Harry Potter and the Forgotten Promise

FORGOTTEN PROMISE

by

Emilia Hail

Chapter One - The Destination is the Dawn

He was sitting alone at the old oak table in the dusty dankness of the library. The candle; the blackened wick still glowing ember; smoked gently, adding a misty dream-like quality to the atmosphere; and as he stared, transfixed at the wisps of smoke, a small trickle of melted wax from under the recently extinguished flame oozed slowly down the smooth, rounded cream of the cylindrical candle, reaching the silver pricket and then plunging one hundred and twenty millimetres down to the oak of the table below with a gentle 'phup' that shattered the uneasy silence. That sound seemed like the smashing of twenty panes of glass, but he quickly forgot it, as the musty stillness, the quiet emptiness, of the atmosphere returned.

And as he stroked his fingers across the heavy oak of the varnished desk, he softly caressed the glistening bead of wax, now solid and shiny in the rivers of moonlight that washed through the coloured glass of the arched windows. He stared with eyes of brilliant green at the beautiful glowing moon that he could see through the glass in front of him; a strand of his unruly jet black hair brushed his eyelashes, and he unblinkingly blew it away with a slight puff of breath from the corner of his mouth.

'Hello Harry,' whispered a voice; so quiet that it would be impossible to hear in anything other than the complete noiselessness of the grand room; causing him to start; his hand flying up from the smoothness of the table and knocking over the candle and pricket with a resounding crash.

Harry lifted his gaze from the fallen candle and turned to where he knew a dark hooded figure was standing, cloaked in the shadows of one of the three marble arches. Although the figure's face was almost completely concealed by shadow, a shaft of moonlight sliced through the blackness and shone on its face so that the nose, cheeks, jaw, mouth and chin were illuminated, but the rest of the figure's face was totally enshrouded in the darkness. The eyes, (or at least what Harry guessed them to be), were like dark, liquid pools of mercury, bathed in so much shadow that they were comparable to tar pits, and it was impossible to guess their colour. The figure reached up to its head and gripped the edge of its hood; stepping forward into the streams of moonlight as it slowly pulled back his hood. Harry could feel his heart thunder in his chest as the figure moved towards him; thumping relentlessly against his ribcage, like a bird trying to break free of its cage. As the figure approached him, pulling back the hood to expose a wisp of silver-grey hair in the brilliant moonlight, Harry's heart beat so fast that a searing pain shot through him, and his scar began to burn furiously as he opened his mouth and screamed...

It was the fourth consecutive night that Harry had had the dream, and yet each time he instinctively knew exactly who the figure in the hood was. Despite having had the dream more than twice before, he had no idea of its meaning - only that he would be roused by a sudden savage burning in his scar; and each time he awoke, he ended up with the same feelings of confusion and utter hatred, for the figure in the hood was none other than Harry's arch-rival, Draco Malfoy.

***

It was precisely 11.59pm, and Draco Malfoy was lying on top of a partially-clothed Blaise Zabini in a compromising position, hands roaming and tongue travelling as he let his hormones get the better of him. They were sprawled on top of Mr and Mrs Malfoys' grandiose four-poster bed in an otherwise deserted Malfoy Manor, as they had been for the last hour and a half.

Draoc, feeling particularly adventurous, moved his hands over Blaise's waist and hips in an attempt to slide her muggle t-shirt off her body. Just at the crucial moment between lifting the material to expose bare flesh and pulling it over her body, Draco found himself staring into her deep blue-green eyes. They reminded them of somebody, but he couldn't quite place the likeness. Perhaps it was his mother, with her pale blue eyes - but although they shared the same sparkle as Blaise's, they were not the eyes he was thinking of. Then maybe his father's? But Draco knew that the resemblance was not that of his father's cruel grey eyes.

He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of his father. Too many times he had gazed into those merciless pools of emptiness. Sometimes he thought his father felt no emotion, because he certainly spared none for his family. Mr Lucius Malfoy was far too wrapped up in his own 'pressing affairs', as he liked to call them, than to think of his wife and son.

In fact, Draco thought in repulsion, his father was no more than a woman-beater and rapist, and it would regularly be the case that Draco's mother would have 'unexplained' bruises and marks on her normally unblemished porcelain skin. They thought he didn't know; they had no idea that he would sometimes cry himself to sleep at night to drown out the continual screams and thumps that echoed round his head. He tried so hard to shut it all out; to lock their lives out of his mind; and to forget that he was a child conceived not out of love, but from the cruel hate of rape.

For almost ten years now, he had understood that his parents had a loveless marriage. There was no happiness in his home, and his heart wept with loneliness. He knew, but didn't want to believe, that his parents did not love him; and it was this, more than the fact that they did not love each other, that bothered him the most.

In his mind he lived out a fantasy of his paradise: of a world where he had two loving, generous and devoted parents who always doted on him. Sometimes, Draco wondered if he knew what love felt like. He supposed it must be a kind of freedom - although any small liberty he would be allowed would make his breathing quicken and his heart thunder excitedly in his chest. Perhaps it was true that this desire, this craving for companionship had pushed him into a drug-fuelled, lust-driven world of alcohol, smoking and emotionless relationships with girls. Then, perhaps it was also true that he felt the need to lash out at people with as much pain in their lives: to drive out his insatiable bitterness and momentarily relieve his dark hatred and frustration. His victims were always the same, he thought. Almost. Of course, there were always exceptions. He smiled wryly, and in a flash of realisation, his mind made the connection. The pair of lovely eyes beneath him, as he continued to gaze into their wide pupils, bore into his skull with two startlingly clear words: Harry Potter.

***

Dawn on the 25^th August, 1996, and a young adolescent boy with violent red hair was sitting hunched over on his bed, tongue out and a frown of concentration on his forehead as he dipped his quill into an ink-pot and started to write on the piece of parchment he was clutching. Outside, the rain splattered heavily on the thin glass windows, and the clouds darkened overhead. The boy looked up from his work, and glared at the miserable weather. Without shifting his stare, he murmured softly, 'Lumos.' The very tip of the pointed stick that was lying on the end of his bed lit up and cast an eerie pattern of light around the room. Sighing slightly, the teenager slumped back into his original position, and resumed writing his letter.

'Dear Harry,' he read aloud to himself as he wrote. 'I hope that you're OK after, well...' the boy paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded, 'after Sirius died... We're all finding it hard - Mum and Dad too. We've each sent you something to let you know that we're still here for you...' He trailed off, and then sucked hard on the end of the quill. That last line sounded pathetic. What would Harry take him for? 'Mum sends her love, of course, and she's knitted you another jumper...although I wouldn't wear it if I were you - you know what Mum's knitting is like! Dad's bought a special edition Quidditch Guide from that last match we went to, and I've got you a new set of quills. Well, they're virtually new...' The boy sighed, and the nape of his neck to the tips of his ears flushed. 'I've written this letter with one - just to make sure they work, y'know. Didn't want you to end up with one of Fred and George's latest creations, or you might end up doing a Neville on us and blow yourself to pieces! Ginny won't tell me what she's got for you, but she says she wants to give her present to you personally at school. If you ask me, I wouldn't take it - there's been some weird squeaking noises coming from her room when there's no-one there! Sounds like she's got some troop of fleas or something... Anyway, hope you're OK and everything - see you in a couple of weeks! Ron.'

Picking up the parchment with both hands, he blew softly over the ink to help it dry, before placing it ceremoniously on his pillow. Then, he gently reached across to where a small speckled brown owl was hooting excitedly, and tugged lightly at the envelope it held in its foot. Grabbing for his quill, he laboriously scrawled an address on the thick parchment of the envelope, and then attached it to the owl. 'Go, Pig,' he breathed softly, kissing the owl on the top of its head, and opening the window a crack.

The tiny creature hooted once more, and then zoomed out into the cold grey air.

***

'Catch it! It's right in front of you!' Ron screamed as he gripped his battered broomstick in a desperate attempt to save himself from plunging to the ground with the force of his yell. He and his younger sister, Ginny, were practising Quidditch in the Weasleys' back garden with a set of balls and goalposts that their older brother Charlie had managed to heckle off an old lady whilst dragon-hunting in Cairo. Admittedly, the goalposts were looking the worse for wear and would probably be better suited to a role as, say, basketball hoops, (because the gaping rings at the top had drooped pitifully forwards and were now perpendicular to the centre poles), and perhaps it was a fair comment to suggest that the set of balls, too, had seen better days. Regardless, it was all the Weasleys could afford; and Ron did not care much for the condition of the equipment, only that he felt a pressing urge to prepare his sister for the annual Quidditch tryouts.

Ginny tugged off the elastic band gripping her hair, and shook her flame-red curls free. With her jaw set, she descended on her broomstick so that she was level in the air with her brother, and pouted. 'It's no use, Ron,' she said defiantly. 'I won't make it onto the Quidditch team.' Nodding at the goalposts, she added, 'I can't practise being a Chaser, anyway - at least, not with those things.' Chasers did most of the scoring for the Quidditch teams by throwing the big red Quaffle through the hoped goalposts. They also had to dodge the powerful balls known as Bludgers, which tried to batter the Chasers.

Ron frowned. 'Then why not try Seeking?'

A Seeker had just one ball to think about - the golden Snitch. It was an object so tiny and immensely difficult to catch that the first Seeker to capture it was awarded 150 points for their team: usually providing a clear win.

It was Ginny's turn to frown, but she thought for a moment and then said slowly, 'I'll never be better than Harry.'

'Harry!' Ron exclaimed, throwing his arms up in irritation. 'Do you never shut up about him?!'

Cringing at her brother's words, Ginny remembered her continuing crush on his best friend. No, she told herself, It wasn't just a crush. Then what was it? she wondered. 'Well it's just that Gryffindor already have a Seeker.' Harry, she thought, and smiled inside.

Ron's eyes widened in realisation. 'Ohh... well you could always be a reserve, I suppose...'

'...And just sit out all the time and watch...' she paused, blood throbbing so loudly in her ears that the beats sounded like Ha-rry, Ha-rry, '...everyone else?'

Looking across at his sister under copper eyelashes, Ron sighed and answered softly, 'Shall we see if you can shoot this time, then?' before taking up his previous position in the centre of the makeshift pitch, Quaffle under his arm, and ready to throw to Ginny.

***

It was late August when the catastrophe occurred. Harry, who had been sitting on his bed absent-mindedly doodling and staring out of the window as he planned his response to Ron's brief letter, had been roused from his near-stupor by a resounding crash from Dudley's room, which was quickly followed by a blood-curdling yell of, 'Mummy! Daddy! Come quiiiiiick!'

As Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia thundered up the stairs to their son's room, Harry could hear them shouting at each other.

'But Vernon, what if the neighbours...?'

'Don't be silly, Petunia - we should have kept the boy under lock and key!'

'But Vernon!'

They were talking about Harry, of course. Since the death of his godfather, Sirius Black, the Dursleys had shown the tiniest of sympathies by allowing Harry to occasionally venture out of his room between meals, which he was required to eat with the rest of the family unless a visitor was expected. Despite only being allowed to wander into the bathroom and back, this small privilege did seem a little out of character for his harsh aunt and uncle. However, due to this new freedom, the Dursleys now had an excuse to blame Harry for every incident that ensued with the absurd supposition that when he left the confines of his room, (which, when he did it was usually to pee), he set out to Deliberately Cause Trouble.

As the two adults, the giraffe and the hippopotamus, bounded up the stairs, three at a time, Harry wondered what insane thing Dudley had done in this latest of his obvious attention-seeking ploys.

'Muuuum!' Dudley wailed noisily, as if on cue; apparently oblivious to the stampede outside his room.

Vernon Dursley, at his red-faced, panting heavily and mopping-at-his-forehead-with-a-grubby-hanky-clutched-in-his-podgy-paws best, gripped the banister firmly as he approached the last few steps and paused, panting desperately, as his wide galloped past him and dived into the Dudley Boudoir with a cry of 'Mummy's coming, Dudders!'

Harry, who was peeping cautiously round the corner of his door, mouthed her words incredulously, and immediately began to feel sick. He decided that it would be best to seek refuge in his own room and turned to close the door behind him when Uncle Vernon spotted him and yelled, 'Boy!'

Harry opened the door a fraction wider, and peered round the wood to confront his uncle, who had regained a little of his composure and was now stomping towards him; beady eyes glaring scrutinously and a trickle of half-sweat, half-saliva dribbling slowly down his quivering chins.

Meekly following his uncle into Dudley's room, (the first time he'd been in Dudley's room with permission, Harry thought wryly, but by no means the only time he'd ever been in there), Harry pondered upon the select few moments he had sneaked into the Forbidden Room. Usually it was part of his revenge on his cousin - Harry would steal a sock, or unfortunately manage to catch a corner of Dudley's most prized hardcore porn magazine in his drawer, thereby ripping the cover, after half-accidentally taking a quick look and subsequently feeling himself go very hot and sticky - but sometimes he just liked to savour the absolute pleasure of rummaging through Dudley's private stuff without him knowing!

Uncle Vernon's bark of, 'Wipe that bloody smile off your face,' immediately jerked Harry out of his delicious day-dream world, and he suddenly realised both the reality and the dangers of what had just happened in his cousin's bedroom.

The scene that met his startled eyes, however, was very different to the one he had expected from such an outburst of adult protectiveness. A completely shocked Dudley was cowering behind his mother, bent forwards with his magnificent rump protruding into the air, and making small whines in the manner of a rather distressed pig, whilst Aunt Petunia stood with her arms as far round her fat son as possible and trembled visibly as she stared at the chaos before her.

A very dazed-looking woman with brilliant orange hair and long sparkling earrings was sitting up against Dudley's bed with her hands holding her head, and what looked like the entire plaster coating of Dudley's ceiling caking her slim form.

For a moment there was silence, but Uncle Vernon, puffing out his cheeks and drawing himself up in an effort to look threatening, thundered, 'And just who the hell are YOU?!'

With a start, the young woman clasped her hands firmly to her head as if there was a ringing noise in her ears, and tried desperately not to sway from side to side as she eyed Uncle Vernon. Suddenly spotting his nephew, she brightened; a look of joy and relief spread over her beautiful face and she cried, 'Harry! Is that you?!'

Harry stared at her vaguely, before realisation dawned. Frowning he said slowly, 'Professor...?'

'You two know each other?' Uncle Vernon spluttered. 'She one of your special friends? Should've known.' He paused to glare at them both. 'YOU,' he barked, scowling at Harry, 'downstairs. You've got some explaining to do. As for you,' he said darkly, shooting his most scathing look which he normally reserved for things he particularly hated, (such as a lump of dog shit on the sole of his shoe, or insurance brokers and door-to-door salesmen), 'I'd like to know just who the blazes you think you are, and why you decided that it was OK to plunge through my roof into my son's room at twenty-past two on a sunny day in the middle of Summer!'

Muttering darkly to herself, the woman got to her feet and brushed most of the dust from her clothes; her hair slowly lengthening and turning into violent purple dreadlocks, Harry noted with a smile.