Pure Of Heart

Pure of Heart

Chapter 1

Harry looked across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table.

Who to pick, who to pick?

The past summer had been harrowing. Harry expected as much. Dumbledore tried to explain to him that the feelings were normal. A person simply did not watch someone die at the hands of a recently resurrected not-quite-human psychopath, come inches away from losing their own life, and walk away unaffected.

The train trip was quiet. People didn’t bother him, apart from the incident with Malfoy. Watching the git get his comeuppance was something of a brief respite from the thoughts reverting back to the night in the graveyard. But even the sight of Slytherins hexed and passed out on the ground was not enough to keep his spirits up for longer than he was on the Hogwarts Express. The moment he stepped off the train at King’s Cross Station and passed through the barrier, Harry knew it was going to be a long summer. Dudley’s massive form and Uncle Vernon’s sour face met him outside the station.

The ride back to Privet drive found Harry at the brunt of his cousin’s vicious jokes and spasmic foot as his uncle ignored him in usual form. Normally, he might have retorted with a clever remark and caustic wit or kicked back, but any desire to react sank back just as the pale bruises began to appear on his shins. Dudley didn’t appreciate being ignored and moved on to other tactics that rude boys procure for themselves early on—poking, pinching, spitting, and all manners of hurting. Harry sat back looking out the window, tired, resigned, and not particularly caring.

His aunt stood waiting on the stoop as they pulled up the drive. She held a tray of sweets for her Ickle Duddykins who she wrapped to the best of her ability in a warm and expansive embrace as she greeted her husband with a sloppy kiss. Life as usual. It left Harry feeling cold.

Hermione had sent him a letter. And a book. The Six Stages of Grief: Mending a Heart Broken by Time or Circumstance in the Wizarding World. Leave it to Hermione to think a book would solve anything. The accompanying letter was long, a whole page, front and back.

‘Dear Harry, How are you? I wanted to tell you how sorry I am…’ he ripped it up without finishing and dumped the pieces out the second story window, watching the sad confetti drift down like snowflakes and melt into the Dursley’s new swimming pool (the one he wasn’t allowed to swim in). He would have burnt it but the hearth was still boarded up. Sitting back on his bed, he picked up the book for lack of anything better to do. Chapter 1: Avoidance and Apathy.

Blaise Zabini? No, too neutral.

He’d sat at the kitchen table, pushing the food around his plate. They were having bratwurst. Petunia yelled at him for getting food on the table. It was only a pea, but it was apparently enough to ruin her perfect ‘antique’ silk tablecloth. Who used their fine tablecloth for no good reason? It wasn’t even Sunday. It wasn’t even antique. Besides, Dudley had already dripped brown gravy all over it; a pea wasn’t going to make it much worse. But she didn’t see, or care to see anything but the pea. He was sent to bed without being allowed to finish. Just as well. Harry hated bratwurst.

He dug through his trunk throwing things about the room, looking not for anything in particular, but only something to do. The trunk sat empty after a few minutes of his frantic rummaging. Sitting down beside it on the floor, he picked up the thing closest to him, his sneak-a-scope. Wondering vaguely why it never seemed to go off from Dudley’s presence (only works for magical people he figured.), he tossed it back in the trunk. His invisibility cloak, the picture album, the map, some books, odds and ends, he picked up each and examined it with the thoroughness of a statistician and put it back in the trunk.

Something small and shiny sat out of arms reach to his left. He left his comfortable spot on the floor and went to it. The dragon. Harry smiled softly at the little creature as he cupped it in his hands and went to the bed. That had been an adventure, facing the Horntail. He could be proud of himself for that one. It had been his task. It was a well-fought victory when he’d gotten the egg. Harry chuckled. Of course once he’d had it, he hadn’t a clue what to do with the blasted thing. It was a good thing Cedric had given him that hint. He hadn’t thanked the boy properly at the time; he really ought to send an owl or something…the incident fled his memory, replaced by a dull nothing as Harry remembered. Chapter 2: Shock and Denial.

Crabbe? No, too obtuse. Goyle? The same.

Sleep was a nightmare. He could close his eyes and drift off easily, but never could he seem to reach the point of rest. He always woke up before. Maybe it was a good thing. Once, when he actually allowed himself to sleep through the whole night, his slumber was invaded with terrible dreams. Curiously, Cedric wasn’t there. Nor was Peter Pettigrew, or the Death eaters, or even Voldemort. Just his parents. They stood looking at him from the depths of the mirror of Erised, out of reach as ever. They had shaken their heads at him and turned their backs to walk away. He tried to run after them begging and pleading with them not to go but they only ever got further away. It felt like hours of running before he’d realized he was not going anywhere, but stuck where he was in the middle of that miserable graveyard, alone. His eyes had sunken deeper, the shadows of his sleep deprived brow casting his normally bright emerald eyes a deep forest green hue. It didn’t matter either way though. Asleep he’d dream of his parents. Awake he would dream of Cedric.

Harry hadn’t known Cedric Diggory that well. Cedric was a very popular boy. Harry had hated him for it. Harry, himself was a bit of a geek. Always famous but never really popular in the way that kids his age longed to be. He and the Hufflepuff didn’t exactly hang out in the same circles. He’d realized it when Cho had turned him down, when he’d asked her to the ball. He’d hated Cedric the moment she had said she was going with him instead. Harry felt bad about it now. Cedric had done everything to contradict his hatred and jealousy. He’d been kind and decent and courteous. He’d been a true hero, something Harry still didn’t know if he himself could ever live up to. He hadn’t been able to save the boy after all. Chapter 3: Guilt and Self-Doubt

Pansy Parkinson…too scornful.

Aunt Marge had died. The innumerable years of bingeing and drinking caught up with her in the predictable way. They found her on the floor of her living room. She had been dead for a week and mauled almost beyond recognition by her precious dogs. Terribly ironic. Surprisingly, they took him to the funeral. They must have realized it would hurt him. It was only the second dead person Harry had ever seen in his life. Somehow they managed to fix her face up enough to have an open casket, though the stitches showed where the tears were particularly bad, leaving the flesh ragged and stiff as it curled in at the edges like dried orange peels. It was in poor taste.

Harry wondered what his parent’s funeral was like. Hopefully not like this. Tacky. A tacky birthday party or wedding was one thing but it must be some kind of sin to have a tacky funeral. The mismatched flower arrangements and superfluous banners made it seem almost like a carnival of sorts. The giant mural sized portrait Vernon had made up didn’t help any. Spiteful people wandered about, half looking as if they were there only for the buffet. The eulogy was shit, wholly contrived, complete with cheesy song lyrics and soap opera dramatics. Harry hated Aunt Marge. He wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone there hated Marge (Vernon excepted).

But still, didn’t they care that someone had died? Didn’t it warrant some kind of courtesy? All they did was laugh and chat go about with their miserable lives not even acknowledging the loss. People were dead, gone forever and they could think of nothing but themselves. Cedric was robbed of something precious and no one cared. And Harry was hurting and no one cared. Cedric was gone forever and Harry had sat and watched him go. And no one was going to make it any better. He hated everyone at that moment, himself the most. Chapter 4: Anger.

Millicent Bulstrode, Malcolm Baddock, Graham Pritchard? No…not good enough.

Cho Chang called. It was weird. She told him not to feel guilty. She told him not to blame himself. She also asked him not to speak to her the upcoming school year. He could understand that. It was painful to talk to people who remind you of ones you’ve lost. He wrote Sirius a short note and cried himself to sleep that night and then cried himself awake the next morning. Chapter 5: Depression and Sadness.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry had made a decision. He couldn’t sit and wallow in his grief induced complacency. It was his birthday and Ron sent him a letter. Voldemort had struck. Harry read about it again the next day when the Daily Prophet flew in through his window in the talons of a daily delivery owl. Two wizards killed in the attack. One victim of the Killing Curse. The other fell to the Cruciatus.

Harry remembered Crucio. To endure it for long enough to die…was frighteningly imaginable. A terribly tangible idea. Karkaroff was the one Crucio’d to death. The other, a pureblood, a young witch working as a barmaid where Karkaroff had been drinking disguised as a traveling broom salesman, had been killed with Avada Kedavra. The unwitting victim. The spare.

Harry needed to do something. For that girl, for his parents. For Cedric…Voldemort had stolen Cedric from the people who loved him, who needed him. Harry would steal something from Voldemort…something the Dark Lord needed. Something the Dark Lord would sorely miss, like Mr. and Mrs. Diggory missed their son. Like Cho Chang missed her boyfriend. Like Harry missed Cedric.

He sat on his bed and stared at the gold plated award. His name was engraved there right under the word ‘Champion’ and above the date, June 24, 1995. The shiny metal reflected his blank face distorted at the bulging bowl of the golden goblet. The Ministry had sent him the cursed thing a few days ago. It was a smaller version of the port-key that he had shared with Cedric and came with a short note of consolation attached. It was quite the blind and insensitive gesture on the Minister’s part. God how he hated Cornelius Fudge.

Harry turned to the next chapter in his book. Acceptance. He laughed shortly and walked down stairs, grabbing the book and the Tri-Wizard Cup off his bed on the way out of the room. After chucking the trophy at his cousin’s head as Dudley sat in the living room gorging himself on Aunt Petunia’s detestable tapioca pudding, Harry went out to the shed to see if he couldn’t find his uncle’s starter fluid.

Draco Malfoy.

Sitting in the wet grass he watched the pages burn like flash paper in the little bare patch that he’d cleared out in the back yard. Uncle Vernon came and boxed his ears for putting the house in danger with his fire setting activities and for using his lighter without permission, or otherwise. Harry smiled slightly to himself as he rubbed his sore ears and let the hatred flow though him and out his fist as it met with the side of Uncle Vernon’s ugly pudgy face. His uncle got over the shock in seconds and threw his nephew back against a tree. Harry slumped down against the trunk as Vernon stormed back into the house locking the door behind him. Harry shrugged. He was leaving for school tomorrow anyhow. What remained of the book sat steaming cheerfully a few feet away, swirls of smoke rising merrily from the skeletal binding and the last few seared folios. Words coalesced on the dirty brown paper like magic before Harry’s luminous emerald eyes. Afterword: Revenge.

Harry’s lips quirked into the ghost of a smile.

Draco Malfoy. Perfect.