Tidal wave

Harry tossed in bed, unable to sleep. Madam Pomfrey had given him an awful tasting potion to get rid of the after effects of the cruciatus curse and it had indeed helped to relax his still twitching muscles and dwell the pain.
The problem was that the burning, bubbling agitation inside him hadn't lessened at all.

He still felt short of breath and hot, too hot, hands prickling with magic. He knew it would burst out, sooner or later, but he needed to avoid raising suspicions or catching Dumbledore's attention. He had been lucky enough that the man hadn't come to question him about what had happened at the Ministry yet.

He glanced to his left, to where the door that led to Madam Pomfrey quarters was. The lights were off -had been off for the last thirty minutes, at least. It was safe to assume the matron was asleep. 

Harry took the chance and slowly left his bed, paying attention not to cause any noise. He didn’t bother retrieving his clothes, they were in the trunk at the feet of the infirmary bed and previous experiences of sneaking out unnoticed had taught him that opening the trunk would surely wake Madam Pomfrey up. 

Silencing charms weren't an option, either, because any magic cast inside the infirmary wards was registered and, depending on the charm, an alarm would go off in the mediwitch chambers. Silencing charms were amongst those: Madam Pomfrey wanted to be informed if her students were suffering behind privacy wards. 

Harry padded towards the exit of the infirmary, holding his breath while opening the enormous wooden door. It seemed luck was on his side tonight, because the door opened without the slightest screech and Harry was able to leave unnoticed. 

As soon as he turned the corner he cast a disillusionment charm as well as a silencing charm on himself. He didn't have the Marauder's map with him and he couldn't risk running into any professor on the way to the seventh floor.

Despite being virtually invisible Harry moved with caution, checking behind every corner before turning it.

At last the doors of the room of necessities appeared before him. He opened them warily, not knowing what would be waiting on the other side. He had wished for a place to let the pent up energy out, but didn't have anything specific in mind. 

The doors opened on a plain, dark room. There were no pieces of furniture in it, no lamps nor candles: only four black walls and a softly lit  globe of light hovering above an unmoving dummy placed exactly in the center of the room.

He entered the room without hesitation, door closing behind him with a dull thump. A grin suddenly appeared on his face: he was alone in an untraceable room and he could use all the magic he wanted! 

He started off slow.

An expelliarmus, a stupefy, an impedimenta. The bubbling feeling in his chest didn't lessen, though, becoming even more insistent now that it felt Harry was using magic. Low impact spells were obviously not enough.

Frustrated, Harry began casting offensive spells. He cut the dummy in half with a diffindo, casting the shredded pieces on fire before relentlessly attacking the new dummy the magic of the room immediately supplied him with. 

Reducto, Confringo, another Diffindo. He could feel his energy levels depleting, but that unpleasant buzzing, bubbling feeling didn’t abate. 

He stopped for a moment to think about his predicament. He was sure he had been all right before cursing Bellatrix. Whatever it was that was affecting him, it must have something to do with the dark magic he had casted at the ministry.

Which sucked, because there was no way he could ask anybody for help -unless he found a way to contact Voldemort which, of course, he definitely wasn't going to. Steering his resolve, he pointed once more his wand at the unmoving dummy.

He didn’t have to concentrate for long on his hatred for Bellatrix before his wand arm began to pleasantly tingle.
A welcoming, alluring feeling.

"Crucio."

The effect was immediate. It was as if the energy he had been accumalating in his body since the Ministry finally found a way out, streaming out of his wand along with the unforgivable curse. 

The dummy didn't move an inch and -thankfully - didn't collapse under the force of the spell. 

Harry held it for as long as he could, sweat glistening on his brow and arms slightly trembling. Only when he felt completely emptied and on the verge of passing out he finally cut off the magic he had been pumping into his wand. 

He felt utterly exhausted. Sleepy, even. With a grin on his face and a skip to his steps he made his way back to the infirmary. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

***

The next morning he still felt exhausted. Madam Pomfrey must have seen how bad he looked, because she suggested that he spend the entire day in bed and drink a pepper-up potion every few hours. 

Honestly, Harry preferred by a long way the feeling of exhaustion over the coiling, bubbling tension he had been experiencing before, but he had to admit that a day spent resting would do him good. He had a lot of thinking to do, being alone for a few hours would certainly help him sort through his feelings... or, well, lack of. 

It was probably still too soon, with everything that had happened in the span of 24 hours his brain must still be elaborating and processing information, he reasoned.

He felt hatred for Bellatrix and disgust at himself for being so easily manipulated into a trap, but the grief he had been expecting to hit him in the face hadn't come yet. 

He was sad about Sirius’ death. He had been Harry's godfather, the last living family he had... they hadn't been able to spend much time together, but he and Sirius were making projects -big ones at that- for when Harry graduated Hogwarts and defeated Voldemort along the way. 

They would tour Europe with a motorcycle enjoying some earned time off. Sirius had suggested they go to America as well, but Harry had been uncomfortable with that. 

Sirius was still a fugitive and while it was relatively easy to travel under the radar in Europe it would be impossible to travel to America without some kind of registration -be it in the form of international portkey or muggle plane tickets. Sirius had also promised Harry he would introduce him to clubbing (both under polyjuice, of course) and Harry had been absolutely thrilled at the idea of spending so much time with the man.

Red, hot anger surged through him at the realization he would never be able to do that. 

Bellatrix had taken that away from him on a whim. She had Killed her own cousin, the last heir of the Black family. And Harry, in retaliation, had killed her. 

In front of Voldemort.

His rage suddenly quelled, replaced now by dread.

Voldemort. His sworn enemy had let Harry kill one of his follwer right in front of him. That spoke volumes about how little he cared for his minions, actually. But what scared Harry the most was the fact that Voldemort could use this knowledge and out him at any moment. 

What if he had someone from the Ministry come and check his wand? He blanched at the idea of what a prior incantati would reveal if cast now. Was there a limit of spells it would show? Or was it going to spew out every little spell until the avada kedavra and his first cruciatus emerged from it? 

He grabbed his wand and cast a succession of minor spells: he would throw his glasses to the feet of the bed and summon them back to him, lit the tip of his wand and then nox it off, cast the levitation charm on his bed stand and let it fall to the ground with a silent thud. 

After a while he began to sweat badly, so he decided to take a break. He was still magically exhausted from the night before and even if the spells he cast were 1st year level, they still had a heavy impact on him. 

How long had he been casting? More than anything, would the number of spell be enough to pass the examination? He would make sure to practice as much as he could in classes I from now on, so that the dark magic would be buried under so many spells that it would be impossible for anyone to dig it up. 

For now, though, he really needed to rest. He was under no illusion that Dumbledore wouldn't come to question him later in the day: he had to be at the best of his mental faculties to  be able to lie straight to the face of the man to whom he owed everything.

***

Dumbledore came to the infirmary right after the

House Elves delivered Harry a tray with dinner. It was a soup, some bread and steamed chicken with a side of broccoli -far healthier than what he had expected, but he guessed a light meal would help his body get better soon. He was still exhausted even after spending the whole day drifting in and out of sleep.

"How are you feeling, Harry?” Dumbledore asked in a soft, calm voice. He sat on the bed, careful to avoid Harry's legs. "Your friends have been asking about you the whole day. Mr. Weasley was afraid you had been transferred to St Mungo… he caused quite the scene at lunch, if I ever saw one" he explained, lightly stroking his white beard.

Harry felt relief wash through him knowing that his friends were well. 

"St Mungo, Sir?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Mr. Weasley apparently believed you were being held there against your will.” Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling behind his spectacles. "He said, and I quote him on that, there is no bloody way you are  able to Keep Hary in the infirmary for this long; willingly or not!”

Harry's lips quirked in a small smile. Ron was right, it wasn't unlikely for Harry to sneak out under Pomfrey's nose before he was given the all clear and technically he had snuck out the night before. 

However, he didn't think he was ready to face his friends, yet. He had put them in great peril. Hogwarts students were no match for the Death Eaters. They had been tremendously lucky to make it out alive as it was. The smile died on his lips.

"I am sorry, Sir." he crooked after a while. He raised his eyes from the white duvet he had been staring at for the last five minutes, only to see Dumbledore was intently studying his face.

"You acted quite rashly, Harry, yes" the man reprimanded in his grandfatherly voice. Harry almost wished he would drop the act and scold him already. It was because of him that Sirius had died and many Order members had been injured. 

Harry opened his mouth to apologize more, but the headmaster held out his wrinkled hand, stopping him from interrupting.

"However no one blames you for what happened at the ministry. I didn't foresee that Tom would have used the link you share to send false visions. Although, you running off with your classmates without warning an adult, first, was reckless." He pinned Harry to the bed with the intensity of his stare. 

The words of the Headmaster didn't have, on Harry,  the positive effect he was expecting, though. He had told Snape about the vision! How was he supposed to know the slimy git wouldn't immediately pass the message to the Order? 

Moreover, in the vision it had looked like Sirius didn’t have much time left: Harry had to think and act fast to get to the Department of Mysteries before they killed his godfather. 

Except… except it all had been a lie.

Sirius died because Harry had moved fast. Well, as fast as coming up with a plan, flying on Thestrals to London, getting into the Ministry and into the Hall of Prophecies could be. After dealing with Umbridge in the Forbidden Forest, of course. 

Thinking about it, the order of the Phoenix really took too much time to appear. If it had been a raid, Death Eaters would probably have exterminated all the muggles by the time the Order managed to gather. 

The Ministry defense system was at fault, too. How was it possible for Death Eater and fifteen years old children to break not only into the Ministry, but into the Department of Mysteries without activating any alarm? They had been loud, they had been messy, they had touched and broken many things and still, Aurors had taken much more time than the Order to appear. 

If this was the way they were going to fight Voldemort and his men, Harry feared they were doomed. He was pretty sure Death Eaters had already infiltrated the Ministry without anyone knowing any better... It was really only a matter of time before they launched a full fledged attack. 

The ministry wouldn't hold a chance. The hopes of the wizardry world resided on the shoulders of a single man: Albus Dumbledore. A man that, right now, was searching his eyes as if he was looking for something. 

Harry averted his gaze.

“I am sorry, professor. If something happens again I will come to you before making any rash decision." he apologized, but he could clearly tell Dumbledore didn’t believe him completely. Harry could not blame him. His brain was set on ‘act before, think later’, there wasn't really much he could do about it. But he would try to act more responsibly from now on.

Dumbledore sighed. "I appreciate your effort, my boy.” he said, lightly patting Harry’s leg from above the duvet. "Now, before we continue, there is something I believe you need to know". His eyes weren’t twinkling anymore.

"Is it about the prophecy, Sir?” Harry asked in a small voice. He had smashed it before being able to hear it… what if Dumbledore had wanted to know its contents? What if it contained the secret to win the war? What if -

“It is, Harry.” Dumbledore answered, cutting off Harry's train of thoughts. "Do you know how that Prophecy came to be?"

Harry shaked his head no. He had no idea. Really, a couple of days ago he hadn't even known Prophecies existed!

Dumbedore nodded, seemingly lost in thoughts. Then he must have come to a decision, because he suddenly raised his head. He now looked way older than a few minutes ago. Was that prophecy so terrible?

"I debated with myself for a long time on whether to tell you this, my boy.” Dumbledore began, voice calm but serious. "In light of recent events, I believe it is for the best that you be informed of it, so that you can have a clearer image of the war"

Ah. So it was about Voldemort, after all. Which made sense, since the man had lured Harry to the Ministry in order to have him retrieve it. He nodded his head, prompting the headmaster to continue with the explanation.

"It was your Divination Professor, Sibyll Trelawney who spoke it." Dumbledore raised his hand to stop Harry from making an uncanny retort about how untrustworthy the woman really was. "I was present at the time, Hary, and I can assure you she really spoke in a state of  trance." 

Harry closed his mouth with an audible click, biting his tongue to prevent himself from speaking. Trance or not, there was no way he would trust anything that came from Trelawney's mouth. Dumbledore smiled a little, probably correctly interpreting Harry's thoughts, but he didn't comment on it. 

"The how and where the prophecy was made held no importance for us now. It's the content, my boy, that I wish you to focus on." Harry straightened his spine, bracing himself for something he was sure he wouldn't like. Dumbledore took a deep breath. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"

***

Harry was gaping, he knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to shut his mouth. Dumbledore's words were still ringing in his ears. 

Now he understood why Voldemort had been so adamant in trying to get the Prophecy from the Ministry. It was for the best, really, that it had shattered on the ground. If Voldemort managed to listen to it before confronting Harry in the Hall… well, Harry was a hundred percent sure he wouldn't have lived to tell the story. 

So he and Voldemort had to kill each other for one of them to get a chance at living.

Harry was under no illusion that he wouldn't be the one to die. A fifteen years-old with only four years of magical experience had to fight a Dark Lord, Hogwarts’ most brilliant student, someone who had been able to deceive Death itself and survive a rebounded killing curse.

Granted, Harry had survived, too, but no thanks to some kind of skill or superpower. He had been lucky. 

He had been lucky in his first year when he met Quirrel, too.

He had had a close call in second year with the Basilisk accident and luck hadn’t been on his side during the second half of third year. 

Not to talk about the whole Triwizard tournament drama and the Ministry fiasco of the day before. 

Yes, he could safely admit that his luck was decreasing day by day. Every encounter he had with Voldemort or his Death Eaters had ended with Harry screaming in pain or badly injured. There was no doubt in his mind about who would win the next confrontation. But what if… what if he contented himself with surviving, instead? What if he ran away and hid somewhere -maybe under the fidelius- and avoided the spotlight? 

What if he gave up? He didn't want to fight. He wanted to live. 

And he knew Voldemort would never allow him to do that. 

He would track Harry down as he did fourteen years before and he would kill him without any second thought. The Dark Lord was insane, there was no way Harry would be able to convince him to let Harry go, not when he was convinced the young boy had been the reason he had to spend thirteen years as a wrath. 

Harry sighed. So, confrontation it was.

He would have to train, to learn something that could help him in battle, something different than the disarming charm and stronger than the stunning spell.

He would have to fight Death Eaters as well as their leader, people who weren't going to use spells taught at Hogwarts for sure.

Dark arts scared Harry to no end -especially after the amount of them he had to use in order to dispel the bubbling energy their casting had left him with- but he couldn't see a way out. 

If he didn't fight fire with fire, if he didn't have at least a basic knowledge of what spells and curses Death Eaters were going to throw at him, he would be dead in seconds.

Harry set his jaw and for the first time in long minutes he raised his eyes to meet the headmaster's.

"So I am the only one able to kill Voldemort." he stated. He had gathered that much from the prophecy, but he wanted a confirmation

Dumbledore nodded his head. "I am afraid so, Harry.”

Harry nodded. The only thing Voldemort feared was Death -and Dumbledore, he reasoned, and he just happened to have the headmaster right in front of his eyes. Maybe, with the right training, he could have a chance of surviving. If not, he would take out as many Death Eaters as he could.

"Will you train me, professor?" he asked, hope and determination lacing his words.

Dumbledore's face softened. "I will do more than that, Harry. I will teach you all you have to know about Tom Riddle and the way he came to become Voldemort.”

Harry nodded. He supposed knowing more about his enemy would help him understand how Voldemort thought and help him predict his moves. 

"Thank you, Sir" he replied after a while. "I only have a question. How will I be able to train this summer if I still have the trace on me? Will I be allowed to come to Hogwarts for my lessons?" his eyes shone as he thought of another thing, something that would allow him to escape the Dursleys for a whole summer “Or will you allow me to spend the summer here?" 

If he could stay in the castle and train all day long under the guidance of Albus Dumbledore, Harry was sure he would have a chance at surviving, in the end. But the headmaster’s eyes had suddenly stopped twinkling and his next words completely crashed Harry’s hopes.

"You don't need to learn new magic, Harry. You are but a child. Enjoy your summer without worrying about the war. We will start your lesson come September."

Dumbledore had spoken softly, but his words rang so loud in Harry's ears he could as well have shout them.

No need to learn new spells? Enjoy his summer? At the Dursleys?! Forget the war?

As if he could! He had a madman set after his blood, every time he walked outside it could very well be his last time. 

He had fought, and lost, and was by no means a child anymore. He was underage, yes, but he was also expected to fight like an adult. And nobody was willing to help him learn how to. It sounded like they wanted him to lose. To die. 

But Dumbedore was on the good side right? He should wish Harry to be able to fight, train him to the best of his capabilities. Help him survive. 

Harry's throat closed and he swallowed down the bile that was threatening to rise in his mouth.

"You won't teach me any magic, then?" he asked again, because he needed to be sure".

Dumbledore bent forward, lovingly ruffling Harry's hair. "You don't need it. Harry. You are strong and have your mother's love to protect you. Remember, love is often underrated, but it is one of the strongest weapons we have." 

Harry ducked his head, disbelief written all across his face. But Dumbledore must have mistaken his hopelessness with understanding, for the next second he was leaving the room wishing Harry a good night. 

Oblivious to the fact that Harry would consider himself lucky if he were able to close his eyes for more than three seconds without seeing the horrors of the war he wasn’t apparently supposed to fight, but was prophesied to win.  

He would have to fight Voldemort. 

Without proper training. 

Without any help. 

He tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat felt so parched that it almost hurt. He would have to come up with something on his own -and soon, judging by the speed with which Voldemort was rebuilding his army.

He laid down, dinner forgotten, and he tossed in bed until the sun rose in the sky and he was dismissed from the infirmary. 

By then, something akin to a plan had began to take form in his mind.