The Troll Bridge

The Troll Bridge

"Why did you let me fall?" The accusation seemed to come from nowhere. It issued out of the thick mist, the speaker unseen. But the boy knew. He knew who accused him, just as he knew, deep down, that he was guilty.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I'm so sorry."

"Why did you let me fall?" This time the voice was closer, right behind him. He turned to see a tall figure step towards him, the mist swirling around his dark form. Sirius Black stood before his godson, a menacing smirk on his face. Again, he spoke. "Why did you let me die?" With each word, a flood of maggots fell from the decaying mouth. The boy began to scream...

...and awoke with a start, gasping and covered in sweat, the sharp taste of bile stinging the back of his throat. After assuring himself that it was just a dream, Harry Potter started what he was beginning to consider his nightly ritual. He shakily walked to the door and pressed an ear to it. Good, there was no sound from the Dursleys, other than Uncle Vernon's thundering snores. Harry tip-toed to the bathroom, bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face, making sure to rinse the horrible taste out of his mouth while he was at it. A quick glance in the mirror showed the toll that these daily dreams, no, nightmares - dreams just did not do them justice - were having on him. Harry was beginning to resemble a very pale raccoon. His skin was deathly white and in stark contrast to the black rings under his eyes, which were testament to his lack of sleep.

Harry leaned his overheated forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and moaned softly. "Just one night," he murmured. "I just need one full night, with no dreams. Sirius, I miss you, but please just leave me alone."

Sirius' death had certainly hit Harry hard. He had spent the first month of break simply lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, leaving only to use the bathroom or to quickly bolt down a horribly inadequate meal while the Dursleys were gone. But slowly, Harry was beginning to heal. He had moved past the anger and denial that had initially hit him that first night in Dumbledore's office. According to Hermione, he had passed through those stages in record time. While Harry spent his summer holed up in the house on Privet Drive, it seemed that Hermione had spent it, to no one's surprise, in her local library. She had been researching the grieving process and had written him quite a long treatise on the topic several weeks into the break.

Well, Harry, according to the most popular philosophy on grieving, you should now be moving into the Bargaining stage. But, you seemed to have skipped that, which is really quite fascinating. Hmm, I'll have to look more into that. Once you get through the Depression stage, which is potentially the most dangerous to you...oh, Harry, you will owl me if you just need to talk, won't you? I am here for you. And so is Ron, of course.

After depression comes Acceptance, and really, from what you've said in your last letters, I think you're on your way there. If you like, I could recommend some really fascinating books on the subject. They're all by Muggle authors, of course. Wizards don't seem to write anything on this subject, and I did check the library before we left for break.

Harry smiled as he remembered her letter. She had gone on for several more pages about other theories. It was probably the longest letter that he had ever received. Well, never let it be said that Hermione didn't do things thoroughly. Hermione's letters were much better than the others, though. They were all alike.

So how are you doing, Harry?...

Oh, Harry dear, how are you?...

This must be hard for you, son....

It was almost enough to make Harry glad that he was in "solitary confinement," as he called it in his head. Almost. At least the Dursleys didn't ask him every day if he was alright. (Of course, Harry was well aware that they wished he would succumb to depression and be sent far, far away.) He knew that Professor Lupin and the Weasley's meant well, but if he was coddled anymore, he felt sure that he was going to scream. Because the truth was, he really was getting better. At least, when he was awake and could occupy his mind with other things, like the horrid Potions essay that Snape had assigned to his NEWT students (and wouldn't Harry have loved to see the look on the greasy git's face when he found out he wasn't getting rid of Harry).

Harry made his way back to his bedroom. He looked at the bed and sighed. It was no use; there would be no more sleep for him tonight. Looking out the window, he saw that the sky was still pitch black. No matter. Soon, the sun would begin its slow climb and a new day would dawn, just another day on Privet Drive.

*****

He had spent a lot of time walking that summer. Harry couldn't stand to spend anymore time than he had to with the Dursleys, who looked at him as if he were a rabid animal. So he had taken to wandering around Little Whinging, exploring its hidden thickets and back alleys. At least out there, away from prying eyes, he could pretend he wasn't The-Boy-In-Exile and enjoy some semblance of freedom. He could even cry and not be called a baby. Remember, Harry, crying is an important part of the healing process, Hermione had written (although he rarely did cry, truth be told).

So, as the first rays of the sun began to creep slowly over the horizon, Harry headed for his favorite spot.

During the first half of the twentieth century, many London families spent the summer on holiday in the southern shore towns. Happy families loaded onto the trains and headed off to a summer of beaches and parties. One of these lines ran from St. Pancras Station to Brighton, passing the outskirts of Little Whinging on its way. After the Second World War, the London-Brighton line was just one of the many casualties of government budget cuts. The line, abandoned, fell into disrepair.

Harry had found it by accident, while running from his burly cousin and his cronies one day when Dudley was feeling particularly brave. He had taken off into the woods, with no idea where he was going or even where he was, following the raised path and hopping over the few sleepers that remained hidden in the overgrowth. When he reached the bridge, Harry finally rested. He leaned on the soot-stained wall, huffing for breath, and listening for his pursuers. He couldn't hear anything, he realized. He heard nothing but the buzz of insects and the chirruping of birds.

It was that silence that kept drawing Harry back, day after day. There, he could be alone to think and to relax. He liked to sit beneath the bridge, cushioned on a pile of dry leaves, and do his schoolwork. He set off that morning along his usual path, memories of the night's dream still fresh in his head. The routine of it all, going the same way, always at the same time, was, Harry had discovered, quite cathartic. By the time he would reach the bridge, the dream would be long gone, and he could concentrate on his work.

After stopping for a bit of breakfast at a local bakeshop, and after a healthy dose of walking, Harry finally reached his destination - the abandoned rail bridge. Our young hero sat down in the middle of the bridge, dangling his legs off the side (and really, there was certainly no worry of a train coming through), and pulled out his much worn copy of Flying with the Cannons. All the while, he was completely unaware of what waited for him in the shadow of the bridge.

Now, perhaps many of you have heard the tale of the Three Billy Goats Gruff and their encounter with the troll that lived under the bridge. Well, this story is just like that, except Harry is not a goat and what lies beneath the bridge is most certainly not a troll (although perhaps the Weasleys would disagree. But that is neither here nor there).

*****

The troll's tale began back in June at King's Cross Station, where a hysterical mother was unsuccessfully trying to transfigure a giant slug into her son. Of course, the slug was her son, and while many would feel that "slug" is an apt description for the boy, Narcissa Malfoy would disagree. But finally, with the help of Aeval Goyle and Beyla Crabbe, the three Slytherin boys were returned to their rightful bodies. While this was an improvement in Draco Malfoy's case, as, according to the residents of Gryffindor House he resembled a ferret rather than a slug, one could hardly tell the difference regarding his two large companions.

Upon regaining his normal form, the Malfoy heir began screeching about vengeance and how he would have Potter's head on a silver platter. After all, they were ambushed and outnumbered, and only while attempting to murder, or at least maim, one of their fellow students. He went on for several hours in this manner, especially while trying to shampoo the slime from hair.

And so, it was Draco's transformation into a mucosal mollusk that led him to Little Whinging, huddled in the shadows under a bridge, scowling at Harry Potter's swinging feet.

Draco had spent his first two weeks home brooding over his humiliation at the hands of Potter and his fan club. Eventually, his anger had cooled and developed into a cold fury. It was the kind of anger that demanded that revenge be taken. So, every evening since coming to this realization, Draco had locked himself in his father's library and pored through his tomes of dark magic, looking for the perfect spell to despoil perfect Potter. Draco tried to tell himself that he was doing this for his father, avenging his father's besmirched name. While that was partially true, the constant outwitting, outrunning and really out-everything had scarred the boy more than his father's imprisonment. At his core, Draco was a very selfish boy, and he wanted to beat Harry to prove that he was the better wizard.

Late one night in early July, Draco finally approached his mother. "Mother, I...I need your help."

Narcissa Black Malfoy was no fool. She knew what her son wanted and she knew that unless he had his vengeance, he would slowly be destroyed by his obsession. And she was not about to let that happen. "What is it, Draco? And sit up, slouching is so plebian."

"If I wanted to destroy someone's life, really destroy it, how...how would I go about it? Not that I am going to do that," he added quickly, unsure how his mother would react. "This is purely, um...hypothetical."

"Of course, dear, and so purely in the interest of furthering your education, I shall tell you." Narcissa stood up and stared out of the parlor window, unable to face the pain in her son's eyes. "You see, Draco, if you want to truly destroy someone, you mustn't kill him, not right away. No, instead, you have to take everything away from him - his control, his will, his very self. For the prideful, losing yourself is worse than death."

"But how, mother, how can I...."

"Draco, you'll find what you need in your father's library. Check under 'S,'" she whispered in his ear, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Do be careful, Draco. I would hate it if anything ever happened to you."

And that was exactly where Draco found his answer, hidden on an upper shelf, wedged between Dark Creatures by Newt Scamander and A History of Blood Magic by Agnieszka Rasputin. Grimoire Arcane, written by Salazar Slytherin himself. The Malfoy copy wasn't the original, of course, but it was an old copy, though in surprisingly good condition. And in that ancient book that Draco found his answer - Muto animae ex corporus.(1)

*****

"Muto animae ex corporus, muto animae ex corporus," Malfoy muttered to himself as he stared at Potter's swaying legs. He had to get the spell just right. It one of the most complicated he had ever seen, involving a highly illegal potion, intricate wand-waving and, of course, the words.

Finally, gathering his courage, Draco reached up, grasped Potter's ankles and pulled. Potter cam down hard, smashing his forehead into the ground. Draco flipped the dazed boy over and smirked into his face.

"How's it going, Scarhead?"

Harry tried to focus on the face swimming in front of him. "Malfoy...what...what are you...doing," he forced out.

"Oh you know, Potter, I'm just doing what arch nemeses always do: getting revenge. I told you I'd get you. Now no trying to get away now," Draco crooned as he sat on the weakly struggling boy and pointed his wand at him. "I have plans for you and me."

Harry stared cross-eyed at the wand. "You can't...people are watching me...send you to Azkaban."

"Oh, I'm counting on it. Now open your mouth like a good boy."

Draco pulled a vial from his robe and removed the stopper with his teeth. He swallowed half himself, then forced the vial past Harry's lips. "Take your medicine Potter," he said, and clamped a hand over Harry's mouth.

Finally, having no choice, Harry swallowed. Immediately, he began to feel disconnected from his body, almost like he was floating. As if from far away, he heard Malfoy saying, "Good boy. Now pay attention. The fun is just about to start. Muto animae ex corporus."

The feeling of detachment deepened, but Harry was still aware when Malfoy crushed their lips together. He kissing me. Draco Malfoy is kissing me, he thought. But it felt wrong, almost like he was...Oh my God, he's sucking out my soul, he's...and then both boys saw only black.

****

The vague sounds of shouts approaching roused the blonde-haired boy. He stumbled to his feet and looked down at...That's me. That can't be me. Polyjuice? Did he Polyjuice into me?

The shouts, now nearer, pulled him from his reverie. The Aurors, alerted to the presence of Dark Magic in the area, had arrived. Kingsley Shacklebolt had no doubts as to what had happened. Draco Malfoy, wand in hand, stood over the still unconscious Harry Potter.

"Expelliarmus!"

The force of Shacklebolt's spell slammed the boy into the side of the bridge. As his world began to grow dark yet again, he heard the Auror say, "You're going to be joining you father in Azkaban, Malfoy. You can count on that."

****

"Harry, Harry, wake up. Come back to us now."

Remus Lupin breathed a sigh of relief as the boy's eyes fluttered open.

"Lupin...where...Malfoy..."

Lupin smoothed back the boy's hair, exposing the famous scar. "Shhh, don't try to talk, Harry. You've been out for quite a while. We've all been worried sick. But you're safe now. The Malfoy boy can't hurt you again. He'll be in Azkaban by morning."

Draco Malfoy smiled.