I am here
A fresh breeze brushed through his hair and filled his lungs with much needed air. Every now and then the distant rumble of a car driving by disturbed the almost eery silence that has descended on the alleyway; moon, stars and misty streetlamps shone brightly in the dark night sky.
Then, suddenly, an all but noticed tensing was the only indication that the formerly unconscious boy had regained his consciousness.
His body ached everywhere — nothing new and nothing he hadn’t expected, but the clear and fresh air he breathed, coupled with the noises around him, was anything but expected. He could not remember the last time he could breath so easily. Or a time where everything was so silent — not the dead silence that followed an explosion or settled down on an abandoned battlefield, but the silence that was just peaceful; calm and gentle and relaxing and brought a sense of normalcy.
Normalcy…
That’s not something he’s had in a long, long time.
There was always something happening; and every time he thought he’d regain a bit of normalcy something happened to make his whole world turn on its axes.
So the moment the peaceful silence registered in his brain, he was on high alert.
Something was wrong.
Of that he was sure.
Still having his eyes closed and breathing even — giving the image of being unconscious to any outsider — he let his magic course through his body and spread out around him.
Two; his magic told him.
There were two beings in close vicinity and neither of them had active magic. The little magic both of them had was almost non existent and dormant — they were squibs.
But those were the only ones near him, and he didn’t deem them dangerous. Even if they were — two were nothing.
He called his magic back to him and let it surround him. His magic twirled around his arms and chest and just everywhere, leaving him in its secure and familiar embrace.
Only then did ‘Harry’ open his eyes. He looked around and took in his surroundings.
He was confused.
He was in an alleyway, complete with functioning lamps and asphalt. About four feet away from him laid a whimpering lump with no visible injury and definitely not dead; but that was not his concern right now.
He was in an alleyway.
An alleyway.
A intact and kind of familiar alleyway with no destruction in sight and a peaceful atmosphere.
The boy couldn’t remember exactly when or where he’d seen this before but he knew he had. A rather long time ago.
So how?!
How the hell did he get here?!
And more importantly, is this really what he thinks it is?!
Well, he sighed and run a hand through his abnormally short hair, there was just one way to find out. With that he gracefully stood up, ignoring the agony his body was in, and cautiously made his way over to the lump.
His hands were empty, but ready to strike in a moments notice should the need arise; which he didn’t think it would, but it was drilled into his body and memory — into his very being.
Once there he crouched over the body of the lump on the ground and turned his face to him. Resigned the crouching figure closed his eyes when a familiar face and a memory struck him like lightning.
Coldness… despair… pain… grief… Dememtors… a Patronus… and a cousin almost getting kissed.
That was why the alleyway was so familiar to him.
He’s already been here before and lived this moment.
And that was when he remembered the words his Little Moon had said to him.
“Fuck…” ‘Harry’ — he might as well call himself by that name again — cursed and closed his eyes in resignation; for he remembered — remembered everything.
The lump boy, Dudley, laid still curled on the ground, whimpering and shaking. With a sigh ‘Harry’ bent down to see wether he was in a fit state to stand up, but then he heard loud, running footsteps behind him. Instinctively raising into a fighting position again, he span on his heel to face the newcomer.
Mrs Figg, their batty old neighbour and member of the Burning Chickens, came panting into sight. Her grizzled grey hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanging string shopping back was swinging from her wrist and her feet where halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. ‘Harry’ made a show in relaxing marginally, but Mrs Figg just looked at his wandless hands and then around frantically. Sighing in relief when she saw ‘his’ wand on the ground she turned back to him.
“Don’t let it just lay there, idiot boy!” she shrieked. “What if there are more of the around? Oh, I’m going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!”
“What?” Said Harry blankly. At her furious glare he made a show of picking the wand up and letting his discarded glasses disappear in his too big trousers; not that he needed either item anymore, but Mrs Figg didn’t need to know that.
She did not seem to notice his missing glasses, and he did not anything to draw attention to it.
“He left!” Said Mrs Figg, wringing her hands. “Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell —“
‘Harry’ tuned her out and instead focused on the scene in front of him. He needed to figure out what he should do now; he did not want to relive these years again.
Oh, he knew exactly where he was and what was happening and therefore also knew what was going to happen. And he did not want to.
He was exhausted, really; so unbelievable tired.
All he wanted to do right now is sleep, not playing to be a naïve, impulsive and stupid child.
Because that’s what he had been the first time around. Too naïve, too impulsive, too dependent on others.
This… was going to be hell. Hell for him or for others was yet to be seen.
“…You!” The sudden screech tore ‘Harry’ out of his musings and he returned his attention to Mrs Figg. She had shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the alley floor. “Get your fat bottom off the ground, quick!”
She stooped down, seized one of Dudley’s massive arms in her wizened hands and tugged.
“Get up, you useless lump, get up!”
But Dudley either could not or would not move. He remained on the ground, trembling and ashen-faced, his mouth shut very tight.
“I’ll do it.” ‘Harry’ took hold of Dudley’s arm and heaved. With an enormous effort — that shouldn’t have been enormous — he managed to hoist him to his feet. Dudley seemed to be on the point of fainting, his small eyes were rolling in their sockets and sweat was beading his face; the moment Harry let go of him he swayed dangerously.
“Hurry up!” Said Mrs Figg hysterically.
‘Harry’ pulled one of Dudley’s massive arms around his own shoulders and dragged him towards the road, sagging slightly under the weight.
He cursed inwardly, suppressing his irritation .
So, not only did he find himself in the past, but also in this pathetically weak and malnourished body which had probably been starved the whole summer. Perfect.
Mrs Figg tottered along in front of them, peering anxiously around the corner.
“Keep your wand out,” she told Harry, as they entered Wisteria Walk. “Never mind the Statue of Secrecy now—“ Great, she was talking again.
It was not easy to hold a wand steady and haul Dudley along at the same time. ‘Harry’ gave his cousin an impatient dig in the ribs but Dudley seemed to have lost all desire for independent movement. He was slumped on Harry’s shoulder, his large feet dragging along the ground.
He knew that if he would try to hold a conversation with the Squib right now his breath would run out even faster; he was already panting, after all. So he decided to stay quiet and let her do the talking. He could just blame it on shock should someone ask about his continued silence. It would not even be a complete lie.
All he wanted right now was calm to think about what happened, especially how he got there and what he was supposed to do — he somehow doubted he could go back.
“… right… get inside and stay there,“ she said, as they finally reached number four. “I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.”
“Okay” Said ‘Harry’ disinterested — just for the sake of answering.
“I’m going home now,” said Mrs Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. “I’ll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Good night.”
“Okay.“
Mrs Figg set of at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
Within seconds Mrs Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four’s garden path.
The next half an hour was going to be hell.
—
Of course, the moment his lovely Aunt Petunia saw her son leaning half-dead on his cousin, she began fussing over her “Diddy, Diddy, Diddy!”
“What have you done to my son?” Vernon said in a menacing growl. He stood drawn up to his full height, glaring at his nephew through tiny, narrowed eyes.
“Nothing,” said ‘Harry', knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon won’t believe him.
“What did he do to you, Diddy?” Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley’s leather jacket. “Was it — was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use — his thing?”
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.
And despite the bad mood he was in for being in this place and time again, ‘Harry’ had to suppress his amusement at the scene.
Obviously, the last time he had been too shocked and panicked and angry to think clearly, but now that he already knew what was happening, or rather would happen, he found this moment quite amusing. Of course, it got even better when at that precise moment a screech owl swopped in through the kitchen window; narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon’s head and dropping the large parchment envelope on the kitchen table.
Ignoring his Uncle’s raging, Aunt’s fussing and Dudley’s incomprehensible mumbling, ‘Harry’ opened the letter and read it with disinterest.
It was the same as the last time.
…
Dear Mr Potter,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.
The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.
As you have already received an official warning of a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlock’s Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
…
Humming, ‘Harry’ put the letter away again — he knew that he wasn’t going to be expelled, neither were people from the Ministry on their way here. Not even someone to investigate the crime scene.
But, of course, the most important thing is that the deranged teenager is expelled.
Pathetic.
He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was purple-faced, shouting, his fist still raised; Aunt Petunia had her arms around Dudley, who was retching again.
Turning away from the scene, he looked out of the kitchen window, waiting for —
A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen. Aunt Petunia screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but ‘Harry’ just crossed the kitchen and opened the window.
Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s anguished yell of “OWLS!” ‘Harry’ took the letter from the owl; the owl took off immediately.
With steady hands, the green-eyed boy unfurled the second message, which was written very hastily and blotchily in black ink.
…
Harry —
Dumbledore’s just arrived at the Ministry and he's trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOU AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANYMORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.
Arthur Weasley
…
Dumbledore was trying to sort it all out… did that mean?
Yes.
Great Albus Dumbledore will save him; save his pawn. Yes, let the great Albus Dumbledore handle this. Only he can save him after all. He would not risk losing his pawn. Never.
His derisive snort got him the attention of the other attendances in the room. Uncle Vernon’s face went back to his purple color while Aunt Petunia gave him an ugly sneer before turning back to her precious Dudders.
“You think this is funny, do you, boy?!” Uncle Vernon bellowed. “First you go and do your voodoo-freakishness on my son, and now you dare laugh at decent people’s misery that you created?!”
“Right,” ‘Harry' drawled, “Just so you know, the only magic I used was to keep your son from letting his soul be sucked out.” Seeing Uncle Vernon open his mouth to, probably, shout profanities, ‘Harry’ cut him off.
“We were attacked by Dementors — wraithlike, hooded creatures. They feed of your bad memories, drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them — therefore make you feel as if you’ll never be happy again. So to say, they suck your happiness and soul right out of you — leaving you an empty shell. So, if I hadn’t used my — what did you call it? — voodoo-freakishness? Then your precious son would be nothing more than a vegetable right now. Now, though, all he needs is maybe a bit of chocolate and time. You can thank me later.”
With that ‘Harry’ turned around and tried to escape the kitchen while his lovely relatives were shocked into silence. He was not sure — his memories were kind of hazy — but the last time there seemed to be a bit of a drama, which he hoped to evade this time.
Unfortunately, his Uncle seemed to regain his senses and started hollering again.
“What’s this codswallop?! As if these ruddy Dementy-whatsits really exist!”
“They guard the wizard prison Azkaban,” said Aunt Petunia suddenly.
Two seconds of ringing silence followed these words before Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word. Uncle Vernon was goggling at her.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more, shut it, then, apparently struggling to remember how to talk, opened it for a third time and croaked, “So — so — they — er — they — er — they actually exist, do they — er — Dementy-whatsits?”
Aunt Petunia nodded.
Uncle Vernon looked from Aunt Petunia to Dudley to Harry as if hoping somebody was going to shout “April Fool!”. ‘Harry’ rolled his eyes again.
“Yes, De-men-tors really do exist. Now, if you don’t mind me, I’m going to go to my room, don’t plan to make any noise and pretend that I don’t exist.”
When nobody reacted, he shrugged, turned around and started to walk towards the stairs, again, when a feathery cannonball zoomed through the still open window and landed with a clatter on the kitchen table, causing all three of the Dursleys to jump with fright. ‘Harry’ just tore the second official-looking envelope from the owl’s beak and really went to his room this time.
Hearing Vernon mutter about offing and owls, followed by the slamming of the window.
Once he reached the room he hadn’t thought he would see ever again, he locked the door and sat down on the bed, ripping open the newest envelope.
…
Dear Mr Potter,
Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August, at which time an official decision will be taken.
Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further enquiries.
With best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
…
‘Harry’ skimmed through the letter before tossing it aside. Memories resurfaced of a courtroom and a trial, accompanied by an echo of feelings long forgotten; fear, worry, hope, relief.
He knew everything would be fine. Well, at least the situation with the ‘underage magic’ and the whole trial. The situation with him being here, in this time, on the other hand…
He closed his tired eyes and let himself fall backwards onto the mattress.
‘Why did such tings always seem to happen to him?’ He wanted to ask — to scream — but why spend energy on something he knew the answer to?
Another tired sigh left his lips when his thoughts finally seemed to quieten and he sunk deeper and deeper into his mind.
Right now, the why didn’t matter as much as the how and when.
One moment he was running, pulling his Little Moon with him, faster and faster and faster and—
BOOM.
Too close, much too close. Must be faster, quicker; we’re almost there… But his Little Moon got slower and slower, not faster. She started to stumble and her breathing got heavier, louder, quicker.
He turned his head to look at her, to see if everything was alright — and blanched.
There was blood, so much blood. Dripping, no, flowing down her face and sides. Her beautiful hair matted in red, just like her clothes.
He slowed; but she kept running, this time dragging him after her. It gave him a good look at her back and his blood froze even more.
His speed picked up, determination and desperation thrumming through his veins. Just a little more and they would be safe. And he would be able heal her.
Finally, the thicket brightened and he could slowly make out the outline of the trees.
There it was. Ten steps and they would be out of the thicket, then they’d just have to cross the clearing and they would be safe.
Five steps from them. Four. Three. Two…
He came to an abrupt halt. There, in the middle of the clearing, in plain view without protection, Little Moon had stopped, a serene smile on her face.
“What are you doing, Little Moon? We have to go, we’re almost there!” He gasped out, his eyes jumping through the clearing, wide with fear and desperation, but always returning to her.
But she just stood there, in the middle of the clearing, in plain view without protection, a serene smile on her face and wisdom and acceptance in her beautiful, beautiful eyes.
“I’m sorry, Emerald.” Her eerie voice said, breaking through and silencing the deafening noises all around them.
“No, no, no, please. Just a little more, we’re almost there, please!” He begged, his voice rough and breaking, his hands started shaking, while his ears seemed to be hyper aware of the blood that left his Little Moon’s body and drip, drop, dropped onto the ground.
He knew what she wanted to say — but he wouldn't let her! He could heal her!
His feet moved towards her, steadily one after the other, until he was just a few feet away.
Blocking out the happenings around him — the destruction, the explosions, the gunshots, the screams, the cries, the death — he reached for her, begging her with his eyes to just take his hands and run. To safety.
She glanced at his hands for a second before her gaze returned to his. She made no move to take them.
He took another step forward, this time intending to grab her and drag her with him, when her next words made him freeze.
“I know you don’t want me to do this,” she said, “but it has to be — was always meant to be.” She said. “Please forgive me.” She asked. “Please forgive me for this.” She pleaded.
And her blood continued to flow. To flow out of her body. And to drip, drop, drop onto the ground. Into the ground.
He felt cold fear freezing his everything, his lungs unwilling to breath anymore.
“No, please, no. You’re saying goodbye. Don’t say goodbye.” He heard himself plead — beg — but deep down, he knew it was useless.
Because she just stood there, in the middle of the clearing, in plain view without protection, a serene smile on her face and wisdom and acceptance in her beautiful, beautiful eyes, while blood flowed down her body like a river.
She took a step forward, and another, her hand reached out and touched his cheek, wiping away the tear he hadn’t noticed fell.
“I am not saying goodbye.” The smile never left her face, “I am asking you for forgiveness.”
Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, he gave her a watery smile.
“There is nothing to forgive.” He rasped out. Forgetting his former fear and adrenaline and hurry and determination and desperation; everything was quiet, calm. Just like his Little Moon, who stood there, with him, in the middle of the clearing, in plain view without protection, a serene smile on her face and wisdom and acceptance in her beautiful, beautiful eyes, while blood flowed down her body like a river and magic swept around them.
“You were never meant to be alone, you know? Separated.” This time her hand fell on his chest, just over his heart, which thump, thump, thumped, just like her blood drip, drop, dropped, and the magic around them pulsed, pulsed, pulsed.
In perfect synchronization, in perfect harmony.
“He’s not dead.” He whispered, because it somehow felt wrong to speak louder, as if it would break the spell. (Maybe he should have — broken the spell; maybe he should have done many things.)
Little Moon seemed to feel it too, since her answer was just as quiet.
“No, he’s not. But neither is he here.”
“He’ll come back. He’s alway coming back.”
The only answer he received was a smile — small and knowing and apologetic.
Then he felt it, the magic around them got heavier, charged with will, intention, wishes and pain, knowledge and hope, death and life and blood, so so much blood.
And it got heavier and heavier and — and it burnt. It burnt him.
But his Little Moon held on, held on to his chest — his heart, his very soul.
He choked back his cries and screams and pleas to stop, because he knew it was too late.
His little moon smiled, while she stood there, with him, in the middle of the clearing, in plain view without protection, a serene smile on her face and wisdom and acceptance in her beautiful, beautiful eyes, while blood flowed down her body like a river and magic swept around them, the very magic she’s giving her life to.
Then the burning sensation that filled his senses and body got too much.
He cried in pain.
His body was burning.
He could feel it.
It felt like every cell in his body, no matter how small was on fire; on fire and slowly but surely destroying his body from the inside out, and then it was over.
He lost consciousness, the last thing he saw was his Little Moon, saying something he could not hear, but she was smiling — always smiling.
Then, the next thing he remembered was waking up in the alleyway, with his whole body still in agony and his hands scrapped open — covered in blood.
Blood, the very same thing his Little Moon had used to start the ritual and fuel it with enough power to… to send him back.
She has send him back to a time where there still was time. Where it wasn’t too late just yet.
And that must be why she had apologised. Because she’d send him back alone.
No, not alone, with him. He would never leave him, for he is as much a part of him as he is a part of him.
So that meant that he really was back in…1995? Shortly before his fifth year at Hogwarts?
Yeah, that would fit. Riddle resurrected himself at the end of his fourth year and nobody believed he was back for about a year, so that would make it the end of his fifth year. The ridiculous power-play between Fudge and Dumbledore also happened that year, where he was also dragged into through the Dementor attack — thus, giving Fudge an opening to have him on trial and see him guilty.
Satisfied that he had a definite answer to how and when, Harry then set to built up his Occlumency, having successfully learned it after the Second Blood War. He had actually come to really appreciate the Art of closing one’s mind and locking everything out, or in. It turned out that it also immensely helped with nightmares, considering that he had many traumas to deal with.
Sadly, the list of traumas Harry experienced only continued to grow and his wish to just forget turned out to be impossible after He almost died.
But Occlumency was not just the art of closing one’s mind to prevent someone from accessing one’s thoughts and feelings, or influencing them; but also the act of sorting and gaining better control of one’s thoughts and emotions. Then, through the organised mind, one’s ability to recall and remember enhances; definitely helpful.
With that, Harry started to organise his mind, his memories and thoughts. He distanced — if not removed — feelings and emotions from especially bad memories, thus, making them more bearable.
Of course, the memories will still hurt, but not as much as they would have if it would have been coupled with the pain he accosted with these memories, the pain he had felt while living them.
Then, ‘Harry' made sure that his memories of his future were clearly separated from the memories he has up to this moment. He can’t have anyone find out he’s from the future after all; that would make everything just worse.
Once ‘Harry’ was certain that his mind was neatly organised, he set upon erecting his shields. They didn’t consist of a wall or some high security technology, but of selected memories and thoughts.
Should someone brush his mind, all they would see were a few every day thoughts. Should they go deeper they would be presented with innocent childhood memories flying about, but these memories were nothing that someone could use against ‘Harry’; they were innocent.
After that, he had some of his ‘adventures’ everyone knew about, but just enough to satisfy someone’s curiosity — no secrets could be revealed from these but they would think that they found something valuable.
The real troublesome memories were buried deep within — ensconced in useless little details of other memories and surrounded by memory after memory, so no-one would ever find them.
Another thing he made sure was to secure the vile thing he found in his mind and magic. A connection to another one’s mind, mutilated and mangled beyond recognition, and yet still able to have a will on its own.
Repeatedly, it tried to take some of ‘Harry’s own magic to grow stronger, to consume his magic and memories; to make him his. It was absolutely disgusting. The only thing stopping it from completely taking over 'Harry’s mind was a wall of ancient magic, still holding strong. And, for all that he hadn’t seen it before or even thought about it in years, he knew immediately what it was.
Voldemort’s Horcrux, trapped by sacrificial magic — Lily’s sacrificial magic; his mother’s.
It was kind of funny. For years he had been told that his mother’s magic had saved him when he was only a babe, and then continued to protect him until he had matured. But during all this time, he’s never seen any proof of that; apart from when he murdered Quirrel that is. Never again, though.
Then, the last few years, he hadn’t even thought about his parents. They were dead, after all. He never met them and they never raised him. He was grown, so he didn’t need them as well.
To find out now, that it was the truth, that his mother really continued to protect him to this day — well, ‘Harry’ didn’t really know what to feel. He did appreciate it, though.
Finally, after hours and hours spend in his mind, ‘Harry' opened his eyes again and his gaze fell on the dark ceiling. If it was still dark outside or again, he did not know; nor did he care. One way or another, he appreciated the fact that his relatives hadn’t disturbed him.
‘Harry' was pretty sure that it was because of the state his cousin was in. If they followed his advice, though, Dudley would be as right as rain soon enough.
Now, pleased that his mind and Occlumency were pitched up again, he let his bone deep exhaustion finally take over and welcomed the darkness that descended upon him; his magic securely wrapped around him, protecting him — like it has always done.
xXxXxXx
He needed to go to Diagon Alley; ‘Harry’ decided when he looked down his body and saw the hand-me-downs from Dudley swallowing him whole.
Really urgently.
With a sigh he ran a hand through his tussled hair and pulled up short, before remembering that, yes, during his fifth year at Hogwarts he still had short hair.
Another reason to go to Diagon Alley…
But now to the real problem; the house he was currently residing in was being watched by the Order nearly every hour of every day. Add to that that he was now supposed to be a stupid and naïve fifteen year old kid — how the fuck was he supposed to play this?! He would be loosing his mind before he was even at Hogwarts!
Well, he would lose his mind even more — ‘Harry’ couldn’t deny that his mind was not as sound as it was supposed to be; not his fault, though.
Technically ‘Harry' could use his Invisibility cloak. As long as Moody wasn’t on duty then — yeah, that should work. But first —
‘Harry’ left his room and went to the bathroom. There he went to the toilet and took a shower. He felt filthy — all sweaty and dirty. His scrapped hands stung a bit under the water but he knew the wounds would be gone in no time — were already fading— so he just ignored it.
After the shower he, grudgingly got dressed in Dudley’s rags again. And then, just as he was about to return to his room, he caught sight of himself in the mirror; he had ignored it until now — he had not wanted to see the person he was now. Or again.
He knew that if he where to look in the mirror his memories of this time would be tarnished. At fifteen years old he had still been so naïve, so trusting. He had truly had that childish believe that everything wold be fine, that the world was easy — black and white. Good and Evil. Kill Voldemort — the Evil — and the Good — Dumbledore and those who believed and listened to him — would win.
But Dumbledore wasn’t good. And Voldemort wasn’t evil.
They all made mistakes. They all were mislead. They all had different ideologies. They all had different ideas.
Back then Harry hadn’t known. He had still worn those rose tinted glasses — unable to see all the warning signs — believing he saw the world’s true colours.
Ohh, how stupid he had been. How naïve.
And… it hurt… somehow.
It hurt to realize that he had lost this spark, this childish faith, and instead built his world on stone, cold facts.
Dumbledore was not evil. Voldemort was not good.
With that, ‘Harry’ turned his head and stared at the boy in the mirror — the boy stared back.
Unforgiving eyes took in every detail, no matter how small or unimportant.
Dark hair, fair skin, skinny frame, green eyes with dark smudges under them. An impossible mess of black hair, sick-looking skin, a malnourished body and unrelenting, poisonous green eyes, promising a quick and painless death,—
Like the killing curse, people would say.
Like the Basilisk, he would whisper.
— were shadowed in a way that should not be seen on a face so young.
It looked wrong, but it was alright. (‘Harry’ would make it work.)
With that he turned away and left the bathroom — never once looking back.
xXxXxXx
“Hey girl, it’s good seeing you alive.” ‘Harry' whispered while trying to coax Hedwig out of her cage. But Hedwig seemed wary, as if she knew that this wasn’t her Harry. She’s always been intelligent like this, after all.
After a few more minutes of coaxing and bribing her with owl treats, however, she finally relented and flew onto the desk chair, eagerly awaiting her promised goodies.
A small smile graced the boy’s lips when Hedwig, even though still slightly mistrustful, nipped her treats out of his hand.
He had missed her — his very first friend and faithful companion. Back then, when he had lost her to the curse that had the same color as his eyes, it felt like he had lost a part of himself. And in a way he had.
He had truly believed that Cedric’s and Sirius’ deaths had been his fault, that without him they would still be alive, but he had also understood that they were powerful people who could and would fight against the Death Eaters — therefore they were enemies. Hedwig’s death, on the other hand, had been unnecessary. She was just an owl, an animal that could never have been a threat to them. But she had been in the way and so, the Death Eaters got her out of the way.
It was then that Harry had realised what war truly meant. When he had held the cooling body of his beloved companion and felt his grief reaching deep into his body, he realised he also grieved for himself and an innocence he would never regain.
Because war meant death. The death of everyone who either choose to fight or was simply in the way, like Hedwig had been. And Voldemort and the Death Eaters were not the only ones who would cause such death.
A small smile graced his young face when Hedwig allowed him to pet her. She still held her suspicious gaze but it had softened a bit.
“Are you up to delivering a few letters?” He asked her, chuckling slightly when she looked at him as though she wanted to say, ‘what’s that for a stupid question? Of course I am’ and haughtily held out her leg.
Internally ‘Harry’ was rolling his eyes fondly, but externally he just tied the letters he had written to her leg before watching her fly away.
The letters — for Hermione, Ron and Sirius — simply stated what had happened and asking for advice for what would happen now and if someone would get him. He even took extra care to sound just the right amount of desperate and hysterical in the letters; he was pretty proud of himself for that.
When the white speck that was Hedwig finally disappeared from the sky, ‘Harry’ sat back and turned to look at the closed door.
He felt his magic coursing through his veins, thumping with every beat of his heart. It was buzzing under his skin, eagerly waiting to be let out again — to be used.
Click
One lock on the door of the smallest bedroom turned and locked the door.
Click — another one — click — and another one.
It went on and on until all the padlocks were locked, seemingly all by themselves.
A satisfied and smug little smile ghosted over the person’s features inside of the room before he slowly drew his magic back to himself. The little strands curled back protectively around him, seamlessly joining with the rest of the boy’s magic. They buzzed and twirled happily all around and inside of him. Reaching every inch of ‘Harry’ and reacting to his very thoughts.
Next, the boy looked down on his palms. Yesterday, or whatever day it was when he was brought back, his hands had been scrapped open on the rough asphalt, and earlier that day when he had showered they had still stung, but now when he looked at the palms, all that was left were a bit of rosy patches of newly healed skin.
Next he let his eyes wander around the room until they landed on his bin, or more specifically, the crumpled pieces of old parchment. The next moment, every piece of parchment from the bin was hovering in the air in front of him. He thought about making them move — and they did. He wanted them to straighten out — and they did. His magic followed his every thought delighted; wether this thought be conscious or subconscious.
It was a bit like walking, he mused, or moving around in general. You don’t need to consciously think about it to make it work, you just did. To ‘Harry’ his magic was often like an extra arm or leg, while at the same time it reminded him of an excited little pet — always so energetic and happy to help and there when needed or called. It would heal him when he was wounded and protect him when he needed protection.
He knew that all magic was sentient to a degree and that his even more so when it came to him. It’s always been there for him after all.
Every time when he was little and sat in his cupboard, silently crying while wondering why his ‘family’ did not love him, his magic was there and wrapped his small body in its secure and comforting blanket.
Every time when he got hurt (wether it was an accident or on purpose) his magic helped him numb the pain and healed him as best as it could.
And then, later, when he finally knew about his magic, he learned to appreciated it and loved it and cherished it and thanked it because he realised that this, his magic, was one of the few things that would never leave him (not like his friends, his family, his parents), would never betray him or use him (like Dumbledore) and would never keep him in the dark and defenceless, vulnerable (like… everybody).
And it had been then, when that realisation hit him, that he knew his magic wasn’t light. Nor was it dark.
It was pure. Would always be pure. And only his intention when he used it would make the deed he did good or evil. But then… even the definition of good and evil varied from person to person…
xXxXxXx
The young man spend the rest of the day locked in his room — he had put a little, wandless Notice-me-not charm at his door to keep his relatives away, since he had no want nor need to endure their inane drivel and accusing glances. Therefore he did what he did best: he stayed in his room, made no noise and pretended he didn’t exist; Magic; so they stayed away.
He, then once again, checked his Occlumency and memories of this time and made sure they were up to par. He also continued to play with his magic and get his new-old body acquainted to the continuously unique use of his magic, as well as get a hang on handling his wand again without triggering the underage-magic-trace.
It was early the next morning when he woke up. The sun had not even risen yet and everything in Little Whinging laid still and silent. Well, ‘Harry’ may not have been still, but he was silent. Without make any noise, he got out of bed and immediately started doing some light exercises to hopefully bring his body back to what he was used to. He couldn’t believe he would have ever let his body be as weak and fragile as this.
The sun had started to rise by the time he was finished. Still without making a sound, he pocketed his wand, an important letter he couldn’t have sent with Hedwig and covered himself in his cloak of invisibility.
As silent as a shadow he ascended the stairs. After a quick detour to the kitchen — which left him with something small to eat — he left the house and surrounding area unseen or heard by anyone.
The moment he bypassed the blood-wards — which, he noticed then, where strangely heavy on his shoulders — he felt his magic envelop him more closely and willed it to bring him to Diagon Alley.
The moment he reappeared in a corner of the dark, deserted street, he let his eyes and magic quickly scan his surroundings — to see, to feel, to know. Then, without any further hesitation, he briskly walked up to the intimidating marble building, while also packeting his invisibility cloak.
‘Harry’ bowed to the guards at the door, ignored their surprise, and went to a teller. The whole, lavish and grand lobby was void of any witch or wizard. An odd vampire or other child of the night was there, but all in all, everything was still quite calm.
The Goblin ‘Harry’ stood in front of was weighing gems or something like that — he therefore had a task to complete and ‘Harry’ was not to disturb him until he was acknowledged.
The seconds ticked by like the gems the Goblin was handling. Finally, after a good few minutes, the Goblin stopped and lifted his head. A natural sneer laid on his lips while his eyes looked at the boy with intrigue.
No hesitation or insecurity showed in the boy-man’s stance when he brought a fist to his opposite shoulder while bowing his head to the teller.
The rouge tongue that was Gobbledygook rumbled through his newly unexperienced mouth; the Goblin’s intrigue grew more and more, “Good morning, War-Brother, may your gold increase and your enemies be shorter by the head.”
It took the Goblin a few seconds to collect himself before he was able to answer, but the slow, dangerous smirk that grew of the creature’s face was a good sign for ‘Harry’, a very good sign. “May your wealth outstrip all expectations as your enemies bleed on the floor.”
“I’ll probably settle for stripping them of all their assets and making them live to regret irritating me.” The green eyed wizard grinned with way too many teeth.
Back, when ‘Harry’ was still in his own time, he had worked and fought with the Goblins side-by-side for quite some time already. During that time he had learned more about the Nation’s customs, believes, language and doings — back then he had been positively surprised. From then on he had respected them a great deal.
The Goblin meanwhile didn’t know what to make of this wizard. He didn’t look like much — like an urchin, really — yet he knew the Nation’s greeting and treated him with respect wizards seldom showed to Goblins.
The proud and mighty so-called Purebloods looked down at them, like they’re dirt under their shoes and not worthy of them. But even so they let them handle their money and assets.
The muggle-raised, on the other hand, belittled them, they talk down to the Goblins like they were primal beings that could barely think or act by themselves. It was affronting.
So no matter who or what their blood status was, wizards never respected the great and proud Goblin Nation, never even thought that they were their own Nation and had therefore their own customs and rules — as a result it was no surprise that Goblins did not like these stupid, ignorant wizards.
That a wizard actually took the time to not only learn the right greeting, but also made the effort to learn it in their tongue astonished every Goblin who heard and saw it.
The strange urchin-looking wizard meanwhile didn’t seem to notice the impressed gazes or just choose to ignore them. He just continued to state his business in Gringotts without any unnecessary words.
“I need to talk with my account manager, Master Goblin. The name’s Potter.” The wizard-boy stated in a no-nonsense tone of voice the Goblin appreciated. Nevertheless, he could not just let some boy disturb an important and high ranking Goblin with precious (free) time as it is, without knowing if the wizard was even telling the truth. And to be honest, the Goblin-teller doubted it. The only one left able to access the Potter vaults was Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, and strangely enough, he doubted this to be the real Boy-who-live. The wizard looked, after all, like an underfed street urchin and not the daring saviour he was supposed to be.
But well, the Goblin mused, as long as he could make profit out of this imposer — respectful or not — he wouldn’t complain.
“I will need three drops of your blood for an identity test before I can let you go to the Potter account manager, wizard.” The Goblin-teller sneered. Though, he was still slightly impressed when the wizard-boy did not react in any way to the sudden malice in his voice, instead he just inclined his head.
“Of course, I expected nothing else, Master Goblin. The fee for this can be taken out of my vault along with the other transactions I will make today.”
The teller only raised an inquisitive eyebrow while he slid the potion, along with the right knife, over to the wizard.
Without faltering or hesitating even once, the boy took the knife, slit his index finger and let three drops fall into the potion.
The interesting thing about this was not the lack of hesitation, however, but the way the boy made sure exactlythree drops of his blood landed in the potion, and not a milli-drop more. He then put his finger in his mouth and cleaned the blade on his oversized shirt to make sure there was no left over blood on there either.
Interesting.
The Goblin then purred the potion over a parchment. After a moment lines started to appear that eventually told him that the boy really was who he said he was.
So, without further ado, the — slightly bemused — Goblin closed his post and bid the wizard-boy to follow him into the depth of Gringotts Bank.
A frightening number of twists and turns and hallways later, they arrived at a painting of a gruesome battle. Knocking on the frame, the Goblin opened the panting when a voice bid them to enter.
The room behind the painting was just like the wizard had expected. Like the rest of Gringotts, honestly. Grande, lavish, adorned with dangerous looking, sharp weapons and further illustrations of gruesome Goblin-wars. In the middle of the office sat a huge, intimidating desk, behind which another Goblin sat.
“Account-manager Bloodaxe, Heir Harry Potter requested a meeting.” He informed the other Goblin, Bloodaxe, with a formal bow before leaving again.
Now, Bloodaxe’s sole attention laid on Harry, so the green-eyed man brought his closed fist to his shoulder again and bowed his head before he greeted the account manager with the right greeting in their tongue.
Bloodaxe, just like the other Goblins, looked at him appraisingly and calculating at the same time before he answered the greeting.
“What can Gringotts do for you today, Heir Potter?” He asked grimly, his pointed teeth revealed in a way ‘Harry’ learned was a pleased expression.
“I need a blood-test done that shows available Heir- and Lordships as well as any vault I posses.” ‘Harry’ stated immediately. He knew the saying ‘time is money’ and he knew just as well that Goblins, while also a proud warrior race, lived and breathed by that motto.
They didn't care about pointless niceties — as long as they were shown the respect they deserved — or boasting about momentary assets. But hey, if wizards want to do it then they won’t stop them, it’s after all not the Goblin’s fault if they have to boost their already big ego and therefore waste the Goblins’ time — for a price, of course.
“Very well…” the account-manager spoke while he already took out the necessary potion and parchment, along with a ritual knife; any other knife and the process — which counted as a ritual and blood magic in the eyes of wizards — wouldn’t work.
Bloodaxe just opened his mouth to instruct the wizard what to do and how to do it, when a small, knobbly, pale hand reached out and took the ritual knife.
His scowl deepened and he was ready to unlash his sharp tongue on the wizard when he saw the swift way this boy slit open the fourth finger on his left hand. The wizard then let exactly seven drops of his blood fall into the potion — like, exactly seven, not six, not eight, seven — before he quickly took his hand, along with the knife, back.
The Account-manager watched in concealed surprise and approval, as the boy first cleaned the knife (and probably also disinfected it) and then healed his finger.
Not one drop of his blood was lost during all this.
Not one drop of his blood remained.
Not even the so-called Purebloods were this meticulous with their blood — and they should know the power blood had.
And yet, this half-blood wizard in atrocious rags not only knew but also acted on said knowledge.
Maybe all these rumours and prejudicious about the Boy-who-lived were wrong…
Anyway, Bloddaxe, after giving the Potter Heir one last assaying look, took the potion with the blood in it and poured it on the parchment. Swirls in the color of blood light up all over the parchment and danced over the whole of it until only outré writing remained.
The first line was the name of the person — maybe not the name the person went by, but the name he had by magic, by blood. After all, blood knew.
After that, the less crucial but still important information were listed.
…
Hadrian James Sirius Grímr (Potter)
Trust vault — 687
Lordships
Grímr (Potter) — vault 674
Gryffindor — vault 342
Slytherin — vault 0102
Gaunt — 298
Heirship
Black
…
By now, Bloddaxe eyes had widened a significance amount. Though, he quickly pulled himself together again and turned the test around so the Heir could see it.
When the Heir then put the test down again and looked at Bloodaxe impassively the golden was quick to explain a few things and make suggestions.
What the Goblin had noted, though, was that the wizard in front of him never once lost his impassive face, and that he did not seem to be surprised by what was just revealed.
But it was impossible for him to have known all this already. Especially when not even the Potter— no, Grímr Account-manager knew all this. In retrospect, though, a few things should have been obvious.
“Well, as you can see you are able to claim the Grímr, Gryffindor, Slytherin and Gaunt Lordships as well as the Heirship of Black.” Bloddaxe explained. “Normally, the earliest convenience in which you can claim your Lordships are the moment you reach your maturity at seventeen. However, since you successfully participated in the Triwizard Tournament — a tournament solely for adult wizards according to your Ministry, and high members of the Ministry accepted your placing, they declared you an adult. Therefore, you are now able to claim your rights as a Lord.” Which basically meant he had access to his vaults and Wizengamot seats, as well as the ability to vote for laws. Also, did he mention that, by law, he was an adult now? Whatsoever…
To take on his Heirships would also pose no problem. Hadrian had actually been able to take up his Heirships since he turned eleven, the moment his magic matured for the first time.
Not that anyone had seen it their responsibility to inform the naïve and ignorant Muggle-raised boy of that. How… inconvenient (for him, not them…)
Without any complications he took up his Lord- and Heirships and then immediately requested his account information — he did not immediately make new investments or stop old ones, he planned to go all the information first.
After that he didn’t stay much longer. A money pouch keyed to his trust vault by blood was quickly bought as well as the Goblins paid for their service and time.
Then he simply left without another glance back. But if he had turned around, he would have seen the Goblins all looking at him with respect.
He didn’t though, so he didn’t see.