Chapter 2
Patches of light and shadow melded and intertwined together into a confused mosaic. Dark spots awkwardly swayed in an irregular dance, moving closer or farther from Harry. Sometimes, he could make out the blurred outlines of a silhouette or the odd patch of colour though nothing he saw was clear enough for him to distinguish its true nature. His hearing was not better off. Muddled sounds paused, restarted, became agitated only to be calmed again. The whole was an experience akin to putting one’s head underwater: the numbing of senses by the weight of water. He was able to move or, rather float, to some extent, almost as if caught in a current. Yet, despite the inability to comprehend his environment, Harry felt a foreboding anxiety well up in his chest.
Without any real trigger, the cumbersome discomfort of his being in this blurred world turned to a seeping fear. The abstract shadows became hostile hosts residing away, leaving him alone in the cold clearness. A burst of light cracked through his cloudy vision. None of it made much sense putting all his efforts of attaining any clarity in vain. The bright light approached tentatively, almost inquisitively, towards him. His threatened heart twisted in terror, its beating gasps bleeding into his ears becoming the only sound to listen to. He needed to get away from the light. No reason, just instinct. His heartbeat increased in a painful warning as a tendril from the mass of light reached out. Everything slowed. Harry watched it come closer. And, just as soon, time collapsed on itself accelerating as Harry took flight in a batted breath into the darkness, away from the light.
Eyelids opened in fright, dilated pupils stared at the bedroom ceiling with dissipating adrenaline. He was in his bed albeit drenched in sweat courtesy of his midnight terror. A nightmare. An odd one at that. Being Harry Potter, he was no stranger to such harrowing visions visiting him in his sleep. This was different. It was impossible to pinpoint why it scared him to such extent. In fact, the fading nightmare was not only uneventful but was, seemingly, just a meshing of nothingness; a void of shadow and light. There was no presence of Voldemort or dementors, or, the latest, Bellatrix running through the halls of the Department of Mysteries shooting, in fits of giggles, a shock of green flash killing….him.
He reached out a hand placing it over his beating heart in a futile attempt to soothe it before taking several deep breathes. Groaning while sitting up, the Boy-who-lived blindly grabbed his glasses slipping them onto the bridge of his nose. He sat still in empty contemplation before swinging his legs over the side of his bed and getting up.
*****
Harry took the bus from Privet Drive down to the centre of London. The unbearable summers at the Dursley’s were somewhat more bearable with his newfound autonomy as a sixteen-year-old boy. Truth be told however, the Dursley’s themselves relentless abuse had lessened as well, not by much but enough to be considered. He would still be a target to minor abuses such as non-accidental shoves on his way to the kitchen or the bathroom, or bitter taunts and insults under their breath. Yet, the Dursley’s felt a deep-rooted change in the boy’s demeanour since his return from the school of freaks. Their torment had little effect on him only being met by the stoic platitude of a green-eyed stare. This bothered them. Quite frankly, this drastic change set an uneasiness as if the sword of Damocles hung over them by a mere fine hair. With this new change in their dynamic, the Dursley’s avoided Harry and Harry avoided the Dursley’s.
Without any plans, like most days, Harry aimlessly wandered the streets of the Big Smoke. Hands in his pockets, he walked down alleyways, looked into shop windows, stared up into the sky at busy intersections. When he was bored of one area, he would hop onto the tube getting off at a random station and exploring some more. Sometimes, he would cross some small magical boutique or business in which he would walk in, not before flattening his unruly hair over his scar and taking off his spectacles as to not be recognized by the clerk. On this very morning, he entered a narrow wizarding knitting store. The chimes giggling as he pushed the door open, he received a friendly ‘hello’ and was then left to his own device.
Harry was, obviously, not very interested in knitting whatsoever, though he went in just to be comforted by the general aura of magic. Since, the events at the Ministry, he felt a rupture with the magical world. The awe that he once had for this world that adopted him had waned. In fact, he barely even reached out to his friends only half-heartedly responding to them when they sent him owls. This was the first summer he felt as alone and alienated from his person and magic since those dreaded years in the cupboard.
He continued to lazily walk through the aisles, picking a few charmed yarns of wool thinking of Mrs Weasley and her one-woman factory of Weasley jumpers. Turning to go pay for his purchase, he took a newspaper as well, the moving images’ catching his eye. Dropping a few galleons onto the counter, he walked out, eyes glued on the headline all the while ignoring the awful photo of his crestfallen face on the front page. There, the Millenium Bridge collapsed into the Thames in a twisted knot: “The Deatheaters first attack on the Muggle world since You-Know-Who’s return!”. A frown loomed over his brow. He folded the newspaper, tucking it haphazardly under his arm and found a dingy cafe in the Underground where he sat and read more closely the article.
His eyes were fixated on the black smoky trails of apparating Deatheaters, twisting and racing along shooting flashes of light on a bridge filled with muggles clutching on the railings in panic. He looked around for a television set in the cafe. Seeing a small old model on the counter, he walked up to the relatively attractive waitress and asked if she can put on the news. She smiled at him with a small coquettish smile gracing the corner of her mouth and flicked on the power.
The anchor described the incident as a tragic incident sending several dozens to their tumbling death. Clips of flash interviews of shocked witnesses attempting to explain to the reporters and themselves what they had just seen. Helicopter cameras panned over the aftermath of the collapse, as guest engineers tried to make sense of the bridge’s failure. No mention of the Deatheaters.
“It’s awful what happened, isn’t it. I take that bridge quite a bit to get home…” said the pretty waitress, attempting to strike up a conversation.
Harry hummed slightly in agreed acknowledgement though kept his gaze fixed on the screen. Harry didn’t notice her staring at him, chewing her lips in an attempt to alleviate the anxiety that came with romantic pursuit. He was simply too focused on the occurrence presented on the screen and the open display of aggression from Voldemort sending him into a spiral of endless worries. Nervously chewing on the cuticle of her index finger, the waitress opened her mouth, closed it rehearsing what she was going to say, and then opened it once more with false confidence.
“ I finish work at six.” She stated, indirectly asking Harry on a date.
“Sorry, what? Didn’t catch that.” Harry turned his head towards her, his eyes lingering on the television before looking at her. He was too focused on the news.
“ Oh um, I was just saying that I—” She was cut off by Harry standing up abruptly, his eyes having caught something in the window behind her.
“Sorry, I have to go. Thanks for the coffee and the telly!” He rushed out nearly forgetting his Daily Prophet and his bag of yarn leaving a sadly disappointed waitress behind. Dumbledore was standing, waiting on the platform across from the cafe.
*****
Dumbledore warped them into a quiet residential area. Harry immediately let go of the Headmaster’s forearm, bending over with his hands on his knees gagging slightly as the waves of nausea slowly dissipated.
“Quite an impressive feat, Harry. Most vomit after their first apparition” said Dumbledore in his quintessential nonchalant manner of speaking.
Harry lifted his head when he felt he could without being sick all over.
“Why are we here?”
“Oh, we are on a special visit to see an old friend of mine. I felt we might pop in the neighbourhood to give him our best greetings”
Dumbledore gave a slightly impish smile with mirth glittering in his eyes as if laughing at his own joke.
He led Harry in front of a decrepit, yet, looming manor. Dumbledore turned to Harry.
“Shall we?”
Harry followed him into the building. All the lights were off as musty cold air and floating dust enveloped them. As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the tell-tale signs of a break-in or, most likely, the aftermath of a Deatheater attack. He shivered slightly as a sliver of cold snaked down his spine. Books and paintings were strewn carelessly onto the floor or hanging off the walls, some having been shredded from manhandling. Much of the furniture was found damaged and found pushed to the ground. Dumbledore flicked the switch but the light fixtures did not spark to life.
They made their way up the stairs causing the steps to scream under their weight. The second floor was much darker forcing them to wave a Lumos to guide them through the halls. Harry stopped abruptly when he felt a thick, wet substance drip onto his forehead. He made a move to touch the drop but was halted by Dumbledore’s hand. The elder wizard dabbed his fingertip into the substance and brought it to the tip of his tongue.
“Dragon’s blood,” He said amidst ruminations.
He turned and brought his wand to shine on an oddly out-of-place, pristine-looking armchair. He looked back at Harry to make sure he was still there and tentatively approached the seat. He quickly poked his wand into the armrest. In a surprising suite of actions, it sprung upright and collapsed into itself releasing a series of groaning of springs being stretched and constricted.
“Merlin’s Beard!” Exclaimed the new voice.
“Evening, Horace.” Said Dumbledore, ignoring the sudden outburst.
“I know why you’re here. And it is still a resounding ‘no’ from my part” Slughorn stubbornly crossed his arms in an act of defiance.
Dumbledore, in a flick of his wand, repaired the damage, reconstituting the manor into an impeccable state. He needed to convince Slughorn to reclaim his past occupation at Hogwarts. Whether he liked it or not, the old potions professor was the utmost crucial player which would determine how this upcoming war would play out.
“How unfortunate. Before leaving you to your own affairs, may I borrow your washroom?” He asked unbothered.
“ Ah um, I suppose there is no problem behind such a request.”
Thus, Dumbledore knowingly left Harry Potter alone with Horace Slughorn.
*****
Harry zoned out when Slughorn’s started rambling on the different famous students he taught at Hogwarts. Decidedly, the retired professor only conceitedly cared about fame and talent when it came to students. Harry had only rudely cut him off when the potions master went on about his parents and his inherited similarities from the latter. To be quite frank, Slughorn reminded him of a competent Lockhart. Despite Harry’s less than enthused attitude, Slughorn simply preened at having the Boy-who-lived all to himself for those mere five minutes.
“—And here, of course, is the Black family, with Regulus Black, here, at the bottom,” he pointed to a young, handsome man with a dark mane of hair. “ It’s a shame that I didn’t have his brother, Sirius. I would have liked to have the set…” He paused pensively.
Harry tensed, body going rigid, at the mention of his deceased godfather. Though, before he could aggressively retort to Slughorn’s remark, Dumbledore walked into the room with impeccable timing.
“Well, it was nice seeing you, Horace. Come on, Harry, we mustn’t bother Professor Slughorn for much longer.”
The headmaster placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder steering him towards the exit of the manor, allowing them both enough time to notice Slughorn’s conflicted frown.
“I think that did the trick.” Dumbledore winked at Harry. “ He can’t help himself but collect those with an affinity to fame. I’m glad you have met the new Hogwart’s potions master.”