Chapter 1
The silence at Number Four was suffocating. The articles in the Daily Prophet were insulting and annoying, and Harry was just... tired, of everything and everyone. Part of him wanted to rage and ask for more information on his letters, spy on the news to see if something was going on. But at the end of the day he simply had no energy to care; his nights fuelled by nightmares left him empty. His level of apathy was so high that Dudley had stopped bothering him about Cedric two weeks in. His guilt behaved like the tides, with days where Harry couldn't really care about Cedric's death and others where he blamed himself.
"Looks like I'm an attention seeker liar..." the teen doesn't know if he wants to rage, cry, or laugh. He had been skimming the newspaper until one night a light current of blessed air moved the pages to one of the articles. The Ministry was in complete and absolute denial. "Maybe they should visit Egypt, with how much they like the fucking river... they are drowning in it."
The soft hoot of Hedwig took Harry out of his musings, but not even his first – and maybe only real friend – could make him smile anymore. He felt empty, and drifting. If Voldemort himself came to him right this moment, Harry wouldn't even reach for his wand. Maybe that was the reason he walked more and more these days, sometimes going even beyond the park of Little Whinging, though never leaving the town completely. It was in one of those walks that he discovered a smaller, more discrete park – few benches, and a dried up fountain surrounded by what he assumed where oaks and chestnuts, going by the amount of squirrels he saw. Then again, Herbology wasn't his forte. Going there was more tempting by the second, and he would have been gone by now – but it was a Saturday, and that meant the Dursley's slept in.
His eyes went back to the offending paper – he didn't have a subscription, but Hedwig kept bringing the paper... he hasn't mention that to anyone, not that he has written past his first letter to Sirius, or to Hermione. Their non answers hurt, and the fact that they did not mention the smear campaign the Prophet was doing was...
"Coddling, the lot of them…" the sun was finally rising, and if the curtains were not closed correctly then Petunia should be waking soon. His level of apathy had the Dursley frustrated because he didn't react to the taunts – and unless they were ready to finally escalate to physical punishment, they had nothing to lord over him. He did his part of the chores, his own laundry, and did some of the yard work. His poor sleep schedule had "earned him the privilege" of not being locked in Monday to Friday, so he could make breakfast for Vernon before work. No such luck on weekends so far, with this being the third one of the summer, five weekends to go. His friends (where they...?) silence killing the hope of being picked up in August like it had happened in the past.
As he lay in wait for his aunt to wake and open his door, so he then could take his sad breakfast and leave for his little sanctuary, Harry went again to the memories of that day, every time noticing something new...
"Come on, laddie... can you walk?" Moody's gruff voice had brought Harry out of the shock temporarily – right, they had talked about getting him to the hospital wing, Fudge or Dumbledore – reminding him of his injuries. With caution he started walking, being supported by the grizzly Auror. Harry had wanted to tell him, but the pain was getting to him and every time he tried to talk the other kept shushing him. It didn't took them long to reach the Wing, were Madam Pomfrey started to fuss him over.
"I'd give him a Dreamless, or he won't get a moment to rest. Albus will want answers, so will the Minister. Better have him sleep off the shock." Was the last thing Moody said before leaving him to it – and Madam Pomfrey did just that, giving him a Dreamless Sleep potion as soon as she had treated him.
Moody had been right, not that he appreciated that then. He had been too tired to care, even though he felt angry at being... protected. Moody had protected him, or... the person that had impersonated Moody. Sirius had told him how when they went to look for the professor they had found the office empty, just the hipflask and peg leg laying on the desk. The contents of the flask had been Poly-juice. They had no idea where the real Moody was, or had been. Or for how long had he been impersonated. Harry suspected it had been since the beginning. It put into question how well they truly knew the Auror if they couldn't tell the difference – specially the Headmaster.
The sounds of the locks of his door brought him back to the present, but he didn't move from his bed immediately. His eyes went again towards the paper and its moving pictures – all of them of the Headmaster; they didn't have pictures of him beyond those of the Tournament, luckily. He had an idea of who was sending him the paper, and maybe that was his reason to look for some place if not outside of the town, at least discrete enough for someone to...
"... I don't even know what I'm expecting, Hedwig..." her calm and easily acceptance of someone else giving her mail to carry made him think – desperately believe – that someone had at the very least good intentions. He had to hope, they were giving him information about the Wixen World.
A sigh later, Harry finally got out of bed and dressed for the day. With only Petunia awake he could get breakfast without fuss – even if it would only be dry toast and whatever juice she had bought that Dudley refused to drink making it okay for him to drink – and get out of the house before the rest of the family woke up.
Walking towards the little park Harry lost himself to memories, once again.
Mrs. Diggory looked at him with bloodshot eyes, lips pursed in what he thought was anger. "Stop apologizing, child. It is not your fault." He realised it wasn't when true anger reflected on her face as she turned to look at her husband who had begun to speak. "No, Amos, enough. It is not his fault Cedric is dead; he is just but a child. Cedric was a young man who chose – to please you, mind – to enter this forsaken circus of a death tournament."
They had brought Cedric's body to the Hospital Wing shortly after he had fallen asleep. The Headmaster had come the next morning to ask him what had happened and because of his injuries – the Cruciatus more than the acromantula venom and his other scraps, cuts, and bruises – he had told the story to the whole wing, the Diggory family included. After the Headmaster has left, leaving him alone with the grieving parents and a corpse, as Madam Pomfrey had retired as well probably expecting him to rest and the adults to leave him alone. And they had... Harry had just felt the need to apologise.
"Harry, you are not responsible for Cedric. Do you hear me? There was always the risk of death, even with all of these so called changes – dragons, and acromantulas... honestly..." a sigh left her lips, sadness now showing in her face. "A part of me had started to expect it... a mother's intuition, maybe..."
"Tillie, love..." Mr. Diggory's voice sounded broken and confused, probably hearing that for the first time. Both he and Harry shocked at her words. "You... you don't mean that..."
A mixture of sob and laugh left Mrs. Diggory mouth before she could muffle it with her hand. "I do mean it, hun, I do. I started grieving our son the moment I knew he had been selected."
Harry had felt like an intruder then, even if the conversation didn't continue after that. After, both of them had thanked him for bringing Cedric back, sincerely. Amos Diggory apologised to him, not only for his almost accusations but for his attitude in general. He, like most, had forgotten the fact he was just fourteen years old. He could have escaped faster by leaving Cedric behind, but he hadn't – whether the ghost had been a ghost or not... they didn't talk about that. They had declined his offer of the prize money; they didn't want a thing from the Tournament who they blamed in part for their son's fate, even when technically Cedric had won half.
The crunch of gravel under his trainers told him he had reached the park without noticing. It was kind of a miracle he hadn't tripped or anything with how distracted he was. A few steps took him towards the most secluded bench, where he sat getting his feet up and hugging his knees. Behind him the overgrowth shielded him from the alley and in the front the fountain kept him hidden from the entrance of the park. The sky was clear, which usually was rare but the heat wave had chased away the typically cloudy atmosphere of South England.
Harry didn't know how long he sat there, watching nothing and thinking of everything when the sound of gravel being walked on reminded him this was still a park. In front of him stood a skinny man, with blond hair and freckled face, his clothes were simple but weird in their normality.
"Can I sit with you, laddie?" The voice was different, less scratched and more polished – but the words spoken were enough for Harry to know who this was.
"...you can, professor." The wry smile on the blond face made Harry's own lips twitch a little. He sat, though kept his distance from Harry, which he appreciated. "Are you here to finish the job...?" The man thinned his lips and shook his head.
"No, laddie, the opposite in fact..." at this Harry does a double take, making the man smile." I know, hard to believe. But the fact is, laddie, you're not a target anymore, at least, not for him. He gave the order yesterday and I... I knew you wouldn't..." He licked his lips, and that gave pause to Harry, the identity of this man teasing his mind even though it should be impossible.
"Listen, you don't hafta believe actually, but I wanted to let you know because you deserve to know."
"You're the one sending the Prophet." It was a statement, not a question, and looking at the amusement in the blue eyes – it was a correct one. "Why?"
"Why am I sending you that rag, or why you're not a target anymore?" There was certain humour in his voice, and again Harry felt his lips twitch slightly. "The first, because like I said, you deserve to know. And the second... do you know why you were in the first place, laddie? And I mean that literally – why he sought to end you with you being wee babe."
At this Harry balked, realising that no, he did not know why. He didn't even know he had been the actual target and not his parents. "...he was after me... from the beginning? Why...?" He was in between feeling guilty for the death of his own parents, and angry at them for fighting knowing that. Harry's surprise seemed to surprise the professor, – was he even one, though? – who looked at him with his eyes wide.
"Wait, wait... what do you know about all of this, laddie?" His face was serious now, and Harry could see the tension in the man's jaw.
"That Voldemort...was a Dark Lord? He attacked my... me, and I survived and the war ended?" He wasn't even sure, to be honest... he couldn't for the life of him remember a moment where someone had explained what the war had been about.
"Well... first of all, it wasn't a war. The Ministry never declared it, even though Dumbles tried several times, and it was never recognized as such by the International Council or they would have sent help. The first ... eight, nine years were just... terror maybe. Some attacks, some assassinations... recruitment. It became a real fight in ´78 if I remember correctly, which may not be... "His eyes had glazed over a little before he blinked, and continued his explanation."The title of Dark Lord... that's a little bit more complicated... and I think it will be a thing of the past... Anyway, the fight it was about more than blood politics but it was the biggest and easiest banner to carry, with so many disgruntled purebloods."
"You see, laddie, depending off whom you ask I'm a pureblood insofar as the fact my four grandparents had magic. But others would label me a half-blood, because in my mother's tree there is muggle blood in the last four to six generations." Harry now understood why he was called a half-blood when both his parents had been magical, even though it seemed stupid still. "Seven generations of pure magical blood, is the number. If you get to thirteen, or some higher prime number, better yet. But that is easier in bigger communities, or if you marry outside Britain. However, communication between Magical Governments is... hard. Since we are in hiding within the muggle government, and portkeys only get you so far, true invisibility is just way too consuming... We know that we can't keep marrying each other, but they... they rather breed themselves to death that lose our culture, laddie."
He had his eyes glazed over again, and it took more than a few seconds for him to comeback. Wetting his lips once again, Harry watched him take a potion vial out of his pocket and drink it in one gulp.
"Sorry about that, got out of topic. The point I was trying to make was that there was more to our fight than the right of blood, or dark magic, laddie. We... lost ourselves to the violence, I guess. Our leader lost his self to... but that was even before starting. By the time he attacked you, it was... more than a mistake, and it just didn't make sense. We did not know what had happened; we thought it had been just another assassination of the opposition. Sadly we killed a lot of what we were trying to protect."
Harry was more confused by the minute, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to interrupt the man.
"You're are going to be so mad, laddie... It was because of a bloody stupid prophecy. A half heard one, at that."
Green eyes narrowed and his arms let go of his legs as he stood up to face the still sitting wizard, anger surging inside him like a volcano.
"A what?!"