CHAPTER 52: NIGHT TERRORS
Harry didn't know how he ended up there, in what manner, and most importantly, where on earth he could be. The place was dark, gloomy, and battered, while an unpleasant atmosphere of death hung in the air. Everywhere his eyes could see, which was practically nowhere, Harry saw nothing but muddy, torn-up ground on which the sparse vegetation seemed to be wilting before his eyes. The fog that had settled and evidently had no intention of leaving anytime soon made the area even more unwelcoming for him, especially since a deafening silence contributed to the growing anxiety he felt. Not even the sky could indicate the time, the weather, or the season he was in. Nothing could offer him the slightest assistance, the smallest help, however insignificant, or the saving hand that could extricate him from the problem he was facing.
Bewildered, Harry had no choice but to walk, cutting through the fog that seemed to follow him with each step as if mocking him. He tried to traverse the muddy, wet terrain where his muddy boots sank from time to time to ankle level, all the while scanning the surroundings for any clue. Nervously, his hands mechanically went to his hair, running his fingers through it without realizing the absence of his military cap. More so, he absentmindedly fidgeted with the magical wand he slid in and out of his sleeve, secretly hoping deep down that he wouldn't have to use it.
Suddenly, he stopped at the sound of a horse's neigh, a sound that, under ordinary circumstances, made him appreciate the majesty and nobility of the animal. However, in this situation, it only added to the oppressive atmosphere of the place. Oh, how he would love to escape from here, especially to ride on the back of that currently invisible horse! But like everything else, the horse couldn't be seen, and only its increasingly loud neighs broke the ambient monotony.
"Animalis Revelio!" he attempted flatly, aiming at an imaginary point in front of him. Unluckily, his wand refused to cooperate, and where he hoped it would point in the direction of the horse, it remained perfectly still in his palm. In fact, Harry didn't even feel a trace of magic inside it, which greatly worried him. "Stupefy!" he exclaimed to confirm the fears that were beginning to germinate in his mind. Nothing happened, and like the useless twig it had become, his wand remained motionless in his hand, devoid of any will to assist its owner. Disheartened, Harry stowed it back into the holster hidden under his sleeve, but a voice immediately made him retrieve it:
"Feeling helpless, my little wizard?"
Surprised, Harry immediately assumed a combat position, turning around from time to time to aim at the new person who had arrived without warning and was hiding in the fog. The voice fell silent again for nearly a minute, to the point where Harry thought the person had already left. But as soon as this thought crossed his mind, the voice was heard again:
"You're scared... I sense the anxiety creeping up on you, little wizard... The little rabbit is caught in the trap and desperately tries to escape from the hunter who has come to catch it," said the voice in a smooth and mocking tone.
"Show yourself, coward!" Harry shouted, continuing to look around frantically.
"One is rather impatient!" the other person mocked while their voice suddenly echoed all around Harry like a reverberation. "Patience is, indeed, a virtue, my boy, but the knowledge of virtues may have been foreign to your upbringing."
"I forbid you to question the education my mother provided me!" he retorted harshly. "Who are you to judge such matters, you who obviously enjoy disparaging the education of others but forget one essential thing: Before addressing someone, it is customary to introduce yourself first!"
"Oh, but if you insist, Your Majesty!" declared the other before bursting into loud laughter.
The fog then seemed to dissipate before him, and gradually, a shape initially blurred appeared through it. Soon, a horse of immaculate white, in stark contrast to the pitch-black ground, emerged. However, what disturbed Harry even more was the rider on its back. The voice had been entirely unfamiliar to him, and as proof of his unfamiliarity, Harry could not put a name to the person facing him, but the uniform he wore left no doubt about his nationality: an Austrian, and moreover, an Austrian whose chest and leg were pierced by a sword each. The man had a cadaverous complexion, and a large bloodstain spread across the white of his uniform, but he firmly held the reins of his horse, and as upright as he could be on his animal, he advanced slowly toward Harry as calmly as possible.
"Impossible..." he muttered, furrowing his brows. "You can't be Austrian; you have no accent!"
"Is that what surprises you the most?" the man asked, arching an eyebrow. "My accent?!"
Immediately after, a sinister laugh escaped his mouth, while at the same time, to Harry's horror, a jet of blood also spurted from the wound in his chest, splattering the white fur of his horse.
"Aren't you more intrigued by the fact that a man with two swords plunged into his body can ride a horse and carry on a conversation so nonchalantly?" the other continued to advance.
"Who are you?" Harry asked without mincing words.
"Don't you recognize me?" the other said. "Look at this..."
And without further ado, the man took the sword lodged in his leg, and after pulling it out, shedding even more blood in the process, he threw it to Harry's feet. Without hesitation, Harry grabbed it, his brows even more furrowed than before as he examined the blade and then the hilt of the weapon. Incredulity quickly gave way to amazement and then horror as he realized that he knew this weapon well, having it currently sheathed in his scabbard... Or so he thought until he looked at his belt himself and realized that his saber was missing.
"Did this clue hit home?" asked the Austrian.
Harry looked at him in a new light this time, searching his memory for the moment when he could have met this man in the past. Only one possible occasion kept coming to mind, the only time when he had truly used his sword to cut down an enemy: Austerlitz. Like a signal, the fog around them completely disappeared, and Harry discovered that he was on that famous Moravian plain where, in a time that now seemed so distant, he had truly taken his first steps in the soldier's career, ridden and charged alongside comrades from the same regiment, risked his life for another, and... killed as well. Oh, he was not a little proud of it, and seeing the thousands of putrefying corpses of men and horses around him, the war appeared to him as a moment whose repugnance was equal only to the stench of decay that tickled his nostrils. The surrounding desolation, added to the reddish hues of the sky and the blood that he had initially taken for puddles of water, did nothing to improve the landscape that unfolded before his eyes. Nor did it help when his eyes rested again on the man facing him, whose standard, shaken by a wind he himself could not feel, fluttered behind him.
Understanding dawned in his mind at the mere sight of that flag, the same one he had so ardently wanted to obtain to offer it to the emperor with his own hands but had slipped away due to the greed of another who had since gained the laurels of his work...
"You are the man I faced that day," he stated flatly, recalling the duel they had had.
"You are rather perceptive," the Austrian replied. "Yes, the man you so cleverly killed with his own sword for... a mere piece of fabric."
Seen in this light, Harry found the reason particularly foolish, and he almost regretted having gone to such an extreme. But a reminder of the circumstances of his act quickly dispelled that thought from his mind: War gave no gifts, and death was only one of the consequences of it, the danger that could await all those who participated in it.
"If it hadn't been me, someone else could very well have killed you too," Harry reminded him.
"Yes, but do you see anyone else here who had the distinguished honor of slashing me? Don't blame your fault on a roll of the dice or on a destiny that smiled more favorably on you than on me, and face the facts: You are a murderer."
Harry couldn't help but shudder at the insult the other had just thrown at him, and with clenched jaws, he felt utterly incapable of responding. For weeks now, this feeling hadn't left him, and guilt overcame him every time he thought of the lives he had taken on that battlefield, of those families waiting with despair for the return of a loved one who unfortunately would never return, all those women now widows, those children orphaned of a father, those parents whose son would never come back... No, nothing anyone else could say seemed to ease the discomfort that had infiltrated him like a worm in a now rotten apple.
"Murderer," the other said with a hint of malice in his voice. "What a shame, my poor boy. Isn't it forbidden to take another's life according to the holy scriptures? What would God think that his sheep has strayed from the virtuous paths of righteousness to commit the worst crime possible? Is your conscience at peace since then? How many times have you tried to atone for your sins, poor little sinner?"
"Every day" Harry admitted against his will, lowering his eyes to the ground.
"You'll need much more than simple prayers for us to forgive you for such deeds" declared the Austrian, relishing with evident pleasure the discomfort of his counterpart. "You are in the wizard's sin, and you will live eternally with this burden on your heart for the rest of your days. Oh, how I don't envy you, living with such a heavy load must be so difficult to bear..."
Harry stayed silent once again, but internally, he couldn't help but agree with the other man. He himself would like just one moment not to have to remember that day, not to have that little voice in his head reminding him that he had crossed a threshold in his young life when he had ripped the life from his first enemy's body, let the last beat of his heart escape before remaining motionless forever. The desire to go back, to return to the very day of that battle, and to feign illness to avoid fighting was tempting... But no. After two months now, he was still at the same point, having these horrible dreams where each time one of his adversaries came to haunt his thoughts and make him feel even more guilty.
As the man advanced, Harry noticed some physical changes in him, as well as in his way of dressing. His hair began to grow and cascade over his shoulders, lace appeared in certain places on his uniform, while the legs of his pants merged to transform into an increasingly long and puffed-up dress supported by hoops. Soon, the soldier had completely disappeared, replaced by the vision of Lamballe's own princess, whose unreadable gaze sent shivers down Harry's spine.
"It's a pity to see you like this, Gabriel," she said in a cold tone, looking at him with an uncommon hostility. "I invested my time and energy to shape you into the heir I wanted you to be, to make you a respectable and principled man. But here is the proof of the ingratitude that has never ceased to exist in you since the day I had the misfortune to come to that wretched orphanage! Is it too hard for you to honor your family? Can your little childish heart not bear to see bloodshed? Are you even a man, Gabriel, or have I raised a weakling all this time? Look at yourself! Who could suppose that a prince stands before them?"
"M-mother..." he began with a desperate voice. "It's not what you seem to believe, I..."
"Oh, but I perfectly know how to recognize a coward when my poor eyes land on one, and in this case, the heir of the junior branch of the de Savoie seems to have nerves too fragile to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors! What shame you cast upon our family, Gabriel!," she exclaimed loudly.
Then, just like before, his mother seemed to transform again. Her hair took on an auburn color, her facial features seemed to rejuvenate rapidly, and her clothes became less loose, molding more to her body. Quickly, Marie-Louise gave way to Lily Evans, a Lily who, like the two others before her, looked at the young man before her with coldness and was unable to maintain eye contact with the newcomer.
"I never understood what could be wrong with you, Harry. You've always been a boy so different from the others, so withdrawn to the point of preferring the company of books to the company of other children your age, so distant from your own family that you avoided contact with your own father as much as possible... Perhaps that's why you never could establish any bond with him..."
Her voice was calm, but Harry could easily perceive the bitterness that struck him in the heart as hard as a punch.
"I always took your side, and perhaps that's my mistake," she continued. "If I had listened to James, maybe things would have been different and probably for the better. Our family would still be united, happy, and close-knit as ever. But I made the mistake of listening to the complaints of a little boy craving attention, and today, that little boy has become a man ready to kill anyone for a cause beyond him and a banner of which he will never be the owner. Heavens, I gave birth to a monster!"
The last jab was, more than anything else, of unbearable pain for her son, whose eyes were starting to moisten. Without even considering the contradiction in the speeches between his mother blaming him for being unable to overcome the weight of his actions in times of war and the other condemning them, Harry let himself be overwhelmed by emotion and let the tears flow that had threatened to fall for a long time. Yes, maybe he was simply the monster of coldness that this Austrian and his own mother portrayed so easily, or perhaps the coward obeying orders that disgusted him and whose consequences he couldn't bear... Was he ultimately worth more than his own brother? Was their family destined to be nothing more than a gathering of cowards, scoundrels, individuals incapable of making the slightest gesture or action without it having dire consequences? Did his very existence contribute to all these upheavals around him? Perhaps this Lily was right: if he had never existed, the fate of the Potter family could have been entirely different, starting with the couple that united his parents.
Without even realizing it, Lily's figure transformed again to make way for his own sister, then for Daphne, then for James, Matthew, Dumbledore, his regiment comrades... Each had their own personal taunt, a thinly veiled reproach aimed at destabilizing him on subjects that concerned him, especially that of war. Again and again.
"Stop..." he pleaded when the figure taking the form of his own lieutenant colonel claimed to have never had such a weakling in his ranks.
"Maybe you've never belonged in this school," Pajol sneered in a mocking tone. "Your little achievements in fencing and magic don't hide the fact that you don't have enough courage and guts to endure the hardships of a conflict. Maybe you should have pursued another field... Live in a cloister for the rest of your days, perhaps? I'm sure the tonsure and the monastic robe would suit you so well!"
Harry had never felt so helpless in the face of the insults hurled at him, and he could only respond to them with a muteness that almost pleaded for a form of confession of his own weakness. Kneeling on the ground for a while, hands pressed against the ground on which he freely let his tears fall, he was now incapable of bearing the weight of guilt that fell on his shoulders as each apparition showcased all his failures, things he should never have done, or decisions he should never have made.
"Gabriel?"
Refusing to respond to Juliette's appearance, Harry persisted in keeping his face fixed on the pool of blood beneath him, hoping to drown himself in it. Oh no, it was already difficult enough to hear these horrors from the mouths of his loved ones; seeing his own friends speak ill of his name would only finish him off even more.
"Gabriel! Wake up!"
"Wake up?" he thought suddenly, feeling the weight of guilt disappear immediately.
"Gabriel!"
Harry finally opened his eyes, his breathing erratic, and his body jerking. Around him, multiple lights seemed to float in an immaculate halo, giving him, for a moment, the impression of being in paradise. Then, as his vision cleared, he noticed that he was not with Saint Peter but in his dormitory. It wasn't angels welcoming him with open arms, but some classmates who, judging by their tired and concerned expressions, had probably been with him for quite some time, listening to him moan in his sleep.
"By Merlin," he thought shamefully, suppressing the urge to bury himself in the softness of his sheets and ignore the gazes his friends were giving him. "I should cast a much stronger silencing spell next time."
Surprisingly, Harry also noticed Pajol's presence beside his classmates. While they showed worry or curiosity on their faces, their director seemed perfectly stoic, almost indifferent to what was happening. However, knowing the man for nearly seven years now, Harry knew that a thousand questions were probably battling in his mind, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to answer most of them.
His gaze then turned to Juliette and Nicolas, both in their robes, and for the first time, Harry realized the amount of sweat that was beading on his forehead... Not to mention the rest of his body, which, in damp sheets, had completely entangled itself.
"Gabriel?" Juliette asked him again. "Are you okay?"
"Y-yes, well, I think..." he stammered, wiping his forehead vaguely. "What happened? Why are you here?"
"You... You were shouting in your dream," she explained gently.
"It was more of a nightmare if you ask me," Nicolas interrupted before receiving a dark look from their friend.
"Well, you seemed to be begging someone, or people..." she continued after a few seconds of silence. "You were saying you were sorry and things like that, and no matter how much we tried to wake you and shake you, you kept on sleeping..."
If given the chance, Harry would have liked to sink so deep into his sheets and mattress that even his head would disappear, or rush to the window and throw himself out to never reappear in front of them again. In this light, his shame only doubled in strength, and he now felt like a frightened little boy with a nightmare, unable to keep the panic that had seized him to himself. Above all, he hoped, and this hope was probably in vain, that the others hadn't had the same thought witnessing the scene that unfolded before their eyes.
"I... It's not a big deal," he said, trying to reassure them. "These things happen..."
"It's the fourth time this month," Juliette pointed out in a low tone so that others couldn't hear. "And this one is worse than the others!"
"Come with me immediately, Bourbon," Pajol suddenly ordered, pushing aside his sheets with a wave of his wand. "You have ten seconds to get ready, and another ten to be behind me when I leave this dormitory."
Surprised, Harry was even more so when Pajol carried out his threat by moving towards the exit. Around him, whispers intensified, but those not near his bed mistakenly thought that Harry was probably facing a punishment for some misdeed that required their director's personal involvement. Dazed, Harry regained his composure when Nicolas, perhaps out of pity, lightly hit him on the back of the head to get his thoughts back in order. Harry quickly got up from his bed, hastily put on his slippers, and tried to catch up with his director, who had already gained a good lead.
Ignoring the many glances that followed them, Harry quickened his pace to catch up with his superior and followed him like a shadow toward the exit. However, as he reached Boulanger, he couldn't help but notice the slightly mocking grin of his arch-nemesis, a smile that, he thought rightly, might not disappear anytime soon if he didn't find a way to remove it himself.
"You won't be laughing tomorrow when your uniform changes color without you even realizing it," he thought to himself, responding to Boulanger's gesture.
Soon, the headmaster and the student found themselves in the hallways of the academy, Pajol's boot heels resounding loudly in the multiple empty rooms they passed through. Neither of them uttered a word, both seemingly immersed in a silence neither dared to break. Harry was particularly apprehensive about what his superior wanted and, more importantly, what reproach he might face: Hadn't he just awakened his dorm with his moans? Hadn't he disturbed Pajol for a simple nightmare? And why was he wandering the corridors at such a late hour of the night? The sun clearly wouldn't rise for a while, and the rain pelting against the windows they passed wasn't conducive to even a nighttime stroll. Yet, his headmaster was partially soaked, although Harry remained convinced that he couldn't have complained loud enough in his sleep to wake Pajol, considering his quarters were on the other side of the courtyard in a building unconnected to his dormitory.
"An student in the hallways!" Gaston exclaimed joyfully as he rushed towards him, the keys to the multiple academy rooms clinking on his side with each stride. "When the headmaster finds out, my lad, you'll know the whip, I guarantee that!"
"I'm already aware, Gaston," Pajol replied in a grave voice, turning towards him. "I am precisely the reason Monsieur Bourbon is summoned to my office."
If the janitor seemed to think Christmas had arrived nearly ten months early upon spotting Harry's figure in the distance, he was sorely disappointed upon realizing his employer's presence a few meters away, his own appearance briefly illuminated as lightning streaked across the sky outside.
"Forgive me, Monsieur Pajol, I... I didn't see you!" the old man stammered, bowing his head deeply. "I should have guessed that a student couldn't leave his dormitory in the middle of the night unless it was by order from above or due to an unimaginable foolishness! Although, on closer inspection, it wouldn't surprise me from a troublemaker like him..."
"We'll do without your comments, Gaston," he retorted, continuing on his way. "Go check that the entrance gates are properly closed and that no gutter is leaking, and then do me the favor of going to bed."
"Right away, Monsieur!" the janitor replied before casting a malevolent glance toward the still-present student. "One day, I'll get you!"
"Then you have a little over four months now to put your plans into action, as I have no intention of lingering here once I've earned my diploma," Harry informed him before turning on his heels and walking away, a faint smile on his lips. "Good luck to you, Gaston!"
Strangely, and as he tried to catch up with Pajol, Harry felt better about this opportune encounter. He couldn't explain it himself, and Gaston had nothing to do with the situation he found himself in, but perhaps the janitor, unintentionally, had lightened the young student's spirits.
His slightly more cheerful mood, however, dropped a few notches when he noticed that his headmaster had stopped in front of the door leading to the courtyard, and a glance in his direction confirmed that Pajol had no intention of taking a long detour back to his office; they would have to cross the courtyard, and in this weather, Harry regretted not having taken better care of his attire.
"Put this on," ordered his superior as he conjured up a thick cape, which Harry immediately wrapped around himself. "I hope a little run in the rain won't bother you."
Setting aside the questions nagging at him regarding his teacher's extraordinary ability to instantly grasp his students' thoughts, Harry ran after Pajol towards the door facing them, even as the storm intensified and a brazen wind blew against his meager protection. Nevertheless, they both managed to reach their destination unscathed, and suppressing the urge to sigh in relief, the student followed the muddy tracks left by his headmaster in the corridor they entered. In just a few minutes, they finally reached their final destination, and as Pajol opened the door to his office, a welcoming warmth filled the doorframe, emanating from a roaring fire in the still-lit fireplace that maintained a comfortable temperature. Leaving his cape on one of the armchairs, Harry let Pajol take his usual seat while discreetly stretching his limbs one by one; traversing the school and a storm could be far more exhausting than one imagined.
"Sit down," the headmaster commanded, pointing his wand towards the fireplace where the flames intensified.
Without needing to be asked twice, Harry simply nodded before settling himself with all the grace a slightly drowsy seventeen-year-old boy, pulled from a nightmare less than ten minutes ago, could muster. From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that Pajol's bed was still perfectly made, the sheets neatly folded, and an absolute absence of a dent on the pillow. Had his headmaster even slept that night, or had he indulged in a sleepless night working on documents or attending a very late meeting? Only he knew, and Harry knew he had no way of questioning him about it.
"Coffee? Tea?" Pajol offered, taking a slow seat in his own armchair.
"I don't want anything, sir," he replied weakly.
"And I want you to have something because you won't be leaving this room until you explain what just happened," Pajol retorted sternly, fixing his gaze on him. "We always have clearer thoughts after a little pick-me-up."
"Coffee then," Harry said after a few moments of contemplation.
With a wand flick, a steaming and fragrant cup appeared in front of him, and without asking for permission, Harry grabbed some sugar from the bowl to add to the coffee before bringing the amber liquid to his lips. The coffee slightly burned his tongue, but within seconds, he felt much more awake than he had been since being pulled from the arms of Morpheus.
"Good," Pajol continued, pouring himself a cup. "I believe I don't need to explain the reason for your presence in my office, so let's get straight to the point, shall we?"
"I assure you, sir, there's no need for a meeting to discuss something as trivial as a simple nightmare," Harry attempted before realizing, from a simple glance, that his superior did not share that opinion at all.
"That might have been true in other circumstances, but when this issue repeats almost every week to the point where your friend Miss Rivelli personally informs me about it, I can afford to doubt that," Pajol stated firmly.
"Traitor," Harry couldn't help but think about his friend, but reason mainly whispered to him that after repeatedly waking up his classmate in recent weeks, she might have a right to worry about him.
"Would you like to talk to me about what's troubling you, Bourbon?" his headmaster then asked.
"I... They're just nightmares," he stammered, lowering his gaze, almost ashamed to disturb his nights and those of his friends.
"Always the same ones?" Pajol inquired in a distracted tone.
"More or less, yes," he replied, briefly trying to recall them.
"Do they revolve around an event that happened... Let's say... in the month of December?" he continued in the same manner.
At this point, Harry couldn't help but furrow his brows slightly as astonishment washed over him. Had Pajol performed Legilimency on him without him even realizing, or was he simply too predictable? The latter possibility was more sensible and logical, yet he still couldn't comprehend how his superior could arrive at such a conclusion so easily.
"I don't need an answer because I already know it," Pajol then said. "I've encountered far too many cases in my career resembling yours not to understand the affliction you're experiencing."
"I'm not ill," Harry cut in abruptly, his voice cold.
"Not as you think indeed," he agreed, crossing his arms. "And I remind you that within these four walls, you do not interrupt me and neglect your duties, young man. When someone speaks, you listen and do not interrupt them."
Reluctantly, Harry squirmed in his chair, feeling uncomfortable at being reprimanded like a child for failing to show the respect owed to his elder. But Pajol was right, and the young student felt bad for daring to speak to him in such a way.
"Forgive me," he apologized flatly, lowering his gaze again to his slippers, which he suddenly found fascinating.
"I'll let it slide this time, but don't let it happen again," Pajol cut in, his tone firm, before looking again at the steaming cup he held, absentmindedly stirring the coffee. "Returning to our conversation, I was saying that you suffer from an ailment I'm familiar with, something I've observed on several occasions in the past, and for which there is no true remedy."
"And what is it?" Harry inquired.
"The aftermath of war, my boy," he stated calmly as if it were the most obvious thing.
Harry was almost disappointed himself, having arrived at that conclusion rather quickly. However, a weight seemed to lift as the truth settled in that others before him might suffer the same afflictions, anxieties, and repercussions of a conflict in which he had been a participant. He couldn't shake off the idea that he'd been lucky to come out alive after the butchery he'd witnessed.
"However, what I would like to know is why you didn't find it useful or logical to come and talk to me," Pajol resumed, adopting a tough and firm tone again. "I can't understand why someone as intelligent as you didn't think of the rather foolish idea that superiors, teachers, or even your comrades in the regiment may have faced the same problem as you. Could you shed some light on this, Bourbon? Because, truthfully, I can't fathom keeping this to oneself."
In these moments, Harry couldn't help but commend his headmaster's ability to make people feel more miserable than they were originally, but he mainly felt foolish for never approaching Pajol or any of his professors with such a question. Yes, his thinking had been incredibly foolish and lacking in common sense, and, uncharacteristically for him, he began to reconsider the intelligence that everyone praised about him. Pajol had lived through so many conflicts, wars, close combats; he must have impaled hundreds of enemies over time... And yet, Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that what he had done was wrong and had weighed on his conscience for weeks now.
"You know, I could almost feel responsible and concerned about your condition," Pajol said, shifting his gaze to the portrait of the emperor above his fireplace. "But 'almost' is the key word in my sentence because the only mistake I'll grant you is misjudging the risks you might face by accompanying me a few months ago. Perhaps you don't have the guts to handle such adventures?"
"I'm not weak," he replied sternly, feeling an unpleasant sense of déjà vu for having experienced a similar situation in his own dream just minutes earlier.
Pajol only responded with a cold smile that made Harry feel as though he doubted his words, while the crackling flames in the fireplace almost sounded like a sneer.
"I'm not questioning your abilities; you know you excel in the vast majority of subjects taught in this establishment," Pajol continued. "No, I was thinking more about a problem originating from within," he said, calmly pointing to his own head. "It's all well and good to wield a wand and a sword, but the psychological aspect is a factor not to be overlooked, Gabriel."
Rare were the times when his headmaster called him by his first name, and each time, Harry noticed it quickly. He could count them on the fingers of both hands, and when it happened, it usually meant initiating a discussion in a much more intimate setting, establishing a closeness that Pajol wasn't usually fond of but translated into a certain solicitude, an unusual empathy from this cold and distant man who rarely displayed emotions beyond the strictly professional realm. In those moments, Harry knew he could open his heart and mind to this man and wouldn't be judged unfairly, but rather with fairness, firmness, and understanding, just as the reverse was possible.
"If it's courage you're talking about, you know I'm not lacking in it," he persisted nonetheless.
"Nor are you, but you forget that courage is just one element to consider when navigating safely through a perilous situation. It's not enough to possess it to believe oneself invincible. You need to toughen up, build an especially strong mental barrier to withstand adversity or, in your case, the repercussions of a battle and conflicting emotions that collide, fight, and prevent you from gaining perspective on what troubles you."
"Isn't that a form of Occlumency?" his student couldn't help but ask.
"Unless you manage to maintain your Occlumency barriers during sleep, which would make you a wizard with powers beyond comprehension, I don't think that solution would work properly. Have you even cleared your mind since December to think calmly about what troubles you?"
"To tell the truth, Harry had been doing it for a long time, but it was true that the many times he had done so, the result was far from the expectations he set for himself. At the end of his reflections, more questions were added to those already teeming in his head. Far from calming his fears, these only added more, layering an additional coat of guilt onto the one that was already growing within him. It was in the face of such simple advice that Harry realized he still had much to learn about sorcery. Rather than seeking complex solutions, he could simply find salvation in much simpler remedies. If his mother were here, she would probably have scolded him for not having had such a bright idea...
'You speak as if you've experienced it yourself,' Harry remarked nonetheless and aloud.
'Because I have,' confirmed Pajol. 'One must have neither heart nor soul to dare to assert that one feels nothing when taking someone's life and that it has no impact on our conscience. I will always remember, until my death, the first person I saw die before my eyes because of my fault. Do you know the story of the Marquis de Launay?'
'No,' confessed his student.
'He was the governor of the Bastille at the time when the revolution was still in its infancy. It was a troubled time, Gabriel, everyone mistrusted everyone else. Former friends watched each other from the corner of their eyes to determine to whom each pledged allegiance. The lower classes united against a weakened monarchy and a privileged caste that felt unconcerned about the sufferings of the common people who starved beyond their beautiful properties... Back then, I was only the son of a lawyer at the Besançon bar, but my place was quite enviable, and I aspired to become a lawyer myself. I was still a student when circumstances led me to be in Paris in July 1789. The news was not good; there were talks of the king's decision to encircle the city with provincial regiments. People were afraid, and when added to the issues of subsistence and the high price of bread, this fear coupled with boundless anger against the power, against the hoarders of grains, against those who preferred to hoard food reserves and let those most in need die. The dismissal of the finance controller by the king, who was very beloved at the time, was, one could say, the trigger of the popular uprising that would engulf Paris. Like many law students, I frequented the Royal Palace of the Duke of Orléans at that time, and I often attended the speeches of other students like me, charismatic leaders who managed to electrify the crowds in a few sentences. I myself participated in these debates and roused the crowd against what we then considered a form of tyranny. On the 13th, I was appointed sergeant of a group of volunteers in what was the new National Guard, and along with other new units, we headed to the sound of the alarm towards the Invalides to protect against possible fights that might occur against the king's regiments. We then stormed the hotel without resistance, retrieving thousands of rifles and a few cannons.'
As Pajol spoke, he seemed distant to Harry's eyes, as if immersed in his memories and in a not-so-distant past but one he remembered with remarkable accuracy. In any case, his student was captivated, listening attentively to his director's narrative.
'We had the rifles and the cannons, but they were of no use without the powder that went with them,' he continued, still fixing his gaze on the emperor's portrait. 'Then the rumor spread that it was at the Bastille, and as one, the entire crowd moved towards the old fortress. It was then July 14th. We hoped it would surrender as easily as the Invalides, and that the soldiers inside would join our side. Representatives of the people then began to negotiate with De Launay, but he didn't want to listen, at least not initially. Later, he agreed to remove the cannons placed on the top of the prison, which were pointing towards the city, and to receive these representatives inside the fortress. But he remained firm on one issue: he would never hand over the stored gunpowder.'
'So? Is that why the prison was stormed?' asked his student.
'Not exactly,' objected Pajol. 'The truth is that the mistake made came from our side, not from the governor's. A citizen more resourceful than the others managed by climbing onto the roofs of the neighboring buildings of the Bastille to slip inside the first enclosure and open the entrance gate. The crowd then slipped inside, and probably out of fear, the governor ordered the entrenched soldiers to open fire on it. There were many deaths that day, enough for the courtyard to be bathed in their blood and by the powder of the bullets. But to prevent the massacre from continuing and to protect his soldiers' lives, De Launay preferred to raise the white flag and surrender. The Bastille was ours, and everything inside it too. The governor was then arrested, and he was supposed to be taken to the city hall for a possible trial for treason against him...'
'Supposed to? Harry couldn't help but note. It didn't happen as expected?'
A faint smile spread across his director's face, but it disappeared just as quickly as he resumed his narrative:
'You've got an eye for detail, Gabriel,' he remarked. 'Or at least, you have a knack for paying attention to every little thing. Yes, not everything went as planned because as soon as we arrived at the city hall, demonstrators physically attacked him. I'll spare you the details, but it wasn't pretty to watch. His head soon found itself hanging at the end of a pike, and all night long, around a beautiful campfire, people danced with that head, laughed, and drank until they collapsed on the ground. And there I stood, watching De Launay and the horrors committed on him in the name of freedom.'
'But... It wasn't you who killed him,' his student pointed out. 'You're not guilty.'
'It wasn't me who held the bayonets that pierced his body, or the axe used to behead him, but it was me who had to coordinate the movements of that furious crowd, who had to maintain a shadow of discipline over those people and ensure the security of that man until he was presented to the new Paris administration. And I failed. So perhaps I'm not guilty in your eyes, but I've always felt responsible, and that feeling will never disappear.'"
Pajol then stood up, holding his steaming, half-finished cup in hand, and approached the fire, turning his back to his student. For a few moments, silence reigned, disturbed only by the crackling of the logs and the rustle of Harry's bathrobe against the back of his chair as he fidgeted uncomfortably with the feeling of unease that enveloped him. Unaccustomed to such personal anecdotes from his director, his young student was now unsure whether to continue pushing for confidences or take his leave, though inwardly suspecting that the conversation was far from over.
"Later, in 1791, I joined the volunteer troops to face the imminent war against Austria and then all of Europe," he continued. "My background spoke for itself, and I quickly rose through the ranks to command units myself. I coordinated operations on the ground, led troops on the front as ordered by my superiors, guided them towards various hamlets, villages, or cities to seize them and raise the French flag on the highest peaks. You can't imagine the pride that filled us when we entered the Austrian Netherlands, having extricated ourselves from desperate situations through individual feats and boundless courage just weeks before... But to achieve that, we had to struggle, fight, and kill everything that stood in our way and hindered our progress."
Pajol turned toward him, releasing the hand that still held his cup, revealing to Harry the ugly scar that, although long healed, still traversed the surface of his hand and ended at his director's deformed little finger.
"I got this in Speyer," he explained, glancing at it. "We had crossed the Rhine a few days earlier, and we were just beginning to enter German territory when this city lay in our path. I must have been among the first to enter when a cannonball exploded not far from my position. Fortunately, if I can call it that, a fragment lodged in my hand, but I was fortunate it hadn't hit elsewhere. I couldn't decently use my rifle anymore, but I still had the use of my other hand. Without even thinking of seeking treatment, I simply covered the wound with a cloth, drew my sword, and rushed towards the enemy units trying to hold their position in the city's axes. The rest of the war was a series of advances and retreats. The cities we took could be retaken the next day; it didn't matter to the assembly as long as we pushed the conflict beyond our borders. During those years of service, I killed a lot, perhaps more than you can imagine, and every face, every memory of that time, every man within reach of my rifle or sword remains in my mind. Like you, Gabriel, the first times were the most painful, and not a day went by without me questioning my commitments. Was that why we made the revolution? Did our desire to export our ideals of liberty beyond France boil down to doing so by force of arms and bloodshed? Were there no other means? Oh, I've pondered these questions for a long time, and even today, I don't have the answers. But what I know is, if I had hesitated for a single second to eliminate my adversary, I wouldn't be here today telling you that what you're feeling is the burden of many men in France and beyond."
The final words were intended to reassure, but for Harry, they had the effect of slowly insinuating poison into his veins... Yet strangely, this poison shifted his guilt toward another horizon, like an ailment whose effects might, nonetheless, prove beneficial in the long run. Rather than lamenting what he had done in the past, he now reproached himself for ever thinking he would be the only one to feel this way, that the sword of Damocles hovering over his head was a burden unique to him, and that only he could have such a problem. Yes, he had killed, but he wasn't the only one, for heaven's sake, and did Pajol ever complain? Did he feel guilty like him? No, his director was what he was: a man capable of rising above obstacles on his path to become a high-ranking military officer, a powerful wizard, and a respected and esteemed director. But one question remained to be clarified, and Harry didn't wait any longer to address it:
"If these memories still haunt you, it means they resurface from time to time. How... how do you bury them again?" he began uncertainly, trying to quickly find the best approach.
"What did you think I was doing tonight?" Pajol asked in a neutral tone.
"You... you were attending to the smooth functioning of our academy, I suppose," Harry guessed, listing the last directives to be given to the caretaker... to answering your mail, to organizing schedules for the upcoming school outings..."
"You've got your answer without even realizing it," his director replied. "I keep myself occupied, particularly occupying my mind. Some drown these memories in alcohol, but I prefer to drown them in work. And you'll find it's a very effective remedy to lighten your mind and think of something else. If, as you're feeling now, these memories disturb you during the night, do some physical exercises before going to bed: You'll be too tired both in body and mind to think only of those things."
"Physical exercises?" repeated the student under Pajol's nodding.
"Yes, and if you feel like it or if the need arises, don't hesitate to come directly to my office so we can do them together: You'll find that running, especially when done with others, can be therapeutic for troubled minds."
"I'll be happy to, Sir," Harry sincerely replied.
Once again, Pajol faintly smiled, but true to his habits, his cold demeanor quickly took over. His cup now empty, he returned directly to his desk, and taking his seat, he glanced briefly at his student before speaking again:
"Now return to your Bourbon quarters," he ordered as Harry noted he was once again addressed by his name. "Your classes start at eight tomorrow if I'm not mistaken, and you're not exempted from attending due to mere nocturnal terrors."
"Right away, Sir," he immediately obeyed, rising while putting on the robe he had previously laid on the second chair facing his director. "Thank you, Sir."
Is there anything else you need help with?
Pajol didn't respond, engrossed once again in his documents, reading them so swiftly that his eyes seemed to dance as his gaze slid down the parchment. However, he made a gesture with his hand to urge his student to hasten his task. Hastily, Harry withdrew and headed towards the exit, feeling much lighter than when he had entered, fewer questions swirling in his mind. There were some new things to address, but those could wait. Pajol had been kind to invite him into his office and listen to his problems; Harry certainly wouldn't push his luck by questioning him about the details of his military campaigns.
"Accio pouch."
Surprised, Harry didn't have time to hold onto the small bag attached to his wrist before it flew directly into the open palm of his director. Pajol looked at his new acquisition for a long moment, weighing the pouch in his hand before sniffing the scent emanating from it and dipping his finger in to taste the powdery substance.
"Let me not catch you with this thing again," he said in a frosty voice, glaring at him. "It's one thing to suffer from remorse to the point of disturbing your sleep; it's another to drug yourself with plants to ease your conscience. Who gave you this?"
"O-our family doctor, Sir," he stammered, losing his composure again under the inquisitive gaze of his superior. "Mother was worried about the bad nights I was having and informed our doctor, who prescribed this powder. It has other useful psychic properties in combat, but..."
"But you won't take it again," his director cut in. "I know this powder, I know its scent, and I can tell you it can render you as lethargic as an elderly person nearing the end of life. And I'd have no use for you if, by chance, we found ourselves back on a battlefield. You'll solve your problems through work, not through plants. Am I clear enough?"
"Yes, Sir..."
"Good, then leave now," he invited again, diving back into the reading of his papers.
Without delay, Harry tightened the belt of his robe and found himself within seconds in the dimly lit corridor of the administrative offices. For the first time in a long while, his mind was at ease, engulfed in a serenity that had become foreign to him but whose effects he appreciated even more than those of the hallucinogenic powder. Relaxed but a bit tired, Harry made his way towards the stairs, ready to finish his night with the assurance that, perhaps for the first time in weeks, he might make it through without interruption. And yet, he didn't consider for a moment that the future might test the mental resilience Pajol recommended to endure the conflicts he would face... or the repercussions of the ultimatum imposed by his uncle.
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