Fate's Whim

fate's whim

chapter three :: ruins

Harry was crouched next to his four-poster bed, leaning over a tub of an odd silver substance. It was his Pensieve, and, though the room was pitch dark, he didn't need a light. The Pensieve gave off its own mysterious glow, throwing everything in its near vicinity into odd planes of luminescence.

Orlando and Terry were off at supper in the Great Hall, but he had opted to stay behind. He was only sixteen, but already he felt aged, and nauseous from recollections of his past. Thus the Pensieve. He felt uneasy about using it; what if something went wrong and he lost his memories forever? Professor Dumbledore, however, who seemed to be an expert in their use, had assured Harry unless he specifically wanted his memories to be terminated, they would remain accessible, in one form or another. And even if the magic that solidified past thoughts and actions for purpose of transfer from brain to Pensieve was destroyed, dim vestiges of the memory would remain.

"Memories are forever, Harry, in a way few other things are," Dumbledore had told him seriously, during one of their regular meetings. "Never underestimate the power of the human brain." He then proceeded to ask Harry, did he know there were wood elves thousands of years old in Australia who could remember the day of their birth?

But that was neither here nor there. Harry swallowed hard, placed his wand to his temple, and thought hard of the memory he wanted to take out. The memory formed and clung to the tip of his wand, and he held it over the Pensieve and released. All that was left in his mind was a hollow shell of what he had been thinking.

Again, he removed a memory and dropped it into the Pensieve. He felt like retching. Over and over, he conjured up the thoughts he needed out, needed to be able to observe from the safety of objectivity.

When he was done, he was on his knees, weak and worn. His roommates would be back soon, but he needed to do this, to experience again his memories. It wouldn't take long in realtime; to him, it would last as long as all the events in the memories had, maybe longer.

He touched the tip of his wand to the Pensieve.

---

"Harry, Orlando, Padma, Hermione, Terry, I commend you all. You have contributed greatly to putting a halt to a dark force permeating our school grounds." Dumbledore loomed benevolently next to Professor Flitwick, who was there standing as Ravenclaw Head of House, as he did when the position of a professor was necessary to represent Ravenclaw.

The students were seated in five chairs in Flitwick's office. They all seemed so very small and scared. They door to his classroom was enchanted shut, and soundproofed. What was said in there would remain between them and only them, it was emphasized.

None of the students looked happy at Dumbledore's words. Hermione was chewing on her pinky nail, and Orlando wouldn't meet the teachers' eyes.

They had helped a man be killed, and Harry had led them all to it. Never mind that the man had been possessed by Lord Voldemort. He had been weak, and there was no victory in cold-blooded murder. Harry had figured about the Philosopher's Stone, and he and the rest had verified the information and discovered the perpetrator, Quirrel. Harry had been the one to go to the teachers, after they all had been unable to find the entrance to the Stone's holding room.

"You understand Quirrel had to be killed." It was not a question, just a simple statement of fact. Dumbledore expected them to be mature enough to understand.

Yes, it had all been explained very thoroughly. Quirrel had to be killed, assassinated rather, on the chance that Lord Voldemort would not have the time to escape from his dying life force and cease to exist, along with the professor. The plan hadn't worked, and Quirrel was still dead.

Harry bit his lip hard and stared at the marble flooring.

///

They were faced off in the middle of the hallway second year, halfway through their first day of classes. Weasley had stomped himself right in front of Harry, in the middle of the hallway traffic and everything. The boy didn't seem to mind if everyone in the school heard him, and a crowd quickly gathered around the two boys.

"I fucking hate you, Potter! You got some fucked-up notion into my little sister's head that people don't have to follow expectations, and look what she is now! A Slytherin! A fucking Slytherin!"

He continued on like this, but Harry's attention wandered. Someone behind Weasley in the crowd gestured rapidly to get Harry's attention, and his eyes followed the flicker of movement. They led him to a tiny girl with hair like fire, presumably said Weasley sister. She eyed her brother, grinned at Harry, and flicked him off behind his back. Harry laughed aloud.

Weasley stopped mid-rant. "Something funny, Potter?" he asked icily.

Harry stepped quickly away from Weasley, and toward the girl, who beckoned him to follow her. Before he did so, he looked over his shoulder at Weasley, who reminded him of an enraged bull. "Go to hell, Weasley," he said, and trailed behind her, away from the crowd.

///

"Excuse me, Mister Potter? What do you mean, you can't be in the Tournament? The first task is in a week!" Cornelius Fudge looked personally insulted that Harry did not want to participate in the Tournament he had helped set up.

Harry held up his parchment of grades helpfully. "Just this, Mister Fudge. I'm not passing Transfiguration, and, by the Triwizard Contract, a student can't participate in the tournament if they're failing a core subject."

Fudge examined the paper, and then peered at Harry, an odd expression on his face.

"Mister Potter, we probably wouldn't have received notification of your failing until the end of the school year. You know this, I'm sure, yet you brought this notice to me anyway." He appeared to grasp for words strong enough to describe the vastness of Harry's mistake. "Mister Potter, I don't think you quite understand what you'll be passing up! A true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to prove your worth... I'm sure you'll want to reconsider your words, and I'm sure this parchment can be accidentally misplaced..."

Harry felt his temper rising again. "I don't want to be in the Tournament," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I did not sign up for it, and I will not be manipulated."

It was Karkaroff who broke in, looking inordinately pleased. "He's failing, Fudge, so he's expelled from the Tournament. Nothing anyone can do about that, now."

Fudge looked overwhelmed, and not unlike a deflated balloon. "Of course, I'll have to contact the proper people...this is unexpected..." he murmured. He frowned, and waved his hands in a shooing motion. "Off you go, Mister Potter!"

Harry went.

///

"Voldemort has returned, Harry."

He felt his world reeling. "He what?"

Dumbledore's expression was opaque. "He has returned. The Dark Lord has used one of his follower's blood to restore his body. He is weak, but he will grow stronger. Apparently, he initially intended to use your own blood, but using a Death Eater's body has its own advantages. He can utterly control that person from somewhere else with ease, as his mind and spirit is already well-suited to Voldemort's own.

"The eye of the storm has passed, Harry. We must prepare for the impending battle. We must prepare you."

///

Snape snarled as Harry fought his way through the Potions Master's mental barriers. He saw a young Snape, a young Sirius, and a young man who must have once been his father. They taunted Snape for no reason at all, humiliating him, and Harry felt a cold rush of anger that might not have been purely Snape's in the memory.

James Potter was hexing Snape, and onlookers laughed and laughed. He was scared. Snape had done nothing to them. James had said something like, "It's more that he just exists, really."

He was shoved out of the memory. "Good work, Potter," Snape said, even as he looked furious from the memory. "How I hated them. Hate them. You see what an unfair world it is?"

"I've always seen."

Snape resumed his normal, slightly all-knowing expression, though he still sparked with lividness. "I suppose you have. You see who your father was...what your father was?"

Harry wanted to shriek. "I'm not my father!"

///

"Harry, I'm scared."

He blinked. "What? Why?"

Draco's hair was in disarray, his eyes red-rimmed. "I don't want to go back home. Ever. He could always be watching, lurking. It was his blood, Harry.

"My father's."

The Slytherin looked around nervously. Together, he and Harry had wound a complicated Silencing Charm around themselves, but a clever sorcerer could break that spell.

Draco continued voice shaky. "I never thought he would. I never thought I would have to serve someone. Now I've got to pretend like my father's been teaching me Dark magic all along, like we've always known he'd come back. I've got to pretend like I've killed people, and..."

"God, Draco, don't cry," Harry said helplessly. But Draco was taking gulps of air and looked dangerously close to tears. Harry quickly layered an illusion charm over the silencing one, to show him and Draco chatting happily.

"He'll torture me, Harry, to impress the Dark Lord, and he might kill me and then my mother would be all alone. I can't leave her, Harry. I'm not afraid of death, but I'm afraid of pain. God, so fucking afraid...

Harry kissed him on the forehead on instinct, and then hugged him tightly, not caring what stress that was putting on his hasty illusion spell. "Come with me," he said, "me and Terry. We're going to his parents' summer house for the holidays. In France. He can't find you there."

"But he can." Draco was straightening up, and rubbing his tearstained cheeks carefully, so as not to leave roughened red marks. The train was calling, and students were milling toward the station. Terry was probably looking for Harry right now.

"Harry... if I don't come back next year, tell my mum I loved her. And... you. You were the best friend I could ever have."

He turned then, and Harry thought he might be sick.

///

Hermione was crying, crouched on the floor. She clutched Harry's shirt and pressed her face against his chest, and he was holding her tightly and also crying. Sirius was dead. Fucking dead.

Remus Lupin, Harry could tell, was close to tears himself, though he managed to hold them in. Harry tried to do the same.

"Harry, Hermione, we must go. Dumbledore insists."

He wasn't listening. Sirius didn't even get a proper death. No, he simply disappeared beyond a veil and was gone. Dead. Harry was never going to see him again this side of the afterlife. Dead. Dearly departed. Of late. Deceased.

Hermione was trying to help him up, and Lupin was still talking, but he didn't notice. That's what happens when you grow too attached to someone, a little voice taunted him. They go away.

He never wanted to stop screaming.

///

Dozens more memories swirled, and he lived them over and over again, but it was like dreaming, and he could only retain certain remembrances.

When he came to himself, he remained immobilized. The world was spinning on its head, over and over again. He blinked, and life itself came into sharper focus than he had ever seen it before. He looked at the Pensieve, and it seemed to give off another glow now, one in a color he had never seen before. He fancied the hue wasn't physically present, that he was seeing something different.

His eyesight was sharper now. He could make out the title of Orlando's Potions essay on the opposite side of the room, even.

There was a click, and Terry and Orlando opened the door and entered the dorm room. Light flooded the bedroom. Without remembering rising, Harry wrapped his arms around Terry's neck and hugged him tightly. He did the same to Orlando.

"Don't ever leave me," he murmured into Orlando's shoulder, and bemused, they both nodded.

"Never."