Fractions

Ch. 1: And So Begins the Tempest

*

The early morning sunlight filtered in through the windows of the seventh year boys' dormitory, slicing through the open curtains of a black-haired boy's four-poster bed. It all seemed so normal.

But when you were the Boy Who Lived, nothing was normal. It was part of the contract that had been signed for him, so many years ago. Nothing was normal for Harry Potter - in fact, it was the farthest thing from normal that it could be and still exist.

Yes, nothing was normal when you lived in the wizarding world and was regarded by many as their savior. However, that delusion was squashed a year and a half ago, when Lord Voldemort himself appeared at the Ministry of Magic in London. Many people became disillusioned when it came to the Potter, wondering why they had been lied to for the past fifteen years. Harry honestly could not tell them, unless he went on a detailed explanation of the year he had first encountered Voldemort - that he remembered, anyway.

It just so happened that on that morning in the middle of January, the perfectly un-normal Potter boy awoke from a dream concerning just that - his encounter with Quirrell, nearly six years ago. The sunlight that fell across his face brought him out of his dream, making him bolt upright in bed, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. The all-too-familiar throbbing in his head was reaching momentary peaks of nauseating pain, something he was also all too familiar with. He braced himself with his palms on the bed, remembering his dream.

*

"Now.. give me the STONE!" cried the unbelievably ugly face that protruded from the back of Quirrell's scalp. His eyes penetrated the eleven-year-old Harry.

"Never!" he felt - and heard - himself cry, clutching the large, blood red stone in his grasp.

"Then I shall take it by force."

For some reason, it didn't seem to hurt the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor when he touched Harry as it had so many years ago, when they first squared off. Instead, Quirrell smiled evilly as he grappled with Harry for the Stone. He shouted at the pain that engulfed his body, starting at his scar and spreading; he twitched and writhed under Quirrell's hands. Then, it stopped, almost as suddenly as it had began.

"Hurts, doesn't it, Harry?" cooed Voldemort. The scene had changed. He was now lying on the floor in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, Voldemort hovering over him with his wand pointed at Harry's fifteen-year-old self. He lowered his wand again. "I don't think you'll enjoy this as much as I do." The old man cackled, giving Harry a mirthless smile and said what Harry thought was the last word he would ever hear.

"CRUCIO!"

*

Harry threw the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, standing and stretching. He rubbed his scar for a moment, and then pulled his dressing robe on over his pajama pants, shivering in the midwinter coolness of the drafty castle. He headed down to the common room and stoked the fire, sitting in a rather plush armchair. He stared at the crackling flames, almost comforted by the warmth they were emitting.

He had no doubt of what his dream meant, of course. He now knew that it did not hurt Voldemort to touch him, as he had for the past year and a half or so. That Voldemort would do anything to get something from him - the stone, the prophecy - these things just kept adding up. Five times he had defied Voldemort now, including the episode from the end of last year which had left a few members of the Order indisposed. Tonks was just now recovering fully, after being in St. Mungo's for six months. Kingsley Shacklebolt now had a permanent limp, and Mad-Eye was now so wary of things that he attacked Crookshanks twice over the past summer, making the cat attack his wooden leg. Moody had gouges in the wood that were at least an inch thick.

But what about the second part of his dream? What significance was that? Well, obviously the fact that Voldemort wished no less than to kill him - but why hadn't he killed Harry? Why had he just performed the Cruciatus curse on him? Harry nearly kicked himself for thinking that. Voldemort wanted him to suffer; he did not want to kill the boy off with just one curse. He wanted Harry to regret every single time that he had defied him.

He continued to stare at the flames, these thoughts troubling his mind and making his scar ache. The warmth acted like a blanket over him, and he dozed off in the plush armchair.

*

"Harry... Harry! Wake up!" a female's voice said next to him.

"Go away, Aunt Petunia," he said drowsily, swatting half-heartedly at the female.

"Harry, what are you talking about?" a male voice popped up, and Harry opened his eyes, staring at Hermione and Ron.

"Oh."

"What are you doing down here, mate?" said Ron, running a hand through his red hair.

"Couldn't sleep." His answer was terse and his jaw twitched. He could not figure out why he was so annoyed at the moment.

"Well, we've got a match in an hour and a half." Ron ruffled his hair again. "Might want to get up and get a bite before you have to get down to the pitch and give us all that pep talk."

"Thanks," he said, smiling at his best friends. "Alright, I'll be down in a few."

Harry made his way up to his dormitory, pulling an emerald green sweater over his head and dark blue jeans up to his waist. After he was dressed, he made his way down to the Great Hall alone, as Hermione and Ron had gone down together. It had been like that since the two had begun dating. He knew they did not mean to leave him out, but ever since they had become inseparable, Harry was alone more and more. He tried not to be bitter, but he could not help the bitterness that swept over him.

*

The doors to the Great Hall opened, and he watched as Harry Potter himself walked through the doors. A smirk decorated his lips as he watched the boy cross to the Gryffindor table.

"It won't be long now," he muttered to himself under his breath, and tucked in to his breakfast.

*

Harry sat down at the table next to Seamus, piling some food onto his plate and thinking about the strategy that the Gryffindor team would undergo in the match against Slytherin that day. He expected that it was foolproof. Besides, they had never once lost a match where all of the team members were competent and knew what they were doing. They had not lost a match all year, for that matter.

A screech rang through the Great Hall, signaling the beginning of the owl post that morning. Many other squawks and owl noises filled the hall as the several hundred owls flocked to their owners, dropping parcels and letters among them students. Hedwig flew over to Harry, dropping a small scroll on top of his eggs.

"Thank you, Hedwig," he said, stroking her head and setting some sausage on the table for her to eat. She nipped his hand affectionately and snatched up the sausage, devouring it while he read the note.

Gryffindor locker room, an hour after the match. Meet me there.

There was no signature. Curious, he twirled the scroll between his fingers, wondering if there was some charm he could use to find out who had sent it. Harry determined that thinking about it too much now would give him a headache, so he tucked the note inside his jeans pocket and nodded once, as if to tell the note that he would comply.

*

The Gryffindor team was all surrounding Harry in the locker room, waiting for their pre-match talk from the captain.

"Well, team," started Harry, looking around at the faces. Ron looked determined to keep anything from passing him - he had gotten quite good since fifth year at Keeping. Ginny was the most determined Chaser he had seen since Angelina Johnson, and Sloper and Kirke had certainly improved. The two new Chasers, Seamus and Matthew Christien, a fifth year boy who was adamant about Quidditch, were quite good additions as well. "This is Slytherin. A team we have played very well against this year. I have faith that you all will continue to beat the pants off their team - you've done very well in practice the past few weeks and proven that we are worthy of having the Quidditch cup in McGonagall's office for the past four years, and worthy of earning it again." He smiled at the team.

"Great speech, Harry!" said Seamus, grinning at his classmate and teammate. "If I might add a few words?"

"Go ahead," he replied.

"Let's go out there and kick their sorry Slytherin arses!"

The team cheered, and slung their brooms over their shoulders, beginning the march out to the middle of the pitch.

*

"And Weasley passes to Finnigan, who throws the Quaffle towards the goal posts - it seems as if it won't make it - but Christien grabs the Quaffle and flings it through the center goal post! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

The crowd burst into cheering at Dean Thomas's commentating, waving Gryffindor flags high in the air. Harry zoomed high above the pitch, keeping his eyes peeled for the smallest hint of gold that would send them into the lead for the House championship. Malfoy seemed to be mirroring him.

"Shove off, Malfoy," Harry shouted, after the third time that Malfoy had succeeded in stopping him from a dive towards the Snitch.

"What's the matter, Potter? Losing your touch?" snarled the Slytherin Seeker, and zoomed off, a smirk upon his face.

Harry wished nothing more than to punch that smirk right off his face.

He was plotting various ways of getting Malfoy into privacy so he could do just that when he had a brilliant idea.

"Kirke beats a Bludger towards Pritchard, who drops the Quaffle; Weasley sweeps under and grabs it from him - Wait! Has Potter seen the Snitch?"

For Harry had gone into a dive towards the Slytherin goal posts.

"Malfoy is hot on Potter's tail as he follows the Gryffindor Seeker in hopes that he will be able to snatch the Snitch from Potter - however, Potter has never failed to outrun Malfoy on his Firebolt; Malfoy's old Nimbus 2002 is just no match for the high speed of the Fi---"

"That is enough, Thomas," snapped McGonagall.

"Potter pulls out of the dive, but without the Snitch? It seems as if he has pulled the age-old Wronski Feint to throw Malfoy off - it worked, apparently; Malfoy only narrowly escapes running headfirst into the ground as Potter zooms off across the field!"

The cheering from the Gryffindor bleachers was deafeningly loud.

Malfoy glared at Potter across the field, when suddenly he spotted a golden glint near the teacher's bleachers.

Harry looked up and spotted Malfoy hurtling towards the teacher's bleachers. "Oh, fuck," he snarled, and sped after the blonde. If they lost to Slytherin...

"Malfoy is knocked off course by a Bludger, hit cleanly towards him by Gryffindor beater Jack Sloper! Way to go, Jack!"

Harry pumped a fist in the air in celebration - the match would go on. He would have to remember to give Sloper a few hard pats on the back for saving the team from losing.

"And the teams' Seekers go back to circling the pitch, while the Chasers on both sides continue to battle back and forth. Gryffindor leads Slytherin, 80 to 50." Thomas's predecessor would be proud of his biased commentating. "Gryffindor in possession of the Quaffle; Christien passes the Quaffle beneath his broom to Finnigan, who approaches the Slytherin goal po--- OH MY GOD, THAT WAS INTENTIONAL!"

For Pritchard had hurtled headfirst into Seamus, knocking him off his broom. Ginny swooped down and caught him on her broom, barely managing to keep a good hold on her broom. Christien caught Seamus's broom and tossed it to him, who abruptly jumped on his broom to take the penalty.

"A penalty shot is awarded to Gryffindor for the obvious and disgusting attempt to kill one of Gryffindor's Chasers; Finnigan takes the shot and makes it, making the score 90 to 50. Slytherin in possession of the Quaffle; Pritchard passes to Zabini, who heads for the Gryffindor goal posts and shoots - block it, Ron, block it - and the shot is blocked by Weasley! Gryffindor is back in possession of the Quaff -- Potter dives for the Snitch!"

Harry had spotted it hovering around the center of the field, and dove recklessly for the Snitch, nearly knocking Andrew Kirke's beater bat from his hand as he sped towards the Snitch.

"GO, HARRY, GO!" screeched Dean into the microphone, earning an outraged sound from the Slytherin stands.

Harry pulled out of the dive, triumphant, the Snitch struggling against his gloved hand. He gave Malfoy a smile.

Malfoy spat on the ground as Harry's teammates lifted him onto their shoulders.

*

"Sure you're not coming, mate?" asked Ron, who was leaning against the doorframe thirty minutes after the match ended. "The Creevey brothers skived off to Hogsmeade as soon as the match was over, and it's bound to be a great party."

"I'll be there in a bit, Ron," replied Harry, who had a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. His hair was still dripping slightly from the showers, making rivulets across his glasses lenses. He wiped it off and cast a simple waterproof charm, smiling at his friend. "I've just got a few things left to do, won't be long."

"Alright. See you in a bit." Ron waved and walked out, the door closing behind him. He quickly got dressed, towel drying his hair into one big mess - like normal. He attempted to run a comb through his hair and looked at his watch - five minutes remained until he met the person who had sent him that note over breakfast. He was cleaning his glasses when he heard the door creak open, and he spun around.

There was no one there.

He raised a brow and put his glasses upon his nose, and gave a startled shout. "What the hell?" he cried, staring at the cloaked figure. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure muttered something inaudible to Harry, and suddenly the boy found himself blindfolded. "What the---"

And snogged, apparently.

The person had moved in quickly once the boy was blindfolded, grasping his wrists roughly and kissing him. However rough the grasp was, the kiss was painfully gentle, if that was possible - Harry nearly found himself surrendering against the other's lips - before he pushed the person away and ripped his blindfold off.

They were gone.

"What the hell just happened?" he said, running his fingers over his lips.