A/N: Day 10! This chapter is all about the summer between Harry's first and second years at Hogwarts. Percy will have his chapter at the end of Harry's second year. And, Day 11, since I wasn't finished with the chapter yesterday.
Rising Storms
A Harry Potter and Percy Jackson crossover
Chapter 15:
Harry
James took his son home early, to be looked after by a private healer, so they wouldn't take up too much room in the Hospital Wing. Remus and Sirius followed James and Harry to Harry's bedroom. By the time that Harry was placed in his bed, the healer had flooed in and was escorted up by a house elf.
"Okay, step away from my patient," said the woman.
In the quiet seclusion of his private quarters, in Potter Manor, Harry lay on a comfortable bed, still recovering from the physical toll of his ordeal with Quirrell. The soft glow of magical candles illuminated the room as a female private healer, skilled and compassionate, prepared to conduct a thorough check-up.
"Mr. Potter, I understand you've been through quite an ordeal," the healer began, her tone gentle yet authoritative.
Harry nodded, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "It was... something."
She nodded in understanding, her experienced hands moving with practiced precision as she conducted a series of diagnostic spells. "Your body has undergone considerable stress. I'm here to ensure you're on the path to recovery."
After a thorough examination, the healer sat down to discuss her findings with Harry. "Physically, you're healing remarkably well. However, I can sense a deep strain on your magical and emotional well-being. It's crucial we address these aspects too."
Harry sighed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. "What can I do? I just want to feel normal again."
The healer offered a reassuring smile. "We'll take it one step at a time. First and foremost, your body needs nourishment. But given the trauma you've experienced, we'll approach this gradually."
She conjured a parchment and quill, jotting down notes. "I recommend starting with light, easily digestible foods. Soups, broths, and steamed vegetables will be your allies. Introduce them slowly, allowing your body to adjust."
Harry nodded, appreciating the sensible approach. "We tried that at Hogwarts, but I got sick. Sounds doable, though."
The healer continued, "Maybe a day of broth first, then, to get your stomach ready for food first. Additionally, consider incorporating calming herbal teas into your routine. Chamomile and lavender can aid in relaxation and promote a sense of well-being."
As she spoke, Harry felt a sense of hope and reassurance. The healer's guidance offered a tangible path toward recovery.
"Lastly," she added, "take moments for self-care. Whether it's a short walk, reading a favorite book, or practicing deep-breathing exercises, nurturing your mind is as important as healing your body."
With a final smile, the healer concluded the session, leaving Harry with a plan for gradual recovery. As she made her way to the door, she turned back with a kind expression. "Remember, Mr. Potter, healing is a journey. Be patient with yourself, and don't hesitate to seek support when needed."
As the door closed behind her, Harry felt a renewed sense of determination. The path to recovery stretched before him, and with the healer's guidance, he was ready to take those vital steps toward regaining his strength and finding balance once more.
The summer between Harry's first and second years at Hogwarts unfolded with a slow but steady rhythm. At the Potters' residence, the sprawling estate that felt both comforting and isolating, Harry focused on his recovery under the watchful eye of the private healer.
Once Harry was well enough to spend the daytime hours away, he was able to take his end-of-year exams. Draco had ambushed Harry when they were waiting outside of their Defense exam, asking why Harry hadn't answered his letter. Harry had to tell him that he hadn't received any letters, and Draco said that it was curious.
Days turned into weeks, and the effects of the traumatic events with Quirrell began to fade. Harry's strength returned, bolstered by a regimen of healthy meals, herbal teas, and moments of self-care. The magical candles in his room flickered warmly as he practiced levitation exercises, a sign that his magical well-being was on the mend.
One sunny afternoon, as Harry wandered through the lush garden, a sense of tranquility settled over him. The healing process had become a journey of self-discovery, and he found solace in the gentle whispers of the wind through the trees.
However, the tranquility was disrupted by an unexpected twist. Letters from Harry's friends at Hogwarts had been mysteriously disappearing, leaving him in a state of mild frustration. Dobby, the mischievous house-elf responsible for the theft, continued to keep a low profile, his large eyes filled with trepidation. It started with large green eyes hiding in the garden one day when Harry was sitting in the shade of a tree.
In the midst of this letter-stealing mystery, James, Remus, and Sirius, who had been vigilant guardians of Harry's well-being, decided to take matters into their own hands. Armed with a plan to expose Dobby, they gathered in the living room, exchanging knowing glances.
James leaned in, whispering conspiratorially to the others, "We need to catch this little troublemaker. Harry deserves to hear from his friends."
With a combination of magical mischief and cunning, they devised a plan to trick Dobby into revealing himself. A few levitating feathers, strategically placed enchanted objects, and a trail of chocolate led the house-elf to an inevitable confrontation.
As Dobby hesitantly appeared, his eyes widened in shock at the trio of wizards before him. Sirius, with a sly grin, said, "Well, well, what do we have here? A little letter thief."
Dobby, trembling, admitted to his actions. "Dobby only wanted to protect Harry Potter, sir. Hogwarts is dangerous."
Remus, sensing the sincerity behind Dobby's misguided actions, spoke in a calming tone. "We understand you meant well, but Harry needs his friends. We'll make sure he's safe at Hogwarts."
Dobby hesitated, unsure of what to expect. James, ever the persuasive one, held out a hand. "Give us the letters, Dobby. We promise we'll look out for Harry."
Reluctantly, Dobby handed over the stack of letters he had hidden away. Sirius patted the house-elf on the head. "You're a good elf, Dobby. Just remember, Harry's friends are here to help."
As they left the room, Dobby disappeared with a pop, leaving behind a sense of resolution. The stolen letters were returned to Harry, who, upon reading the words from Ron, Hermione, and others, felt a warmth that transcended the physical and magical healing he had experienced over the summer.
With Dobby's unintentional intervention, the summer took on a new significance—a time of recovery, bonding, and the realization that, even in the wizarding world, true healing often comes from the bonds of friendship and understanding.
Later that day, after his birthday dinner, James and his friends sang Harry "Happy Birthday" and had him blow out the candles on top of his cake. They each ate a slice of the green-frosted cake before Harry decided to open the Hogwarts letter that had been sitting there all day. With anticipation, Harry opened the letter to see all Os. He let out a sigh of relief.
"Well," James asked.
Harry smiled at the three men. "I got all Os. I'm the top student of the year."
...
In the quiet solitude of Dumbledore's private chambers at Hogwarts, the air was thick with tension. The headmaster paced restlessly, his usually twinkling eyes now clouded with frustration and impatience. The events of the past months weighed heavily on him, and the failed attempt to manipulate Harry Potter through the Malfoys' elf had only fueled Dumbledore's sense of urgency.
Seated behind his desk, Dumbledore began to unravel. The portraits of past headmasters on the walls watched silently as he muttered to himself, his voice a mixture of disappointment and determination.
"Plans foiled, pieces scattered. The boy remains defiant," Dumbledore mumbled, his gaze fixated on a pensieve resting on his desk. He waved his wand, memories swirling within the silvery substance. The image of Harry standing strong against Voldemort flickered in the pensieve, a testament to the resilience that seemed to elude Dumbledore's influence.
His fingers drummed restlessly on the desk, and the pensieve's contents rippled. "It seems I must devise a new strategy, one that will guide young Harry back to the path I've envisioned. His potential is too great to be wasted."
Dumbledore's thoughts drifted to the intricate web of plans and machinations he had woven, each thread intended to mold Harry into a hero who would willingly embrace the role Dumbledore had assigned to him. But with each twist and turn, Harry had proven to be more unpredictable, more resistant to manipulation than Dumbledore had anticipated.
"The boy resists, and my visions falter. The prophecy hovers in the shadows, its weight becoming increasingly burdensome," Dumbledore lamented, his brow furrowed.
He rose from his seat, pacing between the shelves lined with ancient tomes and magical artifacts. The Sorting Hat, perched on a stand, seemed to watch him with an air of solemnity.
Dumbledore muttered, almost to himself, "The Malfoys' elf should have been the key, a nudge in the right direction. But no, Harry remains outside my grasp, unyielding."
His mind churned with thoughts of the Sorcerer's Stone, the Mirror of Erised, and the elusive prophecy. Dumbledore's eyes, usually filled with wisdom, now harbored a hint of desperation.
"Perhaps," he mused, "I should reconsider my approach. A more direct intervention, a gentle persuasion. I can't afford to let Harry slip away."
As he ruminated, Fawkes, his loyal phoenix, trilled softly from its perch. The melodious sound seemed to echo Dumbledore's turmoil.
"The boy needs guidance, a gentle push towards the path I've foreseen. There must be a way," Dumbledore muttered, his mind racing through possibilities.
He approached the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts. The castle, with its towering spires and ancient secrets, stood as a testament to centuries of wizarding history. Yet, Dumbledore found himself grappling with the uncertainty of the future, unsure of how to guide Harry toward the destiny Dumbledore believed was inevitable.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. McGonagall entered, her expression reflecting both concern and loyalty. "Albus, the staff is growing anxious. They sense a change, and they need reassurance."
Dumbledore, weary yet determined, turned to face her. "Minerva, my dear friend, change is inevitable. But we must not falter. The boy's destiny is entwined with ours, and we must guide him, gently if need be."
McGonagall nodded, her unwavering trust in Dumbledore evident. "We've weathered storms before, Albus. Hogwarts has stood strong. But there's something different about this one."
Dumbledore sighed, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "Harry is the fulcrum upon which the future pivots. We must find a way to bring him into the fold, to ensure that he becomes the hero we need him to be."
As they left the room together, Dumbledore's mind continued to churn with the weight of responsibility. The chessboard of fate lay before him, pieces scattered and alliances shifting. The road ahead was uncertain, but Dumbledore, the orchestrator of destinies, was determined to mold the future according to his vision, even if it meant devising new plans and unraveling old secrets.
...
During the staff meeting, McGonagall whispered to Snape before anyone noticed. "Dumbledore's up to something."
"When is he not?" Severus Snape asked, dryly. He rolled his eyes.
Dumbledore, with his long, flowing robes and twinkling eyes, stood at the front of the room, ready to address the faculty.
"Welcome, my esteemed colleagues," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying the warmth that had become synonymous with the headmaster. "Another year at Hogwarts is upon us, and I am confident that, despite the challenges we may face, it will be a year of growth, learning, and, of course, magical wonder."
The professors exchanged smiles, their eagerness evident. Dumbledore continued, "I am delighted to announce that our Defense Against the Dark Arts position will be filled by none other than Gilderoy Lockhart. A man of great charm and expertise, Professor Lockhart brings a unique set of skills to our esteemed institution."
A murmur of curiosity and anticipation rippled through the staff. Dumbledore, sensing the unspoken concerns, raised a hand to quell any potential apprehension.
"I understand that Professor Lockhart is known for his adventures and accomplishments, some of which may seem too extraordinary to be believed," Dumbledore said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Rest assured, he is a wizard of immense talent, and I am confident that his unique approach will captivate our students' interest."
McGonagall, ever practical, raised an eyebrow. "Albus, are you certain about this choice? Lockhart's reputation…"
Dumbledore waved off her concern with a genial smile. "Ah, Minerva, reputation can be a tricky thing. I believe Professor Lockhart's presence will add a touch of flair to our curriculum. After all, learning is not only about textbooks and lectures but also about the enchantment of imagination."
The staff exchanged glances, some still unsure about the unconventional appointment. Dumbledore, however, remained resolute.
"We must trust in the choices we make and the potential for growth in each member of our Hogwarts community," he continued. "Now, let us embark on this new academic year with the enthusiasm and dedication that has defined this magical institution for centuries."
As Dumbledore spoke, the initial reservations began to give way to a shared sense of purpose among the staff. The room, filled with the collective wisdom and talent of Hogwarts' professors, felt charged with the promise of another year of magic, discovery, and, perhaps, a touch of the extraordinary that Gilderoy Lockhart was sure to bring to the castle.
A/N: 2374 words