fill. "Come now, Minerva, one small glass wouldn't hurt, surely."
Dumbledore cast his twinkling eyes in Harry's direction. "Care to join us, Harry? We'll toast to your new position. A post toast, if you will." He chuckled at his jest.
Grinning, Harry joined the gathering at the middle of the High Table. Dumbledore remained seated in his golden chair, but everyone else stood in a loose comradely circle, even Snape, who did not partake of the wine but stood menacingly nearby. McGonagall joined, too, though she tried—and failed—to look stern as she sipped her sherry. They toasted to Harry and then again to the new year, and Harry was touched to be included. He felt accepted, a rare feeling for him. They chatted a bit, some more than others. Some, like Snape and Filch, said little or nothing, while others picked up the slack. Trelawney was especially verbose, and Harry suspected she'd had more sherry prior to the feast.
Harry, as the new kid on the block, fielded questions from the old guard. He might've been nervous, but he'd anticipated these sorts of questions and had answers already prepared. He stuck to his story of lost identity but spun it in a positive, hopeful way, saying that he viewed it as an opportunity to be the man he wanted to be, and that while he didn't know much about his former life, he liked flying broomsticks and that it settled well with him to help others learn and experience the joys of flying. And where better to do that than Hogwarts? It helped that Poppy vouched for him, he knew. Everyone trusted Poppy Pomfrey, and if she said that Harry had been the victim of a terrible Memory Charm, then, dammit, he was, Filch!
"Do you remember nothing about the attack?" questioned Seraphina Marlowe, her trained, canny eyes examining him through her horn-rimmed glasses.
Harry met her gaze stubbornly, focusing on his old Occlumency lessons, just in case. "All I remember is a flash of green light."
Her only reply was a slight pursing of the lips, and no more was said about it.
By the end of their nightcap, Harry felt he was on a first-name basis with most of them, except for Snape and Filch, which hadn't bothered Harry in the slightest. He had to admit, it would be easier keeping track of everyone, particularly the Dumbledores; Albus, Harry decided, would be his current headmaster and professional colleague, whereas Dumbledore would be the friend and mentor that he'd grown up with. And that felt right to him because, even though he was closer to his Dumbledore than the other one, calling him by his first name felt off to Harry. To him, Dumbledore would always be Dumbledore.
Harry tossed and turned in his bed amid a fitful sleep. In the hazy realm between worlds waking and unwaking, Harry found himself plunged into an altogether alien dreamscape, drifting between veils neither here nor there.
He glided along a lonely road through a fog-shrouded forest. Branches clawed at him from above, but he passed harmless as a ghost beneath them. The trees parted before him, revealing a glade with a black tower, tall and jagged and whole. It was a frigid place, awash with cloaked fiends that swooped overhead as he swept up the walk.
The interior was as bright and inviting as the exterior. The walls whispered welcomes as Harry climbed the stairs of his grand abode—for it was his abode. The bleak, austere marble magnified his brisk footsteps. A wheezing Soulless awaited him at the landing, and Harry tossed his cloak to him.
"Away with you," he said without an imperfection in his stride. "And fetch me a new bottle of red." Then he paused in consideration. "Perhaps a fourteen twelve? It's been a fourteen-twelve sort of day."
The Soulless glided away as bidden.
Harry sank into his profane throne with a long-suffering sigh. He reached into an impossibly deep pocket, procured an inkless quill and with it wrote into a book. "Consider… granting… the Soulless… speech." He hesitated. "If only… to hear… their screams."
He snapped shut the book and drummed his fingers on its face, so black it might've been forged of darkness itself.
Author's Note
Sorry for posting this a day late (I thought yesterday was Friday, lol). Sometimes time gets away from me. Updates will continue to be every Saturday or every other Saturday as chapters become available.
So... A classic ride on the Express, the Start-of-Term Feast, a new professor, and another twist that Harry, honestly, should have anticipated, given his luck.
This chapter officially begins Part III. I don't know if I specifically have plans for a Part IV, so this may or may not be the final part. That being said, this will be the meatiest of them all now that Harry's lodged himself squarely in the crux of the story web. I know there are plenty of plot lines active, and I've left some questions unanswered, some avenues unexplored thus far (like Harry needing allies but not seeking them out, as mentioned this chapter). But like a web, the lines intersect and interweave with one another, and my hope is that I can weave these threads together in a way that feels satisfying, giving each the attention they deserve and not letting any go stale. I know it's ambitious, so I guess we'll see whether I'm successful or not. In any case, thanks to all of you for giving this story a chance and sticking with it. You guys are great! :)